Open Your Eyes
Men in song without notes or lyrics strained to keep themselves upright. Between the words they did not know but insisted on slurring, the drunken messes demanded more spirits to be served. The single, warped plank that served as the bar in the tavern had more mead on it than in the glasses it bore. The lanterns' light paled, and their task would soon be given to the sun. The masses were in a joyous mood that night, and happiness cannot be without drink to create it. It was a modest hall, at best, but the locals enjoyed it plenty when filled enough to believe anything. The service wench, drained from the hours past the end of her shift, kept a smile as another armful of tankards was brought out. While the waitress should have walked her sore feet home, blistered from a day without rest, the tips were keeping her around and ensuring a pleasant demeanor. She was doing her part to earn the added coin without question, but the gold received due to her new bodice could be contested. It, too, had been working all night. Spinning around the tables like the flies circling her customers, she gleefully made certain everyone was filled to the brim or had an empty purse, teasing those who playfully flirted with her. After her sweep of the bar, there was one customer left to check up on, one she was not too thrilled to be near. He was a foreigner, or so she thought, but his unknown land of origin bothered her less than his uncertain race.
"So, uh... darlin', everything fine for you?" she tried to say in her most soothing voice possible, although fear and disgust greatly overpowered her kind intent. The one addressed only smiled, appreciating the discomfort more than the gesture. The wide, gnarled flash of teeth chilled her spine, the same it had done with each approach to the stranger. The vicious vision scarcely emerged from behind a curtain of greasy hair on a face that would chase away nightmares.
"Oh, yes, m' deah" hissed the monster as he eyed the maiden down and up. "E'ahyt'in' is quite fine." The wench swallowed hard, fearing for her safety, as she leaned over his table. He still had some money to spend, and she aimed to get it.
"Do you... need... anything?" she slowly choked out as her body arched further down.
"Five minutes," he answered in monotone.
"... What?"
"Anot'ah mead," the freak pretended to repeat as he kicked over another drained barrel. "An' get it from da back o' da cellah, if ya could, sweets." The back of the cellar was darker and damper than the rest. Most of the stock kept there was tainted with mold. Worst of all, she felt he knew it.
"So, what's in the bag?" she chatted, trying to wear down his rigid exterior. No matter how often she tried, it never seemed to help. A loosely wrapped foot swooped down from his high seat and slid the bag beneath his position.
"Mattahs o' business most impohtant," he cryptically explained. "Mattahs on da safety o' da wohld. T'in's dat not e'en I undahstand." The list was quite long. It did not mean much.
"Oh? A brave hero, are you?" she bolstered the customer. "Out saving the world?"
"... Yeah," agreed the gray one. "Why not?"
"So, is that... all you need from me?" she barely managed to ask. Sheepishly, with her hands clasped before her, the wench pushed her arms together, pushing something else up.
"I dunno why folks talk bad 'bout bein' played," admitted the twisted being as he, without taking his eyes away, increased his tip. "'Tis well wohth it." Planting his elbows on the table's top, which required him to kneel upon his stool, he leaned inward as well as though he was having an actual conversation with the server, even though he still had not looked her in the face since arriving. "So, why's a bangin' doll like yerself gotta put up wit' losahs like dis?"
"You offering to take me away?" giggled the waitress, finding it easier to mask her true feelings of the oddity.
"Well, not fere'ah, 'couhse," corrected the rough talker, "but, ya know, mebbe... five... minutes." While it was not, his voice rose later in the sentence as though it were a question.
"Hm, well, while I could use the break, hun," she lied, "this poor ol' place would fall apart without me. I appreciate the offer, though, Mr. ...?"
"Bimblesnaff," croaked the Ghobling, "Bimblesnaff Bogg. An' dun ya ferget it."
"I don't see how I could," she chuckled as she finally slid away to fetch more booze and thoroughly wash off the dirty feeling crawling over her skin. The lunatic would have patiently and happily waited for her return, but the approach of dawn became too obvious. Night was his cover, and the sun his bane. Snatching back a few coins he had left for the lovely lady, and some left by another patron on a different table, he left the way he came, through a crack in the wall. It was taking time for him to adjust to the fact the only looks he got were from those repulsed with his horrid appearance and not those repulsed by with his goblin nature.
Darkest Night
The maniac was exhausted. His night had been well spent, less the several hours in a pub, on matters that would change the world, if not save it from itself. That was the case in his delusional mind at least. This great task involved removing door knobs from every house and building within the surface town he currently found himself nearest to and casting them into a river. The door knobs knew what they had done, and he knew they were not sorry for it. Moving at a crawl, Bimblesnaff found himself a nice place to crash on the outskirts of the hamlet while the sun scorched the land. "Nice" was also uniquely interrupted. Once the light had hidden itself behind the horizon, he could resume his quest of the utmost importance. The place he had found was an abandoned inn and had looked to have been that way for many years. Dark and dusty, it seemed to have suffered a fire, and the appetizing smell about the area told that many human lives had fallen during it. The ominous and haunting presence it projected made Bogg feel all warm inside. It was just like a slimeless home, but another feeling was lodged in his chest residing next to the good one. The lunatic dismissed this, physically at that, as he pounded on his chest to force out a nasty belch. Creeping along through the untended weeds that had consumed the location, he worked his way to the western side of the building, away from the fiery glow that was piquing off in the distance. This way, when the time came for his plight to continue, he would be informed. The entire face of the wall was nearly rubble as a large hole had been wrecked into the side, slowly consuming more of the structure over time. The Ghobling only saw this as an easy way up to the second floor and climbed it up into a dark chamber.
