In the sky directly above the Center City, as wondrous as a fortuitous star emerging from the luminous heavens, Alyon, the cityship and our city’s namesake, was floating gracefully in the firmament. Alyon shone like a carefully cut gem in the sky but was far more marvelous. A dynamic halo of ships, those from Unea and worlds far past, hovered around Alyon’s periphery and within the shelter of her mighty shield.
Alyon is Unea’s foremost trading point, the world’s cultural and intellectual seat, and our planet’s principal connection to the greater macroverse outside her boundaries.
Gems strung across invisible necklaces suspended in the heavens, Sentinels were hovering in the air above and around the city. Each governed by an autonomous Aspect linked to the central Construct in Alyon, the Sentinels, alongside the Home Guard, protect the city from threats both inside and outside.
This world, the bright, airy realm of the outside, was foreign to me. Not because I never came out, but because I had willingly left it so long ago. Every time I ventured out of the Undercity, so many memories—a lifetime of wars and battles, of violence and strife—washed over me, reminding me why I had walked away, seeking a haven in the relative comfort and peace of the subterranean caverns.
For as glorious and calm as the outside world appeared, it was full of discord. Sadly, my people, the savage orcanda, and those like us, played a large part in this turmoil.
When I left my wandering clan, I forsook my people and their many wars to find my own way.
Because I was about thrice the width of the average human male, my gawking and the lack of movement associated with my reminiscence disturbed the normal flow of traffic to and from the cave mouth. Humanoids wove around me in a steady tide, like water tumbling around a particularly stubborn rock. The sweeping current included men, elves, gnomes, dwarves, orcs, trolls, ogres, and a wide assortment of races from across the macroverse. I had no name for many of these beings, who varied in appearance from living rocks and diaphanous clouds to lizardmen and gelatinous blobs. Mirroring the winding foot traffic, ships darted like flocks of birds from the caverns scattered along the mountainside, their destinations ranging from other parts of the city to the universe’s far corners.
Dislodging my feet from the banks of reverie, I began my descent down the mountainside, no longer obstructing the will and motion of the masses.
I could have caught any number of assorted airfoils or even portaled directly to the Center City, but I was in no hurry to get back home since I so seldom left.
For once.
I generally did not take time to enjoy the day when on business.
“Hey, Grak! Hop on!”
Oh, no.
My plans were about to change.
Drastically.
I gulped.
I was going to be airlifted by Cretus.
My doom was imminent.
All my good deeds had come to naught.
My dreams of bottomless beer mugs faded into the absolute void of sure, dry, empty desolation.
I had nowhere to run.
I had nowhere to hide.
I really did not have much choice.
And, with Cretus, very little hopping was ever involved.
Hope, on the other hand…
There was much hoping.
Mostly for the torment to end.
I might not have mentioned this, but I am fairly well-known.
For whatever reason—whether the artlike grace with which I have smashed faces has touched people in ways I do not care to discuss, the fact that smashing some of the faces I have has made a difference of some type or another, or that I am a good tipper—I am relatively well-known in certain circles, other geometric shapes not excluded.
Cretus, whose spiked fauxhawk was whistling in the wind, was one such admirer. It was his personal mission to see that I got wherever I needed to go as quickly and unsafely as possible.
Cretus, not to be confused with any number of much safer Cletuses to be found in the Undercity, was a small, wiry goblin of indeterminate parentage. And by indeterminate parentage, I mean it is indeterminate why anyone or anything would have ever wanted to parent him.
I supposed the goblin he had turned out to be answered that line of inquiry.
No one had.
Two vulture-like, skeletal claws gripped my shoulders before my possum impersonation could take full effect. Glancing warily up and over my shoulder, I saw Cretus whooping in joy astride the back of his paramagical bat. Cretus’s flying bat was the animated skeleton of one of a rare giant bat species that had probably stolen him away from his family as a child.
One that had since died and was now spending its afterlife as Cretus’s reanimated steed.
Cretus piloted his bat like an airfoil, a small airship, that he used to ferry people across the city for his livelihood. Unfortunately for Cretus, he was paid mostly in curses and rude gestures, but, to his way of thinking, he was merely basking in waves of adulation from another satisfied customer after every trip.
“Come on, Cretus!” I hollered in my best, absolutely not whiny, scared almost speechless voice of command. “You know I don’t need a lift!”
“Wherever ya need ta go, Grak, is where I need ta be!”
Have I mentioned that I had saved Cretus from a couple dozen groups of not-so-happy customers over the years?
These rides were my unfortunate reward.
Sadly for me, if Cretus dropped me, tough as I was, I would survive to be given another ride another day.
I knew this from experience.
On multiple occasions.
And the pain of the trip would stay with me at least until the next misadventure.
“Where ya off to, boss?”
Cretus, on this day, like so many others, was not to be denied.
“The warehouse district!” My yell dropped from whiny to merely petulant as I accepted my grim fate yet again.
