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.
Among the Snake Men, he was known as The General, but the human Eternian peasants had another name for him. In their idiotic naming fashion, they called him Rattlor. He didn’t mind. Let the fools call him anything they liked, so long as they feared him to the core. The dry sound of the shaker on the end of his tail would be the last thing they ever heard.
He paused at the doorway of his master’s chamber in Viper Tower as he waited to be acknowledged. He was one of the few Snake Men allowed to see King Hssss in this state, although it disturbed him greatly. His tail twitched nervously as he waited, generating a soft whooshing sound.
“Come, General,” his master’s voice was dull and muffled.
Rattlor stepped into the dark room. King Hssss was in the middle of his slow, painful transformation from his serpent aggregate form to his humanoid form. He had already grown human legs, but from the waist up, he was a mass of serpents bundled together, over which man-flesh grew in slimy sheets and sickly patches. Soon, he would be indistinguishable from a human being in appearance.
Hssss was the first of the Snake Men, and he was at once the most serpent and the most human. Their maker was given to wild experimentation that created creatures such as Hssss and their humanoid comrade, Snake Face. Successive generations of hybrids resulted in more stable forms like the General himself and their infantry, who were tailed bipedal reptoids but none as powerful or cunning as Hssss.
His master’s repulsive human legs twitched on the ground. There was even a fine mammalian hair on them. Rattlor regarded them with an uncomfortable mix of revulsion and hunger. There was a terrible price to be paid for Hssss’ power, that much was certain. His great serpent head shifted beneath the thin sheet of human skin that encased it.
“What of my army?”
“We were able to open the portal long enough to bring through legions of troops. They are ready to set forth from Snake Mountain at your command.”
“And Serpos?”
“She is ready to fly, my king,” he said with a venomous grin.
“Good...We will make an example of the Quadians first. And then later wipe out the human settlements in the west. We will give them time to marinate in fear. Scared meat is good meat.”
***
Blackness. Unlike the darkness of space, it was unbroken by starlight. It was a calm, dark nothingness and a relief from the blazing silvery haze he had recently experienced. He could feel himself coming back from the abyss, his memories and identity slowly accreting in his head.
Ro had been on a mission flying in tandem with Karmuz and Quimak when they had discovered the Horde attack force for which they had been searching. There had been a capital ship and a sizable assault squadron. He knew the giant ship from many previous skirmishes: the Mantisaur.
It was the flagship of Hordak, the younger brother of the leader of the interstellar Horde Empire and the architect of its brutal military expansion. While Horde Prime busied himself with the business of ruling his empire, he sent his brother to the frontiers to conquer new worlds with his endless army of automatons and his cadre of flesh-and-blood goons. Ro had little affinity for Horde imperial politics, but it was clear enough that the Prime wanted his ambitious little brother as far away as possible from the throne.
Ro and Hordak were not merely opponents in an interstellar war but enemies whose pasts and futures were inextricably intertwined. Hordak didn’t know it, but it was his campaign of terror through the galactic sector which resulted not only in the destruction of Ro’s homeworld but in his elevation to the semi-mythical role of a Cosmic Warrior by the Council of Trolla. Hordak had destroyed his life and unknowingly made a new one possible.
In his former existence on Sul Dagara, Ro had been little more than a minor wizard, one of many who had served the Dagaran people. His world had been pastoral, primitive even, and Ro had spent the better part of his young life training and serving in the cloistered world of the Mage Corps. Upon his graduation to Wizard, he had been given an ornate golden Staff of Protection powered by a mystical azure jewel, and his assignment was to serve in an agricultural village held by the House of the Smoking Skull, his ancestral clan. It was a backwater part of an obscure planet that the galaxy had largely ignored. Ro had used his abilities to heal and settle the occasional dispute between farmers.
The attack was sudden and shocking. If there had ever been any direct communication between his people and the invaders, Ro knew nothing of it. The Horde had attacked his world from orbit. Ro had never even seen the face of an enemy soldier. The conquest of Sul Dagara ended as quickly as it began. The Horde had apparently taken what they wanted and decided that it was to their advantage to depopulate the planet for later use.
Ro survived, having slept in the cavernous stone cellar of his mage’s tower. He walked the scorched face of his planet for weeks, searching for other survivors, but found no one. No one from his world, anyway.
