The Green Mamba Rises

Bartholomew had a very important task. He and he alone had been chosen to guard against the Transmogrification. All of Capparta, not to mention the entire Midrealm, depended on him. It involved keeping his eyes open, and it was boring as hell.

Why Stonemere had selected him among all the other acolytes was beyond anyone's ken, especially Bartholomew's. Sure, he had some modicum of talent for the lower forms of physical magic, but elemental spells eluded him and he was a miserable failure when it came to astral projection.

Yet no magic was needed for this task, simply a hand to turn over the Ouroboros hourglass at, well, the appointed hour.

Blessed Stonemere, the Greatest of the Nine from the Nine and the Nine who came before them. There he lay, elevated on the stone dais, his breath as faint as a passing breeze. Stalactites and sigils, the stone chamber bore the marks of time and magic alike. The sigils glowed, the stalactites dripped, and Bartholomew's eyes drooped as he stared at the Ouroboros hourglass on its black altar.

The grains of sand in the Ouroboros didn't fall one by one in an orderly fashion. Sometimes they stopped and other times they floated back up to the top half, probably because whoever had enchanted it was a jerk. Supposedly, the sigils would flash blindingly bright to mark the Greatest of the Nine's passage, followed by utter darkness and then the Transmogrification if no one was there to flip the hourglass.

But beyond counting, there was no way to mark time in this subterranean realm. And counting was dangerous. Bartholomew had already caught himself nodding off once while doing so. He'd been instructed to remain standing with the Ouroboros always within arm's reach. Maybe the final flash really would blind him. Perhaps that's why he'd been chosen.

Bartholomew decided not to dwell on such thoughts. He also decided that staying within arm's reach of the hourglass was more likely a guideline than a hard rule. They probably meant within eye's reach.

Meaty hands tucked carefully behind his back, he strolled to the other end of the long chamber to inspect Stonemere's sacred array of artifacts, stowed away beneath the earth for the greater good or lesser evil—he forgot which.

Bartholomew already knew some of them from legend—Clathyria's overflowing chalice, Faladriel's orb of envy, and Groth's self-darning socks—but one in particular caught his attention.

At first, he thought it was a sparkling green hood, then he saw the eye holes embroidered by white fire. A mask, a beautiful mask. He stared, transfixed, and the empty eye holes returned his gaze.

In the end, it was boredom and not boldness that swayed Bartholomew. He took the mask down from its place on the wall, and it felt warm in his hands. It felt right.

He looked at Stonemere but nothing had changed. The Greatest of the Nine's chest still rose and fell ever so slowly as the sigils continued their dim glow.

Out of a sense of duty, Bartholomew walked back to the Ouroboros altar before trying on the mask.

It shaped itself to his face, then an otherworldly veil descended across his vision.

When it lifted, he found himself standing in a corridor with walls of impossibly smooth white rock.

Darkness was behind him and light before him, so he walked toward the light. Noise, the distant murmur of restless beings, grew louder with each step.

At the end of the corridor, a short man wearing a shirt with black and white vertical stripes suddenly appeared to block his path.

The man grabbed Bartholomew's elbow and ushered him out into the wider space beyond.

"Oye cabrón, ¿de dónde saliste?" the man hissed. "¿Cómo te llamas?"

The language was unlike anything he'd ever heard in Midrealm.

He was surrounded by a stadium, packed with people who cheered as more men in masks gathered in the central square.

"Tu nombre. ¡Dime tu nombre!" shouted the man in the striped shirt.

Bartholomew crossed his arms and bowed to signal his polite confusion

The man rolled his eyes then used some minor spell to amplify his voice as he turned to the crowd.

"¡Mira, ahí viene… la Mamba Verde!"

Then, he was being pushed and prodded toward the other masked men, some of whom were already battling on a platform bordered by ropes.

As he got closer, a man in a golden mask leaped onto his opponent's shoulders then flipped backward to send the other man flying. A warrior wearing a blue and silver mask climbed to the platform's top rope then launched himself to land upon the already fallen man.

A gladiatorum of sorts? Bartholomew considered tearing off his mask to see if that would rip him free from this realm, but the man on the ground was beckoning to him, asking for succor. He didn't have to understand the language to know that two-on-one was unfair odds.

Despite his misgivings, he reached for the fallen man's hand. As soon as their fingers touched, the man rolled out of the ring. Before he knew it, the two warriors were upon him. A spinning back kick from Gold left him reeling, then Blue-and-Silver straight-armed his neck.

Now on his back, Bartholomew braced himself for pain, but none came. Come to think of it, the kick had been a light tap and the straight-arm had felt more like a firm suggestion than an attempt on his life.

A slow grin spread across his face. In that moment, he realized they must be practitioners of low physical magic like himself.

He rose to his feet and rushed Blue-and-Silver then spun him into Gold. He stomped the ground as their heads slammed together with a believable clap. The crowd went wild.

When a series of elaborate maneuvers sent him flying toward the elastic ropes, he launched himself ever higher, completing two and a half flips before striking the earth beyond the platform headfirst.

Silence.

Had he done something wrong?

He cautiously got to his feet, and was met with a roar:

"¡La Mambaaaaaaa Verde!"

