Afternoon sunlight pierced the smoke choking Gubbins, the burgeoning city. Zoil saw many unfamiliar races clogging the market district's main street. He leaned his large frame against the warm, rough surface of the archway. He found a jagged stone to relieve an itch in his scales. Craning his neck to see a mass of people pass under the massive junction, his eyes followed those with heavy purses. His thoughts turned to his brother Sumehxi and the temple where they both lived. The paladin told him not to leave the sanctuary because of the tension building between the goodly races and their evil counterparts. His older brother always worried about him. Letting out a yawn, Zoil took a deep breath, delighting in the aromas teasing his slitted nostrils. Cooked meats and warm bread enticed him to slip away with them. But the nagging voice of Sumehxi popped in to warn him again.
“Your habit of stealing from the humans has to stop,” his brother scolded. “You represent the Seraphic Order when you are outside of our citadel. This stealing obsession will stain our name and make humans distrust us. More than they already do.” His brother sat in the temple of angels, polishing his massive shield. “So, I’ll ask again. Where is it?”
Zoil sat across from him, biting his cheek while his nostrils flared. “They hate us lizardfolk,” he grunted. “We need escorts when we enter the city we helped build,” looking down at his brother’s relaxed features made his blood boil. “Maybe we should join the Demon Lord.”
His older brother stopped polishing his shield and held up the shield. It reflected his golden scales with hard-set eyes. Looking up at his younger brother, his eyebrows furrowed. He turned the shield to Zoil. “What do you see?” They held each other’s gaze for a long moment.
Zoil dropped his shoulders and let his head dip down. “I see a disappointment.” He could feel his brother searching his face but refused to look up until he heard a clatter. A moment later, he was wrapped in the warm arms of his older brother. Zoil felt a warm wet streak run down his cheek, but he couldn't tell who it came from
Pulling away, Sumehxi softened his features with a slight smile. “You…” he paused to wipe his eyes. “You stole the king’s royal sword ten days before the tenth anniversary of his coronation, which shouldn’t be possible. Father and I are still wondering how you did it.” A breathy chuckle escaped his scaly lips. “Annoyed? Yes. Upset? Yes. Impressed that someone of your immense size snuck past all the king’s defenses? Absolutely. Disappointed? Never.” He wiped the tears flowing down Zoil’s cheeks with the palm of his yellow hand. “But you really need to tell me where it is.”
Zoil let a wicked grin pull at the corners of his mouth. “It’s in the throne room, under the stupid portrait of himself building the city.” He grunted.
Sumehxi steepled his clawed hands in front of his face, and his eye twitched at the information. He curled one side of his long mouth into a smile he tried to fight. “That is immeasurably funny. However, I think you should get out of the village for a few days. I sent Lawk to investigate the snake folk to the north. I do not think sending you to the new goblin city would be unusual.”
Zoil lifted his eyebrows at the prospect. “Punishment?”
The paladin sighed and bent down to pick up his shield. “Assignment. I would never send a disappointment away on an assignment. Go to Gubbins and see the sudden interest in the city.”
Zoil nodded and shifted to stand. “Okay, I can do that.”
Sumehxi clasped his elbow and held up the shield showing them both. “I see family.”
That had been four days ago, and still, Zoil felt the warm tears running down his cheek. He scoffed and rolled his eyes at his weakness. A passing hobgoblin paused, looking up but twisted its face and kept walking, shaking her head. Zoil continued to mouth speech in the city of the goblins. Still, in his head, he was glad for the city’s diversity, where he wouldn’t be stared at or mocked behind his back. Nobody here judged him for his proclivities, not that they noticed. As the thought crossed his mind, he snatched another purse. The goodly city set up wards and sentries to stop thefts and crime from happening in the first place. Gubbins had a charm that he couldn’t quite place. It could be the acceptance of what humans called “monstrous” races. It contained a melting pot of races going about their lives without caring about the creature next to them.
A peal of deep laughter cut through his thoughts. Snapping his head around, he narrowed his eyes at a large group taking up too much space.
His focus trained on a pack of Firbolg dressed in sturdy-looking clothes with russet orange fur approaching his hiding spot. People on the street threw rude gestures at the Firbolg as they cleared a path for them. The pack laughed at the cowering crowd, causing their purses to jingle. A smile crept over Zoil’s elongated mouth as they drew closer to him, not noticing him. Tensing his body, he coiled his tail as they got mere inches from him.
