Snookums and the Final Frontier

Once it became clear that the world was ending, Snookums had a choice to make: fight to the bitter end, or try to save his family and all they had built over the ages.

Ever the pragmatist, he let reason and cold logic lead him back to his ancestral Hold to warn the Stoneheart Council and help them prepare to survive the inevitable apocalypse.

Ever the compassionate, he couldn't help but feel he had abandoned his friends in their darkest hour.

News of his arrival spread quickly through Stoneheart Hold, and the Council sent for him almost immediately. He took a deep breath and arranged his thoughts before pushing on the perfectly balanced mithral doors and approaching the semicircle of intricately wrought golden desks.

He cleared his throat and addressed the Council: “Khaz-Graakh” (lit. Chief Engineers. The most formal of Dwarven greetings)

“Son, there is no need or time to stand on formality here” said the leftmost Dwarf with a kindly smile.

“Thank you Father. I bring dire news. The Demon Lord Orcus will collapse reality and destroy us all very soon. We must make preparations to leave the plane!”

Once he started, Snookums’ story rushed out. There were some questions and a lot of concerned whispering between the councillors before he stumbled to a halt, holding back the tears that had been threatening to overwhelm him for days.

“Very well, we shall begin to coordinate the Companies and prepare the evacuation of the Valley. Thank you for bringing us this warning, Son of Grak.”

“What can I do to help?”

“What you’ve been doing all along. The Great Downward needs a Stoneheart to lead them, and without you the Demon Lord shall surely prevail.”

“But my Chief, what can one dwarf do?”

“What one dwarf always does. Uphold the honour of the dwarven people and protect the Valley.”

“You mean…?”

“Yes, Son. The best way for you to serve the Clan is to return to your friends and fight this evil.”

One Councillor, who had stayed silent until now cleared his throat and spoke up: “I think you should come with me, Snookums..”

Snookums looked at his father, who nodded. He followed the other dwarf out of the chamber and through a series of rough-hewn stone corridors. His innate sense of direction told him they were going deeper into the mountain that he had ever gone before. They came to a halt in front of the heaviest set of doors Snookums had ever seen.

“This is the family vault. Only I hold the key, and only I can give you permission to enter. Take whatever you need. The treasure of ages is worthless to us without a plane to appreciate it on.”

The old dwarf opened the door and stepped aside. Snookums picked a lit torch off the nearby wall and entered the vault alone. Torchlight reflected back at him from piles of gems, mountains of metal ingots and racks of weapons and armour. The vault extended into the dark distance, further than he could see.

Snookums wandered for hours through the vault, trying on armour and feeling the heft of several ancient weapons. He found his way to a small forge, and was surprised to find it lit. The warmth around the forge was comforting. He set down the plate armour he had been carrying on a bench, and looked around, wondering how he would fit it himself.

“Can I help you?” A soft voice, edged with the hardest steel, startled Snookums.

“What? Who are you? The Council said I would be alone here!”

“I’m just the caretaker. Let me see that breastplate…”

“Oh..” Snookums’ confusion vanished as he got swept up helping the mysterious dwarf adjust the straps and buckles of the ancient dwarven armour.

“Now you’ll be needing a weapon to fight demons...” said the dwarf, picking through a rack of hammers. “Here, I think this will suit your needs nicely.”

Snookums felt the power flow through him as he held the warhammer and admired the lovingly carved runes. He found that he could understand the mystical runes, and as he read them, the various powers of the hammer were made known to him. His confidence started to grow, and he felt the faintest hope that he might survive the coming fight.

“Hmmm, what’s missing? A shield, to protect us all! The kindly old dwarf turned to another bench and picked up a new-looking iron shield. “Here’s one I just finished working on, I think it’ll serve the purpose.”

Holding the shield in his other hand, Snookums felt the mystical powers amplify within his body, fortifying his soul and bringing a grin to his face.

The caretaker broke the silence after a few moments. “Perfect… I do believe you are as prepared as you can be. Do you feel ready?”

“I think so. I’m carrying the weapons and armour of my ancestors. The will of the clan is behind me. Dwerfater himself couldn’t improve my lot.“

“Really?” he said, with a twinkle in his eye. “Then I guess we should get you on your way…”

“Yes. Thank you for the help.. I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

The twinkle in the old dwarf’s eye caught Snookums’ attention again. As he reached out towards Snookums, the twinkle turned into a glow, and the dwarf’s eyes flashed golden.

Snookums felt his guts suddenly drop through his feet, as the room vanished. A blur of white and a metallic taste overloaded his senses, and he fell to his knees, squeezing his eyes shut to stop his head spinning.

“Snooks??!” cried Agamemnon.

The Gods of the Sixth Age

Erika had found her time adventuring with Kruin to be…humbling. That wasn’t a word Erika had been familiar with before. Being born a fey creature placed you above most creatures anyway simply by virtue of what you were and being a fey princess, well now you were above basically all other fey creatures too. There was never cause to be humble.

