Part III: Greed is Good
Chapter 6: The Pawns of Fate
I was relaxing again in my study at Nektar’s Cauldron – in a room where shadows and whispers conspired. As always, my thoughts were a web of schemes and machinations, each thread tugging at the fates of those who dwelled in the realms above.
Picking up The Eye of Seraphiel, I sought to while away some time. Eventually my attention was drawn to two unsuspecting souls: Gromm Stonefist of Rhokki Pass and Rorik Mudfoot of Gor. These were two peasants who were seemingly forgotten by the worlds they lived in as they lived their mundane, pointless lives, and yet they captured my fascination. I perused their fates, reveling in the irony of their mirrored lives, separated by hatred yet bound by a shared struggle.
“Azazel, old dog, I’ll bet you can find a story here.” I mused to myself, my voice a silken whisper that echoed through the chamber. “Let’s see, how about this – a tale of two commoners, Gromm and Rorik, whose fates I wrote among the stars…”
Gromm Stonefist and his family were finishing another arduous day at their market stall in Rhokki Pass. The air was thick with the scent of smoke and sweat, the cries of vendors and customers mingling in a chaotic symphony. With Gromm at the stall was his wife Brynna – a supportive and equally hardworking Drokkina – as their three children: two sons, Toric and Halvar, and daughter, Maelis. Gromm had come from a long line of merchants who have always struggled to make ends meet, yet he and his family maintained a sense of pride and resilience. The Stonefist stall, modest yet well-kept, displayed an array of handmade tools and goods, each crafted with care and precision. Despite their efforts, the family’s earnings were meager, barely enough to sustain themselves.
Gromm himself was a sturdy, middle-aged Drokka. He had a rugged, weathered appearance, with a stout build typical of the Drokka, with calloused from years of labor, and a face marked with the lines of experience and hardship. His hair and beard were a mix of gray and black, kept short and practical.
Although his family was from the Gaatz clan, the Stonefists had always been outcasts among their wealthier relatives – most of whom no longer recognized the Stonefists among the Gaatz records. As a result, Gromm’s family didn’t benefit from any support by the Gaatz elders. In short, they had to make their living alone – as a result the Gromm’s family’s day usually started before dawn, crafting and preparing their goods, and didn’t end until late at night with family prayers and discussions about their faith and history.
One day, typical of any other, Gromm’s eyes lingered on the richer merchants, their stalls overflowing with wares, their purses fat with coin. He clenched his fists, the calloused skin scraping against roughened palms. He couldn’t understand why fortune favored them and not the honest, hardworking folk like himself.
Living in the poorer district, Gromm’s family, like so many other commoners, struggled with inadequate housing, scarce resources, and constant economic pressure. Although he didn’t know it, the elite clans’ control over the blackwood trade, merchant guilds, and banking system was largely responsible for The Stonefist’s sinking ever deeper into poverty, yet Gromm believed what he’d been taught at church – that the cursed Derkka were to blamed for much of his misfortune.
Gromm’s animosity toward the Derkka was deeply ingrained, fueled by religious teachings and family history. Although his family lived in the overcrowded, poorer district of Rhokki Pass, they had a proud history of military service, with Gromm’s father and grandfather having fought valiantly in the Drokka-Derkka wars. Although Kon-Herr Baldur’s policies had brought peace to the kingdom and Gromm had never had the chance to serve in the military, he still believed that eradicating the Derkka threat was crucial for the long-term prosperity of the Drokka and he taught this belief to his children too.
Unaware of the true source of his hardships, Gromm spent much of his days either dreaming about the destruction of the Derkka or envisioning a fair and just society where hardworking Drokka could thrive – a future where his children could live without the struggles he and Brynna lived with.
As his day neared it’s end, and the family packed up their stall after another long day of making barely any sales, something unusual happened. Gromm’s attention was drawn to a nearby alleyway – a he stepped into the opening, he saw a figure cloaked in darkness waiting for him, the stranger’s hood obscuring their face.
“Are you Gromm Stonefist?” the figure asked, voice smooth and unnerving.
“Aye, that I am. Who’s asking?” Gromm replied, suspicion edging his tone.
The figure handed him a small, ornate box. “A gift, for your loyalty and service. Use it wisely.”
Before Gromm could respond, the figure vanished into the crowd. He opened the box to find a strange, gleaming amulet. He felt a surge of power as he touched it, a sense of purpose and clarity unlike any he had ever known.
