For all the Good that Evil does

Abbathor smiles greasily, with his thin, tight lips never once revealing his yellowed teeth.

“I told you that swapping out the temperamental Elf; Arowe for our seemingly dull but steadfast Dwarf; Banaal would throw an unexpected pickaxe into Zartak’s carefully planned, long-term machinations.”

Moradin strokes his thick beard and nods begrudgingly.

“I’ve never liked your… underhand ways, but I have to admit you were right. I suppose my way, the way of order and honour, is easier to anticipate and therefore counter and abuse, if the enemy has no such scruples… Which he obviously doesn’t..”

Finally, fully grinning at the back-handed praise, Abbathor Agrees.

“I told you Brother; It takes evil to understand evil. Understand it and therefore, undermine it. Banaal’s unforetold inclusion and Arowe’s altered path will muddy the fates and disrupt the future as writen. The Demon Lord; Zartak needn’t win this struggle. There is still hope for the Dwarves of Fissa.”

Moradin frowns.

“And  Solonor of the Elves was happy to go along with this plan?”

Abbathor continues smugly smiling.

“The Elven gods are even more arrogant and conceited than their people. Not only did I persuade him to alter the board and exchange some of the pieces, he left our meeting thinking that the whole idea had been his from the beginning!”

Nature vs Nurture

The two gods, so different in physical stature and appearance yet equal in power, regard each-other coldly. Yondalla; highest of the Halfling gods, looks up at her single-eyed Orcish opposite and meets his gaze, eyes to eye.

“He’s my champion Gruumsh. How dare you think you have any influence here?”

The large, battle scarred Orcish god snarls.

“Your champion? He’s been raised among Orcs since infancy. He has no knowledge, exposure or understanding of what it is to be Halfling.”

Stepping forward and deliberately invading Gruumsh’s space, Yondalla’s voice hardens.

“It’s not just his body that makes him Halfling. His soul belongs to me. It’s what dragged him, unwittingly, back to the Halfling lands!”

Gruumsh chuckles throatily.

“Ex-Halfling lands, you mean. His small body is scarred and battered by his harsh Orcish upbringing. His weak Halfling flesh toughened and forged strong by Orcish discipline. Don’t bore me with prattle of ‘Halfling Souls’. Despite your obvious machinations, his heart and spirit belong to the Dark-Star tribe. My Dark-Star tribe.”

Yondalla flares angrily.

“Your Dark-Star tribe?! They’re done. Gone. That tribe, like so many of your tribes, is lost. Almost entirely wiped out by the Demon army!”

Gruumsh, stung by the remark, squats low to put their heads on the same level. Snub and snout noses almost touching.

“They fought hard and died bravely. They never surrendered and won their forever places by my side.”

The Halfling goddess’ scowl drops.

“I’m sorry but that just isn’t true, is it? The Demon Prince has corrupted your captured Orcs and blackened their souls to his own purpose.”

Old One-Eye slowly straightens up.

“And that is why I’ll keep my hand on the shoulder of ‘our’ little champion.”

Refusing to allow herself to be intimidated, the Halfling goddess holds her space.

“A champion can not have two… Patrons.”

The mighty Gruumsh shrugs.

“Why not? It seems to be working out pretty well for the Human Gladiator.”

A Servant of Two Masters

It’s the third night out from Scarborough toward Cottis, and despite spending the night under the sloping thatched roof of the huge, outlying; Clark & Sons farmyard barn, the added security of their three new Lord Urdurel guards and the comfort of Cookie’s large, covered wagon, the perpetually angry Fortu has another of his hyper-vivid dreams. Or perhaps, this time, it’s just a nightmare bound to the recent loss/theft of the three Briefadel mercenaries they’d saved months ago, combined with two distorted and disturbing memories…

After mercilessly cutting down the runaway soldier during Spider Murphy’s forest ambush, Fortu suddenly and inexplicably finds himself in a warm, sunlit glade, facing the beautiful Fey goddess; Estrid. They stand, face to face, eye to eye, mouths… lips just inches apart, close enough to kiss, yet her expression reveals a combination of consternation and confusion. 

"You slaughtered that defenceless human! He’d dropped his sword and surrendered. Surrendered! I don't see how a good person could do such a thing?"

Over Estrid’s pale shoulder, Fortu recognises a couple of armoured figures standing silently in the distance. The larger of them is male, beastial and warlike, while the other is feminine, refined but, perversely, also warlike. Of the two though, only the beast-like one is smiling with approval.

