Note: The following is an exercise in creative writing and FAN FICTION it is in no way condoned by Mattel or any other entities associated with the Masters of the Universe brand. It is simply one long-time fan's expression of his love for the universe. This is a little writing project I worked on for fun between writing my own books. I'll post a few more of these but the piece was in no way ever finished.
It is largely based on MOTU-lore as established from action figure bios in the now-defunct Masters of the Universe Classics brand which was a line that ran for about a decade starting in 2008. That lore was drawn from decades of material in the wonderfully pulpy mini-comics packaged with the 1980's action figures and also from comics and animated shows, in this case particularly from the wonderful 2002 series-known as 200X in the fandom-which did a wonderful job on consolidating that lore into a cohesive story. The story below is set in the Preternia era of the continuity, established in the 1980's toward the tail-end of MOTU popularity and designed to be the Next Big Thing in the toyline, introducing characters like He-Ro, Eldor, and Tytus. The 200X cartoon had added some very cool elements to this era and this story is meant to be congruous with that story. It is set hundreds of years in the past of Eternia. That said, you won't find characters like He-Man, Skeletor, Man-At-Arms, Orko, etc. But you will find some familiar characters who were around at that time as well as some cool deep-cut MOTU references and easter eggs.
Thunder boomed above the mountains and echoed against the valley walls. Perched high above his herd in a shaded recess, the noise pulled Tytus from thoughts. Far below him, dozens of long saurian necks snaked up, regarding the sky with dull fear. Tytus rose to his full, immense height and took in the unnatural storm that had gathered above the mountains of Perpetua.
For a moment, he feared the truce had been broken and that the Snake Men had unleashed some new horror on Eternia but the troops of King Hssss had seldom ventured as far north as these cold mountain lands and, from all Tytus had heard from the refugees that had passed through his valley to the northern sanctuaries, the Snake Men had never been known to announce their arrival from the air. Rather, it was their way to swarm their enemies over land with a seemingly inexhaustible infantry. Tytus had often feared that he would one day witness their arrival, like a dark, reptilian tide filling the valleys of Perpetua.
A trio of loud booms cracked the sky apart. The thick clouds that had gathered overhead now broke, and from their heart, a fiery arrow fell from the heavens, like the shooting stars that often blazed in summer nights. The burning object raced across the zenith and disappeared behind the mountains. Tytus heard an echoing explosion in a neighboring valley, and his beasts moaned and stomped in protest.
He jumped into action, sliding down from his overlook, his huge, muscular hands hooking around tree trunks to slow and control his descent. Tytus landed near his animals, which were already skittish from the noise. He shouldered his way through the herd of Sauropods, roughly pushing muscular necks and tails aside. His race was one of the few on Eternia that was large and powerful enough to move safely among these giant quadrupeds. Tytus secured the animals with a crude wood-and-rope fence that would hold them until he finished investigating. Hopefully, none of the Therosaurs that had been sniffing around his herd would cause trouble in his absence.
He had outfitted one of the Sauropods, the large female Gyga, with a leash and a rope harness, and a wooden trailer. Tytus pulled her behind him as he set off for the next valley using a well-worn mountain path. He could see a plume of smoke drifting up over the snow-capped granite peaks.
Tytus and his animal rounded the last pass, and he witnessed the black smoking scar which had been gouged into the green valley. In the heart of the burning black crater was an enormous metallic object, like a giant silver shield, half embedded in the ground. He roped Gyga to a tree and climbed down to the valley floor, careful to avoid the fiery debris. Tytus approached the object, which gleamed silver through the smoke. He walked its great length and circled it a few times. Upon closer inspection, Tytus determined it resembled the shell of some exotic creature from the Sea of Rakash than a shield.
