What Fools these Mortals Be...

[Mr. X]

The goblin 'smiles', saying.

"I speak to you on behalf of our Lord and Master, The First Prophet of our gods, and architect of our people... I have been chosen in hopes that you might appreciate speaking with a face you recognize."

It makes a slight bow,

"All that we ask of you, is that you bear witness to what you have seen here, and carry that word out to those suffering who need to hear it..."

[Fates]

Malthos raises an eyebrow. Then our lord wishes me to leave? I will do as you say, if that is what is required of me, but I am curious. I am a spiritual man, even now, yet I know little to nothing of our own gods. Is there someone with which I may speak on such matters?

[Mr. X]

"You are welcome to stay or go as you please..."

The goblin tilts its head skyward, and his whole countenance changes... He seems smaller, and more filled with wonder...

When he speaks his voice is high pitched, like that of a child

"... The Prophet has seen your fate written in the clouds and stars above, and in them, has seen your every step as being good for us..."

He looks back at you, his stance altering again... Standing taller, and leaning sideways on his hips, tilting his head, and shrugging his shoulders in a feminine fashion, he speaks with a woman's voice.

"... If you would know more, you might bring him forth yourself..."

He hunches forward, putting his good hand on his stomach, and when he speaks, it is in a voice you cannot help but recognize... Murgan...

"... Bastard lives in all o' us, jes like me..."

The goblin straightens, speaking again in his initial voice.

"... There are dangers in conjuring a persona so... 'Potent'... As our Prophet... But if you would be his vessel, you need only allow him to come forth."

Spoiler

Show

As the goblin suggests, you have already assimilated the life and memories of the Prophet. If you would like to bring him up, make a Will Save, DC 35.

It may be possible to commune with him inside your head, without giving him full reign, but you won't know without trying.

[Fates]

Malthos nods, and folds into a cross-legged pose, his pale lips straight, face firm and neutral, eyes shut. He exerts his will inwardly, prying his mind for the presence of the prophet, and attempts to commune with it.

[Mr. X]

Sitting on a still standing pew within the desecrated Great Temple, it takes some time for you to center yourself sufficiently to turn your focus inwards, and delve the depths of your countless lives...

... At first, all is dark... You feel yourself drifting through a vast, empty space...

... All around dim points of light surround you, like stars in the sky...
But you know, and can name, each and every one of them.

... It is more peaceful than when you first merged with these lives, and as each person drifts past, you have all the time you need to find the one you seek... Not unlike searching for an individual amongst a crowd of close friends. Each known and loved implicitly, but only one purposefully sought...

... As you drift by soldiers and craftsmen, sailors and merchants, sons and daughters, wives and mothers, you realize that, in you, each has achieved a sort of immortality...

Their husks cast off, perhaps, but each yet continues to live on... Merely waiting in stasis to be brought forth to continue their lives wherever they left them...

... Can the Blight so terrible as you first perceived, if through it such peace and continuity could be achieved..?

... But these thoughts are not your purpose here...

Deeper into the darkness you drift, past all the recent lives... The young... And on to the elder lives...

... You witness the suffering of the goblins upon who's shoulders the survival of their kind rested...

... Sealed away by the fearful and short sighted, they were trapped within the cold earth... Left to starve and die...

... But they yet had hope for a brighter future... When all creatures might share their gods' blessing...

... And for a millennia, they did not merely survive... They thrived...

... Ever deeper, and ever farther... Until you find him...

Where every previous life has seemed the passing twinkle of a star, the Prophet is like a swelling cloud... A thunderstorm of latent power...

... Pressing forward, you come to a rest in his presence... A hunched and twisted goblin, like every other you've encountered, but his aura of power resonates palpably about him...

... Turning to face you, he yet wears the mask of Murgan's face...

"You have come at last."

[Fates]

Malthos considers bowing, but then decides against it, settling for a nod of respect. It took me some time to...come to terms with our god's gift. Mortalkind can be quite naive in matters of flesh and blood. You'll excuse me, I hope.


The chained man's eyes, which in this world seem to lose their cloudiness, betray genuine curiosity.

I am come, as I suspect you already knew, to learn of our god- or gods. I know now that I belong here, among my kind, but... if I am to receive my power from, or indeed to serve greater forces, I would wish to understand them. Anything else you would have me know, of course, will be much appreciated.

