"I really don't have time for this right now Neb," the armored man said. The stink of exertion and killing rolled from him in waves as he sat on the floor, careless of the scratches that the stone wall of the ziggurat was doubtlessly making on the back of his breastplate. A helmet lay next to him, with series of vicious looking blades arrayed across the brow that would give the wearer a fierce visage. Even tossed aside, it radiated menace. The man scowled at the halfling that stood a few feet in front of him, and went back to scraping bits of clotted gore and filth from the runes deeply etched into his sword, periodically picking up a piece of coarse cloth cut from the cloak of a dead gnoll that had fallen perhaps ten paces to his right, and wiping the blade down with it.

"Your helmet looks really EVIL," the halfling remarked gleefully. He seemed momentarily mesmerized by the helm, though very little held the attention of the "Bard of Broden" for long, other than bad grog and prostitutes.At least he talked a good game about his numerous conquests amongst the ladies for hire. Corel had been witness to enough of the grog-drinking to attest to it, but not for the other. "Does it make you feel sort of ruthless and brutal when you wear it, knowing how it makes you look?"

The paladin sighed. "The only difference between a milk bucket and this helmet is that this helmet doesn't haul milk well, Neb, and you are altogether too concerned with aesthetics for your own good."

The halfling looked up with a impish grin on his too-pretty face. "At least it fits your head better than a milk bucket," he exclaimed.

"Debatable," Corel grunted in response.

"But seriously," Neb continued, as though he hadn't just been contradicted. The halfling never let resistance slow him down, even when he should, "you and I both know that we'll likely be dead within a week or so. We're lucky to have made it this long. Every day we're getting into something crazier and more unsurvivable than the day before. We aim to kill a demigod, for the love of Pelor, and odds are that if we live that long, we won't live past it. The lads that killed Orcus, they died to the man except the paladin that wielded that sword of yours. You don't really thing that you're going to live because he did, do you? Never mind that though, the important thing is that people are going to want to… demand to know who this hero was that led a band of stalwart adventurers… assassins… whatever to slay the God-King and set things right. If I don't leave that story behind, someone else will write it, and they'll get it all wrong. They'll make you sound like a proper popinjay with frilly armor and a prancy horse and small-clothes full of unicorns and honeycakes."

Corel's face softened and his shoulders shook as he silently laughed at the bard's excesses of imagination. But he didn't stop cleaning his sword–not for a minute. "I don't suppose I care what they say about me, once this blighted Kilason is sent back to the hateful Hell that vomited him out," the paladin's face hardened again. He glanced over at an over-sized mortar and pestle made from a dull, silvery metal streaked with black. "Now that we have that fancy mixing bowl, it is just a matter of time before the affair will be settled in any case. In any case, I am just one of seven of us. Who I am matters no more than any other."

"Grundenheim."

"What?"

"The 'fancy mixing bowl' is called Grundenheim. I like to call it Grindenheim, because it's for grinding."

The paladin paused for a moment and slow rubbed his face with his palm, a study in exasperation. "Does your mind ever go in one direction long enough to arrive at its original destination?" he asked rhetorically.

"There was this one time at Bard Academy," Neb began, enthusiastically, then stopped, "You're not going to distract me from my purpose, Corel Belarous, and don't think you can. Small is not stupid, regardless of what you human believe."

"I never said… I don't think," Corel stuttered out.

"Well of course you didn't think. If you thought, your rational mind would point out to you that I'm not stupid, and that therefore any fabricated correlation between size and intelligence might therefore be illusory, and… uh… damn. That helmet looks so evil! I wish I had one!"

When Neb looked up from the helmet a moment later, the paladin was slowly, repeatedly banging the back of his head against the ziggurat wall.

"That stonework is ancient you know," the halfling admonished mildly, "it might have some historical value so you should probably stop pulverizing it with your skull bone. So anyway, who you are does matter. You are a paladin of Pelor, his divinely hand-picked agent set upon his most-important mission. His angel came to us because of you. You give us legitimacy, not only in Pelor's eyes, but in the eyes of the people for whom we struggle. Without you we're just a group of guys who go around killing people and taking their stuff. With you, we're a group of guys that goes around killing people and taking their stuff for a higher purpose. Understand?"

Corel shook his head slowly. "Pelor give us all purpose Neb," the paladin explained in a soft, almost reverent voice, "He chose us, not me, because he sees within you, within them, even within Mister Horn, a courage and an essential decency that makes you worthy of bearing this burden for him. There may be many who are willing, and many who are able to do this, but only we are both. You are right Neb: we're probably going to die, but I'm not afraid of that, and I know you aren't either. I'm only afraid to fail."

"I'm not afraid of anything," the halfling pondered, drifting off into a distant place somewhere in his own mind, "Sometimes I wish that I could be; that I could panic and run and stop this almost-getting-killed stuff. I really want to live a long time. There's so much to do and see and learn, but I don't think I'm going to get to do or see or learn it. Maybe if I was able to be afraid, I would live long enough. Did you ever notice that gnoll blood tastes like chicken?" he asked, licking a spot of dark brown from the corner of his mouth.

The paladin chuckled. "I don't think being afraid would save you Neb. You're too inquisitive to live long. You should have been born a cat."

Neb pointed his finger at Corel. "You're afraid all the time. You're afraid that our bickering is going to break us up. You're afraid that others will see you in a moment of weakness and not respect you anymore. You're afraid that you'll lose Pelor's favor and he'll give the job to someone else. You're afraid that come tomorrow, one of us will be dead, and that it will be your fault. And whether you accept it or not, you're afraid that the name of Corel Belarous will fail to live up to this implausible standard that you've set for yourself. But every day, you get up and do the right thing, in spite of your fear. That's either courage or you're dumb as a pack o' de gravel, and either way it makes you well-qualified to lead our motley marauders."

