Stranger Prince - The Goblin King Awakens
Tobil, the Champion of Evil and the Thwarter of the Gods, marched around the large, fiery cavern with a formidable, threatening demeanour, barking orders aggressively to timid, bent-over goblins. Tainting black smoke wafted slowly through thin, narrow vents, choking the already poisoned air and dark orange lava bubbled and seeped through cracks that riddled the sloping walls. Countless goblins silently leaped through shadows delivering messages to elders and hurrying towards their posts. Some were blacksmiths, creating Shadow Cutlasses and Ragged Blades, or builders erecting weak wooden scaffolding much to the dismay of workers slaving away below. Some were also taming huge, spider-like Lava Shooters and a few were training in the middle of the expansive cave, slashing bloody carcasses and groaning at the effort.
Shouting loudly, even audible against the horrendous noise, was a menacing-looking overseer armed with a dangerous whip. "No slacking, get to work!"
Every repetition of this was accompanied by the brutal sound of the whip and his eerie laughter echoing off the walls. The goblins being scolded would then fall to the floor, writhing in agony, before getting back up and resume working, albeit with less energy.
Tobil glided through the dimly lit warren of tunnels and passageways, passing goblins who halted and bowed out of fear and respect, and then raced away to tell their family groups the news. The complex labyrinth was confusing at the best of times and Tobil, having been banished and incarcerated in the Void for over 100 years, struggled to remember how to navigate the tiring network. Although he had retained his core, sadistic personage and the large majority of his memory, he failed to recount how he had been banished. He knew one thing though, and that was that he had been Banished by that interfering Druid. Oh… How he loathed that Druid.
All that he had of the events leading up to his untimely "demise" was unclear images and visions of a battle. Grainy recollections and fragmented memories clouding his mind like a thick, almost solid fog that never faded, unsettled or dispersed. However, thanks to the help of Tobil's greatest aide, the mist was going to disappear. The faltering images would strengthen into vivid pictures and the jumbled collages would cease to exist, instead replaced by clearer visions.
Zackarack, an old goblin who had been Tobil's marshal during his failed attempt to defeat the Mithraleenean Empire, had recommended that he should drink from the Fountain of Time Everlasting, an ancient relic said to have been made before the foundation of the First Empire and have a connection with the White Tablet.
Tobil, even as open-minded to desecrating artefacts as he was, dismissed the idea as rubbish, saying that even if it did exist it was lost in the Great Battle of the Desert Plains. He should know, as he was a general leading the Armies of the Mithraleenean Empire against the Canids, a race of canine creatures who dwelt in Afrik.
For weeks, he grew progressively more insane. No goblin, apart from Zackarack, dared go near him or his quarters. To him, even the Void was better than this torture. The torture of his fragmented mind. That was until he had encountered the fabled entity Norkel, the Corrupted King who pre-dated the First Empire of Queen Bekar. Norkel, although still powerful, was a shadow of his former self and an Eoni Wraith. Norkel had come to Tobil physically when he was in his Private Quarters and revealed to him the location of the Fountain.
After that fateful meeting, Tobil instructed every single scout, spy and soldier under his command to search and examine every inch of the area just to find the Fountain of Time Everlasting. Progress had been too slow for Tobil, who had become increasingly psychotic and mad, and the goblins sent out were getting spotted too easily. Luckily, for Tobil, the people crazy enough to believe what they saw had their claims regarded as fallacy or advised to visit the local healer for some physiatrist treatment - Enacra Goblins hadn't been seen in those areas for many , many years.
Finally, after Tobil had resorted to enlisting Dark Ash Assassins, a group of cold, merciless killers, the Fountain had been unearthed in a heavily guarded Necronjer shrine and had then been installed in his room after its capture. Tobil himself had chartered the ship that took the assassins over the sea, from Eusiac to Ameninca, the great continent that was across the Western Sea. Of course, he himself couldn't join in on any of the heated skirmishes and minute battles that followed or he risked being sighted and starting another Goblin Purge. In the last Purge, the Mithraleenean Empire and other traitorous goblins had united to slaughter and destroy the terrible and feared Enacra goblins. The few survivors had been forced to seek refuge in the generally unexplored mountains of Moosh.