But then she’d started travelling into Rappun Athuck and it quickly became clear that none of her inborn advantages were worth a dried liver badger treat. Trickery of her kind just wasn’t up to the task of defeating such dangerous creatures as were found down there, wasn’t even much good for distracting them enough to allow the fully fledged members of Great Downwards to deal with them (which, when she was being honest with herself, was the best she’d really hoped for).

Then came the fight with Scramge. She saw what truly powerful illusions could do and was slain by them. While Kruin never said anything about it, Erika knew that they must have had to humiliate and debase themselves to that egomaniacal whiskered freak. Erika’s powers weren’t a boon to the Company, they were a hindrance, and so she left them. 

For a few months she helped on the glass island. It was valuable work to be sure, but not like the life she built up to expect for herself, the life of an adventurer. And as the strange shapes in the sky began to grow, she became more and more frustrated. What good what restoring an island if potentially this whole world was going to be laid to waste? But what could she do? Humbly, she had no choice but to leave it to others and hope they’d get the job done.

*****

Kruin’s reaction was unusual for her, as much as anything Kruin did could be considered any more unusual than any other thing. The story of Macry, a hero who had fought too hard for her cause, and too well, and had thus been banished along with a group of foul monsters to some timeless prison, weighed hard on Erika’s friend. “What can we do for her? She didn’t deserve this, not really…” Kruin kept saying. “She was a mighty hero, now this…”

“To all but the Company she never stopped being a mighty hero.” Erika put in. “Well yah, but that’s not real, is just what people think, just like a trick…” “But, I guess in the world of gods and all that stuff, the difference between a trick and the truth isn’t as clear as it is down here,” Erika returned, the ideas just forming in her head as she spoke them “If enough people believe something here, it becomes true up there.” “Since when did you know about this stuff?”  “I’m a wizard now, remember,” continued Erika “Reading is…it’s what we do.” She felt a touch of shame at this, reading was really doing, it was just hearing about other things being done.

Kruin didn’t seem happy with that conclusion, but there was little sense taking the conversation further. Kruin had big things to worry about, a fight against an avatar to prepare for, and she wasn’t good at preparing at the best of times. But Erika, as had been shown, didn’t have better things to do. She had no role in fighting a god. But maybe she had a role in the opposite. If enough people believed Macry to be a mighty hero, and enough more joined in that belief, maybe the hero that Macry was would be reborn as a god, the villain she had become transforming into a greater being of hope and valiance. Maybe if enough people started to believe.

********

This idea stewed in Erika’s head in the weeks after the fight with Macry. She dropped the subtle hint here and there where she could, fake trickles of blood rising up from swords whilst guards were practicing and such, but she knew the real work would come after the Company had finished. People would be looking for new things to believe in whatever changed world they found themselves in.

It wasn’t until the night before Kruin and the other were about to embark on their final fight that Erika realized she might be on the wrong track. Foil always amused her and she’d been wanting a rematch of her previous race with his pigeon companion (she knew the bird had cheated in the last one somehow) and headed up to the roof of the Fallen Sword to find them, but there she found Kingsley and Shades too. Sensing this was a somber moment she stayed back, and learned from their discussion, to her horror, the true nature of what they were planning.

Erika immediately realized she had the wrong target. If anyone deserved ascension it was Kingsley, and given that she’d have already been a god by the time thing were ‘resolved’ she might be an easier target. Come to think of it, there was still going to be a chunk of star stone, so perhaps one of the others from the Company could also be helped to ascend if they fell.

In minutes Erika rewrote her plan. She’d travel with the refugees to the plane of air – having another flyer on hand would be very handy there whatever happened – and she’d work from there with whatever was left of the people of this world. She’d start slowly, produce some very minor ‘miracles’ here and there, just to let people know that there was something watching over them. Over time she’d grow as far as her illusions could get away with, but it wouldn’t all be about illusions anyway. Even if they failed tomorrow, Kingsley and the Company would have saved these people from some kind of worse fate anyway, delayed the destruction of their world and created a path to freedom for a lucky few, so they truly would be their saviors anyway, and enough people would know that without any tricks. Hopefully someone would emerge with the last bit of the star stone, but either way, people’s beliefs would be strong.

No one knew what the sixth age would involve, but if Erika had her way it’s gods would be Kingsley and The Great Downwards Engineering Company.

Kingsley: In this Twilight

The magnificent view from the rooftop of the Fallen Sword was its worst kept secret. Technically it was out of bounds, but the high crenellations around the edges meant that it was very safe. Someone would have to really try, or be about as tall as a troll if they wanted to fall off. The only punishment being found there would get you was a stern lecture from Brother Eldruin, or maybe a disappointed sigh from Gabriel of Arden if you were lucky. So of course the rooftop was a popular place for rebellious adventurers and divine apprentices who needed to break the rules every now and again.

It was here where Lady Kingsley had spent a good part of her final day. Foil, the old tsarthar druid, had brought with him a generous keg of mead and some mugs, whilst Kingsley had brought a decent selection of Dejune’s signature crab rolls. The two were unusual but firm friends. Having already braved certain death in the face of the divine, Foil had some insights that Kingsley appreciated. And Foil himself was always happy to make new friends, even if they looked like the kind of person that may have smote him in different circumstances. Together, with the ever excitable Crumbs the pigeon, they filled their cups, picked at their pastries, and watched the busy town below.