Caught up in the synchrony of movement, Bartholomew lost track of time as he flowed on and off the platform. And then, somehow, it was over.

Bartholomew wasn't sure whether to go back down the corridor from whence he came, so he decided to follow the main mass of people leaving the stadium.

He was jostled by the crowd until a smaller hand found his own. He looked down to see a goddess of golden proportions. She led him past stunted trees and tall flat-topped castles without fortifications. He tried not to gawk at the horseless metal carriages that sped past as they entered what appeared to be a tavern with flashing lights.

The unseen bards within played untiringly, so it was too loud to talk, but the goddess moved her mouth anyways while Bartholomew nodded at what seemed like appropriate intervals.

Mostly, they moved to the music. It was a different sort of physical magic with more spinning.

Then, she pulled him close and stood on tiptoes to press her lips against his ear.

"Papi songo… ¿Alguna vez te quitáras esa máscara?"

He felt her fingers exploring the nape of his neck… his mask came free.

The tavern's flashing lights gave way to the dim pulse of arcane sigils.

Oh right. The Ouroboros. The Transmogrification.

Bartholomew sighed, then yelped as someone just outside the chamber entrance cleared their throat.

"Brother Bartholomew? You are keeping vigil, yes?"

"Er, uh, yes Brother Vance."

"Does the Ouroboros still flow true? You sound strained."

Bartholomew tried to forget the golden goddess's touch. He thought instead upon the fabled Leper Knights and their rusty greaves to quell his excitement.

"Brother Bartholomew?"

"Yes?"

"I said you sound strained."

"I was standing very still." He winced as he heard the words leave his mouth.

"It is a simple yet momentous task. While I cannot see nor cross the threshold while the wards are in place, would you care for the company of my voice?"

"No! I mean, that is kind of you, but I must remain focused on the task at hand."

"...I see. Stonemere does you a great honor. Blessed be the Greatest of the Nine."

"Blessed be he," Bartholomew said as a matter of reflex.

"Brother Bartholomew?"

"...yes, Brother Vance?"

"We walk the learned path."

"As we must."

Bartholomew strained his ears to see if he could pick up Brother Vance's receding footsteps.

He looked down. The crumpled green mask was still in his hands.

Crux, that was close. Nosy Brother Vance. He glanced at the Ouroboros. It hadn't changed a whit—if anything, more grains had floated back up to the top half of the hourglass—and Stonemere's breath still ebbed and flowed like a maddeningly slow tide.

Bartholomew moved to place the mask back on the wall, but his feet took him in a slightly different direction. He was looking for… yes, Orrin's tonguestone.

Despite the name, it was an earring that granted its wearer knowledge of all languages, though Bartholomew wasn't certain it'd work beyond Midrealm. His ear wasn't pierced, but thoughts of the golden goddess steadied his hand as he forced the stud through his lobe.

Now, next to the ward-darkened chamber entrance, he called out softly.

"Pssst, Brother Vance? I changed my mind. I want to talk."

He waited a full twenty heartbeats.

Nothing. Good.

He inspected the Ouroboros once more to reassure himself. It would only be a quick visit this time, and the risk only grew the longer he waited.

Hands aquiver, he put back on the mask.

He found himself back in the same white-walled corridor and ran to the end. The stadium was empty, save for one old man stirring a long stick in a metal bucket. Bartholomew guessed him to be a potion master.

"Hey, you aren't supposed to be here. Or maybe you are. What the hell do I know?" The potion master touched the tendriled end of his stick to the floor briefly then went back to stirring his concoction.

"You can understand me?"

"Well… yeah."

But Bartholomew was already running out of the stadium and retracing his steps to the flashing tavern.

It was quieter inside, but the golden goddess was still there.

"Hey Green Mamba, why'd you vanish?"

"I had something to do."

"More important than me?"

"No."

"Hmm, well I was only kidding about the mask. Keep it on and be all mysterious if you want."

"Okay."

"But what's your face look like under there?"

"I… I don't know."

She gaped at him then laughed. With the music low, they danced again but slower this time. And they drank libations out of glasses lined with salt and shaped like half hourglasses.

Bartholomew woke somewhere new with her cradled in his arms. He felt at peace with the world until reality came rushing back.

He steeled himself then ripped off the mask.

The chamber had gone dark. After much fumbling, Bartholomew worked up a basic illumination spell.

Stonemere lay unmoving, now one with his stone dais. The top half of the Ouroboros was completely empty.

Bartholomew tried to flip the hourglass over, but like Stonemere, it too was frozen in time.

"Oh… crux me."

Bartholomew tried every artifact he could think to use in the situation. All to no avail. He even blew on Gareth's flute, which wasn't magical, just discordant.

When rock beneath his feet began to rend, he shouted "sorry" in case Brother Vance was passing by then slipped back on the mask.

And so began the Transmogrification.

But do not weep for the Midrealm.

The consensus among surviving scholars is that Stonemere was truly farsighted in his choice of the failed guardian.

For after the blightspawn and razor winds, there arose such beauty that no one longed for the olden days, but that's beyond the scope of this story.

It's simpler to focus on one man.

Bartholomew.

He wrestled. He danced. He loved.

And the Green Mamba always wore his mask to show his true face.