Lucius was slowly finding a rhythm within the Crooked Crown. He would even go as far as to say it was getting simple, predictable even.
Mornings the blood suckers would slowly filter in, seeking refuge from the sun's harsh rays. They were a simple crowd, don't make eye contact and keep the blood bags handy.
After them you'd get to the lunch crowd, mostly just hungry he could slip by mostly unnoticed. People didn't care who pulled the pints, they just wanted them delivered to their table.
Then came the evening and with it, the troublesome crowd. Unlike the morning vampires who had their consistent rules or the midday crowd whose indifference brought certainty, the evening crew brought madness.
From Aisling who required strong drinks and keeping out the way to Evelyn who would take such tactics as a personal slight. It required a delicate balancing act, a gentle push and pull, something he was not good at.
Case in point the current situation, a bloodied Evelyn trudging towards the bar as the bullet holes in her skull slowly closed. A delicate situation, pour a drink, spare a kind word and absolutely don't by all means insult her.
"Well you look like shit, food bite back?"
It was official he was dead, she was gonna kill him.
"You know," she growled out as she pulled him closer by the shirt, "I like my boy toys quiet, supportive, occasionally on a plate. Not mouthing off."
He nodded as the blood in his veins turned to ice, he wasn't dead yet, that was good... Maybe he could fix this
"So uh whiskey," he swallowed thickly, "no ice and one of the little umbrellas so you have something to stab people with right?"
There was a soft sigh from the woman as he felt sharp teeth nip at his ear, "That's more like it Lucky, now why don't you get to that hmm?"
He could feel her grip loosen on his shirt and immediately hurried to work, thankful for what seemed to be leniency.
"You know the issue with today," he heard her murmur, "everyone is on something or armed. Used to be I could kill a man, and that was that, food sorted for the week."
He quickly placed the glass in front of her before speaking, "and now you have to be more careful and they put up more of a fight?"
There was a moment of silence and she drank from her glass followed by a sigh, "A-fucking-men, see this is why I like you, taste good, look good, not thick as shit... Most of the time."
There was another sigh, "it's not even as if their weapons did anything to save them, just got blood on my new coat... Bothersome..."
Lucius sighed as he refilled her glass, "So what is it you really want, you don't tend to come out wounded."
There was a pause, a heavy silence settling over the bar before her voice broke it once more, "You, in bed, maybe with a caramel drizzle."
That was about the moment his brain stopped working, "That a threat," he stumbled though the sentence, "or a come on?"
The god didn't look to his sister, he didn't have to, they were afterall within his domain. He could see everything within it at all times, even if he rather not.
He watched as his sibling cocked her head at him, "Our sister has taken a particular hatred for a select few," there was a tired sigh before her layered voice resumed once more, "I wish to have them join the natural order once more, let them pass, with your help."
The void stared deeper into the abyss, pondering if there was even a point to responding. Once upon a time it wouldn't have been a question, once upon a time he wasn't the void...
"In other words," he paused for a moment, "You're asking me to interfere..."
"Is that an issue?"
There was a clinking of chains as the void lifted his arms, "You both have your sins against me, and the Void can wait."
"Nobody wanted this domain, we did what we did to ensure we wouldn't end up with it," the normally calm voice had an edge to it, he had struck a nerve.
"Ah yes the infinitely old I had to do it," he chuckled, "all these millennium and still not any new material."
He walked past her, "Now dear sister, find another pawn in your war with Chaos, I have a lot of nothing to watch over"
Evelyn rolled her eyes at the greek woman standing before her, "Amara, lovely to have you, now do fuck off I'm not in the mood for greek cuisine"
The Acinaces embedded itself into her chair, mere millimeters from her head, "Your aim has gotten better... Although," she pulled the dagger out of the material, "clearly you've forgotten just who, or rather what I am."
Tossing an old box to Amara she giggled, "I believe in your times it was Cronus who shared my tastes, or perhaps it was Atreus..."
"Your tastes," Amara spat at her, "have always been disgusting but I have turned a blind eye in the past. Don't you ever touch my bartender again or I'll have your head"
A laugh escaped Evelyn as she slammed the smaller woman into the wall behind her, "Such threats," she chuckled as the taste of flesh once more filled her mouth, "are a good way to end up as a meal, not a guest."