"I'll think about what you said Neb," the paladin hoisted himself to his feet with an effort. He slid the beautiful sword back into its scabbard with a shhhhhhik sound, "but I'll not force myself onto someone who doesn't want to be lead."

The halfling rolled his eyes at the human towering above him. "I keep forgetting how young you are," he quipped, amused, "So young that you still think that leadership is a prize handed out at a fair rather than a burden forced upon the only one strong enough to carry it."

With that, the little man turned and strolled off toward the others, flipping a coin into the air and deftly catching it while whistling a snappy tune, a tune destined to someday become well-known to tavern patrons across the western empire, assuming the halfling lived long enough.

 “SHHHHHHHHH….”

 

“Year 26 of our dire search for the home of this amulet the priests of Kragon herald as the final light before the prophecy completes its final cycle and brings upon us the end of time and all good and god-fearing things all good men and elves embrace. I fear mostly that the truest evil lays within our ranks. The name Ebin is spoken in secret, a man of ill ambition or the land of origin of that our named scholar has adopted in disguise of an effort to embrace an evil before a band of religious zealots that are apt to embrace all things unholy. I fear the greatest evil now approaches from within our ranks and I fear for our quest. The evil, while more than a mild disruption, lays its sordid agenda amongst us. I fear when it may finally speak—”

 

“Why should we be shushing when nearly every one of these old goats is so close to stepping out I can’t believe the clerics aren’t here making some coin just reviving them by the hour. You know what I think? I’ll tell ya what I think. These chairs are like an Eighth Age Hall of Torture. All we’re missing is two trolls, an ice pick and some feathers. Aside from that I think they should toss me some coin just to keep these ogre-buzzards from drooling puddles about their books. Reminds me of Harland Sweetbush, right, where’d he get that family name?, he used to drool every and each day in Master Torkan’s lecture. I say it’s cause they kept us in school too long but I have to admit, working in the fields or learning to play the lute was not a difficult choice. We ended up playing for the school mistress, Lady Farhar, you wouldn’t want to say her name wrong, and if we sang well enough she’d let us perform at the States. The States was her name for parties to drink at heavily and the best part of Sweet’s class was full access to the harvested crops that took well to a pipe if you know what I mean. Lacy Popanogh, did me and the Hobbits remember her!”

 

“What!”

 

“Yup, that’s what we called her. W-A-T. Wide As Tall. She had the boobs and the Hobbit buttbushka that made me play like I couldn’t hold my breath long enough, if ya know what I mean.”

 

“My ear wax, fly along and fetch it. Go bird.”

 

“I can’t hear you, Horn. Are you talking to that bird again? What’s his name and why won’t you tell me?”

 

“You know, Neb, that in my day, Hobbits worked in the fields and were highly regarded for their tiring labor. They could walk in the grooves of planted crops and harvest potatoes without as much as taking a crick in their spine. As a community, they were well respected.”

 

“Y’know, just because you’re old doesn’t mean you should talk down to me. Oh, I get it, I’m two hens tall. Very funny. And that reminds me, I like Palor as much as the next guy who knew Hobbits that worked in the fields, but I have to say, some of those Preist-VERTS in the temples, not real comfortable with the way they scope my action, if ya know what I mean. Yes, I know as well as all of us know, Hobbits are different and really might satisfy some nasty and vile—”

 

“Dammit Neb!…I…I…I need to visit the jakes again.”

 

“Again? Just as we’re finally approaching progress in our time together. Fine, I’ll find someone to escort you. Hobbits most certainly don’t help five hen height wizards in lifting their cloaks. Like I told you the first time, if I’m helping an elder Hobbit lift his cloak, I’m looking over his shoulder. If I help you lift your cloak…well, I’m not lookin’ over yer shoulder!”

 

 

“Lord Neb.”

 

“How many times and how loud must I whistle to get your attention, UNDER Librarian?”

 

“While once would be far too much as we ARE in a library, I would suggest in the quite near future that you take to your Hobbit feet and seek out assistance for your friend as he should REQUEST it.”

 

“Oh, I get it. Now it’s MY fault this place is forty years past breathing and by softening their slow and pitiful demise with a startling and shrill whistle, I suddenly have to accept the role of usurper.”

 

“YOU have to be far more behaved…Lord Neb.”

 

“Why…why…that’d be finer than FROG HAIR!”

 

“SHHHHHH!”

“Shhhhhh!”

“Shhhhh!”

 

 

“Don’t look over your shoulder, Bule, he’ll only follow if he smells deceit.”

 

“He is exigent, Barnaby. That I must play the part of Under Librarian just to keep him from speaking to me for lengthy times is more of a challenge than I assumed. And I have such little patience for the little people as it is.”

 

“Their height is a constant cry for attention, I’ll agree, but I only ask for enough trips to the jakes to allow me the uninterrupted time I need.”

 

“How long must you keep him here?”

 

“I have what I need, I placed it at the bottom of what I’m searching so I can pull it up and we vacate at my call once we have what we need. So have you finished? My Spell Books and Journal?”

 

“Yes, I must ask you of that. The Spell Books are well received, Mr. Horn, and I believe we can help you with at least one or two spells in our exchange. But I need to know, this avatar that visited your…band. Tell me more of this.”

