Goblins are humanoid creatures and distant cousins of the brutish Orcs. Though both share an unnaturally green skin, their similarities end there. Goblins are smaller and generally more cunning than their larger relatives. They use their wits and low cunning to ambush weary adventurers in the dense jungles and forests of their homeland.

Goblins are dimorphic, with females being larger and bulkier than males. The largest recorded goblin stood just over two dhiras tall, or a bit more than a meter in the lexicon of Quas, when fully upright.

Both males and females have four fingers and four toes on each hand and foot. They walk hunched over with a fast, loping gait, and possess remarkable endurance, capable of running many miles without tiring. Their heads are bulbous, almost too large for their spindly necks, and are adorned with thick, hair-like growths of various colors that extend nearly to their skinny waists. Experiments on captives revealed that these 'hair' tendrils are crucial to their survival—when cut short, the goblins rapidly expire, seemingly from a lack of air. Thus, targeting their hair might be an effective strategy.

Goblins also have weak bone structures, particularly their craniums, making their heads a vulnerable point of attack. More intriguing than their external features is their internal anatomy. Both live and dead specimens have shown that goblins lack lungs and possess only the tiniest of hearts. This peculiar physiology lends truth to the phrase "goblin-hearted." Their blood, which is blue and has a metallic scent and taste, further adds to their curious nature. This blood, when properly harvested, has many beneficial alchemic properties and will often fetch a high price.

Goblins are indeed among the most enigmatic of humanoid monsters.

- Monsters of the Mortal Realms by K. D. Fidditch

Damien de Savant, the bastard son of his house, bore the name of one of the greatest generals Aranthia had ever known. Such a storied name was both a blessing and a curse. Every day, Damien fought tooth and claw to live up to it, driven by the weight of his ancestor’s legacy and the whispers of those who doubted his worth.

And, this Damien was worried. It had become a habit of his, a nagging presence that clung to his every thought. Habits, he knew, could turn into weaknesses, and weaknesses were dangerous. Lately, his worries had taken on a new shape. He worried even when there was nothing to worry about, and that very absence of concern gnawed at him the most. It was a maddening cycle, a relentless torment. His father would sneer at him, call it womanly, but Damien knew better. Worry was not a matter of gender, but of survival in the cutthroat world of the Aranthian nobility.

Though Aranthian society was built on the bedrock of patriarchy, where the laws of primogeniture favored the male line, his own house stood as an anomaly. Here, inheritance followed the daughter. Marriages within the extended family were common, a means to keep bloodlines pure and power consolidated. His stepfather and mother were second cousins, their union a testament to this tradition. Damien was the product of one of his mother’s many dalliances. His stepfather, bound by duty and honor, could do nothing but hold his tongue and treat Damien as his own, even though the boy was a living, breathing reminder of his failings as a man. The whispers and sidelong glances from the servants, the coldness in his stepfather's eyes, all spoke of a silent torment that gnawed at the noble’s pride.

But that was not all the secrets that Damien had.

The bastard son of the family stole a glance at the long mirror in his chamber, a rare treasure by any standard. Imported from the distant city of Al-Lazar, the mirror was framed in finely wrought brass, its surface clear and pristine, unlike the smoky, dull products of the local glaziers. It stood tall and elegant, a silent witness to his solitary musings and private fears. In its reflection, he saw a perfect vision of beauty.

He saw a man with short dark hair curling slightly at the tips, an aristocratic nose, a strong jaw, and a narrow chin. A heart-shaped face framed high cheekbones and full lips which seemed perpetually pouted. His smoky grey eyes held the color of morning mist. His fine limbs were perfectly proportioned, his hips narrow. At first glance, he could easily be mistaken for a woman, save for his slightly wider shoulders. The mirror did not lie; it revealed every contour and flaw, blending his mother’s raw beauty with his father’s strength. Bearing the legacy of two worlds, it was a face that could command as easily as it could deceive.

Damien was an anomaly.

Sighing he left the room, making sure to check the oil of the lantern before it. He always had to do this himself as he had forbidden the maids and servants from entering his private chambers. It was his only sanctuary in the whole of a manse, filled with secrets that only he could understand.

Savants from generations immemorial looked down at him from their canvases as he went down long corridors to answer his mother’s summons. The paintings reminded him of the museums and art galleries that he would visit in his previous life. A life from a different time and place.

He hummed a tune not of this world, glad that at such a late hour the servants were not up and about. Finally, he arrived at his mother’s chambers and rapped twice against the door.

Entering with permission, he gave his mother a quick glare before the natural instincts of proper decorum came in, forcing him to give a courteous bow.

His mother, Sabine, was as beautiful as he was, her face an almost perfect mirror of his own. The long years had touched her lightly, her face unlined, save for a deep shadow in the well of her eyes hinting at her true age. Most would mistake her for Damien’s sister.