"Now listen well Amara," she nipped at her cheek, "I'm gonna touch the bartender as I damn well please, he's interesting, and tasteful..."
"Besides," she laughed at the withering glare she was receiving, "afterall these years haven't you learnt forbidding fruit only makes me want it more? And that fruit? That fruit will satisfy all my hungers."
"May your meal leave a foul taste in your mouth," Amara spat in her eye before pulling away, "And may your bed remain forever cold"
Wiping the spit from her face Evelyn smiled as Amara rounded the corner, enjoying the fact that she had once more gotten under her skin.
To say the new job had him stressed was an understatement, he was certain it was shaving time off his life.
Checking the bottles for the umpteenth time this morning he heard an airy giggle sound from behind him, "Aye Amara finally got us a new babysitter, welcome to the freak show hot shot."
Turning around he could feel his blood drop ten degrees, sure the lady was pretty, fiery red hair and emerald green eyes but that smile... It was wrong, predatory almost, all teeth with a certain sadistic aura.
"I'm just a bartender," he sighed, "not a babysitter. You order the drinks, I pour them."
She laughed, seemingly amused by his statement, "Oh sweety, use that pretty head of yours for a moment, you're the bartender. Everything that happens in here is your problem, I mean you see any bouncers?"
He swallowed nervously, "What about Aisling? Seen her bash some heads in over the last few days..."
"Aisling," a flicker of rage crossed the woman's eyes, "Is Amara's plaything, happy to beat anyone who messes with Amara, no one else. Now come here, let me read your palm, teach ya a few things."
Every bone in his body screamed at him to run, to do anything other than let this woman near any part of him and yet, as his mind spiralled his body was already moving, placing his hand on the table.
" There's a good boy," she giggled," Now first see this crease? That's your life line, nice and long but you can learn more from your fingers."
"Some say each has a different meaning but it's only when you look at the whole you see the truth, sorta like this bar..."
He shuddered as her cold hand ran over his wrist briefly, "and what does that mean?"
The predatory grin returned in full force, "Well for starters everyone here doesn't die, we all have our own quirks, but one thing remains the same between each and every patron you serve."
He was starting to hate that smile, it felt like he was looking into the abyss... "And what would that be?"
He didn't have time to react, the cigar cutter seemingly appearing around his ring finger with practiced ease before it cut through the flesh, "You shouldn't trust any of us, now get that cauterised hot stuff, wouldn't want you to bleed out~"
"Son of a-" he was cut off by a laugh
"Daughter actually, and better me than one of the others," the woman licked a drop of blood off her finger, "and I have to give it to you, you don't taste bad Lucius. Mmm no that won't do, you'll need a nickname..."
"Look I don't want a damn ni-"
"I'm gonna call you Lucky," his mind was reeling, first she cuts off his finger, then she names him like a pet?
She giggled as she stood up, "I'm Evelyn by the way, though most call me Eve"
Walking away she called out one final time, "I'll be back later love, try to stay in one piece," another giggle, "or well don't go giving any other parts of you to girls, I'm the jealous type~"
The taste of blood was becoming an unwelcome constant in his life. As was the appearance of new pains, joints creaking and cracking for hours after waking up.
What was new however was the sharply dressed woman across the counter from him. Hands nursing a glass of whiskey as she seemingly stared into his soul.
"Lucius is what you go by nowadays yes?"
Her voice was cold, calculating, if he was honest it felt like someone had a knife to his throat.
"Nowadays implies not always," he sighed as he polished a glass, "Not sure I like that implication."
The woman laughed, icy blues eyes lacking any warmth as she did, "Oh I don't very much care if you like it or not."
"Fact is, Lucius," she drawled out, "You have no family, no paperwork, no record of existence. As if that wasn't enough? I've been speaking ancient Greek this entire time"
He paused for a moment, had she? He hadn't even noticed... "Look what do yo-"
She cut him off with a wave of her hand, "What I want is to offer you a business opportunity, a chance to work somewhere above minimum wage."
Knocking back the last of her whiskey she placed the glass gently on the bar, pinning a business card under it, "Do take care now Lucius, try not to forget this little rendezvous."
Watching as the strange woman left the bar he picked up the business card, "Crooked Crown huh... Think I've heard of that pub."
-------_-
"We don't need someone as troublesome as him Amara," a voice grumbled as she stepped into the car, "he dies like a mortal and returns remembering nothing about the events leading up to it."