Tytus gently touched the object and found it strangely cold. He heard a kind of whirring from deep within, and a series of fine cracks appeared on one end of the shell, forming a complex pattern on its surface. The cracks widened, and a section at the top of the object opened. Titus awkwardly climbed atop it and saw a compartment in which sat the figure of a human male inside. The man was unconscious but breathing. He was fine of appearance and wore strange clothing of a type that Tytus had ever seen before, including a jeweled golden headband, like a crown. The man looked to have suffered wounds in the crash, and he had a large gash on the side of his head, but it seemed to ooze some sort of fluid like molten metal instead of blood.
Tytus wondered what to do for him. He could take the man to his hut in the nearby Valley of the Spiders, but the giant was little more than a shepherd and certainly no healer. The Mountains of Perpetua were sparsely populated, and to reach one of the human settlements would take several days. He simply couldn’t leave his herd unattended for that long.
Tytus carefully reached in. He pulled the man free from his restraints, careful to avoid the silver ooze. He lifted the man out and noticed a golden gleam from inside. Tytus reached in and pulled out a gold and silver staff which featured an ornate bulb at one end.
There was also a sword. For a human, it would have been a considerable weapon, but in Tytus’ hand, it was little more than a dagger. Tytus’ father had been a metalsmith, and he was raised around weapons, but he had never seen a blade this finely wrought.
The sword seemed to have a presence about it. As he held it in his open hand, Tytus felt a power flowing through him. In the sword's metal, Tytus saw the reflection of a pair of frantic yellow eyes which looked up towards the sky and then down, and seemed to search the crash site. It settled on the man, now resting on Tytus’s shoulder like an infant. The eyes looked back at Tytus, as though evaluating him. They closed and disappeared. In their place was the image of a dark city.
***
DaVann stood atop his ramshackle tower and looked out over the bustling village. He breathed in the fresh air and exhaled the stress of the Council meeting from which he had just come. He leaned his broadsword against the jadestone ashlars that made up the tower wall. His blond hair fell over his massive shoulders, tied into a pair of braids in the northern style. His rough-hewn brown cape, topped with wolf hide, flapped in the wild wind atop the tower.
It was the only building of any size on the large grassy plain that his people now called home, and it was a beacon for men all over Eternia and a symbol of humanity’s return to the southlands. After centuries, DaVann’s people had fought off the Snake Men and claimed a land of their own, far from their exile in the frigid northern mountains or the dark depths of Subternia. Like many, he was still unaccustomed to the uncomfortable southern heat and, except for a leather harness, went bare-chested.
DaVann enjoyed the solitude of the tower’s crown and made it a point to spend an hour or so each day watching the progress as the village changed from hide tents to huts of clay and thatched roofs to something more permanent. Far below, he saw actual croplands. Soon it would be a town and then perhaps one day an actual city of men, the likes of which had never existed before.
Ah, he thought, that’s a fancy.
In this time of fragile peace, DaVann knew the Snake Men could wipe his people’s new homeland out at any moment. So tentative was their existence that the village still had no name, perhaps for fear that daring to name it would bring the wrath of the Snake Men upon them. It was simply known as ‘The Village.’
DaVann would have to remedy that. Of course, he had no real name himself, nor family house of his own. No men did. The Snake Men had been ruthless in employing assassins to hunt down the royal houses of men that had survived in the frozen North. They had left mankind bickering and leaderless for over a century. In selecting DaVann, a tribal chieftain to lead the men of Eternia, the Council was creating a new royal house to lead humanity itself.
Of course, the future of humanity relied on the outcome of this war. It was vital that their forces find some advantage during whatever time the Truce of the Three Towers held. Everyone knew that the war was inevitable. It was for this reason that DaVann had dispersed many of the members of the Council of Elders to the far corners of the continent to seek allies, knowledge, and technology that could end the stalemate between the Free People of Eternia and the brutal Snake Men, who ruled in the east from their Viper Tower and their fortress at Snake Mountain.
In the sky to the west, he saw what he was hoping for: a bird-like figure banked in the distance. DaVann granted himself a rare smile. He never ceased to be amazed by his friend’s arrival. The figure drew closer, revealing a winged, vaguely human figure: Nimbos of Avion.
