by R. A. Mejia
The sun is starting to set as I exit the mine, and Meno is waiting for me outside the entrance. We walk together back to the camp, and I enjoy the small breeze that cools the sweat soaking my shirt. The number of miners that walk back with us is staggering. There’s a veritable stream of weary and haggard prisoners with metal collars covered in dirt and dust. Everyone lines up to turn in their tools, and after turning in my equipment, I’m rewarded with the completion of the quest I was given.
You’ve completed the quest ‘Mind the Mine.’ You will be rewarded with your normal ration of food and water.
You receive 5 XP.
While I’m pleased that my team made quota, I’m even more pleased to get in line for some food. The food, it turns out, is a thin stew with small chunks of vegetables of some kind and bits of unidentified meat. It smells like sweaty gym socks, but I’m so hungry I don’t really care. I also
get served a cup of water and a rock-hard roll of bread. There are no benches to sit on, so everyone sits in front of their tents or eats in groups on the rocky ground. Meno and I decide we’d rather sit in front of our tents, but when we get to them, we find that they’ve been knocked down.
I suspect Larry, Moe, or Curly had something to do with it but don’t see them around anywhere. Who I do see is a large, seven-foot-tall, broad-shouldered, human with a shaved head approaching us. He’s followed by none other than Larry, Moe, and Curly, who seem to be his new lackeys. The big human looks at me, then at Meno, and holds out his hand and tells us, “Give me your food, fresh meat. Rules around here say new prisoners have to pay tribute their first day. So, hand it over.”
I suspect that there isn’t any such rule, and I’m rather hungry. I look down at the food and realize that, even though it’s not much, I’m more than willing to kick someone’s ass to keep it. However, Meno has already beaten me to the punch. Literally. With a joyful grin, he’s somehow managed to put his food on the ground, punch the tall chrome-domed human in the throat, and follow it up with a swift kick between his legs. There’s a sickening crack, like walnuts being broken by a nutcracker, and the large brute whimpers and crashes to the ground, holding his groin. Man, Meno wasn’t kidding when he told me that hobgoblins were the brutes of the goblinoids.
The guards show up a few minutes later and ask what’s going on. I’m ready to tell them that the giant human tried to steal our food, but Meno cuts me off and says, “No problem here, sir. This guy just slipped and fell.”
When the guards ask the human for his side of things, oddly he says the same thing: that he just slipped and fell. The guards give each other knowing looks and walk off. Larry, Moe, and Curly help baldie crawl away.
When I ask Meno why he didn’t let me report the guy, Meno’s just says, “Tattle tails don’t last very long in prison. That’s a rule you need to learn right now. No matter what happens, you don’t go snitching to the guards. You handle your problems yourself.”
While Meno and I sit in front of our collapsed tents and eat our meals, I realize the truth of what he says. There’s a saying on earth, ‘Snitches be bitches that get stitches.’ When I tell Meno about the phrase, he laughs and agrees with its validity. Especially here. Having never been to prison before, I can only draw upon my experiences watching movies. But, in every movie, you have to show that you’re strong, or other prisoners will try to take advantage of you. As I finish the last bite of rock-hard bread, I wonder if I’ll get blacksmithing experience when I make my prison shank.
Chapter 3
The next week is a repeat of the first full day. Get up, eat, work all day, eat, sleep. There were only slight variations in days.
For instance, one day a goblin tried to take my food. I was so tired from work that I’d hardly noticed when the goblin walked up to me and made the demand. By the time my weary mind processed what he’d said, the creature had already escalated his threat by brandishing a jagged homemade knife. “Give me the food, and you can walk away with all your dangly bits intact,” he threatened.
Part of me just wanted to give him the food rather than commit another act of violence, but a larger, more cynical part understood that, if I were to give this guy my stuff, I’d be giving things to someone everyday I’m here. I looked the dirty goblin in his beady little eyes and said, “No.” There was neither malice nor anger in my voice, only the firm resolve not to be taken advantage of.
The goblin snickered and, with a surprising amount of speed, lunged at me with his shiv. Unfortunately for him, I’d trained in unarmed fighting with faster and stronger opponents. I took a step to the side, turned my food tray, and flung it, dinner and all, at the goblin. He was blinded for a fraction of a second, just enough to throw off the aim of his stab. I pivoted on my left foot, turned my body clockwise, and watched as the knife went sailing past. My right hand snaked out and grasped the goblin’s overextended wrist and squeezed. The goblin cried out in pain and was forced to drop the knife. A swift follow up kick to the goblin’s guts not only knocked the wind out of the creature but also the will to continue to fight. He didn’t even try to recover his shiv, instead running off while cradling his arm to his chest.
I dismissed the notifications for the fight, knowing that no experience would be given unless someone died. I remember shaking my head at the stupidity of it all as I picked up the broken food tray. For being a bully, the goblin only got injured. For defending myself, all I got was going to bed hungry.