 

“It’s as it was wrote. Quite the hearty and robust lads that they are. Young as spit and twice as wise. I do try to appease their restless nature at every turn, but when this avatar arrived I can only admit to not feeling the same overwhelming desire to touch my toes as the rest of them.”

 

“But it was an Avatar. An Avatar of Pelor!”

 

“Yes, yes. I suppose it was. But you must remember, I am not a young man. I’ve bowed without question to power and authority before when my beard was not of such great length. Far more powerful than a glowing revelation and from that I spent nearly fourteen years in my small tower as the old crone I was force to marry was unable to take to the stairs like any self respecting wildebeest would be expected to. If it wasn’t for foul weather and a healthy bit of needed sleep for her father’s guard, I never would have escaped with my turned ankle after leaping from the third window in that cursed tower.”

 

“So, is that why you tolerate such… immoral company?”

 

“Immoral, yes. Wet behind the years, most certainly. But you must realize, traveling alone while attempting to turn about the world is not a lightly taken venture. You need the young and inspired about you. They know nothing of long life so they value you it not at all. Granted, that leaves me about like a sack of old rags far too much, but the gods preserve what they don’t wish to have about.”

 

“I am afraid that it will not get less complicated, Barnaby Horn. This was delivered today by a trusted courier.”

 

“Hear ye, hear ye…does that still garner the attention it used to? A remarkable likeness, though I must say they make me look absolutely aged. At least they wish me alive. I suppose we’ll see how well that fares. While I must commend them for their efforts, it will be best not to show the hobbit, he’ll only gather our youngsters to forge back to where we came from and detach heads from swords we’ve no business busying ourselves with at the moment.”

 

“They would forge back into Treyfall?”

 

“Into the governor’s house itself. No home is entirely safe with them about and a spark of a golden messenger planted firm where they sit doesn’t help the enemy in the least. I can’t say it hasn’t been wondrous for my studies. Tell me, Bule, what have you found for my search for the Oracle of Ebin? Anything from the past 500 years?”

 

“Your request was sound. And fortunately we have the local monks of Pelor at our charge. Copying script keeps them bringing in a nominal sum to inflate the coffers of their expensive priests and their temples.”

 

“Yes, yes?”

 

“We have just recently received back this…from the monks. The last copy of this book was one-hundred and fifty years past, the timing of the events is vague. But it does mention an Ebin.”

 

“Very well. Stall the Hobbit while I read this over.”

 

“Stall him? Stall him…how?”

 

“Whatever you fancy. I would toss him from the window. But be prudent in your approach, he’s one of those cleva’ Hobbits. Not easily distracted, but quite easily interested in a band of goblins setting up a symphony just outside…should you wish to be creative. Just tell him I’ve a touch of incontinence and will be a few minutes more. If you truly wish him to leave the building, tell him I’ve asked for his help in the jakes. You’ll not see him again before tomorrow.”

 

  

"SHHHHHHHHH…" the grizzled, old man wagged a gnarled finger at the younger–and much shorter–hobbit. He glared intently with his watery brown eyes for just a second, then began brushing furious at his grey and white beard where an ember had fallen from his pipe and began sending small but acrid curls of burning hair smoke into that area of the great library. A moment later, the fire out and most of his frizzy beard intact, Mister Horn returned to his reading, hand-ground spectacles perched on the tip of his nose.

"In my day stupid hobbits was kept in the fields, hoeing potaters like proper members of a lesser race," he mumbled through his teeth which were clenched around a long-stemmed briar pipe. Slowly, the pointed grey hat began to slide of the side of his head, nearly displacing a barn owl known as "Who". The perpetually startled-looking bird became indignant and hissed at the wizard as he struggled to set it right again.

"You know I can hear you when you say things like that. Being old and feeble-minded does not excuse you from a requirement for a certain amount of civility to others," the dapper hobbit said conversationally. It was obvious that he wasn't really angry at the aged wizard, in spite of the geezer's  cross attitude and his sometimes-disturbing lack of personal hygiene. "I don't know what you really expect to find in here, but we know all we need to know about how those olden heroes killed Orcus. At least I know all I need to know about it, and that is that only the paladin lived. I love Pelor as much as the next hobbit, and far better than you I might add, but I don't intend to die to pad the credentials of his golden-haired boy."

"Damnit Neb!" Mister Horn jabbed his pipe at the hobbit for emphasis, "I…" 

Suddenly the wizard got a surprised look on his wrinkled face, his thin lips pursed in a prolonged 'O'. After a moment he scratched his left eyebrow with his pipe stem–an unfortunate habit as it left one bushy brow streaked with brown while the other was nearly snowy white–then shook his head and popped the pipe back in his mouth. He glanced once again at the paper in his hand then lay it down atop a stack of others.

"I need to visit the jakes again," he mumbled, sounding a little embarrassed. He turned his head as if looking for someone and then focused his gaze on the hobbit. "Can you show me to the jakes Neb? I haven't been since this morning and my bladder isn't made of iron!" He brandished the pipe as if to punctuate the concept that his bladder was indeed not constructed of ferrous metal, which would have been unfortunate, considering the properties of iron and the purpose for which a bladder is utilized. Such are the thoughts that go through the mind of a hobbit continuously.

"You've been six times a'ready today and it isn't time for lunch yet," Neb said patiently, and a bit slowly, as if speaking to someone hard of hearing or maybe a little daft, "I'll find someone to escort you."

