The goblin camp stretched out before us in a messy sprawl of tents, crooked stakes, and flickering bonfires. Torn banners hung from snapped poles, and clusters of goblins wandered around—most of them hunched over scraps of raw meat or half-burnt food. Their armor didn't match, their weapons looked dull—but there were a lot of them.
At a quick glance, over two hundred.
And right at the center, sitting atop a ring of flat stones surrounded by bone-carved totems, were two Hobgoblins.
One of them was clad in jagged, rusted armor and held an enormous cleaver—the Hobgoblin Warrior, clearly the muscle of the group. The other wore a robe made of stitched-together hides, holding a staff made of bones—the Hobgoblin Shaman, who radiated waves of foul, corrupted magic.
These two were the leaders.