I'm ZalinDF, and welcome to my NFT Portfolio

This portfolio is where I will list any all NFTs I create, and their status and Rarity Ratings.  I enjoy creating Lore based NFTs, so those specific NFTs will have Lore Rarity Ratings, as well as official OpenSea Rarity Ratings.  Thank you for visiting and feel free to contact me!!

(NFT Pricing is based on Lore Rarity, Official OpenSea Rarity, and whether it is Unique or has Multiple Mints)

New Lore Based Project Coming Soon!!!

The Syndicate Collection

A Collection of 13, 1:1, Lore Based NFTs

Smokefang Alpha

Once feared as a lone predator under blood moons, Smokefang Alpha was the last of the Emberclaw Werewolf clan—an ancient bloodline cursed with unrelenting rage and gifted with supernatural foresight. Banished to the outskirts of the Smokewood Forest, he roamed the world for decades, searching for a cause worthy of his power and a puff strong enough to still the fury in his heart.

 

That peace came not through battle, but through the smoke—a sacred strain cultivated in secrecy by the goblin underworld. When he crossed paths with the elusive Golden Boss Goblin, the two locked eyes across a haze-filled alley of burnt deals and broken oaths. Instead of fighting, they passed the flame and shared a silent understanding.

 

Now, Smokefang stands as the enforcer of the Golden Boss Goblin—smoking thick joints rolled in ancient scrolls, guarding the vaults of forbidden tokes, and keeping the syndicate’s enemies at bay with nothing but a growl and a glowing ember.

 

He doesn’t talk much.

He just smokes…

…and when he exhales, the real monsters.

Velren Thatchroot

Click here to aVelren Thatchroot was never like the other satyrs. While his kin danced through moonlit glades, played panpipes, and embraced chaotic revelry, Velren preferred ledgers over lutes, plans over parties. He wore pressed vests instead of leafy garb, and read strategy tomes by lantern-light while others howled at the stars.

 

They called him “The Quiet Hoof.” A mockery. A whisper of suspicion.

 

When he began calculating trade routes between forest realms and crafting ledgers for barter, the elders declared his mind was too sharp—too cold. They feared the way he questioned tradition and saw patterns in the stars no one else dared follow. They claimed he’d “forgotten his wild heart” and, with a vote of rhythm and ritual, banished him from the Grove.

 

Alone, wandering through moss-covered ruins and smoky taverns, Velren discovered solace not in kinship, but in clarity—the kind found in thick glass, green flame, and thoughtful silence. It was in a fogged alley of the Undergrowth Markets that he first encountered the Golden Boss Goblin.

 

The Boss didn’t laugh at Velren’s tie. He didn’t scoff at his quiet demeanor. Instead, the golden-eyed goblin leaned close and said:

"You don’t belong among the bleaters. You belong among the builders."

 

Impressed by Velren’s meticulous mind and calculating charm, the Golden Boss offered him a role none had ever filled—Personal Assistant to the Syndicate King himself. From that day forward, Velren became the quiet shadow behind the empire’s rise—handling contracts, blackmail archives, trade deals, and occasionally, rolling the boss’s signature infernal green cigars.

Grumbok, the Ember-Touched

Grumbok once dwelled in solitude deep within the jagged peaks of the Smolderfang Range, where the stone breathes heat and time forgets names. He was the last of the Emberhide trolls — a race of titanic beings born from molten rock and ancient forest smoke. Grumbok never cared for war or conquest like his kin. His obsession was the ancient art of combustion, specifically the sacred burning of herbs in forgotten rituals that blurred the lines between trance and prophecy.

 

Legends say Grumbok discovered an ancient strain of soulroot cannabis growing only within the fumarole vents of Mount Sorrow. He built a gravity bong the size of a well from quartz and glacial glass, inhaling smoke so pure it opened rifts in memory and mind. In one such vision, he saw a burning sigil — a golden goblin grinning in the void, beckoning.

 

That goblin was real.

 

The Golden Boss Goblin, seeing Grumbok’s unique gift (and devastating strength), personally trekked to the mountain to meet him. No soldiers. No guards. Just smoke and respect.

 

After a 3-day silence filled with nothing but puffs, nods, and shared understanding, Grumbok agreed to descend — not as a servant, but as a brother in smoke.