The diminutive man put two fingers in his mouth and blew out a piercing shriek of a whistle. From a hundred directions in three dimensions, a veritable chorus of "Shhhhhh" noises erupted. The library in Tir was almost as vertical as it was horizontal, and badly infested with nattering busy-bodies who didn't know when to mind their business, but it worked in Neb's favor in this case, as he knew it would.

Within a matter of seconds, a tall fellow with extravagantly arching eyebrows and the rich purple robes of an elven under-librarian glided toward them. He did not appear to move his feet; he looked like he was standing on a patch of rug that someone was dragging about. The under-librarian glided right up to them and frowned down his long, superior nose. 

"Lord Neb," the thin man said in a nasally, refined voice intended to convey the pedigree of his education, "I must request that you refrain from further loud noises whilst visiting the Tirian Library. It is a simple courtesy to our many patrons that each… person maintain the proper decorum. If you would like I can make available a private chamber for your use where you will not be required to remain as silent as is expected in the open library."

"Why that'd be finer than frog hair," Neb said, affecting his most wild-eyed-hobbit-mad-man look, "but what I need first is someone to show this old, crusty badger to the jakes, Jake."

Primly, the under-librarian offered his arm to the wizard, who struggled to gain his feet. "My name, Lord Neb, is 'Jacques'. You need only say it slightly louder than a whisper, assuming you are able to modulate your voice down that far, and I shall be at your service."

"We don't stand by all that formality back at Brian Patch Bottom where I hale from," the hobbit quipped in his most down-home voice, "but I do surely appreciate your serving us Jake. A fellow could get used to this kind of treatment."

"Let us sincerely hope not," the slender elf said quietly as he glided off with the wobbly Mister Horn on his arm.

After the wizard had turned the corner on the way to the privvy and was safely away, the hobbit rushed over to the stack of papers Mister Horn had been shuffling through and began a rapid search through the tottering pile of vellum and parchment. Within minutes, he'd located at least a dozen relevant scrolls and quickly, carefully arranged them at the top of the heap in such a way as to make them look as disorderly as the rest of the material.

He looked around furtively, then scampered back to his chair, put his feet back on the polished burlwood table and drew a satisfying mouthful of smoke from his own pipe, just as Jacques and Mister Horn came gliding/ambling back from their adventure.

"It's hard to be your research assistant when you're always on the verge of wetting yourself," Neb remarked dryly as the creaky wizard slowly settled back into his seat. "Now why don't you see if you can find something that matters in that scrapheap you've gathered before Jacques comes back to relocate us away from the respectable folks?"

"Stupid hobbits can't even treat their betters with respect like they did back in my day," Mister Horn muttered… then stopped. "Great Googly Moogly… I think I've found it. Look here Neb!" he shook some papers at the hobbit. "Who is wetting himself now, eh?"

The hobbit chuckled for a moment. "Well then Mister Dustytoots, you are definitely a library haunt of extraordinary capabilities."

"And don't you forget," Mister Horn grinned victoriously, "and don't you for…"

A moment later the old man shook his head and scratched his left eyebrow with his pipe stem, an unfortunate habit.

To say Cereth was homely would be to call a stone homely; his face was the way the wind and the elements shaped it and no more. To say he was emotionless would be to call glassy sea still; whatever currents ebbed and flowed beneath did not disturb the surface. To an observer unaccustomed to the powerful hunter, it might have been a bit surprising when the stony face suddenly looked to the left after a prolonged period of immobility, unaccompanied by the sound of dusty, grinding stone.

"Don’t touch that," Cereth ordered in a husky baritone, his grey eyes on the small person business picking through the belongings of a dead giant lying on the ground.

The little fellow looked back at the hunter with an impish grin. "It isn’t magic," he replied in a surprisingly deep, booming voice, "and besides, I touch what I want, when I want. Your name isn’t Sir Cereth, Lord of the Loot you know." The diminutive man’s grin didn’t fade as he remonstrated the hunter, in spite of the human’s great advantage in size. He was a hobbit, and hobbits are known for their lack of fear. Some believe they are known for their lack of sense, but that is another matter.

"I don’t care about who gets it," Cereth sighed, "that spider is called a ‘death dart’. They aren’t common, but they live around mountains such as these and they are very poisonous."

"It isn’t a spider," the hobbit turned toward the hunter and put his fists on his hips, "It’s a clasp that is crafted to look like a spider that was used to hold this big lug’s cloak on." He reached back and jostled the corpse behind him, inadvertently putting his small hand on a gory part and then trying to shake a slimy piece that stuck to his hand off while pretending he wasn’t paying attention to it. His slight grimace gave him away. The hobbit was fastidious about keeping anything foul off his hands.

"Twice I have found brooches or pins smeared with poison in these mountains," the big man replied, crossing his massive arms and glaring at the hobbit, "once on an orc and once on an ogre."

"Phaw!" the hobbit spit as he hurled the clasp to the ground. Within seconds he had the cap off his water skin and was alternately taking a mouthful, gargling vigorously, and then spitting it out on the ground. After several cycles, he wiped his mouth on his sleeve and stared down at the clasp, now lying in the dirt. His face seemed a bit green. "I licked it," he admitted hoarsely. 

Another human, Braderick the merchant, was taking his ease nearby, smoking his long-stemmed pipe and flicking various bits of post-combat crud from his armor and clothing. "Ha!" he laughed uproariously, "why in Esteria did you do that?"

"mmplsss," the hobbit mumbled as he stalked off.

"WHAT WAS THAT NEB?" Braderick called after him, "I didn’t hear you!"

The hobbit stopped and turned abruptly. "I SAID IMPULSE," he yelled, "I do things sometimes because I think of them. Is that  a problem?"

