ToME: the Tales of Maj'Eyal

Prologue

Hamrik's acceptance into the halls of Angolwen had probably been the best moment of the young dwarf's life. Appropriately, his ejection from them felt like the worst. Bad enough to be denied the training his intelligence deserved, but to have his Manasurge rune erased, his staff snapped in two, and a seal placed upon his aether channels to forbid him from channelling mana for evermore? It was as good as being dead.

"And anyway, what goes up must come down," Hamrik muttered, glancing sideways at the Shadow. "It's only a matter of time before Archmage Tarelion's staff falls back down from the Abashed Expanse. Is that really worth an expulsion?"

As ever, the Shadow made no response. However, even without it saying anything, Hamrik was painfully aware that certain other of his humorous pranks had probably contributed to the situation. Like the Great Displacement Shield Food Fight. Or the Linaniil Peeping Incident. Or the Chain Lightning That Wouldn't Stop. But what else was he supposed to do? His teachers actually left Runes of Invisibility lying around unattended. Runes of Invisibility. It would have been an insult to the spirit of creativity not to take advantage of the infinite opportunities presented by his environment.

At least he'd managed to get in a parting shot. Even now, a fair proportion of the underwear in the archmage laundry room was enchanted to proc Teleport on the wearer upon removal. He just wished he could be there to enjoy it.

"I hope it comes down in the middle of the ocean somewhere." Hamrik returned to his original school of thought. "Or better yet, right on top of his head. Maybe the impact will dislodge the other staff that's constantly up his-"

He broke off as he rounded the top of a hill, and saw the hidden entrance to the Iron Throne at long last. It had cost his family more than a little money and influence to get him sent to Angolwen, a place that didn't even officially exist. They wouldn't be happy to see him back like this.


Chapter I

Level 1: +1 Con, +1 Wil, +1 Cun, +2 Willful Strike, + 2 Call Shadows, +1 Resilience of the Dwarves, +1 Feed, +1 Gesture of Pain

Hamrik cowered behind Norgan as the berserker split another orc in half with his battleaxe. He'd been right about his homecoming. It was a miserable experience all round, doubly so once he'd got over his initial gloom and started looking at new career options. There just wasn't anything he could be as good at as magic. Even the Stone Wardens, the dual-shield warriors whose dabblings in the arcane arts he had once sneered at, now represented heights of power forever beyond his reach. And then things had taken yet another turn for the worse, as the council started recruiting mercenaries to send on an expedition to Reknor, and Hamrik's parents suddenly decided that here was his much-needed opportunity to contribute to the household.

Apparently, communications with the small kingdom had been cut off, reasons unknown, so naturally the best thing to do was to send in some random shmucks to investigate - instead of, say, hiring a mage to teleport in, take a quick look around, and teleport out. Heck, find a guy who knows Probability Travel, and you could probably get it done in one day. But all these options were cut off from Hamrik now. So instead, he (eventually) swallowed the last of his dignity, and asked his father to lend him an axe, a shield and an old chain mail shirt. If he was going to be forced to lower himself to the absolute rock bottom of serving as a Bulwark - a fighter so incapable of the slightest degree of finesse that he was reduced to standing there and letting things hit him until they tired themselves out and presented him with openings - then dammit, he'd at least make a good job of it.

But his father just laughed at him. "What nonsense is this, boy? It's only Reknor. Up a level here, down a level there, and you'll be home in time for tea and baked rat. What will you be wanting next, stralite full plate to go buy mushrooms from old Granny Throatcleaver down the street?"

Hamrik had no answer to this that wouldn't make him sound like he'd been completely spoiled by his time in the ivory towers of Angolwen.

"Good. Now let's have no more of that. Trust me, this Reknor trip is just what you need to get back into the swing of things."

Unfortunately, the swing in question turned out to be that of Norgan's axe. The oversized weapon, and the wild-eyed dwarf behind it, was the only thing standing between Hamrik and a swift and violent death. The two of them were the only survivors of the expedition - the rest had been ravaged by rats, overwhelmed by orcs, slaughtered by snakes and, in defiance of probability, mangled by moulds. And there were still three great halls left between them and the exit. Meanwhile, without his magic, and with no conventional combat training, Hamrik was a sitting duck, except that ducks were at least small targets with the ability to fly.