[Mr. X]

The Prophet nods, smiling.

"... To call them 'gods' is a misrepresentation of what they are..."

He turns and sweeps one of his hands across the sky, blackening your view there, and then filling it with an image of the world...

"It existed long before the gods came... Before the division of light and darkness... Before the separation of the mundane and the magical..."

He almost sneers,

"Before the split of the Super-Natural and the Pseudo-Natural..."

He sighs...

"... Before, all was one. Light was dark, life and death were one and the same, and the potential for all these things existed in a proto-state that was eternal..."

He spits.

"When the gods arose, they shattered the proto-state, separating life from death, dark from light, and established this natural order of diversity... Each plant and animal it's own life... Alone, and untouched by any other... Cut away from the whole to stumble through the dark of existence alone.

In doing, the proto-state was also broken... It's aspects divided... No longer the whole they once were, but each still of immense power... And each still striving for the whole...

The Hunger... Who's hands reach ever further, who's appetite cannot be sated... The Fungus... The proto-substance that brings the fragmented lives back together...

There are more, but to comprehend them, you must first see them... You have the power now to visit their planes... I suggest you do..."

He looks around,

"... But for now, I must release you... Share with all the yet unblessed what you have learned... Share with them the hope... If you had not come when you did, our cause would have been lost..."

... As he finishes, the is a sudden rushing of wind, and you are flung into the sky... Thousands upon thousands of lives streak passed you, as you re-emerge into yourself...

...

...

A sharp blast of icy wind finds you atop a stone tower in the midst of the city... Your body wracked with agonizing pain, as you look down to see your arm and chest flayed nearly to the bone, even as the fungus rapidly grows to heal you...

Beyond much of the city is a smoking ruin, even more so than when you arrived... The charred remains of countless burnt goblins litter the streets, as terrible wildfires burn out of control all around you...

... There is a great, yawning rumble... And you see the beast...

... It's scales burt and peeling off, it's wings torn and bloody, the colossal reptile crawls defeated away... A taloned claw smashing a smaller building to rubble as the creature heaves itself over the city's outer wall, and limps off to vanish into the northern forest... Perhaps to die...

... "... If you had not come when you did, our cause would have been lost..."

[Fates]

Malthos collapses to his knees, clutching his ravaged arm to his chest. The air stings his eyes, and hot tears pour down his withered face, as the ragged remains of his garments blow furiously in the wind, his chains writhing and rattling. Looking over the horizon, seeing the dragon's husk, a grim understanding overtakes him. Kulkov the godsent is dead, his light gone from the world.

The shaman holds his hand before his face, stares at the creases, soaked with blood. Eyes the fungal growth reaching across its back. His hand.... his only hand. His.

Malthos falls prostrate, shaking uncontrollably. Slowly, softly, he begins to sob. He sobs for a long time, and wails.

Dirty, defiled. USED! I am not his...I am...I...

What is he?

Who is Malthos anymore? A tool? A hammer to a smith, a serf's sickle...another apparatus to accomplish some meaningless task? What use is this thing, this pretense? What had it brought in its wake but ruin and despair? What task had it accomplished? What is the matter of a man, a creature that is Malthos? If he is a tool, then he is broken, and a broken tool is better left discarded.

The chained man stands, and hobbles to the edge of the tower. He closes his eyes, positioned atop the battlements, and without so much as a whisper, he falls.

...and prays that his chains will not catch him.

[Mr. X]

...

...

... It is so quiet...

...

... So peaceful...

...

... The Chains have been so heavy... The weight of your Duty...

...

... They say that before you die, you life passes before your eyes... And so it is, as you drift downward, supported on a cushion of rushing wind, that your mind begins to wander...

... The warm, sweet taste of milk... A woman's face smiling down upon you...

... The scrape of the razor over your scalp, when you first shaved your head...

... The soft voice of Yethri... Always patient, always kind... His wry smile obscuring the countless hard lessons he'd learned, and sought to teach you...

... If only you'd known then what you know now...

...

... The curl of your father's lip, as he sneered at your work in the forge...

...

... The first whisper of the spirits in your ear, and the rush of their power flowing through you...

... The arrogance that came with it...

... The attack on the village... And your escape...

... The loneliness that followed...