He had made his way to the crumbling capital city and encountered a pair of strange beings. They were small and cloaked in violet robes and seemed to hover over the ground. They regarded him with curious yellow eyes which shone from the blackness deep within their cowls.
“You are the last Dagaran,” one of the creatures asked him in an unknown language, which he somehow understood. He could see blue skin on the aliens’ hands.
“Are you responsible for this, aliens,” Ro demanded, his staff crackling with energy. He had been practicing funneling his loneliness and rage into using his powers in new, more offensive ways.
“No,” the other replied. “We have no reason to harm this world. It is the Horde on which you seek revenge. They have cut a path of destruction through this sector. We are merely accounting.”
“We are of Trolla,” the other one said. “We seek to intervene to bring balance to this dimension and therefore to neutralize the Horde. You seek to neutralize them as well.”
“I want to make them pay for what they have done!”
“We believe that your retribution will serve our ends.”
Ro looked around at the blighted landscape.
“And justice?”
“Justice is not our concern. Do you wish to make use of our resources to achieve neutrality?”
“Just get me out of here. I can’t bear living in this tomb anymore.”
Ro had made a hasty decision, born of loneliness and the desire to escape the pain of wandering through the wreckage of Sul Dagara. The two Trollans had spirited him away to what they called a “sanctuary dimension,” where he was to train in their timeless realm. With other survivors of the Horde from various worlds, Ro studied under Zodac, one of their mysterious Cosmic Enforcers.
The Trollans were typically guarded with their plans, and he assumed that he and the others were training to join the ranks of their Cosmic Enforcers. After months of exhaustive training, Ro and his comrade, Jangus, were the two remaining members of his group. The Trollans had pulled the others from the program one-by-one. They dispatched the two final candidates to the front lines of Bolaurus, a world on the verge of falling to Hordak’s forces. Their Trollan handler, Marquo, sent them out with only the vaguest instructions. Like Ro, the Trollans had pulled Jangus from the ruins of a conquered world, and during their long months of training, the two had often fantasized about bringing the fight to the Horde.
While Jangus arrived in the beleaguered capital with excitement and enthusiasm and a willingness to charge into battle, Ro saw only a hopeless situation. They had arrived too late, and their allies could barely hold a defensive line against the Horde. All around them were desperate and injured people, and Ro’s appetite for vengeance and battle had instantly left him in the face of so much suffering. The training he had received during his time with the Trollans was of little use to him, and Ro went back to his days as a mage, using his powers to attend to the injured and assist in the city’s evacuation. Jangus, however, disappeared into the battle.
When he returned to base and Marquo met him, he peppered the old Trollan with questions.
“Have you any word from Jangus? I lost track of him in the chaos.”
“Our candidates are of great value to us. We recovered him.”
“What is our purpose? Are we to become Cosmic Enforcers?”
“I think not,” the Trollan replied. “To be an Enforcer requires a certain...ambivalence. They must be as prepared to do evil as to do good. Your duties are narrower in focus. You are to be the center of our efforts against the Horde. For Jangus, we have other plans.”
“I don’t think I can do it. You’ve attempted to fashion me into a weapon of vengeance, but I’ve no love for fighting.”
“This is what will make you a great warrior. The only people worthy to wield great power are those who do not want it.”
And with that, a group of Trollans and Cosmic Enforcers appeared and circled him. From the starry ceiling descended a thin box adorned with a stylized “H” symbol, which settled before Ro on a golden pedestal. The box collapsed upon itself, and Ro saw what it contained.
He would have called it a sword, but he wasn’t sure that was an accurate word for it. To his eyes it appeared more a sword-shaped window into the heart of the cosmos made of burning stars and blackest space. Ro stared into it, mesmerized by the tiny blazing galaxies and the gauzy nebulas which glowed with hazy light. It was a furnace of creation.
“What is it,” he stammered.
“It is our greatest weapon,” Marquo replied. “A blade made for one above all others: the Cosmic Warrior. It is the Sword of He, one that harnesses the power of the universe itself. You may wield it if it allows you to.”
Ro paused. The old Trollan regarded him curiously, and there had been a note of danger in his voice, as though some awful fate could befall him if the sword would not “allow” him to wield it. Ro wondered how many other candidates had stood there before him.
He reached out and grabbed the sword. It swayed and danced in his hand as though being pulled by an outside force. Ro felt as though he were grappling with the sword, as though he was in its grip as much as the other way around. The sword was a living thing, and it was wrestling him and evaluating him.
A hot power seemed to flow from the sword’s handle, flowing into Ro’s body. On some level he was alarmed, but he knew he could not let go even if he had wanted to. Ro tightened his grip and found he was better able to control the sword. Blazing, Ro held it above his head. He was overpowering it, yet the sword continued to fight him.
Ro heard a screeching voice in his head. Not worthy. You are nothing.
“Noooo,” he cried through his clenched teeth, and fully opened himself to the sword’s power, letting it flow through him, making him powerful. He was more than just the man he had been. He had been fused with the power of the Sword of He, with the power of the universe itself.
“I AM HE-RO,” he thundered, and his titanic struggle with the sword ended in a blinding discharge of light and energy. When his vision returned, he found himself changed. His Enforcer harness had been replaced a fine golden armor and cape, and the Sword of He had become opaque and metallic. In one of the gleaming panels, He-Ro caught his reflection and saw the sigil for the House of the Smoking Skull on the back of his cape.
Marquo looked at him with what could only be pride.
“My pupil,” he said, “you have the power. Go forth and fight evil.”
Aboard the Mantisaur, Hordak regarded the inky void that filled the transparent bubble of the ship’s observation deck. His crew had only recently regained control of the ship and prevented their fiery demise in a stellar atmosphere. Hordak had sealed himself off from the bridge and the disturbing information from his navigators and stellar cartographers. They had somehow found themselves on the opposite side of the galaxy from their last location, where He-Ro and a small strike force of Cosmic Enforcers had ambushed them.
The human He-Ro had become a nuisance to him. While he was only one man, he had dramatically foiled enough of Hordak’s plans to become a very visible symbol of rebellion against the Horde. His very appearance was seemingly designed to inspire hope in Hordak’s enemies. Hordak had first seen him via a holographic recording in the wake of a battle in which the resistance had badly defeated his Horde Troopers. He-Ro had stood atop a small hill, his gleaming golden armor emblazoned with the symbol of the legendary Sword of He and his crimson cape fluttering in the wind. He was as noble and handsome a figure as Hordak was frightening and ugly. Even by the standards of the Ghoil, Hordak was an unattractive specimen, his sallow, chitinous face was prone to warts, and a permanent scowl was stamped on his face.
With the entrance of the Cosmic Warrior into the campaign, Hordak knew they had crossed some dangerous new threshold and that the Trollans had moved aggressively against him. While their Cosmic Enforcers had intervened in small ways before, it had mostly been to save lives. With Hordak’s latest series of conquests, the Horde seemed to have offended the Trollans’ famous sense of “balance,” or so his brother, the new Horde Prime, had told him.
“You go too far, my brother,” he had said as he accompanied Hordak through the palace on one of the rare occasions that the younger sibling was called back to the throne world. Horde Prime was taller than his brother and fashionably emaciated. He carried a long staff, which only highlighted his great height and gauntness. Prime’s face was a deep crimson from constant exposure to the red giant star which their planet orbited. Among the Ghoil, it was considered a desirable skin tone.
“I do only what you have asked of me. I would much rather be back home helping you rule.”
Horde Prime regarded him, eyes narrowing to red slits. “Indeed, little brother, that much is clear, but I think you would have little patience for life here in the capital. You lack the temperament to govern. Your lack of subtlety better suits the battlefield.”
Hordak said nothing. Although he was the younger sibling, in truth, either of them could have been chosen to rule, but the Council of Wraith had passed him up in favor of his brother. The Council was a group of powerful magic-wielders that played an important role in the empire. Hordak’s brother possessed an affinity for the Unseen, which Hordak sorely lacked.
“Continue winning us new worlds in the border systems, but do not make a mess of it,” his brother said, all but dismissing him from the palace that had once been his home. “Once provoked, the Trollans would be powerful adversaries.”
And so Hordak returned to his assignment, which he felt to be a kind of banishment, months away from the center of power. Ignoring his brother’s words, Hordak funneled his anger and frustration into his work, visiting an unprecedented campaign of violence and brutality on the worlds of the galactic borderlands. During those months, Hordak shaped himself into a new role. He was no longer a spoiled and callow prince; he was now Hordak, Brutal Warlord of the Horde Empire.
He turned his attention inward, his mind frequently drifting back to his brother in the capital. His brother had known nothing of war or conquest. He had simply contented himself with politics and-even worse-governance. The Horde Empire deserved a more inspiring figure than a petty bureaucrat, the so-called Lord of the Seen and Unseen. Hordak entertained the idea of turning his hardened fighting force inward, like a dagger aimed at the heart of the empire, at his brother.
And, in a decidedly Trollan turn of events, He-Ro had risen to counterbalance him, winning a series of victories against his forces and distracting him from his grand plans. He had decided that the human was a test. If he could defeat him, his brother would be next.
He-Ro had become a symbol, and a symbol could not be killed. However, a symbol could be perverted. Hope was a fragile thing. They would make He-Ro a monster. Hordak’s scientists had developed a techno-organic virus which, in most test subjects, allowed the scientists control of thought and higher brain functions. On others, it created violent dementia. Either way, they would neutralize He-Ro, and Hordak could move his attention to his brother, Horde Prime.
Hordak had allowed the Mantisaur to be tracked and ambushed by He-Ro and his attack squad. He had prepared a special volley of missiles topped with warheads armed with payloads of the virus. They had hit He-Ro’s ship. It had almost been too easy. The craft veered out of control, and a metallic fluid that carried the virus blanketed the cockpit. Hordak knew it was only a matter of time before it worked its way inside. He reclined in his command chair, satisfied.
He should have suspected the worst when his brother contacted him via hologram, his giant translucent head suddenly looming over him.
“Hordak,” he thundered. “Your campaign is at an end.”
His brother’s sudden appearance had genuinely surprised Hordak. “Brother? I have defeated He-Ro. We’ve destroyed the resistance.”
“I’ve made an arrangement with the Trollans,” Horde Prime continued, ignoring his brother. “They’ve agreed to sacrifice He-Ro and to put an end to the rebellion, and in exchange...”
Hordak’s blood ran cold.
“In a gesture of balance, I will sacrifice you, my brother. I warned you. I warned you.”
And no sooner had the transmission cut off to static and enormous vortex opened outside the Mantisaur. Alarms sounded throughout the ship, and Hordak could feel the giant craft suddenly straining to fight the force of the gravity well. He could see through the viewscreen as He-Ro’s craft and some of the smaller Horde fighters disappeared into the swirling maw. Hordak felt a spike of anger at seeing his enemy slip away.
Had the Mantisaur been farther away, they certainly would have been able to pull from the singularity, but Hordak knew that if they continued to fight it, they would pull the ship apart. He gave the order to ease off the engines and allowed his ship to pass through the vortex.
And here they were in a remote corner on the opposite side of the galaxy, where it would take centuries to even reach the remotest outpost of the Horde Empire with a functional ship. The trip through the vortex had badly damaged his flagship, and it would only be a matter of time before gravity pulled them into the small planet in which they were in orbit. In fact, the entire sector seemed to be devoid of any kind of radio or photonic transmission.
He heard the soft hum of a door opening behind him. Only one being on board would dare disturb him. There was a soft rustle of fabric as Shadow Weaver floated next to him.
Crimson robes covered her from head to toe—except for her bony gray arms and her luminous yellow eyes. Shadow Weaver was the head of the small contingent of Wraiths that served aboard his ship. The Wraiths were a powerful faction of sorcerers that held great power in the empire, but Hordak did not trust them and disliked having them stationed on his ship. Shadow Weaver, however, had proven herself loyal and useful on many occasions.
“Your engineers are working to get the ship into a stable orbit,” she whispered.
“Where is He-Ro,” Hordak demanded. The one thing that might offer him consolation would be finally besting his nemesis.
“Unknown.”
“What do you mean, unknown? We both went through the same vortex. He should have come out ahead of us.”
“We know nothing about the portal. For all we know, he might appear somewhere else entirely or even at a later time.”
“Find him.”
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