Everyone in the camp stared at the small fellow for a moment, then suddenly developed an interest in something else as the hobbit glared at each in turn, his smooth face crimson. 

"Ah, no… that’s perfectly okay with me," the merchant said tightly, obviously straining with the effort not to laugh.

Moments later, the hobbit had forgotten his embarrassment and was gleefully looting the dead giants once again. Cereth squatted behind the first; reached down and picked up something from the dirt. He used the end of his sleeve to wipe it off, then studied it for a moment. He looked around nonchalantly for minute to make sure nobody was looking, then quickly licked the spider-shaped brooch; he closed his hand around it and stood, his hands behind his back. He strolled off, eyes darting to the various people in the group to make sure they hadn’t seen him.

The blade of grass broke the shackles of the ice and snow and stretched toward the sun.  Spring was coming and soon the snows of the Spine would melt and the nearby river would be gorged with churning water.  A well muscled chestnut stallion wandered over and ripped a mouth full of the newly born grass from the ground and chewed gratefully.  Fresh greens had been long hidden on the journey from the Wastelands. 

 

Upon the steed sat Shavas one of the most seasoned Elf rangers of the wasteland tundra.   His stark white hair and pale skin gave away his heritage upon first glance.  The white Elves of Madra were avoided by most and respected by all.  Their skill with bow and blade were second to none and it was said that even the dreaded blood hunters stayed clear of their path.  Shavas waited patiently for the fur wrapped human to approach as his chestnut grazed.  The four dwarves behind him took the short break to raise their skins of ale and rip off a chunk of dried meat and stale bread.

 

“Greetings ranger, what brings you to this bleak and desolate place?”  The human was large by all measure and his voice was strong and confident.  He knew of the white elves and his respected them as they were do but he wasn’t custom to fear.  To live this close to the chasm and the Spine you had to be tough.

 

“We seek passage into the chasm.  I am Shavas Fourwinds of house Madra.   Who might you be?”

 

“Names Agrus, been trapping in the spine for nearly ten years.  Tis my first time meeting a White Elf but sadly not the first time I’ve met someone fool enough to enter  Jagsra’s chasm..  Ya know what’s down there do ya?”

 

“Yes Agrus I am well aware of the Titan king of the chasm.  We seek his counsel and if refused, we seek his blood.”

 

Agrus’ brow furrowed deeply.  He then looked past the White Elf at the dwarves beyond.  It was plain to see that they were hardened by many battles and their gear shone brightly in spots and glowed lowly in others.  These were not just any adventures, they were rightly trained and death gleamed in their eyes.  Still Agrus could not help a doubtful shake of his head.

 

“Ya got a serious look in your eye friend and your companions look as though they could slay a thousand Orcs but it would be against my good nature not to try to get ya to think of someth’n better then going down to the Titan lair.”

 

“Consider us warned friend.  Now, how about showing us the way down the chasm?”

 

“One more question first.  Why would a wasteland Elf be a come’n through the Spine?  The dark lord of Grim Dragas ain’t one for folks traveling through his mountains and I’m thinking a white elf in particular would set a hot coal under his foot.”

 

“The dark lord, as you call him, is no bother to me.  I travel as a light wind, neither kicking up dust nor drawing a wandering eye.  Besides, my friends here have been hardened by the Spine and fit the task at hand well.  Let’s just say their skills are especially fine tuned for dealing with a titan.”

 

“Aye, I see you’re meaning Shavas Fourwinds.  Now let’s discuss the worth of what I’m about to show ya’s.”

 

 

Grutt had been spurting out curses since the last attack. His arm had been broken in three places and he was none too happy about it.  The Chasm giants they had encountered did not fight like typical giants.  Their strength and size was a match to their above land brothers but they moved with a quickness that at first had taken the dwarves by surprise. 

 

The human, Agrus, had led them to a hidden entrance to the chasm that would have taken months for them to find on their own.  They had left their horses behind and begun the difficult travel through the uneven tunnels down into the chasm.  Shavas had let Grutt lead the way as Dwarves eyes are much better in the nearly complete darkness in which they traveled. 

 

It was Drin that first smelled the giants and gave warning, nearly too late mind you, but a warning it was.

 

“We got trouble lads, on your axes and keep you wits about yas!” 

 

Three giants came rushing in from the side halls that intersected the path. The giants wore no armor but they had great agility, using large hands and feet to grip rock as if they were empowered with spider climb.  Grutt turned with his axe just as one of the giants flew in, feet first.  The massive feet grabbed Grutt by his arm and shoulder as easily has his father might back when he was a small one in the clan.  The momentum of the giant slammed Grutt to the ground there was a loud snap as his arm broke and twisted in a gruesome unnatural way.

 

Magis and Krod had readied themselves and were facing the western hall.  The giant coming towards them had missed the timing just a bit and had lost the element of surprise.  Still both dwarves stared in disbelief as the large giant both ran and pulled himself along the wall with amazing speed; alternating between his feet and his free hand to fly along the floor and walls.  The giant’s style was more like that of an ape than a giant but the dwarves supposed it bled the same color red as every other giant they had killed in their long careers.

 

The giant caught Magis’ axe in the shoulder as he rushed in and that was quickly followed by a glancing blow from Krod that nearly missed altogether.  Magis dodged skillfully as the giant tried to knock him to the ground with his feet much like what had happened to Grutt. 