“Her name is Macry, because… well, honestly because I thought Lady Macry was my hero when I was fourteen and eager to start hitting things with swords,” Kingsley unsheathed what was her first sword, and the blade she had used for most of her career, and showed it off to Foil. The dents and scrapes on its edge caught glimmers of red light from the sky. Foil pulled a bit of a sour face.

“Well, you know what that Lady Macry would have done with an old frog like me,” he pouted, impressed with the sword but less so with his friend’s teenaged decisions.

“Yeah, I do. I thought about renaming her, I even tried out a few different names. But then I had her imbued with magic for the first time, and I liked the idea of improving my hero. That I could try to be the Macry that should have been, rather than the one that was.”

“Ah. Yes. That is wisdom I can drink to,” the old frog nodded and did just that.

*********************************************************************************

As the shadows began to stretch and the sun began to dip, another figure joined them on the rooftop.

“Well I came here to the Sword lookin’ for this fancy-pants justicar I knew, but looks like all I got here is a couple o’ boozin’ delinquents,” Shades drawled drily.

“Come! We have mead and crab rolls!” Kingsley waved him over, “I was just showing Macry to Foil. Thank you again for finding her. She… means a lot to me.”

“I ain’t gonna lie, seein’ Theron slink off into the shadows with his tail between his legs,” Shades eagerly poured himself a mug of mead and took a chug, “That was certainly a highlight for me. How you holdin’ up?”

“Well, I am thankful that I have this mead, and that only a select few know about my uh, impending godhood,” Kingsley motioned to Foil, “I told Foil, by the way.”

“Nothing to worry here, these lips have been sealed, no secrets getting out of them, that’s for sure.” The tsarthar smacked his lips and sucked them in to demonstrate all the secrets he wasn't going to let out.

“There weren’t ever any doubt.” Tengu can’t smile, but there’s a distinctive nod and raising of the brow they use as an equivalent. 

“I take it this means you’re sure? If you ain’t, we have at least one member o’ the Great Downward willin’ to take your place, just say the word. We could certainly use the Bloody Hand by our side when we face the Master.”

Kingsley stared into her cup, but her focus seemed very much elsewhere. Somewhere cosmically far away perhaps, or somewhere deeply interior. Or possibly both.

“The oath of Sword-Saint Izolda, to put it simply, is that I have to keep fighting evil or chaos until I no longer can. Even old age isn’t an excuse- her magic stops that right in its tracks. The expectation is that you just keep swinging your sword about until you trip and fall into your grave,” the justicar grimaced and took a little sip. “It was always going to end this way. Well, this way or a special place in an eternal elven prison. So yes, I am sure.”

Foil made a wet choking sound, and draped his big blubbery arm around Kingsley’s shoulders. Shades gently took her sword hand into his own, an offer of comfort. Scars as gnarled as a tree root ran down her arm, and some of the gouges into her fingers cut close to the bone. Holy healing magic had done all it could to mend the Bloody Hand’s holy but overzealous bite.

“If there’s anythin’ a bird can do, as your friend, or the Lord o’ this town, or as a man in service to your Lady’s Brother, all you gotta do is ask.”

Kingsley extricated herself from the double hugs, and refilled her cup of mead.

“Once all this settles down, I’d like you to look after Macry. Keep her out of trouble, and maybe find her a good Sister to travel with.”

“Consider it done, Sister.”

“But for now, you can join me in a toast,” Kingsley lifted the cup high above her head. Shades and Foil followed her lead.

“To the Valley! May it never change! Or more rather, may it continue to change in ways that are entirely within its character!”

“To Lady Macry! For being the best bad example a justicar could hope for, and a pretty good name for a sword!”

“And to the memory of Lady Kingsley. Sword-Sister. Bloody Hand. And briefly, God. She took Her blade to Orcus, and He knew His victims’ pain!”

And with that the three of them finished their drinks, and watched the setting of the bloodstained sun. 

A Horses Lament

"Oi, watch it you two legged shitbag! Pull at my mane again and I'll sell you to a pack of Hamatulas as a sex toy!"

The poor goblin trying to help Crusher into his plate screeched and ran out the door of the tent. Crusher sighed, shaking out his mane. He was in a foul mood today, and he was pretty sure he knew why. On this day, the 124th of 1790E, Mortimer and Tabitha were off making history.

"Giving Orcus extra orifice. Back for breakfast. Don't get any smart ideas. Contingency plan hidden in tree that looks like Laniss. Mort says 'Dumbass horse'"

Crusher snorted in contempt. Tabitha had such gall, Sending that to him this morning.

This year was meant to be his year. He was meant to make a name for himself. He thought he was going to lead an army that would crush all opposition, liberating the ancient city of Tsuen from Otherworldly Invaders. It was meant to be epic battle after epic battle. Blood was meant to be flowing in the streets, the bodies from both sides piling high. He had planned to pull victory from the jaws of defeat, all the while rescuing the swooning princesses and making witty remarks.

