![[Image: thebigdog.png]](http://i664.photobucket.com/albums/vv1/Maulbane/thebigdog.png)
THERE'S AN UNDERCLASS WHEREVER YOU GO. THAT'S A FACT.
THING IS, GOBLINS GO BIGGER THAN EVERYONE ELSE. ALSO FACT.
IN BOOTY BAY, THE 'HOME' IN 'GO BIG OR GO HOME' COMES SEPARATELY.
THING IS, GOBLINS GO BIGGER THAN EVERYONE ELSE. ALSO FACT.
IN BOOTY BAY, THE 'HOME' IN 'GO BIG OR GO HOME' COMES SEPARATELY.
![[Image: Poooooole-4.png]](http://i664.photobucket.com/albums/vv1/Maulbane/Poooooole-4.png)
Griz Grigik Wrote:The founding of Booty Bay was a great occasion for Goblinkind - but, more specifically, the Steamwheedle Cartel. Their greatest presence in the east today is the envy of other trading nations, and the wealth that flows in and out (and, when tensions rise, underneath) of Blackwater Bay has been the subject of envy since it's been colonised by ourselves. Of course, such enormous wealth changing hands so quickly caused some... Fluctuations in personal coffers throughout the city. The phenomena we call 'loss of all assets' is caused by many things. Failed deals, personal stupidity, gambling debts, gambling wins leading to splurging leading to destitution, injury and disease, or just plain old accidents. Either way, sufferers of this malediction are quashed deep into the city and make up the majority of its permanent population, too poor to leave - at least in their lifetime. This is a unique to us goblins. Let's face it, tourists wouldn't last a minute here without their wallets.
The poor of Booty Bay can thusly be categorised into three nifty slots. The poor, the really poor and the really, really poor. The poor are those who subsist on unskilled trades, often working with machinery or otherwise tasks that require repetitive, unprofitable work. They generally have something saved up, but hardly enough to coast. The really poor are those with worldly assets they can fit in a small room or less, and often make up the near-ubiquitous hordes of beggars throughout the city. They also tend to fit into the 'unofficial industries' of odd jobs - message runners, hawkers on the lowest level of pyramid schemes and other unreliably profitable but necessary roles in the town.
Now, the really, really poor...
If these goblins work at all, it's on a shorter basis than Razdunk's temper. Most of these miserable creatures are shunned by the former two groupings - give them all a bad name, on account of the fact that they more often than not subsist by crime. And sure, all three groups aren't homogeneous, and all three have exceptions, but that's what they are - exceptions. These people tend to form communes outside of the eyes of the authorities, then run amok. Most of these are underneath the lowest levels of the city, usually on rafts, or among abandoned buildings.
That said, the largest of these is Dink's D'wharf.
It's a blight on the city, that's for sure. The story is an embarrassment, so I'll go through it with brevity so I don't get that puke taste in my mouth.
After the dragon messed half the world up, the waves destroyed the largest fort in Booty Bay - we know that much, it was a local catastrophe. What most people obligingly ignore out of good taste is that we weren't able to salvage it. Fact of the matter was, considering that thing was built at the height of goblin expansion, coupled with the slowdown in trade due to the worldwide damage and fear of taking to the sea, I doubt we've got the coffers to do anything about such a gigantic mess. Even if we'd got there in time, those guns weigh more than the damn boats we'd be using to do the work. But, as it stands, we didn't get there in time.
Like birds can sense rain, y'know, it's as if the poorest in a society can sense an opportunity before anyone else does; they capitalised on it big time. Just a couple of weeks after the waves stopped, they'd set up there. We - well, the establishment - saw it happening, and knew we couldn't allow an enclave like that to consolidate, so we did what any self-respecting businessmen would do - and sent the slavers. Thing is, rubble or not, it's still a fort, and you can't really land an attack on it save for a few narrow roads; they all got beat up and tossed into the drink. Well, then we hired the best - a guy from Dun Morogh, gunslinger with one of the privateer crews. Had so many guns that two of them were strapped to his head - on either side of that wide-brimmed hat.
Well, long story short, a guy called Dink must have killed him, because he never came back and they started bandying that name around slow but steady. Most of them seem to just call it 'the wharf' or 'the fort' or similar, but it still gives me one furious itch on my butt either way. I mean, we'd just shell it, but could you imagine how humiliating that'd be? Shooting our own fort because we can't stop a bunch of penniless goblins?
So, yeah. We've basically got a rebellion of a couple hundred ne'er-do-wells we can't do jack about, all camped out in our best fort and using it as a HQ to do all kinds of junk in the city proper. I should say all of this is pretty damn confidential, by the way.
Otherwise, all's good over here. Sorry for the history lesson, it's just been 'on the brain' for a while. Thanks for the cookies, ma. Grigik's doing you proud out here.
OOC
Spoiler: