“What are these humans doing, Bleff?” I asked, seeing a dozen or so rummage around fields of golden plants. They all looked like Godfrey to me. The same wretched attire, the same sullen, hopeless look, and the same sunburnt, hanging skin.

“Really? You’ve never seen a field of wheat? They’re…well, shit, I don’t know either. They’re sowing it or…let’s just say farming.”

“Farming.”

I thought about that for a moment. I knew of it from the books and large paintings in the Domain of History. We had sung many songs in the evenings praising and admiring those who brought food to our tables.

“The most noble of us all,” I said after a moment of silence, and Bleff gave me a surprisingly confused look. “I must pay long overdue respects,” I said, walking off the road and towards a group of farmers at work in their field.

Bleff pulled on my hand, his slimy skin making me shudder.

“Ursus, I’m afraid your praise won’t—”

“Greetings noble farmers!” I said, waving at them and ignoring Bleff’s pointless blabbering.

As one, the men and women straightened up to see who was bothering them. Me.

There was some confusion among their ranks, but I was certain they would enjoy a meaningful compliment from a Varian Lord whether they knew of us or not.

“May I say a few words, my good farmers? Words long overdue!”

They shared looks of excitement, or so I thought, but then two of them suddenly ran off towards the village. The others remained standing, whispering among themselves and pointing at the piece of cloth between my legs.

“I am Shieldfather, Varian Lord of Tartarus. I thank you for your courageous work, your unending sacrifice, and your unwavering dedication to farming. May Kold grant you all you deserve, my friends.”

After a rather long moment of shared silence, one of the men, a toothless, long-haired fellow with calloused hands and a dirty face finally spoke,

“Go fuck yerself, shield fucker!” he decried and I found myself stunned by the boldness of this man.

“I told you,” Bleff muttered.

For a moment I felt insulted, as all decent men would, but I assigned their foul words to a misunderstanding rather than ill intent.

“I wish no harm, on the contrary. I live in eternal gratitude for your work.”

“You hear that, Alma? The big guy is thankful for our work.”

“I don’t know, Dirk, he’s awfully big,” the other man standing next to Dirk began before Alma could answer. “Maybe we should be nice to this one.”

“Shut up, Spunk! They can’t be more than level 3 no matter how big they are. Dirk, Tell him he can take those thank-yous and shove ‘em up his big, bronze—”

“Help!” another voice cried and we all turned toward the jungle to our right.

“Help me,” the voice cried again, steeped in pain and anguish. From between the trees, a lanky, white-skinned creature with pointy ears crawled out into the open. Three arrows were stuck to his back, and one of them awfully close to his neck.

“Oh, fuck me. Another one. What day is it, Alma? Is it Morksday?” The toothless farmer said.

“It’s Morksday, alright. They always come crawling on Morksday.”

“I thought the king be killin’ em Morksdays.”

“He can’t get all of ‘em. They’re like a pest, the adventurers.”

“Help me!” the man begged, but I remained unmoving.

The creature didn’t seem to be a demon, but how would I tell one from the other in a world that possibly was nothing more than a demon’s nightmare? Besides, any creature that died to archers wasn’t worth keeping alive anyway.

“Come on, let’s help him, Ursus—”

“Shieldfather.”

“Yes, Shieldfather.”

“Do not call me by my birthname, goblin. I’m not dead yet.”

“What does that—I won’t, sorry. Let’s help the guy. He’s one of us!”

The statement angered me.

I wished no harm to Bleff but he and I were as far apart as heaven and hell. Before I could speak, the goblin hurried his ugly little feet over a part of the field, then down a small slope toward the mound of dirt on which the wounded creature was most certainly going to die.

The farmers, unperturbed by the scene, returned to their toil. A rugged group of people, I figured. The stories of their nobility seemed a stretch, after all. It was difficult to reconcile their noble occupation with their less-than-noble behavior.

I was reminded of a minor lesson by the Steelspeakers that now seemed underappreciated: the people of the overworld, they said, have different manners, and some don’t have any. We are not to judge them for our lives have a great purpose, while theirs can be brutal and yet meaningless.

“He’s dead,” Bleff yelled, standing above him.

“A brutal, meaningless death. Very well. Let’s continue,”

I said and made my way back to the road. Bleff came running and waddling after me, mumbling angry words I had no wish to hear. There was scorn in his tone and I was not going to dignify it with my attention, so I sang to myself. It was a joyful song called The Grabheart’s Decapitation and Dismemberment, which my mother had taught me. It helped calm my nerves and focus my attention.

“You singing? Now? Don’t you understand what’s going on here?”

“No, I don’t.”

“They’re hunting down low-level adventurers for the sport here! Here! In the spawn zone! Do you know what that means?”

“No.”

“What? How? You don’t even know what any of those words mean, do you?”

“Partly.”