 

…

From the path straight away came the third giant.  His skin was much darker than the others and he spit curses as he raced down the hall.  He grabbed the wall with his feet near Grutt and the giant now standing on top of him and launched himself ahead towards Drin and Shavas.  Shavas fired three arrows at once, connecting twice with great precision.  The giant seemed not to notice.  Drin had been ready too and connected a solid blow with his axe into the giants’ chest.  Not many naturally living things could have taken the combination of damage and lived, but this giant seemed none the worse for it.  He had pushed off the wall with a mighty surge of strength and came down with an over-head swing of his great club and smashed Drin in the shoulder.  Drin’s magic armor took most of the blow but the damage was still substantial. 

 

…

The giant’s feet held Grutt in a vice, the great club slammed into his already broken arm and again the arm buckled breaking in two more places.  Grutt cursed loudly and slammed the back of his head on the stone floor in anger and frustration.  The giant grinned with delight as the dwarf remained helpless, held firm by the giant’s weight. 

 

…

Magis and Krod seemed to be having the most success.  They moved in unison as they danced skillfully around the giant, flanking him as they swung their great axes.  The giant was proving difficult to get a solid blow on as his quickness was unlike any creature of this size they had seen before.  The giant’s club found its mark once in Krod’s stomach and then twice against Magis’ right leg.  The last blow was brutal and Magis grimaced as his leg armor buckled and cut deeply into his thigh. 

 

…

Drin met the darker giant’s chin with the spike in the middle of his axe blade with his signature uppercut maneuver.  The six inch spike drove through the soft skin below his jaw and blood shot from his mouth.  The skilled dwarf then swung low and was shocked as the giant gracefully leapt above the arc of the blade unscathed.  Back to back retaliatory blows sent Drin back three feet in his stance, something that had not happened to him since his was a youngling. 

 

Shavas had surmised that a divided approach would simply result in the death of them all.  The dark giant fighting Drin was obviously the most skilled and seemed the most able to take damage and a lot of it.  Drin could hold his own; at least for another moment or two.  The best thing Shavas could do was try to free up some help.  It was obvious Grutt would be of little use so the white elf focused his efforts on the Giant in west hall fighting Magis and Krod. 

 

One after another his arrows flew true and struck the giant with a great thud.  One especially well placed shaft drove deep under his arm pit and caused the critically damaged giant to howl in pain.  Still the giant would not fall and Shavas started to think it all over as he reached back for yet another arrow.  This one gleamed a pale green light and its head sparkled with magic.

 

…

Grutt was near death.  Once again the blood thirsty giant on top of him slammed him with his club.  Twice in the shoulder and one devastating blow to the side of his head, his helmet flew from his head and skittered across the floor.  Grutt could do little more than curse his assailant as blurred dizziness filled his eyes and the room began to fade.

 

…

The giant fighting Magis and Krod instinctively turned as Shavas had fired arrows into his side and Krod took full advantage of his momentary lapse.  Krod’s massive arms brought the axe in a full arc from near the ground up around his head and full into the giant’s back.  He made contact with the chasm giant’s spine between his shoulder blades and buried his axe deep.  Spinal cord severed the giant dropped into a lifeless heap.

 

Magis wasted no time as he leapt forward to help Drin.  The giant’s long reach caught him by surprise as he took a blow to the ribs as he rushed in.  Off balance, he missed the dark skinned giant completely.  Shavas was yelling above the fray, “Drin, you must get to Grutt and be quick about it!”

 

The dark giant wheeled on Magis and Drin took the opportunity to break away and rush to Grutt’s aid.  Meanwhile Krod stepped in and took his place opposite Magis against the giant leader. 

 

…

As Drin rushed in the giant standing on top of Grutt took one last swing landing a solid blow against the Dwarf’s unprotected head.  Satisfied the Dwarf was dead he turned to face the charging Drin.  Drin presumed that Grutt was dead and fury filled him as he leapt into the air, axe arcing over his head as he came upon the giant.  The axe hit the chasm giant squarely in the chest and his sternum shattered with the impact and the blade severed his heart.  Blood shot forth in waves completely covering both Drin and the fallen Grutt.  Glassy eyed the giant fell back his head cracking loudly against the wall.

 

The tide was now fully turned.  Skilled or not, one giant was no match for the white Elf archer and three skilled Dwarves.  The dark giant managed another solid blow to Magis and a parting shot to Krod before he finally fell to a volley of arrows closely grouped around his neck and face.  The entire battle had lasted less than thirty seconds but the bloodshed and damage was massive.

 

Shavas quickly ran to the battered and presumed dead Grutt.  He quickly rummaged through his backpack whispering a prayer to Corellian has he did so.  He pulled out a potion of blue liquid and poured it down the Dwarf’s throat.  A few tense seconds past by before Grutt’s eyes blinked and then opened wide.  His arm was already repairing itself and his cracked skull was mended. 

 

“Ah tis good to see you live my friend.  Much too close for my liking and yours too to be sure.  I had hoped to not need the potion until we were much further along in our journey.  The stakes have gone up considerably.”

 

Drin spoke up having finally caught his breath, “We need rest Shavas.  Tonight we rest and in the morning we can continue the search for this Titan you speak of.”

 

 

 

Agrus saw the staggering white elf from a distance.  His armor was badly damaged and his right arm hung loosely by his side. His mouth filled with tabac, Agrus spit a wad of brown into the melting snow.  Pulling his donkey behind him he approached the elf, gently shaking his head as he approached.

 

Shavas gave no appearance of noticing the mountain man but as he approached he dropped to his knees.  Up close the truly horrific nature of the elf’s wounds could be seen.  Several large gashes could be seen through his no tattered chain armor.  Blood trickled slowly from a few and one had caked over with puss from infection.  One hand was mutilated as if crushed in a vice and covering of bruises disguised is otherwise albino features. 