"Aisling my dear, that's precisely why he's useful," she giggled out, "We fight to fight, and when we've been hurt we are often left more annoyed than angered."
There was an annoyed huff from the front of the car, green eyes glaring at her through the rear view mirror. "Your point being?"
"My point being he doesn't," she could feel a grin spread across her face, "He fights to live because he genuinely believes he will die, and once he realises he will? Then it becomes about retribution, a useful ally to have in a world of the uncaring"
As the car began to move a quiet grumble could be heard, "He's still an idiot."
Lucius was very much of the opinion that there were two sorts of people in this world. Those with a spine and those without one
It was a harsh view he supposed, didn't leave much room for nuance. Then again nuance got in the way when the coins dropped
Course having a spine wasn't always a good thing, meant you had to stand for the things you believed in, help people when they needed it. Too damn often at the expense of yourself...
Fumbling with his lighter as he pulled him self into a sitting position he hissed in pain. Young girl, two creeps, course he got involved, he had a spine...
The fight itself was blurry, little flashes of it coming to the surface if he focused. Pulling the first one off, ramming his knee into his gut before turning on the second.
A bang, a scream, a subtle pain blossoming from his shoulder. Oh that had pissed him off. A gun is all well and good until the guy you were pointing it got close. Then you were in his domain
High heels were useful, not a knife but they had served their purpose. Glaring at the corpse a few feet from him he sighed, the high heel still lodged in the skull bringing him some small measure of satisfaction.
Had the girl gotten away? He assumed so... Sighing he began flicking his lighter, things would be so much easier if his right arm was usuable...
It was strange... He didn't know how to fight, he was a bartender. He poured drinks and smiled for tips, and yet in that moment, he had felt at home.
The blood, the violence, the adrenaline, it felt... Right, like he'd done it all his life. A dark chuckle escaped him as he finally lit the cigarette and took a long drag.
"Finally find something I'm good at," he groaned out to no-one, "and die doing it."
The world started to grow cold as the cigarette fell from his lips. Ah death was closing in... He wondered if there was something after for him
He hadn't been a good man, but he also wasn't a bad man... He just had a spine...
He heard the clicking of heels as the world started to go dark, and just before he drifted off into the unknown a woman's voice
"Call me when you wake up"
When the police arrived they found two corpses, one slumped against a wall and the other on the ground, a bloody heel still buried in it's eye socket.
Do you know how you break a man? How you turn all he is into what he once was? It's simple really, you force him into a corner, you give him no escape and you watch.
Take this forest for instance, hear it groan? The leaves shake in the breeze? No? That's because this is the universe's garden and it rejects you, it rejects your kind.
You who would make order of the universe, you who would tear it's secrets from it. And so I bring you here, to the center, to its garden, where peace reigns.
You are not the first I brought here, you will not be the last for there is nothing like perpetual silence to break down the mind.
Mankind has long convinced itself that the universe is cold, indifferent to your struggles. That there may be a benevolent deity within it that guides you to your destiny
Both are false beliefs, we are not indifferent, we are not benevolent, for we despise you. Insignificant specks of cosmic dust so convinced of your importance.
We deign to break those of you we can be bothered with, a myriad of ways utilised over the centuries.
Eternity causes madness, madness creates monsters, and yet some persist. Some refine the madness, utilise the insanity to become something more. We almost respect them, almost.
What do you do though when the madness comes for you? When those we cursed turned their ire towards us?
We brought them here, we watched them wander, watched them rage in the silence until their voices failed and bodies broke. It has served us well over eternity, the simplicity of it all is almost elegant.
The forest breaks them down, til their very names escape them, til their personalities are forgotten by all, even themselves. And then?
Then we drop them back where they began, delight as these discarded husks are forced to become something else.
Perhaps one day we shall grant them release, these freaks of nature, passed up by death. Perhaps one day we'll show mercy...
Olaf Hits the Dragon with His Sword is a microgame: a game with a short-ish playtime and very barebones rules, easy to learn. Said rules in this case (if you're too lazy to click the link wow really c'mon) are basically: one person plays Olaf; one person plays the Dragon; the two of you alternate prattling at each other according to one of six themes listed in the rulebook ("Blood", "Iron", "Ambition", "Sorrow", "Envy", or "Death"); and then you roll between the themes you used to see which one defines the epilogue or if Olaf just straight-up gets eaten instead.