After many nail-biting hours, the assassins returned to the ship, having lost half their number and having gained many grevious injuries. Tobil was jubilant for days. So jubilant that he only had thirty goblins executed for laziness that week. Soon, the vicious, relentless plague of bad memories would vanish and he'd be free at last. Or so he thought.
As he turned the corner that led him to an intersection, that in turn would take him to his quarters, a thin smile, and expression Tobil had not used since his victory over the Mithraleenean Empire's forces at the Siege of Carthinhex, crept across his face. Two Menagi, attractive, naturally tattooed Half-Elves, guarded the doorway with spears in their gloved hands. They gave a hasty salute before parting, leaving Tobil alone. Tobil proceeded into his room. It was dark; a lone candle spluttered quietly on top of an ebony table.
His room was bare, reflecting his perfect world, apart from the intricately made table, a wooden bookcase housing a plethora of arcane books of spells and detailed treatises, a shabby bed and, in the pride of place, the Fountain.
The Fountain was made of immaculately white marble, draped in blood red velvet embroidered with gold, and was too perfectly rounded to have been created by even the most renowned sculptors or artists, even if they were dwarves. It radiated a mystical light that emitted from no visible source and was filled with a transparent liquid. Despite being an inanimate object, the Fountain looked as if it were repulsed to be in such a debased room. A golden goblet rested beside the water, carefully placed so it did not taint or corrupt the water.
Tobil walked over to the chalice, inscribed with intricate writing, and was shocked when it flew onto the table. Tobil, trying to make sense of the confusion, guessed that it must be enchanted with a Repulse charm. Hopelessly, he attempted to grab it and after hundreds of fruitless tries he raised his head skywards and let out a sickening insult at the Gods for they had sanctioned the curse. Nostrils flaring, he recomposed himself. He would have to touch the Water of Time with his hands, unprotected. He shivered. He was so corrupt ot touch somethign so pure.
Slowly, he edged over to the marble and cupped his hands. Gradually, suppressing as much pain as he could, he inserted his shaking hands into the liquid and withdrew them. Spasms shook him as he swiftly dipped his black, poisonous tongue into the agonizing water and regretted it. His head exploded with pain and images.
Visions of the future, of what was to come, erupted from him, pouring from his eyes, ears, nose and mouth. Tobil dropped to his knees, scratching slivers of wood from the table as the images fired from him. He saw a picture land beside him and take shape. It depicted a young man with brown hair walking through a bright forest, joined by a huge Giant Man and an old wizard-like person who looked like an older version of someone Tobil had seen before, carrying a beautiful staff and baring a stunningly white beard. The next one showed the brown-haired man and his gigantic friend travelling across Drooding Bridge while whitish water raged and fought below them.
Any other being would have been destroyed or, at the very least, been rendered a gibbering mess and a cripple for drinking the holy water, however, Tobil was more than just a prosaic being, he was so much more. 102 years ago, in the main square of Crusada, the great city of Mithraleen, the Jewel of Eusiac, Tobil, at that time called Sir Lancelot, had been shackled and brought up to a podium, in front of a jeering crowd. His crime? He had opened the Void to allow the creation of his Shadow Blades. Although mages opened the Void to summon creatures, Tobil had punched a hole through this realm and into the Void, allowing the Daemons imprisoned in the Void to pour into this world. On that dias, he was given Gornuka blood, a poison made from the blood of goblins. As the poison coarsed through his veins, it replaced his blood with that if a goblin and morphed him into one...
Stranger Prince
A few weeks later, far away, Zilnee, the High Druid of the Idruidi Order and one of the most accomplished spell-casters in the world, was sitting at his teak desk, reading over a report from one of his many sub-ordinates. He stroked his white beard gently, his old eyes intently staring at the writing on the parchment. His room was large and beautifully decorated with precious metals such as gold and silver. The tables, of which there were many, were laden with exotic, metal instruments that spread smoke into the room. The walls were covered with ancient, tall bookcases. Each bookcase was filled with a collection of spell tomes and books, potion receipes and anecdotes. In the corner of the room, hidden from `forces of the light coming through the windows, was a withered, red-spined book. On the front cover, etched in a faint golden ink, was a spidery script. It read:
"The Book of Banishings"
Suddenly, rising from its place of refuge, the book hovered into the air, light pulsating from it. The wave of brightness reached Zilnee, blowing his parchment off the table. He jumped off of his ebony chair and wheeled around. He spotted the book and his eyes widened in horror. How could I have forgotten? He questioned himself. Tobil couldn't have returned. It isn't the correct time!
