Full many a wonder is told in epics old, of valiant heroes on grand adventures, of hardships dire and thrilling, of feasting and weeping and wonder and tragedy: Yes, these fables are told aplenty, but there is one story not commonly sung, of an odd, reluctant pair brought together by fate’s fickle guide.

In the hinterlands of a faraway land, a land teeming with magic and creatures galore, there lived two species who could not be any more dissimilar. The first were the Round Ears, curious bi-pedal beings with fur growing only atop their head. Unlike us dragons with scaled hide and sharpened claws, these beings lacked any outside protection save for a fleshy exterior and feeble little nails.

They were a scrawny bunch, a race initially meant only as fodder for the beasts, but these Round Ears grew clever, you see. Instead of claws, they created weapons in which to slay their enemies. Instead of caves, they erected great structures of wood and stone to fend off the horde. Indeed, the glorified mammals made a name for themselves, and so it was they developed a bustling nation on the coastside. Of course, us superior beings could easily ravage their castles and armies, but they were rather competent for a lesser kind. Mostly harmless.

Now, let us move on to the second species: the Goblins. These peculiar critters were of shorter stock than the Round Ears, and they were much more primitive as well. Their intelligence was but barely greater than the average beast, but what made them a tricky hunt was their ability to hide. To scurry away at the first sign of danger. With their pointed ears, they could hear a branch snap far in the distance. With their slanted eyes, they could see through even the darkest of nights. And, of course, their most defining feature: green skin which blended in well with their territory of forest and bush. With this all, trying to catch their lot was most certainly an infuriating endeavor.

And so the two species kept their distance, maintaining a tentative truce for a war between them would result in endless strife. Thus was a pact forged—to never seek the other again. A smart decision, it was: one that led to many a year of peace. But this pact would soon be broken, for a new catastrophe loomed on the horizon: one that could not be ignored any longer. It was the advent of the one they called Demon Lord: Maledictus the Black Drake.

There were the occasional fools among our kind every now and then—those who became obsessed with conquering the lesser beings. I do not know what is so appealing about the notion, perhaps a rebellious phase brought about by boredom, but nonetheless that impudent child abandoned the tribe to pursue his dreams of grandeur. From then on, what became of him was not of our concern, and so it was left to the Round Ears and Goblins to deal with Maledictus and his growing legion of fiends.

The Black Drake was nested far from the coast, but the Round Ears knew it was only a matter of time before he would besiege them. Their crops withered with each passing season, and the monster spawn pounded ceaselessly at their gates. Something had to be done—thus did the reigning King, Bolovir the Benevolent, bade summon his firstborn son: the crown prince, Ascalon Lionheart.

“Harken to my will, o’ child of the Lionheart,” spoketh the lord. “Our people are fearful. Darkness shall soon descend upon this land, but know there is the light. For as long as we remain hopeful, faith shall lead us true, and we need not face this calamity alone. Thus do I call upon you, my son: Find the Matron of the Goblins, Vibelung the Green. Persuade her to our side, and we shall forge a new alliance—one to stave off even the Ruler of Demons.”

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Ascalon was but a young adult, at least for their kind: a boy of nineteen summers old. He was to inherit the throne, to become the next ruler, but such responsibility had always worried him. And this new task stirred uncertainty like never before—plaguing him with baleful doubts and shadows of the mind. Am I truly worthy? he thought to himself. What virtue do I hath separate from mine fellow siblings?

So he spoke to his father, “Why has thou chosen me for this perilous duty? I have not the strength of giants like the second princess. I have not the wisdom nor grace of the third prince. I am but an ordinary man, lacking in both talent and power.”

But the King only responded with a hearty laugh. He beckoned for the boy to come close, and then he gently grabbed his hand, clasping it within his own, before pulling it over Ascalon’s heart. Thus did the father speak: “It is true thou art bereft of certain gifts like thine brothers and sisters, but there is one quality thou hast that shines unlike any other, and that is your perseverance—your pure, unyielding will. I have seen your efforts, my child. I have seen you fall behind thy blood in accomplishment, yet you have never despaired. You have never grown resentful or ashamed of thy weakness. Instead, you seek to better yourself. You greet the day with a smile, and you push on—heart as kind as it always was.”

Ascalon was shocked, for he had never heard such words from his father before. Never did he imagine his efforts to go noticed, nor did he ever think of his long plight as a marker of strength. He simply wished to be of use—to be a man his nation could be proud of.

“Talent is both a blessing and a curse,” continued the King. “It makes one progress quicker, yes, but it also prevents one from encountering hurdles: from knowing the frustration of adversity. They have not learned how to overcome such hardship, and so they falter when encountering one more powerful than them. But you, my child, have always witnessed the world from the eyes of the meek. You have struggled since the very day you were born, and that is why I have chosen you. No matter what may come, you shall find a path forward. That is your strength, Ascalon.”

The boy was still a bit uncertain, but a newfound pride welled within him. A strength of my own… Yes, I should not debase myself, for the nights I spent toiling under moon and shadow have value of their own. I must be confident, and only with a clear determination shall I prove my worth.

He lifted his head, and he met his father’s gaze with eyes alighted in resolve. Long had the prince cowered, but no more: This was his chance to finally place his name in the sagas of history.

Then the King spoke: “So, my child? Will you accept mine plea?” And with nary a hint of hesitation, the boy replied with a firm, “Yes, father. I shall ride out at the peak of dawn, and I shall bring back the Matron’s aid. This I promise, and let my honor swallow me whole if I fail to uphold it.”

Thus, with renewed conviction and a pledge to the heavens, the young prince set off—his only valuables the clothes on his back and an old, wooden staff. Time was of the essence, and an escort group would only serve to delay him. He, alone, had to embark on this journey.

The journey to the Goblins’ Forest.

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