Things went from bad to worse as Norgan unexpectedly charged off to deal with an orcish archer in the distance, leaving Hamrik facing a particularly large and menacing rat. He backed away in a hurry, but then he felt his backpack press against a solid, impenetrable, impassable dwarf-built wall. The giant rat, sensing weakness, lunged for his throat.

But it never made it. When Hamrik opened his eyes again, he saw a) a stunned-looking rat trying to figure out what had hit it and b) the Shadow, silently hovering in front of him. However, the impact had clearly harmed the Shadow in some way - its edges were wispy and ragged, and its movement had become unsteady. It could not take a second hit.

Observe the enemy... behold its hateful visage...

Hamrik glared at the rat. Now that it was within the light radius of his lantern, he could see it more clearly. Its filthy whiskers, its scowling expression, the mad glow in its little eyes... the more he looked at it, the more it resembled Old Boniface, the fire magic tutor who had so delighted in mocking his every tiny mistake in class. Hamrik could feel hatred swelling up inside him, building with every second he spent looking at his foe.

On impulse, he made the gesture for a bolt of Lightning, trying to draw on these feelings as he would have once drawn upon his reserves of mana. To his utter surprise, something slammed into the rat, flinging it violently through the air. Its broken body fell to the floor with a crunch.

Hamrik grinned. This he could work with.

A minute later, Norgan finally returned. "Ach, sorry for leaving ye like that, laddie. But I see ye can defend yerself just- Atamathon's Glowing Ruby Balls, what is that thing?!"

Norgan pointed at the Shadow with a shaking finger.

Shocked, Hamrik whirled round. No-one else could see the Shadow, not even the mightiest archmage. It was just another thing that made him special. Was this another constant of his old life that had no place in the new?

"Uhh, don't be alarmed, Norgan. It's a friend. We met back in Angolwen."

And oh, the pranks they'd pulled together. It had been odd at first, having a featureless ball of impenetrable darkness follow him around while everyone else acted like nothing was going on. But eventually Hamrik had got used to it, and the Shadow became his silent friend, his companion and confidant. It never judged him, never condemned him, and it always stayed by his side. It even came back within minutes after being vaporised by stray fireballs and the like (don't ask how Hamrik had found this out).

"Funny friends ye have, lad. But right now, I'd even kiss Garkul's hairy green behind if it meant help getting home alive."

The three moved on. Their teamwork steadily improved - Hamrik blasted enemies with his newfound power, injuring them and throwing their formations into disarray, while the Shadow (apparently now visible to everyone) distracted them when they tried to seek revenge. Norgan, meanwhile, carried on doing what he did best - splitting skulls and shrugging off blows that looked like they could fell a giant. It really made Hamrik wonder why so many adventurers were loners.

Hamrik soon noticed that his power spiked with every foe he defeated, but declined during periods of rest. This was like nothing he'd ever heard of. What name would one give to a resource drawn from victory in battle? "Badassery", perhaps. Or "Awesomeness". Certainly nothing as bland and uninspiring as "mana".

Eventually, the three found the staircase leading to a lower hall, and decided to make camp and rest. Norgan took the first watch while Hamrik slept.


Interlude

In a place that is no place, they speak without voices.

This one shows promise.

He is weak. He lacks power. He lacks conviction.

He has potential. He will grow. He can be shaped.

This is a risk.

Come.


Chapter II

Level 2: +1 Wil, +2 Cun, +1 Call Shadows

Hamrik woke up feeling good about himself. He'd survived an entire monster-infested dwarven hall, and a little downtime had helped his brain filter valuable combat tips from his experiences. His watch was uneventful at first, but then he noticed something startling. There wasn't just one Shadow patrolling the area as he looked out. Now there were two.

"T-There's more than one of you?!" Hamrik looked at the Shadows. They seemed completely identical in every way. Even their movements followed the same sort of patterns. They did not appear to acknowledge each other's existence - but then, it was hard to tell that sort of thing without a face or any body language to speak of.

"Or... wait." A half-remembered fragment of a lesson on greater earth elementals floated into consciousness. "Are you both the same Shadow?"

Unsurprisingly, he received no answer.

The going got easier from here on out (though Norgan was more than a little freaked out at the thought of mysterious shadow beings multiplying around him while he slept). Regrettably, the Shadows were still too incorporeal to do more to enemies than bump into them and generally get in the way. But between them and Norgan, enemy attention was sufficiently split to allow Hamrik to mentally buffet them against walls with near impunity. In addition, he was delighted to discover that the deaths of enemies fed him power even when those deaths were at the hands of his allies. He entertained visions of great armies doing battle in his name, with every blow empowering him to unleash grand magics far beyond the dreams of his former instructors.