The interior fared no better than the rest of the building. Burnt boards and pits from heavy impact filled the room. A smashed in bed was positioned in the corner and looked to currently serve as the nesting for various vermin. He was not that much above them, if even above at all, and would claim the area for himself until night returned. On his way to slumber, he glanced about his lodgings perchance any edibles, valuables, or, greatest of all, edible valuables remained behind from previous tenants. Aside from a pile of droppings, not much was there that ranked on his list deemed food. He was almost saddened as he inspected the abode, if he could feel such emotions if any at all, for, at one time, the place was nice, even beautiful. The spaciousness of the room told that its kind was not handed out to mere commoners. Only the elite could afford such lavish quarters. The remains of the bed were surrounded by a mangled cage of finely shaped brass framework. A battered nightstand against an inner wall supported a few leaning shards of a broken mirror, only a ghost of its former grandeur. What once was a retreat for the wealthy now only served as a home for disease ridden pests and the rats that came before the fiend.
The maniac was stopped dead as he passed before the looking glass, beholding the image it cast back to him. It was like a stranger looking back him, a mistake he commonly made before even prior to his run of bad luck. Much of his appearance had changed or been lost in a short amount of time. His prized, defining jacket had been reduced to ash even after the years of care and time spend stitching it back together. His very color, the aspect of his race, had been stolen from him. In place of his lovely green, there was only a drab gray. Even his characteristic nose, only long and proud, had been smashed in by too many brawls and blows. It now made a crooked bend, stopping short before his face. A tangled mess of hair, normally covered by his lovely hat, hung thick and freely over his eyes. It should have been tended to in recent times, but his schedule was full. Also, it was difficult to cut hair with only one hand, another loss of his, a casualty of the same accident that stole away his treasured coat. This loss, however, did not bother him like the rest. His right arm never did anything for him. It was terrible at picking up chicks. Still, he had no idea how he would be able to this with just his left arm as women still were rather heavy. All of these changes aroused conflictions with his beliefs. No one on the street prejudicially despised him outright anymore, a benefit quickly lost once the individual had longer than a minute of contact with him. Some people were even nicer to him with his handicap. He hated the pity, but not pity from the good looking. That was in a category all its own. Pulling his goggles down over his neck, he rubbed his weary eyes free of their worries. This was too much thought before bed, or any time by his consideration. Curling up on the shambled mess, he nodded off to sleep.
Strangers in Bed
"What are ya doin' sleepin' at a time like this fer?" The fiend's eyes were thrown open, blinded by the glaring light that now filled the room. Brilliant and white, the chamber was nothing as he remembered it. The bed was standing and furnished, covered in fine sheets. The walls and floor were their original color, absent of ash, and the outer wall was whole. Another difference was the occupation. Someone now stood over Bimblesnaff. He did not look at the maniac but was there and speaking to him. It was not anyone he had seen before, yet it was one of his own, a Ghobling. The stranger's nose and chin were both sharp and jutting, poking out over his tightly clad body. A short beard was pulled in beneath his head and tied off, hanging down and laying over his chest. A massive, heavy coat hung from his shoulders and trailed loosely onto the floor. The long sleeves stretched over his hands. His purple hair was pulled back into a ponytail, revealing his sickly, golden, green skin that mimicked the hue of mold. His face was blank with his lips sealed tight as he stared off into nothingness. The direction did not matter as he could not see anything. His sockets were empty, void of eyes. "Wat are ya doin' sleepin'?" repeated the other imp without moving, not even his mouth. "Ya have to hurry."
"By Ghob's beahd," swore Bogg in a high pitched squeal of utter shock, finally finding the strength to speak, "who a'e ya?" There was something peculiar about the situation, something more than the miraculous repair and still speak. There was a feeling broadcast by the stranger that disturbed the fiend in a profound way. The mysterious figure raised its right arm, tapping a twisted, slimy finger against the side of his head. The hand's tint and size did not match the rest of its owner. It was as though the limb was misplaced, yet another oddity to the rapidly growing list.
"Think, stupid," he ordered without a tremble in his lips. "I am ya." The idiotic claim was, ironically, met with scrutiny by the lunatic. He was not one to doubt and was easily swayed by the slightest amount of swaying. A maritime ogre had once convinced the fool that the two were distant cousins in order to share in a feast of gathered fungi. The staggering anatomical differences were not the fact of embarrassment in the anecdote, however, as the aquatic brute who managed this deception did not speak any terrestrial tongues. Bimblesnaff was consumed by bewilderment until his sluggish brain kicked in and he remembered. While the other Ghobling was not familiar, various aspects about him were. The coat he donned was recognizable. Years ago, in the kingdom of Idos, that very jacket was spied on the back of a noble man. Its prestigious aura was what tempted the fiend to plunder it in the first place. Every regal thread of the garb was worn thin until it perished in catastrophe that robbed much from him. The more he looked on, the more that came to his mind. The odd extremity had also fallen into his recollection. It seemed as though it belonged to another, possessing a variant bone structure and color than the rest of the being. The same sickly shade of green had once been very close to the maniac for it once was his own. More than just the skin, the entire arm was, in fact, his lost appendage. However, since Fate spun her wheels, neither was true any longer.
