Magister Slice

The Prime world that Manifested in the Pit today made the mistake of thinking that it could contend with our Concordant forces. On this Day of War, we defeated them, and now we Magisters claim our rightful spoils. We take half, as is our right under the Mandates. We measure what they have and take what is now ours.

Following Mordant Banners, the Dominion's undead march back through the Bone Gate, loaded with the wealth of another world. I nod to the Mage Mordant Kismet whose skeletons follow behind her.

"Mage Marfan," she addresses me, "I return with the tribute of the conquered. See that my skeletons are cleaned."

I lift my staff and the zombie washers scurry forward.

Her squad drops their loot in the courtyard of the Fortification to be counted. Among their number marches the blue skeleton the goblins cry over. It has two extra limp ghostly arms, a vestige of its former power. They disturb me.

The goblin troops keep their distance, but their eyes never leave the little skeleton. Some dare to whisper its live name, "Frailarm". They brush trinkets on its bones as it passes, amulets and strips of cloth. Superstitious nonsense, utterly unlike the magic I wield.

The washers hurriedly scrub gore from the other undead, but when they reach the blue bones, their brushes move slower, more carefully. Some pass their hands through the ghostly arms and touch their foreheads. Their sympathy is revolting.

"Enough simpering, thralls. The rest of these bones need the blood washed off too."

The drow necromancer raises her banner, and her skeletons follow her back to their boneyard in the Enclave.

We Magisters treat the blue skeleton like any other. We do not discuss it in front of our servants. But at night, when our masks come off, the rumors spread:

"It fights harder than it should and follows orders a step too late. Should I take it to the labs for research?"

"And give the thralls fodder for their rumors? No, let them see that it is nothing special."

The ghost light in its sockets burn with a fire that should have faded.

Mage Marfan by Chris L

The little blue one is our Frailarm. He died like all good goblins do, fighting someone else's war. When one comes out blue, we hope for what they might become. But like too many poor gobbos, he died before we could find out.

We march next to the skeletons and zombies every day. Human bones, drow flesh, ogre bones, and goblin flesh. But the wee blue one hurts most of all.

Even dead, he still has what made him special, those ghost arms. So when he passes, we try to brush against him. A touch for our mojo bags. Maybe we can be special too.

Goblin Soldiers of the Dominion by Chris L

The Day of War had been successful, though exhausting. My contribution to the Dominion's victory had been noted. My share of the spoils had already been deposited to my account. With the mundanes expelled from the Enclave for the night, I looked forward to an evening of feasting, drinking, and celebrations.

As I neared the bone yard where my skeletal troops would be corralled, I spotted the mechanical man known as Tazi Asadi, the Unbeliever, lounging at a nearby cafe, sipping some acidic draught.

"See here, golem-thing. The Magister's Enclave is restricted to spellcasters only at night."

The soulforged looked up with that stupid grin, "Kismet, you know full well that I have magical gifts. Do we have to do this every time?"

"You will address me as Mage Mordant while I wear my mask. And as you know full well, it is my Magisterial duty. You will need to prove your talents."

"As you wish." He snapped his fingers. A blinding flare of light filled the street, followed by a thunderclap.

When my vision cleared, there was a glass of my favored red wine waiting on the table.

He gestured to the empty seat, "Enough with the formalities. Sit. Tell me all about your glorious conquests."

I smiled and removed my mask. "I crushed my enemies. I saw them driven before me." I took a sip of wine. "The lamentations come later."

Tazi Asadi and Mage Mordant Kismet by Chris L

When they gave me a chance to see Frailarm again, I had to take it. We had both died in that fight in Goblin Town. But only I had been reborn. My friend's skeleton still fought for our masters, and there wasn't much I could do about it.

Even now, with Tazi's help, all I could do was steal him away for the night. The illusion I cast would fade with a touch, but the bone-yard guards wouldn't notice one skeleton missing until morning. I'd have him back before then. His skeletal hand rested limply in mine. His ghostly hand clutched my arm tight.

I led him from shadow to shadow, slipping through secret goblin doors in the wall. We emerged on the road to Little Sekara. There, on the road, I whispered to him. Maybe some part of him could still hear.

"Oh Frailarm... I'm so sorry for what happened to us. I hope you're happy that I'm alive again. The wizards of the Silver Slice brought me back! They made me one of them. I went to the Academy! I'm an officer. I hope you're proud of me."

We slipped into town with ease, just like old times. Outside a warehouse stacked with containers bound for Sekara, I gave the call of a nightingale. A huge winged shadow descended in answer.

A low voice rumbled, "Good work, Reborn."

"Greetings Khuvior the Bronze", I replied, bowing my head. "This is my friend, Frailarm."

The dragonborn traced a sigil in the air, and the blue skeleton stirred. From its bones came whispers, messages and prayers of goblins for their kin back home. The names and contracts of those who wished to be saved. All encoded in the blue goblin's bones.

Reborn and Frailarm by Chris L