There were still a few moments of danger when orc soldiers, perhaps too dumb to consider something without a weapon a threat, ignored the Shadows and made a beeline for Hamrik in order to eviscerate him. If it hadn't been for the traditional dwarven signs of resilience and regeneration inscribed upon his skin, Hamrik's escape would have been brutally cut short several times.

That said, there was something strange about how the signs didn't seem to heal him as efficiently as he was used to, like something was interfering with the natural energies that empowered them. It was probably just his imagination. The only thing that could clash with holy dwarven signs was some kind of dark curse, and those usually had pretty obvious symptoms. Hamrik didn't feel cursed. Heck, he hadn't felt better since before he'd left Angolwen.

At one point, Hamrik picked up an abandoned magical staff, and felt his hatred spike as he considered its resemblance to the staves of the mages who had cast him out, but he calmed down quickly. Why hate an inanimate object when he could simply hate the perpetrators of this injustice instead? He had his own power now, whatever it was. One day soon, he'd find his way back to Angolwen, and then they'd see that even their pathetic little grudges couldn't stop him becoming a master of magic.

Level 3: +1 Wil, +2 Cun, +1 Call Shadows

After another rest, they were finally ready for the third hall, and escape. However, they found the exit blocked - by the most enormous orc Hamrik had ever seen (though admittedly, "ever" in this case was counted in days). Brotoq the Reaver thumped his armour-plated chest, bellowed words of challenge scrambled into incomprehensibility by his helmet visor, and charged the party.

The following battle was brutal. Brotoq was stronger even than Norgan, and better-armoured. To add to these basic advantages, his blood burned like acid whenever it splashed on the dwarves, and his very presence seemed to engender a miasma in the air that choked them and sapped their strength. It was as though he were a different order of being altogether from the grunts that had filled the upper halls.

As Norgan's strength visibly flagged, Hamrik grew close to panic. His own attempts to break through the orc's guard through force of will were having little effect, and the Shadows were all but useless against such a tough foe. It was only a matter of time until Brotoq found an opening for a deathblow, and then Hamrik would be left one-on-one with the towering horror.

Those strong in body may yet be weak in mind...

Hamrik had a brainwave. Screwing up the last of his courage, he abandoned the pillar that served as his cover and ran up to Brotoq. Raising his middle finger in an ancient and universal arcane gesture, he shouted "hey, orc boy!" at the top of his lungs.

As soon as he was sure he had the orc's attention, he shouted the first insult that came to mind. "Your momma's so fat people mistake her for the lost Naloren lands!"

At the same time, he sent as much of his power as he could in a spike of hatred straight into Brotoq's mind.

The reaver roared in pain and anger. "Don't you dare insult my mother!"

And then he came after Hamrik with every ounce of his strength.

What followed was the most epic act of backpedalling ever seen in the realm of Reknor. Hamrik ran like hell, using the push of Willful Strikes to keep Brotoq mere inches away from cutting him in half. Shadows obstructed Brotoq's way, being chopped apart in seconds but giving Hamrik a breather whenever his unimpressive stamina began to flag. And meanwhile, Norgan took advantage of Brotoq's complete lack of defense to slash at him from behind whenever he caught up.

Just as Hamrik finally ran out of breath, Brotoq slowed, then stopped moving. Gradually, he keeled over, exposing an enormous axe buried in his back. Norgan grinned and struck a heroic victory pose over the remains.

"Nice work keeping him busy, laddie. Who'd have thought there were advantages to not fighting head-on?"

"You..." cough... "learn something new..." pant... "every day..."

Level 4: +2 Wil, +1 Cun, +1 Call Shadows, +1 Devour Life, +1 Gesture of Malice, +1 Relentless

The spoils were divided equally between the two dwarves. For some reason Hamrik couldn't quite fathom, he was particularly drawn to two objects - a viciously sharp scalpel and Brotoq's serrated axe. Not that he had any intention of fighting in melee range, and he wasn't sure he could even swing the axe, but something about the auras of cruelty and bloodthirst about them just felt... right. Hamrik was a little unsettled by this, but put it down to post-battle euphoria.

