Far in the East there lived a pretty yellow skinned people scattered across countless islands. Their lives were simple and rich: the seas fed them, the caves carved in their rocky shores sheltered them from the dragons of the Heavenly Dragon Empire, and not even the warlike clans of Nippon to the north could break their defenses.
For these islanders were masters of the waves and keepers of water-magic, swift archers, and their numbers were great. Yet on a day like any other, the sky itself betrayed them. A flaming star descended, shrieking with thunder and cracking the heavens as it fell, and it struck a dormant mountain of fire at the heart of one isle.
In that moment, a blinding flash—hotter and brighter than the sun at dawn—tore across the horizon. A wave of force erupted outward, ripping forests from their roots and hurling them like spears. Every living thing caught in sight of the blast was shredded, crushed, or burst apart, reduced to nothing more than sprays of blood and torn flesh. Men, women, children—whole villages—were smeared into red paste against rock and sand as if the hand of a god had flattened them.
Then came the true sound of the strike: a detonation so vast it shattered the island itself. The ground split open, the mountain disintegrated, and the isle was erased in an instant—its broken fragments hurled far across the sea like bloody shrapnel.
Most of the islanders died where they stood, pulped by the force, but those few who lived long enough to scream were crushed under the rain of burning stone. Boulders the size of houses fell upon the archipelago, smashing huts, grinding bodies into smears across the blackened earth, and painting the shorelines with gore.
Where the fiery mountain once stood, the earth yawned open. From its bowels surged a tower of black smoke, a wound in the sky itself, rising endlessly to blot out the sun. From that wound the earth vomited fire and molten rock, flinging blazing shards across the seas.
Wherever those rocks struck, villages burst into flame, forests burned, and the sea boiled as if alive. The air filled with screams cut short, with the stink of cooked flesh, with the choking ash of a world undone.
Nothing endured but death.
Yet even as the islands burned and the seas boiled, another curse had fallen upon the Eastern lands—one far smaller, but no less vile.
From the wreckage of the falling star, a single green-skinned thing had survived. Squat, crooked, and foul of face, with a nose like a hooked claw and teeth fit only for tearing, it was a wretched creature that lived only to kill, rut, gorge, and hoard anything that gleamed.
Its shell of metal crashed deep into the southern jungles below the Heavenly Dragon Empire, far from the sight of men or dragon. There, beside a quiet stream shaded by fruit-trees, the creature crawled out and made a little clearing its home.
And then, with a grin as vile as rot itself, it knelt. Muttering prayers in a choking gutter-tongue, a haze of green witch-light swirled about its frame. Without hesitation, it drew its jagged blade and rammed the steel into its own chest. There was no scream, no gasp, no plea—only that leering grin as its lifeblood pumped out in hot black streams, and it slumped lifeless into the grass.
But death was no ending.
From the carcass, veins of root and slime began to crawl outward, worming into the soil. The flesh split and festered. A lump, pale and pulsing like a boil, swelled from the cadaver's chest. Within days it became a monstrous mushroom, fat and wet, until it swallowed the corpse whole. From its swollen cap, tumors bubbled and popped, spraying foul spores and slime. Each rupture birthed a tiny green thing, slick with afterbirth, screaming its first words into the world:
"Jaa! Jaa! Jaa-ja-jaaa!"
They stumbled, flailed, and gnawed. Some learned to walk, to pick up stones, to bite fruit and each other. Most were swiftly devoured by snakes, trampled by beasts, or dragged beneath the rivers. But it mattered not—the mushroom simply swelled and split again, vomiting forth spawn without end.
Weak. Stupid. Hideous. Yet endless. Their numbers became a tide, and with each new squirming brood they clawed their way deeper into the jungles. Worse still, these wretches soon proved they could reproduce by themselves, by foul instinct and obscene coupling with anything their claws could seize. Where once there was but one, now there were hundreds, and where hundreds lurked, thousands would follow.
Thus were Goblins born into the world of Terra.
Yet the jungles' new plague was not the worst of the star's gifts. For in the Eastern deserts of Araby, from the sundered husk of the great metallic coffin, another brood clawed free.
They were giants compared to the jungle-spawn—towering brutes of green flesh, and others in shades of gray and brown, each built of slabs of muscle stacked upon bone. They carried themselves with a feral pride, fists like stone mallets, tusked jaws grinding in hunger for battle.
Few in number at first, yet as relentless as a storm, these were the Orcs. And wherever Orcs walked, the smaller Goblins gathered around them like maggots to meat.
So it was that the East, already scarred by fire and drowned in ash, found itself cursed twice over. The jungles writhed with endless Goblins, and the deserts rumbled with Orcs. A new age of blood and ruin had come, and the world would never know peace again.
