They're Weak

"They’re weak." "Weak?" "Yes. They’re weak." "Weak?" "Very. I’ve gone to different parts of their realm. I can even walk on their holy grounds. I’ve killed their best warriors, and taken some to bed. They’re pitiful. Absolutely and completely frail and weak." "That’s impossible. What about the great arenas? Their greatest warriors?" "They use the arenas, but not for battles. They just move a toy ball around and count where it goes." "So who are the champions of their greatest wars? That’s who we want to conquer." "They have no great champions in their wars. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. They’re weak." "That’s ridiculous. How can wars be like that? You’re asking me to believe in wars without great champions." "I’m not asking you, I’m telling you. They have wars and slaughters but no great champions. They’re so weak that anyone can kill anyone." "Maybe they’re like the Assimar. You know, celestial powers hidden inside weak mortal bodies." "Nope. They’re born weak and their ancestors are weak. I interrogated many. Do you have any idea how easy it was for my torture to kill them?" "Spare me. Okay, maybe they’re spellcasters. You know, like witches and sorcerers. A weak body but powerful war magic inside." "Nope. I went to their gatherings of magic devotees. They look just like spellcasters there. But I told you, I killed their best easily. There’s no magic anywhere." "No rituals?" "Oh there’s rituals all right. It’s just that there’s no magic in them! It’s all pretend. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you." "Pretend... so they are shapeshifters? Deception can be the foundation of great wars. I fondly remember the bloodline purges." "You’re not understanding, are you? You’re refusing to deal with what I’m telling you. There’s no magic. It’s all pretend. Adults wear toy costumes. It’s usually not even convincing." "Toy costumes! You’re asking me to believe that?" "Yes! Fake elf ears. Fake wings. Fake muscles. All useless. All weak." "So they manufacture. Like the gnomes of Ellundale. We could battle their great war machines." "No. The metal is weak." "How is metal weak? Do they have eternum?" "No." "Mithril?" "No." "Everyone has infernal iron. Surely..." "No! They use a non-magical iron blend called steel. Your dinner knife could pierce their greatest war machine. Are you beginning to get the picture or do I have to start over?" "By the Nine Hells. You’re serious. They’re weak." "Thank you. Finally. Yes. They are indeed weak. And they’ve been trying to get in touch with us for thousands of years." "By the Nine Hells. So what do these weaklings have in mind?" "First they want to meet us. Then I imagine they want power, exploration, and hedonism. The usual." "Why would we help weaklings?" "That’s their idea. That’s the message from most of their rituals. ‘Hello. We offer this and that. Please give us your strength and sex and magic.’ That sort of thing." "They actually offer deals, then?" "Oh yes. Except it’s all weak." "I thought you just told me they use rituals." "They do, but what do you think is offered? Weak things. Blood of non-magical beasts. Souls of weaklings with no cosmic destiny or value whatsoever. The lifetime devotion of weaklings." "By the Nine Hells. This is too much. So what do you advise?" "Officially or unofficially?" "Both." "Officially, we are required to declare war on any realms we could conquer, without prejudice. Burn and consume to fuel the Blood Wars. Unofficially, I advise that we erase the records and forget the whole thing." "I was hoping you would say that." "It seems wasteful, but there is a limit. Do we really want our junior barbazu learning about war by battling weaklings?" "I agree down to my last drop of blood. But will this work? How many realms are we dealing with here?" "Just one. They can hear weak signals from other realms but they can’t send anything back. And being weak, they can only travel in their realm. So the possibility of their ever making contact is pretty slim. Maybe zero." "So around here we just pretend there’s no heaven, no hells, no magic, and no cosmic wars?" "That’s it." "Mercy is revolting. But you said it yourself, you alone easily killed their best warriors. Who wants to squash rats? What about the ones you took to your bed? You left no trace of magic?" "No one survived." "Of course. How strangely appropriate that weakness to pain is also weakness to pleasure." "And even if I left traces of magic, no weakling can sense it or use it." "Good. Agreed, officially and unofficially. Case closed. Any others? Any interesting realms on this side of the material plane?" "Yes, a mixed race of small but industrious dwarven Aasimar just started mining nether iron from a hellmouth. Their prince just sold his soul for a harem." "Fantastic. I love slaughtering cosmic bastards."