Energy swirled within the Astral Plane. Drifting currents and twisting rivers of power coursing through the otherwise empty void. Sparks of arcane and divine potential drifting between planes according to ancient rules even the gods struggled to understand. Every so often these sparks, these potential energies, would collide with something else. Often it was one of the material worlds. Substantial pockets where long ago the divine powers known as gods harvested the energy that surrounded them and put it to good use.

Setting up worlds that they then filled with mortal life. Setting pieces in motion for their own gains, or for a purpose beyond even their understanding. Sparks that collided with these worlds fuelled their growth. Arcane potential that fought against the forces of entropy, creating miracles and allowing practised individuals within these planes access to a power beyond their own. These bubbles of life and light drifted through and followed the same currents that powered all else in the void. The void between worlds, where gods played and fought.

Gods from a hundred different races, representing a hundred different ideals. Gods that gave the gift of life, and gods that stole those same gifts. Those that fought to keep the flows of power fair, and those that fought to hoard it for themselves. Gods that gifted fractions of themselves willingly, and those that only gave them to those deemed worthy. Gods that killed, that maimed, that destroyed each other over sparks of potential that could give life to millions of children, or birth a plague that could burn through a dozen worlds in a fortnight.

Gurz’ga’nal was not a god who could afford to waste the shreds of power they hoarded. For a thousand years the young god had waited. They had weathered storms of power, battles and wars that had torn the divine planes apart. Like the people they had given birth to, Gurz’ga’nal was largely unnoticed and wished to stay that way. Many of the other gods treated them like a pest. A vermin that while potentially annoying, did no real damage. A thief yes, a scoundrel and a trickster, but on such a small scale that all others barely gave them heed.

Gurz’ga’nal had created their progeny in their image. Unlike many of the other races among the uncountable multitude of worlds, Gurz’ga’nal’s chosen people only had the young god to pray to. There was no pantheon. There were no allies, no partners, no enemies or rivals that could be relied upon. Gurz’ga’nal was utterly alone. But this was by design. Gurz’ga’nal was not a benign god. They were not kind, nor counted themselves among the gods that fought for life and order. They were a selfish god. An envious one. One that allowed their people to worship none other. They were a god of treachery and of secrets. Of jealousy and lies. Of greed and ambition. A god who’s people had been made to embody these traits, and to reinforce their god with their selfish prayers.

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Gurz’ga’nal was the god of the goblins, and their plan millennium in the making was finally beginning to unfold. Enough time had been spent, enough effort and tricks, to gather a small hoard of motes of power. The young god had only enough potential power to do this once, and only among a handful of worlds. Worlds that had similarly been seeded with their progeny a thousand years ago. Among the untold millions of realms, only a dozen held goblins.

Small, malicious creatures that seemingly tainted everything they touched. Intelligent, and clever, but truly putting their mental effort to bettering only themselves. They had toppled no kingdoms. Erected no empires. A scattered tribal society that seemed to climb from the swamps they settled in, only to sow discord and pain.

And Gurz’ga’nal was plucking an individual from each world. All with destinies laid out before the god of their people. Each a child, each without any true experience of the world. Barely above the ages of their births, the childlike god picked those they could relate too. These chosen few were given a fraction of the gods hoarded motes. Split evenly, and with a sacrifice of the gods own power.

Motes forced themselves into the realms of the living. Spiralled through the air and leaving trails of bright light as they passed over the mortals heads. Those with enough talent to recognize what they were likely understood their importance. The power that ebbed from them would call the power hungry like locusts. Power that would find the individuals that the young god had selected, at the times most suitable for their development. Making the small greenskinned children entities and pawns upon the worlds they inhabited. Pawns on a board that wasn’t suited to them. Pawns in a game they would not even know was being played around them. Pawns on neither side of a cosmic battle. Neutral, chaotic entities that could achieve much...or nothing at all.

For the god was upset with the status quo. They despised the other gods, with their own domains of power while Gurz’ga’nal floundered in the spaces between worlds. They wanted change. They needed change. Their very nature despised that they were at the bottom of the hierarchy.

So they created agents of the sort of change they wanted. Twelve worlds. Twelve children, each given just enough power to defy their pre-written destinies, each given just enough to influence the world around them. Most would die. But the young god did not care. Messing with the powers that be was a dangerous task, full of risk for not only the younglings they had chosen, but for themselves. A risk not only to their own power, but to their identity. To the very fabric of their being. An investment of not just motes, but of themselves. A risk that no other gods cared to undertake. A risk that left them weak and powerless.

But risk came with rewards. And the God of Greed wished for the greatest rewards of all. In this, no risk was too great.