Nimbos approached the tower and spread his long, simian arms, braking on the enormous wing attachments that he wore on each powerful arm. With a few flaps, the Avion warrior landed softly near his human friend and folded his red wings under his arms and into the harness that he wore around his barrel chest. Nimbos was covered in shaggy gray fur and wore a helmet fashioned from the head of one of the Snake Men’s former generals. Nimbos’ heavy-browed face looked out between the serpent jaws, the area around his eyes dark in a band of war-paint.
The Avion people inhabited a remote part of the Mystic Mountains and were distantly related to the Beast Men of the Vine Jungle, but unlike their brutish relatives, the Avions long ago fled their arboreal homeland in search of a new home. According to their traditions, the Avion tribe had wandered Eternia until a mysterious falcon named Zoar led them to a bountiful mountain valley. The culture that they developed in the Mystic Mountains revolved around emulating and worshiping birds. As Nimbos once put it, “Our ancestors were beasts who dreamed of becoming birds.”
DaVann respected the Avion people for their sheer courage and audacity, and because they practically willed themselves into the air with a combination of ingenuity and fearlessness. DaVann knew that they also possessed a rare material which they wore in their armor and harnesses, which somehow reduced their body weight and helped them aloft. This was a secret that he pried from his wife, Veena, a human woman and sorceress of the Order of Zoar who had lived among them for many years. Indeed, she was seldom seen without her ceremonial falcon armor.
“King DaVann,” Nimbos said with a grin as he scrambled over the greenish stones of the tower floor. The Avion people were less than graceful on land.
DaVann made a sour face. “I hate the sound of it. King DaVann of No House. I don’t know why I could not continue to be Chief.”
The two embraced warmly.
“A chief rules a small tribe,” Nimbos replied. “You will be the King of Men.”
“Maybe,” DaVann grumbled. “Tell me, friend, what news of Anwat Gar?”
Nimbos regarded him solemnly.
“Is it that bad?”
“They have rejected the Council’s offer. The Gar are convinced that what happens on the continent will not directly affect them.”
The Gar were a race of blue-skinned humanoids that inhabited a large island in the Ocean of Gnarl off the western coast of the continent. While somewhat insular and superior by nature, the Gar possessed the most advanced weapons and machines on the planet. Many were also accomplished mages and sorcerers as well. To date, they had remained neutral in the war.
“The fools! I would have thought for sure that they would assist us after Talon Freidor’s last visit,” DaVann glanced over to his sword. It was a Gar “techno-sword” presented to him as a gift of goodwill during Freidor’s visit. The sword was forged of a gleaming silvery metal and intricately designed with moving parts on the guard and blade that responded to what the Gar had called his “bio-feedback.” DaVann found it powerful and unlike any other sword he had ever wielded. He had hoped he could obtain more weapons like this for his army.
“We are running out of people to ask for help,” he said.
“We have the Speleeans. Or what’s left of them. More forces from Avion are on call.”
“What about the Andreenids?”
Nimbos scowled. “If you bring those bugs in, you will lose half of Avion. Not that they would lift a claw to help anyone.”
DaVann groaned. “Has Fraxxis returned from Eternia Tower,” Nimbos asked.
“Yes. The Quadians are convinced that their fortress can withstand the Snake Men, as it has for centuries.”
“It might very well. That thing is nearly impregnable.”
“Come, friend. You must be tired after your long journey. Let’s put our troubles behind us in my hall. I know Veena will be happy to see you.”
***
Eternia had a habit of swallowing its own past. Home to dozens of sentient races, the planet’s history was a long chronicle of power struggles, battles, and wars. Long before men became the most populous race, dozens of non-human societies vied for control of the planet, from the feline Qadians, the bee-like Andreenids and all of them not only left behind their living descendants but physical artifacts of their time in power. On Eternia, every farmer fancied himself an archeologist, for to dig in the planet’s soils was to discover remnants of the world’s chaotic history.