 

The white elf held his bow in his good hand though there appeared to be no arrows left in his quiver.  Staring blankly ahead Shavas mumbled enough for Agrus to make out that the Dwarves had all been killed. 

 

“I’m frightfully sorry to see ya in such shape good elf.  The chasm is a place of death to be sure.  I’ll be sure to say a word or two for your dwarven friends in my prayers.”

 

Shavas said nothing.

 

“Did you at least find the Titan?”

“No.  We never even got close.”

 

Agrus said nothing else as he carefully lifted the white elf onto the back of his donkey and turned west toward the spine.

My Name is Chisel Blackstone from the Water Seeker clan. My long journey to find the prophet of St. Cuthbert has finally come to an end. As I had been told he is a fair skinned Dwarf named Marques. He has a group of companions that would stick out in any crowd. They have a Goliath, an albino elf, a couple of humans and most interestingly a nomae. Many years ago a nomae visited our clan. He was an entertainer and told wonderful stories of adventure. This nomae seems to know magic and is an important member of the group.

I arrived with a group of other Dwarves who had heard of a sanctuary that was created by a group of outlanders who slew a dragon there. I doubted that the prophet of St. Cuthbert would be there but I wanted to learn more of the dragon slayers. To my great surprise it was indeed the prophet’s group that slew the dragon and they arrived in the sanctuary within a few days of our arrival.

I tried in vain to get closer to Marques upon their arrival but they had important business to discuss with a dark elf that was also waiting at the sanctuary. They spoke of things for which I had no knowledge but I quickly realized that they were not in Stone to simply spread the word of St. Cuthbert. There was a mission of great importance to them all and it revolved around a group of humans of noble blood from a strange land called Andior. The group made plans to leave after the sleep cycle. I decided that I would approach them to see if I could go along as a personal guard to Marques. I want desperately to learn more of the water god.

Fortune favored me as the end of the sleep cycle brought the revelation that one of the group had left in the night. A rogue named Sly seemed to have had other plans. There was only a momentary shaking of heads and none seemed overly surprised at his departure. This would turn out to be quite fortuitous for me. I approached the group with an offer of service and was immediately welcomed into the group. Perhaps they trusted me immediately but I believe that their immense power allowed them to accept me without fear that I could harm them in any way. I would soon learn just how powerful this group of outlanders truly is.

The Goliath, Og, carried a great pack on his back. He opened the pack and began to pull out items that he explained he had carried for quite some time. One piece at a time he pulled immaculate parts of plate mail from his pack and handed them to me. I have only seen armor of such quality once in my life and I immediately recognized its value. This group of strangers did not think twice about handing over the armor to me. These acts of trust and kindness do not happen in Stone, ever. Something stirred inside me, this was right somehow, the way things should be.

As we made final preparations to leave I felt comfortable enough to ask for a tongue of water. My tongue had been dry for four cycles now and I had noticed more than a few bulging skins I assumed were filled with water. The knight of the group a white elf named Elijah offered me an entire skin. Once again I was overwhelmed. He seemed to think nothing of it and encouraged me to drink the entire thing. I believe my expression may have given me away. How could anyone drink an entire skin of water? I could not even imagine such a thing and said so out loud. Still, I was quite grateful and now had enough water to last me a month or more. I sipped carefully of the water then dipped the lizard tongue in the water and once it was fully gorged I placed it in my mouth. I felt the coolness of it in my mouth and was refreshed. The tongue would hold enough water for days, or so I thought. More on our adventure later…

I should speak of my new companions so you should know them through my eyes:

Og is a Goliath and big even for that race. I could walk freely under the arch of his legs without him even noticing. He is straightforward and speaks plainly, this I like. I sense no deception in his words or his actions. I felt trust for him immediately and his ability to inflict massive physical damage on his foes is unmatched as I would find out on the way to the steam pits.

Eli is the white Elvin knight. He is refined to a point and well spoken as you would expect from an elf. His words do not carry the bite of the dark elves and his eyes reveal the goodness that resides within. He carries with him great magic and when I happen to move near him I can feel the power of it almost as if he were burning with a small fire. He carries the most magnificent hammer one could ever imagine. In battle he imbues the hammer with his magic and crushes enemies with unnatural strength and skill.

Arlis is a great healer who follows the teachings of the god Varnus. He is quiet and reserved. There is a great sadness about him that troubles me. Stone has taken a toll on him and I believe he longs for his homeland more than the others. His god also grants the power of wielding great water. At one point in our journey he filled an entire tunnel with it. I was awed beyond words and nearly dropped my weapon at the sight. He erases wounds with the slightest touch or a spoken word, great and mighty wounds disappear at his command. His god must have great power indeed.

Rogahl is the nomae. He is full of mirth and mischief as are all nomae’s and I find myself liking him greatly. He is of great resource and only needs to be carried occasionally and even in those times I believe he is simply lazy. No taller than a duergar child he commands a great respect when in battle. He cast spells of great magic and seems able to move himself around a battle without being seen. Some of his magic affects the entire group making us faster and honing our skills for a brief period of time. Someday I hope to return to my clan and tell them of my adventures with this likable nomae.