"So what's with ya?" shouted the frozen figure. "Wake up already!"
Restless
Bimblesnaff's eye opened to reveal the blackness he last saw before the bizarre dream, but the haunting feeling deep within him had returned. Springing off from the bed, the resting place was smashed in by a glowing orb. The maniac braced himself in a top corner of the room, a limb to each wall, as he scanned the darkness. A cloaked figure, robed in deep navy, hovered into the chamber. About his hand was the same type of energy that had wrecked his bed. The stench of humanity was strong about the intruder. Touching two fingers to a temple, the wizard concentrated for a moment before launching another projectile at the lunatic. Dropping from the ceiling, the Ghobling scampered beneath the levitating magician. As the man fell into another trance, Bogg bolted upward as another explosive shot was delivered. Scarcely rolling out of the way, the floorboards were blown apart as he was tossed hard against a wall. Coming to his senses, he looked at his attacker, whose last movement had knocked the hood from his face. Usually, all of mankind looked the same in the eyes of the fiend, but this face was of significance. It was the High Priest from the Damiasien's Arc's stronghold, a fact made more obvious by the gleaming emblem emblazoned across his chest related to the same location.
"Return what you have stolen from me," demanded the magi, pulling the hood back over his face. He faced the fool with cold resolution, something few people that Bimblesnaff had caught the ire of tended to show for him. The wall was decimated as another near hit skinned the psychopath. Riding the destructive force, he rolled to the other side of the room.
"I ain't took not'in' from ya," countered the freak. "An' I know I wouldn't ferget a man in a dress." The sharp tongue did little to ease the wizard's wrath as his determination was absolute. Another thundering blast of arcane power ripped through the air. Skillfully, as only a Ghobling could, Bimblesnaff split his legs and collapsed flat on the floor, narrowly ducking the sphere, but the force of its passing was enough to lift his body from the battered planks and pull him through the freshly carved hole in the wall. Spiraling through the outdoor air, he latched his sole arm about the outstretched limb of a tree. Spinning around several times, he released himself to crash his body onto the roof. His nails rapped against the shingles as he scurried to the far side. The pathetic attempt at hiding was, in fact, true but needed to catch his breath.
"Brainless vermin," grunted a human voice as the whole of the area about Bogg was rubbled. A harsh energy surged through his body as his mind slowly slipped. A stern hand clutched the diminutive being's arm, pulling the foul thing from the wreckage. The catch was still held an arm's length away from his person. He did not desire to have the miserable mess any closer to him than needed. The mage slowly drifted from the compound, chanting a few words in arcane tongue. "There must be no evidence of this event. It all must be ash." Leaving the scene, the inn was consumed in a sudden, mighty blaze. The fire left no trace of what had occurred that night and no survivors.
Total Nightmare
"This is a travesty," a man's voice called out. "All could be lost." The maniac slowly sank back into reality, despite it not being the reality he had hoped was real. His body was sore and stiff, aching all over, even where he no longer had a body. Aroused from his mandatory nap, he stayed still, not knowing where his enemies could lie. They were nearby, in a room or hall away from the sounds of it, discussing grave matters. From what he knew, he was dumped in a dark, cold room. Large, stone bricks comprised the walls with mystic sigils engraved along its middle. The shape and lay of the stones were bemusing, striking a grim sense within him.
"No... not he'e... not 'gain!" screamed the Ghobling within his head. He was back in the tower stronghold of the Arc. He knew not their name or association, but he did remember "dat place whe'e da guy made 'im all gray." He had no issues with the place until his life was threatened by the high priest and he took away Bogg's green. To a goblin of any breed, that was the symbol of their being, their racial pride, and Bimblesnaff could use more things to be proud about. Stirring more as his caution waned, he learned that he was alone. No one was stationed to watch over him within the chamber. From the heated argument in the next room, he seemed to be a key topic.
"How could you bring that thing here?" one of the voices begged. "You have jeopardized everything we've worked for. No outsiders are allowed near an Arc fortress. We have maintained our existence without it being known for centuries!"
"But he already knew of us," defended another voice. "It had to be contained before others knew what it had learned. We are fortunate that the relic it stole was traceable. Elsewise, who knows what containment measure we would have had to initiate."
"Stole? Relic?" pondered the maniac to himself. "What relic? Da only t'in' I ha'e swiped in a long while some ol' piece o' junk. How could- ..." Stopped in his own words, his memory caught up to his tongue. It was simply a rusted and mangled piece of metal that had caught his attention. His thieving eyes had spotted an old man with it, despite his attempts to keep it hidden. It was decided the trinket would serve the fiend better than the man. Its shape was deemed perfect for tearing the guts out of fish so that the lunatic would not have to eat their disgusting flesh. "Wait," he paused. "When did I leahn ta fish?" Shaking off the tangent thought, he remembered that the wizened man from which the item was lifted had other pieces in his possession. They, too, were drab and aged, many of which were parchments with writing. These things meant nothing to the freak at the time despite many things like it he saw within a shrine at the Arc castle, which he then destroyed. Now, he wished he would have known better. He also wished he had a talking slug named Sal. Unfortunately, in this imaginary scenario, he ate Sal.
"So then," a feeble woman faintly spoke, "what do you advise we do with it? It is your mess, after all. How do you plan to keep our integrity?"
