It is a cruel reality that a person does not truly decide who they are. The inner world of the mind can paint a picture of the self; a soul can tell themselves stories of who they intend to be.

But the world rarely cares about things as immaterial or shapeless as ideas. A poem that is never shared with another is just a daydream. The thought of kindness is worthless and empty until it becomes an action. What we do defines us – more than any of our intentions ever will.

This is true: a goblin only needs to lose their temper once to become a killer. A promise only needs to break once to make an elf a liar. So, I will tell you a secret if you promise to keep it. Do you think that courage is what makes a Hero? No. A retreat can take courage. The foolhardy will happily charge headlong into danger. The heart does not matter in the moments which define a Hero. The only thing that matters is what the world sees: did you run or did you fight.

So in the end, what makes us who we are? Some days the answer is just a matter of perception.

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Wope was an average sort of goblin, from an average sort of village. He had been liked well enough, and he’d been strong and hale; he’d been proud of being young, of being fit. When he’d grown old enough to steer his own leveling, he’d refined his body and kindled his heart’s passion for boldness. Wope liked how the girls looked at him. He liked how the elders thanked him during harvest time.

The goblin loved it when his friends called him brave.

That was probably why Wope had sworn to the regional baron; why he had chosen to become a soldier and wear the colors of his lord. But the world was wider than he had imagined, and far more confusing too. His parents had been simple coopers: barrel makers and woodcutters, so even now, it was difficult for him to understand the tangled web of feudal loyalties which had placed him here. Four Ring Hills Palace: an opulent monument, a legacy of old blood and ancient names. Even diminished by centuries, the glory of House Tintalline glittered brighter than any treasure he’d known before.

Why him? Usually, an enlisted like himself might spend his entire career serving as little more than a bored trade-road guard. If he showed particular talent, if he leveled right and knew no fear, a gob could even be recruited as a culler: the valiant monster-slayers who held the wilds at bay. Late at night, when no one else was awake, Wope sometimes prayed that he could be destined to level into someone amazing. Mighty Wope the Fearless. Just think of what everyone at home would think of him then?

But the goblin wasn’t guarding the roads from desperate thieves. He wasn’t stalking the woods for signs of wild predators either. Wope of Little Fingers Lake was standing in a cold, damp tunnel underground, and watching over crates of perishable dried fruit. The young man had never felt so alone, or so homesick either. Every room was full of secrets he wasn’t allowed to touch. Every night was full of whispers that he was not allowed to hear. For a while it had been bearable. The army had posted mail, so long as his news was carefully censored. His squad was allowed to visit the closest township twice a month to let off steam and relax.

Now, the boss man had seized his letters, even though he’d paid four bits to transcribe them. Now, no one was allowed to leave, nor move about, not even to see the sunlight.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

What hour was it? Wope wasn’t sure anymore. When would he be relieved? No one would say. Sure, he’d heard the rumors. He even knew a couple of gobs that swore up and down and on their mother’s grave that they’d seen him themselves: a Hero in the flesh. Did Wope believe them? It didn’t matter. Soldiers were notorious and unreliable gossips when bored. They spun tales. They pulled pranks. Even if it was true; the affairs of elves were too great for such a lowly gob like him.

Wope didn’t have an opinion anymore. He was alone in the dark and watching helplessly as his lantern slowly (oh, so slowly) ran out of oil.

But then, the halls started breathing.

The hair on Wope’s nape stood on end. His ears perked up, and goose-pimples sprouted along his arms. The stale air was pulling at him, and the dust along the floor stirred. Then he heard the wind change direction, a terrible sound like the presage of a great beast.

Slap, thump. Slap, thump. Slap, thump.

Wope heard the footsteps of something heavy. He imagined, the webbed feet of some awful, crawling amphibious creature. Who knows what kinds of things could emerge from the deep? The goblin gulped, and his grip tightened around his tall pole-weapon. It had a stabbing spike, and a chopping wedge, and he’d never killed anything with it before. Wope raised his dwindling lantern high, and peered into the gloom where a corner-turn left him blind to what was coming.

He didn’t expect the little girl. A pale glow preceded her, like a ghostly presence, and she waddled into view with an absolute, and unnerving confidence. The light? It shone from a wavering, insubstantial sparrow that rested on the top of her head. She had a knife in her hand, and she waved it through the air and hummed a little song.

“Get ‘em in the kidney, that’ll take ‘em out! Guts are never good, ‘cause they take too long to drop! Veins are in their leggies, so saw along there too! This is the knife song, ‘cause self-defense is fun.”

Wope tried to decide if this was worse or better – then the distinction became meaningless. He trembled as a terrible shadow turned the corner. It filled the hall from edge to edge; it hunched and its hand slid along the stone, with a rough and fleshy friction.

Its shirt was loose, and ghastly white. Bandages wrapped over its body underneath its clothing, with dark, weeping stains. Potent, medicinal alchemies flowed ahead as it exhaled a condensing fog, and treading slippers made slapping thuds with each step. A pair of wooden poles were slung over one shoulder, just like the oars of the boatsman of the dead. The creature breathed inwards, and the air howled as Wode’s lantern finally –

Went out.

“Make way!” cried the girl with the moonlight bird. Shadows made her face inscrutable, and her dagger flashed in the dark.

“You gotta scoot to the side,” pronounced a voice like the shutting of a casket.

The soldier slammed flat against the wall in alarm, and his heart hammered in his chest. The sparrow floated past him, like a will-o-the-wisp leading a child through the underworld, and the knife bobbed jauntily and level with his face. But that wasn’t the worst part.

Poor Wode locked eyes with a pair of horrible, round pupils. The Dreadlung loomed over him, and his teeth were flat and white. Black thread laced through the skin everywhere, as if he were a quilt made of flesh. The monster’s breath was thick with the smell of sweet pudding, and with the acrid, mildew reek of [Sensory Dissociation].

It leaned in close and its finger pushed Wode’s trembling polearm aside with an inevitable force. It said:

“Or else you'll get crushed, man.”