In the depths of the Underdark that lay under the Isle of Madra, the tales used to describe the lifeless, grey stone and ore that would go on forever. No color, no life of any beauty or value. Only creatures and races that sought death, domination, and revenge on those who did not suffer the same ways they had.
This, like most of the truth of reality, was an exaggeration, or an over generalization. But, in my studies of the past, my communions with beings beyond age and time, the exaggerations were not too much. Until the event that would most wildly be known as the Green Tide, the number of creatures that did not instantly attack to protect their territory or to feed themselves was less than five.
The Drow and the Duergar were most certainly never on that list.
All records I have had access to in Gwyneth’s Library reaffirm the drabness that was universal in the Underdark. And until around 250 years ago, the Madra Underdark was like that of all other isles. Because of the reluctance at the time to focus attention outside the nation, the Councilmen of Irwin did not dedicate any research or send any scribes to capture the first stories as they began to circulate from the Gariemah Dunes as its wild denizens began to panic as life was rising from below their feet.
The cause for the change would be known only a few months after it had begun. I was lucky enough to purchase a journal of the Mayor of Barg’s Refuge after the event took place. That described how he had been met by a group of drow druids, claiming to be a renegade faction of the Drow Empire.
The Mayor was not the most intelligent of men in the magical disciplines and did not think to record the description he was given. Only remarking that the druids were adamant that they would assist in any defense of the city if their actions caused a blow back on it. Like monster tides, or such. Which did not occur. But were a fear as some creatures that had never seen the light of the sun did meet it because of the changes. [36] …
Now, I have seen many different explanations for what the Green Tide was. But few from that time described it clearly. Colloquially or in the general populace’s mind, it was some large explosion or disease like spread of life throughout the Underdark. An explosion of druidically altered and designed lifeforms that suddenly appeared and spread. It was usually attributed as a miracle of Madra. Bringing life to a dead section of her isle. [39]
But the accounts of the Cult of the Green Weaver, the same group of drow who visited the Mayor after the tide, are not as religious in cause. Or rather, it was less a direct act or hand of Madra that led them to the releasing of the Green Tide, and more an expression of “their devotion and oath to nature and its flourishing.” [40]…
And the Archdruid of the Green Weaver’s Grove says that when he prayed for guidance or meditated upon the dead earth that he lived upon in the Underdark, he felt that Madra or nature, pushed him to be nothing in particular. He says in a recorded address to the Sundered Nations and the Madra Grove Assembly, this. “Madra, nature itself, has no directed will in the way we as parts of it experience it. It seeks to only do as it has always done. To continue to function and observe what occurs in what its parts do.” [45] …
The work of Wihnhilda Shadowwalker, The Greendark, is the only source of organized study that has gone into the Underdark after the changes. She and her colleges describe the miles and miles of green and multicolored plants that now claim the depths of the earth as their own. Recording hundreds of the new creatures they encountered that are unique on the Isle. It is my opinion, as the current head of the Council’s United Research Effort, CURE, that we shift a portion of the budget that we once used on the Elven Divisions to go towards funding the criminally underappreciated and increasingly developing of importance that the field of Underdark Studies has not received near enough the recognition it deserves.
-A Letter to Irwin’s Council leadership after the start of budget discourse for the year 467 AS, written by Cure’s director and former head of Irwin’s National Acadamy, Galen Sephiran.
***
The depths of black and green that is Madra’s Underdark, was full of new life and opportunities for its once scattered and starving denizens. Now, it is just as dangerous, but more conducive to a meaningful existence.
After nearly two and a half centuries, the Empire was not in any better position than it had been before the Green Horror spread across their territory and beyond. But it continued to behave as it always had, arrogantly and without regard for consequences.
In the wake of the Green Horror, new and old annoyances appeared for all the Underdark to contend with. And one, was a subrace of Goblin who used the surge in available food to raise their population numbers from a few thousand across the entire reach of Madra’s Underdark, to numbers in tens or hundreds of thousands.
Goblins were capable of breeding and spreading like a virus, just like the Green that enabled them. And did so. Expanding their presence and forming what could be considered a warband that tried to claim portions of imperial territory.
