What if one of the characters isn't with the heroes and is, in fact, opposing them. What if the good guys aren't really the good guys?

Note: The players turned into their RP characters has been a staple of TG fiction for years, ever since the Guardians of the Flame series by Joel Rosenberg (RIP) and all of them seem to follow a similar pattern (this isn't meant to be disparaging, just an observation): our players are introduced and are all high school or college types-following the Breakfast Club pattern; they get transported to the fantasy world, change into their characters, one of more of them are reluctantly gender-changed, and they spend the time trying to find their way out of the fantasy world and back to their world. I decided, with this story, to turn the tropes upside down. One of them in particular: What if one of the characters isn't with the heroes and is, in fact, opposing them. What if the good guys aren't really the good guys?

This story was written whilst listening to Gary Numan's new album. Listen to it!!

Two thousand years. That was how long she had waited in exile in the cold lands of the North, whilst her people suffered and died. The Sundering was a fissure in her soul into which poured all the bitter humours of the world. Betrayal was anathema to The People but it had been perpetrated upon her and with it, the Lie. They called her and her people evil when it was they who had cast her out and with her, her people. Confusion turned to sorrow, sorrow to anger, anger to hatred, hatred to bitter rage and so she had become that which they named her: Queen of the Shadows, Night Mother, and Bitter Darkness.

Oh how they would pay for their betrayal, their foul murder, for her time was at hand. Prophecy had come to one of her Priestesses 552 years after the Sundering. Prophecy which was now fulfilled:

"From a land beyond the void she shall come,
A daughter of your heart and soul.
She will be the Hand of Vengeance
And carry with her the Dark Flame
With which to burn the tongues of
The bitter liars. Death shall fly with her
On wings of purest shadow and all shall
See her and Despair as the flowers of
Their treachery bears bitter fruit."

And come she had, cast into the void by the workings of one of her enemies but this one's energies had called to her and she had answered, and brought her forth and took her from the bosom of those who had called and those others who had come. Time meant nothing to a Goddess so she had cast her daughter back centuries and reforged her, made her in her image and called her by a new name: Sharrianthraxia, Daughter of Night. Her daughter had cleaved to her new form with great joy and poured forth her love, desiring aught but to make the Mother of her soul proud. She took the agony of the Sundering and made it her own, pouring her own rage and vengeance into her growth until she was the very personification of her mother's hatred.

Even now she sat upon her mother's throne on the great peak of Mount Diarmat in the Northern Peaks and gazed upon the army gathered in the vast fortress of Darkholme. Golden eyes, the eyes of one Godsborn, gazed upon Dark Eladrian, Wights, Haints, Ulduaran-called Orc in the tongue of Man, and other creatures of darkness, all manner of foul and chthonic beings from all corners of the world, called and united by the rage of a Goddess betrayed and her Demigoddess Daughter. Beings driven into hiding by the cursed Golden Eladrian and their jealous Sun God. Burnt out of home and hearth, hunted to near extinction and now driven by the same rage, transformed as was the Goddess, they waited for the order to pour forth from the Night Lands, to fall upon their enemies and rend them into pieces with tooth and fang, sword and spell.

Mother and Daughter looked upon their work and found it good and knew the time for waiting was ending. Soon vengeance would belong to them and the world would tremble at the Goddess’s return from exile and the restoration of her people.

Veramis exhaled in relief as the last of the undead collapsed in a heap, the golden flame of his sword destroying the remnant of necromantic force powering it. He sheathed his blade and looked around at his companions, none of which seemed injured.

“Syndaris, if you would, please?”

The Cleric nodded and began calling upon the power of his deity to consecrate the ground upon which the foul creatures lay.

Mystrail wandered over, her Runeblade dissipating in a swirl of colour as she let her magick go. “Five incursions in three days, Veramis; the Barrier is weakening more and more. I fear what might yet come.”

Veramis gave a tired sigh as he gazed upon the site of the latest battle. “Aye, as do I, lass, as do I.”

“Something is coming.” Mystrail mused aloud. “This isn’t random. I fear there’s a dark hand at work behind this.”

“Aye, I sense you’re right. Perhaps it’s time to visit the temple of the God of Light and seek guidance from his Priests. Besides, we’ve been in the wilds for months; a few days of civilization would be nice.”

“City dwellers.” Came the dry voice of the woodland garbed figure of Elanthias, her upturned eyes crinkled in amusement. “I swear, if you don’t get your time in city you’ll all melt into a puddle of goo.” She was stowing her bow and recovering arrows as she walked to them.”

“Can it, pointy ears.” Syndaris quipped as he finished his grim work. “You were a homebody like no other before we came here. Now we’re playing in this new world and you’re Generic Elf 101? Please.”

Elanthias laughed at that. “Hey, I can’t help it if the new body came with an appreciation of woodlands and the wild over cities and the stench of too many unwashed bodies all smooshed together. Speaking of, you need a bath, Syn. You’re getting kind of ripe.”

“Ripe this, elf.” Syndaris laughed as he held up a pair of middle fingers at the tall elf. She smiled, baring sharp fangs. “Anytime, anyplace, if you think you can take me.”

“Enough!” Veramis barked. “A trip to Harldhome is a good idea. Maybe we can scry for signs of Mike again since Mystrail can’t find anything. I wouldn’t mind a bath and a report to the Duke is a good idea. The incursions are getting worse and he needs to know this and pass it on to the King. Gather your gear, we ride for the city.”

“Joy and rapture.” Elanthias muttered as she gathered the last salvageable arrow and went for her horse. Syndaris is going to get laid, Veramis will spend his time with the Duke, Mystrail will go do her wiggly finger stuff and that leaves me to check on Ravok. Hopefully he’s healed enough and not in as pissy a mood as before.”

“Cheer up, pointy ears, you know he holds a torch for you.” Mystrail said with a laugh as she rode past. “I’m sure he’ll be happy to see you and show you his giant axe.”

Elanthias help up a middle finger as the Sorceress passed. “I got your giant axe right here, wiggly fingers.”

The two of them shared a companionable laugh as they set off for the city of Harldhome, seat of Duke Richard Allenon the Second, Cousin to the King, Blessed be his name in the Sight of the Sun Lord.

Across the world the dark figure sat upon her throne, golden eye glowing in satisfaction. Soon they would be ready and the world would tremble at the marching of her armies. The Daughter of Night, once called Michael in a world a dimension away laughed and the mountain shook and the skies trembled at the sound.