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Let me tell you a story. And I won't even do it in caps this time. This is a story about two tribes, and a pestilence. The tribes were the humans of Pizc, and the elves of Iber. The pestilence? Goblins.
Now the humans, they had a lot of advantages when dealing with goblins. Humans can get a lot done in a little time, they have a lot of willpower, and spirit. But when the Pizc became aware of the goblin threat, they made a mistake. They waited. They spent years pretending that the goblins weren't a threat. They pretended that the goblins were a simple problem that could be dealt with later. They deluded themselves into believing that they couldn't afford to spend time killing all of the goblins now, because they needed to do other things, like fuck, drink, and talk about banal shit to their fellow dirtfarming human scum.
but then the fateful day came when the goblins were numerous enough and pressing enough that they could challenge the humans. The Pizc fought a brutal, painful battle over the course of one feverish night to destroy the goblins. They succeeded, but at great cost. Their culture was exhausted, their people spent, their blood, thinned. They could not carry on, and when the next threat came (kobolds,) they dropped out of the human race. Har Har.