In the West, upon the isle of Albion, the night of the 25th of December passed in peace. The two burning stars that had scarred the heavens were gone, and the great rumbling that followed them had faded into silence.
Yet their memory lingered, and by morning it was all the village of Shire could speak of. When the people awoke on that next day, they beheld a sky unlike any before. Strange clouds, black and heavy, came rolling in from the southeast and the west. From their bellies drifted not rain, but ash—falling in soft, endless sheets until the fields and rooftops were dusted gray.
Hour by hour, the clouds spread and thickened, until the whole sky was smothered. No gleam of the sun broke through. No blue remained. The world was plunged into a choking darkness, as though a vast shroud had been drawn over Albion.
To many, it seemed that a veil of doom had fallen upon the earth. Families gathered and whispered of endings: some called it the Last Judgement, others claimed it was the curse of sorcery, or the wrath of a forgotten god. Panic spread like fire in dry grass, and across Terra, kings, priests, and common folk alike quailed before the unknown. Entire societies wavered beneath the weight of dread and uncertainty.
But not so in Albion.
There, the people lifted their eyes not in despair, but in faith. For when all else failed, the bell towers of their churches still rang, their pale stones catching what little light remained. In cottages and halls, candles and torches sputtered weakly, but in the hearts of Albion's folk burned something brighter still: unbroken trust in their rulers.
To the men and women of Albion, their monarchs were no mere mortals. They were angelic beings, touched by divinity, wielding power far beyond flesh and bone. They were Gods in human guise, as their Holy Book of Light had long proclaimed. And so, while the rest of the world trembled in fear, Albion stood firm beneath the veil of ash, for their people believed their rulers would never abandon them.
However, concerns crept through the Shire. Word spread fast when a descendant of the gods—a prince—was known to be among them, and so the village folk went in a throng to Bilbo's door, hoping Gandalf might answer and tell them what on earth was happening.
Gandalf saw the crowd at once and, tired of questions, snapped at them.
"Silence, you fools. This is exactly why you should have been paying attention in class. By the look of it those falling stars have set off a volcano— not a small one. There shouldn't be any volcanoes near us, and yet ash has come down upon us. No need to panic; it will likely pass in time. In the meantime I will seek the wise counsel of my parents. If anyone can tell us for certain what this is, it is they."
He slammed the door in their faces and went about preparing for the journey to the capital, Camelot. It was not terribly far—perhaps a fortnight by fast horse and fair weather—but there were things to do first. Chief among them: put on pants.
Frodo, watching Gandalf hurry, blurted, "Wait—what? You're already leaving? You only just arrived. If it's nothing dangerous, why the rush?"
Gandalf pulled on his boots as he spoke. "I must go. Those things that fell last night in the Eastern sky will be of interest to your grandparents. I can't tell you everything now, but if those objects are what I suspect, within them lie knowledge and riches the Kingdom cannot allow to fall to strangers. I will go, and most likely I will be sent east again to fetch them—much as I once did after the black powder."
Frodo's eyes lit at the possibility. He straightened, set his jaw, and begged with fierce, foolish determination.
"Let me come with you, Father. Let me go and prove myself. I am stronger now—I can fight. I'll kill whatever must be killed. Just set me loose and I'll make you proud."
Gandalf was taken aback by his son's words. The boy was so young, so green—he knew nothing of the world beyond this quiet village. Surely he couldn't let him go. What would his mother think?
But before Gandalf could say more, the door burst open. Pippin, Merry, and Sam tumbled in, with Bilbo and Mother Mary right behind them. The three lads raised their fists and shouted in unison, their voices brimming with excitement:
"Yeah! Let us all go together—towards honour, glory, and great riches!"
Gandalf stared down at the whole lot of them, feeling a mix of exasperation and disbelief.
"Why? Why are you all so eager? Adventure is no game. You may be curious, yes—but beyond these fields lies danger, death, and worse. Think on that for a moment."
To him, the sight was absurd. The Halflings stood no taller than children—Frodo, the biggest of them, barely reached Gandalf's belly. To send such small creatures into the wide world was madness. Yet at the same time, something about their eagerness almost struck him as comical.
His words landed. The boys fell into sudden thought, their earlier fire dampened by the weight of danger they hadn't really considered. Mother Mary patted their shoulders gently in comfort, while Bilbo only shook his head, muttering about foolishness.
But then Frodo clenched his fists. He remembered the vow he had whispered to himself the night before. His voice grew sharp with determination.