One of the bigger ones, still shorter than Zoil, pushed down the drow sending him skidding the cobbled stones. Turning to confront his attacker, the Drow hesitated at the sight of the massive creatures. Earning another uproarious laughter, the drow cowered back. Zoil turned his eyes to slits and bared his fangs. Shaking his scales free of his camouflage, he stepped into the street. The rowdy group skidded to a halt, looking up at his looming form that seemed to pop out of nowhere. Without looking at them, he offered a hand to the Drow, who took it with a shaky hand. “Up ya go, mate.” He pulled him to his feet, wiped him down, and put a few coins in his pockets. The act caused his stomach to tie in knots, but the firbolgs would repay him.
One of the firbolgs with a slack jaw stepped forward “ Sheeeyooot! Yer a biggun, eh?” He grabbed Zoil’s arm and turned to the rest of his friends. Five in total, Zoil counted.
Zoil looked down at the furry creature baring his teeth. “Apologize.” The Drow looked from Zoil to the firbolg with wide eyes. Slack jaw turned to his friends, turning up his bottom lip and burst into laughter. Nobody in the crowd bothered even to stop. Slack Jaw leaned back, holding his belly, then swung a meaty fist into Zoil’s jaw. It was a solid shot that staggered him back, but he used the momentum to spin around with his elbow. He connected with a cracking blow that dropped the big orange firbolg, buckling his knees. Transitioning from the strike, he twisted to his dragon stance. He finalized the stance with a heavy stomp in the middle of the group. The other orange firbolg looked at each other with open mouths before rushing him.
In a flurry of motion, he punched one, wearing overalls, in the solar plexus knocking the wind out of him. Another with a mohawk caught an open palm strike to the chin, snapping his neck back. The biggest one, who wore his chin hair long, caught him in the side with a stiff kick. Zoil felt the bruise blossom when it connected but pushed back the pain, ducking low. He twisted away from Chin Hair toward the smallest one, who lifted his hands in defense. Zoil grunted at the small one and jutted his chin toward the crowd; taking the cue, the small fry ran away. Chin Hair roared and charged Zoil.
Flicking his tail out between Chin Hair’s legs caused him to fall hard on one of his friends. A muffled snapping of something important was followed by a pained groan from below his bulk came out. Zoil flicked his tail again, cracking the fallen oaf over the head. He counted four on the floor and nodded.
Using his tail, he relieved the men of their purses and turned to the Drow. “Better than an apology?” He raised an eyebrow at him.
The drow wore an ear-to-ear grin. “Hells yeah, it is!” He pumped his fist in the air and laughed. He bent over the first Firbolg and spat in his eye. “I’m Adamo….” He started before realizing he was alone.
With a practiced motion, Zoil emptied the purses into his endless wallet while shaking his scales again. He worked his way through the crowd, swaying his head. Two hundred and twenty-three gold, bobbing his head in a bit of dance at the coins he took. He wondered if the wallet could ever be filled. He offered a silent prayer to the Angelic God that it couldn’t be. Sparing a thought to the Seraphic Paladin, he wondered if he would be proud of him for praying. He would definitely tell him not to fight in the streets, though.
Looking over the throng of people shopping at the stalls, he lingered on the busiest and most crowded spots. He had been in Gubbins for about a day and was gracious enough to relieve its inhabitants from the weight of their gold—a burden he would gladly take on for the weaker races. Still smiling at his gains, he caught the delicious aroma of smoked meats making its way through the street. Two massive leathery gray-skinned men in loin cloths carried an animal he had never seen before on a spit between them. It had six hoofed legs, an enormous chest and back, and its head seemed crossed between a worg and roc. The two gray-skinned men had round bellies and barrel chests with giant floppy ears full of tattoos and piercings. Their trunks rested on their bellies, passing their belly buttons that bounced with each step through the crowd.
Zoil felt his belly rumble.
It was about noon, so he decided that moment would be the perfect time to eat. With the crowd preoccupied with not getting squished by the giant men, he set off after them. Dipping low, he vibrated his scales again to make them pitch black in the crowd’s shadows. He danced between the mass of people, waiting for their attention to break before moving. He swished his tail as he moved to erase any trace of his clawed talons touching the cobblestone. Its warm, smooth surface allowed him to slip along the market road, walking through blind spots while cutting a few purses along the way. Keeping his ears open, he tried to figure out where these titans were headed when he heard two shopkeepers complaining.
Their colorful stalls sat next to each other, selling competing items. The one squawking the loudest had scarlet feathers, black tips, and a bright yellow beak. His stall had shelves full of hand-crafted metal trinkets. Beside him, a smaller goblinoid with purple-mottled skin and pointed features ran a booth filled with carved baubles. His shop had all manner of trinkets carved out of wood.
“The 7th are stealing all the good meat!” A scarlet, feathered creature whined.