Instead here he was, wallowing in a filthy hole of a ruined city, trying to use a bunch of halfwits to clean some streets of almost dead corpses, and he wasn't even going to get the recognition he deserved.

His glory was going to be usurped by Mortimer, Tabitha, and their fucktard friends. Epic ballads would be written about them. Thier names would be mentioned in dozens of poems in hundreds of languages, spoken by proudly by thousands of voices. Wives would mistakenly call out their names while in throes of passion, and the husbands will respond "Amen!"

Crusher skittered to one side, lashing out at the tent wall with his shod hooves.

"BALTHAZAR," Crusher roared, "SEND ME WITH THEM!"

Several moments passed in silence.

"WELL, FUCK YOU TOO!"

Mother

"MUMMMMYYYYY!"

The roar managed to echo, even in a place as large as Balthazars Cathedral. Mort lurched forward, arms flailing, trying to work out how best to hug the figure before him without either crushing or impaling her with his armour.

Mother reached up, wrapping her arms around his neck before standing back. They looked each other up and down appraisingly

Mother was a half orc of middling years. Her skin was green, a shade lighter than Morts had been, and heavily wrinkled through decades of sun damage. The lines on her face sat in a way that suggests that she frowns more than she smiles, framing dark eyes that pierce like those only a mother who has put up with years of bullshit can have. Salt and pepper hair, hacked off roughly at jawline. What appear to be sigils made of a golden metal regularly imprint her skin.

Mother broke the silence. "Lord Balthazar told me you had managed to lose the body you were born with - the one that I gave you. It pains my heart to see that true. How careless of you, Mortimer Grey."

Morts whole face drooped, and he scuffed at the ground with a foot. "Sorry Mother"

"And another thing," she continued, "what's this I hear about you having a girlfriend? You're much too young."

Morts face drooped even more. "Yes Mother"

"Well, don't just stand there. Introduce me!" Mother crossed her arms and started tapping her foot, looking over at Tabitha

"What? No! NoOOo!" Mort whined, turning a deep purple colour. "Lady Tolah is my girlfriend. She's in Tsuen. That's just Tabitha, she works for me"

Mothers scowl deepened. "Just Tabitha? Don't belittle her like that. I thought I taught you to treat others with respect"

"Yes Mother" he whimpered while squirming. Mortimer was clearly beginning to regret this encounter.

The moment dragged on for a while, Mort looking at his feet whilst his mother scowled at him. Mort eventually looked up to see her demeanour changed.

"It's good to see you Mortimer." she said, smiling up at him. "I always worried about you. I wasn't sure you had the tools to survive in this world. But not only have you survived, you have flourished. You have companions. You have a purpose. You have achievements. You have grown so much in just a few short years. I can't even imagine the sort of life you will have carved out for yourself in ten years time"

Mort just sort of shruged awkwardly. Talking to parents is always hard.

"From what Lord Balthazar has told me though, your toughest test is at hand. He wanted me to make you something to help you, a weapon of power for your coming battle. But I cannot do such a thing." Mother looked down at her hands. "I cannot use these to hack at the earths bones, and I cannot use my skills to infuse it with the Magicks of the Alignments. As you should know, that would be the antithesis of all I believe."

She paused a moment before shrugging. "He has instead reforged a weapon he called Calabolg Demonbane for you, and I have put a little part of me in there too. It contains some of my knowledge, some of my skills and some of my ways of thinking. I hope it will temper you and serve to keep you grounded in these trying times"

"Thank you Mother" Mort wiped his nose with the back of his hand while valiantly pretending he wasn't sniffling.

"Go now, Lord Balthazar awaits you. Make footprints your decedents will be proud to walk in, Son."

"Yes Mother" he hiccuped, making his way back to the party.

"...and come back" she whispered to herself

--------------

With a gentle puff, Mort reappeared with the rest of the party on the bridge before the final portal. Mitras power still infused his body. He could feel it pulse in time with his heartbeat.

Reaching out timidly, he grasped Mothers Love. Aided by the divine essence running through his veins, Mothers soft presence leak out of the scythe and brush against his mind. Her imprint started whispering things to him about what he could see, explaining concepts and sharing anecdotes, just has she had only a few short years ago.

Gradually, his grip tightened.

"Lets walk these last steps together, Mother"

Aggy's Last Day with Kruin

"Why don't you just heal yourself?  You are a priest."

Agamemnon moaned and shook his head.  "No, that feels too much like cheating."  He rubbed his hands gingerly with salve that a farmer had provided him, blew cool breath on his calloused hands, and picked up the hoe again.

Kruin shook her head vigorously.  "How is it cheating?  What is the point of being a priest if you do not heal yourself?"

"It's not about pragmatism, Kruin."  Agamemnon looked out over the once-dead island, seeing the afternoon sun glinting hotly off the sea spray as it struck the shimmering shore.  "It's about sincerity.  Honesty."

