The cold feeling of the green, clinging and all enveloping goo was always the first thing that a subject would awaken to. It stung like a horrent to the nervous system and made the experience feel unending. As when a creature was put back under, it was a sudden blackness. No sleep, no dreams. Only conscious and unconscious.
Glora did not know how long they had been in the vats. It had been nearly 200 awakenings, and he was down to only three of his band left. The remaining vats were a smattering of orcs, half orcs, and one human that had been added three awakenings ago.
Looking over, it seemed she was a lucky one, her pain and trials ended in the blackness. The early twenties goblin had very little reason or desire to pity the female. As the worst sight of all stepped into the room. The high elves.
They were the harbingers of suffering. The conductors of the orchestra, a symphony of waterlogged screams. As they set up their instruments, racks upon racks of multicolored potions of varying sizes and labels. Most labeled with simply a character of elvish and their numbers resembling sticks.
Glora watched with the rest of their cohort as the tube labeled 1, the vat containing a female orc. Her body was scared and scored all over. But under that leather-like green skin was more muscle than the four remaining goblins could ever hope to gain combined. Her thick throat vibrated, disturbing the goo as she growled out from fourteen vats down.
The high elves showed no fear or reaction, and simply unstopped the vial and filled a syringe to inject it into the goo. The bluish mixture suffused the orc’s prison pool, before slowly seeping evenly into their body. Once the orc started to scream, the next vats were prepped.
In a series, five vats would be prepped and injected. Each vat was staggered in time. Usually at one-minute intervals, but could be faster or slower. Two elves, one high and one lower wood elf, would oversee a single vat. The high elf recorded notes and details, while the wood elf monitored and controlled the vat and any other needed tasks, like follow up injections.
Glora watched the experiment, it was all he could do. Today, there were three different potions being tested. The first two, a red and blue, were divided by male or female it seemed. While the fifth received a purple. He would receive this one.
As the seconds passed, the goblin watched as blood and other bodily excretions were forced from the subject’s bodies. Pained, agonized vibrations of rage and pleading for mercy feel on uncaring or impotent ears.
As the minutes passed, the goo was flushed off the clouding fluids, giving only a vague look at the insides to any but those right at the vat. After the screaming ended, and the clouding agents were flushed, all could see the results.
Every male was stripped of their maces. Every female was stripped of their paddings. They had their bodies altered forcefully, painfully. But the last, the fifth, containing a male half orc, was the worst of all. The others had their bodies changed, forced into that of something they were not. But he, he was stripped of all. He no longer was a half orc male or female. He was stripped of a piece of himself. Of a driving force in his life.
It was the first time Glora had ever seen an orc or half orc cry. And it would soon be his turn to see his first goblin cry.
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Almar remembered the days of training after the slaughter of his clansmen. He had been shunted away to the ranks of the Black Hands trainees as their entire sector of the elven civilization was burned and razed to the ground.
They had begun to replace his body with the components of an elemental. But, because of the interruption of the city hanging high in the tops of ancient trees by a shuddering roar, instead of binding with the energies suffusing him, he was bound to the goo used as the medium between himself and the energies and potions required to facilitate the transformation.
His body was tainted by erratic, unaspected energies. This resulted in his transformation into something resembling the monster, a pudding king. A shape changing, lowly ooze, from the highest of divine perfection, the high elf.
This was a blow to the ego of the young elf but was never something he regretted. It had failed, but it had given him more power than a troll when used properly. But none of his clan, but a distant, lowly mixed breed wood elf, survived to see his development in the ways of the Black Hands.
When a Black Hands trainee is being taught, they are scouted and matched with the appropriate kinds of trainers. Some are destined to be Black Palm Paladins, Dark Prayer Clerics, Blackness Dancers, Bleak Bargainer, or something else entirely. But most were meant to just be thieves and assassins. Those with magical or divine affinities would be trained and guided down a path like a normal adventurer. But, in the end, in order both to survive and complete the training, they were to break their divine or eldritch ties, or forgo their original field of study or heritage, and tie it instead, to beings or the plain, the Shadowfell.
