If, while delv­ing in a deep cave, you find a large, red gem­stone under some moldy bones and an old woolen hat, know that you have found a hob.

Sim­ply pick it up (tak­ing care, it’s like­ly as large as your head) and take it home. Wash off all the old mold, then put it in an urn. Fill the urn up with whey, a fifth of whiskey, a dozen eggs, and a side of fat­ty bacon. Cov­er it up, put it beside your fire­place, and wait a while. Pay no heed to any nois­es or smells it pro­duces.

After approx­i­mate­ly four months, open the urn and pour in some more whiskey. Pour an addi­tion­al glass, and place it beside the urn. If all went well, you will have suc­ceed­ed in resus­ci­tat­ing the mole-like hob, who will emerge from the urn ful­ly-formed and hairy. Make sure to dim the lights, to pro­vide a com­fort­able atmos­phere for its beady, roe-like eyes.

The hob will help itself to the glass which you poured, swirling it rumi­nant­ly under its pon­der­ous, mus­ta­chioed nose. It may then intro­duce itself, ask for a pair of pants and a woolen hat, and offer you a favor in exchange for resus­ci­tat­ing it. If you’re wise, you will accept (the favor of a hob may encom­pass or sur­pass such deeds as the build­ing of a cas­tle.) While com­plet­ing this task, it will drink all the alco­hol you own.

Task com­plet­ed, the hob will bor­row a spade and pick. It will exca­vate a shaft out­side your res­i­dence (but also pos­si­bly in your par­lor.) Though you may not see it again (depend­ing on whether you obtain more whiskey) know that you have made a friend.

Homunculite

A sapi­ent, mor­phogenic vari­ety of corun­dum. Crys­tals are high­ly opaque, ovoid, and pos­sess a deep, blood­red hue. They occur indi­vid­u­al­ly, and vary in weight between one half and a full stone (sev­en kilos at most.) Homun­culite crys­tals occur sole­ly in the thick bands of mar­ble which are so com­mon in the end­less sub­ter­ranea of the Under­world.

When bathed in an appro­pri­ate­ly nutri­tious blend of fat, pro­tein, and alco­hol, a homun­culite crys­tal will begin to ges­tate. Over a peri­od of rough­ly four months, the stone will devel­op a skele­tal gir­dle, limbs, ner­vous tis­sue, mus­cu­la­ture, and skin. The result­ing organ­ism resem­bles a paunchy, neck­less, stout biped which stands lev­el with an aver­age human’s knee. Its fur­ry fea­tures are rem­i­nis­cent of a mole’s. Small, pinched black eyes; a large, wrig­gling nose cov­ered in pro­trusile whiskers; and hefty, wide hands with robust nails. This organ­ism is called a hob.

Physiology

Hobben sub­sist on alco­hol. It is a req­ui­site ele­ment in their metab­o­lism. The yel­low, spongy struc­ture with­in a hob’s head, which con­tains no brain, is devot­ed to the stor­age and break­down of alco­hol. Hobben do con­sume oth­er foods, but do so infre­quent­ly and in immense quan­ti­ties. A hob’s paunch serves as fat stor­age. It also con­tains a sim­ple diges­tive sac. So long as ample alco­hol is avail­able, a healthy hob may endure, mis­er­ably, for an entire sea­son with­out eat­ing. 

A hob’s phys­i­ol­o­gy is incred­i­bly robust. Injuries can only be so severe, giv­en the crea­ture’s sol­id corun­dum cen­ter. This crys­tal core con­nects to tis­sues via nerve-like fibers. It is a nigh invul­ner­a­ble brain. “Death” occurs only if a crit­i­cal sev­er­ance (fire, acid, freez­ing, dis­mem­ber­ment) aris­es between the crys­tal and its flesh­ly husk. Even after hav­ing died, a hob may still be resus­ci­tat­ed from its crys­tal core with mem­o­ries ful­ly intact. 

A homun­culite crys­tal, once stripped of its body, becomes dor­mant. It may sleep for an eter­ni­ty before ges­tat­ing once again.

Hobben have nei­ther phys­i­cal sex nor repro­duc­tive sys­tems. They “repro­duce” by exca­vat­ing their com­rades.