The old man walked through the abandoned mountain citadel that humans had dubbed The Obsidian City. Its true name, he knew, had been lost with its original inhabitants, the Arachneans, an ancient race of Spider Warriors who had been driven to extinction by the rise of the Snake Men many centuries ago. Still, “The Obsidian City” accurately conveyed the place’s sharp, glossy blackness, the trademark of Arachnean architecture. Here, the walls were so smooth and black that snow would not even collect on them, and the place stood starkly against its icy backdrop. From a distance, with its jagged, jutting towers, the place looked like an enormous claw tearing into the sky.
It was not widely known, but their advances in science, architecture, and mathematics had been adopted or stolen by all the other civilized Eternian peoples and, despite their fearsome appearance, the Arachneans had been a peaceful race. The old man knew of their wisdom, and it was what had brought him to this place.
It was here, in this abandoned mountain castrum, that he hoped to encounter more of their knowledge. Like the other members of the Council of Elders, he had been sent by King DaVann on a mission to scour Eternia for ancient artifacts and devices which would be of use when the treaty inevitably fell and the war against the Snake Men continued. He knew it was something of a hopeless mission. Eternia’s small population of scholars and mystics had long ago surveyed the site, and the old man doubted he would find anything of use, but the Council of Elders was desperate for anything that would end the long stalemate.
It was then that he noticed a human shape in the distance approaching the citadel. The figure had long hair which danced in the savage mountain winds. He seemed to carry a bundle in his arms. The old man squinted at the distant man, who seemed close and yet far away at the same time. As the man crossed the bridge into the citadel, he realized that the approaching figure was not a human but one of the giants of Perpetua.
While most of the giant tribes had remained neutral in the conflict—their chilly mountain lands little interested the Snake Men—many had joined the opposing forces as mercenaries. One could never be too careful with giants, as they were notoriously territorial and quick to anger, although there were several of them who worked and lived among the Free People. Because of their size and strength, they were often employed in the construction of buildings and other projects. To their disgrace, many of the Free People had enslaved them in the past. The old man knew that this was another very legitimate reason to treat approaching giants with trepidation. He whispered a few words and vanished into the cold air, his breath the only trace of his presence.
***
The wind stung Tytus’ eyes. The hours-long trek through the mountains had exhausted him, and he was terribly worried about his herd. This trip had been a bad and stupid idea. What had possessed him to come here?
Crossing the bridge, he arrived at the Obsidian City. He was sure that he had seen a robed figure in the distance, but when he arrived, there had been no one. There was no way he’d even be able to fit into most of these structures, let alone search them. Perhaps he would simply leave the man in a building and be on his way.
“What brings you to the Obsidian City, giant?” The voice was huge and booming and echoed off the smooth black walls of the city. It spoke the Eternian Common Tongue.
“Show yourself,” Tytus replied, in the same language.
Nothing.
“I come,” Tytus said, “with an injured human. He...fell from the sky.”
“Unlikely. And why bring him here of all places?”
“I saw this city in a vision.”
The only response was a wind that howled through the citadel. Tytus waited for a response as his hair whipped around his head. Sharp ice had formed on the ends of his blond locks, and it cut at his face.
“I cannot help him,” the giant said desperately. “Please. He will die.”
“Show me this man,” and the speaker revealed himself to be an old, bearded human who regarded Tytus with suspicion. A rough-hewn hood hid most of his face.
Tytus looked down at the man. He gently set his bundle down before him. The giant peeled back a layer of fabric from the man’s face. The metallic fluid now seemed to cover half of his head. Unconscious, the man moaned in agony.
The old human looked taken aback. He looked up at Tytus, all the suspicion gone from his face. He laid a hand on Tytus’ large forearm.