Near the end of my second week, a new prisoner arrives in the mine. A tiny kobold with an artificial silver arm comes strolling into the mine camp one morning like he’s going on a picnic. He doesn’t speak to anyone, just goes straight to the food line and gets some grubs. No, really. Today’s breakfast is grub worms. Not the most appetizing of meals for me, but it’s a treat to have live wiggling food for some of the non-humans. Still, seeing another member of the reptilian race makes me happy and reminds me of all the good times I’d had with Vrax and his tribe. When he sits down with his food, I go over to say hello. As I get closer, I see that he is a rather odd-looking kobold. Well, I guess that’s not a fair assessment since I’ve only known one tribe of kobolds. But he definitely looks different than the Red Claw Tribe. Still, being two feet tall, he’s the shortest adult kobold I’d ever seen. Some of the youngest children in the Red Claw Tribe were taller than him.
As I watch him, I see that his scales are a champagne color but have a rust-tinted pattern that almost appears to shift as he moves. Unlike Vrax, he does not have horns. Instead, his left arm stands out as his most memorable feature since it’s silver and covered in runic script. It’s not until I hear a metallic clink as he picks up a spoon that I realize that it’s actually made out of some type of metal. He turns towards me as I approach him, and I note that his tail twitches nervously. I stop a few feet from the newcomer and hold out my red hands, palms out, to show that I mean him no harm. I say hello in Reptilian. The use of his native language surprises the tiny kobold, and he puts down his bowl of grub worms.
Speaking in Reptilian himself, he says, “Welcome, stranger. Where did one such as yourself learn the exalted language of the kobolds?”
“Oh, I’m actually a member of a kobold tribe myself.”
Looking surprised again, he gestures to a space on the ground near him. “Take a seat and regale me with your tale. I just have to know how a human came to be one of my people.”
I sit down and consider lying. After all, he’s a stranger. Yet, there is something in his eyes and posture that makes me want to trust him.
“I came across a tribe of kobolds near a city named Restrian. They were being forced to steal from the local farmers by a large brutish troll. Instead of killing the tribe, as the local farmers wanted, I instead decided to help the tribe. Knowing that the troll’s regenerative ability would make any direct attack ineffective, I helped them dig a large pit filled with oil and sharp stakes. After several nearly-fatal attacks by the troll, we were able to lure him into the trap. He laughed and l
aughed about how we’d only made him mad by making him fall into the pit and impale himself on the sharp stakes. He stopped laughing when we lit the oil on fire and burned him alive. I recall hearing the troll’s frantic screams and cries for mercy. My instincts were to try and help him even though he’d just been trying to kill me, but a single look at the watching tribe put that thought away. Every surviving member had come out to watch their enemy burn. I was later told that the troll had not only murdered all the hunters that tried to fight him, but also made everyone watch as he pulled their legs and arms off. The tribe was so grateful for my help killing the monster that had been terrorizing them that they made me a member of their tribe.”
After hearing my tale, he shakes his head. “Stupid trolls. They think they’re so big. They’re always trying to push the little guys around.” He slaps my back with his tail in a friendly gesture. “But you showed him that kobolds can fight back! I like you, human.”
Then using his tail like a third hand, he takes little grubs from his bowl and pops them into his mouth like they’re popcorn. “I’m Token, though some folks call me Saint Token.” He holds out his metallic hand, and I shake it, noting the surprising warmth radiating from the limb.
“Nice to meet you, Token. I’m Armon. I like your arm, and I’d love to hear the story about how you got it.”
Before he can say anything else, the horn signaling the start of the work day sounds, and everyone in the camp moves to drop off their bowls and utensils before heading towards the mine. Token nods to me. “Perhaps another time. For now, I must be off to talk to the foreman about which mine he wants me in.”
Token walks away towards the food tent, finishing his meal along the way. I get up off the rocky ground and head towards the mine for the usual work day. Recalling the conversation, I remember that it took place entirely in a language that’s tied to my [Aspect of the Kobold] ability. I hadn’t realized that some of my abilities and skills could still be used even if I have this collar on my neck. With a bit of hope rising in my chest, I try to activate the transformative part of [Aspect of the Kobold] but am unable to grow scales. While part of me is disappointed that I can’t activate the ability, my heart beats faster knowing that not all my skills and abilities are shut down. I’ll just have to go through my list of skills to see what still works.
Chapter 4
While I have to be careful that the guards don’t notice, that day in the mine I try out each of the skills and abilities that I’ve learned since I came to Terra. Unfortunately, the active skills and abilities are blocked by the collar around my neck just like any spell I try to use. It’s like the collar has built a wall around my mana: I can sense that it’s there, but I just can’t access it.
What I can do is use any of the passive bonuses or abilities that I have. I verify this when I take a pick from one of the miners and start to swing it in the mine. I already have the [Mining] skill and the accompanying bonuses. Sure enough, after half a day’s effort, I get a notification.
You've gained a level in [Mining]. Novice 4.
Additionally, the location of the ore in the rock is highlighted as I mine, making it even easier to dig it out.
One of the rare times water is sent down to us, I sit and listen to the others gossip. The childlike halfling that brings the water makes sure the guard can’t hear before telling one of the other miners.
“Did you hear about the new guy in mine six?”