The training and rituals all tainted and bound the souls to another, usually less restrictive power source. A shadowy mirror of the material plain that had no morals, no demands, no requirements of alignment or judgements. It was a source more resembling the powers of nature for druids than any beings in specific. Unless they tied themselves to a specific Domain within the plane.
Almar, now a creature of slime, magic and energy, sought the council and guidance of his new teachers. They had centuries worth of experimental records in binding beings and creatures to the uncaring shadows. He would make another.
Over his years in training, a part of it was to spend time living at the opening of a portal into the Shadowfell. Tempering himself in the slow decay of the dimension and connecting with it beyond just the pacts and bonds most would form to the plane. The process, the knowledge that he had as a member of a Ceisiwier Clan, was to be something that neither force could have done alone.
The Ceisiwier had the goal of transforming a creature into what amounted to an elemental of themself. A being infused with the mirror image of their souls and bodies in the form of energy built into that image and shifting the connection of a soul to this new, truer form.
While the Black Hands sought to bind themselves, to control what they suffused themselves with, rather than being subject to the whims of gods who saw them as nothing but tools. Their goal was to become linked to, unhindered by all but raw power that rivaled the uncaring gods. And found it in the darkness of shadow and decay.
Combining the two theories of power and magic brought about a possibility that had been impossible to consider. But would achieve the ultimate goals of the two groups. The Shadowfell was a dark reflection of the material world. It had shadows of the beings within it in a dark, decaying form. A true reflection of themselves, made up by the powers of the realm. But lacking any true individuality or direction. But what if the material being was superimposed upon its reflection? What if the material being used the shadow of themselves, to skip the step within the Ceisiwier’s process, while directly connecting with and becoming a being of pure Shadowfell energies, the truest bond and connection to the plane. Becoming a Shadowfell Elemental. A Realm Elemental. Something so far beyond normal elementals, they would rival a primordial elemental.
This was the highest hope and dream of the Black Hands when they learned of their interesting trainee. And sought to form at least something more reasonable. An intelligent Shadow Elemental that would work for them, using Almar. So, they began the process of developing him to one day become that.
He was given a core. A black stone that was the size of a dinner plate. This became his core. The center of which would remain within his body while within the material plane. But now the hollow center of the disk would remain within the Shadowfell. A permanent link between him, and his shadow on the other plane. The centerpiece was an anchor to Almar’s body, and his soul.
All members who use the magic of the Shadowfell, have their souls bound to it. All of those who would become his councilmen would be bound in the same way. And when they die, their soul is dragged to the shadows instead of the hell they would be expecting to discover in the afterlife.
But for Almar, the dragging of his soul was not just spiritual. It was physically his core. If he were to die, his soul would form a physical bridge to the Shadowfell. Where the remaining pieces of his core were located. Enabling the dark and reflective shadow to enter the material, while absorbing the remaining energy of his soul and core.
Almar of the material plane would die. Consumed by the reflection within the Shadowfell, now given a true and permanent link to the material. An elemental of shadow and ooze would be born from his death. An elemental fueled by the promises of the Black Hands and energy bonds of the Ceisiwier.
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Memories of pain, agony, and the almost eternal fight that once raged within the goblin’s body so many decades ago stunned the elder. They could not act as hours, days, week, months and years of the “binding” that only lasted minutes, replayed within their mind. The sensation of every micro aspect of oneself being slowly shredded and reformed with an energy that felt as if within you burned a sun of power but came with the curse of constant expansion and expelling of energy.
From within the coin sized shards of what once was the councilman Almar’s slime core, was the spinning and slowly expanding portal connecting to the Shadowfell. And from it, seeped a dark, oil like substance that slowly formed into a pool, and then dome of ooze and slime that enveloped the shard and portal.
No sounds emitted; no light shimmered. Wherever the liquid flowed, light from all sources was swallowed up. But from the liquid, pulsed the power of binding. The power of connection and the very building blocks and foundation of the material reality, tainted, corrupted, corroded by that of the shadow plane.
In front of the goblin’s eyes, they witnessed the birth of an abomination, birth of a being that was an echo, a distorted and horrific reflection of what was done to them so many decades ago.