Far away, in the verdant fields of Gor, near the run down village of Lubbuk, the sun was setting, casting a golden glow over the landscape, as Rorik Mudfoot and his family were tending to their crops. With Rorik in the field was his wife Grinna and their three children: two sons, Rurik and Talon, and daughter, Lyra. Rorik’s family had tilled the same land for generations, growing crops and raising livestock to sustain themselves and contribute to the community. There was a time when Rorik had heard that Drokka slaves used to do the work, by those days were long gone – now goblins like Rorik were tasked with such efforts.
A sturdy, middle-aged Derkka farmer, Rorik had the typical goblin-like appearance of the common Derkka, with greenish skin, sharp features, and pointed ears. He had a lean, wiry build, the result of years of hard physical labor, with hands calloused from working the fields, and hair dark and unkempt, kept short for practicality.
The work on the farm was backbreaking and Rorik knew that most of his family’s efforts would be taken from him by the Marduk’s tax collectors who made sure that 90% of all the crops sown in Gor were transported back to Babel for the crown to distribute. As a common Derkka, Rorik was at the mercy of the Marduk and the Babelonions – the elites of their society who ruled the land, draining commoners like Rorik dry and making his existence a struggle.
The farming family’s day started well before dawn and last past sunset as they tended to the fields and livestock. Their evenings, when time permitted, were spent with family prayers to Baal, discussing their faith, history, and the glory of the Derkka nation. Despite their struggles, Rorik and his family were proud of their Derkka heritage and their role in supporting the Marduk Garrick’s vision for their people.
Living in the rural lands of Gor, Rorik’s family struggled with inadequate resources, harsh weather conditions, and constant economic pressure. Although he didn’t know it, the Babelonian elite clans’ control elite over resources and trade within Gor was largely responsible for The Mudfoot’s sinking ever deeper into poverty, yet Rorik believed what he’d been taught by the priests of Baal – that the cursed Drokka were to blamed for much of his misfortune.
Rorik’s animosity toward the Drokka was deeply ingrained, fueled by religious teachings and family history. Although his family lived in the sparsley populated, poor outskirts of Gor, the Mudfoot’s had a proud history of military service, with Rorik’s father and grandfather having fought valiantly in the Derkka-Drokka wars. Although the Drokka Parliament’s policies had brought peace to the kingdom and Rorik had never had the chance to serve in the military, he still believed that eradicating the Drokka threat and re-enslaving them was crucial for the long-term prosperity of the Derrka and he taught this belief to his children too.
Whenever life became hard, Rorik’s thoughts ever turned to the cursed Drokka – those former slaves whose selfish escape had since caused Rorik’s family so much misfortune. Unaware of the true source of his hardships, Rorik dreamed of a time when the re-enslavement of the Drokka peoplewould bring the Derkka back to prosperity – a future where his children could live without the struggles he and Brynna lived with.
One day, typical of any other, Rorik was working in his fields again. As he wiped the sweat from his brow, the farmer was alone by the barn when he noticed a figure approaching from the edge of the field. Clad in a dark cloak, the stranger moved with an eerie grace. As nobody else in the family was nearby, Rorik’s hand instinctively went to the hilt of the dagger at his belt.
“Rorik Mudfoot?” the figure inquired.
“Aye, that’s me. What do you want?” Rorik asked, eyes narrowing.
The figure extended a hand, revealing a small, ornate box. “A gift, for your dedication and faith. Use it wisely.”
Rorik hesitated but took the box. When he opened the box, he found a strange, gleaming amulet and as his goblin fingers brushed the amulet, Rorik felt a surge of power, a sense of purpose and clarity unlike any he had ever known.
Back at home I chuckled at the charades of the day, my laughter a cold, menacing sound that echoed through the void. The seeds had been planted, and now I would watch as Gromm and Rorik unknowingly played their parts in my grand design.
“They think themselves enemies,” I mused, my voice dripping with malice. “But they are merely pawns, bound by fate and my will.”
Using The Eye, I reveled in the thought of Gromm and Rorik’s eventual confrontation, each wielding the power I had bestowed upon them, driven by their misguided hatred and manipulated by forces beyond their comprehension. The rich clans of both Drokka and Derkka had long been under my influence, their greed and ambition stoked by my machinations, and now a couple peasants had been added to the mix.
I gave a challenge to myself to use Gromm and Rorik as tools to further my own ends – as they moved through their daily struggles, they would unknowingly serve me, their fates now entwined in a web of deception and manipulation.
“Let the games begin,” I whispered, my eyes gleaming with anticipation as I gazed into Seraphiel’s Eye. “For in the end, all shall bow before me.”
The Apocrypha of Azazel 