“No. You mean that tiny, little kobold? What about him?”
“Well, I just came from there, and everyone is all stirred up. That new fellow apparently has some rare ability that lets him move through the rock and dirt like it is water and just pull out veins of metal like they were floating in it. He can’t use it all day, but they’ve already reached their day’s quota. I heard the foreman say something about the metal not needing to be refined or something. He was so happy that he ordered water to be given to all the miners like it was our birthdays or something.”
The other miners laugh at the little joke, which catches the guard’s attention. He ends our little water break, and we all get back to work.
Talking with Token that night, he tells me a bit about himself.
“I come from the Laghairt tribe, who live far to the north. We’re not a large tribe but I like to think we’re smarter than your average cave-dwelling reptiles.” He winks at me. “Believe it or not, I was considered the runt of my brood. My brood brothers and sisters made fun of my stature for the first few cycles, but when it was I that solved the lore keeper’s toughest riddles, they started to recognize my worth. You see, the elders explained that all the energy that the others’ eggs had used to create their bodies, mine had used to make my mind.”
He nods and smiles talking about his tribe. “Well, I continued to prove my worth by not only learning my tribe’s language but also those of our neighbors, the humans and the goblins. I went with the traders to translate and even helped settle a misunderstanding between a goblin and a hunter. I’d truly found my place as a problem solver for my people.”
His eyes harden as he continues, “Still, all was not perfection in my life. During my coming of age ceremony, when a kobold is gifted his soul knife, we were attacked by hobgoblins. As small as I am, I still helped fight off the raiders, but a particularly lucky strike from a blade severed my left arm from my body. The elders begged our god, Dinhuogkin the purple dragon of force energy, to aid me for my bravery. Our god not only healed me, but also granted me a powerful artifact that bonded to my soul and transformed into my left arm.”
He holds his left arm up for me to see, pride evident in his bearing. The arm, while made of some kind of silver metal and covered in runes, is shaped and works just like a normal kobold arm. He wiggles his three clawed fingers, and I realize I’d been staring. Token laughs at my embarrassment.
“No, it’s fine, Armon. I’m used to being an object of curiosity.” He waggles his scaled eyebrows. “I make extra sure to satisfy any women’s curiosity very thoroughly.” Then he laughs with a hissing sound that seems particular to the kobold race. When he stops laughing, he continues, “Since the day my god marked me, I’ve traveled the land seeking adventure, knowledge, and doing my god’s will.”
I nod, taking in his tale, but then ask, “You say you seek knowledge. What kind of knowledge?”
Token leans in and whispers, “I’m a maker of magical artifacts. During my travels, I came across an ancient gnome and saved his life from a group of cultists. He was so grateful that he taught me the art of artifice and the creation of magical weapons and artifacts. It’s my greatest joy in life to create new objects.” He laughs again. “I almost love it as much as making trouble for the big folk around me.”
I nod, remembering that one of the very first things I did when I woke up on Terra was to make things to help me survive. “Well, as someone that’s been known to make an item or two, I can appreciate the feeling of making something with your hands instead of always having to destroy with them. But I notice a missing part of your story. How did you end up here? You don’t exactly seem like the type to get into the kind of trouble that lands you in jail.”
The kobold’s demeanor changes. His shoulders hunch slightly, his nostrils flair, and he looks away and doesn’t answer.
I take the silence as an indication that he doesn’t want to talk about that and don’t push him on the subject.
Over the next two months, I find that Token is a fine companion and conversationalist. Meno joins us some nights as we talk about our pasts, but Token has a crafter’s and philosopher’s soul. Each night, Token talks to me about some item he crafted and the journey to its creation. I especially like the story about how he won a bet with a giant by making a magic blue box that was bigger on the inside. I find that the ideas and crafting principles he espouses stick with me, and I can’t help but imagine how I’d make each one of those items. I can imagine each piece, how it fits with the rest, and how they all work together to make
them greater as a whole. I ask the kobold a myriad of technical questions, and he gladly answers each. After weeks of sharing ideas and conversations, he asks me an important question.
“Why haven’t you chosen a class yet?”
At first, I’m not sure what he means. Then, I remember that I finally made level 5 before I was sent to prison, the minimum level needed to join a guild or choose a class. “Oh, well, I never had a chance to choose one. I reached level 5 and was arrested shortly after.”
The kobold nods in understanding. “Well, what class will you choose when you leave here?”
The questions makes me pause my eating mid-bite. I think about the question then shrug. “Honestly, I don’t know. My experiences in this world . . . err . . . country, have shown me that violence is a fundamental part of life, whether it’s fighting to protect myself, to gain XP to level, or dungeon diving. It feels like I’m always fighting someone.” A sigh escapes my lips when I think about all the violence I’ve committed in my recent past. Back on earth, I’d gotten into a couple fist fights, but those were nothing when compared to the life and death struggles I’ve had on Terra. I look down at my hands and their red coloring. I know the red is the result of the magical binding to the Red Claw Tribe, but I can’t help but think that they’re also stained with all the blood of my enemies.