“Take him, my friend. This way.” The old man led Tytus to an immense building. It was one of the few that were great enough to accommodate his enormous size.
Sealed inside from the freezing wind, the old man pulled back his cowl, revealing a gleaming bald head adorned with strange tattooed symbols. He muttered a few unfamiliar words, and a ball of fire appeared above their heads, illuminating the room and providing a comfortable warmth. Tytus noted that as the man spoke his incantations, some of his tattoos flared.
“Please sit.”
Tytus carefully set down the injured man and sat cross-legged before him. The old man sat down as well and regarded him with kindly eyes which danced in the fireball's light.
“I am Eldor,” he said. “I am a member of the Council of Elders of Eternia.”
“My name is Tytus. I am a shepherd. I live in these mountains but further west, near the Valley of Spiders.”
“Is that where you found our friend?”
“Yes. I saw a light in the sky and then heard a crash. When I went to inspect it, I found him sealed in some sort of great metallic shell. Can you help him?”
“I hope so,” Eldor replied. “To be clear, he was in the shell, which you say fell from the sky? Is that correct?”
Tytus nodded.
“And the vision?”
Tytus reached into his tunic and pulled out the sword, which was wrapped in hide.
Tytus pointed to his temple, struggling to explain what had happened. “It wasn’t a...head vision. It was in this.”
He held his long arm out over the suffering man. Eldor stood, regarding the sword.
“The vision was in the sword?”
He reached out and took the sword from Tytus, and when he held it in his hand, he felt an amazing power flow through his body. The sword changed color in his hand, no longer metallic but deeply black with stellar pinpoints of light. It was like the night sky, but clearer and more vivid than any sky that Eldor had beheld in his many years.
The sword seemed not so much an inanimate object but a living being with its own will, and it seemed to evaluate him as though trying to determine whether he was worthy of its power. Eldor fell to his knees, the ball of light hovering above them dimmed as the old man lost his focus. The tattoos on the old man’s head exploded in a riot of light and color. Tytus stood to his full height.
“Eldor! Are you all right?”
“Yes.” And as suddenly as the power had grabbed him, it had released him.
“That sword,” he gasped, “is a powerful magical object. It belongs to the man?”
“Yes. It was in the shell with him.”
Eldor regarded the man again. From his robes he pulled a small vial and a swab. He pushed a sample of the metallic fluid into the vial. He also produced a large book with a weathered leather cover.
“I’ve seen nothing like it before,” he said. “And you said the shell was metal?”
“Yes. There were machines and devices inside.”
“Machines,” Eldor repeated. “Machines are not uncommon. The Gar build machines, although mostly for their own amusement. But they’ve built nothing like what you describe.” Eldor thought that his trip to the Obsidian City was to be significant after all. The sword and the craft could be important to the course of the war. It was critical that he revive their owner.
Eldor sat cross-legged before the prone man. He cracked open the book, searching through the pages which were not paper but sheets of a dried hide-like material and covered in markings not unlike his tattoos. Eldor pulled back the sleeve of his robe, revealing sinuous arms that were covered in many tattoos depicting symbols and what appeared to be words in unknown languages. At the touch of his fingers, the symbols and words illuminated and danced on his skin, and the symbols on the book responded in kind, apparently communicating.
“What manner of markings are those,” Tytus asked, fascinated.
“It is a kind of book. You could say I am a kind of book as well. But it is a repository of the lives and experiences of generations of Eternian wizards, mages, and mystics, and imbued with their power and wisdom.”
“Amazing! Are you a... wizard, then?”
The old man chuckled. “I’ve never cared for that word much myself. I prefer to think of myself more as a scholar.”
With a quill, Eldor drew a circle on his open palm. Quickly, symbols and runes ran down his arm and orbited the drawn circle. Eldor poured the silvery contents of the vial into the circle, and they vanished into his skin. He grimaced, inhaled sharply, and closed his eyes.
“Now what,” asked Tytus.
“We wait.”
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