I

THOUGHT FOR THE DAY: Knowledge is power, guard it well.

A six sided dice represents fate, no more than that, and that secret is barely known to even the pantheon. The same gods that envisioned the board, establishing rules to prevent mutually assured destruction, never thought to question why their inevitable return to competition never tilted the world to one of many extremes. Roll the dice, let fate decide their competing omnipotence, yet when every deity sees all then none truly do. That is why mortals occasionally filter through the cracks and become deities themselves, all due to dancing dice believed to be unpredictable.

Good and evil, such simple and romantic ideologies to these gods that wrote the rules and invented the dice. Truth and Illusion are much more nuanced, at least in their minds, having swept over this self-imposed prison of gods and mortals to see if the former's sadism is merely mistaken as brutal honesty and if the later's crafting is lying to the hopeful. A 'praying' character reaches up to their chosen deity, a blessing is delivered by chance, and two shadowed figures flick the dice just to influence their ultimate decision. A 'two' one day means life. A 'three' another day means death. At times the dice are law and at times the dice are suggestions. Perhaps the Earth Mother simply felt it appropriate to ignore a desperate prayer one day, not that she had been influenced by whatever haze waved out by some higher meddling.

After all, there is a reason Goblin Slayer intrigues and annoys these manipulators. The dice have no concrete ruleset when Truth and Illusion decide it fitting to change the statistics for a campaign, yet altering stats and tossing dice does little to change Goblin Slayer's path. Perhaps he is meant to be the next god instead of whichever warlock rises to Demon Lord status, although even the world's personal gods bend to the two gamer's whim. Curiosity leads to concern, and concern leads to desperation. A mortal that ignores the rules is a potential god that breaks into their overlording reality, and the last great villain proved to be a wondrous flop.

Demon Lord's ghost flounders in the dark gods' claim to the afterlife, another would-be addition to the pantheon that decided stealing power meant more than raising armies. Illusion wished for a great adventure, Truth grew impatient with yet another cliched outcome, and this time a new fledgling Dark Lord had a clear message driven into his visions. Breed Goblins. Breed Demons. Swamp the adventurers before they can reach whatever citadel he claimed. Treat Goblin Slayer as the immediate threat. Perhaps that would change things up, viewing the much more powerful Hero party as a distraction. The Demon Lord swept through the land when Goblin Slayer had no great standing in the Guild Hall, nearly overcoming that Sword Maiden a second time in her life, in large part to a massive army. His second chance had been laughably short, building his personal strength instead of doubling down on that Goblin army, allowing it to be decimated by one man. No army, no barrier between him and Hero, no defense when that little brat found a way to bypass defenses he thought invulnerable.

One classic 'Nani?' later and a ghost is crushed in an evil deity's grip.

This time, no egotistical power hoarding. Truth stands over the table, his arms crossed and eyes narrowed, keeping tabs on the new Dark Lord murdering an elder wizard to lay claim to the previous Demon Lord's tomes. Illusion stands on a pile of this realm's rulebooks, digging her fingers into the game board, spreading a green miasma through an elven forest. Scouts, Hobgoblins, Champions, Shamans. It is not even worth flicking the dice to decide so many High Elf fates. Between mortal women and Illusion's touch, an Elven Life Goddess wails in protest, cursing the rolling dice and grasping at the spirits rising from dead bodies. Her wails turn into shrieks, finding her silver fingers slipping through High Elf consciousnesses that scream in the dark and vanish in a Dark Lord's maw.

It starts as a few Elven adventurers captured by a fledgling nest, all deceived by the true rules that grant a boon to numerous Goblins. A swarming bonus, Truth and Illusion once decided, is proof that otherwise pathetic stats belay raw power, something the new Dark Lord has picked up on quickly, and haughty little High Elves lack Goblin Slayer's foresight into this hidden racial ability. Five captured women became sixty Goblin Scouts. Sixty Goblin Scouts became an overrun village. Rinse, repeat, and a massive greenskin army marches across the map towards the High Elf capital. These are well bred Goblins, born intelligent by elven hosts, and several self-styled Goblin Lords stand atop captured arboreal huts to chant the Dark Lord's blessings. There may be some infighting from time to time, one particularly cautious Shaman reflecting his Dark Lord's wariness and having to zap a few Champions into submission, and one hefty Goblin Champion crushing a few Shaman heads when they argued it wise to not assault a High Elf stronghold so hastily, but so long as the unifying leaders kept their amassed tribes moving forward then who were the rulemakers to denounce either?

