Deep inside a colossal mountain, perched amongst a great range, weaved endless miles of tunnels and caverns. Some appeared man-made. Most did not.

In one such cavern, lit by bioluminescent moss that decorated its walls, lived a colony of hundreds of small, bony and unattractive creatures. Their faces were like a mask of thin stone and oversized ears and horns sprouted from their heads. Leathery, bat-like wings erupted from their shoulders.

In one of their rudimentary abodes, made of sticks, stone and moss, one of these creatures lay, wailing out in pain. Upon closer inspection, one would notice that it had a large, protruding stomach. It – she – was in the process of childbirth.

Soon the shrieks sped up, culminating in an almighty scream before silence returned to the dwelling. But the silence would not hold for long.

Soon, another, softer, wail broke out. The cries of a newborn, now cradled in its mother’s small arms.

It was here, in a land beyond what any human in Oros could comprehend, that Agathor’s second story began.

More than a few moments passed before the wailing stopped and Agathor, now some small creature, tried to open his eyes and take in the outside world. And when he did, the first thing he saw was what he could only consider an ugly and beastly creature holding him tight, exhausted but happy.

Agathor recognised this creature immediately: an imp. A form of demon. They had been a part of the Great Demonic Host. Though their numbers were not great, and they were far from a formidable foe, they had a talent for causing mischief and chaos in battle. He had seen more than a few of his comrades die from their tricks.

Agathor, in his shock, tried and failed to turn his head around further to take in more of the world surrounding it. He realised at this point that he did not recognise his body. It felt foreign to him. Small, weak. Different.

Confusion overwhelmed him. He tried to think back to what had just happened, to understand why he might be in the arms of a happy imp in a body that felt unnatural.

The memories of that dark room quickly flooded back into his mind as if they had been, for a moment, held at bay. The memories of his betrayal, torture and death. Emotions overwhelmed him, battling his sense of confusion as to what should take precedence in his mind. Soon, his rage won out. He burned with an almighty desire to rip out the beating hearts of those responsible, grind their bodies down to pulp and feed them to the pigs back in Mardon town.

All the while, the imp who held him in her arms looked on and giggled and she saw her child, merely tens of minutes old, scrunch his little face.

She looked into Agathor’s eyes and spoke.

“Ah, mah little one, I call you Redstone, okie? Red for your pa. Stone for your ma, that’s me by the ways. Ya seem to gots a bit of both us in yer.”

Agathor froze for a moment. He came out of his rage, if only for a moment, and thought to himself.

What the fuck is going on. A phrase that was, to his sorrow, becoming overly familiar.

Consternation took hold of his unfamiliar face.

This imp can… talk? And it’s talking to… me? It isn’t sayin—

Before Agathor could think more, the imp again spoke.

“Lemme introduce ya to the family, Redstone.”

She went to stand with Agathor in her arms, though in her weakened state, she began to wobble. At that moment, another imp appeared in Agathor’s limited field of vision, stabilising her. This new one must have been just beside the imp who spoke to him, and thus just out of his view, given its reaction time, Agathor figured.

“Thank yas, Merryfield,” the talkative imp said.

The newer imp, Merryfield, cheered in reply, “Bah, no worries. Now, show us yer bub!”

The mother imp obliged and soon Agathor’s sight was totally engulfed with the face of this Merryfield. “Heya,” the imp said, its now-exposed gnarled fangs mixing with its other facial characteristics to create a horrifying image. Agathor’s newborn body could not help but cry in response.

“Ya fool look what you’ve done, get aways, get aways,” the mother imp said as she shooed away Merryfield. “Made mah little one cry again, yer fool”.

She then cradled Agathor protectively in her chest and waited as other imps, most curious, a few bored, came to say hello to the newborn. Before long, Agathor had been introduced to at least twenty imps, and it seemed that many more lived in this abode that he had now, throughout the course of his introductions, become somewhat acquainted with.

Agathor’s thoughts remained chaotic, and he was unable to understand what was going on. Indeed, he was only confident of a few things. First, he was going to crack open Gatmore's skull. Second, something had happened to his body, though he did not know what. Third, he wasn’t in Aberle anymore, or at least not in any part he even remotely recognised, and he knew the city well. Fourth, and most perplexingly, this imp, for whatever unexplainable reason, seemed to think he was her son.

What the fuck, he internally repeated.

He cursed his inability to move. He remained trapped in the arms of this imp for the foreseeable future, he figured. At least until he could gather some strength, mentally and physically, to escape. Only then, Agathor thought, would he find some of the answers he was looking for.

As he planned and plotted, Agathor felt an unfamiliar urge and a rumbling stomach. To the mother imp, who was now sitting on a rather simple collection of dirt and scraps that might constitute a chair, this did not go unnoticed.

“Ah, mah little one’s got the nibbles,” she said.

An awful premonition quickly took hold of Agathor.

“Goods to drinks up and get big and strong like yer pa,” she continued as she adjusted her positioning on the crude chair.

“Okie time ta drink.”

I didn't even know imps had bre–

But before he could finish that thought, the imp pulled the famed hero Agathor the Gallant into her bosom, and though he tried to wail in disgust and defiance, he couldn’t help but find his body – his mouth – disobeying his commands in favour of sustenance.

As he suckled, he could only think: What the fuck.