Holding Ramrar’s power is a heady experience. The group of goblins that threatened to overwhelm me are now smoking, twitching corpses and I leave crackling destruction in my wake. I am Power.
I can feel something else in my mind as I wade through the remaining goblins. It feels good reducing the monsters to ash, and I am troubled by how good it feels. I could lose myself in this violence. Although I am not physically strong, the barest brush of my lightning is now enough to bake a monster alive.
I casually stroll through the smoking ruins of the goblin slum. I do not even raise my hand against the goblins as any that approach are struck down by the crackling energy that surrounds me. Only the goblin warchief remains now. The thing within my mind tells me that unless the warchief is killed, he will spawn more monsters and within a few months the infestation will return.
There is something odd about the warchief though. He sits upon a throne of bone and viscera and watches me as I slaughter my way through his camp. He seems unconcerned with my approach. Then he is wrapped in the sedate brown of earth magic, and he slowly stands.
“Hello Ramrar, how many years has it been since you last incarnated? A hundred at least I think.” The goblin spoke with tones of both slow melodious baritone and the rumbling growls and grunts that make up the goblin’s natural tongue.
“It has been a while Zat. What brings you to the earthly plane? It has been at least a thousand years since we last spoke.” The thing that was me-but-not-me spoke.
“Ram, you know I hate it when you call me Zat. It is Zathishria, if you please. And it has been a while since I last awoke.”
“Is the world ending then? Does the cycle cease to begin anew in the age to come? Or are you here for another purpose?” the thing that is not me says.
“The age ends soon I think. My stirring has awoken the creatures of twilight and shadow, and the Court of Night rises from the fetid soil to reap a harvest of the living. The winds of magic die and our brother’s flesh has finally begun to rot.” The goblin growls in that dual tone voice.
“And have you thrown in with the decaying things this time too? Or will you join me in fire and fury as we were those long ages ago?”
“I am tired brother, but I have yet to decide. Let us watch your mortal, and see how he does on his own. If he should amuse us, I will think on your offer. What say you, child, can you entertain us?”
The question throws me from the fuge. I am in control of my body and completely disoriented. I can feel the magic in the air begin to slow and sink. The energetic power that courses through me slows and I lose my grip on my casting. I still feel that well of power, but I cannot grasp it.
The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.
The magic that sustained my onslaught is gone, and the preternatural skill that infused my movements wanes. I am clumsy, with no magic, facing a goblin warchief with earth sorcery and savage ferocity. I’m fucked.
I stumble towards the warchief, who bellows a challenge at me and charges. I fumble the arming sword from the sheath and prepare myself. The earth shifts under my feet, becoming a soft sand, and I struggle to maintain my footing. The goblin is no great caster, but unless I manage to control my own magic, the goblin will kill me simply by ruining my balance. My blade clashes with his enchanted club. It is a construction of black stone, and obviously his first enchanted item. I sink half an inch into the sand with the blow as the soil continues to loosen. The goblin warchief is relentless, smashing into my arming sword with staggering overhead blows. I had to support the tip of the blade after the first strike to prevent the warchief from crushing my guard and my head in one blow, but finally after a dozen strikes, he slows to heave a breath.
I lunge forward, but not supported by the skill of my Dragon’s Eye, I bury my blade in his left shoulder as opposed to his neck, my intended target.
The blade glances off bone and I lose my grip on the blade. I roll backwards and dodge a wild swipe of his club. Without his left hand he cannot support his relentless assault. I produce my baselard and begin to circle. He pivots to continue to face me, and I can see blood seeping out from the gash in his shoulder. If I was not so tired, I could wait for blood loss to give me an overwhelming advantage, but I am pouring buckets of sweat, and the goblin warchief has a focus, giving him a source of stamina and strength to draw on.
If the standoff goes on much longer, I am going to get killed. I lower my body to charge the warchief and discreetly grab a handful of loose dirt. Not the most honorable, but anything to win this fight. I charge. The goblin brings the heavy stone club around, sweeping from right to left. I throw my baselard and dodge left, the club crashing into my right arm at the elbow. The sword throw was poor, but I struck the green beastie in the face with the flat of the blade. Seeing my chance, I throw the soil into his eyes and tackle the monster.
The goblin may be stronger than me, but I have been in my fair share of bar fights. If there is anything a good brawl teaches you, it is the value of brutalizing a downed opponent. With his club hand clearing his eyes, he could not stop my tackle. Nor could he stop me from throwing a left clean into his throat. I proceeded to take this goblin warchief to pieces. With no leverage, the club was little danger, so I gouged his eyes, smashed his nose, and punched his throat. At one point the green fuck managed to bite my fist, but a knee to the groin stopped any further resistance. Once the monster was unable to resist, I stood up and stomped until I was sure he died.
I panted and offered the soul of my departed foe to Ramrar. I felt his blessing upon me, and the power in my chest. My elbow cracked and ground back into place, at one point I blacked out. But when I came to, I heard snippets of a conversation.
“...won...onor...gain…” said a familiar baritone. “...hate...tetion...rue...destroy...other” said a tenor. Then it was black again.