The forest begins to thin. Throughout the journey, I saw a couple of elementals. Some fairies passed near my resting place. It is difficult for people to know, but those small humanoids are not magical. Their flying nature and some of their characteristics—like glowing at night—are more characteristic of forced mutations caused by the Blood Elves. Perhaps they were human or gnomes. But many of the most aberrant beings of the Dark Forests were due to the elitists' experiments for experience. They never lived in the forests—great hectares were removed, magical grass planted by their slaves, Forest Elves and races considered inferior. It was not pleasant to train with them—always looking down on you, mocking while showing runes that could not be pronounced by humans. No human throat can. My throat is not human—it was mutated with magic. That does not mean it did not hurt. Proof is that it was done without anesthesia. The scar was one of the first things I learned to hide to look perfect in the eyes of the elf I loved.
When trees began to thin, I saw enormous plains. I do not know why, but erosion is enormous—cracked soil, scrub appearing here and there. According to ancient maps, there are many oases before the mountain ranges. So I carry only a couple of waterskins. If necessary, I can "manufacture" water, but I must expand the field greatly to absorb oxygen and hydrogen atoms without ending up in an unbreathable environment or killing the remaining population of the plains—especially when that could draw the attention of the mages' enemies. I know there are such enemies. Most of the wildest beasts were guards of many laboratories, most of the time against their will.
I spend the night in a cave about ten kilometers from the forest. I could cover a greater distance, but I feel I am being followed. There are many—they feel human, but they are not. At least they do not give me the biological impression of being so. I put the coffin into the cavern and close it with an illusion so it does not get in the way. I kill several desert lizards and put them over a fire. When they are ready, I leave them before me. While nibbling one, I pay attention to the sunset slowly extending over the place. When night falls, I let the flames die to embers. It is very important that the firewood does not run out, so I do not move it too much. I close my eyes—not to sleep. Aside from recurring nightmares, it is important for me to have night vision when needed, and watching flames will not help.
It is three in the morning. The silhouettes are now visible—humanoids, yes, but small. No more than one meter ten centimeters. There are nearly twenty. All look at the food, alternating wary glances at me. They know I am armed, but hunger seems difficult to satisfy with the few lizards I have at hand. When they begin the assault, I expected to be attacked by spears, perhaps knives. But only stones—many, yes, but poorly thrown. They only throw them to scare me off or perhaps seek a lucky hit. I only repel those coming my way. A few fall around me. After seeing none of this affected me, they begin to screech very loudly and all launch themselves at me. I rise in one motion, grip my sword with both hands, and trace a diagonal upward arc—fast enough for the "Air" rune to activate on the blade. The resulting windstorm fans the ashes and turns the air wave into an effective attack of red-hot ash, knocking them down while causing severe burns. Several of them begin to cry—as if I had denied them a very precious toy.
I hold them until dawn. With a little dying light, I can see them better. They are goblins, but they look nothing like the legends and stupid stories I read preparing for the journey. They do not look vicious. Most are thin, and even though they have pointed teeth, it must be more a problem than a benefit since they cannot grind grain or fruit. Designed—probably by the Blood Elves—they had their oxygen reduced at birth. Perhaps they mutated many humans for years to achieve the effect. They have the mind of a twelve-year-old. Their altered eyes only allow them to navigate dark zones. Their pointed ears show the mutation suffered at their creators' hands, as does their greenish color. They probably produce small amounts of chlorophyll to compensate for the deficiencies of a carnivorous diet.
I cover the area with a field that blocks part of the sunlight, to speak with them, to understand them. After they see there is no threat from my side, they begin to ask me to release them. They are not tied, but knowing that going out into the sun would cause them great pain—the photosynthesis process in a non-plant body, perhaps?—I indicate I will do so. I offer them the lizards and then show them how to unearth them from the soil, under rocks, to stop hunting them in the open field—to help them survive.
By midday, I see a group of goblins in the distance coming toward us. Like those I have detained, they come naked, and large blisters are easily seen from being under such direct sun. I still wonder why they travel by day, being creatures created for night. But they do not come alone. Behind them, with a dismissive gesture, comes a gnoll hunting them. The creature, almost one meter eighty, is dressed in cured leather armor, armed with a wooden spear with a flint tip. It is not a rival for humans—except if they catch them off guard—but the goblins have only their nails and sharp teeth. Moreover, those coming here are not empty-handed; they seem to be carrying their young in their arms. Those where I am ask me to let them fight. I ask if this happens often. Most only look at the gnoll with furious eyes, so I suspect they form part of the diet of these beasts that were made to serve dwarf sorcerers. Based on desert jackals, they have a little intelligence but are rather strong and brutish, with a great tendency toward malice. With two or three goblins, this animal could eat well for a few days, yet it keeps hunting one after another. Of the ten females I saw, only half remain. Some of the bravest occasionally stick their bodies out and, with tears of helplessness, return to the chromatic protection I offer.
When the fifth female falls, they ask me to let them go, to help them fight. I ask how many would live if they attack it. None answer, so I imagine they know it is suicide. A way to help them occurs to me. I draw my sword again and invoke a base spell like Tremor. They stir uneasily, but I am not finished. I add a magnetic force rune to the effect, so all weapons used by mercenaries who did not return begin to surface. Within the thirty-meter radius of the field I currently have extended, several rusty knives, a couple of spears, and one or two dwarf axes emerge. Then I extend a UV filtering field in a one-kilometer radius. I tell them: Arm yourselves. Defend your people with your lives and strength. You will find weapons on the ground. You are no longer frightened beasts—you are an army looking toward your future. You know how to find food. It is time to know how to preserve it. A single grimace of gratitude forms on their faces as they take whatever weapon they find and leave to face the enemy. I leave them. I remove the illusion and enter the plains with fists clenched so tight they hurt. How is it possible they did not think their experiments could have children? They are mentally adolescents. They will never have complicated thoughts, but they do procreate. They know nothing, and they were abandoned like this... Damn you all!