“This is a cruel freaking world, Ursus, this is—”

“Do not!” I said, raising my tone, “Call me by my name, goblin. I will pull your tongue out and then feed it to you.”

The words were harsh but honest. I would not be disrespected by a miserable coward.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered. “You have a lot of weird things going, man. I have no clue what kind of dude you are.”

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“Dude?”

“You don’t know what—anyway, are you angry with me? I’m sorry, Shieldfather, but there’s things about this world you don’t understand and then there’s so much I don’t understand about you. Why—”

I knew what question would follow before he even uttered it, and was about to cut him short, but instead replied.

“Because your birthname only holds value if you die at the Steel Bastion. I was born Ursus, and I will die Ursus only if I die in a demon tide as all good men should. Your name returns to you after death so it can be etched into the pedestal of your statue in the Domain of History. I’m not dead yet, and I won’t die until I return. I am Shieldfather now until I’m no more. Remember that for I will not tell you again.”

Bleff slowed down his pace and then looked up at me with his dull blue eyes.

“You’re so cool. Damn, I wish I was like that.”

Despite everything, those words brought a much-needed smile to my face.

“You will never be, Bleff.”

I could feel his heart sink at the words as it did so many times with Varians who were denied the opportunity. I had a trained answer, however, that I told many a man too meek to join Oomer’s Cohort.

“To serve a Shieldfather is to share in his glory. It is not the shield that defends the Steel Bastion, it is the hand, fed by the iron chefs, armored by smiths of the Bulwark, healed by the waters of the rose baths, and taught by the Steelspeakers, that raises the shield and makes it come to life in defense of great Ra’een.”

I was eager to see Bleff’s face light up but it hardly did. Somehow the words had depressed him even further.

“To serve,” he muttered, digging through his big nose with a single finger.

He glanced at the treasure he found and then ate it absently. I shuddered again. Was this creature not a curse, after all? A companion so utterly revolting in every aspect that it may perhaps break my spirit in time?

Everything was possible in this world.

Rordrick suddenly spasmed, his eyes grew wide and he bared his teeth,

“I only serve the god of war and death, weakling!” he roared with a newfound thundering voice that spread in all directions.

Caught unprepared for this outburst, I instinctively slapped him across the face. His head bopped left and right and once it stopped, he looked up at me with a face full of guilt and regret.

“I’m…. I’m sorry. I have no idea how that happened.”

“I commend your worship of Kold, the god of death and war, but do not call me weakling, goblin. I will not tolerate those insults.”

He rubbed his cheek.

“I think something’s wrong with me.”

“I think so, too. Let’s continue. There’s something up ahead. It might be Godfrey’s village.”

“I used to say those things as an orc warlord, but…I thought they got it all out of my system when I was reborn here,” Bleff babbled on as we closed in on Underock. “I never felt like an elf while I was an orc, you know? It’s weird.”

“I don’t know. Frivolity in speech is a sin, Bleff.”

“What?” He waved my wisdom away and continued as we passed several more fields of wheat and other crops. The farmers toiling in the cold of the sun looked upon me with awe-stricken faces, but their gazes didn’t linger. They quickly returned to their work and I basked in their unwavering dedication. Such purposeful creatures.

Unlike Bleff.

“Could it be that I still have a bit of orc warlord in me? I’m so afraid all the time. I’m even afraid of what’s in that village. Is this how goblins go through life? It’s horrible. I never feared anything when I was Kormog. I wish there was something more left.”

“Courage isn’t a treasure you look for. It’s in your own hands. Always.”

“Hmm, that sounds about right—hey look at this bug,” he said and quickly snatched a big, plum insect off a nearby bush, bit the upper half off, and then suckled on the rest.

“I have never seen someone as disgusting as you, Bleff.”

The goblin looked up at me with bug juice glistening around his mouth.

“Oh,” he frowned as his long pointy ears drooped. “But that’s just how I am now.”

“The village,” I said, shaking the image from my mind. “Quicken your pace, goblin. We’re almost there.”

I had to say that a sense of sadness washed over me as my eyes and heart took in the reality of Underock Village. Three enormous boulders stacked one upon the other loomed threateningly over a score of huts that seemed to have grown from the mud beneath. More humans of all sizes roamed about the village, busying themselves with the ordinary.

The only remarkable feature aside from those incredibly dangerous boulders hanging over the village like Kold’s fury upon the demon horde, were two buildings of warped wood at the center of it. The lower and broader of the two had worn-out entrance stairs and a large board hanging next to the door. The entrance was ajar, and I could hear chatter and movement inside. The other wooden building was tall with stone foundations and a crooked, weathered bell tower, that was either destroyed in the wake of time or never finished. The runes of Kold and the other gods were etched one above the other along the bell tower and I knew this was where the priest of Underock lived.

“Fuck yeah!” Bleff yelled and I grunted at his foul words once more. “Sorry, Shieldfather. Hey, listen, you know what that thing in the middle is?”