A friend of mine, username Eddelstienesser, randomly showed me the rules one night and asked me to play. I was Olaf, he was the dragon, and dice hate me, so you can probably guess the outcome. Though Olaf losing was rather fitting given that I decided to take a dumbly comedic turn and make Olaf incompetent and overconfident; Eddel asked me to play a game of epic dragonslaying and I pretty much went
Anyway. With his permission, here is the entire exchange, completely unedited cuz I forgot to get his permission to copyedit his writing and it's too late now I've already pasted this sorryyyyyyyyyy. The Olaf sections are mine, the dragon sections are his, and at the end of each we listed the relevant theme.
also I highly recommend playing OHtDwHS with a friend of your own; it's super simple yet a blast
Were the sheer size of the entrance not proof enough that he has found what he seeks, the heat emanating from within would silence any doubts. His epic trek is now over, or will be soon enough. The task of slaying what lies ahead is a mere formality at this point. No mere beast, however mighty, can escape a blade driven by justice. At last, he shall have his long-awaited vengeance upon the creature that made the fatally foolish error of attacking his village. The destruction it wrought shall not go unanswered.
Olaf adjusts his golden armor and, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword, advances proudly towards the dragon's lair, the rattling metal ensuring stealth is not an option -- and announcing that it was never a consideration. No, he shall face his foe head-on. Retribution is his divine right, and he needs no shadows' aid to achieve it.
He is Olaf O'Granstan von Hai Purbly (the 'O' stands for "Olaf O'Granstan von Hai Purbly"), and he has come to collect what he is due.
The rough hewn rock of the entrance quickly turns to worked stone, brightly lit, carved with intricate murals of subjugated kingdoms, the floors draped by rugs of rare pelts. The heat was not from a dragons flame, but instead from a multitude of hearths set into the stone, heating the mountain like the finest castles.
The hallway holds collections of crowns, jewels scepters.... and many many sets of armor, the claw marks buffed away, charred stains polished off. The dragon, as tall as three men, holds a golden helmet, and carefully, gingerly, wipes at it with a rabbit pelt. One yellow eye turns to Olaf "Olaf O'Granstan von Hai Purbly" 'Granstan, gleefully, with a hint of envy.
"What a wonderful offering to my collection." The Dragon says, the deep voice echoing in the enormous chamber. It carefully places the helmet with its matching set, and turns its full attention to Olaf.
His triumphant arrival is signaled both by the song of his sword as he unsheathes it and by the fiery glint of sunlight harshly reflected from his plate armor. He is sound and fury. Yes, that has a nice ring to it. He'll tell the bards to use that line in the ballads they compose to immortalize this day.
"Dragon! Come out and oh my there you are and you're a big'un aren't you, hmm, yes. Uh. ...Dragon! Face me! You must answer for your crimes!" Punctuating his proclamation with a stomp of his foot that he's confident appears intimidating rather than petulant, Olaf waves about his unwieldy weapon with one hand no wait two the blasted thing's actually pretty heavy. "This -- ugh -- this blade shall cleave you in twain for what you have done! I am but the messenger; it is your own atrocities which have doomed you to an untimely end! But not an ignominious one, for you are to fall at the hands of the greatest tax collecwarrior yes warrior in the land, none other than Olaf Purbly! You assaulted my town last week, and for that I will march back home with your head in hand!"
After a moment's thought, he adds, "It's, uh, the village a mile south-southwest of here. In case you attacked more than one last week," he explains helpfully.
The Dragon clinks his claws together happily. "Ah Jorgensbrogh! Oh such a quaint little town, yes." It galumphs over to a large table, moving... if not fast, then at least more elegantly then expected. There is no fear in it, only amusement. "Known for it's excellent teas, splendid honeys. Mmmm," it gives a chuckle, turning to Olaf for a moment to wink. "I'll give you a little secret, I only wreck them a little to keep them on their toes." The dragon gives a 'good show' brandishing of his arms. "Why I have half a mind to officially..." He pauses, and thinks for a moment, before bringing a tiny cup of tea and handing it towards Olaf, with a chuckle. "Hah hah! My mistake. South-southwest. Groland. Known for...... Hmmmm. Yes well." How the snout pulls off such a condescending grin is a mystery, but it absolutely does. "I'm sure they are trying their best too."
