The First Monster

The hooded figure stares at the boy, red eyes glinting like rubies in the faint light of their staff, now laid discarded on the ground.

"...Another story? And what of?"

Their voice is whispering like grass in the wind, but there's something to it, an accent, a warmth. Something almost normal.

"Well," The boy starts, tentative and unsure, "the others were asking about monsters, and uh, they were wondering about how they, well-"

"Oh. That depends on the monster, really-"

"No, not, not that!" The boy pulls a face, horrified.

The hooded figure laughs in jest and waves a gloved hand. "I know, I know. History, right? You want to know about the origin of species. Monsters. Monster species. All the mages do." They click their tongue. Or fingers. Or something else inside the darkness of their robes. "I can give you that. Not all of it, for nobody can give everything, but more than any but the monster hatchlings get... though you're more than a hatchling now, aren't you? Soon you'll be swaddled up in silk."

Another laugh, and they hunch forward into the light, eyes glowing ever brighter. "It's usually a song, but doesn't rhyme so well in English, so... We'll make do."

There's something akin to the clearing of a throat, and they begin.



"There was once a mage of tremendous power, a trickster god of wile and wit.

They did not wish to hurt, but they lead people astray. They'd lead them back in due time, but people didn't like that.

Nobody wanted to loose their way. Loss is such a personal thing.

But they did not understand the people's anger, they did not understand the people's fear. Their head was solely in the clouds, and they couldn't drag it down.

They needed more enlightenment than the sun could ever give, and nobody who feared their magic would ever give it to them.

Like all the tricksters before them, they were powerful but alone.

They withdrew into the dark dark places, in candlelight with drawn out faces of other mages thus inclined, eyes all set on a higher prize.

All so lonely, full of power, they desired life in all its forms. Their terrified power seeped out, twisting and changing all it found, and when they found their power could change their lonely hearts tried to create familiars that would talk to give them company.

But magic from hearts afraid and unsure creates problems evermore.

Together their manic spells mingled and pulled and brought unpredictable havoc upon them all. Their caves collapsed and their bodies burned and the trickster was killed, body burned into energy bright, a ghostly remnant of a half-lived life.

But feelings have power, you see, and the strongest magic of all is a wish unfulfilled.

They didn't want to die, not yet. They wanted to see the sun again. They wanted a family. They wanted another life, just one more to get it right.

And sometimes the world will birth miracles, and sometimes magic will too. But put them together and the second chance comes flawed like all fairytales do.



The Trickster was not the only one who had wishes either here. They wished for life, another chance, the sun to see again.

The spellcasters wished for sapient creatures, human but inhuman, the guardians of a new age of magicians.

The Archmage wished he never had to see fire again.

The Oracle wished she had seen this coming.

The Gatherer wished her friends would all be happy and safe, wherever their souls were now.

The Calligrapher wished nothing more than to never inscribe another rune like this in their life.



And in the end, they all got their wishes, in a way roundabout.

The Trickster woke with claws to dig and climb, wings to fly upwards, ever upwards, and a hunger only sated by the flowers of the day so that they never again would be able to live in the shadows, that they would always be able to find the sun.

The Archmage woke with fur to hide behind, a cloak of wings to cover him, feelers to probe his way, a face worthy of hiding and eyes sensitive enough to blind him in brightness, that he may never live anywhere where the fires of the sun, or any other such flame, would touch.

The Oracle woke with eyes countless, false-eyes and almost-eyes and real-eyes alike, staring in every direction of her tall body that she might never fail to see anything coming ever again.

The Calligrapher woke with hands wide, clawed and webbed, giant hazy eyes and a quadrupedal body so close to the ground so that they could not write, nor even read a single book again.

The spellcasters got what they wished for in the forms of their friends, though most of them died for the attempt.

The Gatherer's last wish left them all feeling calm and content while the spell worked away what was left, and nobody cared about what had happened until it was already too late.

