The problem with shamanism was the blurred lines of power it contained. If it were up to him , he’d reform this stupid spell from the ground up to deal with the problems that plagued it. Nettle wasn’t a High Shaman just for show- he understood far more about mana than most of his compatriots, and he knew all too well how faulty their doctrine was. Naturally, he grew far too old and set in his ways to change his own discipline, no matter how talented he had once been. He couldn’t even train a new generation in a more versatile discipline without being branded a heretic or an apostate. For all intents and purposes, his fellow Kaenid were totally justified in worshipping the God-Kings of old. The power of strong belief and tradition was accruing greater power over time. In the past, every time it had been necessary, a Purple One rose from the void, taking their civilization to a new height. It had given them great power, infinite riches, and control. Their race had learned quickly that control was priceless, valuable to such a degree that nothing else compared. Control had allowed them to do great things, and forced them to do worse. He wondered if the situation at hand was the price to pay for not simply relinquishing some of that beautiful control to the slow trickle of newcomers from Below.

Nettle knew all that, but at times like these, he couldn’t help but resent the old ways. The “Purple One of Many Eyes” was sixth in the line of Great Succession, and when the populace began to worship him, the shamans divined new power- the ability to watch. It required ample light and a shiny crystalline surface, but it was quite potent. Before their Ascension, they had used it to scour the Old World’s mountains and seas, granting the already lethal Kaenid near omniscience. The key to keeping that claim accurate, to distinguishing it from blind propaganda or pride, was the word ‘near’. The limitations were serious, but he had never felt them so dearly until now. The tower was rife with Shamans, desperately forcing their way through the black shield to try to see what was happening in that terrible abyss, to get a grip on the state of their army. The chandelier’s incredible radiance shifted and shimmered on their scales as it swung, jilted about by the rumbling frenzy of twenty giant reptiles stomping around hurriedly below. It made for an interesting scene, with the heavily curtained windows of the endlessly tall spire making sure that the bright candelabrum was the only true source of light in the room.

One big limitation that plagued them was a lack of hearing. The Many Eyes only saw, and looked, and watched. They had no Many Ears to go with them, no absolute mastery of the senses. Many a Shaman had taken to learning to read lips in the Old World, and even maintained that practice into the new, but it was difficult enough to understand the Common Language- to try to ‘read’ it off of puny mammals’ lips? That was on a whole different level. Nettle had always been averse to the idea, had always considered it a waste of time. He regretted that now- if he could read the lips or speak the language, maybe he wouldn’t be so afraid. What had that little creature been doing? Why had the General seemed so injured from those tiny little daggers it used? Was the General truly dead from his tumble into the abyss below, and why had the army entered such a frenzy? One or two of the other shamans seemed to imply that there had been cheating, but frankly, he had no idea how. Using the Many Eyes and keeping a tight track on what was going on was quite difficult, and unless they were focusing on it, it was like it only ‘focused’ on one thing at a time. Really, it was only practical to track insurgents, typically when paired with the powers of the “Purple One of the Ways”, the eighth in the line of Great Succession. Until he arrived, people had assumed the Many Eyes were totally worthless. Nettle groaned, wishing the Fourteenth in the line of Great Succession would hurry up and hatch. It was already about time, but this Purple One had been dawdling. If things were as they feared, a new Purple One was needed now more than ever.

One of the acolytes still standing around the massive crystal ball in the center of the room suddenly screamed. The rest of the shamans ran for him, and the poor guy fainted even as Nettle arrived at his side. He refocused the magic ball, using an odd mixture of prayer and mathematics to return it to how it was before the Shaman had stopped feeding it mana. It took him no time at all, and as he found the target the Eye was tracking, and he nearly choked. The younger Shaman had managed to break through the web of darkness. More properly, based on the sudden racket surrounding him- he was too concentrated to really take a measure of what was going on- everyone had broken through. The thick mana shield the Gomen had long ago used to obstruct their sight had fell, and the Many Eyes were rapidly catching up with the Kaenid they had been tracking, down in the Abyss. That was the crux of the Shaman’s panic- he had got a good look at the poor soldier. He- no, it- wasn’t just dead. It had been mangled by the fall, and on its torso, Nettle could see tens of perforations, little stabs and cuts that gave small windows to the delicate insides of the warrior. More important than that was the state of its limbs, its head- Nettle wretched, and the Eye lost focus. Another limitation of the Many Eyes was that it required constant attention to work, never allowing for even a moment’s break- no matter how gruesome. A particularly nasty race of the Old World had once tried to use similar techniques to disrupt their spying, but this? Nettle’s thoughts flit back to the dead soldier, and the puked once more for good measure, stumbling away from the crystal ball, getting some distance as he tried to get a grip on himself.