"I know what will happen to 'im," muttered the Ghobling to himself. "He'll get as fah away from ya wackos as possible." Creeping to a wooden door cracked open, he peered outside into the hallway. There was no one in sight. Slipping his twisted body through the opening, he was immediately alerted by a scream. A sentry posted next to the door, startled by the wretched appearance, yelped before reacting rationally, giving the fleet goblin time to dash away equally as scared. "Crap! Ya look one way," he told himself, "den ya hafta look da othah!"
"What is the meaning of this?" demanded the important figures, spilling out from their meeting chamber. The embroiling on their robes showed their position and importance. Only one was in drab colors, Bogg's captor. "Was... was that the prisoner? Why is it getting away?"
"It is running around?" the navy cloaked wizard spoke in astonishment. "It should not have awakened so soon. That spell incapacitates men for days."
"Men being the faulty piece of your assumption," interjected a bald mage with a long, white beard. "What about that monstrosity seemed human to you?" Turning, he addressed the sentry. "And why are you still not hunting it down?"
"I-I'm sorry," apologized the stuttering guard. "I'm not trained to watch over captives. I've never done this before. No one here has done this before. We're not supposed to be known. Our training doesn't include these situations."
"Cease your rambling and stop that wretch!" exploded the silver haired woman crowned in a bejeweled circlet. "We do not want it creating more problems for us." The sentinel and a few other robed men at hand chased after the escapee. The elders were much too important to engage in such lowly activities, but the woman cast a stare at the blundering one that told him to act otherwise. Bowing to his superiors, he joined the hunt.
Flight for Life
The patter of shoeless feet sounded down the empty, stone halls as the lunatic scoured for an exit. The only doors that opened to him were those that housed fellow clergy with orders. The voiceless commands of their superiors had been issued telepathically through the glowing amulets around their necks, a standard Arc practice. The cult members, whiles young, tried their best in sequence to stop the freak on the loose.
"Mage Missile!"
"Fire Fingers!"
"Thunder Hand!"
"Wizard Sign!"
The other three turned to their comrade in utter disbelief that he would have prepared such a worthless casting. Even at their low level within the Arc, they should have known what spells were worth the time to prepare. Sadly, it was the only magic of theirs to hit. Dropping backward at the waist, the projectile skimmed overhead. The ribbons of flame were dodged as Bogg placed his weight onto his hand and sprung on top of the fireslinger. Leaping off his perch, the electrified grasp was tightened around ally rather than foe. Lastly, a glittering mark, only visible with another casting able to sense magical energies, was imprinted onto the imp's back. Flying past the last of the obstacles, he could not help but trot backwards to the final magician and planted a fist squarely in his nose.
"Take dat fer suckin'," ordered the wretch before soaring down the hall with quickened pace. No matter how fast he ran, the arcane branding would render any chase futile in the end, but he was clueless to this fact at the moment. Bounding down the ancient bends and curves, he desperately sought a way out. In his previous escape, he simply took the gaping hole in ceiling that he was partially responsible for causing, but such a route was not available to him this time. Reaching a split in the hallway, he hastily tried to determine which path to take. His decision was quickened as the sound of an advancing throng of flummoxed men approached from behind.
"Quickly," shouted one of the horde, "stop that green skin!" The maniac could not help but be impressed with the eyes of his pursuers. They were able to identify his race even without the namesake's color. His feelings aside, a choice was made, and the ordinate path of the two was taken. There was no logic or rational behind this choosing, but why would this event vary from any other in his life? A lush, extravagant carpet was sullied beneath his grimy feet. The dark stains his footfall left marred the detailed tapestry woven into its design. The several dozen candles lining the walls had their flames bow at his passing. With each step, the surroundings grew more luxurious. It was unfortunate that the aesthetics could not have been enjoyed by the fleeing freak. It was something he would have taken pleasure in, just like he would have taken them to the black market to sell, a truly enjoyable feat. Throwing his body against the sturdy doors stationed at the end of the walk, they barely budged. Pressing harder, scraping his talons against the floor, shredding the carpet to add injury to the insulted rug, a thin gap was opened between the two hatches. Pushing harder on the locked portal, the commotion of the pursuit drew nearer. Smashing his head against the split, it was scarcely wide enough to squeeze his skull through, and the rest of his form followed.
Spilling into the room, he melted into a lax, splayed position on the floor. While they were close, he suspected the others would have no easier of a time getting through the gateway than he did. Catching his breath, he heavily lifted himself upright to see if his selection had gotten him any closer to leaving the confines. Rather than a brightly light door labeled "exit," which he would not have been able to recognize anywise, he found himself in a very large, rotund chamber. The walls merged with the ceiling, curving upward gradually to create a massive dome. Golden urns of flaming embers hung from this surface by chains, dimly shedding light on the massive room. The tiles of the floor were arranged in a circular pattern, forming rings that grew smaller as the center was approached. They were not of the same stone that built the rest of the castle. These bricks were pure silver gilded in golden borders. Each one was precisely measured and placed within the pristine design of the floor. The detail and decoration surpassed that of shrines, but that was since the room housed something more revered than a deity. Rising from the floor, passing over the middle of the chamber, rose out an arched piece of wood meters high. Its craft was aged and deformed with a good number of rotted holes and vermin bites. The withered timber was nothing in comparison to the adornment given to the great hall. Nothing about it was deserving of such praise.