Marques is the dwarven prophet of St. Cuthbert. He is of solitary focus and often shares the greatness of St. Cuthbert with those we meet, whether they wish to hear it or not. He is unafraid and shares his knowledge freely knowing that St. Cuthbert is the great hope for this world. He willingly travels with the others seeing his purpose and theirs closely aligned. We have had precious few moments to discuss St. Cuthbert as of yet but I hang on every word. I will learn many great things from Marques and I hope to stay with him for a long time. He is quite good in combat as well. His divine power manifests itself in powerful blows. In battle he sputters the virtues of St. Cuthbert while smashing in heads and breaking bones, which is a bit unnerving.  There is a certain something in his voice and in his eyes that at times seems to give light to nearly maniacal zealot within. He is not warm or endearing but no good leader is.

There is one other I have yet to meet. A human archer named Talon. He should be joining us shortly though his current mission has not been told to me.

Father says that time can heal any wound that doesn’t kill you. Nikko’s death hasn’t killed me yet, so I suppose I’ll get over it. I spent the week after we cremated Nikko mourning, and being comforted by my sister, Renea. She was not close to the wizard, but she knows I was and shares my grief the way only a close sibling can. Renae cared for me throughout my entire childhood. It is in her nature, just as it is in mine to take responsibility for those I care about, and to put their safety ahead of my own. 

When I was only eight or nine, my father took me to Cooper Wells to visit Duke Pikk and his large family. I remember being delighted at the sheer number of childred and grandchildren that overran the Duke’s sprawling estate. We spent two weeks there, and every day I met children that I hadn’t met before. Pikk was a handsome older gentleman with a sharp wit who took great pains to explain to me the burdens of responsibility that fall upon leaders, and the virtue of leading by example. He called it soft leadership, and I found myself mesmerized by the concept of someone that people would follow because he elevated them above the limitations they placed upon themselves. Pikk was one of the heroes who rescued my father when he was only a boy. It is ironic that another set of heroes would have to rescue me, and that one of those heroes was a vassal of Pikk. I think that some day I will go to visit the Duke, and from there go to the village where Nikko’s mother and father live. I need to tell them about their son.

Renae says that I will make a new friend, but I don’t think I will. I will have friends, if I live that long, but not like Nikko. He was both friend and mentor. He treated me like an adult, but kept me safe. He was the kind of friend you can only have when you’re a boy-becoming-a-man. For good or ill, I have crossed that rubicon. Any friends I have from this day forward will be a man’s friends, and a man’s friends are held at a certain distance. Read the rest of this entry »

 

Why, Lord? Of all of us, Pelor, why did you have to take Nikko? How does that make any kind of sense? What kind of twisted, insane reasoning led you to that conclusion? Was it because we needed him? Was it because I needed him? Why not Marqes? He is taken by madness and everyone would feel a bit relieved if you took him. Why not the hateful thief? He believes in nothing but his own welfare and comfort. I would see him dead a thousand times to have Nikko back. 

Why not me? I may just be a boy, but I serve no particular purpose here, as Sly has pointed out endlessly. My sisters can rule, if my father is dead. He must be, right, else he would have broke the world, having us back? I am young, but I have perhaps sixty years before me. Nikko had a thousand. What a rich harvest you have reaped, Pelor. How your basket must overflow! I am so glad that he now wanders your halls. It is not as we needed anyone extraordinary here, for our purposes. We’re just trying to rescue the world from enslavement. Don’t let us disturb your lofty ruminations.

Forgive me, Lord. I do not hate you, though I must sound as if I do. In your wisdom, you must understand how desperate I am to blame someone for this terrible thing. I never really believed that, someday, he would be gone. He was bigger than this small world. He was eternal. Things that I can barely grasp the concept of, he knew in their most intimate and finite detail. In this hour of our greatest need, it was especially cruel to have such a good man ripped from our grasp. What bard could help but spit to have to recount this tale?

Aye, we must carry on, for the sake of the world if not our own. My mouth is full of ashes and my heart, lead. I no longer care for my own life or anyone elses’. I go on because I must. It is my duty to my father, my Kingdom and to you, my God to continue until my time here is through. I will do my duty because I will not bring shame to my family’s name. I will not have it be known that a son of Keilrand gave up because of the pitiless meaness of life. If I must, I will embrace cruelty myself, and cast pity aside. If my only friend must die, who then deserves to live? Who then is worthy of mercy? Of forgiveness? I see none.

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Hi, Reneel again. No, I’m afraid Nikko isn’t any better yet and I will have to continue to add to the journal myself. I am sure that Echi would be glad to do it instead, and I find his writing to be entertaining, but without Nikko’s cooperation, that can’t happen either. I guess you’re stuck with me for the time being.

With Arliss’ daily allowance of divine magic nearly depleated, we were forced to retreat back out of the Drow lair without finishing our exploration. As far as we knew, we’d killed them all and could have finished this exploratory venture with a few more minute’s effort and return back to the dragon’s lair to rest, but it was too dangerous so we left. Nikko used a wall of stone to wall-in the door where it has been sealed before by the Ancient Order of Stonewalkers.

We settled down in that room and began our usual post-battle rituals of tending to the wounds that remained, preparing food and drink to give our bodies the energy needed to aid in the healing process, and passing around the spoils of the battle so everyone could test the heft and feel of any items. An item that caught my eye, or rather two items, where the twin scimitars that one of the Drow heroes had used. I am untrained in the art of two-weapon fighting, but the weapons were extremely well-maid and felt good in my hands. I passed the blades on to Marqes, who was sprawled on the stone floor with this head resting on his bedroll and composing limericks about Saint Cuthbert. He took the swords, glanced at them for half a second, then passed them on to Sly. The thief was squatting on the floor in his favorite posture, arms resting on his knees and gaze focused somewhere far away.

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