Cartographers of Compassion: How to Steal Land Politely

Heh. You think goblins can’t run a good RPG session? Bah! Every week my clan sits around the fire-pit, dice made from knucklebones, maps drawn on bark. They want dungeons, dragons, treasure. But Zorg? Zorg gives them history! And not just any history — oh no — Zorg studies the strange parallels between our world, Eradiir, and the odd tales of your world beyond the veil. See, in your lands you squabble over borders, gods, old grudges, and who owns the best patch of dirt. Ha! Sounds familiar, doesn’t it? Makes for great roleplay, I say. Now, let me tell you about the Ignis — once the blazing children of Pyraxis, now the ash-stained wanderers of Eradiir. Their story… oh, it is the very stuff of tragedy, war, and bad dice rolls. The Great Corruption—that is the tale everyone tells. Shadows seeped into the sacred flame, poisoning the children of fire. Most Ignis burned away into horrors, ash and screams swept into the winds. Only a few survived, scarred by darkness, carrying embers of their old selves. That much is truth. But what followed… ah, what followed is the true corruption. When the Ignis were broken and scattered, the rulers of Eradiir gathered in halls of stone and gold. They spoke of compensation for the “survivors.” A place must be given, they said, for the fallen children. A homeland for the homeless. So they carved into maps, drew lines with ink and blood, and said: Here. This land shall be theirs. But tell me, who lived in those lands before? Who tilled the soil, who buried their dead under the stones, who hunted the forests and fished the rivers? Not empty ground, no—people were there. Villages of men and elves, fields of halflings, burrows of goblins. They were told to move. Some left with bitter tears. Others stayed and were cut down by soldiers claiming to act in the name of mercy. The Ignis, still reeling from their fall, were placed in the middle of this storm—desperate, guilty, and feared. Now war smolders across the Kingdom of Dargary and the wandering isles nearby. The displaced howl for their homes, the Ignis clutch at the ashes they were given, and armies march under banners of righteousness. The fire-children themselves are split: some seek peace, whispering that they never asked for this blood-soaked gift; others, hardened by persecution, turn their corrupted flame into weapons, swearing to burn out any who deny their right to exist. And what of the rest of Eradiir? The great kings and queens, priests and councils—they wag fingers at the violence, then sell swords to both sides. They profit while villages burn. They speak of balance and justice while drawing borders anew. Always new borders, always new graves. We goblins know this cycle well. We have been pushed from our warrens to make room for elves, men, even the stone-born dwarves. Our homes stolen, our blood cheap. That is why I, Zorg, say this: the tale of the Ignis is no divine tragedy—it is the oldest story of all. A people broken, blamed, then given land that already belonged to others, and told to be grateful while war blossoms around them. The flame of the Ignis flickers still. Whether it will burn for peace or ignite Eradiir into endless war… that is the question none dare answer. But remember this: shadow did not destroy them. Greed did. And greed is not so easily purged.

Does it sound similar?