"It went into the Altar of Damiasien," a human called out from behind the doors, arriving with the rest of his battalion.
"He’s not supposed to be in there," one shouted in a panic. "We're not suppose to be in there."
"All the reason to extract him faster."
"Heh. Good luck gettin' in, suckahs," chuckled the fiend. Then, the metal protrusions piercing the portal creaked and turned as the hatches parted from one another. "Ergh! Knobs!" He cursed the handles rather than his own lack of ability with opening doors as he blindly sped forward.
"No!" cried out a sentry. "Stop him! Stop him before he passes through the-" All things stopped. A powerful force surged throughout the gray skin's body. It was not as before when the high priest subdued him. This was entirely new. Thousands of voices raced through his thoughts, none of which he could understand. A pressure developed deep within his head. It swelled with pain as more speakers joined the choir of drivel. Faster it grew until none of it could be tolerated anymore, and everything went to black.
Grim Calling
Mangled words softly sounded within Bimblesnaff's ears. As his mind slowly slipped back conscious, he found the mages huddled before him arguing fiercer than before. Their words were jumbled as the immense ringing noise in his head prevented his comprehension. Trying to sooth a screaming temple, he brought a limb forward but found his arm pulled taut, unable to move. Peering at the appendage, he found it encased in a ball of energy at the end. All of his limbs were, in fact. A great, ring-shaped, stone structure had him tightly secured, a precaution taken since his last fiasco. Slightly confused, he looked over to his right arm which was still pulled stiff without actually being contained. The event slipped by him as the words of the wizards became more apparent.
"How could he have gotten through the Arc?" an outraged woman shouted. "That is a sacred, mystic portal to all knowledge. The greatest minds require years of discipline to even survive passing through it!"
"Truly, we are in a dire situation," the bearded man noted. "Before, the threat was merely being revealed, but this! This threatens the cosmic balance! Few that even manage to survive the Arc escape with their sanity. With what it has acquired, it offers untold dangers."
"It is messy and frowned upon for our purposes," suggested the high priest, "but can we not just kill the creature?"
"No, killing him would not be safe," insisted the woman wizard. "Even in death, what it knows could be a threat to us. We must ensure that nothing of it can reveal our presence or the secret..."
"Truly, that is what must be done," agreed the other warlock, "but you cannot suggest-"
"No, not an ultimate banishment," rejected the priestess. "Such a drastic measure is not needed, not now. Removing it from existence would draw too much attention from the balance keepers, anywise. What it knows has been engrained into his very soul, and we must ensure that it is not divulged to anyone in this world or the next." The Arcker turned a cold eye to the imprisoned Ghobling. "Drain it. Rob this pest of its essence, assuming these scum even have it." With a nod, the navy magician approached a shelf and assembled an allotment of ingredients. Among these, he collected a small chest. With a few words, the lockless box opened, and he was able to retrieve a vial. Along with it were several other glass tubes. Many were empty, but some were filled with twinkling lights.
"Dose lights," coughed Bimblesnaff. "So shiny..." His amusement with the sparkles ended when he remembered when he had seen them before. He looked up into the eyes of the disciple before him. The robed rogue chanted some mystic words as he scattered some grounded dust over Bogg and readied the uncapped vial in his other hand. "Ya a'e gonna take m' lights away, ain't ya?"
"Tell me," questioned the priest under cold eyes, "does filth like you have a name?"
"Hlargasnorp," answered Bimblesnaff against his will. "Hlargasnorp Yuum." The maniac had never heard the name before, but it flowed from him naturally.
"Well, Yuum, do not worry," the warlock assured. "You will never know you had it." With a remorseless gaze, the wizard slammed his palm onto the lunatic's chest. Forces twisted and pulled within him as it felt like his heart was being torn through his ribs. With a feral scream of anguish, the torturer followed through, slowly pulling his hand away from the body. Within his grasp, he clutched a globe full of brilliant sparks. Darkness filled all that the freak could see, and nothing else was known.
Realize What is Before You
The fiend twisted and contorted in his suffering, throwing his body forward with deep breaths and sweat rolling down his face. Kicking his foot, he shook off an annoyed rat that had wanted its nest back. It was the only other living thing in the room with him. He was back were he had been before slipping into slumber. The room was now filled with the faint glow of a setting sun. In its fading rays, the chamber's secrets were now clearer to him. Up in a high corner he had climbed to, a hole was bore through to the outside. The same type of marking was visible on the floor where he had slid beneath the stalking wizard. The smashed wall that he was pulled through revealed the tree he had caught onto with years stacked onto its age. The deadly inferno was even explained. Everything in the room was how he remembered it being, but those events were not memories. They were experiences from someone else, dreams and visions implanted into his head. The accuracy and detail was too great for it to have been a mere coincidence or creative hallucination. His mind was not skilled enough to patch that work together from all the minor factors left behind as clues. He raked a claw down his face, his mind in pain from thought.
"What in shragolv just happened he'e?" uttered the lunatic as though he expected a response. He let out another scream, like the one in his nightmare when he felt his soul being torn from his being. The cry was not for loss or abandonment. He could not tell what was wrong with himself, but he could feel it deep within. Swelling and pulsating, he felt it worming within his form, trying to get out and be free. The pain eventually subsided and was replaced with a calm. The anger had changed into determination. The maniac was not certain what he was so direly set upon, yet he knew it must be done. There had always been voices in his head. It was not too much more for him to accept the orders from his chest. Woeful echoes rose up from his haunting, calling for justice. They incessantly cried out to him, demanding vengeance. A crooked smile washed over his face as the fragment of any reason or logic faded from his mind.
