Carrie got a terse letter and her wayward sheet of notes back from the Conclave Adventurer Society within a day. She never did find that original letter.
She wrote a new one.
Before she could lose it she took it to one of the General’s aides and asked the young nobleman to send it for her.
It arrived promptly.
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Genia woke slowly. The first sensation that impeded her rest was a general itchiness, which was revealed as a flaky dryness when she moved her hand to the spot.
“Carefully.” A soft feminine voice said. “Don’t open your eyes yet. Let me wipe some of the crust away first.”
A soft, dry cloth swept deftly from the bridge of her nose out to her temple, one side and then the other. Once, twice, three times.
“There. You’ll at least not get any in your eyes. Sit up as soon as you’re ready, and use the sheet for a wrap. Don’t worry, it’s all women here. Blow.”
“I noticed that on the way in, except the physician, of course.” Genia said, and she was surprised by her own voice. “What is this crud?” She took the offered handkerchief and blew her nose.
She had never seen such large, crusty boogers. She blinked. She could smell. It had been years since she’d lost her sense of smell and it had happened so slowly she’d barely noticed.
In a way she wished her sense had remained dormant another few minutes. The tent was rank with unpleasant odors.
She had expected the renewed eyesight, but she wished she’d regained her sense of smell after her bath.
“It’s you.” The nurse chuckled. “It’s what happens with a physique pill. Every bit of your body is remade into the best you that you can be, the leftovers are pushed out of the body, shed like a snakeskin.”
“Oh. That’s…” She searched for an adequate word. She settled on: “revolting.”
“Yes, yes it is, but you’ll be pleased with the results. Now can you sit up?”
Genia began the long process of shifting and turning to get into sitting up position. The movements came swiftly and without pain.
“Whoa there. It’s going to take a little while to get used to the way your body feels. Want some help?”
“No. I’ve got it.” Genia got into a sitting position, holding the sheet over her front and moving slowly. “Nothing hurts.”
“That’s good. That’s the way it should be. Everyone here knows what you’re going through.” The woman held up her hand which had a 1357 on the back of it. “Or most of what you’re going through. All the newly classed get the physique pill, the unclassed and non fighters get a serum which does the same basic mess, only a little wetter.”
“Ugh.” Genia sighed.
“Yeah. We’re foul. Also we wake up after a few hours. Classers take two days. You’re one of the last in your lot. Then we’ll move the tent to the other side and start over again while the cleaning crew works their magic. So… almost steady now? Ready to stand up?”
“I think so.”
“Great! Just go slowly, do you want to lean on me?”
“No, just step back a little.”
“Sure, sure. There you go. Let me show you the baths.” They walked to the side wall of the tent. Genia had just gotten the sheet tied around her when they went from the big tent to a much smaller tent with a basin of water and three chattering girls.
“Another one.” The nurse sounded a little stern.
“Oh. Hi, don’t you look steady. Step right over here and we’ll get you sorted quick.”
Genia half expected to be set in the tub, but they didn’t do that. They whisked away her wrap and then bathed her with ruthless efficiency. Rinse, lather, rinse, lather, rinse, oil, scrape, rinse, buff with three towels at the same time.
“Step into these. Don’t worry, all the trainees will be wearing them, and we’re all women at this training camp.”
Genia let herself be dressed in loose bloomers and an impossibly soft, stretchy shirt. She also had socks and the strangest shoes she’d ever worn. They had soles as tall as her thumb with ridges in them. When she was dressed, if you could call that dressed, they pushed her in the direction of a hallway made out of a tent.
She followed the hallway to a desk set across the end, just inside yet another tent room.
“Name?” The woman didn’t even look up.
“Genia Peerless.”
The woman shuffled a few folders, then opened one. “Put your hand here.” She pointed at a magitech box with the outline of a hand on top. She still hadn’t looked up.
Genia considered making a snide remark, but decided against it. She put her hand on the box. The woman behind the desk checked something on the box against something on the paper and seemed satisfied because she turned the page in the file. She also picked up her quill as if to write.
“Class?”
“How would I know that?”
The woman finally looked up, seeming exasperated. She sighed heavily. “Try saying Status.” She then made a flicking gesture and looked at the page again.
“Status.” Genia said, tentatively.
Genia Peerless
Age: Immortal
Class: Wind Dancer level 1
Strength 2
Agility 6
Vitality 2
Intelligence 8
Wisdom 7
Luck 27
Skills: Glaive Mastery 1.0
Spells: Wind Blade 1.0
Genia had barely read the whole thing before the woman at the desk cleared her throat imperiously. Genia raised her eyebrows at her.
“Sure. Take your time, not like there’s anyone waiting. Class.”
“Thank you, I will take my time. Wind Dancer.”
The woman wrote that down. More words than she’d personally penned appeared on the page. “Hybrid mage/melee, initial skills or spells?”
“Glaive Mastery and Wind Blade.”
The woman snorted softly, and marked next to two of the lines. “Highest stat? You don’t have to say what the number is, they’ll all be growing through training.”
“Luck.”
The woman looked up in clear surprise. “Huh. Oh, are you elvish?”