... The first time you met Kulkov... All shining scales and boisterous gaiety, confident and without a care in the world...

... So different from the man he was when he fell...

... And then the recent times, passing in flashes...

... Your first steps into the dungeon...

... The horror of the Hand god, and the flight through the gauntlet...

... The fountain of gold...

... The Chains... So light when first you donned them...

... The goblin city, the Worm, and the fall and escape from Beluvah...

... The tavern in Clearwater where you discovered Fredric's bounty...

... The Elves... The Dwarves...

... And then The Prophet...

...

...

...

... So many miles you've traveled... So many obstacles overcome...

... For what...?

... To ensure the success of the Blight?

... To make meaningless Kulkov's sacrifice?

... After all you suffered, after all you fought, after all you gave up...

... That was to be your legacy...?

... You took upon yourself the duty to save the world...

... And those chains were heavy...

... So very heavy...

...

... You realize something...

... There is no shame in this defeat...

... You tried...

... You gave everything...

... No one, not even the Gods themselves, could ask for more from you...

...

... If it wasn't enough... The fault lies not with you...

...

...

...

... Down...

... Down...

... Down...

...

... A sharp rattle rings out against the rushing air...

... NO!!

You open your eyes and twist, to see the ground rushing up at you.

The Chains lash out, scraping and dragging along the tower wall, seeking purchase...

... A hook catches for a moment, upsetting your dive, and smashing you against the wall, before pulling free as you plummet downwards, cracked rubble pelting you as the chains whip about dragging against cracked stone and mortar, and finally pulling you to a stop hanging inches from the ground...

...

...

... A tear falls to the ashen earth...

...

... You cannot even die the way you wish to...

...

... But then you realize...

... You took the Chains upon yourself because of your own sense of Duty...

... And as that Duty grew, so too did the Chains...

...

...

... It is not the Chains that refuse to let you die... It is you...

...

... It is you...

...

... And you still have much to do...

Spoiler

Show

Stage 4: Duty Bound

You comprehend now that the Chains were never the cursed metal you once thought, but were a manifestation of your own subconscious sense of self.

You and they are one and the same.

System: You now have complete control over the Chains, and may expand or reduce them (down to their initial Choker Amulet, or up to full Chain Mail) at will, as a Free Action.

Additionally, The Chains no longer inflict damage when you cast Blighted magic, and provide a +2 to your effective Caster Level.

[Fates]

Malthos allows himself to fall the last few inches, and lands with a soft thud. Rolling onto his back, the shaman closes his eyes, and inhales in great gulps, exhales deeply...


...All this time. All these years, all these trials, all that he has stood for and all that he has stood against, all fall into place. After so much confusion, frustration, desperation...everything finally makes sense. The gods, the spirits, had not sought to punish him- they never had. The chains are his- they are a part of him, and had been long before the chamber of statues. They are more than the skin of metal that bound his form- more than the fleeting power they grant- they are something greater, something sublime.

Duty.

And duty, like the chains, is not a curse. It is not something to be accepted grudgingly, but with fervor. It is to be embraced, not endured with grim submission. There is no greater standard by which one may judge a person than how they fulfill their duty. And cleverness, valor, daring and compassion... all are meaningless unless put to use- to achieve something beyond oneself, to serve a higher purpose, to do what must be done for the betterment of the world, to the best of one's ability.

And for all of Malthos' flaws... for all his faults, and all his follies, he knows that he has never shirked his duty.

And for that, he is a just man. Perhaps arrogant, perhaps reckless, perhaps cold, at times. Perhaps he does not fit the mold of a good man...but who could hold true to such high ideals, who has undergone such a life as his? After all, at heart he is only human. Malthos forgets that sometimes. He may not be good, but he is just, and for that, he can take solace.

The shaman's eyes flutter open, and his nose fills with the scent of blood and smoke and burning flesh. He sits upright, and gazes across the ravaged landscape, at the charred corpses of the blighted, at the ruin wrought by the dragon gods' emissary, and like a rushing tide another realization hits.

The wyrm's defeat was not his defeat. Malthos did not desire the proto-state of which the prophet spoke, nor had he rid himself of the horror of possession, but neither did he wish for the eradication of the blighted. These goblins had suffered at the hands of men, dwarves, and elves. Sealed beneath the ground, in unwarranted fear- an unjust punishment.