“You are ready?” Sabine asked, crossing her arms impatiently. “Be glad that my love for you is greater than tradition. In my grandmother’s time, you would have been left in the woods as an abomination.”

He gave her a false smile. “Yes, mother,” he answered diplomatically.

Her expression softened. Sighing, she stood to her full height and clasped Damien by the shoulders, looking deeply into his eyes.

“Born out of wedlock, yes. But born out of love too. Never forget that, my son. I have never told them, but I adore you more than all your sisters combined. Yes, even more than my firstborn. You are the light of my eyes, Damien. You are special. Let not the worry of failure burden you so. I knew, even before you began to kick in my belly, that you were destined for greater things. By the Moon and the Mother’s light, you will not fail.”

“I know,” he replied, breaking contact with his mother and turning around. “Let us get this over with.”

*****

Together they ventured to the woods of their estate. Damien’s sisters had already prepared the grounds, waiting patiently around a crude stone altar in a silvered clearing. When the pair arrived, the women rose in almost perfect unison and welcomed them with deep bows from the hip.

Sabine turned to her precious son and declared, “Tonight you will welcome the Change of the Mother. Remember, you are not of the Beastkin, those pathetic creatures who are our pale shadows. You are of the Wer, the true unison between woman and nature. The mark of the Covenant.”

A blonde girl, his stepfather’s get and his youngest half-sister, voiced a protest. “Exactly, Damien is a man! He may look good in a dress, but he is a man all the same. I beg of you, drinking the elixir is a death sentence!” Genuine concern was written clear across her face, obvious to all in the light of the moon.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

Sabine looked at her youngest daughter Mathilde with distaste. She was one of her greater disappointments, her Change one of the weaker ones, barely stronger than a man even when fully empowered by the moon. It was a pity that Guillaume's blood ran too thickly in her veins, the older woman thought to herself.

“Silence!” her mother barked. “You would profane this night’s gathering with discord? Shame on you!”

The effects of Sabine’s scathing words were almost instantaneous. Mathilde received deadly looks from her sisters and her shoulders drooped in sullen response.

“Of course, mother,” she answered weakly.

Her mother smirked in victory. “Good, does anyone else wish to voice their concern?” There was a long silence for a few seconds, broken only by the rustle of the leaves and the hoot of a distant owl.

“No, Mother,” Damien’s sisters answered together like a choir.

With her hands on her hips, she looked at each of them to confirm that there was no further challenge. “Good. By the dint of his blood, this trial is his by right. Know you all that he is closer to the Moon than perhaps any of you… yes even with your menses…” Sabine barked crudely at her offspring, a hint of pride flashing in her grey eyes.

Yes, Damien thought. Women had always been traditionally closer to the Moon. Until him, of course.

Victorious, the older woman picked up a silver goblet filled with a dark, hissing liquid. Symbols depicting the moon and running wolves curled around its body and the liquid within was a concoction born of deadly poison. A poison designed to awaken the Wer within and force the Mother’s Change.

“Then, Damien, my dearest son. Drink of this and know the Mother’s love. You will feel agony and great pain. But this holy suffering will feel will be the birth pangs of rebirth!” she declared, smiling wickedly.

With no shame, Damien de Savant disrobed completely and went down on a bent knee before accepting the proffered cup. He raised it to his lips, the brew bitter and promising slow death. With a gambler’s courage, he drank it down in one draft.

It burned his lips, the insides of his mouth, it burned throat, it burned the lining of his stomach, and eventually boiled his blood. He fell to the soft grass of the forest floor, his limbs flailing wildly this way and that.

His hands turned into claws, digging into the dark soil as he remembered what he had sacrificed to come this far. Who he had sacrificed.

Memories of the past came to him a frenzied torrent.

Suddenly, she remembered the feel of the weapon in her hands, a long deadly creation of wood and metal. For some reason, she could not remember the weapon’s name, even now as her past life flashed before her eyes. Only that It shared a similar function to the crossbows of this world, only that it had a great bark and unleashed instant metal death with every pull of the tickler. The superior weapon could unleash its bolts faster than a squad of archers of crossbowmen combined.

This was no tool of the hunt, but an almost an almost perfect weapon for the slaughter of the masses.

Ever since she had been a little girl, she had felt trapped in her own body. She was born a girl, but knew that she had been meant to be born a boy. Always, she had felt incomplete, a creature between worlds. Laughingly, her parents had humored her at first, calling it a phase or cute. But slowly, as the years turned their laughs had turned to sighs regret, and looks of worry.

She had felt the whole gamut of emotions. Distress, depression, anxiety, negativity, and plain unhappiness became her constant companions. Her peers shunned her, thinking that the darkness within her was infectious.

One night, the blessed goddess had come to her in a dream promising to grant her deepest desires. All in exchange for one small thing, the lives of the innocent were to be sacrificed in her name.