 Bloodburn

Once known as Vaelion Thorne, Bloodburn was the second-born of the ancient Thorneblood family—a proud vampire lineage that sat atop the Ivory Crypts for over a millennium. While his brother pursued bloodlines and power, Vaelion delved into lost arts: necrochemistry, thought-weaving, and forbidden bloodbinding. His mind was sharp, his spells sharper, but it was his addiction to knowledge—and cannabis-laced meditation—that made the elders whisper of madness.

 

When he created the Crimson Mirror—a cursed spell capable of showing not just the truth of one’s soul, but unraveling it—he used it on his own sire. The ritual went wrong. The mirror shattered. His father’s essence was torn into shadow, his brother driven to feral madness. Bloodburn stood before the ruling circle, eyes red not from weeping, but from smoke… and guilt. His sentence was unanimous:

 

> Exile. Eternal.

 

 

 

Branded a rogue and oathbreaker, he wandered the world for decades. Over time, his immortality curdled into fatigue. He lost the taste for blood. Now he feeds only when needed. Mostly, he smokes. In the smoke, he sees fragments of futures that could have been.

 

It was in a back alley of Smogreach—stoned and half-starved—that he met the Golden Boss Goblin. Most goblins would’ve run. This one offered him a joint.

 

> "You’re not lost, old man. You’re just waiting to be used properly."

 

 

 

No one knows what passed between them that night. Some say they shared visions. Others say Bloodburn bled into the Boss’s palm and saw his future. All that’s certain is this: the next morning, Bloodburn walked into Syndicate HQ without a word, and the doors opened for him.

 

Now, he works in the shadows, whispered about but rarely seen.

 

They call him The Shadow of the Syndicate.

Not a killer. Not a strategist.

Something in between.

He doesn’t take orders.

He fulfills needs the Boss doesn’t say aloud.

Keira Hallowwail

Long ago, Keira Hollowwail was once a gifted herbalist and midwife, known across the old villages for her knowledge of roots, smoke, and sacred breath. But when her final healing turned to death—an entire village lost to a mysterious coughing fog—she was condemned by fear, blamed for witchery, and buried alive with the very pipe she had used to ease the pain of others.

 

Cursed by rage and sorrow, Keira returned as a Banshee, unable to leave the cemetery soil. Her wails echoed through the fog each night, and her only solace was the hookah she was buried with—now twisted and cursed, always full, never empty. The smoke she exhaled brought visions of death, madness, and dread. None dared approach her burial ground, not even spirits.

 

Until him.

 

The Golden Boss Goblin didn’t fear death—he brokered with it.

 

He entered the cursed cemetery, gold glinting beneath the fog, and approached Keira not with weapons—but with a contract.

 

"Your voice terrifies kings, your smoke speaks in prophecy," he said. "Why waste eternity moaning when you could profit from it?"

 

With a flick of a golden fang, he shattered the binding runes on her grave.

 

Keira rose—not fully free, not truly living—but hired.

 

Now, she serves as the Voice of the Goblin Syndicate, her wail breaking enemies and truths alike. Interrogations end with madness, smoke trails mark Syndicate territory, and when deals need pressure... Keira simply exhales.

 

Her hookah still smolders—never needs refilling, cursed forever. But now, it no longer binds her. It empowers her.

Gribnuk Tinkspore

In the dim-lit tunnels beneath the Syndicate’s black market labs, there's a corner filled with erratic clanks, loud bangs, and a permanent haze of green smoke. That’s Gribnuk Tinkspore’s domain.

 

Wearing cracked goggles and soot-stained coveralls, with a joint perpetually clutched between sharp teeth, Gribnuk mutters to himself in a language of schematics only he understands. Pipes, gears, coils of enchanted copper—his inventions sputter, spark, or explode with no warning.

 

Most goblins call him mad.

The smart ones say he's "malfunctioning magic with legs."

 

His ideas are bizarre. A pocket-sized mushroom cannon. A mechanical rat that only bites nobles. An elevator powered by rage. Most are dismissed… until one accidentally changes the tide of a turf war.

 

Gribnuk holds no official rank. No Syndicate badges. No seat at the table.

 

And yet...

 

He’s always near the Golden Boss Goblin. Sitting beside him at secret meetings. Sharing smoke and strange laughter. Whispering into his ear during critical decisions. And the Boss listens.

 

Why?

 

No one knows.

 

Rumors fly like shrapnel.

Some say Gribnuk saved the Boss's life during the Syndicate’s founding.

Others claim he’s not really a goblin at all—but something older, masked in madness.

