The Campaign Builder's Guild

The following is the brief memoir of King Maug, a character from the story I wrote last night, taken from his supposed stint on death row in Vestin.
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When the dripping white wax of this candle ceases to cradle its flame, I will be dead.

Allow me to elaborate, while the time remains. These words will be the last testament to a people bereaved, a cause belittled, and a monarch besieged. I am King Maug, heir of the Throne of Asakel, heritor to the Line of Graul, and Supreme Ruler of all Goblinkind. I have been imprisoned by the Republican National Guard of the wretched Vestin, and though they profess a love of life and a dedication to justice, they contend that my hanging is the only conceivable retribution for my crimes.

Typical of humans. Spill blood for the purpose of avenging spilt blood. T'would be amusing, if it wasn't so dreadfully morbid. But rest easy, those beloved gods you serve will likely be pleased to see another rotting goblin head upon a pike. Unless those gods, by chance, were goblins themselves.

The ink, quill, and parchment with which this is transcribed was provided by my captors. If recapitulation was their goal, and in their own bright-faced, earnest way, it is quite possibly true, they will be sorely disappointed. It was ironic. The guard brought first the candle, explaining it would last three hours. I judged from the position of the night's bright trickster that three hours remained 'til the burning beacon of Biaton crept in the east, and knew, as was Vestin custom, that my execution would be at daybreak. I stared at the dancing tongue that strode aglow the candlewick, feeling nothing but contempt for the spirit that dwelt within. For when the evening's candle died, the morning's would rise; I prefer what control I have o'er the former to the markable certainty of the latter.

Curse you Biaton, wretched sun god! Curse your faithfulness, for these callous fools would never tell night from day if your sky's chariot did not ride forth with faith at every dawn. Your clockwork is their Clockwork, and as Rionisis usurped the godly throne, so have these kingless mongrels seized their own. Democracy is nothing more than swine ruling rats, but its brilliance lies in execution: the rats accept their station as such, and mind not being fed to the swine. The swine have led them to believe that they could become them.

But swine are born as swine, and rats as rats. The same is true with Kings. You may seize his kingdom, murder his kin, destroy his army, and enslave his House, but the superior blood, the noble heart, can never be stolen. A King has the honor with which can never be earned, but only birthed.

I digress, however. The candle is a third melted already, and I would have written more were it not for the unnecessary complexities of your language. Goblin was a language much like yours, when my ancestors ruled the islands of the south. Yes, we goblins had our poets, our prose, our plays, and even our pride. Years of servitude, slavery, and slaughter under dwarven rule dispersed my people, shattering my birthright.

But my lineage remained pure. The pure darkness of my skin, my snow-hued hair, even my regal posture is a product of good upbringing and better breeding. Were it not for thousands of years of careful mating, as well as the observance of my people's ancient religious ways, I would likely be nothing more than a slave laborer, or scoundrel, or just a corpse. I would be best off with the latter of the three than live at the mercy of your kind.

The candle burns at half-mast, as though it were my herald prematurely mourning. Rest for now, brave trumpeter, your tears will be warranted in a short time still.

The pen and parchment were brought to me for a purpose, of this I know. You are not interested in my dying thoughts, nor the truth to these events. You wish for me to recant my oaths, to confess to crimes, to provide a rationale behind why I did what I did. The crimes you rose against me for claiming what was rightfully mine. As if my fate could be altered by gracing your humors.

To wit, I will confess this: Indeed, I have wronged your kind. Were I a more honorable King, I would have made this war a proper one. Instead, I am but the butcher, bringing what swine I can into my slaughterhouse. Those rats that follow are killed by their own foolishness. In the blaring words of the barrister: 'Convicted! Murder of thirteen.' Seven by last count, killed I, though not by the earnest sway of my own blade. Seven deaths I ordered, and seven fulfilled; the other six were fancy.

'Convicted! Arson, with intent to kill.' The one who commits an arson with no murder in his mind is too much a fool to live. The gods permitting, such an upstanding human would have a fine career in either politics or law.

'Convicted! Conspiracy,' the many charges of which you will be spared. Yes, foul humans, my blackest heart and hate-filled eyes do conspire against your wives, your children, and your churches. The vast resources I did have at my disposal were so great that now, as per my plan, I sit in anticipation of my own funeral.

Wronged have I been by your perversion of justice, but wronged further still by your perversion of culture. I, a King, have flitted in shadows, made deals in darkness, and sat atop thrones of ash and refuse.

A quarter of light remains.

I do not fear death. I mock it. I mock those who bring it. For the death of one monarch is no small task, but your hands run red from the blood of dozens. My noble lineage is at last destroyed, the only remaining vestige of my people's power vanishing with the last flicker of this lump of wax. Would you risk transforming such a noble being as me into a martyr, an incongruity within your quest for love an peace?

I hear a commotion within the hall, as the red tendrils of sunrise steal those last protective sheets of night. Every word I pen becomes more frantic, more necessary, more...

Amused.

My people have returned to me. Your guards are dead.

As I snuff the remaining flame that mocks the deadened candle, I no longer fear the sprawling daylight.

But soon, you will all fear the night.

-KING MAUG

[According to the Federal Archives of Vestin, the above parchment was retrieved from an empty jail cell. The Archives never mention the name 'King Maug', nor is there a record of a goblin king ever standing trial. The deaths of thirteen citizens in that year and eleven jail guards remain unsolved. -S. Mentalli]

This very much reminds me of The Book of the New Sun, in the completeness of its metaphor and the beauty of its prose.  I have nothing other to say than "right on".

-Cannon Pig

I really like how you place the goblins as much more regal and civilized than one would normally expect from a fantasy campaign, where we usually think of them as nasty little runts only good for punting. Poetry and prose from goblins? Who would expect? :P

A little confused on one part. In the beginning King Maud refers to "you". Is this the reader (as I would expect) or the human race in general?

Quote from: So-KeherI really like how you place the goblins as much more regal and civilized than one would normally expect from a fantasy campaign, where we usually think of them as nasty little runts only good for punting. Poetry and prose from goblins? Who would expect?

A little confused on one part. In the beginning King Maud refers to "you". Is this the reader (as I would expect) or the human race in general?[/quote]

Whenever Maug references "you," he could be addressing humanity as a whole, the Vestinites who convicted him to death, or the reader (who would likely fall under one, if not both, of the categories).

Good job, ElDo.  I find this piece to be much more enjoyable than the one from which it was derived.  King Maug is characterized beautifully, and I see in him a fine BBEG for any campaign.

Once again, good job.

Wonderful ending. I absolutely love it.