Part XVII: The Long Dark Tea Time of the Soul
Chapter 2: The Shell Game
Timeline: AO323
You may be wondering—whatever happened to Blackwood Forest? Wasn’t that “Black Gold” the very reason Hacktor wanted his father Baldur to go to war in the first place? Wasn’t control of the Forest supposed to make the lives of the Drokka free and easy for all time? How did it all go to pot? Why aren’t the Drokka commoners better off now than they were before the war?
To be clear – there was a brief period of abundance when Hacktor first seized control of the forest in the early years of his war. Back then the commoners were in high spirits, the economy thrived, and the people praised Hacktor as though he were some kind of savior. For a short time, it looked like Hacktor had indeed deliver an economic boon to the people of the mountains—businesses sprang up, families expanded their caves, and children filled the mountain halls with laughter. The Drokka, in their ignorance, believed this was their new reality and that it would forever. Ha! They didn’t see the inevitable fall coming, the poor fools.
See, when you’re as old of a god as I am, you learn one thing—the greed of humanity eternal, especially among the elites. They can’t just let things be. No, they have to control it. And so, the Rukstinz and their fellow elites figured out a way to gain dominion over The Blackwood’s bounty. It didn’t take all that long. After all, Hacktor was too busy playing the part of a warlord, and Hecla, his dear sister and wife, was content with her royal perch, blissfully unaware of how little her people were actually benefiting from this windfall.
And so, all that abundance from Blackwood Forest, well it started to flow—not into the hands of the Drokka people, but into the coffers of wealthy traders across TerrVerde. From Mersia and the coastal communities of the eastern seaboard, to Thulsa and Karkemesh in the south, shipments of the finest wood was transported through Rhokki Pass on caravans bound for other markets – where wealthy merchants in paid top coin for Blackwood. Even the enemy territories of Gor and Kra continued to receive that black gold.
But what did the common Drokka get? Less and less. And the royals? They remained in the dark, distracted by affairs of state and war. Hacktor didn’t bother to notice, and Hecla…well, she trusted Monty Redstone. After all, the Coinmaster showed the queen books full of cooked numbers that made it seem like the crown was benefiting. Although Hecla didn’t necessarily trust Monty, as she was oft overwhelmed with the many problems of her children, it was a battle the queen didn’t have time to fight.
And so it was that, far away from the rabble, Monty Redstone was living perhaps even better than a king. His palatial estate, tucked deep within a giant cavern in the suburbs of Rhokki Pass, was The Coinmaster’s opulent fortress of wealth and excess. The sheer size of the complex was staggering—a labyrinthine network of halls and chambers carved out of the living stone by the finest artisans, each room filled with treasures from across TerrVerde. Everywhere there gleamed gilded tapestries and rare art from Mersia, Ramos, and beyond, pieces bought for sums that could feed entire Drokka villages for years. Monty’s collection included intricate tapestries depicting the mythical battles of the old gods, hand-carved marble statues of forgotten heroes, and jewel-encrusted vases from the kingdoms on this continent and others.
The furniture was as grand as the art. Every chair in his estate was carved from the finest blackwood, inlaid with silver, gold, pearl, and Rhokkium, and upholstered with the finest silks and velvets imported from the far-off deserts of Loco Land. The floors were covered in thick, plush rugs woven from the fur of the elusive snow leopards that roamed the highest peaks of Kra. In his personal chambers, a bed fit for a giant—massive, adorned with pillows stuffed with the down of the rarest birds of Ramos—this served as both a place to sleep and a throne from which the fat politician surveyed his ever growing wealth.
At his dinner table, no expense was spared. The most succulent meats, roasted to perfection, were served with exotic fruits imported from across the seas—mangoes, figs, and citrus that few Drokka had ever even seen, let alone tasted. Rare spices perfumed the air, and the finest wines from the vineyards of Ramos and Regalis were always poured into goblets made of hammered gold. His table groaned under the weight of dishes prepared by personal chefs brought from distant lands—baked quail, honeyed hams, roasted peacocks stuffed with spiced dates and almonds. Monty rarely shared these feasts; he preferred to dine alone or with his handpicked guests, reveling in his ability to afford the kind of excess the common Drokka could scarcely imagine.