Truth's sadism echoes as laughter with this world's dark gods, and Illusion's gleeful planning satiates their demonic thirsts. This new army gains might with each passing day. No, better yet, this horde grows fat and strong over every claimed village. The sadistic god peers through one of the realm's dark god's eyes, in turn through the Dark Lord's scrying gaze, and through that the Goblin Champion stomping around a breeding pit dug into former farmland. Several bloated bodies writhe in agony in its depths, while other freshly captured High Elf women squirm against wooden crosses and ropes lining the perimeter. Perhaps this Goblin Champion is a bit too bold avoiding the caves, although having amassed a greenskin legion would make hiding impossible. Better to gloat and present his captives out in the open, mocking the Forest Princess glaring over the capital's stone and tree-root wall, picturing just how large she would be with his superior heirs.

Illusion's plans within plans are represented by the same dark gods rubbing their chins. The one Goblin Shaman matching the Champion's overall might has proven to be a crafty one ad best and obnoxiously cautious at worst. Goblin Scouts rush to and fro at the gentle flick of his bony finger, relaying orders between several cavern systems in a surprisingly well dictated hierarchy. Goblin Champion's cunning brutality falls a bit short to Goblin Shaman's brutal cunning, as the later has the younger Goblins earn their keep hauling supplies and orders between his gathered tribes. Capturing stragglers that slipped through the larger Campion's meaty fingers is by no means glorious, and spending most of his time brooding on a deer bone throne slows Illusion's storyline to a crawl, but he did prove necessary in his fortified realm. High Elf counterattacks at the Goblin Champion's flank found themselves ambushed by Goblin Shaman's minions, and expeditions into the forest discovered a crude yet deadly underground fortress sprawling through the several dozen caves marking the land.

Given Goblin Champion's claim to Forest Princess, it would be fitting for High Elf Archer's mad dash back to her homeland to end as a chained playing at the brooding Shaman's feet. Goblin Slayer's figure moved alongside his other comrades, no more than a day's time from the frantic elven woman riding full tilt to reach her capital, and brutally cunning might just be the better choice in dealing with someone who outsmarts and outmaneuvers cunning brutality. The Adventurer's Guild best and brightest were already finding it to be a mistake setting up camp a few miles from the Goblin Champion, focusing on the quest's report on the army, never suspecting there to be a rearguard right under their feet.

Dice roll from Illusion's hand, sentencing the newest party gathering at the intended basecamp. A pity, she quite liked that silver Dwarf. Two more dice roll next to a Rhea's steel figure and, well, hopefully she enjoys the next week or so as a mother. Gold, a fitting color for that Human Fighter, and the dice does not favor swinging such a large weapon inside a cave. That comically bulky pewter Human will not being cleaved in two at the wai-ait a minute.

Truth grunts and nods in satisfaction. See? This new villain learns quick. Sustain an army to feed your power. Grow strong through conquered land, not a few broken castles and- Why is Illusion eyeing him? His eyes narrow at an accusation. No, he did not summon some new piece on the table. No, pewter is not a rank in that entertainingly naive Adventurer's Guild. Wait, this piece ignore the dice too? Move over, he wants to see this-

Both rulemakers sharply glance up, spotting a die falling from the ceiling.

It skips and patters across the table, lands on a three, and a Hobgoblin's figure shudders. Another die follows, bounces close to it, landing on a four. Truth leans in, glowing eyes narrowing at the Hobgoblin's figure crumbling and snapping at a new figure set close by it. Illusion leans in as well, blinking at the hulking Human-like carving. Neither made it. Neither felt it being summoned. Neither tossed the two dice from above. Both deities gaze at their realm's smokey ceiling, overlooking one of the game board's tiles popping open on a hinge from a bell-capped shoe.

A tiny Frankish jester steps through, body pivoting from horizontal to vertical in one smooth step, grinning at the two distracted gods. Bending forward lets him hook a foot around the tile, snapping it shut after him with a much louder click, sealing away the blue web-like haze. 'Ah, children!' he calls out, splaying his arms wide at both gods leaping back, 'am I playing this correctly?'

In the closed-minded sense, the gods who tossed their dice about put little thought into their great game being part of many. They had all gathered in this single intertwining reality, this single domain superior to the hapless mortal realm and pantheon, and considered it improbable that the hazy walls held doors. The thing about improbable is that there is still a chance for something to be possible, and omnipotence only works when it does not conflict with the presence of another deity. Perhaps that is why these game masters did not see the tile silently part and close, nor realize the tiny jester had popped out of existence and reappeared behind them at full height.