“Whattya gonna do about it, eh?” The smaller goblinoid with wide bat-like ears responded. “That little blue bastard coal has the ear of Ikemah, so they think they run the place.”
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“Tell me about it!” The feathered one said, narrowing his orange eyes. “The other day, that blue-horned freak made several Ogres gather all the Giant Elk in the forest and slaughtered them!” He puffed out his scarlet feathers in anger.
“No freaking way!” The mottled goblinoid’s jaw fell open. “Giant Elk season is in the next moon cycle. How are we supposed to feed the city?” This time he barred his teeth at the mention of the blue creature.
Zoil listened for a few more seconds before diving back into the crowd unnoticed by anyone who wasn’t trying to look. Weaving in and out of the crowd gave him a good look at the city’s people. They all went about their days and didn’t break themselves into any hierarchy. Only the steady movement of the gigantic gray creatures showed any shift in power as the crowd parted for them. Even the merchants didn’t care who they were open next to. A stall selling fine silks was outside a storefront selling crudely made weapons, and the owners leaned against the store, chatting. He continued through the crowd behind the gray beasts until they reached a tall iron-wrought gate.
Two hungry-looking Bugbears with dark leather armor looked at the gray beasts and yelled something over their shoulders. Creaking metal rang out as the gates scraped the stone to swing open. The two creatures lumbered into a military camp of soldiers going about their duties. Zoil's eyes darted from one tent to the next, taking in the sight of the camp. Rows of barrack tents ran from the gate to the western wall of the city. Several units stood in formations, being yelled at by their commanding officers. Another group practiced with weapons in an arena at the back of the camp. His head swiveled as he took it all in, focusing on a large pavilion at the center. The two behemoths ducked into a tent labeled ‘Mess,’ Zoil slipped away to the pavilion.
Inside was an auditorium full of mostly empty seats and a stage at the bottom of the stairs. Smooth marble columns lined the outskirt of the room in an oval pattern leading down. Soldiers of various races and sizes sat shoulder to shoulder in the tight seats, some throwing elbows to gain space. Their black and red armor was the only unifying thing about them. The smell of sweat and unwashed leather permeated every corner of the place. On the stage was a tall Orc whose red cape swished as she paced the stage in her shiny boots. She wore her long hair in a tight braid wearing, a gray, pressed uniform, and a scowl that made him shiver.
She snarled at them, causing the crowd to flinch and gasp. “We only have six sectors of the city cleared!” She stalked the stage shooting her bloodshot gaze over the crowd. “And four of them were by TWO of our captains! What have the rest of you been doing? This is my elite squad?!” She raged on. “I want three more sectors by the next moon cycle! AARRRGGGG!!!” The stage shattered under her immense rage.
The crowd of soldiers went wide-eyed, trying to make themselves as small as possible. Some hid behind their larger compatriots while the more giant creatures tried not to move. Zoil slipped between the columns shrouded in darkness until he reached the stage. The angry orc continued to berate her soldiers as he drew closer. On the stage were two people he hadn’t seen from the top of the auditorium. A human-looking creature wearing a fancy black jacket, clothes, short-cropped hair, and a long rifle over his shoulder. The human looked bored, but his pupils were active; they switched from red to green to indigo to standard black. Next to him sat a blue kobold in a maroon hooded cowl, a simple shirt, and pants with no shoes. The blue kobold sat with perfect posture; his eyes followed the angry orc leader, scrunching his brow.
“DISMISSED!” The orc yelled, startling Zoil into making his scales stop vibrating. “Get out of here now!” She commanded as Zoil regained his composure and vibration. Looking back at the stage, he saw the kobold staring directly at him. His blood ran cold, his muscles tensed; his eyes met the kobolds. Had the kobold seen him? His scales only stopped for a second; there was no way. He wondered who this little kobold was that could have seen him and how interesting he must be. The orc broke their line of sight and approached the two men, still wearing her terrifying scowl. “Follow.” She commanded, making both of them nod at her. Zoil used that moment to melt into his surroundings again and moved toward the stage as the kobold snapped his head back to the column. Raising one brow, the kobold snorted and then turned to follow the orc. She led the three of them into a back room that smelled of honey. An octagonal table with a replica of the city stood in the center of the room.
The orc slammed the door shut, rounding on the kobold. “Qolmador, we have a spy in our ranks.” Zoil felt his sphincter tighten.
Qolmador sighed, letting his shoulders slump and head hang. “Ja, of course, we do. Zat is part of being in a legion for the Demon Lord.” Zoil felt himself relax but saw the finely dressed gunslinger perk up; his eyes flicked around the room. “If you are worried, Nomad und I can ferret zem out.” The gunslinger’s pupils rotated around into a purple hue jittering around.