He pocketed a Rod of Recall - if only he'd had one of those at the start of this whole sorry escapade - and prepared for a hero's welcome.

Nice!!!
Remember to post DITL on your blog on te4.org too

Chapter III

During the long slog back to the Iron Throne, Hamrik had considered a variety of possible reactions from his parents. Would they be relieved to see him safe? Impressed at his victory over countless deadly enemies? Excited by the piles of loot he was bringing back with him? But the truth, as ever, defied his expectations.

They were shocked. Which was odd in itself, since hadn't they expected the trip to be completely safe? But then their expressions seemed to give way to... disappointment? Oh, they congratulated him and everything, but there was something forced about the whole thing. Perhaps they were just tense at the thought of an orcish threat so near to their own kingdom's borders.

Hamrik's first priority after seeing his parents and making sure Norgan delivered their report (some genius had made Norgan a senior expedition member, which among other things now meant he was responsible for the paperwork) was getting new infusions. His old ones were clearly malfunctioning, and if he was to entrust his life to the things, he needed some better ones.

Sadly, though, it turned out that none were available in the entire city. Oh, there was a runemaster offering to ply his trade on Hamrik's skin, but it was too soon. Too soon to bring back those wonderful memories of discovering that the Angolwen women's baths were proofed against teleportation but not against the Rune of Vision, or that one could power down Ice Spear to stealthily freeze people's food solid right before it reached their mouths. (Hamrik's personal theory held that once upon a time all mages had been as inventive as him, and that this had been the true cause of the Age of Pyre)

Having decided to save up until he found an opportunity to buy regeneration infusions elsewhere (it wasn't like the local blacksmiths had much for him to buy anyway), Hamrik spent a few days resting. Then came the conversation which changed his life.

"You know, son," his father began after patting out the fires in his beard from another of Hamrik's pranks, "I think you should go down Deep Bellow and join the miners' expedition that's started opening it up. Those caverns are old, real old, and I just bet there's some treasure down there. You could use your skills to work as magical item identifier, and turn a tidy profit for basically a desk job."

Hamrik frowned. "I don't remember hearing about any goods coming out of Deep Bellow since I came back from Angolwen. This wouldn't be another of those lost expeditions, would it? Because after Reknor..."

"Nonsense, boy." His father shook his head. "No orcs in Deep Bellow, just money waiting to be made. In fact, you should leave your weapons and armour behind when you go - they'll only weigh you down when you're coming back with piles of gold from your wages."

Since Hamrik didn't use weapons, and the tiring weight of armour would probably make it harder to concentrate for his powers, there was no reason to argue the point. He got a backpack and some rations, and set off, three invisible Shadows (he'd given up wondering about this) in tow.

Deep Bellow wasn't full of miners, however. It was full of monsters. The fact that some of the monsters were wearing miners' helmets and waving pickaxes, and happened to look a lot like dwarves, only made matters worse. Like every dwarf, he'd grown up on tales of the towering, faceless drem who took bad little children away, sewed their mouths shut so they couldn't scream, and then used forbidden arts to turn them into hateful, twisted dremlings. But facing the creatures was another matter entirely (though he was somewhat reassured to discover that drem fell like anyone else with sufficient application of force to the cranium).

Level 5: +2 Wil, +1 Cun, + 1 Deflection, +1 Shadow Warriors, +1 Relentless

With no sign that any of the miners had survived, Hamrik was ready to turn around and leave, when he saw something strange. Looming over a crowd of dremlings and other monsters was a drem like no other. Not only was it bigger and stronger-looking than your usual drem, but it was holding a greatsword in what a horrified Hamrik dimly recognised as an Arcane Blade battle stance. According to what he'd learned in Angolwen, Arcane Blades were beneath his notice, mere failed mages who relied on their muscles to supplement the evidently deficient work of their brains. This awareness was a great comfort to Hamrik as he was set on fire.

He screamed as his infusion was nearly overloaded trying counteract the horrible pain searing through his every nerve. His Shadows, busy trying to hold back a dremling horde, were too far away as the drem strode forwards, its body language smug even as its face remained featureless. More than anything, it was that smugness that got to Hamrik. "So what if I'm a nameless random encounter which has by sheer miracle managed to get the merest rudiments of battle magic drummed into its inorganic skull?" it seemed to say. "I still have more spellcasting ability in my little finger than you will ever have until the day you die."