"I sincerely want these plants planted before the season ends."  Kruin bent down and started wrenching weeds out from the rocky ground.  "You said you wanted to help."

"These farmers, though.  They have a contact with the land, with nature, something that only comes from interacting with the world with your own hands.  Touching it, feeling it."

"Stop touching the land and pull shit out of it so that we can plant."

"Divine magic, it lets you commune with the essence of nature, but while completely sidestepping the reality of it."

"Look," said Kruin, angrily standing up, dusting her hands on her slacks, and striding in that quick, purposeful, not-quite-straight lurch towards the half-orc.  "Give me your hands.  I will heal them if you won't."

"You ... er ... Actually, you know what?  They're feeling a lot better now.  Look!"  He held up his only slightly red palms to show her.  "See?  I'll be fine."

"Fine," said Kruin, digging into her satchel and slapping a bundle of seeds into the cleric's hand, not noticing, or not caring, as he winced and then tried to cover it by coughing.  "Here.  Plant.  Or leave.  We don't have much time."

Agamemnon nodded.  "I know what you mean."

"Do you?"  Kruin was bending over and tossing rocks haphazardly away from the area she was working.  "I don't think you know what I mean."

Agamemnon watched the thin, light clouds flitting vanishingly across the sky.  "You're worried about your people.  We may be gone soon, and they may have to continue on without us."

Kruin snorted.  "Why would I be worried about these people?  They are tough, and they know what they are doing."  She looked sideways at Agamemnon while wrenching a particularly stubborn rock out of the soil.  "And if they do not, then they die.  If these rocks are stronger -" she grunted as she finally wrenched the slab loose, "then they win.  If not, we win.  Strongest goes on."

It was hard not to feel melancholic with the light breeze and the watercolour sky and the stark, barren landscape only starting to come back to life, maybe just in time to die again.  He lent on his hoe.  It was like being in the Pale Lady's realm.  All this potential energy, but none of it going anywhere because there was nowhere to go.  Not unless they succeeded in stopping Orcus.

He started from his reverie as he felt Kruin's hand on his shoulder.  "Aggy.  From little things, big things grow.  You just have to plant them and they'll grow."

Agamemnon looked at Kruin, realisation dawning, and smiled.  "This is all a metaphor, isn't it?  You're a very wise woman, Kruin, you know that?"

Kruin looked puzzled.  "This is not wisdom.  This is just how things are."