A few even whisper he’s the true mastermind, hiding in plain sight.

 

Whatever the truth, no goblin dares lay a finger on him.

More than one has vanished after mocking Gribnuk too loudly. And when asked about it, the Boss just smiles and says:

 

"He’s my spark. Without him, I’d burn out."

Emberveil

Once hailed as the most promising spellcrafter of the Witch’s Coven, Emberveil discovered a forgotten ritual buried deep within the Codex of Forbidden Flora—a ritual that fused her spellwork with the sacred smoke of the Verdant Flame, a mystical cannabis strain said to bloom only once every eclipse. While her peers relied on ancient chants and blood magic, Emberveil’s power bloomed through breath, peace, and potent green.

 

But the Coven was steeped in old ways—rigid, fearful of anything that dared to challenge tradition. Her rise in power, paired with her unorthodox method of magic, unsettled the Elders. They accused her of “tainting the arcane,” and during the Moon of Judgement, she was exiled. Stripped of her wand, her title, and her sisters, she wandered alone into the twilight wilds.

 

It was during a storm-drenched night in the Goblin-Rift Pass when Emberveil met the Golden Boss Goblin. She was out of herbs, soaked in rain, and fending off a pack of feral shadow-beasts using only smoldering resin and sheer will. The Golden Boss, ever watchful for power untamed, appeared not to assist—but to test.

 

He watched her conjure a shield of smoke that pulsed like a living ward, her eyes glowing ember-red. As the beasts fell, the Goblin stepped forward—not with mockery, but with an offer.

 

Recognizing in her the spirit of rebellion and raw magic that mirrored his own syndicate's rise, the Golden Boss Goblin extended her a rare invitation: join the Goblin Syndicate as Head Sorceress. In this underground brotherhood of mythicals, innovation was valued, and the smoke was sacred.

 

Now, Emberveil commands the arcane forces of the Syndicate, crafting spells through enchanted cannabis strains, weaving illusions that cloak entire cities, and binding pacts with creatures long thought forgotten. Her exile became elevation. Her flame—once threatened—now fuels a new order from the shadows.

Nerali, of the Gloam

In the whispering woods where moonlight barely touches the moss, there once danced a wicked fairy named Nerali. Known to all fae and foolish travelers as The Gloam Trickster, she glided through twilight with glowing eyes and vapor trailing her lips—never without her beloved vape pen, filled with enchanted cannabis oil she brewed herself from ancient forest strains.

 

She was beautiful. Ruthless. Untraceable.

 

With a sly smile and a lie sweeter than nectar, she would charm nobles, hunters, and lost dreamers out of their most prized possessions—jewels, memories, names, and even souls sealed in flowered pouches. Her forest dress of sacred green leaves marked her as an herb-wielder of the highest trickery.

 

But fate twisted the night she dared target the Golden Boss Goblin.

His vault was the stuff of legends—rivers of gold, deals inked in shadow, and eyes like coins that never blink.

 

Nerali thought she could entrance him, weave her usual game of half-truths and flirted deceptions. But the Golden Boss was older than her oldest lie. He watched, amused, and let her try… until her web tangled around her own feet.

 

When the smoke cleared, she had lost everything—her power, her forest, even her freedom.

 

Now, she vapes not for pleasure, but for silence. Her every inhale a reminder of her bondage.

 

Nerali is bound by arcane contract to serve the Goblin Syndicate. She is his whisper in the trees, his poison in a kiss, his shadow in the halls. She does as he commands—not out of loyalty, but because he owns her life. The only thing she’s allowed to keep… is the vape he gave her—infused with trace amounts of his cursed gold dust, to remind her of who holds her leash.

Varnyx, the Blood-Born

Born under a blood eclipse atop the volcanic spires of Drak'Sul Vahl, Varnyx was marked from hatchlinghood as a potential Seer-Knight in the Faith of the Dragon Knight—a zealous and ancient order bound to celestial flame, sworn to uphold purity, truth, and fire-born justice.

 

Yet Varnyx never saw truth in flame alone. In secret, he inhaled the Ghostroot, a forbidden herb grown only in the shadows of ancient wyrm-graves. Through the smoke, Varnyx began to see—visions of futures unlived, of dark truths the Flame Priests denied. He uncovered that the very Prophet-Pyre they worshipped was corrupted by mortal greed, feeding on soul-embers harvested from innocents.