And that's when Hamrik snapped. As the drem's greatsword swung towards his neck, Hamrik's will flared, forming a barrier of pure, rock-solid contempt. The sword, deflected, swung over his head, and the drem stumbled in surprise.

"So you think having magic makes you better, do you?" He demanded of the creature. "You think that just because you can burn off half my beard from a distance - for which, by the way, I'm taking you down so hard they'll be digging up your remains on the other side of the world - you're somehow better than me?"

"Listen up!" Hamrik shouted, pointing his finger at the drem's lack of face. "I've had to fight for my very life to discover the power of Awesomeness! I did not get to sit around staring at books and listening to lectures until I became able to reshape the very essence of the universe! I did not get my abilities handed to me on a plate! I earned this power, and no damn spellcaster is going to stand there and tell me it's not as good!"

Swept up in the tidal wave of his own rage, Hamrik scarcely noticed that it was carrying him inwards, deeper into the strange bond of hatred that was briefly connecting him to his target. It seemed almost natural to then reach through this link, and tear at the raw unprotected life-force that he found on the other side.

One of the dremling minions swung a hammer at him, breaking his concentration, but not before he managed to rip a portion of the drem's life free and pull it into himself. To his surprise, the strange power that animated the drem was entirely compatible with his own, and he could feel a delicious surge of healing go through his body, weaker but somehow more satisfying than that of his infusion. Between this and the rage still pumping through his veins, it was a trivial matter to rouse himself from the stunning blow and send the dremling flying.

Unfortunately, his counterattack was not enough to turn the tide. The drem knew better than to attempt a second swing, and instead switched to ranged combat, staying far enough away that Hamrik couldn't nail it with his own blasts, while accumulating enough mana to burn him, over and over. Meanwhile, its dremling servants, plus a few other bonus monsters, attempted to swarm and overwhelm him with sheer numbers.

Hamrik was never going to get to the exit before the attackers finished him off. Nor was he going to live long enough for the Rod of Recall to charge up. He desperately needed help. But the only friendly creatures around were the Shadows, and it was taking all they had just to keep enemy numbers manageable. Every few seconds, one of them would unravel and fade away, and by the time it reappeared the monsters would have had that many extra opportunities to hurt him.

He was done for. Unless...

Hamrik concentrated as he'd never concentrated before. He knew now that his power could be used to restore himself (if at the cost of another's life-force). What if he extended the principle?

Drawing on the flow of Badassery within himself, he reached out and tried to send it to each of the Shadows, pretending as hard as he could that it was a healing spell like Arcane Reconstruction and not a desperate attempt to bluff the fundamental forces of the universe.

The result surpassed all expectations. The darkness forming the Shadows began to twist and warp, lashing out like razor-sharp claws at nearby enemies. Their movements grew sharper as well, almost seeming to phase out of existence to avoid blows, only to return the next instant with a vengeance. Hamrik could sense a supernatural terror appear in the dremlings' movements, a panic that left them unable to defend themselves as they were ripped apart.

Seeing them transform, Hamrik realised something. What he'd done hadn't really been like a healing spell. It hadn't even been a transfer of power per se. Instead, he'd strengthened an existing bond, allowing more power than before to naturally flow to the Shadows from that mysterious source within him. That bond, he now saw, was where they drew the power to reconstruct themselves even from beyond destruction. Their very existence was bound to him on an intimate level.

Although the battle was still incredibly tough, Hamrik was now merely in mortal danger, rather than constantly a blow away from death. And while his intermittent regeneration only just stayed ahead of the ridiculous amount of damage he was taking, it did stay ahead, whereas the drem's amazing magical prowess apparently didn't extend itself to even the most basic healing spell. Eventually, it fell to the ground, and Hamrik was free to turn all his power to supporting the Shadows.

Victory! There was even loot. The drem's greatsword was far too heavy for Hamrik to use even if he'd wanted to, but it did have a couple of fascinating enchantments. It was fuelled by a force that appeared to disrupt arcane energies (as Hamrik deduced by observing its effect on a couple of magical trinkets he'd brought with him from Reknor). And on running his hand down the blade, he felt the distinct tingling sensation of manaburn ("if you feel this when it something hits you, cast Teleport immediately and don't look back", in the words of Archmage Ambrosias). Pleasingly, even close contact with the weapon appeared not to impact his abilities in the least. It seemed that the power of Badassery truly transcended magic.