The priest nodded.  "Yes indeed it is, my friend.  That is exactly how things are.  We plant them, and they will grow."  He looked down at the packet of seeds in his hand, and laughed.  "And we sure did plant them, didn't we?"

~~~~~

As Agamemnon walked off into the evening, his hoe balanced on his shoulder, he could still hear the words of his friend, still calling out behind him:

"It's not a metaphor!  They're seeds!  I gave you seeds!  You have to plant them you stupid man!  Put them in the soil!  It's not a metaphor!"

A Lifes Work

"Hey. Hey Mort. Wanna see something cool?" Tabitha said somewhat animatedly with a twinkle in her eye. Mort knows Tabitha well, so this makes him understandably suspicious.

"I... might... want to see something cool? Will it hurt?" he ventured cautiously

Tabitha laughs, causing Mort to cringe.

"No, no. Nothing like that. You know the elated feeling you get when years of study, planning and work all comes together, and it happens to be at the most opportune moment?" she continued, barely keeping the grin off her face.

"Uhhh no. But I guess it would feel good. Maybe. It won't hurt, right?"

"Oh shut up you big baby. Just watch" she said playfully. Mort cringed more. This isn't Tabitha at all

Ever so gently, Tabitha stretched out her arm. With a look of utmost concentration, she gently shakes her hand. The gauntlet rattles a bit, but soon seems to slop like jelly. A bit more shaking makes it even softer, to the point where it looks like it should lose cohesion all together.

Flicking her hand, a glob of liquid metal hits the ground, still barely attached to the gauntlet with a thin thread. Bringing her hands together, the thread thickens substantially and the glob of metal on the ground grows fast, almost as if she were hosing water from a barrel.

Tabitha mutters something under her breath, and suddenly a dozen metal arms reach out of the pool towards the sky, having an unsettling resemblance to the damned trying to escape hell. Always the taskmaster, Tabitha soon puts them to work instead. The arms reach back down into the goop, and pull up metal plates, poles, screws, screw drivers, hammers, tongs, cables, rivets and vices. With supernatural speed and accuracy, they get to work. The parts go together with practiced ease, clicking into place with precision. Plates slide together, screws are buzzed in and rivets pop into place. Within seconds they are done. Standing there is a metal humanoid, somewhat resembling a weird sort of iron golem. The thread to her gauntlet breaks, the pool of molten metal subsides, and with bang and a hiss, the iron golem starts to hum, leaking steam from every joint.

The golem looks like a caricature of Tabitha's suit of full plate, standing at around 8ft tall and weighing in at close to 700lb. The arms are thick, the legs are thick, the shoulders are broad. The helmet is entirely enclosed and has an opaque pane of silver over the eyes which glows softly. The body is covered with engravings of geometric shapes and numbers, not unlike Tabitha's actual armour. Metal-corded hoses run from the torso to the shoulders, the head and the extremities on the limbs, and seem to vibrate slightly. Overall, the suit seems to be on the brink of having a life of its own.

"Mort, close your mouth. I can see your tonsils."

"But I don't... huh? What is happening? What?" Mort stammers, eyes as large as saucers.

"This is my life's work, Mort. Your castle might be my major project and probably what I will be remembered for, but this is the culmination of all that is me."

Tabitha removes her helm and runs her fingers through her hair before continuing. She's getting more animated as she talks, a grin slowly formed on her face

"Every skill I have, everything I have read, all the blood and sweat and tears. Every ounce of power I possess. You take me for granted a lot of the time, but I *am* a Master Craftsman, Mort. I possess a set of skills few on this plane have mastered, to a degree most people would sell thier souls to achieve. Laniss and I are similar in a lot of ways, you know. He possesses mostly the same skill set I have, except he has the advantage of extended years. Despite the depth of my abilities, I will forever be in his shadow. Except this - in this I am his better. I make this suit from scratch every time, Mort. I know every plate and every bolt and every hose intimately. In the first second, I manufacture a thousand parts from raw materials. In the next second I organise the logistics chain and oversee the suits construction. In the third second, I tap into the planes and give it life. Mastery of metal is in my blood, Mort, and discipline is in my flesh. In this, I can have no equal"

Mort spends a moment processing this before replying.

"Okay. But... what is it?"

Tabitha gives a short bark of a laugh. "It is powered armour, Mort. I use my magic to mix water piped in from the plane of water with fire piped in from the plane of fire. They interact to give steam, which builds pressure which in turn gives it life. It drains my magic keeping it all held together, so it cannot exist for long stretches of time, but in short, it is armour powered with an Engine."

"Engine? Sooooo it can make ribs?" Mort asked with a raised eyebrow

Mort should learn not to anger 8th tier spellcasters.

All endings had a beginning

Betty Hearthstone sat on a little stool outside her cottage in Dejune. The sky had just lost its morning red colour, fading to the usual blue of a fine spring day. It was accompanied by a soft warmth seeping through the last of the nights chill, carried by a barely moving breeze. She blew gently on her cup of tea before sipping it timidly. Mint. Her favourite.

She hadn't been in Dejune long, but she had quickly grown fond of it. It reminded her of Sandpoint in a way, where she grew up. It wasn't a big place, but as a center of trade there were always new people to meet, bringing with them succulent cakes and exotic trinkets to peruse at the markets. Plus, as a small bastion of civilisation in the middle of wildlands, there was always a hint of danger. Very exciting. Betty sipped her tea a while longer, simply enjoying the moment.

Her day was going to be a busy one. She was loaning herself to a local adventuring band, which was something she hadn't done for a number of years. There was a nest of vampires housed in a series of tunnels nearby known as "The Bloodways" and while Betty was no longer the unending font of Positive Energy she had been in her prime, she was still pretty sure she could do some good there.

The town started to wake up, and with her tea finished, Betty decided it was also time for her to get moving. She stood up awkwardly, stiffing a groan. Her bad knee was playing up again. She made a mental note to get it looked at by a cleric, but she was quite sure that this was simply a malady that accompanied age. Not much you could do about that, unfortunately.

She headed into her little cottage. The cosy building was full of cheerful and bright knick-knacks from all over the continent. An ornate dagger in a lacquered sheath rested on a small display stand on the table, a souvenir from her time spent with the Aberdeenians. Her gaze drifted over to the frame hanging from the wall in which were some pressed flowers, an exotic species she had harvested from an oasis in The Sands. Sitting just beneath it on a set of bookshelves was a small stone tablet with the word "DYE!" carved on it. She shook her head with a giggle. She still wasn't sure why she tried to introduce literacy to that tribe of goblins. They certainly hadn't appreciated the effort. She got her stiff knee moving again, and spent the next few minutes pottering around the place, lost in thought.

The cottage was full of a lifetime of memories, and while not all of them were good, they were all a part of what made her, her. The years had tempered Betty. She was no longer the boisterous youngling who threw herself at every problem with gusto and exuberance, and while she did still have the general optimism and friendly openness that drew people to her, it was marred with a soft sadness. Her past was part of why she felt she had to keep relocating. She had lost friends before, and it had cut too deeply.

With a small sigh, she made her way to the large cabinet in the corner. Inside was her trusty suit of white-lacquered plate with accompanying tower shield. It looked old and worn, with the white lacquer patched in several different shades as a result of various blacksmiths repairing it over the years. She remembered the day she had it ordered - almost 20 years prior - the very afternoon she was almost gored to death by a boar. She wore the scar with pride, as it was accompanied by a lesson well learned. Piece by piece, she removed the armour from the cabinet. She would need help later to finish adjusting it, but for now, she attached it to her body as best she could. She slung the shield over one shoulder with a grunt, and slid her trusty bopping-stick through her belt.

She closed the windows, made her bed, and triple-checked her flock of chickens. With the last of her chores done, she slung her backpack over her other shoulder and slipped a small weave of donkey hair into her pocket. Without a backward glance, she made her way out front door. It closed behind her with a soft click.

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Walk in the darkness where-ever you can, for you are Mitras torch.

Spread Mitras light to those who cannot see it. Let them bask in it, but do not force it upon them. Redemption is a choice. You can illuminate the path, but they are the ones who need to walk it.

Help those that ask for it. Offer help to those who might need it. Understand that people are capable of helping themselves, they might just need your shoulder

All who walk under Mitras Sun are Blessed. Treat them with kindness and humility. Listen to their story and do not judge

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Aggy's Last Day with Laniss

"Is this seat taken?"

Laniss looked up from his book and blinked at Agamemnon.

"You brought that seat with you, so, no."

Agamemnon grinned, plonked his stool down across the low, fine wood table at which Laniss was sitting.  "You'd forgotten I was here, hadn't you?"

"The Sanctum is a large place."

Agamemnon gestured at the numerous unfeasibly tall bookcases that constructed rather than merely resided within the grand library.  "It'd have to be to handle having this sat in it."  He reached into his satchel and pulled out a bottle.  "Yes?"

"Cuirdethinis.  Where did you get this?" the mage asked, taking the bottle and examining it.

"Queer what now?  It's elf wine."  Agamemnon laughed as he watched Laniss try not to respond to that.