Less spoken, more felt as an emotion, the cheerful comedian lets his apology be known for having intruded and wishes to play as well. Just when Truth protests an entry without permission first, the jester swept his hand across the figure he played and left a dice spinning on a point. For a moment the rolled dice spun perfectly on its axis, the protesting god leaning closer out of curiosity to watch it, and it toppled over onto a 'three'. The jester grinned even more and waved again. Another dice spun instead of rolling about bouncing, and then another.

Four. Three. Four. Six. Six. Five. Two, with the jester sighing over the inevitability of a failed roll for whatever game he was now playing, but wait! One hand flicked up, carrying a card of failed wounding rolls between index and middle fingers, and the other hand waved again. The dice spun, toppled over, and four goblin figures crumbled into nothingness around the new model.

'Let's play a game'. He seems to blink, if the glow of his eyes flickering in and out could be called that. 'No, that would be too cliched'.

Two more dice rolled. A hit, a wound, no saving through. Another goblin shattered.

'We're all here to have fun, hmm? Yes, that's better, we're here, to have fun'.

Two more dice. A goblin split at the waist.

'At least, I'm here to have fun'.

A hobgoblin's arm vanished at the elbow, then it's jaw, then an ever expanding hole formed at the chest.

'And we all need to laugh and love and enjoy each other's company…' He peers across the table at a hooded goddess. 'Again'.

Before the goddess of Illusion could verbally(or more so empathically) lash out at the newcomer, Truth held up a hand to keep the peace, gathered two dice from the board, and rolled one after the other from a flicking thumb.

'Ah. A hit and wound'. The jester rolled a dice in return. 'And a saving throw'. His figure remained standing before the goblin shaman.

'You see'. The jester rolled his own dice again. Hit. Wound. No saving through. 'You've all played this game, but you simply roll. It's too… chaotic. And chaos is… fun, at times, but you need to control it. Not strict rules. Controlled chaos? Yes, that's it. Just enough control. Just like a certain golden barbarian controlling his chaotic species'.

The gathered deities found the goblin shaman having vanished and reappeared in the new figure's outstretched arm.

'Still… chaotic? Hm, loose, yes, loose enough for a story'.

The soft snap of a tiny stone neck left the shaman figure's head rolling a few inches from the new model's base.

'Cliched in the end? Hm. Yes? No… yes! All stories have been told. Everything's a cliche. We just need to find a new way to tell a new story…'

The laughing god stretched his arms wide.

'...Together. Shall we all use our minds?'

Below this reality, what may have been human at birth crouched before the survivors whimpering in a corner. The goblin shaman's shattered head is easily held between calloused fingers. Ignoring the sickened stares and retching from the surviving adventurers, he scoops the shaman's half-intact brains out with a thumb and easily swallows it whole.

It would take a good while for the first bits of primitive thought to carry basic words from that devoured mind. Protein strands from an organ that was not meant for modern humans pulls apart the fatty tissue, and when those have done their duty and kill the connection from spine to goblin mind, the human-shaped warrior stands and coughs out the blood and brain.

Without sacred armor to guard his hand, the defender of humanity wipes his mouth with bare knuckles and speaks three words in three different languages, all with the same meaning. High Gothic, Low Gothic, and lastly a word found from the goblin's mind that is felt to be one these survivors would know.

"Go."

The young adventurers crawl and stumble away from the discarded Astartes, as he turns towards the goblin shaman's throne. 'Protect the spawn,' remnants of the shaman's mind hurriedly whispered to him. 'Purge the xenos,' his indoctrination replied.

And as more figures vanished from the tabletop, the jester casually pushes the unarmored Astartes' model along with a single gloved finger. 'Let's use our minds. I think even this character can be redeemed. Shall I tell you his tale? No, that's not needed. It's all a cliche. Another hero dishonored by following the laws of the land, and not the laws of the hidden heart. A good thing he has two hearts, hm? A second heart is a second chance'. The god peers down at an elven deity of brilliant green hair poking her hear through the entrance. One pointy eared clown to another pointy eared huntress. 'Do keep my nieces and nephews away when he remembers everything'.

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AN: September 18th, 2019: Still deciding on which Space Marine to use.

AN: July 19th, 2020: Updating old chapters after the year long hiatus, tying everything together.