Guarding all of this opulence was Monty’s private security force—mercenaries dressed in black armor that was marked with the Redstone sigil. These Drokka wore helmets with full iron face masks to keep them with a singular identity and a singular mission: protect Monty Redstone. Highly trained military personnel who the Coinmaster had secretly plucked away from Hacktor’s army with promises of better pay and less risk, their loyalty was bought with gold and sustained by the promise of a life far more luxurious than most Drokka could ever dream. Day and night, they patrolled his estate, weapons on the ready and eyes ever-watchful. No one got in or out without Monty’s approval. In his palatial fortress, he was untouchable—at least, that’s what he liked to believe.
And yet on this evening Monty paced nervously. A fire roared warmly in the hearth and on a thick table in the middle of the room were the remains of another sumptuous feast. Yet Fat Monty wiped sweat from his brow as he continued walking a path along his expensive rugs.
The rotund dwarf with the flaming red was draped in a finest robe made of crimson silk and gold-threaded brocade, tailored to hide the rolls of fat that spilled over his belt. As usual, his outfit was adorned with gemstones, glittering rubies, emeralds, and sapphires set into his tunics, and he he wore rings on nearly every finger, each one studded with precious stones. His corpulent form, wrapped in luxury, waddled as he walked like some grotesque parody of royalty, but Monty reveled in it. Wealth was his power, his shield, and his pleasure.
He’d seen his fortune grow immensely over the years – even as the kingdom of the Drokka crumbled. His control over the merchants and the blackwood trade had allowed him to amass wealth that rivaled now even the crown – although it still paled in comparison to The Rukstinz who remained the puppet masters not only of Monty but nigh the entire continent.
Yet Monty was worried – although his own wealth had grown, Hacktor’s war had drained the kingdom dry – and the people were beginning to murmur – too loud for his comfort.
He tried his best to twist the narrative to appease the crown – at least on the surface. Explaining to the king and queen that his propaganda machine would spin Hacktor’s losses were “strategic withdrawals,” and the sacrifices of the fallen were “noble acts of valor.” But those efforts largely failed – partly because the Drokka people weren’t foolish enough to believe that, and mostly because Monty didn’t really push much effort into the project [after all, he needed Hacktor as the scapegoat if things got too hot].
Naturally Monty was confident he could keep the blame away from himself when it came to the king’s failed war. But he was more worried that Hacktor or Hecla might discover his ‘other’ dealings—the hidden taxes, the siphoning of resources through the Blackwood Importation Office, the double-secret collusion with the hated Rukstinz and The Priory of the Myz. If any of of those treasonous acts were brought to light, Monty’s world would come crashing down.
“I won’t let it happen,” Monty muttered to himself, pacing faster. “I’ve worked too hard to lose it all now.”
He had been careful, of course—spreading rumors, redirecting blame toward Hacktor on the down low – especially in the outer kingdoms. The Kon-Herr was an easy target, after all. After twenty years of endless war and nothing to show for it, the people had had enough. Even Hecla didn’t seem to have the heart to fight against her husband’s faults anymore.
Monty’s agents were thus free to work to convince the common folk that the king was the sole cause of their suffering. As result, the trickle-down effects of the elites’ manipulation on both sides of the war, the secret deals by the Coinmaster, the exploitation of the poor—all of it could be swept behind the veil of Hacktor’s failures.
But Monty was no fool. He knew that if Hacktor ever uncovered the full extent of his treachery, his fortune—and his life—would be forfeit.