Part of my fame, I was certain, had no little to do with my notoriety as a daredevil.
Although this was entirely not of my own doing or desire.
People sometimes lined the streets, watching Cretus swing and lurch me tortuously through the air.
I supposed watching a poor orc spinning wildly out of control like a maniacal yo-yo being tossed haphazardly through the heavens was good, wholesome family fun.
If you weren’t the orc.
Cretus’s bat beat its skeletal wings in the air—the monstrosity only had bits of dried remnants of flesh hanging from its bones in stubborn tatters that refused to fall off—as it arced and rolled through the air like a drunken boomerang intent on never coming back.
I swung and swayed erratically beneath its fearsome claws like a psychotic pendulum intent on breaking free from the clockworks holding my flight to glory in check.
If I did not lose my life, I feared an even worse fate—the loss of my last meal.
If neighbors turning into bloodthirsty monsters after drinking random beverages was not enough to incite the fair Citizens of Center City to riot, spewing partially digested uleru over their honorable ranks most certainly would.
There was no way I could even enjoy the view. All I saw was a tumultuous blur wavering from blue to green and gray as the sky spun, the earth twisted, and the mountainous peaks whorled past. The wind rushing through my ears, although it was loud, was not loud enough to halt Cretus’s enthusiastic conversation.
“Beautiful day, i’n’t, sir?
“Haven’t seen its like in a long time.”
“Nor have I,” I sputtered through the howling wind.
I could say with complete honesty that I could not see a thing.
Which made closing my eyes in search of far too elusive calm all the easier, for if there was nothing to see, why keep my eyes open?
“Where would ya like me ta set ya down, sir?”
“Oh, anywhere is fine,” I managed weakly between gulps of air.
“Where’re ya headed?”
“I was aiming fo
r the warehouse district…”
“Say no more, sir!”
I did not think I could.
And off we dashed, our motion more violently frenzied than before.
As with many great adventures, I cannot say my ride had a happy ending, but end it did.
Finally.
And far too late.
“We’re getting close, sir! Just o’er this rise, and we’ll be there!”
I took his word for it.
With the reassurance of an end nearly in sight—or anticipated sight, since I still kept my eyes clamped tightly shut—Cretus jerked the reins, and his dragon-sized bat began its turbulent descent.
At this point, I should mention something about myself.
I am dense, as in solidly heavy.
I outweigh ogres, even though I am a fraction of their size.
My weight, coupled with this last vicious jerk, conspired quite craftily to turn me into an overweight green missile.
Thankfully, I had a nice, magically reinforced cobblestone street to cushion my fall.
As I hurtled through the air, picking up additional speed from the slingshot action of Cretus’s giant bat, I heard him yell, “Until next time, enjoy the ride!”
Or something close to that. I was too busy watching my life flash before my eyes to follow whatever nonsense Cretus was spouting.
I did, however, hear my body crash into the earth with the concussive force of a small thermonuclear device.
When, some moments later, after determining that I was still largely intact, I decided it was safe to stand—mostly because Cretus had flown away—I found that I had left a nice Grak-shaped imprint in the formerly unblemished cobblestone lane.
As I stood, the sound of cheers greeted me.
Apparently, my adoring fans had been treated to yet another one of my spectacular performances.
I left a Grak memorial imprint for them to remember me by.
Surveying my surroundings with a weary grimace, I was glad to note that I had arrived in the warehouse district.
After that performance, I was certain I could relive the thrill tonight by watching the evening news.
6
As can be gathered from my most recent escapade, I am tough, far tougher than any orc has a right to be.
Tough is not quite the right word.
I am resilient.
My body resists negative change and returns to normalcy very quickly.
This means I heal rapidly.
I am resistant to magic.
And I can take more physical and mental abuse than an unruly, unwanted goblin adopted into a family of bigoted dwarven nobility.
I am stubborn, both physically and mentally.
This resiliency, and the strength to use it, is my birthright.
Young orcs are exposed through ritual magics by clan shamans to the raw energies of Chaos, to the fundamental forces of magic, to receive gifts as newborns. Many die in these rituals. Others receive no gifts at all other than the life they get to keep. A select few, like myself, receive the boon of Chaos, positive mutations granted by the primal forces of reality.
Muties form the backbone of orcish armies.
For this reason, we are prized.
For this reason, we are made.
I know the story of my own mutation well, for my mother often told it to me as she bewailed the fact that her beatings had so little effect on my stubborn hide.
“Come, Durkasha. Bring the boy in.”
Flames wavered and licked the air as shadows danced along the rough stone walls of the sacred cavern. Soot from many rituals collected on the cave’s irregular outcroppings and recesses, a history of dark rites connecting clans from today with those long past. Sputtering torches added to the irregular illumination of the cave’s central fire.
Durkasha came forward, cradling the swaddled babe in her arms.
“Here, Venerable One.”
She held the bundle out to the priest, suspending the babe over the open flames in offering.