And yet they endured these hardships, and despite all appearances maintained their mortal spirits...they are savage and misguided, and their goal is oblivion, but they stay true to their purpose- they do not shirk their duty, and there is much to admire in that. Beneath it all the blighted are still people, and so they can learn, and be redeemed, given time. To destroy them would be genocide- there must instead be a middle ground- a compromise that can be met. A peace.

Malthos stands, and stares towards the setting sun in the distance, wiping the last tears from his face. There would be time enough to weep when this is all over- now is a time for action. Now, more than ever, his talents would be needed. A compromise must be attempted, an end to the suffering. Such a thing seems insurmountable, but it is a noble task. It is a legacy he could take pride in leaving behind.

And it is worth living for.

[Fates]

Malthos awakes with swollen eyes, the morning sun glaring above the horizon. He groans as he struggles to stand, and, after a moment of hesitation, retracts his chains back into a collar- a feeling of relief washing over him. He arches his aching back and rolls his shoulders, and then moves outside the holy city, wishing not to be disturbed. Upon finding a suitable outcrop, he retrieves a small rod of dried bamboo, murmuring as he rolls it in his palm. In a few short moments, clear, cool water trickles forth from the earth to form a small spring. Malthos removes the tattered remains of his garments and robe, setting them on the rocks.

The shaman scowls as he stares at the reflection of his naked form in the water. Not as bad as he might have thought...the fungus had spread over much of his body, and the crystal arm still unnerves him, but he looks basically human- perhaps that was the best he could hope for. Shutting his eyes, Malthos plunges his head under the water.

Malthos spends the next hour or so bathing, cleaning himself of all the blood and bile and grime of yesterday's mayhem. Next, he gathers his clothes in a pile, and waves his hand over them; in moments, the countless tears and burns in the rags dissapear, as the cloth weaves itself back into a workable, albeit badly worn and bloodied, state.

Malthos labors for a while, washing the mud-caked clothes in the spring- it is hard work with only one hand, but it is a happy diversion from his worries- Malthos always had preferred washing clothes, tanning hides, and similar duties to hunting- his father often punished his son if he found him doing women's work. Perhaps that was why he eventually forced Malthos to work the forge.

After some time, the shaman sets the clothes out on the rocks again to dry, and sits cross-legged in the replenished water. With a twinge of guilt and a profound sense of déjà-vu, Malthos renews his bond with the Hunger.

It is noon when Malthos returns to consciousness. He dresses himself in sun-baked attire, and then allows his chains to return to their full length, wrapping around his form. He dons his greyed robe over his armor of chains, and pulls the hood over his head. He invokes a word and lifts into the air, soaring south toward the Star Spire camp, to report back to the boy king.

Spoiler: Spells

Show

Casting Create Spring, Make Whole, and Overland Flight (which will last for the next 11 hours.

[Mr. X]

Taking to the skies, you see that the armies present the previous day have all departed.

The Hill where the camps of Deep Mote and Star Spire stood is now a desolate graveyard... The Hill itself has been split in twain, as though by a titan's axe, revealing a black abyss stretching into the very bowels of the earth...

... The lands around it are littered with the bodies of the fallen, the ground saturated with their blood...

... The Blighted have not yet rallied from the dragon's assault to claim the waiting feast, but even so, scavengers and carrion eaters, both two-legged and four, pick their way through the near endless ranks of dead...

... Amidst it all, near the chasm's edge, a lone pyre burns, sending a column of smoke high into the heavens... Perhaps up unto the gods themselves...

[Fates]

Malthos gazes in horror at the carnage all around him, his nose assailed by the smell of gore and his eyes stung from the acrid smoke. Was the Dragon responsible for this, or was it the armies themselves who brought this desolation? A civil conflict, perhaps, or a mutiny?

Setting this aside, Malthos hovers towards the site of the pyre, chains rattling behind.

[Mr. X]

While the dragon appears to have been responsible for some of the death, it is clear that much of it occurred before its appearance... The two armies battled one another, for what cause, you cannot say.

Looking around at the torn and broken banners, and the armors worn by the fallen soldiers, it is apparent that the conflict was between the Dwarves of Deep Mote, and the battalions of Great Gate... Star Spire does not appear to have been involved.

Moving through the wastes, your nose burning, and your blighted bowels grumbling with the acrid smell of blood and charred flesh, you approach the pyre...