"For the big bitches—my future family—for honour and glory! Can you not understand, Father? I must do this. I must prove myself, or I'll be no good to those women. No—what I mean is, if I am to be King of the Halflings, then I must accomplish something legendary. I must become a legendary motherfucker! And like all great kings, I must have knights of my own. Merry, Pippin, and Sam will stand at my side. Together we will be so damned legendary that no giant or beast can stop us. We little folk will rise above all, claim the treasures of the world, and bring glory to the Kingdom!"
It was a wild, crude speech—but it carried fire, and Gandalf could not deny that it stirred something.
Still, as the old wizard watched the four small figures puff out their chests, he could not help but think of Mother Mary's swelling belly and Bilbo's youthful vigor. More Halflings would surely come. Replacements were already on the way. In truth, losing these four might not be such a great loss after all.
Gandalf weighed the boys a moment longer, then sighed and gave his blessing.
Bilbo, not surprised—he knew the big man too well—still went red with anger. He shook his head, turned on his heel, and stalked off to his desk to vent into his book, pen stabbing the page like a dagger.
Mother Mary sank to her knees in tears. "My baby," she whispered, clutching Frodo's hand.
Gandalf bent to her ear and murmured, "Don't worry. I used a little magic to check last night's… results. You're with child. Let the boy go—one less worry on your back, my love. Eh?"
Her face twisted—half joy, half grief. A few more words from Gandalf, a few assurances she hadn't been asked for, and she nodded—reluctantly—giving permission no one truly required.
Plans formed quickly. Gandalf would ride southeast at speed to the capital, Camelot. The four Halflings—Frodo, Merry, Pippin, and Sam—would head south on foot to the port of Bree, await him there, then take passage to the Empire and turn east in search of the fallen, burning metal.
There was danger in every direction. Albion's creed—the Holy Light—made them heretics in foreign lands. Enemies might lurk in any market or inn, ready to pounce at the first whisper of blasphemy. So they would hide the truth.
"Travel quiet," Gandalf said. "Say you're children off on an adventure with your father. No banners. No sermons. Keep your heads down."
They dressed the part: plain green cloaks to blend into hedgerow and wood, casual clothes beneath—loose enough to hide the gleam of reinforced aluminum chainmail. For stealth, each packed a green bandana; for trouble, each carried one or two daggers, good for stabbing or for throwing.
Their bags were light: dried meat, hard biscuit, waterskins—and for each Halfling, a single golden apple, meant to keep their legs under them when all else failed. Around their necks, hidden beneath their shirts, hung crosses of Light. Each cross held a tiny light-stone: bright enough to pierce darkness, strong enough to knit small wounds, and bound with locating magic so Gandalf could find them wherever they strayed.
"Bree first," Gandalf said, belting his cloak. "Then the world."
He kissed Mary's brow, nodded once to Bilbo's furious scribbling, and clapped each lad on the shoulder. The door swung open to a day dimmed by drifting ash.
"Go on, then," he said. "Make yourselves legendary."
They stood watching as Gandalf mounted his massive war-horse and rode into the haze. Frodo huffed, scowling after him.
"Man, fuck this lame-ass shit. I'm not hiding from anyone. I'm bringing my dragon-slaying sword, and you're all bringing your blades too. We aren't some sneaky thieves—we're motherfucking warriors. And we're going to kill a lot of shit."
The other three looked at one another, wide-eyed. Then their grins broke, and they cheered as one:
"Yeah! Let's fucking kill shit—for honour and glory!"
So the boys truly began to gear up. This time their packs were heavy, loaded with food enough to last for months. They did it on purpose, a test of strength: the more they carried now, the more they could carry later. Weight was training. Burden was discipline.
And Frodo carried more than any of them.
On his back he bore Dragon Slayer, the sword Bilbo had pried from Smaug's bloody hoard and once used to carve a wound into the red wyrm's hide. It was no blade fit for Halflings—nearly as tall as Frodo himself, nearly as wide, weighing a crushing sixty-five kilos of blackened steel. Most men could hardly lift it, let alone fight with it. But Frodo was no ordinary Halfling.
In his hands, the slab of metal was not clumsy but brutal: a weapon that could smash skulls like melons, snap bones like twigs, hammer nails through timber, or cleave armour as though it were flesh. Its edge, sharpened and unyielding, cut anything foolish enough to stand in its way.
Frodo loved its look almost as much as its weight—the sinister design, the blackened body, and the pale metallic gleam at the edge. A weapon as grim and simple as the world Gandalf had warned him of.
Over his shoulders he strapped his armour: Berserk, the dwarven-forged blackmail that drank a warrior's rage and repaid it with strength. The angrier, bloodier, and more frenzied the battle, the harder the armour made its wearer. It covered him almost fully—though Frodo left the helmet packed in his bag. He preferred his handsome face bared to the world, daring it to come at him.
