"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.