He grabbed the his immaculate, white robes that were sitting on the back of his black chair and, radiating fear, stormed out of his room. His breathing became heavy. We aren't ready, Lokve. We do not have the power to defeat him. The Prophecy is silent. Help us. He prayed to his god. There was no reply.
His pace quickened. He was now in a long, narrow corridor. On one side, there were squares cut into the wall, allowing light into the passage and to provide a view into the Courtyard where the Initiates practised. At the end of the corridor, large, imposing and enchanted to prevent any undesired guest gaining entry, was a thick slab of wood, masquerading as a door. Beside it was a thin stick, about four feet in length. The wood from which it was crafted was grey. Three long, wooden fingers at the top of the staff held the Essence Orb, the magical ball that gave the staff power. On his way out of the door, he grabbed it and tucked it under his robe.
A string of thoughts flowed through his mind, pushing out all of his rational thinking. How can this be... I banished him for one hundred and fifty years. This is impossible. What if he already has an army? I must warn the emperor, lest the world fade into darkness.
Despite being surprising quick and agile for his age, Zilnee decided that it would take too long to arrive at Crusada in the ferry. Time is of the essence. He prepared a teleportation spell, finding it difficult to do in his panicking state. After a few more seconds, he had managed to cast the spell. He walked a few more steps and then his body began to stretch up into the air. There was a flash of light and then he was gone.
***
A week later, hidden in the bowels of the Palace, was a small, dimly-lit room. Inside, surrounding a round, stone table, were the Lords and Ladies of Mithraleen, the emperor and the High Druid. A few candles spluttered lazily on the table, making the room even darker than it was. The men and women in the hot, claustraphobic chamber were debating loudly.
"If Tobil has returned we must act!" yelled Lord Hogan of Carthinhex, "I will not allow him to destroy my city like he did the last time!"
"Hah!" spat the Lord of Dwide, "If he has returned! Mages are liars at the best of times! What does he know?" he glared at Zilnee.
"Silence, Vrokun!" barked the emperor, "You are talking to High Druid Zilnee! He could blow up this Palace whilst still keeping this room intact!"
"It is okay, Malfal. I'm sure his distrust is well placed," smiled Zilnee.
"It damn well is!" shouted Lord Vrokun, an imposing, ugly figure.
"Enough," piped up Lady Avron of Lydoras, the Great Tribal City of the Ael'nonuvah, "We are here to discuss how to deal with Tobil, not to debate his existence. High Druid Zilnee is arguably the smartest being in this room, Vrokun. Listen to him."
Vrokun cursed and then resigned in silence.
"We should advance through the Carth," began King Belleen IV of Khazaduru, "We'll attack Tobil at his cave!"
"Using Carthinhex to push into the Defiled Lands will endanger the people! I say we use the Ruvahian Forest to attack him!" argued Lord Hogan, enraged that the Dwarf dared to suggest that his lands be used to attack a powerful enemy.
"And allow him to ravage our forests?" hollered Avron and Lord Alros in unison, standing up, shaking in anger.
Hogan and Belleen jumped to their feet too, "You bunch of tree-huggers! There are more important things than trees!"
"You would know all about that, King Belleen. You live in the cold, hard city of the rock!" retorted Alros, "A place of stale air and mining. You have no respect for the living, only for your pockets and your ores!"
"SILENCE!" roared the emperor, his voice bouncing off the walls and into the ears of the Lords and Ladies assembled, "No! We have another way! We shall send our forces down the Wolven River and to Fort Major."
"Fort Major is on Tobil's doorstep. If I were him, it would have been a pile of rubble and death by now." said Vrokun, revealing his disdain for this plan, which he regarded as folly.