And so, the Drow responded as all in the Underdark would have. With unrelenting violence and hate. Over the course of a thirty-year period, the number of Shadow Goblins dropped from a peak of nearly three hundred thousand, to less than a thousand. Which would then continue to be hunted until it was believed the extinction of their race was near total.
***
Two goblins sat, leaning against each other. Their eyes were dark, solid black that pierced through darkness like it was nonexistent, were locked upon the tiny little creature that lay in their hands. Goblins were a tiny race. Most average a yard at the shortest. With their young being around the size of a bowl.
This infant, however, was the smallest any of the band had seen. A runt of runts. With barely any true chance at survival. This child would slow them, would result in an early death, and wasting all the resources used to raise it. Something that the last twenty shadow goblins could not afford.
The elder and the parents of the child agreed. But did not have the heart to devour or kill the infant. And so, they did something the elder recalled being a practice of the surface folk. The sun touched. They would leave the child in a place that perhaps could be discovered. To be taken care of by another group. Or to be eaten by wild creatures, and lesson the guilt felt by the band and the parents, as they tell themselves the story of a fantasy where the child was taken in and raised.
***
The bond of promise, the thread of the Chosen of the Brood, tugged at the heart and mind of an aging goblin. An oath that guided them from one place to another, seeking in the past the horrors of evlen arrogance. Which had last tugged the goblin across the rivers and land to the city of Barg’s Refuge. And then nothing.
For three months after the goblin arrived, they had searched the city for signs of their foe. But they met nothing. Met no elvish experiments or notes. They only found hollowness. So many dead, so many mistakes made. But now they were alone. Nothing to guide them.
Their feet and weapon guided them one day, to where the goblin felt would be a good place to end and cap off the only true sparks of joy, they had experienced in nearly forty years... They returned to the pit where the goblin rediscovered what a companion meant. Where the first of the last steps on their hellish crusade was diverted and placed upon a track they did not consent to. But did not regret.
The warrior who was known as Glora, sat with their legs over the edge of a pit of trash and decomposing material. They thought back on their years. Their stages of life. The warrior had no idea of their true age, as when they escaped their living nightmare, an unknown amount of time had passed. At least two years. But they knew not.
For nearly two decades, they had burned with hate and power beyond any but the semi divine held. When they hit what felt to them like the age of 30 or 35, the power had a steep nosedive. Coinciding with the public acknowledgement of the Elven Forest of the “actions of a secret and clandestine group, responsible for more than a quarter million innocent deaths.” And the end to the continent-wide bounty hunt of Glora the Butcher.
As the reality that the goblin had seemed to accomplish some part of their goal, came the realization, they did not know what to do with themselves after. And threw themself into anything that came along which offered a chance to distract them.
The goblin remembered the figures of what were the only beings they would consider holding the title of friends. And the shattering of it so many years later.
Glora sat on the edge and did not have any thoughts or emotions in the moment that they took the literal plunge into the next chapter of their life. The goblin leaned their weight forward until gravity took hold. And they fell face first nearly a hundred feet into the semi solid surface of the pit. Praying that they would not open their eyes again.
The goblin lay there for an unknown amount of time. Broken bones and internal bleeding racked their small frame. But they did not react. They simply embraced the moment. And allowed themselves to slowly begin fading away.
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Until something else disturbed their slow death. A brawl of growling, hissing, and crying violence. The goblin opened their eyes to see the furred forms of two children about their own size. Rolling in the filth while fighting over the freshest corpse in the pit, the green goblin.
One was a gnoll pup, sandy fur that coated their body. Completely naked, the “gnoll knob” that was present on all gnolls and hyena, male or female, did nothing to distinguish them from another of their species. Unlike their opponent, a clearly female tabaxi. Of similar age, but half a head shorter than gnoll.
Claws flashed and dug into the flesh of both pup and kit. They were feral, their instincts forcing them to act, to fight for survival more than anything. The goblin watched the two fight for nearly an hour. And did nothing to when they tried to eat the flesh of the elderly goblin after exhausting themselves upon the “corpse” with no clear victor.
The goblin watched as the two came to a silent understanding, that neither of them could fight for the food without rest. And if some other scavanger came, neither of them would get anything. So, they compromised. A few bites, some rest, and then one of them would have to die.