“It’s a church,” I said somewhat proud I could discern at least something in this mad world. “It’s where I will find the priest who knows the path to hell.”

“Well, yeah, maybe. But that’s not what I was talking about, man! That building next to it? That’s a dungeon hub! We can apply there for groups to dungeons!”

“There’s only one dungeon in the world that a Shieldfather walks and that is—”

“Tartarus, the Steel Bastion, and so on, I know!”

His hurried, excited words pushed away the anger I was rightfully allowed to feel at that moment.

“Hell is the dungeon I was referring to,” I said, raising my voice.

I was curious so I decided not to dwell on his insolence, but I had to make it clear nonetheless.

“Yes, sorry. Hell, of course. We need—I mean, you need to get back to hell. Sure, but what you also need is levels and gear, my friend. That’s all that matters in the end.”

“That’s not all that matters,” I said as we passed the first hut.

The villagers seemed awfully disinterested as they passed us by. There was some appreciation of my perfect form, my glistening skin, and the muscles-turned-steel bulging beneath, but far from enough. Could it be that in this forsaken, miserable speck of mud that brought sadness to my heart just by existing, people had seen more impressive warriors already? Impossible.

“All of this is cursed,” I muttered.

Was it not exactly what the demons wanted? To humiliate those they couldn’t defeat in battle? To have a Shieldfather walk into the most desolate place occupied by the saddest wretches and yet not stir a single heart?

My snort turned into a laugh. Of course, there was a reason. The people of Tartarus, my brothers, and even the blessed traders from beyond the World Door basked in the glory of a Shieldfather. It was the greatest joy to behold us. Demon trickery, madness, wyrm words, something of the sort was going on in Underock. There was no other explanation.

“Shieldfather?” Bleff said with a worried tone.

“Yes, Bleff?”

“You said all of this is cursed, then you laughed and then you just stood there silent for a good minute.”

“Hmm, yes. Let me ask you something, Bleff. What do you see when you look at me?”

The goblin looked up at me while scratching a scab off his forearm before proceeding to eat it. His eyes remained glued to me all the while.

I shuddered.

Again.

“You’re one big, bronze, black-haired, red-eyed, muscle-packed murder machine.”

He grinned flashing his dirty teeth.

“Hmm, thank you.”

“Why would you ask me that?”

“Perhaps,” I said, then stopped pondering his question and my own thoughts. “Perhaps the people of this village have a sickness of the eyes.”

“What? How? Why?”

“Hmm, I couldn’t say.”

The door to the church suddenly swung open and a small, round man of pink complexion and a fiercely red nose stumbled outside, a flagon in one hand, and a book in the other. He wore a crumpled robe of white and black speckled with wine stains and dirt.

“Time for prayer!” he yelled and almost stumbled over his own feet. Just when I thought he wasn’t going to fall, he did so face-first into a puddle.

“I think that’s your priest,” Bleff said.

I walked over to the man and turned him on his back so he wouldn’t drown. He was alive and breathing coarsely. An expression of content was on his face.

This place truly was cursed.

“Are you the priest, round man?”

No answer came even after ten seconds passed. I looked for wisdom in the goblin, but Bleff just shrugged.

“He won’t do you no good today. It be Morksday today, ya know?” a soft voice said, grabbing my attention.

A mud-faced child with no shoes appeared next to me.

“He drinks his holy wine all day and then he takes a nap, he does. Always ‘ere at the stairs, our good priest Titus.”

“A nap? How long will this nap last, child?”

“Oh,” the kid said and picked up a small stone from the ground. He proceeded to toss it up and down in his hand.

“When it’s dark out he gets up. It’s Morksday, so sometimes he sleeps through the night, too. You know, on Morksday he likes to have a bit more of the holy wine, he does.”

Just as it finished the words, the child flung the pebble in his hand at Bleff, catching him square on the forehead. It giggled and then sprinted away to hide behind the church.

“I will murder you, you little bastard! Come here!” Bleff cried out, rubbing his head.

“Calm yourself, goblin. Child’s play mustn’t offend you.”

“So this is what my life will be?” Bleff grumbled. “Filthy children flinging rocks at my head. Gah!”

While the goblin contemplated his miserable fate, I tried to shake the priest awake once more but to no avail. I risked hurting the man if I continued. It was no wonder then that my blood began to boil with frustration.

Was everything in this world out to make me miserable?

“Shieldfather,” Bleff asked. “Are you as angry as I am?”

“I couldn’t quantify it like that, but I have a fury in my heart that needs to be unleashed on something worthy of death.”

“Exactly,” he said and pointed to the other building. “The priest won’t be of any use to you until tomorrow. Why not go and kill something in a dungeon, huh?”

“Are there many foes in these dungeons?” I asked, my voice sounding more hopeful than I wanted to.

“Oh, yes, Shieldfather,” Bleff grinned. “More than you can imagine.”

“Good, Bleff. We will put them all to the blade.”