In Other Worlds

Excerpt from In Other Worlds

Just as your vision fades again… you are someone new. Now you are aasimar scouts sent from the village of Ponversa. You had heard word that the ogre hunting party was heading this way, into hobgoblin territory. It may be a feint to scare you off the trail or perhaps they are truly leaving. You won’t know for sure until you find them.
You happen upon a hobgoblin tribal village - a sad sight. You have no love for the hobgoblins but no one deserves to be so meaninglessly butched. The hobgoblins are caught in the middle of a land dispute they don’t understand. All dead. No time to bury them. Wait… no… not all dead. One remains. Small, a child? No… he’s not quite a man and not quite a child but he is also small, a runt of sorts.
He is crying. He weeps and begs in a goblin language you do not understand.
You decide to take him back to the village with you - you can’t leave him to die here, can you? No. It would be against the teachings of the angelic choir. One of the Interpreters will know what to do with the young man. You smash the chains holding the boy, he seems confused without them. But soon he clings to you and follows you all the way back. The Interpreters will know how to help him.
And know they do. The Interpreters take him in, raise him. They treat him like any other. Their virtue is so limitless it reminds you why you remain loyal to the crown of heaven. First they teach the boy to speak the tongue of angels. Then they ask him his name. He thinks for a long time and says “rajul bila salasil.” The man without chains.
You are proud of Rajul. He is kind, funny, and incredibly smart. He is nothing like what you thought hobgoblins were. You and the other scouts also stifle a laugh every time someone sneaks up behind Rajul and shouts. He jumps nearly ten feet in the air and runs for the nearest Interpreter. He is not brave, but he is kind and that is better. You are proud of him all your life, which is swiftly ended by the splitting of an ogre’s hook ripping into your skull.

Now you are an ogre. Mightiest of your kind. You are one of the unified chieftains. In times past only strength mattered but now with the threat of the invading angels you have learned to measure strength with cunning and intellect too. But still, and always, strength above all. You fear nothing… save for the howl of the black dragons when they grow hungry. They feed on ogre and angel alike.
The angelfolk are losing ground. Each day they send more of their soldiers to die by your hand. You’re sure today will be no different and you are quite excited to see who they will send.
But this must be some kind of joke. They have sent their runt. The pet hobgoblin you have seen them feeding. You saw him quaking in fear when you smashed that ranger’s head in. He was crying. That was funny. This? Well… this might also be funny.
He does not carry a weapon save for a staff - and you know enough mages to know that can be a weapon. But he uses it to walk and hides behind it when you shout. He comes to… speak? Perhaps he is the one offering their surrender. He speaks of nonsense. He calls for an alliance, angel and ogre united to protect you all from demon and hobgoblin alike. You laugh. And prepare to crush him as you did his masters.
But the creature produces a glowing wand, and suddenly you find his plan much more agreeable. Some of your subordinates attempt to question you, but they are quickly fed to the wolves.
You are content under your arrangement with the one that calls himself Rajul. You feast on fine foods you would never be able to scavenge yourself and you sleep in warm huts kept heated by magic flames. And all you must do is crush the occasional head of hobgoblin and demon attackers. Easy work. Until, of course, the black dragons burn down your nice huts. They tear apart the villages and take the angels’ shining gold armor and shields. It was easy work until the dragons take you away to feed to their young.