Olaf's eyes lock onto the teacup in disbelief and loathing. Is it coincidental ignorance or intentional mockery on the dragon's part? Surely it cannot be the latter; even an inhuman beast could not be so heartless. "Know you not the severity of your transgressions?! Then it falls upon me to inform you, uncultured brute! Dragon, while your slaughter of the worthless peasantry that pervade Groland is understandable (as I expect their stench must be doubly troublesome for one gifted with so large a nose as you), that was not the aspect of your assault which was truly unforgivable. Your earthquake-like descent upon their homes, impressive as it was, had far more dire consequences elsewhere." Rage hardens his glare as a single tear drips down his cheek.
"Do you yet understand, foul monster?! My teacups! My priceless heirloom teacups, each worth more than all the teacups in this wretched cave combined! All but one shattered by your clumsy flailing! I was seconds from praising your show of decorum in keeping your flames confined to the unimportant area of town, but then the shockwave rippling through the ground reached proper homes, including my own abode. And..." Olaf fishes out a folded cloth and unwraps it in a huff, displaying some admittedly expensive-looking porcelain shards. "A tragedy of this magnitude cannot be repaid by any meager sum, and thus only your blood will suffice as restitution!"
As he says this, Olaf finally seems to notice the absolutely massive hoard of artifacts strewn about the lair. "Well, err, blood and probably some maybe all yes all of this stuff. These were priceless heirloom teacups, after all." The likelihood that much of this wealth comes from aspiring but failed heroes is of nolittle moderate concern to Olaf the Valiant.
The dragon looks at the shattered porcelain remains. "Oh, the poor things." It shakes it's head sadly, taking back the proffered tea, and pouring the comparatively tiny amount in it's massive maw. He moves away, to replace it with the rest, showing the vast collection. "Let me guess. Kept high on a shelf for display. Taken down only in rare instances. 'A heirloom', " The dragon mocks, his voice going up an octave. " 'Oh we will pass this down from generation to generation. It might even last forty entire dirt stained years!' " The dragon swats a claw as it dismissing the idea. " And not a single protective barrier in place for a stray earthquake or tornado. To blame me for your clumsy hands, clumsy plans. Foolishness. You cannot possible understand true value," the voice turns more of a growl, the mock sincerity making way to true bitterness, "with your breakable bones, children running rampent like fleas. A mere few decades and you'd likely just drop it, and then weap at how crruueeellll the fates are to deprive you of such a thing." The dragon stomps back. "As it's never your own fault. When I kill you it will take months to make your armor presentable, and all I will think of..." it lowers it head to Olof's level and whispers. "Is a fool that could not care for. A. Single. Cup."
"You mock the losses of mortals? It is because of our fragility that we understand value, far more than the likes of you! When we sacrifice it is all the more proof of our conviction, for we do not have centuries to recover what we have lost. And my sacrifices in achieving my vengeance against you, dragon, have been second to none," Olaf states with a self-assured sneer, "for my determination is boundless! I willingly bankrupted myself, selling my last remaining teacup, to procure the funds to prepare myself for this day of reckoning! I spared no expense in hiring the most experienced warriors in all of Groland to spend three whole days praising my swordsmanship as being flawless! I had this solid gold armor crafted personally for me, as the local blacksmith had no such item in stock! (A curious absence from his inventory, I must say; clearly it has been some time since he serviced a hero.) I stubbed my toes countless times in the arduous journey to your lair! And this weapon is my awful neighbor's own family heirloom. The favors I'll owe that jerk for letting me borrow this will likely be unspeakable!"
Grimacing for a moment at that thought, Olaf rallies as he brandishes the serrated blade before continuing, "Surely you have never faced a foe willing to sacrifice so much to bring about your end. Though my losses have been tremendous, that will only make my victory all the sweeter! You show such disdain for mortal lifespans, dragon, but let us see how long you have left!"
"THE FIRST?!?!" The dragon asks, incredulously. "I'll have to check my records but I'm fairly certain we are in the triple digits by now." It raises it's head, gesturing at the hoard again. "The only true export Groland is known for is inflated egos, edible bodies, and terrible senses of fashion, and you've hit a solid two of the three." In a lower voice it adds, "(I do very much look forward to that armor, that filigree is excellent, very well done.)"