The ooze grew larger and large, expanding and filling up a huge area, blocking the entire entrance in this wing of the warehouse. This slime expanded until it bordered just shy of the gargantuan size. Its viscous, oily liquid reached from floor to ceiling. It swallowed up the rafters and pillars that held up the roof. The central two pillars closest to the ooze that it had first enveloped, were visibly dissolving. The metal nails and rivets, the sturdy wood itself, crumbled slowly and was devoured by it. Quickly, the roof directly above it slowly sagged and collapsed onto the giant slime.
It was devouring the crates and the southernmost wall as Glora was ripped from their waking nightmare by the bloody and clawed hand of their gnoll daughter. The monk, formally known as Dag, stared down with confusion and concern at their elderly mother. Who suddenly looked as frail as the late seventies they usually claimed to be.
With their focus and sense brought back, their white eyes turned back further to take in the other two of the goblin’s present children. All of them had been injured, but none worse than the frailest, Tanny. She was no longer bleeding, was walking without a limp or any other sign of the exhaustion held within, besides their limply hanging tail.
Their son was massaging his leg, the skin freshly regrown from a potion or spell. The echos of his healing and curing music rang in their old ears. Glora did not rebuke themself like they would do to the children. They were too old for such training to be effective or worth performing. The goblin would hear enough of it from the pistol they began to reload as the portal to the realm beyond closed as the last of the liquid passed through it.
“Houh... What is this Mother?” The gnoll asked, stretching their neck until it cracked while shifting her eyes between the ooze and the elder goblin.
“That’se, was Almar, the head of the council... He’se started becoming this when I’se killed him.” Their fingers opened the revolver’s cylinder and deftly replaced the round with a new set of ammunition. This time with three elemental gem shots.
“He, it’sss not attacking, yet.” The tabaxi commented as the mimicked their mother, loading the tube of their lever action guns.
“It’s an ugly som’ bitch.” Spoke elegantly chimed in as he caressed his fractured rapier blade. Evaluating it and then his banjo for excess damage.
“Yeah, it’se an abomination, jus’ like yall’s mother.” Glora and Spoke chuckled at each other’s comments.
Tanny and Dag’s eyes met, neither of them laughed at their elder’s joke. They communicated silently between themselves. Passing intent and rehearsed battle plans between them before landing on the simple and reliable. Hit it until it dies.
“Mother, hehe, we need to get moving. It has, houhhouh, started collapsing the roof. And far wall.” The gnoll spoke to her shorter clansmen.
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“Yes, yes. We’se know. We’se also know you’se two have decided on a course of action.” Glora said while opening Cerberus up and loading each barrel.
“An’ since there is just one simple answer, we was waitin’ on Sis to set up.” Spoke mimicked his mother, pretending to load his banjo’s strings with shells.
Turning back, the gnoll saw her sister had already moved. Taking up perch on a shelf some thirty feet from them and nearly 100 from the giant blob. They were putting together the large barrel and mechanism of the largest firearm their mother was willing and able to create. A hefty, unwieldly monstrosity that was more cannon than rifle.
The ungodly thing was longer than the gnoll was tall from end to end. Engraved with reinforcing runes and seals that focused the enchanted ammunition into a truly terrifying weapon. Even if it required each round to be loaded by hand. As any other loading mechanism had failed spectacularly when under pressure.
With a heavy sigh, the gnoll looked down at her mother, who could sense the unease within them. The aura of the slime, while it had been docile until this moment, was not peaceful. It sought to swallow up and decay everything around it. It had just prioritized the things within its reach for the moment.
“Gnoll... You’se and Tanny will recover. You’se are family. You’se are siblings... I’se and her are angry. Rightfully so. But we’se still love you’se.” Glora said softly, their finger’s lingering on the intricately worked depictions on the barrel, carved slowly and carefully by the hands and claw of the gnoll looking down towards them. “You’se are what you’se are. And you’se will do better. Just focus on the fight. And worry about the hell you’se will be in later.”
Spoke nodded along with his mother, not just out of his love for them, but because he agreed. And showed so by placing his hand upon her thigh and imbuing her with his sense of pride, his feelings of admiration for his gnollish “brother’s” skills in combat. Dag smiles down and playfully thwacks his long ear in thanks.