Eyes snapping open, Fortu hears those words echoing in his mind. But in truth, she hadn’t said them. She’d never said them. He had. They were his words, said months ago, to the eighth-Elf; Rifkin, when the goddess Estrid had ordered the merciless execution of four of the surrendered Human invaders of her glade.

Why then, had he murdered that unarmed and cowering soldier? What was the difference? What was his defence? Was it somehow morally justifiable when he did it but not when she had? Was it true for the beaten, bound and broken Wizard Moody too?

Glancing around the large, lantern-lit barn and his sleeping teammates, he becomes uncomfortably aware that he’d been far out of sight of the others when he’d caught up to that soldier and they’d never really questioned him on what’d happened. 

Fortu guessed that his teammates had assumed it was just a desperate encounter, man verses man, sword against sword but, for whatever reason, he’d not expanded upon that presumed falsehood or revealed the actual truth.

But what was the truth?

The truth was that soldier had laid in wait, with dozens of his sword-mates and crossbowmen, to ambush and kill him and his companions.

A greater truth was that the outclassed soldier had fled too late and raised his hands, only when cornered.

The absolute truth though, was that he’d butchered a defenceless young man after he’d dropped his sword in terror and unconditionally surrendered.

Wiping away the patina of sweat from his furrowed brow, Fortu silently asks himself the obvious question:

‘Was Estrid right to execute the surrendered men who’d invaded her glade and slaughtered her people, or was he just a hypocrite for doing the exact same thing, not just once now, but twice?!’

Then, the deeper and more profound one:

‘After all his of protestations, all his claims of honour and righteousness, despite his brutal, loveless upbringing; did he actually crave violence? Did he seek it out? Was he, in fact… an evil man?”

Divine Frienenemies

“That was a mean trick Abbathor.”

Without furniture or other creatures to create a frame of reference for scale comparison, the two ‘men’ seem like normal… normalish Dwarves, talking to each other in the gloom of an endless void. To a casual onlooker, it would be impossible to comprehend the colossal size of these two squat seeming figures.

“You needed an agent. I just made sure a suitably appropriate one was available to you, in the right place and at the right time.”

The first speaker glowers. The huge war-hammer held tightly in his large, clenched fist, glowing red hot.

“You possessed one of my high-priests and subjected that child to a horrific ordeal!”

The second Dwarf, larger but by dint of fatness rather than muscle, rolls his sunken eyes and smiles greasily.

“Relax my Brother; It was all just for show. Nothing actually happened beyond a little light exposure. No innocent little Dwarf boy was harmed in the making of this… escapade.”

Stroking his thick white beard with his free hand, Moradin considers his Brother’s weaselly words.

“Your cleverness is often useful and what you say is true; I did need an Avatar in the Fey realm, but your methods turn my stomach. You corrupt the good for your own nefarious purposes and leave your victims lessened or broken ever after.”

Jaundiced eyes flashing with a spark of indignation, Abbathor answers quickly, barely disguising the bite in his retort.

“I merely revealed your high-priest’s previously hidden and distasteful predilections. I didn’t create them. As for the child; I wiped all memories of the event from his mind. Only your pervert priest remembers what he almost did.”

The near Molten glow of Moradin’s war-hammer dims a little.

“And Banaal. You damaged his faith in me, even as I need him to do my bidding.”

The fatter and paler of the two Dwarven deities merely shrugs.

“Your young priest already had a strong connection to where you needed him to be and he was already searching for an excuse to leave the mountain. For the sake of saving the whole world; Good, Bad, Dwarven, Human and Elven, I’m sure he’ll find a way to overcome his exaggerated trauma.”

Moving Pieces

A disembodied voice, feminine and small, yet strong and resolute, speaks into the featureless ether.

“Our strategy isn’t working. The Demon Prince’s  plan bounds way ahead.”

A refined, musical and oddly asexual Elven voice responds.

“You are mistaken. One of my champions is on his way to recruit the legions of the Grey as we speak, while the other maintains a watch over your two.”

Two voices call out, almost simultaneously, from the mist. One deep, gruff and animalistic, the other higher pitched  but just as commanding.

“And ours is returning to the Human realms to help instigate the unification of their armies.”

The first voice replies once more.

“It’s not enough. Pampered Elves, unrefined Humans and my poor, tortured Halfling champion won’t be enough. It’s time we involved the Dwarves.”

…

It’s the androgynous Elven voice that responds first, but only after a lengthy silence. 

“If we must. I suppose a champion of Moradin is an acceptable alternative to recruiting an uncouth agent of Old One Eye.”

Somewhere though, in the background, a guttural and echoey laugh can be faintly heard.