The fire has been burning for some hours, and so the body within has been reduced to mostly ash and charred bone...

... But the goliath stature, and draconic bone structure are unmistakeable...

...It is Kulkov.

[Fates]

Malthos clutches his reeling stomach, and tries his best to slow his quickening breath. Hot tears pour down his face, and he struggles not to sob.

His premonition was correct. The Dragonborn, the Godsent, that warm and brave and selfless soul who was Kulkov had met his end.

The first, perhaps the best friend Malthos had after leaving his home. The one who truly seemed to understand Malthos for who he is. The one who always showed unwavering devotion- to his patron, his people, his friends, in equal measure. The greatest warrior and the greatest man Malthos has ever known...was dead.

What must life had been like for Kulkov? How must he have felt, that tribal warrior, so naive and so pure and so gallant, to come so suddenly to such hardship?
What must he have felt, having leadership thrust upon him, this man of simple means, to be called a hero, a man sent by the gods themselves to save the people from the blight? How wrought he must have been with guilt, when so many died under his banner.

And by what right was all this forced upon him? What gave Bahamut the right to make a pawn of Kulkov? To choose for him a fate he never wanted, and then to give him no aid or guidance in return?

Malthos never could understand religion. The gods are no better than mortals- they are just as flawed, and just as foolish. They take mortals as their playthings, command them to perform their dirty work, yet without mortals they are all but powerless. How much gentler a place might the world be, if mortals were to cast them aside, and decide their own fate?

Malthos swoops downwards, and, channeling his anger, thrusts his hand into the fire, feeling the flames lick his exposed arm...but they do not burn him. The shaman retrieves a charred bone, and gingerly sets it on the rocks beside the pyre. Then he retrieves another, and another, until, some time later, the full skeleton is removed from the fire.

Malthos sits beside the pile of ashen bones, and, closing his eyes, begins to sing. It was one of the few ritual songs that Yethri taught him, written in the language their people once spoke, before adopting the settled peoples' tongue- Malthos finds the words come back to him easily, though he does not recall their meaning. His voice is hoarse and unmelodious, but he sings, the rhythmic rise and fall of his droning trill echoing throughout the torn landscape.

During this time, he calls upon the last of the spirits power that remains within him, and calls to the powers of the other-world, to hear his song and to answer his plea.

Spoiler

Show

Using the Fire Ward ability from the Flame Domain to grant myself fire resistance 15.

Then, casting ritualized Spirit Ally, which I did indeed prepare while still being granted spells by the spirits,in case corrupting the spell has some effect on the summons.

[Mr. X]

The last words of the song are barely off your lips, when your hackles rise in response to the presence... Your ears fill with the clash of metal, and the shouts and screams of men fighting and dying... A great wind blasts across the field, and in it you feel the unquelled rage of those fighting for their lives, unaware that those lives have ended...

The wind grows stronger, swirling into a tempest before you, and pulling from the ground a multitude of fallen axes, swords, and spears, forming a spinning cloud of steel, clattering each against the other, as though the battle of the previous day yet raged... And indeed, deep within that mass, you can make out ethereal hands grasping the weapon hafts, and a dim, conglomerate mass of faces and bodies, and howling voices that turn chaotically turn and battle one another, only to be subsumed by the roiling cloud, and replaced by others...

... Such is the being which you have conjured.

[Fates]

Malthos steps back a pace, breathing heavily. He stands before the metal behemoth, and, filled with anger and passion, rasps.

Bound by the grace of the spirits and wrought in the blood of the betrayed, I have called you to this place, creature.

If you would speak, I would make query before your task begins. But regardless, there is much work to be done...in which you will doubtless be a great boon. If there is a price to be paid, I will gladly give it.

If you have words, then speak. Tell me your name, and your desire.

[Mr. X]

The scraping rasp of a hundred embattled swords, and the dying screams of a hundred slaughtered souls are the sounds that make up the thing's voice... Piercing your ears like nails on a slate...

"... We are the battle unending... We may serve, but you must make it stop... MAKE IT STOP!!!"

[Fates]

Malthos speaks in a calm, reserved tone. Your battle will end, in due time, if that is what you wish- you have my word.

Before you are set out on your primary task, however, I have a lesser duty for you.