He stopped pacing, his mind racing. He had to act quickly, to ensure that Hacktor’s attention remained focused on the war, not on the inner workings of the merchant class. Perhaps he could further inflame the tensions, encourage more dissent among the people. As long as the poor blamed Hacktor, they wouldn’t look too closely at him
Yes, that’s it. Monty smiled. He’d tighten his grip on the merchants, ensure their loyalty through fear and coin, and in turn force them to further drain the rabble of their spirit. Most importantly we’ll let Hacktor take the fall for the suffering of the Drokka – it really is his fault, don’t ya know?
Having grown tired and sweaty from all that walking, Monty allowed himself to collapse into an oversized armchair near the fire. He picked up a goblet from the side table and poured himself a cup of Ramosian wine. Deep red and rich with the taste of sun-warmed grapes, the fat Drokka swirled the wine slowly, watching the flames dance as his thoughts turned, as they so often did, to…her.
For all his wealth, for all his treasures and power, Monty Redstone was a man who never quite managed to grasp happiness. He never took a wife, though he had bedded countless lovers, most of them prostitutes from the whorehouses he secretly financed. These women came and went, as disposable to Monty as the goblets from which he drank his wine. They fulfilled his lusts but left an emptiness in his heart. Despite the parade of women, there was only one he truly pined for: Queen Hecla. Monty had been smitten with her for as long as he could remember.
Of course, it was a foolish fantasy, but Monty Redstone was nothing if not a man of ambition. “Ah, Hecla, you magnificent, cold-hearted creature,” he muttered, taking a slow sip, the liquid warming his throat as it went down. “You could have had anyone… even me. You should have had me. Instead, you chose him. Hacktor, that oaf. A brute with a crown, that’s all he is. Strong, yes, but witless. Blind to everything beyond his war games and conquests. Does he even see you anymore, Hecla? Does he understand the Drokkina he holds in his grasp? Bah, surely he doesn’t.”
Monty shifted in his chair, his fingers idly tracing the rim of his goblet as he stared into the flames, seeing not the fire, but a future where Hecla was his. “But soon… soon, things could change,” he mused, leaning forward slightly. “War has a way of… taking care of nuisances like Hacktor. A Drokka like that, always chasing after battle, always playing the hero… well, heroes fall, don’t they? And when he does…”
A crooked smile tugged at Monty’s lips, and he chuckled darkly to himself. “When Hacktor’s body is cold and his blood soaks some distant battlefield, who will be left to comfort you, my love queen? Who will be there to whisper sweet words in your ear, to show you the tenderness you’ve been denied all these years? Me. I will. I’ve been patient… waiting for the right moment, and it’s coming. I can feel it.”
He drained the goblet and placed it on the table, staring deeper into the fire. “Oh, Hecla, you deserve so much more than that savage. You deserve luxury, jewels, the world at your feet. I could give you that. I will give you that. You’ll see. You’ll see when the time comes.”
He rubbed his hands together, his eyes glinting in the firelight. “Of course, it’ll take some… persuasion. She’ll grieve at first, naturally. But grief fades, especially in the arms of a Drokka who can make the pain disappear. A Drokka who can provide. Who can make her a queen in more than just name.”
Monty chuckled again, the fat folds of his neck jiggling as he leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. “Hacktor will be a memory soon enough. And I… I will be the one to pick up the pieces. To be by her side. She’ll need me then. She’ll want me.”
His fingers tightened into a fist as he imagined the power he would wield with Hecla at his side. “And then… then I’ll have everything. The crown. The kingdom. The queen. Just a matter of time, really. Hacktor can’t live forever. War’s a dangerous game… and all it takes is one well-placed dagger, one stray arrow…”
He laughed softly, raising his empty goblet in a mock toast. “To fate… and to Hacktor’s untimely demise. May it come sooner than later.”
The fire crackled louder, as if in agreement, and Monty’s eyes gleamed with greedy anticipation.
It wasn’t just Monty’s wealth that expanded during these dark days. Enterprising factions from the seedy underworld of Drokka society had also quickly swooped in to exploit the people’s plight. You’d think it was all random, a natural outgrowth of desperation, but let me tell you—those underworld factions didn’t rise on their own. Oh no, they were financed by the very elites who claimed to stand apart from it all. Always remember, the real villains don’t get their hands dirty. They let the pawns do it for them.