~~~

"Not long now until we're done," said Laniss, his voice remarkably clear given how much they had both drunk.

"You could be talking about anything."

"I am."  Laniss smiled to himself.

Agamemnon picked up the bottle.  "About two glasses until we're done.  You in?"

Laniss nodded and slid his crystal glass across the table for a refill.

"Cuirdethinis means 'gift of friendship'," said Agamemnon, staring into the now-empty old bottle.

"If you translate it literally it means 'God's face travels backwards'."

"Since when have our people ever said anything literally?"

"'Our people'?  You consider yourself an elf now?"

"Of course!  I've always considered myself an elf."  Agamemnon looked into his glass and thought.  "I know people think that's a joke, but it's not.

"When I was young, I couldn't live in the human community in which I grew up.  They rejected me as an orc.  So I went and lived with orcs, and they hated me for being an elf.  So I went to live in the Dales ... and they accepted me.  They were the only ones who looked at me and said, 'We're not deciding what you are; you decide what you are'.  So much for elven xenophobia, hey?

"What about you?  Have you always considered yourself an elf?"

Laniss blinked.  "Why wouldn't I?"

"Good question, but not the one I asked."

Laniss rolled the heavy glass between his delicate fingers.  "What I am has never been as important as what I will be."  He paused for a few moments.  "I don't do introspection."

"Thanks fine," said Agamemnon, reaching slightly unsteadily for his satchel and pulling out a well used elven wood chess board from his satchel and dropping it and the pieces on the table between them.  "I have a back-up plan."

Laniss blinked again.  "You play chess?"