Malthos retrieves a cloth sack from his pack, and gathers Kulkov's bones within.

You will deliver these bones to the Ilkanu goliath tribe. They will know whose they are. You will defend yourself from any threats along the way- you will not kill unless it is completely necessary, and you will not allow yourself to be destroyed. You will not harm any member of the Ilkanu. You will simply deliver the bones, and then return to me.

Malthos discloses rough directions to where the Ilkanu may be found.

Do you understand?

[Mr. X]

"Yessssss..." the thing hisses, "... This thing shall be done..."

The howling winds snatch up the bag, pulling it into the tempest's minds, and the shrieking spirit streaks off southward, leaving you alone.

... It is then that you spy the serpentine blade caught in the mud...

The dagger...

Rushing to gather it up, you find it broken... The blade snapped off from the hilt, which is found nearby, and lifelessly devoid of the magic which once bound it to the Hunger...

... It is dealing with this that you hear a voice speak out behind you.

"Saw him break it I did, my master..."

Whirling, your eyes fall upon a man in haggard priest's robes... His face is smeared with blood, and in his hand he holds a disembodied arm, chewed where he's been gnawing at it...

... But his voice... Brings forth a distant memory from nearly a lifetime ago...

Indeed, they have even sent their own among us! In the fires of devistation, the Godsent, the Dragonborn appeared to guide you to safty! Now he stands among you again to lead you against this foe, and bring swift redribution to the defilers of this world!!"

... The priest from among the refugees...

[Fates]

Malthos holds the shattered knife in his hand, and as his eyes roll towards the priest, he laughs in dark irony. What a world we live in, that heroes fall and innocents die in untold multitudes, yet men such as you and I survive.

He stows the shards away, and turns to face the man, throwing him a look of cool resignation.

Tell me, how much did those slavers pay you to rally those peasants? At what cost did you sell your principles? How much gold does it take to quiet the voices of the gods?

[Mr. X]

The priest looks taken aback.

"My master, you do me wrong... Short sighted in my zeal, perhaps I was, but in league with the slavers, I was not. Indeed, like the great Dragonborn, I ran to do battle with them and rescue those ensnared, but was struck down by your purging fire before I could... And then by your power, my life was returned to me... As something else."

He gestures around, where many of the other scavengers are beginning to approach you,

"As were we all."

[Fates]

Malthos steps back, and struggles to clench his quivering jaw. However, his eyes reveal absolute shock and horror.

He stands there, silent, for a few long moments, gazing at the victims of another of his old demons.

He stammers, struggling for words, before exploding in an exasperated cry, pointing towards the priest.

I...What are you...stop! What are you doing? D..drop that thing! He sobs. I am not your master! You owe me nothing. Nothing! I...I killed you! I deserve your hate! Please, listen to me! I...I...

His throat constricts painfully. He cannot make out any more words. He wipes the tears and ash from his face, stares at the resurrected men, and buries his face in his palm.

[Mr. X]

A hand touches your shoulder.

"Master, you are mistaken."

You look up into the face of a strikingly beautiful woman, also bloodied from recent feeding.

"You are the only hope that remains to us... You are our creator.

After you returned our lives, we all went our ways... Scattered to the winds, our old lives and families destroyed by the demons of Beluvah, we wandered and sought to begin anew...

... But it was not long before the hunger took us..."

She gestures to the corpses littering the field,

"Amongst the refugees, there was never a shortage of the recently dead... Those who succumbed to illness or the wounds received in their flight from the Holy City, and now the fallen of great battles..."

She looks to the others gathered.

"We found our niches following the camps... To comfort the soldiers, and helping to 'prepare' the dead for burial."

She pauses, recalling an unpleasant memory,

"Some were discovered... To be cut down on the spot, or faced with charges of abomination against nature... To be burned at the stake as witches and demons by the justices of the lands..."

She looks back at you,

"But the gods would not take us... Nerul's embrace beyond our grasp, we did not die... We could not die...

Always recovering and returning, the winds of fate swept us and drew us in until we found each other... And until we found you.

You are our creator... Your purpose is ours...

... You are all that remains to us."

[Fates]

Malthos remains silent for a long time, avoiding the woman's gaze. His mind races, trying in vain to make sense of the situation at hand. For a minute, or half a minute, or several minutes Malthos stands there, wracked with guilt and shame, barely able to support his own weight.