Genia touched her ear. “Not much. One out of eight great grandparents. My parents had my ears docked when I was small. I’d forgotten.”
“Nasty practice, we’re not at war with the elves anymore. Horrible thing to do to a kid. I don’t know how much anyone has told you, but the first month or more is nothing but training. You’ll be lumped in with all the fighting girls, classed or not. No bullying based on looks, lack of class or anything else. Leave the bullying to the instructors. Follow the ropes to get something to eat, then one of the instructors will put you with a training group. Keep track of your training group. You will eat and sleep together. If you’re missing they’re in trouble and the opposite. After the first month you’ll have magic practice. No using your spell until then. If you’re seen using your spell you’ll be fitted with a suppression collar. Any questions? Good. Go eat.”
This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
The ropes were two lines of crowd control ropes that led through the tent into another tent hallway and another huge tent. This one was set up with long tables with benches and a line of food trays, all covered with metal covers. A woman closed a book with a loud snap and stood. She was the only person waiting in the tent.
“Every time I get into the story.” She sighed, “What do you like? Chicken or fish, pasta or vegetables?”
“Uh… do you recommend something?”
The server smirked. “This time of day? Not really. If I had to serve myself I’d go with fish and vegetables.”
“That sounds good.”
The server laughed. “Good enough. Don’t eat more than your body wants. You’re probably starving, but chew slowly and stop when you’re done.”
“Right.”
The woman quickly made up a plate, including a crust of buttered bread and handed it to Genia. “Sit anywhere for now, they’ll make you sit with your group once you have a group.” She returned to her seat and her book. “Oh. Forks and water on the side table.” She gestured.
The fish was sliced too thick and dried out despite the thin gravy, but it wasn’t too tough. The vegetables were very soggy and the butter was flavored with herbs and garlic.
Genia was almost finished with her meal before she realized that her teeth had regrown in the two days she’d been unconscious. She wondered how she could have missed that.
“Leave your plate.” The server called as Genia finished and started to pick up her plate and cup.
She left her plate and went to the door of the tent. A woman in light armor was sitting under the awning in the shade.
“Genia Peerless?”
“Uh, yes, ma’am?”
“Sir. We’re all sir, anyone not in the whites.” She gestured to the soft clothes Genia had been issued. “You’re classed with a glaive skill?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Great.” She lifted a scrap of fabric she’d been worrying between both hands. It was a sort of vest or harness with a big P45 on the front and back. “Slip this jersey on over your uniform. It’s now part of your uniform. Group P45 is walking on the track right now. Go join them, then stay with them.”
Genia blinked a few times but she didn’t ask any questions. “Yes, sir.” She put the jersey on. The square with the number on it rode low on her stomach and back. At least the straps did not slide off her bony shoulders. She turned in the indicated direction and joined her new group. She walked onto the track and let the front of the group lap her before she settled into a strong walking stride.
There were several more groups on the track, S45, T45, R45 and L45. It took a long time for Genia to catch on that the letters were for Pole, Short-pole, Tank, Ranged and Logistics. Short pole included swords. Tank included infantry intended for shield walls as well as classed tanks. Ranged included most of the mages, but not Genia. But it was days before the new trainees knew their letters meant something.
The first day they all walked. The second day they all stretched, learned strange dance moves and walked.
They ate together, they slept together in long tents. They were issued night shirts at night and clean uniforms in the mornings. They were responsible for keeping their shoes clean.
They had no other duties, they were too tired to think. They were all filling out with muscles even after only a few days.
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Carrie looked at the crate on the wagon in perplexity. “How are they breathing?”
The Conclave delivery man frowned. “Nobody said I was transporting something live.” He hopped up and used a prybar to open the crate. “Nobody meant these to be alive. They’re tagged and killed proper.”
Carrie sighed heavily. “Dispose of them somehow. Apparently I need to write another letter.”
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The second week the basic training instructors added body weight exercises and more calisthenics. At that point they also started holding sticks while they danced and the choreography became more meaningful.
The stick thin rebuilt women - and a few who had been quite overweight- grew muscles and then grew lithe, shapely curves. They were well fed and their recently healed bodies soaked in the nutrients gladly.
The third week they danced striking poles with their sticks- even the logistics girls who were more than half of the group.
The logistics group disappeared after week three. The cafeteria got suddenly quieter.
The fourth week they learned a second dance, which they then performed against each other, making a choreographed set of moves. The calisthenics shifted to include kettlebells.
Through it all the new recruits gained strength and martial skill.
Genia Peerless
Age: Immortal
Class: Wind Dancer level 1
Strength 12
Agility 12
Vitality 19
Intelligence 8
Wisdom 7
Luck 27
Skills: Glaive Mastery 2.6
Spells: Wind Blade 1.0
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General Patrioc followed her new aide, Sorka- one of the recent crop of noncombatant draftees- into the display room the disassemblers had set up for her. The bailey room at the rear of the fort was clean, and smelled more of disinfectant than of bones.