 

When he spoke these truths, the Faith branded him a heretic.

 

Stripped of his title, scales charred with ceremonial flamebrands, and exiled to the Wastes of Withering Wind, Varnyx wandered broken—but not aimless.

 

There, deep in a smuggler’s den carved into obsidian rock, he met The Golden Boss Goblin.

 

They did not fight.

They smoked.

 

The Boss Goblin listened as Varnyx spoke of injustice, corruption, prophecy, and power. He saw in the exiled knight not a threat—but a weapon tempered by truth and fire. He offered Varnyx purpose: to become the Syndicate's Silver Fang—its enforcer of oaths, its slayer of traitors, its warden of buried truths.

 

Varnyx accepted, not for vengeance—

But to forge a new order. One free of holy lies, ruled by honor, brotherhood, and the sacred smoke of truth.

 

Varnyx serves not as a subordinate, but as a balancer to the Boss Goblin’s chaos. Where the Boss schemes, Varnyx judges. Where the Goblin strikes gold, Varnyx ensures it’s earned.

 

He’s one of three beings in the Syndicate permitted to speak directly against the Boss without fear of death. Their bond is sealed by an ancient Draconic Oath, spoken only in smoke—words that can never be undone.

Sahlira, the Veilsmoke

She was once the High Seer of the Verdant Temple, an ancient mountaintop sanctuary shrouded in mist and known only to a few enlightened beings. There, cannabis was not merely plant—it was sacred spirit, flame, and truth. From childhood, she was trained in the art of Smokesight, a rare and forbidden form of prophecy where the seer inhales the divine plant, and visions unfold in the swirling vapors.

 

But the other priestesses feared her. Unlike them, she did not whisper of futures—she spoke them clearly, and they always came to pass. When she foresaw the Temple’s fall by betrayal from within, the others accused her of dark magic, twisting fate rather than seeing it.

 

They banished her, burning her scrolls and casting her down the sacred steps.

 

She wandered alone. For years, she traveled the fractured lands, offering prophecies to warlords, wanderers, and kings. Most feared her honesty, others sought to bind her powers. None succeeded. Still, she searched—for a place not of judgment, but respect.

 

One night, deep within a haunted swamp rumored to devour the minds of travelers, she lit her ceremonial pipe, carved from obsidian and bone. As the sacred smoke swirled, a vision unlike any she had ever seen emerged.

 

A goblin—not ordinary, but cloaked in gold, eyes like burning suns, surrounded by silver-clad shadows. A king? A criminal? A god? She didn’t know. But he was coming.

 

The next evening, he arrived—the Golden Boss Goblin—flanked by two silver goblin lieutenants. He had followed her smoke trail through dimensions, drawn by whispers of a seer who could see beyond what even gods dared know.

 

He didn’t ask for a vision.

He offered her a deal.

 

 “You see too much for temples and too clearly for kings. But me? I respect the truth, even if it bites. Smoke for me, and I’ll build you a sanctum of shadows, power, and green gold.”

 

She accepted—but only after peering into his future.

 

What she saw... she never spoke of.

Only that when the smoke cleared, she bowed for the first time in her life.

 

Thus, she became High Oracle of the Goblin Syndicate, her chamber built beneath the Goblin Den, carved from volcanic glass and lit with eternal flame. She now offers prophecies only to those who can pay in truth, treasure, or soul.

Silvershard, the ShadowBlade

Forged not in birth, but in betrayal, Silvershard rose from the soot-choked alleys of the Smokestone Warrens—an outcast runt from a nameless clan. His skin bore an unnatural shimmer from the day he first drew breath, a curse the elders whispered about in hushed tones: silver-born means soul-forged.

 

But Silvershard did not break—he listened. He watched. He learned the art of the silent kill from alley vipers and shadow crows. Where others used brute force, he used grace. Where others panicked, he planned. And with each dagger strike, he etched his name into the underground like a silver scratch across steel.

 

His defining moment came during the attempted coup of the Goblin Syndicate. While chaos erupted in the tunnels below the throne chamber, Silvershard silently removed every would-be usurper before they ever reached the Golden Goblin’s seat. He offered no allegiance, no loyalty, just a bloodstained dagger and a whispered promise:

 

> "I don’t serve. I survive. But keep the gold flowing, and no shadow will ever touch you."