Mining

Hobben soci­ety is pure­ly chthon­ic. It revolves around the sub­ter­ranean search for homun­culite crys­tals; for brethren who still sleep with­in the stone. The small folk pur­sue this task with fer­vor and solem­ni­ty. All their con­sid­er­able skill in engi­neer­ing, met­al­lur­gy, and min­ing is set to the epic task of retriev­ing more fel­lows from the stone of the end­less Under­world. Just as mice are con­cerned with mat­ing and breed­ing, hobben are obsessed with exca­vat­ing more of their sleep­ing kind.

Immense quan­ti­ties of ore, mar­ble, and pre­cious gems are the byprod­uct of hobben exca­va­tion. Hobben idly craft these byprod­ucts into items and places of shock­ing qual­i­ty and scope. Though they pos­sess trea­sures in excess, hobben are loath to share, or even to per­mit oth­er crea­tures into their halls. Any con­tact with the out­side, they fear, could threat­en their sacred min­ing oper­a­tions.

Society

Hobben soci­ety is orga­nized into com­pa­nies, which fall under larg­er king­doms. Mem­bers of such king­doms wear col­ored hats, usu­al­ly point­ed, to mark their alle­giance. Lead­ers are either the old­est or “wis­est” (most learned and skilled) among a pop­u­la­tion. When a leader dies, they are laid to rest, and a new king or com­man­der is cho­sen via a moot of elders.

Dead hobs are placed in a cat­a­comb nook for sev­er­al years. This per­mits flesh to fall away, free­ing the homun­culite gem (which the hobben call a grieb.) It is believed that a peri­od of years spent “sleep­ing” is a just reward for decades of work. 

Hobben idly con­struct leagues of cat­a­combs, where they keep quan­ti­ties of sleep­ing griebn. These appear as places of wor­ship, to out­siders. There­in, hobben vis­it their “sleep­ing” friends, and com­mune with them by lay­ing hands on the gem with­in the deceased’s rot­ting husk. Cat­a­combs tru­ly are sacred halls, and are pro­tect­ed jeal­ous­ly against theft.

Spir­i­tu­al­i­ty is val­ued by the hobben. They believe they are the liv­ing blood-drops of an immesne ancient deity, whose stone corpse now gives them shel­ter. 

The lan­guage of the hobben is Stnghetn. It is spo­ken pri­mar­i­ly in monot­o­ne and is lack­ing in whole vow­els. Stnghetn also lacks words relat­ing to emo­tion. As a result of this, the dour hobben use com­pli­cat­ed turns of phrase to express feel­ing. Their poet­ry is com­plex, rid­dled with obscu­ra, but quite affect­ing once explained.

Contact

Though they exist pri­mar­i­ly in the Under­world, hobben are occa­sion­al­ly encoun­tered in the foothills and peaks of the Gorathi­an range. They are ter­ri­to­r­i­al and hos­tile to out­siders. Their moun­tain holds con­tain rare, reli­able gate­ways to the Under­world’s fath­om­less, black depths, and hobs are loath to allow out­siders access to them. 

On occa­sion, hobben emerge from their holds to trade wares for alco­hol. Though the bright­ness of the sun pains their small eyes, the hobben great­ly enjoy alco­hol pro­duced under its rays. Drink craft­ed from wheat, bar­ley, and corn, which they are unable to grow under­ground, is a del­i­ca­cy.

When trad­ing, hobben dis­play an unusu­al and incon­sis­tent appre­ci­a­tion of wealth. They refuse to assign val­ue to cur­ren­cy beyond the raw worth of the met­al with­in coins. To them, a chest of sil­ver may be worth no more than a wheel of hard cheese, while a sword could­n’t be trad­ed at any price. Some com­pa­nies (those who bet­ter under­stand the Coast’s cus­toms) craft square coins specif­i­cal­ly for trade with Coastal folk (they con­sid­er this to be quite clever.) The hobben them­selves do not use coinage, and pre­fer to barter.

Leg­ends abound of myth­ic heroes who were gift­ed red gems or weapons of fan­tas­tic might by the hobben . The hobben know these same heroes as the vilest of thieves.

⁂

Note

This arti­cle has been heav­i­ly edit­ed since its incep­tion. Hobben used to go by anoth­er name, but I have changed it, due to overuse.