It was while gathering loot from the bodies of the dremlings (unenchanted, but of sturdy make, his inner dwarven merchant observed) that Hamrik discovered a piece of paper on one of them - a foreman's report. So there had been a lost expedition. And something about Sher'Tul relics. Hamrik hadn't really been paying attention when they'd come up in class (it was a special guest lecture by Archmage Linaniil, and input from his eyes seemed vastly more important than that from his ears), but he remembered enough to know that Sher'Tul relics meant big big money. Maybe enough that he wouldn't have to worry about finding a new career after all.

So more looking around and more slaying of monsters. None too challenging, though there was one that made him wonder whether this whole thing was actually a nightmare taking place in his head: he met another unusual drem, and this one had the full suite of Alchemist powers, even including a golem. Had the terrors of Deep Bellow deliberately decided to mock him with every arcane speciality they could lay their claws on? And given that the golem was effectively taking orders from a giant statue, it should really have tried to sue for equal rights.

Be that as it may, Hamrik wasn't going to be caught off guard again. Alchemists, being mage rejects forced to rely on essentially throwing rocks at their enemies while hiding behind bigger, moving rocks, had certain obvious vulnerabilities. The golem lacked any semblance of intelligence beyond obeying a few basic commands, and insisted on rushing in Hamrik's direction until he could lure it away from its master's support and mentally dismantle it with the aid of the Shadows. This task accomplished, he was free to bestow the full weight of his attention on the Alchemist drem, which had no defensive abilities, no means of running away, and no tactical versatility to give it options beyond "throw magic rocks at the Shadows and hope they do enough damage". They did not.

Level 6: +2 Wil, +1 Cun, +1 Shadow Warriors, +1 Relentless

While it was conceptually possible that a drem might somehow obtain arcane training (he knew nothing about their origins, after all, and it was equally possible that the universe was just doing this to mess with him), he had no explanation for what he discovered a little later. Some of the stranger monsters he encountered were supported by reappearing shadows just like he was! Feeble, inferior versions, needless to say, but it was nevertheless evidence that he wasn't the only being of his kind in the world.

Then came a clue. Another foreman's report, while clearly written by an unhinged lunatic, implied that the Sher'Tul relics were responsible for members of the expedition transforming into the monsters Hamrik was facing. Did that mean Hamrik's own powers were connected to the Sher'Tul? There was nothing for it. Hamrik would have to find the relics for himself, and study them to see what he could learn.

Gradually, he made his way into the darkest recesses of Deep Bellow, his journey mostly uneventful except once when he encountered a snake that slashed at him with claws of ice, and generally seemed to possess powers more appropriate to a dragon than to a very definitely limbless serpent. Truth to tell, trying to work out what miracles of anatomy the creature was pulling off in order to use its powers gave him more of a headache than actually dispatching it did.

But eventually, he found the deepest level, and there an abomination beyond anything he'd heard of. A vast maw occupied the centre of the cavern, and as he approached, it belched forth a gob of corrosive fluid which nearly took off his arm. He dodged, and slammed a spike of focused mental energy into what seemed like its most vulnerable part, but nothing happened. Nothing whatsoever, not even a tiny bruise. The creature's foul breath making him gag, Hamrik promptly retreated and concealed himself behind a stone pillar.

Though neither he nor his Shadows seemed able to damage the creature, and its periodic attempts to suck him in generated enough force to actually pull him near, there was one small consolation. The enormous, gaping maw, a disgusting, stinking orifice that spat destructive saliva everywhere and periodically roared incomprehensibilities about Amakthel this and Sher'Tul that, bore a definite resemblance to the mouth of Archmage Tarelion during one of his lectures. Hamrik, cowering behind the pillar, only needed to keep looking at it to feel his hatred climb higher and higher. Now if only he had some way of applying it...

In the event, the two were stuck in an impasse. Periodically, the Mouth would stop sucking long enough to spit its strange saliva (which increasingly seemed like some sort of corrupted elemental mass) at the Shadows. This naturally did no permanent damage, but gave Hamrik time to dart back into cover. Neither could harm the other.

Then came a lucky break, and it most definitely said something about Hamrik's life these days that he thought of it in those terms. A large, unnerving insectoid creature crawled out of the Mouth and made a beeline for Hamrik. Here, at last, was something he could slay. Between the repulsive power of his Willful Strikes (not to be confused with the repulsive powers of the Mouth) and the support of the Shadows, the crawler couldn't get close enough to hurt him, and was efficiently dispatched. Best of all, upon its death, the Mouth shuddered as if in pain. Killing the crawler had somehow hurt it.