He saw now that many were having the same reaction, perhaps even less gracefully. Some had actually smeared some of their lunch on the balls’ surface, which would have typically been reason for demotion, if not execution. He decided to pardon them, on account of what they were dealing with. Any doubts he had on the policy of extermination were squashed. This new race was vile to the extreme, and for the Warden to show them this intentionally, perhaps they had underestimated the need to eradicate her, too. Nettle scanned the room, and he noticed that one younger Shaman hadn’t fled at all. The acolyte was simply standing there, in awe- or terror. Nettle hurried over, still gingerly dodging the increasingly disgusting spots of floor where another Shaman had ‘been’. The smells were growing worse by the moment, and he hoped someone had sent for assistance with the mess. The acolyte was shaking, now. His big scaly shoulders were quivering like a little girl, and his eyes were beginning to tear up. The focus he had maintained so mechanically was beginning to snap under the pressure, and Nettle only had a moment to see what he was looking at. The acolyte had refocused on one of the attackers, through a stroke of genius or luck, and it was a Goblin. The same race that hadn’t been to war in hundreds of years, the same race that hardly killed farm animals, let alone sentients. This Goblin wasn’t civilized, wimpy, or a pacifist. It was covered in blood and viscera, practically draped in it, since it was otherwise nude. It was running about, participating in the violence, and with the focus they could see the glee on the beast’s face as it disturbed their kinsfolks’ corpses. In the brief time they watched, the Goblin seemed to notice their gaze, and it smiled into the air- at them. The young shaman tipped backwards, screaming, and scrambled through the muck away from the crystal ball.

The room began to fall silent as the last of the links were broken, a fearful hush that squashed their hopes like a great pillar of stone. Nettle thought he should bring the cowering shamans back under control, but he couldn’t even will himself to pull things back together. They sat in the putrid fumes for a good while before the rage set in. As the fear faded, as far away as the Goblin menace was, their fury at the treatment of their race stormed in to replace it. They were galvanized, awakened once more. There was little they could do at the moment, but plans could be made, revenge could be gained. Nettle’s voice was raspy and hoarse (even by Kaenid standards) as he called them to action, but they all treated each word like Amethyst, hurrying about to enact his will. A miserable and quite confused crew of soldiers took up cleaning duty as the Shaman made their way down the tower to the Commons and their quarters, each finding a seat around the huge table. It had a strange shape, something between that of an oval and the profile of a foxgloves’ petals. It was nearly straight and quite wide at one end, narrowing gently and then more dramatically into a single point. Nettle took his seat at the narrow end, sitting opposite of the other High Shaman, who nodded respectfully. Even if they had the same rank, he had seniority. The ranks descended from there, until the table was about half full- there were not so many Shamans now as there once had been. In the same way, the lonely, huge seat at the rounded end of the table sat vacant. It had been quite a few Purple Ones since the last Violet Shaman, and as such, the popularity of their profession waned- even if it was quite possibly the most important one for their continued survival. Especially now that the soldiers were all dead and mangled and butchered and-

Nettle caught himself, channeling his fury more productively. The conversation began as fine meats were presented. It was an early meal, but quite a necessary one- even on a normal day, Shamanism was tough work, and the use of mana could make the practicioner quite hungry. They chatted about how they should get revenge, spoke about plans for defense and hunkering down, and how they would convey the terrible losses to the general populace. It was quite likely that this would be the last decadent meal for the shamans for quite a while, now that the soldiers had essentially rooted themselves out. They were all the women and children would have left, and that meant they couldn’t afford to be so lax. In between orating about ‘great revenge’ and ‘the future’, Nettle mulled over their own society. Things were bad- really bad- with these losses. He thought about re-instituting policies, of bringing back ‘untoward’ or ‘draconian’ measures the Kaenid of old used to encourage the occurrence of Purple Ones. They needed a new spell, and as soon as they could. Everyone would have to make sacrifices somehow or another, sacrifices far greater than ‘eating big meals’. After all, their only trading partner had taken up a new hobby of brutalizing reptiles past recognition, so there would need to be quite a few reforms in how they even made their armor or weapons. The issues weighed heavily on his mind, but he tried to keep chipper. The other Shaman needed a leader, and he’d have to finally fill that role. If the warriors had just taken mild losses, this may have even been a good thing, the Kaenid had needed a shake-up for quite a while. He suddenly worried for the other half of the army, hoping they had escaped the venomous clutches of the Gomen and Goblins. Complete collapse of their troops would be an unprecedented disaster.

The dinner seemed to last forever. When it was finally done, both the fear and the fury had been tempered, leaving only somber resignation and determined resolution. They would lead their people out of this terrible mess, no matter how devilish the opponent was. Nettle stood from his seat, and the rest rose in unison. He roared, the defiant anthem their race had tempered even in the time before time. It was like a song (at least in Kaenid standards), an intonating roar. A chorus of the other shamans joined in, the unique intonation of their voices making an eternal portrait in song. It was a way that they could feel together without sacrificing their own strength, a truly fitting anthem for their race. Nettle felt his resolution harden once more, a destiny in the stars that said he would get revenge for his race, and that he w- what was that ungodly howling? The shamans stumbled for the quilted window covers, and the howling from outside grew louder with each step. Nettle only remembered to push some mana to his ears at the last moment, just before he opened up the window to see what was making that racket. Time slowed to a crawl. The howling was a primordial language, he realized, and one that was likely older than their entire race. Even with the mana-guided translation, it still sounded foreign, as though the cacophony didn’t even know what it meant. It was an endless chorus, not unlike their own roars, and it only said one word: “Checkmate”.

“Checkmate,” the call went. His arm gently pulled back the curtain, as heavy as it was, and the first thing he saw was fire. The outside, the grand fort of the Kaenid, was on fire. “Checkmate,” they howled. The curtain drew further, and he could see that the hatcheries were burning just as brightly. They had been couched carefully in the safest place of the whole fort, but little green shapes seemed to dance in the smoke. “Checkmate,” the Goblins giggled, and Nettle could see the torched remains of the stronghold’s last garrison. The few bodies not smothered in flames were mangled terribly. Nettle drew it further, and he saw that all was fire. Even the residences had been caught in flame. They were quite possibly the last of their race in the entire New World, lone shamans in a land of little green devils. “Checkmate,” the Goblins howled, and their mad dance accelerated through the flames, drawing ever closer to their stone-walled structure, the last target left in the city. Time stopped moving slowly as they approached, the eternal moment of Nettle’s everything going up in flames now over. Instead, he heard the rapid stomps of an army, hustling about in the structure. He- and quite a few others- whipped about, cowering. It was only the guards, though, returned from cleaning the tower. Nettle sighed in relief, and he could tell by the stony looks on their faces that they knew of the situation. He took charge, ordering them to guard the keep’s lower entrance. He corralled the shamans, ordering them to begin the counterattack.

In the little bit of time those short little conversations had taken, the goblins had disappeared. They weren’t chanting any more, and they had gone, like ghosts in the smoke. Like it was all a lie. The dead and dying were not a lie, though, and he couldn’t forget them. Their corpses still lied there on the ground, slowly being consumed by the raging fire the little green devils had started. Even as he began to change his orders, the screams started. The guards who had went down the stairs just moments before were screaming, and the shrieks were nerve-wracking. The goblins had disappeared into the building. Suddenly, all the ‘resolute and resigned’ shamans were terrified once more, unprepared to find out how or why thing had gone so wrong down there, to learn first-hand how the weak goblins could make such carnage. He hustled them up the stairs to the tower, hoping to buy time- with a choke-point, they might have been able to fight off the little attackers using magic. The “Purple One of Great Fire” had plenty of flame to work with if they managed to Claim it as theirs. It’d be a struggle to convince anyone that the Kaenid still had control, now. That priceless resource may have been stolen away, once and for all. Even as Nettle finally started his way up the stairs, he could hear calls of “Checkmate,” from below. No doubt, they’d be on them in moments.

On the up-side, the crystal ball was squeaky clean. It would no doubt be covered in a different kind of grime in a moment if they failed. They spanned out in the room, all praying, wholly focused on channeling murder down that blasted corridor. Seconds and moments passed, and Nettle began to get increasingly nervous. Had the Goblin menace simply left? Were they saved? The stand-off had crawled to a stand-still, and just as he started to relax, he heard a new message. It wasn’t a howl or a giggle or even a shout, but more of a simple declaration, and it came from so close. “The General sends his regards,” the goblins said in unison, tearing the drapery off the windows. The Kaenid scattered, whipping around to face the little green men who spiraled into their inner sanctum from the now-open windows. The green menace had apparently climbed the tower, and now the situation had flipped. They had been completely encircled, not just trapped at the top of the tower. The Goblins had won. Nettle began to gather power, hoping for a last-ditch spell- if he was to die, he’d take them with him. Nothing happened. All of the control was gone. The goblins tightened their circle, and the shamans fought each-other for space. One was shoved from the circle, and his fate was truly gruesome. The goblin danced around them, growing ever-closer. Somehow, Nettle knew what this really was, had figured out where everything had gone so wrong. He thought back to a little temple out in the wilderness, an old relic of a bygone era, and two little hairless apes. He thought back to the gaze of that horrible creature, the terrible promise that had been concealed in its eyes. It was not unlike that of their own leader, before his own death. The eyes of the little creature that had ended his reign. They were the eyes of a General. After realizing that, he did not think at all, because he could no longer think. Pain and darkness intertwined in his mind, granting him a terrible release from the morbid realization of how trivial their ‘power’ and ‘control’ had been all along.

Checkmate.