As the siblings finish up their show of affection, Glora loudly snaps her shotgun shut and slings it across their back. Withdrawing their revolver again, they brace themself. Spoke skitters away to behind a crate as Dag extends their claws and lets out a low growl. Tanny clicks their rifle’s action closed around the first round, Ignoring the nagging price of each piece of ammunition she was soon to expend.
The final battle begins.
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It begins with three bangs. Three rounds sink into the flesh and ooze that made up the creature’s body. Glora clicked their tongue and with a flourish, slipped into the shadows as Dag dashed past them. Flicking open and replacing the expended cartridges, the elder watched as their children opened with their assault.
From the left, a trio of glowing cards are tossed out from the youngest goblin. Two glow a light plasma blue, while the third burns red hot. Behind them, the cracked rapier spears through the air behind them. All impacting nearly simultaneously. The two blue cards bury themselves into the ooze, sinking several feet before dissipating. While the red one only sunk half as deep. The rapier, however, dug deep into the slime, piercing it before the hilt was coated by an expulsion of fluid that hissed across the stone floor, eating into it with visible speed.
From the right, a single deafening explosion boomed out. A single round exited from the rifle, aimed directly at the core in its center. The force of it entering the ooze blew open an expanding hole while the bullet traveled. As it flew, it left a trail of thin ice that temporarily froze the liquid surrounding it, before breaking and collapsing in on itself. Creating what is known as a cavitation bubble explosion within the ooze’s main form. Casting a dim flash of exploding air as the lead projectile slams into the core, removing it from the center of mass to a few feet closer to the far side. A single moment of devastating damage, but still, no reaction from the ooze.
Once both attacks hit, the gnoll monk entered their mobile state of focus. Drawing their attention to the singular opponent before it. With claws extended, they dove forward, landing two quick, powerful claw strikes against the dark mass. And as with the rapier, a spurt of necrotic and decaying fluid splashed and burned across the gnoll’s skin and fur. Letting out a hissing howl, they disengaged from the creature as it finally began to react. Dashing back near to where her mother disappeared into the darkness.
Originating from the claw strikes, and the location from where the blue cards burrowed into it, three distinct masses began to form. The central core split into three and each piece entered the masses before they completely disconnected. Three large slimes now stood and began to almost glide as they propelled themselves across the floor. All converging upon the monk. Nine tendrils swing down towards the surprised gnoll.
Each one impacts the stone, shattering it with monstrous strength, but slow and lumbering movements. The tendrils slam, scattering a small amount of the horrid fluid across the floor and around it as the gnoll is surrounded by the encroaching slimes.
From the rafters above, between the gnoll and tabaxi, comes a burning glow. The bracelets on their thin and tiny wrists glow with power, hastening them for just a moment. Six shots, three of them glowed a variant of color. One normal shot burrowed itself into each of the oozes, sinking deep before stopping and beginning to dissolve within their bodies. They were then followed by a rolling pulse of thundering noise, a marble of condensed and intractable force, and a beam of pure, searing light that pierced the darkness like a ray of the sun.
The wave of noise struck the left most ooze and caused it to begin undulating and vibrating wildly. Disrupting its cohesive state enough to nearly knock the core piece loose. The marble flew into and then carried through the ooze like a meteorite falling from heaven above. Disrupting it in a similar fashion to the thunder wave. While the ray pierced and proceeded to burn a clean hole through it. Leaving a hole that was extremely slow to close. Each element seemed to strike at a weakness of the ooze and the goblin cursed silently. As they only had one shot left of those elements.
As the three empty casings dropped to the floor below, a series of spinning and dancing metallic glints became barely visible inside the slime hit with the thunder wave. Its large size enveloped the crate sized diameter of Spoke’s spell. The monster seemed to vibrate as dozens of daggers like constructs materialized and tore up its insides. The cloud of blades was centered on the core of the ooze and engulfed it suddenly.
Within the same breath as it appeared, the spinning blades tossed the large slime. A medium sized blob split to either side. Leaving the central slime blob stuck within the cloud. Each of the split blobs contained another piece of the core. As it was splitting yet again, the floating and dancing rapier flew in quickly to stab into the swirling and churning depths of slime.