"Dey all must die," he cackled madly as his vendetta was declared. "Dey all must die! E'ahy last one o' dem! Dead! Dead!" With set resolve, he leapt out of the chamber to begin his path of blood. So great was his determination that he forgot he presently resided on the second story. Upon realizing the absent earth, his feet cycled through the air but did little to reverse gravity. The harsh landing did wonders to jolt him back into clarity, or at least closer to it, as he had no idea just who it was that had to pay. With this realization, the haunting mourns returned, growing louder.
"The Arc," spoke a recognized voice. He had only heard it before in a dream, yet it was unmistakable. The pointy chinned Ghobling was speaking to him again. "Ya reek o' it," snarled the familiar call.
"Ouch. How hahd did I hit m' head?" requested the fool as he lifted himself from the ground. "Da people in de'e ain't nohmally so loud." He rubbed his noggin to no avail. It did not fail at soothing the pain. There was simply none there. "Wait, I dinna e'en hit it on anyt'in'," he realized. The spark of genius was not produced on its own. Help was offered by the dream figure standing before him with teeth bared. This was all that had been the same from his previous vision as much of it was changed. Worn and weathered from hard years, the green skin had to have been thrice the age of the previous fiend. The pristine jacket was replaced with a marred and tattered tunic, rusty red in color. His hair was almost gone, frizzed and tugged on until uprooted. The corporeal dream charged the supine lunatic with a savage yell, dragging in his stead a heavy, stone ax that he could barely lift. Bimblesnaff did not know fully if he had to get out of the way and took the full, blunt force of the weapon's swing upon his chest. Smashed against a crumbling wall, Bogg was nearly knocked back to the second floor.
"Hey, hey," coughed the gray skin with blood accompanying his words. He had to peel himself out from the indention he made in the wall before continuing. "What do ya think ya a'e doin'?" The grizzled attacker's eyes twitched with paranoid frenzy as his head shook to the side.
"Ya... ya are me," grunted the delusional monster, the one that was not Bimblesnaff. "I can feel m'self in ya. I don't see me and can't smell me, but I know me, and ya are me," the freak continued to babble. "I smell sin on ya, evil one. It pours out of ya, everywhere. Ya are one o' them, ain't ya? Filthy, little creature! Give back what ya stole!" The ax fell upon the failing wall, causing it to fall to pieces from the bottom up. Having to gag up more of his blood, the muffled maniac failed in his attempt to both scream and crawl higher to safety and plummeted with the ruin. Hard bricks broke his fall, much to his discomfort, but more severe pain was approaching fast. Rolling off the debris, the pile was reduced to smaller bits by a hefty chop. With his quarry hobbling away back inside, the crazed hunter swung his weapon at his mark. A pillar shattered from the wild blow, but no blood was scored. A cloud of dust dropped from the arching ceiling, veiling the surroundings for just a moment. The time was appreciated by a hindered freak in need.
"Thief! Thief! Give back what was mine!" called out the accuser during the chase. Emerging in the next room with no prey in sight, the haggard goblin froze. He did not smell the air or need a trail of blood to find what he sought. He could sense it, for it was part of Yuum's own essence. Hlargasnorp flipped over a table and the charred boards on top of it to uncover the cowering gray imp. His ferocious roar was met with an equal cry from the hunted, although much more shrill and frightened. Bounding forward, the lunatic drove an elbow harshly into the other goblin's sunken stomach. The two teetered backwards and broke through another weakened beam. Bogg rolled through with his attack, flipping over his target, and had already begun to scurry off into hiding, desiring not to face an opponent of challenge.
Night Terror
"Come back here," demanded the living figment. "I ain't got it back yet!" The request was denied. The disarmed one was in no hurry to have the many pressing concerns that had risen recently answered by the homicidal brethren that was somehow linked to it all. His ire was greater than that of a father whose daughter had just been sullied, something Bimblesnaff was too familiar with. There was little blame to be pinned on their reactions, after all, since a daughter lost all worth after she was digested. In a blinded rage, near by walls were disbanded with the blunt object impersonating an ax. The soul robbed being could have located its quarry at any moment but was too angry to fulfill his burning cause. He hungered for destruction, and all waste laid on things other than Bogg was much appreciated by the gray one.
The ruined inn was more in shambles than it had been when purposely set ablaze. Nary a wall stood without a large portion absent from its whole. One of these busted slopes was slowly being scaled by the lunatic, but there was too much incline and pain for him to finish. His pursuer was quick to come back looking for his target. The freak sighed with regret as he kicked off from the partial wall towards the stalker. His arm hooked around the neck, bending the body backwards to the floor. His feet slide between Yuum's legs and wrapped around them. Both ends were pulled closer to one another, straining the back and choking out the green skin's life. Gargled screams tried to rip loose from his throat, but only muffled yelps emerged. The same pressure from the hold was being felt on Bimblesnaff's bruised ribs, and the aerial maneuvers performed to land the set-up did not help the situation. The shared torment became too much to bear regardless of the damage it was doing to his opponent, and the submission was relinquished.