 

 

 

Impressed by his precision and unnerved by his silence, the Golden Goblin Boss named him one of two Silver Sentinels—his eternal guards, never seen apart from his side. Rumors claim the Silver Goblins don’t sleep, don’t eat, and speak only in riddles and warnings. Some say they were once mortal. Others believe they’re living relics, animated by the Golden Goblin’s dark pact.

 

But all who meet Silvershard know one truth:

 

If you see him, it’s already too late.

Noctith, the MindSpike

While Silvershard deals death with steel, Noctith delivers it with thought alone.

 

Born in the deep mists of the Smokestone catacombs, Noctith never spoke a word—not because he couldn't, but because he didn't need to. His mind was a weapon sharper than any blade. They say he was soul-forged not by fire or betrayal, but by silence—a perfect mental stillness that shattered all noise around it.

 

The first goblin to ever resist psychic torture, he reversed it—tearing into his captor’s mind and implanting a false identity so deeply, the torturer forgot their own name and served him for three years. Word of this silent mental dominion reached the Golden Goblin Boss, who invited him, not as a servant, but as a brother.

 

Now, Noctith stands as one of two Silver Sentinels, always beside the Golden Goblin. While Silvershard guards against blades and bombs, Noctith senses betrayal before it’s born. His presence alone breaks wills, redirects thoughts, and collapses illusions.

 

> He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t strike. He simply stares—and suddenly, you’re not sure what you were doing anymore.

 

 

 

Whispers say Mindspike can:

 

Speak directly into dreams

 

Implant fake memories

 

Erase a target’s ability to say the Golden Goblin’s name

 

 

But none dare ask. Because those who think about betraying the syndicate… never finish the thought.

Gleamgrin the Golden

In the darkest heart of the Emerald Wastes, where twisted roots drink moonlight and gold veins pulse beneath the soil, one goblin rose above the chaos.

 

He wasn’t born in fire.

He forged it.

 

Known only as Gleamgrin the Golden, this goblin didn’t pillage — he negotiated.

Didn’t grunt orders — he struck deals.

 

Clad in a shimmering chromatic suit woven from molten coin-threads, with a pipe carved from a forgotten druid’s staff, and a pocket watch ticking on dragonbone time, Gleamgrin isn’t just the boss…

 

He’s the architect of every hustle.

 

Whispers say he smoked the soul of a fallen elven banker to gain his charm. Others say the emerald smoke drifting from his Sherlock pipe isn’t cannabis — it’s concentrated luck.

 

Regardless, every goblin in the crew answers to him.

 

He doesn’t shout. He doesn’t run. He sits — calmly — on a tree stump throne carved with runes, watching, waiting, calculating.

 

And when a deal is struck?

 

He always comes out richer.

NFT Event Tokens

The Copper Goblin Theif

🕯️ The Whispered Lore of the Goblin Thieves 🕯️

 

Known only among the oldest smoke circles of the Goblin Syndicate

 

They say the goblin thieves were never born—they were shaped, chiseled from the copper blood of the Old Deep Mines beneath the Smokewood Mountains. No one remembers when they first appeared, only that their numbers grew every time a vault was emptied, a noble left penniless, or a syndicate rival disappeared without trace.

 

Some whisper of the Forgefather, an ancient metallurgist-warlock who was banished by the Goblin King for crafting sentient tools and living metals. It's said he took his secrets underground and struck a deal with the Veilsmoke Oracle—in exchange for eternal smoke and silence, he would give the Syndicate a legion of perfect thieves.

 

That’s how the Copper-Blooded were born.

 

Every goblin thief wears a copper sheen—some more polished than others—and each bears a unique etching hidden somewhere on their body: a sigil only readable in moonlight and smoke. The markings tell their rank, their maker, and their last successful heist. Rumor says if you find one without a mark, it’s either a forged double-agent… or one who has betrayed the Syndicate and had their mark burned off.

 

Despite their numbers, they don’t speak to each other. Not aloud. They communicate through “clinksign”, an old code made of pouch jingles, finger taps on metal, and the flicks of smoked copper rings. Even their scent is specific—a trace of burnt penny and violet ash follows wherever they go.

 

But the strangest part? Every thief claims to have been trained by the same figure—The First Glimmer. A ghostlike thief, half myth, half smoke, who supposedly once stole the moon’s reflection and hid it in a silver flask.

 

No one has ever seen the First Glimmer.

 

But every time a goblin thief vanishes in a puff of copper mist, the same words are scrawled on the wall in sterling silver:

“The Reflection Returns.”