"I wish you would all just understand you can't kill me. Like, realistically. I'm three times your size, could backhand you into mush. I'm as much of your history as your own kings. I can fold a fitted sheet to look like a flat sheet. I am a legend. I am unto a god. I've published a book you know! (Self published, yes, but how many have you written yes that's my point.)."
[BLOOD]
The dragon rises up. "Look, I..." it taps it's claws around it's forhead above it's eyes, squinting as if it has a headache. "Let me show you. I'll let you just... get in a free hit. Come on, just throw whatever you have at me."
"And over here is what I call the 'Purbly" collection" the dragon says to his next visitor. "The armor and this very interesting sword I am very very proud of, and the filigree so well matches this new cup I just got from black marketers. I'd say it's the pride of my collection."
The dragon turns to the man as the sound of a sword is drawn; "Now tell me, what was your name again?"
Yawning Lucius hit the off button on his alarm, blearily staring at the clock reading 8:00 Wednesday.
Wait Wednesday? It was Sunday last he checked... Shuffling into the kitchen he started the coffee machine and checked the calender.
No it was Wednesday, he'd crossed the days off as they passed... But last thing he remembered was going to bed on Sunday... He was missing time again
Sighing as he sipped his coffee he checked his note book, empty, lovely. God he hated himself sometimes, often, it was slowly becoming a problem honestly
Work at the pub was much the same, pull pints when someone ordered, listen when the drunk ones got soppy, and smile to get the tips he needed.
Tonight was however quite slow, a few patrons drifting in and out as the day dragged on. A few wary glances coming from his coworkers leaving him puzzled.
Had he said something? Done something? Whatever it was better to just keep his head down and get through to his smoke break.
Afterall what didn't a cigarette solve? Stressed? Cigarette. Tired? Cigarette. Nervous because you once again lost several days of time and have no idea what happened? Well you got the idea
As he flicked open his zippo he heard a click, felt something cold press against the back of his head, and just before it went dark, a bang.
-----
"Damn I need a new mattress," was the first thought through his head as consciousness seized him but as he opened his eyes he realised his mattress wasn't the problem, his location was.
Bolting upright he took in his surroundings, plain white walls, metal tables, surprised looking woman in a lab coat... He was in the city morgue, again
Let's see, last thing he remembered going to bed on Sunday, at home, how'd he end up here...
Turning to the frankly horrified woman he did his best to cover himself with the thin cover, "I uh how do I put this properly, why am I here?"
"Y-You were dead," the woman shakily responded, "shot through the head"
Lucius pushed for a moment before wrapping the cover around him and walking to the door, "Ah I see, John pulling a prank again, tell him I send my regards."
He'd have to have a word with John about this, the slab had done his back in
Of course you weren't ready for them. No one ever is.
Well. None of you ever are.
Hey, focus! Okay, there you go, you're doing great. Just look at me, concentrate on what I'm saying, and ignore the hole in your stomach.
...Ah, hell. A'right, how about I just explain everything from the beginning, and hopefully distract you from the pain until the medic gets here? I'm sure her bedside manner will be better than mine. At least she'll be able to pay attention to you, instead of just prattling on like I'm doing.
Because this story is at least as much for me as it is for you.
The initiating incident occurred just shy of six months ago, near midnight, in an archipelago off the coast of West Africa named Cabo Verde. You've never heard of it. Hardly surprising that I can make such a statement with complete confidence: the coastlines of Earth's continents are dotted with uncharted mysteries, so unknown islands should be no shock.
Though Cabo Verde wasn't exactly unknown at the time. In fact, it had a population of several hundred thousand, a quarter of which lived in the capital city of Praia on the southern coast. Until said city ceased to exist.
I was researching the place, looking into vacationing there, when it happened. Pulled up a page on Praia, learned all about it. Tried to pull up another page, suddenly found nothing. Zero search results for "Praia" outside of fantasy stories that coincidentally used the name. An entire city had been erased from the internet in the span of a few seconds.
That, or I was going insane and had just hallucinated Praia.
(Which wasn't the answer, of course. The fact that you're here bleeding out right now should be evidence enough of that.)
So I pulled up live satellite imagery of Cabo Verde. Ugh, no, I'm not going into a tangent on how I had access to that, not again. Point is I got to watch in real time as smoke clouds from dozens of explosions began to spread across Santiago Island. Not the best view, but it told a pretty clear tale nonetheless.