Neither of the feral creatures expected the sensation of being grabed by the scruff and then pinned into the filth that was their current home. Their corpse, their prey, was not dead. It was injured, but clearly was not out of fight.
And without a word, only looking up into the shadowed eyes of the goblin, did they both realize the mistake they had made. They had both tried to eat something that was as far above them as they were the bugs that eat the trash surrounding them.
***
On this day, for the first time in over a decade, Glora awoke with a sense. A nudge, or suggestion, upon the direction they should go. The goblin did not react to the sensation, nor the two much larger forms that rushed them from either side of the bedchamber.
Their bed was low to the ground, and very plush and soft. One of the flew luxurious items the goblin allowed themself this year. But they would need to consider replacing, as their assailants fell upon the bed. With the soft cushioning reacting in a more limiting way that prevented the goblin from getting a solid footing for the counterattack.
Two forms charged the smaller goblin, before the figure had rolled forward so quickly that the assailants didn’t follow until their claws and daggers dug into the mattress, ripping it apart and scattering goose feathers.
The two however, did not hesitate to reorientate themselves and begin the assault again. In a paired dance, the two figures chased the goblin through the room. Swinging at, grazing, and trying to interrupt the elderly creature as it calmly and quickly donned their clothing and gear. Never once slowing or hesitating in their reaction to the threat harassing it. For nearly five minutes, the two figures chased the goblin through and around the room.
Until the goblin stopped in the doorway and clapped their hands. Ordering an end to the exercise.
“You’se two are too slow. You’se can’t even catch me’se when I’se on difficult footing.” The goblin complained as their two children groaned and stopped, both panting heavily as they looked upon their adoptive mother they had failed to harm, once again.
“Mother, we, we are faster. I. Houhou. I am faster than you in distance running and sprinting.” The gnoll grumbled with their eyes turned down in light shame at their frustrated outburst.
It was true, they could beat their mother in a race, could travel farther, faster, and with the abandon that youth enabled them to. Both of the furred children were now adults for both their races but were still getting used to that distinction.
The goblin just smiled and patted their legs. The tabaxi bowed politely in apology for the failure, and kept their frustration bottled up inside. This was their monthly test to prove their mastery of their skills and their mother’s teachings. If they could land one bleeding hit, they both would earn the right to enter and leave the compound of their own free will and choice, without approval or mission of their leader. Something they had been craving for the past half year, after they had earned their proper names.
They were no longer Pup and Kit, but Dagger and Tanner. And both were hungry for the freedom true adulthood promised. But today would not be that day.
The goblin was silent as they brought the two with them to the kitchen and prepared a simple soup and bread meal for them all to share. The two children spoke of and tried to find their points of failure as they were eventually brought a bowl and chunk of bread.
Glora, however, was distracted as they focused their senses on the direction they were feeling a pull from. Somewhere further into the desert, towards the grove of the Green Weavers.
***
Later that same day, the goblin would lead their children on a mission to practice and train their scouting and hunting skills. Which took them towards what most people on the Isle of Madra called a Black Eye. This was one of the few naturally occurring entrances into the Underdark. A literal hole in the earth that led into the black depths where the sun never shone.
The Eye called Glora, pulled them towards it. But they stopped when they reached the edge. And looked down into the darkness below. Where sand met the green that bloomed from the heart of the Underdark.
Glora knew from experience that the pull they experienced was something to be cautious of. It usually led the goblin into fights that tested their abilities and will to a breaking point and beyond. While providing them with a literal direction to direct the hate that once burned in them with the furry of a sun.
This time, the goblin felt something different. They would not enter the Eye alone, but with their children, who had earned their names earlier that year. But they did not feal fear. They felt nothing but anticipation and pride with a smirk plastered across their face.
***
Tanny was the first of her small clan and family to find something interesting. They had spent four days hunting for creatures in the upper reaches of the Underdark. Harvesting them of useful material and providing the children both with opportunities to practice their trade crafts.
Today, the tabaxi came across a small alcove in the slowly expanding system of caves that consolidated as they reached for the sun above. In it, was a small pool of sap and a tiny, shivering infant. A grey infant that barely filled one of her paws.
She looked down upon it with confusion, and it looked up to her with a natural curiosity, and then hostility. It snapped and tried to bite the paw that was reaching down to grab it. Fighting for its life in the darkness, all alone, but unwilling to die.