“Give Grakanda al Urogast the gifts of heat that he may burn, combustion that he may change, and fire that he may live.
“Give him the blessing of Chaos that he may grow and the boon of Chaos that he may conquer.”
Her words held the cadence of ritual, their expression a reflection of the primal spirit within.
The priest took the bundle gently, keeping it poised over the flickering fire.
“I receive your gift, Durkasha al Urogast, and will give it in turn.”
Stooped not by time but by the terrible burden of his magics, the shaman began his chant.
The fire in the chamber’s center began to change, growing in intensity, sparkling with hints of unimagined hues. The colors wavering on the cavern walls shifted in turn, responding to the spell’s command. These colors were out of phase with those building within the coruscating fire, reflecting a place that was neither here nor there, strictly speaking, but somewhere else.
Tendrils of inconceivable energies began swirling within the flames, spinning beneath the cooing babe as a vortex of power coalesced in the air.
Space turned and warped over the fire as ineffable energies twisted and writhed through complex, indescribable geometries.
The raw forces of creation entered the chamber, pure Chaos barely contained by the guttural muttering of the shaman’s elaborate ritual.
Proffering the infant to the raging forces of creation, the shaman intoned, “May this gift from Chaos be regiven!”
The shaman’s words echoed throughout the unnaturally still space.
The baby kicked and squirmed excitedly.
“Oops,” said the shaman as the babe slipped from his hands.
“No!” screamed Durkasha as she watched the love of her life fall into the arcane flames.
Thunk! went the baby as it landed headfirst on the stone floor in the midst of the raging conflagration.
“Aaoo,” cooed the babe as it rolled onto its tummy while its clothes burst into flame.
The room darkened as the ritual halted unexpectedly, the only light coming from the guttering torches ensconced along the walls.
“Mmm mmm,” said the babe as it called to its mother, its fall and subsequent squirming having quenched the fires of creation and broken the ritual’s magic.
“I think, Durkasha,” mumbled the priest dazedly, his shocked face only partially hidden by shadow, “that Chaos has granted you a boon indeed.”
Her heart rekindled after nearly failing, Durkasha waited for the flames to smolder and die before finally retrieving her child from where he was playing happily in the ashes of the ritual fire.
7
The warehouse district looked decidedly unlike a hub of worldly commerce. Mostly, it looked like a natural area full of open parks with scattered buildings, artwork and statuary, abundant meadows, wild areas, and tree-shaded paths. Pedestrians were strolling leisurely along the trails, lounging, picnicking, and relaxing in the open areas, playing assorted games, and engaging in various forms of exercise according to the tastes and inclinations of the species involved.
The buildings themselves gave no hint of their purpose, for, by and large, they were cast in a range of whimsical shapes that shimmered like liquid quicksilver amongst the greenery or were pieces of art in and of themselves.
If anything, it was only the shape and variety of species present in the park that gave a sense of its worldliness…or otherworldliness.
There were more varieties of sentient species wandering in the park than there were warehouses visible in the district.
As I dusted myself off from my recent collision, the first thing that popped into my mind was certainly not industrial area or warehouse district.
Here, I felt like I was looking at an idyllic pastoral scene spun across the surface of a piece of art, one that would be hanging in an elegantly select gallery in the empyrean, high-fashion districts of Alyon, the skyship floating far above where I was now standing.
If this had been a center of orcish economy, the skies would be painted black with virulent smoke; the land would be pitted and scarred, denuded of all vegetation; the water would be soiled with toxic effluents; and only the hardiest plants and animals would have survived long enough to remain visible.
Then it would feel like home.
And no sane person would be wandering about.
Here, I felt like a dragon in an alchemical shop, liable to break anything with the slightest wrong motion or misstep.
I stifled the urge to tiptoe as I walked toward the nearest building.
Nothing here would break that easily.
And I had my dignity.
Or what little was left of it after I had plummeted earthward like a drunken comet kicked out of the heavens.
I was somewhat surprised to see the relative normalcy of the world outside the Undercity. If the news feeds were any indication, the outbreaks here had tapered off a bit, but they were still a daily occurrence.
The only reason commerce and other day-to-day activities continued normally in the Undercity was that most of us were already monsters. Being transformed into something you already were was not so bad in the long run. The transformations seemed to bring out the worst in us, but we coped nonetheless.
Also, we had kids.
We knew how to deal with tantrums, fits, outbursts, and uncontrolled emotional states.
Especially in monsters.
I had expected to see fewer people about, more fear, and more caution in the Center City. If you were not already a monster, like most Citizens of the Center City, then transforming into one at random could be quite a scary proposition. However, the general, unnatural good cheer of the Citizens of Center City was holding despite the recent and ongoing turmoil.
I saw more smiling faces in Center City in a few minutes than I might see in a week in the Undercity.
These people might look happy on the outside, but I thought it was only because they were crazy.
What else made sense?
Why else would they smile like lunatics when people were transforming into living nightmares?
Grak_Private Instigator Page 3