"'Course I do.  I'm an elf, aren't I?"

~~~

"That is a surprisingly orthodox opening."

Agamemnon grinned.  "Those of us who are free of spirit seek to surprise, and being surprising is the least surprising thing there is.  When you're surprising, like, as a person.  You get what I mean."

Laniss nodded and waggled his fingers in that way that meant he knew what you were saying and you could stop talking now.  It was much more convivial a gesture now that Laniss was only just very, very slightly twinkle-eyed from the wine.  Agamemnon assumed he must have let himself feel the effects, otherwise he would still be perfectly poised.  For his part the cleric was blotto, but orcish constitution made "blotto" a relative and dynamic state.

"How much time do we have?"

Laniss gestured around him.  "Here?  All of it."

Agamemnon nodded.

"And also ... very little.  I wish I had more."

Agamemnon nodded again.  That was about the most forthcoming Laniss had ever been, so he decided to chalk that up as a success.

"You're aware you just vocalised that thought, yes?"

Agamemnon blinked.  "Wha'?"

"About my being forthcoming and this being some sort of personal victory for you.  You are quite drunk, Agamemnon."

"It's your fault.  I only brought one bottle with me, and yet somehow, magically, we've drunk four."

"I would have kept them in reserve if I had known alcohol would make you play this poorly."

"Poorly?  Whatcha talkin' 'bout?  I have executed my plan most expertly!" Agamemnon drawled before hiccuping.

"It is highly unlikely you will win from this position," said Laniss, indicating the centre squares on the board.  "You have no control.  The best ... the best result ...  Oh."

Agamemnon grinned at him.

"You're playing for a draw."

"My orthodoxy lured you into a false confidence," the priest said most of between hiccups.

"I ... see."

"Sometimes you can play by the rules without playin' by the rules."

Laniss squinted.  "That sentence offends me."

"'Cause it's perfectly by the rules but still nonsense?"

"No, because I understood it."

Agamemnon laughed.  "Cuirdethinis'aman'taru."

"'God's backward's face is amalgamated'?  What?"

"No!  Sorry.  Like, cuirde'aman'tho'taru.  Inis.  Something.  Fucking elven declensions."

"The joy of .. Oh, cuirde't'aman'tho'tinata?  'The joy of friendship is togetherness'?"

Agamemnon nodded.  "Yeah, that one.  Why would I want you to lose this game?  We're friends."

"Then why play ... Oh.  Tho'taru.  I see."

Agamemnon nodded solemnly.  "Although, if you look at it another, more accurate way, I won, because I achieved my goal and stopped you achieving yours."

Laniss glared at him.

"I'm just sayin'.  Like, yeah, we're friends and all, and that's important, because we may not be here much longer, but, like, in the end, all that matters is, I kinda won at chess."

"You did not win."

"No, but, I mean, I kinda did."

"No, you did not."

"I forced us to a draw, though."

Laniss leaned across the table and stared at Agamemnon.  Then moved his rook.  "No.  You didn't.  Checkmate."

Agamemnon looked at the board.  Then looked accusingly at the fourth bottle of elf wine.  "Well, shit."

Laniss smiled.

Snookums and the mystery drinker

They say there are trance-like states that can be reached by a master practicing their craft. Heights of mental clarity where everything and nothing coexist in a way that cannot be explained to the merely competent. But explain it we must. Imagine every neuron in the mind arranged in crystalline perfection, singing in harmony, all focussed on the task at hand. Imagine every grain of sand on an infinite beach moving as one, flowing with a wind only the master can feel.

Haku was a master glass polisher. When he was behind the bar, the chaos of the Planar Anchor flowed around him without ruffling a single feather. Patrons came and went, beers were pulled and spirits poured, kobolds scolded and parrots... Well the bar was quite short on parrots these days, but the kobolds were definitely still scolded. All the while, the rag polished the glass, keeping rhythm with a tune that only Haku could hear.

=====================================================================

On the way back from the Spider Queen’s lair, Snookums was deep in thought. While his companions discussed the details of the task, Snookums could barely conceive of the enormity of what lay ahead. To create a God... How could one dwarf help with such a mammoth undertaking? He looked at his companions, their equipment the worse for wear, and decided to do what he did best. Focus on what he could do well to support the others.

Snookums was a master of several crafts, and for the next four weeks he kept himself busy with all of them. His mornings were spent improving the Dejune army; shouting and cursing at them through combat exercises, marching drills and lunch. He was determined to make the defense of Dejune one less thing the Great Downwards needed to worry about.

His afternoons were spent in the forge. First he reconstructed Agamemnon's crushed armour before handing it over to Talisa for magical enhancement. Then he repaired his shield, shattered by a colossal strike in a duel with the young hellknight. Smoke above a forge is an effective “Open for Business” sign, and a Paladin of Dwerfater always takes requests. Perrit handled the orders from the townsfolk while the apprentices delivered the completed tools, weapons, riding tack and furniture throughout Dejune. Soon, every home and business in the town had something made or repaired by Snookums.

His evenings were spent at the tavern. To the untrained eye, he appeared to be drowning some substantial sorrows. To the seasoned barfly he appeared to be a regular dwarf. But to Haku he was a fellow master, and they were practicing their crafts together.

Haku would polish the glass, then fill the glass. Snookums would drink the glass, then push the glass back to Haku. This would continue until Snookums stood up, paid his tab and slowly wobbled out the door.

====================================================================

The 424th day started like any other: Snookums shouted himself hoarse trying to get Graa’aa’ak to focus on stealth instead of rabbit-hunting, then spent most of the afternoon crafting a tiny mithril breastplate which couldn’t fit anything larger than a bird. Leaving the forge that night, he felt proud of using leftover scraps of mithril to create something so intricate and beautiful. The future owner would surely cherish it.

Snookums arrived at the Planar Anchor and took up his regular seat, his first drink was already in place and slowly discolouring the lacquer on the bar. Another swiftly followed, and a comfortable rhythm was established. At some point in the evening Haku looked up from his glass-polishing and thought he was seeing double, not an uncommon occurrence given his alchemical pastimes. He squinted first with one eye, then the other, and determined that the other dwarf was really there. He shrugged and dropped another glass onto the bar, filling both.

Hours later, the final notes of a dwarven drinking song drifted away into the quiet night and Snookums looked up to find himself alone. He fumbled with his coin pouch to tip Haku for the most enjoyable evening he’d had all month, but he was surprised to find a scrap of paper in his pocket. He retrieved it and read it over, mumbling quietly to himself.

Seconds later, an entirely sober Snookums was running for the castle, note in hand.

Haku wasn’t worried though, the dwarf always paid his tab eventually.

“You do fine work with mithril and hammer. Work a god would be proud to wear. Each god has their artifact as symbol of their divinity, but there is no rule to state that this is all a god can wield. My breastplate was forged by the hand of a god, and my boots shaped by mortal men, and I would be naked without them.”