With no time to lose as they were suddenly surrounded, Dag did what they could. Trying to escape the pressing mass, she made a wild swing behind themselves, catching the two larger ones in a sing bash. Careful not to cut them with her claws, she used to moment to leap up onto the rafters, trying to jump over the mass of blades and slime, and make it to their brother.
Accepting the spray of corroding fluid, she manages to avoid most of it, only her fist having suffered damage as the tendrils seek to grab their leg and drag them back to the floor. Interpreted by the boom of heavy ammunition.
Dag pulled themselves up and jumped away before glancing back to see the ooze that had almost grasped her foot, had a new hole drilled almost perpendicular to the radiantly cartarized one. This hole was lined with frost that unfortunately quickly cracked and closed. But the level of damage it caused could not be overstated.
Dag leaped and jumped as they were followed by the three smaller oozes. After they dragged themselves around or out of the spinning whirl of blades. She landed next to her brother who was propped up inside a crate, banjo in hand.
On the other side of the warehouse, Dag stood ahead of her brother, surrounded by the three medium oozes. Nine tendrils spun and slammed into them fast and wild. But they couldn’t move. Couldn’t allow them to lose focus. And took glancing blows, deflected strikes and an extremely powerful one that left a burning, rotting scar across their back.
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Glora acted quickly as the ooze closed in on their tabaxi child. Jumping into the way and drawing the attention of the two masses.
The haste the goblin dashed with enabled them to skid under and around the massive tendrils. Before numbers overwhelmed skill and they took a swig and tossed them through a series of crates. Leaving a trail of destruction and wood shards.
With Glora, they stood up, and dashed back in the same moment their momentum stopped carrying them away. The oozes kept trying to charge at the source from which their biggest threat seemed to be. But the goblin would not allow it.
Throwing themselves into the space ahead of the oozes, they held Cerberus aloft. Planting their feet and bracing themselves. They accepted they would not move from their spot.
Their bracelets glowed for the third and last time. Imbuing the haste and speed they needed. Three loads of lead and shotgun and their ear ringing howls for blood pierced the closest, the radiant scared ooze. But even before all the lead had pierced through the oozing mass, the action of their shotgun cracked open. And another set of shells were dropped in as the first were ejected. The second trio of shot and wad slammed through the second ooze before the shells of the first batch reached halfway to the floor.
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Tanny watched her mother dive ahead of the charging oozes with hope and confusion. Before it was replaced by intense rage. But her mother taught her more than enough to know how to respond to such a feeling. Not losing the burning passion as she slammed the ten-pound bolt back into place, she connected it to the darkness that enveloped her. They tapped into the armor and cloak that hid her being.
As her mother dashed back ahead of the oozes, the shadow and darkness around Tanny wrapped tendrils around her form, dragging her into the depths. To appear in the rafters forty feet to the other side of the warehouse. She braced the barrel of the rifle on a crossing rafter and angled down at the two monsters.
When her mother’s second barrage blew through the second ooze, Tanny’s own shot pierced through the force blasted ooze. Leaving another deep trail of ice lined punctures.
The two massive oozes were knocked around and jiggling as if they were experiencing a personal earthquake. Their thick forms were seeming to begin losing their cohesion. But they were not out of it yet. And came down with extreme violence on the goblin.
Five tendrils came down and all impacted the small goblin almost simultaneously. In a single moment, they went from a powerful stance to being buried in a massive crater. The sheer amount of force applied from the retaliatory strikes caused one of the tendrils to break apart and completely fill the hole Glora was now beaten into. Submerging them in the horrific necrotic fluid for precious seconds.
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Spoke kept his eyes peeled as the oozes approached on the heels of his furry brother. His rapier was floating after them, finally catching them as they surrounded Dag. From his lips and with a whisper of his favorite attack spell, he cast it quickly. In Undercommon, he whispered Lance with his banjo pointed toward the left most slime. A condensed lance of psychic energy pierced it just as his Dancing rapier ran it through from behind. Careful not to splash the fluid across his battling brother.
Neither attack seemed to accomplish more than minorly annoying and harming the sack of decay and shadow. Dag, from within the encirclement lashed out with a flurry of punches and kicks. Not using their claws, afraid they would split even further. With three strikes, one slamming deep and hard into the slimes, they connect with and stun the slimes with the shuddering of their cores.