Tanny had no idea why the baby was here and had not been found by an actual threat to itself. But something told her that it was more important to extract the infant, than consider why it was there. Her mother would know what to do with the infant better than she did.
***
The first memories of the shadow goblin were of being bathed in the heat and light of something unfathomably bright and burning. His next would be a touch, a whisper and then song of what he would come to know as the language of his race.
Darkness and light surrounded the small creature as he grew and was fed. Flashes of three faces that would engrain upon him as his mother, brother and sister. With his mother being the most like himself.
Strangely, he did not remember his first-time speaking words, or first times reading. He only remembered the lessons, of being sat on the floor as three much larger forms guided him, taught him things, filled his mind with knowledge. And then with pain as he was made to exercise with them.
For him, it was all he knew. But he did not hate it. He loved it. The attention, the love, the affection he was shown was only matched by one other thing in his life. For him, spoken and written words were his obsession. He devoured every scrap of literature placed before him. He demanded and would learn to barter and trade for stories and lessons of his mother’s travels. His sibling’s adventures and escapades beyond the compound.
The only times he resented or disobeyed his mother came when she would try and limit his reading. Limit him from what he loved and craved more than the air, water and food he required to survive. It was torture for him to be made to go days without speaking. To go days without diving into the words of people and concepts he didn’t comprehend or understand but appreciated them for merely existing.
His mother knew the importance books and words held for him, and she tried to help him. Tried to reduce his dependence on them, treating them like an addiction. And cutting the boy off like she had the eldest brother and limiting his brothel visits. This was the worst and greatest mistake of the elder goblin.
When he no longer had access to his words, his lessons on language, people, history, philosophy and so much more, he was pushed to a breaking point. Frustration, irritation, and simple, pure child wonder and love, manifested in his first argument with his mother.
An apocalyptic period was brought upon the compound that night. As two goblins screamed and yelled more than communicated with each other.
Room to room, their conflict traveled and raged on. Frustration and resentment pushed the two to a breaking point.
He collapsed to his knees, crying and pleading before the rows of empty shelves that had once been lined with hundreds and thousands of golds worth of parchment and leather. He tried, he truly tried to make his mother see beyond the situation. He implored her to consider him, what he desired and wanted. The knowledge and power those words gave him.
She retorted about his dependence. The weakness it instilled in him. What would he do if he was locked away, captured by the guard. What would he do in the wilderness on the hunt. What would he do in the lands of places without such appreciation. She saw from his love, his passion, a weakness that could lead to his death. Lead to something she could not prevent.
When she spoke her peace, the two waited, holding their breath as he had a choice. A decision to make at that moment. A weight fell upon both their shoulders as they felt his reaction would shape their very future and lives.
He stood up to his full height, barely two feet tall, at the young age of four. A teen goblin at best. His onyx eyes locked with the partly white covered eyes of his mother. And he spoke.
From his lips were his own words, his feelings, his long prose and deliberation of himself and the word he felt was a part of his soul. With each word, each image he invoked, each precious moment of his short life, power flowed through him and his words.
Sparks dripped from his eyes as he cried, retelling the pride he felt for his siblings' accomplishments and praise for him. The scents of roasts, soups, stews and meats that followed the nights of celebration and indulgences in his brother’s wins in the pits. In his sister returning from a successful hit.
He drew upon every fragment of memory, of every argument and debate his words had painted such scenes of in his mind. And spewed forth from him like the Green Tide from which they found him in. Effects, sparks, smells, winds, small pressures, the power of his words and feelings manifested in that moment.
His mother was silent, speechless. Her son had defied her, had discovered in the depths of his passion, something that she could never provide for him. Nothing she could ever give him. In that moment, she felt shame and pride.
She spoke nothing as her eyes locked with her silent son. He waited. He was afraid of her response, but he would not be cowed. He was not his siblings, who obeyed their mother without question or recourse.
From within her coat, she pulled not her pistol, but a small, enchanted bag. And tossed it to him. He caught it, but when he looked up from it, she had entered the shadows to not be seen again for three days. Within the bag, was every book, scroll and parchment she had hidden. Returned. He had won but felt only sorrow and rage as for three days, no words would be spoken with in the Glora Compound.