So what did these underworld elements do? They latched onto the people’s suffering like leeches. “Fundraisers” began to spring up all over the Eight Kingdoms, run by shady characters who claimed to be giving the people a voice, organizing protests, collecting donations. The idea was simple enough—get the poor, desperate Drokka to believe that by throwing their few remaining coins into the ‘community pot’ – a slush fund that was supposed to be used to benefit everyone by bringing about change, by forcing the royals to listen!
In reality? The only thing those fundraisers did was enrich their organizers. The coins collected from these protests rarely made it into the hands of the starving populace or did anything to ever benefit those less fortunate. And they certainly didn’t convince the royals to listen or create change. Instead, they lined the pockets of the administrators and their benefactors in the shadows. The more protests, the more outrage, the fatter the purses of these “leaders” grew.
And Monty? Well he was right there too naturally – pulling the strings, having this men make sure every protest stirred up just enough trouble to keep the people angry—but not angry enough to come after him.
The protesters’ message was always the same. “The Drokka nation is on the verge of disaster!” they’d cry. “Families are starving, children are dying, the political system is rigged!” You know the routine—those endless, breathless proclamations of doom. They told the people that everything was falling apart, that the world was ending. And the people, hungry, angry, desperate for something to believe in, fell for it.
Queen Hecla and her royal court? Safe behind the palace walls, the courtiers dismissed those claims without a second thought. “The rabble’s just looking for something to complain about,” they’d tell the queen. And Hecla accepted their lies.
Meanwhile, Monty’s hired intelligentsia, his paid scholars, and loyalist voices, flooded the taverns and gatherings to play both sides – disputing the protests at every turn, writing pamphlets that called the complaints overblown and the protesters lazy. They painted the royals as blameless, and any voice of opposition as foolish. This is how Monty kept his hands clean. Carrying out his marching orders from The Rukstinz, Monty was the one driving the protests from behind the scenes, ensuring the fury was pointed in the right direction—away from him and instead at Hacktor, the war, and anyone else he wanted to deflect blame onto.
And when the protests grew too loud? Well, that’s when the Secret Servant guards stepped in, making arrests. But funny thing, none of the big protest leaders ever seemed to get caught, did they? No, those arrested were always the desperate, the starving Drokka who were simply following the words of their false leaders. The ones at the top—the ones truly responsible—ensured that a good portion of the fundraising coins found their way into Monty’s pockets and from his into his own backers. That’s how the game works: keep the people angry, keep them fighting, but never let the real power shift out of the hands of the puppet masters in the dark shadows.
The results were…predictable.
The poor Drokka continued to starve, while the elites grew wealthier and more insulated from the consequences. Hacktor’s war raged on, Monty’s fortunes swelled, and the commoners? They continued to be used as pawns in a game they barely understood. And Monty? He sat comfortably at the top, laughing at it all, knowing that as long as he controlled the narrative – and kept his ‘investors’ happy – well then his position was secure.
But there was one thing that Monty hadn’t anticipated. Couldn’t control – because neither he nor his cabal ever saw it coming. And that’s where things got interesting.
It was old Grak – that scribe who was ancient even while he’d served Hacktor’s father Baldur. Yes that wizened dwarf was one who threw a wild card into the game. For the scribe had sent an unexpected message to Hacktor—a plea, really—begging him to visit Chaldea.
The message was simple, but oh so intriguing.“A discovery, Kon-Herr! From the oldest records of The Kroniklz. It will change everything.”
Of course, I already knew what Grak had found. I had made sure of it. But Hacktor? He was about to stumble upon something far bigger than his petty war. And Monty? Well he would eventually get his just desserts – and trust me, the fat miser wasn’t going to enjoy eating that delicacy.
Oh, the irony of it all. It was almost too much even for me…
The Apocrypha of Azazel 