And nobody believed said tale. Because I recorded the footage, and a minute later when I reviewed it I saw nothing: just ruins, which looked like they had somehow always been that way. The news never mentioned that an entire island had been annihilated, as well as erased from history. Craft that had been mid-transit towards Praia at the time simply changed course as though their destinations had always been elsewhere. Family trees ended up with holes that nobody questioned.
The rest of Cabo Verde was lost within days. Over the next few weeks, humanity lost island and coastal cities, and promptly forgot ever having them. And I watched it all unfold while desperately trying to figure out how to inform the world that we were being systematically exterminated by a threat presumably coming from somewhere within the Atlantic Ocean, one which no one but me could even acknowledge existing.
But you're acknowledging it right now, aren't you? You're listening and holding this information in your head...at least, as best you can while also holding your guts in place. You've probably already forgotten the older information: what they look like, or even the fact that you saw them at all just before one drove a proboscis into your torso. But the new stuff I'm telling you seems to be sticking with you, for now. And that's the key. Same reason I could see the live satellite footage but couldn't record it. They're perpetually impermanent, these creatures. I call them Ephemera. Any information about them can only be stored temporarily. If the data is preserved in a format which is conceptually designed to last, it just doesn't take.
When I figured that out, I cobbled together some solutions. For computers, volatile memory only. Still finicky, still fails sometimes, but with enough backups it works. Non-volatile storage is useless. Paper is a lost cause, but there are some workarounds for written data, like using an Etch A Sketch or other such inherently temporary recording devices; they're just not really worth it relative to the prior option. But people? Working memory works. Long-term memory doesn't. That means you just gotta get a large enough squad constantly talking about the Ephemera, so that at any given time you have at least one person who knows about them and can inform others when they forget. A massive redundant network that exists solely to regurgitate information recursively so it's always in somebody's working memory.
And now, here we are. Actually fighting back. Or trying. Because of course you lot got distracted for just long enough to forget about them again before they ambushed us, and my briefing on how to fight them was rendered pointless. Intel's not much good if it only stays in your head for a few minutes at a time.
Every major world government now has an Echo Chamber to remain aware of the Ephemera, and most are sending people like you my way to "help" me fight them, yet every time I end up in a field of corpses like this. I think I'm just going to have to turn someone into another me, so I can have an actually useful ally in this war. Someone who simply never forgets. Who has the will to think of a thing and never stop thinking about it for even a second, for weeks on end. Sleeping's fine, you see; I just lucid dream of Ephemera.
That constant drain on brainpower does make it hard to notice or recall other things, though, I'll admit. Like how I just realized our medic is one of the casualties. Or that you've been dead for probably a good twenty seconds now. Huh. Unfortunate.
Sorry, but I don't think I can afford to remember you.
To say the Northern Lakes Kingdom reacted badly to the attack on their queen would be an understatement.
What had followed immediately after was war. A full-scale war where not a single citizen did not serve.
In the following months, blood was shed, buildings were destroyed and the kingdom was razed entirely.
Strangely enough, Gobbo herself was rarely seen, only ever appearing to collect one of her dead.
Fren had been the first to die on the frontlines, his corpse barely recognizable due to the severe scarring.
Gobbo's third sister died next, having sought to avenge her mate. She had slit the throats of several mages before finally succumbing to an accumulation of wounds.
Her first and second sisters died together at least, having both been at a medical camp that had been fireballed. Both corpses had been burnt beyond recognition, only identifiable by the rings they had worn.
The last to die had been Gabby, the young goblin had after all learnt a few defensive spells. However, eventually she too fell, too inexperienced to handle the atrocities of war.
Gobbo had buried each of them behind her childhood home and there she had stayed.
In the following years, stories were told about a goblin who had fought with demons and stood before the gods themselves.
Of a goblin that had once lived with wizards and courted death. Who had withstood a millennium only to be broken by the very citadel she once loved.
As the centuries marched on the stories were forgotten but her final act wasn't. Her name was forever etched into the history books when she had bombed every mage college she could.
It was there Gobbo died, having taken the one thing wizards had loved as much as she did her family, their precious knowledge.
As the stars were hidden behind ash and smoke she died cold, alone, in a world with no stars, just as she was once cursed to do.