The meaningless grunts and gags from the relieved gullet of his adversary meant that more time had been spared for the Ghobling, but ways to capitalize on such gifts were running low. A staggering gait hastily led him into the far end of the compound. The cleared out interior allowed for a nearly straight path to his destination. It was only when he arrived that he realized there was no plan or strategy for heading to the location. Turning around, his body was caught between the niche of the twirling head and shaft of the hurtled battle ax. He, too, spun with it as the weapon sailed through the air and walls alike. The flight ended as it became lodged in a sturdy column, pinning the battered freak between the two. Had it not been for his absent waistline, the imp would have been split into halves. His neck struggled to keep his head aloft, drifting close to unconsciousness. Through the daze and blur seen through his barely lifted eyes, Hlargasnorp was seen stomping ever closer.
With time running thin, Bogg gritted his mangled teeth. He was not one to give up so easily. Actually, he abandoned effort at far less obstacles. Inclines of a few degrees had changed his plans before. He only came to this region since the road to it sloped downward slightly. The Land of Eternal Delights was not deemed worth the uphill trek. This case, however, carried the outcome of his life. It was worth some amount of toil. It did not merit the same exertion applied in procuring ale but still more than normal.
The stone weapon was fully engrained into the wooden pillar. Even at his full strength, the object could not have been budged. A bandaged hand patted over the maniac's form, searching for an item hidden within his wrappings. Tucked away under one of the bloodied dressings was stashed part of the remains to his cherished weapon. The tip of the hook blade was just a shard of metal, but it represented his only hope of escaping this peril. The wicked sword was crafted long ago in his early youth. It was viewed as a lucky charm ever since it freed him from a blacksmith apprenticeship, a fact that issued many contradicting statements. The iron nightmare had come to his aid in battle before, and, even after its destruction, he prayed the remnants would serve him one final time.
Fuzzy vision tried to focus on the goblin that approached him. The fuming brute tore a plank from the wall and prepared to use it to snuff out what little life remained in the dying fiend. His arm grew weak and his hand grew heavy. The toll his body had paid was being realized. Things would not be allowed to end this way. He had to try. He forced himself, regardless to how worthless the act was. The broken end was tossed at Yuum. It was not a forceful throw or a skilled shot. The piece slowly and directionlessly wobbled toward its mark. The pathetic attempt was angrily swatted away by the green skin's board with little labor. It moved away with more velocity than Bimblesnaff had given it initially. The bit soared high above, and he sorrowfully watched its every movement. His agony did not come from seeing his last hope failing him. He wept for he could not move out of the way.
Shut Tight
"RRRRRRAAAAAA!!!" The painful shriek flooded out from the lungs of the lunatic with force enough to cringe the oncoming foe. The steel point had landed itself directly into the trapped Ghobling's left eye. Blood poured from the fresh wound as the screaming continued. Taking a firm grip on the iron shard, slicing carelessly into his palm, the tip was torn from the socket. The weapon was called a hook blade as its end curved. Despite having forged it himself, this fact eluded him amidst the high levels of suffering. The metal cusp was not all that was removed.
"RRRRRRAAAAAA!!!" The sharp bellow rang out again as the maniac stared at his own eye skewered on the end of his former armament. A jet of dark, thick blood shot from the vacated hole. "... RRRRRRAAAAAA!!!" Another vital torrent fired, and more would follow. The torment was not subsiding. Despite being blinded by pain, it was his adversary that had physically lost his sight. The sanguine streams had landed on his face. As the liquid was smeared in an effort to rub it off, the acidic nature was felt. He joined in the chorus of misery before the second stream filled his mouth. His face burned with a searing torture as it literally melted.
Pressing his stub over his wound, the gray fool struggled free of his prison. A vigor was found within him, fueled purely on fiery rage. His bony figure was pushed through the tight confounds, scraping his flesh against the coarse pillar. As the one responsible for yet another loss flailed around wildly, the fiend timed himself and bound outward with the broken sword still sporting an eye on the end. He landed low, driving it into the other Ghobling's stomach, and wrapped his feet upward, latching around the waist. Straightening his legs, the steel edge was dragged up through Yuum's anterior, slicing a trench through his flesh. Jumping upward, Bogg dodged the board that was swatted at his previous position, causing the green skin to strike his own head. Landing upon the lifted plank, the grayed green skin used the added height to bound onto the second level of the inn after driving the plank into the stalker's head again. Once there, the freak collapsed into a writhing ball, chanting "ow" in rapid succession as his lone arm shifted between clasping his stomach and cupping his eye.
"Ya stupid piece o' crap!" accused the suffering to the remnant, discarding the blade over the crumbled ledge. The jetsam bounced off the skull of the blood blinded goblin who was not physically affected by the hit. Mentally, it pushed him over the edge. Bursting out in aimless vocal blasts, fists were smashed through whatever fuzzy images could be distinguished through the scarred eyes. The ax was torn through what remained of the beam that halted it, and more like it fell shortly. Destruction came to anything within his reach. Through a fog of tears and blood, Yuum finally reclaimed his focus on the elusive fiend. A poor escape was made with a sluggish crawl, but the hunter kept pace with his travels from the base floor, feeling the prey through the ceiling with his sense. Knocking over a final wall, ripping out the supports at its top, it was ascended so that the manifest dream could reach the dreamer. Climbing the broken surface with thundering steps, the stone weapon was raised high to deliver the final blow. Bimblesnaff, in spite of earlier endeavors, found himself unable to flee. He was too weak and too strained. A terrible rumble shook through the inn as the deathblow was delivered. Surprisingly, it was not his own.
