Misc. Bits

The Soul Plains

"Now for your penultimate test," Elder Gu'r says. "Call upon the Soul Plains to cast a Third Level Inferno."

I nod and recite the incantation. "Hou'va See'na Mosk."

I feel the energy from the Soul Plains coursing through my body. I focus it toward my idol—a ceramic skull with two bright blue sapphires for eyes—and aim it at the straw target in the center of the courtyard. At once, a blast of green flame erupts from its mouth. The fire flares violently outward, threatening to engulf much more than the target.

"Keep it focused Y'vor!" Elder Gu'r shouts over the blaze.

I grunt and force my mind to focus on the task at hand. The wild green flame slowly narrows into a thin channel of dark green energy.

"Hold it!" Elder Gu'r shouts. "You're almost there!"

My chitinous armor clacks loudly as my whole body trembles with effort. Elder Gu'r procures his own idol from the depths of his large yellow cloak. He holds it up to the target, examines it for a moment, and nods.

"Congratulations, Y'vor!" he shouts.

"Nuv," I mutter, and the green flames retreat back into the mouth of my idol. I collapse onto the ground and feel tears begin to well up. It's a dream I've worked toward for two long years at the Soul Redoubt.

"That's right, three times the temperature of a normal flame," Elder Gu'r says. "Now that you've cast your Third Level Inferno, you're only one step away from becoming a full-fledged Shaman."

I nod, a goofy grin covering my face. The only obstacle remaining is the final mysterious test. Outside of the Shaman Order, there's not a single goblin alive today that knows the nature of this ultimate ritual.

"When will I take the last step, Elder Gu'r?" I ask. Despite my weariness, I am ready to complete my training—to count myself among the most vaunted ranks of goblinkind.

Elder Gu'r smiles, revealing two rows of sharp mangled teeth. "The wait is not a long one, Y'vor. Come with me."

I rise to my feet, still shaky from the exertion. "Should I catch my breath?"

Elder Gu'r shakes his head, sending his intricately-bound war braids flying behind him. "There is no need. Your last test is not one of magic."

I follow as he leads me out of the courtyard, away from the singed straw target. We pass two Shoul'ak—honor guards with long pikes—flanking the broad doorway into the castle. They snap abrupt salutes as we enter the structure, clanking loudly in their iron armor.

"Where are we going, Elder Gu'r?" I ask. I know that I shouldn't pry, that I should maintain deference, but I can't help myself.

"Don't lose your patience now, Y'vor," Elder Gu'r says. "Trust the Hierarchy."

I heed the advice and follow him through the long snaking hallways of the Soul Redoubt. Other Shaman in the halls—marked by their chitinous armor and yellow cloaks—smile at me. Amid the backdrop of my nerves and curiosity, I also feel pride begin to bubble up.

We pass the library, brimming with spectacled goblins—their hooked noses, deep in tomes. Then comes the kitchen. Ranges, leaking green fire from their slitted doors, spew delicious odors of charred fungal pod and fermented lizard. Then the practice rooms. Shamans send violent plumes of flame spewing across the room. Rows of tightly packed groups of Shoul'ak thrust their pikes at imaginary enemies, grunting in unison.

As we leave behind ever more wings of the Soul Redoubt, there appears to be only one place we could be headed.

"The wine cellar," Elder Gu'r says, as if reading my mind.