So she had taken the weapon and its smaller sibling from her father’s safe, the combination of which had been her birthday. First, she killed her parents, both of them begging and pleading for her to stop. Their words were nothing more than wind. Didn’t she tell them a thousand times to call him a he? Would it have killed them to respect his wishes?

The ironic results spoke for themselves. In the corner of his vision, a number ticked down with the remaining sacrifices required for his wish to be granted. Feeling like it was like a game, he laughed.

He brazenly walked to his school, laughing as he released the metal bolts at everyone he saw. In this quiet rural town, a place supposedly free from the corrupting influence of the cities, security was but a vague afterthought.

The elderly guard had been the first to die, his eyes glazed in horror and his chest blooming red where the bolts, speeding so fast they were invisible, had penetrated his trunk. He smiled, remembering that he had read somewhere that it was best to aim for the center of mass than for the head.

He had practiced long and hard for this day, but at this range and with the weapon’s rate of fire he barely had to aim. Most of the time a guess was enough as he shot into a room filled with pressed and panicking bodies.

Click, click, click, went his tickler, the weapon shouting a staccato song of death wherever he guided it. The required number started to tick down. He was on a grand mission.

Screams filled the air, but he was so engrossed in achieving his lifelong dream that his ears could not, would not, hear them. Stop many of them cried or wept. Please, stop. He remembered vaguely that his brave teacher had even tried to hug him, telling him that it was alright, the poor naive sap. Like the others, she died bloody and broken.

Sirens blared in the distance, cutting through the cacophony of chaos and signaling that his time was drawing to a close. He pushed himself to greater efforts, searching the hidden corners for any prey he had missed.

He was so close, just a little bit more…

There was a flash of pain in his shoulder and he crashed down to the ground. In the corner of his eye, he saw one of his classmates crawling across the floor as they clutched their belly. He drew his weapon’s shorter brother, aiming for the head for he knew his time was short. He prayed that his aim was true as he squeezed the tickler of his weapon, unleashing his final wish. He hoped had offered enough lives to the goddess of his dreams.

And, by all of his lucky stars, it had been.

For the goddess had made good on her promise. Finally, she had been reborn as a man, an illegitimate scion of the Savants.

The she had become fully a he. A promise that no amount of counseling or kisses of the surgeon’s blade his world could fulfill. Reborn into a world that knew the song of Mana.

His thoughts were brought painfully back into the present.

The Change, thought impossible for males of the line, was becoming a reality due to the duality of his existence. He could feel it, deep within his bones, a primal urge clawing its way to the surface, demanding to be released. His hands began to tremble uncontrollably, fingers curling and stretching as the transformation started.

His skin stretched and split, fingers lengthening into grotesque, sinewy forms. Nails hardened and extended into razor-sharp claws, gleaming in the moonlight. The pain was excruciating, every nerve ending on fire as bones cracked and reformed. His human hands were no more, replaced by the deadly weapons of a lupine predator.

A low growl escaped his throat as he doubled over, agony coursing through his body. His spine arched, vertebrae snapping and shifting to accommodate his new form. He felt his ribs expand, his chest broadening with each labored breath. Muscles bulged and contorted, straining against the limits of his skin. The Change was merciless, demanding complete submission.

His legs buckled under the strain, and he dropped to all fours. The ground felt cool and rough beneath his transformed hands and feet, now equipped with powerful claws that dug into the earth. His knees and elbows bent unnaturally, adjusting to the new quadrupedal stance. He could feel his tailbone extending and a new appendage sprouted, a bottle-brush tail.

His face contorted in pain, jaws snapping open and shut as his skull reshaped itself. The bones of his jaw elongated, teeth growing into sharp fangs meant for tearing flesh. His nose and mouth pushed forward, forming a pronounced snout. Ears shifted upward, becoming pointed and more sensitive. Every sound was amplified, every scent more potent. His senses were heightened to an almost unbearable degree.

The transformation was nearly complete. His vision sharpened, night turning into a tapestry of vivid detail. He could see the world clearly in shades of sharp greys. His sense of smell was overpowering, the scents of the forest mingling with the musk of his own changing body. He could hear the rustle of a rabbit and the flutter of night bird’s feathers overhead.

The final part of the Change was that of the mind, blending predatory cunning and instinct with human intellect. This phase required more than just the body; it demanded something from the heart and soul. It consumed the core of his being, tearing out memories from another life, another world, and replacing them with millennia of bestial instinct.

After long minutes, it was finally over. The soft-silvered moonlight bathed his new form, highlighting the sleek, fur-covered muscles that rippled beneath his skin. He could feel the power coursing through him, the raw, unbridled strength of a predator.

His duality was complete, a perfect fusion of man and beast. For the second time, Damien was reborn.

Like him, his mother and sisters disrobed as they began their own transformations. Soon enough, the pack was complete, and they welcomed their newest member with a great howl to the moon. They would run for miles and hunt together, bonding in their primal state.

This night, they would truly become family.