No, on reflection that wasn't best of all. Best of all was the fact that, after summoning a creature that made it vulnerable and watching it die, the Mouth soon summoned another one. Hamrik mentally sang a song of thanks for stupid enemies to the dark god he worshipped as his patron.

The course of the battle was fairly predictable after that. The Mouth never learned its lesson, and when yet another crawler finally fell, it gave a deep shudder and exploded in a supernova of body parts.

Level 7: +3 Cun, +1 Shadow Warriors, +1 Relentless

To Hamrik's disappointment, the Mouth possessed no noteworthy treasure (though, thinking about it, where would the thing have carried it?). Even the Sher'Tul relics were nowhere to be found. Still, Hamrik had a mission now. He was going to find out the truth behind the Sher'Tul, and just what they had to do with his new powers.

And a good thing too, he realised. After two suicide missions, it was probably safe to conclude that his parents didn't want him at home any more. He didn't even bother to stop by before he left - let them be happy thinking he was dead.

With a sigh, Hamrik pushed open the gates of the Iron Throne, adjusted what remained of his beard, and set off on a journey of adventure and discovery.

Moar moar !

Chapter IV

For once, luck was with Hamrik, for no sooner had he descended the mountain than he encountered a dwarven trade caravan on its way west, to Derth. There was only one thing a dwarven trade caravan to Derth could mean, and so Hamrik signed on as a mercenary guard straight away. His damaged beard greatly diminished his credibility among fellow dwarves, so he couldn't count on much pay, but that hadn't been his reason for joining the caravan to begin with.

For what Hamrik knew and most people didn't was that Derth was home to the Angolwen trade representative, a senior wizard responsible for importing both raw reagents for magical work and luxury items that could not be obtained deep in the mountains. The arrangement was a clever one - Angolwen was able to secretly trade in bulk with select merchants from the outside world, while Derth enjoyed absolute peace and security despite being ingeniously situated within travelling distance of several of the world's deadliest monster lairs.

His guess was confirmed on the second night, when he quietly examined the goods to discover a plethora of high-quality gems, dwarven runes, masterwork gear for enchantment, and other tell-tale items. Naturally, he profitably spent the rest of the journey making certain minor adjustments. It was a shame he had no possible way of seeing the archmages' faces when their last-resort runes of invisibility also happened to completely cut off their healing magic, or when their phase door runes "accidentally" landed them next to the very monsters they were trying to escape...

He became even more certain that luck was on his side when, upon arrival in Derth, not only was there a healer's shop selling natural infusions, but they even had a healing infusion and a superior regeneration infusion just within his budget (including the pittance he'd been paid for his guard services).

Hamrik was about to head to the local tavern to get a room for the night when he heard a voice calling to him from behind one of the buildings.

"I have an offer for you, dwarf", the shady-looking human informed him. Hamrik's personal Venn diagram of courtesy had very little overlap between "people I like" and "people who address someone by their species", but he was in a good mood and decided to hear the man out.

Fame! Glory! The adulation of thousands! Advertising contracts that would mean not having to do an honest day's work ever again (as long as he was willing to go into battle wearing custom armour with "Stire of Derth: the real Strong Arm Alchemist" written on it)! And all he'd have to do was enter a gladiatorial arena to battle other poor deluded suckers (and monsters, don't forget the monsters) to the death, over and over, for the entertainment of the unwashed masses, until eventually one of them got lucky and Hamrik got dead.

Seeing that his pitch wasn't getting through, the cornac redoubled his efforts, now emphasising the valuable combat experience that would see a gladiator skyrocketing in skill after only a few easy fights.

Hamrik wasn't sold. As the ancient archmage saying went, "the quick and easy path to power is the path on which demons devour your entrails while you still live, wear your skin as a trophy, and butcher all your loved ones while your imprisoned spirit watches in unending torment." Hamrik had always felt that what it lacked in elegance it made up for in clarity of message.

"Sorry. Not interested." He started to walk away.

"Are you not man enough for the challenge?" The cornac called out. "Are you going to run away from just one slinger, just one gladiator and just one arcane blade?"

Hamrik turned around so fast he looked like he was on a movement infusion. "An arcane blade, you say? