Evidently, I shamble when I walk. It's hard for me not to. At 6'6" and 350 pounds, even a human would shamble a bit. but I am no human. The bright red fur that covers my body quickly eliminates the possibility of my being a man. And upon closer look, if I'm not covering my face with a cowel or hood, you'll solidify your forgone conclusion by seeing my spiked, upward pointing teeth and beady yellow eyes. My horns slope backwards, thankfully, so I can hide them with a hat or scarf. But my bulbous pink nose is impossibly to mask, and was often made fun of when I was a youthful creature.
I am a monster, in the truest sense of the word. I was found on the steps of an orphanage as an infant, wrapped in a large cloth note describing my heritage as one-half human, one half monster. In those heady days, the keepers of the home for lost children were well equiped to take care of all manner of young beings, and they did not turn me away for my breeding. Fortunately for me, I was born over forty years ago. Were my small form to have appeared upon the doorstep of an orphanage today, the discoverer would likely have sliced me into ribbons and fed me to the animals of the nearest farm.
Today, things are very different. I am safe from the torment and hatred that most people feel for monsters. Wearing clothes and speaking English are two surefire ways to make friends when you're a big hairy beast. The truth is, most humans want to be friends with a monster, but due to the war, they find it almost impossible to find any with which to socialize.
And so, they find me in bars, in stores, on the street, and shake my hand and smile at me. Then they go on their merry way, happy that they now have a large, shambling monster as a friend. A perfect friend to have if you're ever in a sticky situation.
But today, we are all in such a predicament. Today, we are preparing for the final battle. The great calamity which will either end this war once and for all, or prolong it in a tattered and defeated form for all of humanity.
I stand on the prow of the massive Victoria, a life float larger than any yet seen by civilization. The boat (though calling her this is an enormous understatement) is ppowered by a fleet of wizards, on rotating duty 24 hours a day, funneling their magical energies into her, keeping her afloat, moving, powered, and water-tight.
It is one of these wizards which stands before me now, handing out olive leaves soaked in sacred juices blessed by the Emperor. The men around me calmly wait for their leaf, and as I accidentlly grabbed two, I hand my extra leaf to a nearby archer. These leaves, we are told, will heal us, but only once. They must be saved for our most dyer moments.
I walk to the edge of this group of men and look down at the railing along the edge of this platform. Below, the sea churns. Above, men shuffle through an almost infinite row of weaponry. Some is ornate, some is desperately old, some is rare and of unknown origin.
I have yet to choose my weapon. There are some guns here, but most are old and rusted, or wildly underpowered. I pick up a small, curved black sword, and playfully spare with a nearby man who must be at least sixty. After our breif fight, i decide that the small sword I've chosen is not adequate for my needs. Instead, I choose a long barrele'd rifle with a rectangular slotted box at the bottom. I hold it up in the waning sunlight, checking it from top to bottom. i've never fired a gun before, nor held one, for that matter.
The words inscribed upon the hilt of the thing read "Cathcart." A nearby man explains that it's a fast shooter, but the bullets don't go very far. I shoulder it and fire a few rounds over the edge of the ship. They splash into the water almost 50 feet away. not far at all, and th shots fell quickly. But seven of them launched when I pulled the trigger for but a second. This could surely do some damage when the enemy is up close. I pull the strap away from Cathcart and sling it over my shoulder. The strap is stretched to its most distant point by my bulk. I don't need a sword yet. i'll return and get one later, when the choicecs are easier.
I turn and wander off the deck, shambling through the thick crowds of men. They part for me as I wander through their midst. I am the only monster on-board who has agreed to fight. The others work down below, in shops or as traders. Then there are those even further below who row. But I've never seen them. They are not allowed out. They are slaves.
Underneath the deck of the Victoria, a bustling city exists. Open markets, restaurants, schools, offices, and government outposts line the streets here, though now they are all mostly empty. A few stragglers man their shop stalls, and the women flutter behind counters in their flowing and hooped dresses. I wander, aimless in my direction.
Through a port window, I can see rows of the emperor's ships lined up on the shore. Their red-coated soldiers stand at attention along the deck. These are the proper armies, unlike the one onboard the Victoria. These red-coated men will likely form the first waves of attackers upon the shores of our destination. These red-coated men will be the first to fight the ravenous monsters that plague our lands. And these red-coated men will be the first to die.
There are thousands of them, too. A dozen ships sail out to meet the Victoria now, all of them lined with soldiers. They come from the starboard side now, too. They follow us into battle, into our long journey towards destiny.
The onyl ones who remain below deck now are the women and the monsters. I find a tall, blue fellow standing over booth in the center of one of the market roads. He is chiding someone who sits in the booth, eating soup. There, below, is a small green monsters. hIs head is shaped like a football, and his black mouth opens occasionally to admit a spoonful of thick orange soup.
What are you doing, eh? asks the blue monster who stand over him, frowning, with his arms crossed.
The green fellow says nothing. He continues to eat his soup.
I stop, look down at the green guy. "What is your name?" I ask
But I don't need to ask, really. I know this green fuzzy fellow's name already.
This is Oscar the Grouch