Thus outfitted—cloaked, armed, and armoured—the four little Halflings set their eyes on the horizon. The air reeked of ash and promise. But they weren't quite done yet.
For Bilbo, muttering to himself as if he regretted it already, stepped forward and pressed something small into Frodo's hand.
"My boy," he said gravely, "since you are the strongest of the four, I will entrust this to you—my ring. Long ago, I found it in the Eastern mountains, and I still believe its true master wanders the world, searching. If by some chance you can return it, do so. Until then, keep it safe. Keep it upon your finger so you do not lose it. And above all—never tell anyone what is written upon its surface. The letters are Elvish, yes, but just in case, hide it under a glove. For the words say:
One Ring to make them all love me, One Ring to bring them all to me, One Ring to bind them in eternal love and friendship to me.
"Kind of lame, I know," Bilbo admitted, "and more than a few folk call it 'the gay ring.' So keep it hidden. Keep it safe."
Frodo frowned. To him it looked plain enough—golden, with neat little Elvish scratches that seemed almost stylish. Still, "gay ring" didn't sound particularly legendary. He started to shove it into his pocket, but Bilbo quickly stopped him.
"No, no—on your finger, lad. The ring enhances your strength, fortifies you against the elements—fire most of all—and from what I've seen, it's indestructible. It will even let you vanish into invisibility at will. But—" Bilbo raised a finger, his tone deadly serious—"the more you use that power, the more you will be haunted by the apparition of a busty Elf-woman. She will appear suddenly, lashing at you, spitting, trying to kick you in the balls. Her blows don't hurt much, but she cannot be stopped. She is bound to the ring, and the more you vanish, the more she comes."
Frodo blinked.
"Oh, and one more thing," Bilbo added. "When you wear it, you'll see a fire burning inside others—how much they love you. It's… unsettling. Feels kind of gay. But useful. Very useful. Truly, it's a powerful ring, lad. You'd be a fool not to wear it always."
Now Frodo was intrigued. Power he liked. Protection he wanted. And the prospect of a busty ghost Elf trying to kick him around—well, that was the sort of curse that sounded more like entertainment. In his mind's eye he was already reshaping her face and body, letting his imagination run wild. The fact she was a ghost only made it better.
He slid the ring onto his finger. It gleamed, faint and mocking. Then he felt it deep in his chest, pulsing near his heart. The red Core of Strength within him glowed brighter, its magical veins burning through his body like molten wires. His skin tightened, his bones thrummed, and he felt as though nothing could break him. The weight of his gear seemed to melt away—either eighty kilos lighter, or he himself was eighty kilos stronger. It didn't matter. What mattered was power.
The road to his legend now carried a new burden—and a new toy.
Frodo was fully kitted out at last, heavy as a nearly 200-kilogram rock, because that's almost exactly what he weighed. His footsteps, once light, now landed with the thudding authority of a bear crossing floorboards. But it was no beast—just little Frodo, clad in black Berserk armour, bearing a massive backpack and the Dragon Slayer sword like a walking fortress.
Sam, by contrast, was more humbly armed. Not by choice, but by poverty. No enchanted armour, no glowing veins, no dwarven plate—just sturdy leather to keep his knees, chest, and pride intact. It would stop a weak stab or slash, and more importantly, soften the fall if he tripped on rocks, crawled through thorns, or was assaulted by the opposite sex.
On his left arm he bore a simple wooden shield, and on his belt a wooden club—more farm tool than weapon, but it would crack a skull if swung hard enough. His cloak and bag were plain, cooking pots clattering at his back as he walked.
Pippin and Merry kept to the rear, armed with small bows and daggers they hoped never to use on something small and not cool. Pippin carried the flasks of drink; Merry, the purse of coins. Together, they looked less like warriors and more like an underfunded militia—but they were determined.
So the four left the Shire. Ash rained from the sky, and the land lay dim, lit only by the glow of their Crosses and the faint gleam of the light-stones within them. Bandanas covered their faces, hoods shielded their neat hair, and despite the doom about them, they cut a strange, dangerous, even stylish sight: small, armed, and ready.
But unknown to them, the moment Frodo slipped the golden ring onto his finger, a shadow stirred. Across the far dark, a Queen of Night felt the pulse of its power. Her servants—nine riders cloaked in black—rose at her call. Slender and terrible they were, some tall, some petite, some curvaceous, all draped in darkness.
Nine women on black steeds, bound in hunger for their beloved master's ring. And now they rode.