But as the slimes themselves stop and jitter as if stuttering, the fluids follow behind the melee strikes. Casting themselves all over the gnoll in yet another spewing of necrotic goo.
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Glora’s mind was sent back decades as their brain rattled around their ancient skull. Flashes of green, purple, black, red, pink. Minutes, hours, days and weeks of their long life had been spent submerged and subject to repeated, nearly unending experiments. Sometimes these stents would last a single minute as the goo changed colors and their skin or hair changed and shifted colors, shape, and once even with sentience.
But the one consistent and constant sensation, was floating. Of being submerged in goo or slime for the entire time. In filled their lungs, their nose, their ears and other cavities. Some days it felt like the slime would crawl into the space between the eye and its socket. Or through the ear canal and begin to shift and inspect the lump of grey matter inside the goblin’s skull.
In the lead up to the Ceisiwier’s greatest experiments, only five or ten of the subjects would survive as they were tested over and over. For hours, they were left to be submerged in elemental concoctions that mimicked properties like fire, ice, acid and even divine light. Subjecting them to the agony until the concoction’s effects ran out. On these days, it was rare for even half the subjects to survive this culling. Until the final days, when for the first time, Glora awoke to the vats not being refilled after their occupants died. Sometimes they would wake up in the same vat or position. And others would be in a new location, in an identical looking laboratory.
Upon the final day, when only three subjects remained. Glora, a female orc, and what appeared to be a half elf with Tiefling blood in them. An abomination worse than the other two subjects in the eyes of the elves.
On this day, they awoke to something different. Their vats had been shifted to one of the three walls of the lab. All facing the center where a series of complex runes and items were laid out. An intricate network of branching runes that reflected the energies of nature and force. Where there was single “pure” connection from the vat to the center, there were 13 branching and interlocking pathways. Each subject had a unique pattern laid out in front of them. But they had those same main characteristics. And at the end of each path, was a small, pinkie sized cylinder of a pulsing color, alloy or gem construction.
And on a pedestal in the center of room, was laid an item Glora was all too familiar with. The weapon that they had used to lead their clan on to the path of survival and warriors. The divine reproduction, an artifact meant to be the material embodiment of a divine being, O’Re. And each of the cylinders were the rounds of elemental and universal forces.
When Glora had found the item, it had only been loaded with six of the elemental rounds. The rest had been missing, not hidden in the new location of the ancient ruins. The elves were not only experimenting with powers beyond their abilities to comprehend, but they were also arrogant enough to believe that they were powerful enough to use an item of such importance for a mere experiment.
It was a devastating blow to the gut as Glora watched on. The way the item worked was that it would not fire, for any but its attuned. So, it had no true value to them, other than as a lump of magical material.
Glora felt something deep inside spirit burn. The weeks of unending experiments had broken their spirit. They had given up hope of survival or escape. But they only clung onto life, because they knew it was an insult to the elves. That the concoctions they created, that were clearly unsafe for their precious bodies, could not best a single goblin, an orc, or the half breed they saw as beneath them. For the remaining subjects, that was all that kept them struggling.
But now, with the item that had given the goblin tribe hope to continue to struggle for the next generation so disrespected, so dismissed, so casually using what was in all respects a holy item to the 50 goblins that were slowly, agonizingly killed, striped of their individuality, their identities, until they were either dead, or a being that no longer was what they once were before the experiments began. A wrath that had been smothered, suffocated, drowned and stomped out by the all-encompassing green ooze, blazed alive with a new hate. One fed not just by the death of a tribe of goblins. But by every death, every pained face that died mid experiment, that no longer could hold on in the face of an abyss of torment and torture. Tens of thousands of creatures lay burned to ashes, their corpses used to nourish an ancient tree’s roots. No care or attention paid to their years, decades, centuries, and a select few’s, millennia of history, culture, tradition, religion, and art that a single mass act stripped form the world.
Glora swore upon the Brood Mother Madra and Her favorite toy, O’Re, that these elves would pay. That this once runt, not worthy of a name, would bring down those who thought they were above their level.