“There are a lot of things we know for sure about goblins and hobgoblins, general.” Roald, the supervisor of the fort’s crafters. They didn’t make finished products, just raw materials used in other parts of the Empire where permanent settlements made more sense.
“There are three well known types, as you see here, the mountain and forest goblins have male and female sexes, same as most mammals. You’re dealing with bog goblins though, the kind that become hobgoblins.”
The nervous looking man rubbed his hands together as he continued. “They all mimic thinking beings, walking upright, but have no language, very little intelligence and there has never been a recorded instance of an evolved or Spiritual goblin.” He paused momentarily. “Or hobgoblin. Bog goblins live short lives. It’s estimated two to three years unless they’re lucky enough to become hobs. Hobgoblins are a direct individual metamorphosis from bog goblins. They actually go through three molting phases, I have prepared a specimen of each phase for you. This is the standard goblin, levels range from one to ten, sometimes as high as twelve without experiencing their change. They form a membrane around their whole body and emerge like this one, taller, skinnier and with these long claws. They change again quite quickly, they eat until their bellies are distended and grow a new membrane. In water, all of the goblin metamorphosis occurs in stagnant water. Hence the Bog Goblin nickname.”
Amara winced. Yet another hint that Carrie was correct. She’d forgotten that detail from her Beast lectures at academy.
“After the second period of metamorphosis they emerge like this specimen. As you can see, the claws are absent. The specimen is now properly a hobgoblin and level twelve to twenty five, when the final metamorphosis occurs. Again the hob gorges on whatever meat comes to hand. It builds a sort of nest on the banks of a lake and hides inside during the change. Here is the final transformation. The spinal ridges, the shorter fingers and toes as the end bones have reformed into bone spike claws and the index fingers are missing entirely, the enlargement of the cranial capacity, which actually increases their susceptibility to head injuries, and it’s why you almost never see this level of Hob without a helmet of some kind. Turtle shells are common, but they prefer to have one made by orcs or humans.”
In the entire monologue Roald had not recited a single fact Amara didn’t remember hearing in school.
“And the grindys?”
“Uh… we had them set up in the next room. Uh… is there a grindylow problem? They’re very low level most of the time.”
Amara grunted. “Have your assistant bring in the best preserved grindylow, set it next to the goblin. Bring all the grindymares we have and line them up over here.”
“Umm… uh… yes general.” He flapped his hands around as he passed on the orders.
The general waited patiently.
“Sorka? What do you see?”
The young looking woman was not an expert in monsters or anatomy. Not a scientist, not a scholar.
She had lived to 65 years old as a seamstress and then as a caretaker for her grandchildren. She could read and write, but most people in the empire could. She was here, as an aide because while she refused to fight directly, her potential to thrive as a classed was judged exceptionally high. She was now a Savant, a sort of mind mage who specialized in picking out patterns and breaking codes.
Sorka cleared her throat and began looking around the room at all the skeletons. She kept walking and walking, making circuit after circuit of the room.
Finally she stopped. “Bring me some clay or something to stick the bones together?”
Roald clapped his hands. An assistant rushed off.
“Why does this one have three index fingers, none of which seem exactly right compared to the other fingers?”
“Yes.” Roald cleared his throat. “The assistants keep putting them back with the hands, but the fingers are actually part of a necklace each grindymare wears. It’s crudely tied with the open or cut ends dangling. Every grindymare I have inspected had a necklace with one to six fingers on it.”
Amara grunted, not at all sure what to make of that.
Sorka used the provided putty to assemble the hobgoblin skull. Then she set it on an empty table and moved all of the grindymare skulls.
“The lines are the same.” She said when she was done. “The head gets bigger then the bones grow back together. They are not separate. These heads are metamorphic analogs.”
Amara nodded. She pulled out her paired paper notebook and stylus. She wrote new orders to her forces based on this information.
She hadn’t even fully exited the examination room before she was accosted by her political and legal adviser.
“You can’t.” Professor Yarbo said stridently. “You cannot broadcast an untested hypothesis as fact, even in war propaganda. It’s irresponsible, dangerous and highly illegal. You’re lucky that I’m your Advisor not someone else. I’ve already taken care of cancelling the announcement.”
Amara held her head, taking a deep breath before she started. “We tested the hypothesis.” She said. “A powerful Savant examined the skeletons.”
“There is a process for a reason. You have to write a paper, or in your case have the Savant and whatever researcher came up with this harebrained idea write a paper. Then it needs to be reviewed by ten scholars in relevant fields- preferably with casts of the bones.
“Then you publish the paper, the reviews and the rebuttal in pamphlet or book form. Once that is provided to the imperial libraries, accepted and catalogued then you may tell the world and your soldiers about your spectacular and unlikely find and not before.”
“Can I order my soldiers to kill whatever beasts and monsters I consider worth killing?”
“Of course. In fact I have a feeling you might be right, that it will help. You just can’t officially tell them why. If there are rumors…?” He shrugged. “But you can’t order people to spread the rumors.”
Amara rubbed her temples. “Fine. Get with Carrie and Sorka to arrange all the requirements of making the hypothesis into a scholarly book. In the meantime I will not make the announcement.”