Herr Zengi shook her head and scratched behind her long ear. “Nomad, I wan—” She clenched her jaws as he raised a finger from Nomad halting her question. Her eyes went wide with unbridled rage as she reached for an axe at her belt. In a flash of steel, the axe slashed in an arc at Zoil. The blade sailed through the air inches from his neck, and he felt the breeze caress his face. Taking an instinctual step back, his tail knocked over a pile of papers on a table. Nomad’s eyes shifted to a red light as he whipped out a pistol from under his coat, training it on the documents. Zengi rushed forward with another wide-sweeping strike of her axe that sliced a curtain on the way down. She crashed down onto the wooden desk splitting it in two as her cape fluttered backward from the force.
“RAAARRRGGGHH!!!” She let out a guttural roar, slamming her axe repeatedly onto the table. “Get the spy!” She ordered, rearing back for another swing. Zoil ducked away into a roll for the door as a shot ripped through the air, splitting the door’s wood. Splinters stuck into his scales, and the smell of gunpowder filled the room. The red-eyed gunslinger fired twice, striking the wall behind Zoil’s head. Whipping his head around the room with wide eyes, Zoil saw a second window about twelve feet up. Another slicing blow from the axe lodged into the stone with a clang beside his hip, causing him to yelp. All eyes focused on him: all but the kobold, whose pupils were different. Two more quick shots rang out.
One struck Zoil’s shoulder while the other grazed his hip. A stinging pain shot down his shoulder and radiated from his hip. The pain threatened to break his control over his scales that camouflaged him. With great effort, he held concentration on his scales, remaining hidden, and took two painful steps to the window. But another glancing blow from the axe on his knee sent him to the floor. Digging his nails into the stone floor, he pulled himself under the window, dodging a blind axe strike. Another shot rang out, scorching across the floor at his feet.
The gunslinger grunted as he let the brass from his gun clatter on the stone. “Reloading!” The orc struggled to pull her axe from the ground with frustrated growls. The kobold remained still, but his eyes fluttered around the room.
Thankful for the reprieve, Zoil pulled his feet and tail under him. Taking a breath, he gathered his strength. Like a coiled snake, he sprang through the window, shattering it with his bulk. He fell twenty feet to the hard stone below, landing on his back. The air was forced out of his lungs when his scales stopped vibrating, breaking his camouflage. He lay on the damp stone briefly before rolling to one side. Another shot shattered the stone and glass. Shards of glass and chunks of rock pelted him from above. He needed to move; these people could see him, which was impossible. Wasn’t it? Had he ever been seen before? Even the king’s guards hadn’t noticed him. A pained smile crossed his face as he remembered seeing the tantrum from the human king. Shaking his head clear of thoughts and pain, he steadied his breathing.
Grunting up, he leaned on the stone wall and let his scales adjust. A blaring siren went off that set his heart racing, forcing him to scramble to his feet. With long, powerful strides, he ran through the camp. Soldiers stood around as the siren continued to sound off, not one moved. Instead, they curled their lips up or knitted their brows together while their commanders shrugged. He looked over his shoulder as the three chasing him crashed out the atrium door. The one they called Nomad had his rifle drawn, looking around for his target. Zengi started barking orders at soldiers, who snapped to attention and ran around the barracks. Qolmador’s eyes were closed, moving his snout as if listening for something.
His eye snapped open. He stared directly at Zoil, and a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. Without alerting the other two, he pointed away from Zoil and sent a group of guards in the opposite direction. Curling his lips, he barred his teeth as they moved out, wondering what had happened. Was the kobold helping him? If so, why? Shaking the thought, he reminded himself of his situation and how he needed to get out now.
He hobbled toward the gates but paused in front of the mess hall. His stomach wondered when the last time it was full of food. The two massive gray creatures walked out of the tent a second later with winkled expressions. As the tent flap opened, a strong smell of smoked meat wafted over him. Wincing at the pain in his shoulder, he brought his hand up to the wound to stem a flow of slick blood trickling out of his shoulder. He looked at the tent and then back to the mob of soldiers running to the back of the camp, rubbing his sticky blood. With a grunt, he stole into the mess tent.
More wonderful smells washed over him: succulent fruits, seared vegetables, and the fat elk took an entire table at the center. Only a small crew of what he assumed was chefs moved about the mess tent. At that moment, exhaustion washed over him, and his scales went limp. With a start, several of the crew dropped their tray at the eight-foot-tall deep green lizardman stood bare.
Zoil offered a weak wave. “Uhhhh, can I have some food?”