The structure collapsed. Too many loads were being held by too few supports. The walls buckled beneath the masses above, folding inward. The entire building sunk inwards, joining a growing pile of rubble. Hlargasnorp as well became swallowed by the havoc. The tilted wall crumbled beneath him and, then, above him. The cumbersome ax broke him through first. The roof and rafters failed next as there was nothing holding the outer walls in their place. The parts tumbled, one after another, throwing up a massive cloud of dust. When the haze parted, the chaotic debris encompassed a island of safety. The sole pillar left standing, a central piece in the inn's design, supported a small section of the second floor and a portion of the roof above it. Shaking off a layer of settled soot, Bogg rose, albeit slightly hunched, from this haven.
"What is up wit' places fallin' on me?" demanded the lunatic. His question was intended not as rhetorical. A full explanation was expected with graphs and pie charts. As he awaited his answer, a faint glow pulsed from the pile of ruin. Glimmers of light rose from the shattered hall, dancing into the sky. They were joined from afar by more of the same, mingling with one another as they climbed higher. A few poured out from his own body and completed the mass. After its congregation, it faded, simply ceasing to be. It was over, he guessed, and nothing confused him more than how the last pillar still stood. Not much longer after that thought, it ceased this action, and he was rolled along the jagged mound until cast to its fringe. Face down in the mud with old wounds reopened and a few new ones, the maniac did not understand all that had happened to him during the turbulent night, but an immediate solution was already reasoned.
"I need a drink..."
Awakening
Sore and bruised, the mangled wrecked limped to the tavern for some medicine. It was not in the same riled state that it was the previous night. The hour was late and most of the people had chosen a bed to sleep in this night over a pool of their own vomit. Particularly relieved with this decision was the wench, who had the job of cleaning it up. Distracted with admiring her newly purchased and fancy jewelry, she did not notice a new customer entered. His slow gait carried him through most of the ale house before the dragging of his feet caught her attention. By the time he perched himself in his usual seat, the darkest corner closest to the flow of drink, the waitress was already there and slid him a mug of brew.
"I dinna ohdah dis," he confessed, proof that he was not feeling like himself.
"I know. I just thought you could use it," she admitted with a note of actual concern to her voice. "You look like hell." Expecting her sympathetic ear to coax out some words, he remained speechless. Pulling up a stool, she took the dishcloth off her shoulder and took seat at the table. "Looks like you had a busy day saving the world, ey, Bimblesnaff Bogg?" A kind smile broke on her face. "You were right. I didn't forget," the maiden stated with no reaction still from the gray skin. "That... that was your name, right?" she requested. "Bimblesnaff Bogg?" He had not looked up since he entered the bar, not even at the waitress, and not just not at her face. He was mesmerized by the reflection in the mead set before him. The face that stared back at him was not his own. A dangling strand of bandage, torn from his arm earlier, hung out from the hollowed socket it was stuffed inside from behind a green lens to stop the bleeding. Even still, a trickle ran down his cheek. Ironically, the cracked side of the goggles matched to his good eye. These were not his, the colorless face, crooked nose, or empty eye. Before him sat a stranger he could not identify, but he was damn certain who it was not.
"No. No, dat's not who I am." A silence came between the two. She wanted to say something, but her words would mean nothing. The man, she assumed, was broken. In a lifeless still, he stared down at his ale, not even bothering to drink it. It grew too uncomfortable for her to stay. She almost announced her leave but ultimately decided against it. She just backed away from the table and went to the sink to start cleaning the day's worth of dirty dishes. After finishing the chore, the sullen goblin still was in the position she left him. The hour had grown too late, and they were the only two remaining. Her senses told her to request his departure, but nothing could bring her to the act. Going through her final rounds before locking the tavern down for the night, one of the lanterns, near the dark corner but not too close, was left with its dying flicker. Throwing on her coat, the waitress poised herself to bar the door but finally worked up enough courage to address the pitiful creature.
"I hope you find it," she meekly spoke to the lost soul behind her, knowing he was just as distant as when he first came into the pub. She continued as though he had responded in some way to request the meaning behind her statement. "I hope you find whatever it was you lost." The thud of the locking beam echoed through the empty halls, heard only by the last one there. He remained gazing at the reflection until long after the last flame burned out. His loss was more than understood, but it was more than his eye or arm. It was deeper than treasured piece of garb. The loss he had suffered was that of his life, his very way of living, for now he had what he never wanted before: a cause.
All of his problems began with the Arc, as he now knew them to be called. All of his problems would, therefore, end with them. Every day of his life would now have to be devoted to their downfall until he could reclaim what was his. The path before him was long and perilous with no end in sight, and all of these deterrent were well recognized. As much as he wanted to go back to his carefree living, he had to do it. He had to make them pay no matter the cost. It was this reason that his spirit was crushed. The fate of this depression was soon called upon since, as with any of his profound thoughts, a more meaningful one soon took it over.
"Did dat dame lock up da cellah when she left?" It arrived on cue, obscuring his prior notions. He dismissed the recent musing in an attempt to revive the first thoughts. The amnesic maniac scratched his head in a furor to recall what it was, fully believing the act brought actual assistance to memory, but failed to yield any results. "... Dammit."