Until finally, Malthos relents. His mind clears, and his throat relaxes. Later, perhaps there would be time to dwell on these things. Now, however, these people would need his guidance.

Malthos blinks, and opens his eyes, looking back into the woman's. He gulps, before at last speaking, breaking the long silence.

I am sorry that you were made like this. I am sorry that you have suffered so at my hands. And I wish that you would revile me for it- I wish nothing more than that you wouId shun me and shame me and have nothing to do with me- pay retribution for condemning you to this existence.

However, as you choose instead to follow and embrace me, I swear to you-

He looks around, gesturing.

All of you, that I will never again bring you harm. And I will ensure that no one else should do the same. I will protect you, as best I can, from the blight, from cruel men who shun and despise you, from all the evils of the world. I will shelter you, and in time I will attempt to ensure that you will find joy and love and happiness in this life. And in all things I offer you whatever guidance you require, through whatever wisdom and knowledge I possess.

All these things I will do; but there is something I would ask for you to swear in return.

I would ask that you do not subject yourselves to me. I do not wish to be worshipped, revered, or groveled before. I want you to aid me, not to serve me. I wish for you to join me in my aims because my aims are just and righteous- I would not have you act out of blind obedience. I want you to question all that I say, and to do always what you feel is right, whether or not I ask you to, or even deem it so.

Malthos closes his eyes for a moment and breaths deeply.

Are we agreed?

[Mr. X]

The woman and the priest nod immediately, but many of the rest only look at you quizzically...

... You realize that many of them are peasants or city workers and servants, who's lives have so revolved around blind obedience to a lord or boss, that the mere idea of having a say in what actions they take is a foreign one...

... It takes some time for comprehension of what you are saying, and the empowerment it promises, to dawn on them, but before long, they are all nodding and agreeing enthusiastically, when the priest turns back to you.

"What are you going to do?"

He glances northward,

"I saw the man who broke the dagger, if you would seek him..."

[Fates]

Malthos nods curtly. Truth be told, I wanted nothing much to do with the thrice-damned thing anymore, but at the same time, I may have had need of it in the future. I would know his name, though barring a dramatic change of circumstances I doubt we will have time or cause to seek him out.

The Shaman shifts his footing.

I admit that I have no clear-cut course for the immediate future, predominantly because I do not know the present state of affairs, beyond, of course, the death of Kulkov and the summary emergence of the Dragon. I would thank you to tell me anything you know of the events that transpired here- is the dragon responsible for all these dead? And what of Gunther's return? What could have caused such a thing?

[Mr. X]

It is the priest that speaks.

"I believe that the gods are summoning up their champions from across the ages to do battle with the Enemy... The Dragon the child of Bahumat and Tiamat, Gunter, the scion of Nerul... The others may yet have their pieces in play... Mayhap we are among them.

Of the dead, the Dragon killed some... More than some, really, but mostly they killed each other. Great Gate assaulted the Dwarven flanks while their force faced a sortie of the Enemy from Beluvah. Seemed as though they used the undead to rile them up as a diversion... Got all their cannons lined up points the wrong way...

As for the man, I don't know his proper name, but you do... He was with you at Market: The Bonefoot was the one who done it..."

[Fates]

Malthos sighs in resignation. ,,,That is unfortunate. Unfortunate, but certainly not unexpected.

The shaman shrouds his face with his hand, and stares westward.
We will discuss my plans...our plans, and much else, soon enough, but this is neither the time nor place for such discourse. Prudence in all things, for eager eyes and ears are never far away.

Malthos begins to pace, drawing in a long breath through his mouth. He looks to the priest. While I appreciate your counsel, I believe that the man to whom you referred may be somewhat better suited to illuminate me on the issue at hand- he is quite uniquely qualified in this regard, and I would have words with him. Do you know where he has gone?

[Mr. X]

The priest points to the Northwest, where you can just make out a distant encampment.

"He went that way, but was stopped by a party from the Ashen Legion... He knelt before 'em, an' they exchanged words, though I couldn't hear, an' then they took 'im in."

He frowns.

"It looked as though they meant to put 'im in chains, but he said somethin', an' they stopped, an' didn't... The whole lot o' 'em looked mighty nervous to be around him.

He went with 'em anyway, though."