But it wasn't as if they could have done anything anyway; their souls were not possessing their new bodies so they could not be exorcised, but they were not one with their bodies either for reason of being a human ghost encased in a nonhuman body, so their new forms could not be changed back without risk of losing their souls inside. And they didn't want to die.


After this, things changed for them all. The moth and the butterfly became brothers in arms. The pheasant fled off into the dark unknowns along with the frog, their new lives too terrible a truth to accept alone. The spellcasters left alive and unharmed found the experiment a failure beyond compare, and swore to never do magic again.

But the butterfly and the moth didn't want to give up; not only had it worked, they'd almost created magic necromancial, life of death that had never been done. More experiments were needed. Could the souls be synthesized or drawn out of the ground? Would they have to kill or could they work with what they found?

They started with the dying who didn't want to die; told them the stakes, let them wish then tried the spell again. Creating life from death had never been done before like this; vampires and ghosts, yes, but this was almost a revenant. The horror story zombies were not in play, this was a new game entirely.

They found, with time, that magic made its own monsters aplenty. They'd sown the first seeds, now the seeds sowed themselves. A crop unexpected with a bumper yield.

Creatures evolved rapidly until their eyes brimmed with knowledge and their alien tongues spoke, and once they were smart enough to listen they understood their past. They sung and spoke and organized, loved and hated and cried, bringing lanterns and tithes to their reborn creators.


Time again showed them more. Their undead unliving bodies only aged when their minds felt old; the more at odds they were with the shells that were their new themselves, the more of shells they would be.

The butterfly wore his like a favoured coat and the moth like the bite of a dog. One stayed warmed by the light of the sun and the other collected dust.

Who knew what happened to their other friends, disappeared beyond trace? The other monsters gave no word of them, despite their efforts to search. Perhaps, they hoped, they'd found something happy, and make peace with themselves. Perhaps they'd ran far away from here and found hope somewhere else.

But life moves on and so does magic, even when you live eternal. The butterfly and the moth had to change things further to ensure their creation's survival.

New plants and trees and animals were created to provide the building blocks, then an ecosystem of nature and magic grew underground and over land.

The air was saturated with oxygen and magical light, so it was no surprise when once again people set down their houses at this site. A little town grew larger, and though it stayed quite small, the occupants didn't leave for fear but came for curiousity.

The butterfly and the moth found, to their surprise, that the creatures they'd created and nurtured from death and life were perfectly equipped to hunt not just each other but humankind. Anything weak would not survive. This was not their creator's intent, and where the word 'monster' began to fit.

The two of them felt guilt for this, and tried their best to save who they could. The town could manage itself at best, but wanderers were fair game. They hid themselves but brought lights, one in the day and the other the night to herd the lost back to safety before they could be preyed upon. All is fair in nature, yes, but this was a nature of their own creation, and they held themselves responsible for the weak ones' predation.

Other monsters too, the gentle and the frail sought to protect the humans for their own sakes; prey will always band together to survive.


Then, once again, magicians came. And the truth pulled forth like rainfall. Monsters were no mystery anymore, and eventually, once again, some of humankind tried to talk to them. They had no knowledge of the monster's pasts, but still reached out a hand.

Kindness deserves more kindness in turn. And hope brings hope to life. Even the ones who left their humanity behind couldn't ignore that. The lamp and cloak were not just for monsters to wear, and humans too could give magical care.

Most of them still don't know, and it's rare they'll ever try to talk, but we know that they can be kind, and unknowingly they are saved by us.

The lost don't lose themselves forever, and even the eternal change. What started as fear has become hope, and the story still continues to unfold. But you know what they say; stories never end, not really."



The hooded figure pulled themselves back down to earth. The child who had been listening, propped up on his pillows was now barely awake, laid snuggled under his blankets. Like any child he'd tried his best to stay awake, but it was late, and a hushed voice was soothing in any regards.

A gloved hand reached out to gently pat his head, while another helps the figure to it's feet, and another extinguishes the staff's light with a wave.

There is a rustle of cloth, and then the night is silent once again.