You are an ogre no more. Now you are a dragon welp, destined to one day rule over the skies of this frigid wasteland. You are the inheritor of not only Tiamt’s will but the true goddess… Netheria. Mother of Tiamat, Queen of Truth, creator of the universe. You are her chosen children. The black dragon brood. You sit in your spawning pool of sickly acid; aware even now that you are superior to all that walk on two legs.
You gaze in fear and admiration at the brood mother… Queen Ynoxa, master of all Black Dragon kind. She lays upon her hoard of gold and gems, collected throughout antiquity. She is quite proud of the fact that most of her treasures come from nations she outlived. The Fetid Mountain is her domain, and someday it shall be yours.
Today, though, is a special day. A mortal has been stalking the marshes and swamps around the mountain… they are looking for something. The river drakes report that he seeks a weapon that will give him the strength to kill black dragons. Such a funny idea. All laugh, even Ynoxa, until the drake says the name of the weapon…
Netheria’s Fang.
The most treasured artifact of Ynoxa’s horde. A single fang from the Mother of All’s mouth. Perhaps the last remnant of her physical body. It is beyond priceless. And it is meant to be secret - none are meant to know it exists. This is beyond insulting. This is sacrilegious. No one is laughing now. Now the mortal must be punished. But not with death. No. If the mortal has told others of the fang… then he must be made an example of.
The mortal arrives; cloaked in invisibility. He thinks this protects him. Ynoxa dispels it, drags the man from the shadows. He is sniveling, crying and begging for mercy, but he conceals a dagger coated in poison. Like any cornered animal he tries to strike out. You snicker at his ineptitude from your pool.
But now… now Ynoxa speaks.
“I know why you’ve come, mortal. And I know you. A coward. A snake hiding in the darkness, only ready to strike when he knows his prey can’t fight back. I know the stories. You’ve gained magic and ogre guardians and you think that makes you brave now? Worthy enough to wield Netheria’s Fang?”
“P-please, I’m sorry! I had no idea it was significant to you! I-I just thought it was a weapon - something to protect my people! That’s all! Please spare my life! I’m of no consequence!”
“Oh but you are. Or, you will be.” A wicked smile crosses Ynoxa’s face. You grin too, snickering and giggling at the mortal’s misfortune. She reaches down and plucks a single hair from his balding head; “I won’t kill you. Because you are going to do something for me. You see, Netheria’s Fang IS of great value to me. But alas, I have never found it. It was stolen from my horde decades ago by an adventurer. You will track it down for me. You will return it to my horde and all will be forgiven. Or you will fail and I will burn your home to the ground and slaughter all who you have ever called friend or family. Are we understood?”
And so the man grovels and thanks Ynoxa for this opportunity to prove himself. Blissfully unaware that Netheria’s Fang sits directly underneath Ynoxa’s mighty talon; the adventurer who had stolen it had been killed and eaten by the queen over a dozen eclipses ago. But the coward doesn’t know it. He rushes off into the night seeking a treasure that he will not find.
You think that's the end of it, but Ynoxa is oh so clever and even more cruel. While the man is gone she whips up a most ancient and terrible spell. She takes from the earth a clear shining crystal, infected and infused with ancient draconic magic. She takes the strand of hair and melds it to the crystal; binding it to the man’s heart. Every bit of fear, every ounce of anger, every shred of remorse he feels slowly fills the crystal’s interior; staining it black as night. And when it is full she takes a single scale from her hide and infuses it to; binding the two together.
As she casts her spell the elders of the brood gather you up and together you fly to the mortal village of Ponversa. There you flay and melt and eat every last aasimar. You seek out every merchant who has ever traded with the mortal coward. You seek out every man or woman who has ever shown him kindness. Every animal that has ever bowed their head in affection to him. You seek out the ones they call Interpreters and rip them asunder; and you leave their bones scattered throughout the countryside. You kill any he may have even mentioned the Fang to. You leave this desiccated village as a monument to what happens to those who defy the Black Dragons.
Six years pass, a trifling amount of time to you but to a hobgoblin, with their funny, short little lives, must feel like an eternity. And he returns. He sees what we have done. He builds mass graves and buries his dead friends and family, wailing and moaning across the land as he does.
He knows what you have done. He sneaks back into the mountain… but in his time away his magics have improved. He moves with the shadows, and when we try to snatch at him he slips into gas and smoke. He is fast, and clever now. His eyes are wide and sparked with the unmistakable fire of madness and fury.
He takes from the horde Netheria’s Fang, and with it he stands before Ynoxa. But your sweet, clever, cruel queen is always prepared.
“What’s wrong, Rajul? Too many bodies for the graves?”
“You tricked me! The fang was here, all along! But I still found it! I still have it! I HELD UP MY END OF THE DEAL. You said you wouldn’t hurt my family if I found it!”
“Deal? No. I gave you a command. You followed through. I changed my mind. That is the right of the mighty, dear. They make the rules that the weak follow.”
“Well now which one of us is mighty? I have the Fang! And with it I am going to put you in the ground!”
You laugh and laugh and laugh at his bravery. Too late for bravery now. Ynoxa lifts a mighty talon, in it clutching the black crystal, and rams it through the man’s heart; killing him instantly. But death does not linger. The man lays still, then shutters and drags himself to a sitting position. He gazes from you to Ynoxa in confusion.
Her words are a chant; a promise and a ritual spell: “You, insolent snake who dares to strike at the daughter of a god. You shall live as a testimony to what happens to those who insult us and our divine right. The crystal you now bear is weaved from your own hate and shame. It is you and you are it. So long as you bear this Crystal of Hate and Shame, you will not know death. Not your own. Nor mine. You may bring no harm upon me or my kin. You may not know death for yourself or me. Only when you release the fear entangling your heart shall you be free.”

You are no longer a dragon welp. Now you are a man. A hobgoblin who has lived his life in fear. A life of having everything you care about taken by bullies and monsters. You grab at the crystal and feel pain jolt through your entire body. You manage to whisper; “Why?”
“Because these are the rules I have made. I am a queen. And you are a coward.”
You feel anger course through you. Anger and hatred. And when you feel that the crystal doesn’t ache. In fact… it feels strong. It gives you courage. You rise to your feet, fueled by your righteous fury. You don’t know where to begin, words and thoughts swirl in your head so you just start speaking…
“O…oh… no. No no no, dear. No I have spent my LIFE being bullied by things like you. Well not this time… not this time. No matter how long it takes. We aren’t playing your game. We’re playing MINE. You said I won’t know death while this is here? Good. ‘Cause I’m not going anywhere. You’ll die and I will live free! Free of chains and free of fear! It’s just a MATTER OF TIME. SO TICK. TOCK. DEARY.
You are not strong. Nor brave. But you cannot die. You don’t need to be strong or brave when you cannot die. You just need to be patient. You just need to find her weakness. And along the way you will gather anything, and everything, to aid you. Every weapon, ever soldier, every artifact. You will beg and borrow and steal like you did as a slave. You will negotiate as you did with the ogres. Until you find something, anything, that can end her. You leave her cave. You leave the shores of your homeland. Leave for unknown lands to seek unknown things. You miss the hymns of your home. You miss the angelic choir. So you make up a song for yourself.

Tick Tock, Round the Clock
Ravens start to flock
Tick Tock, Round the Clock
Time is running out

Too many bodies for the graves
Sing the dragon to the waves
Tick Tock, Round the Clock
Your time is running out

Tick Tock, Round the Clock
A thousand miles will I walk
Tick Tock, Round the Clock
To make your time run out.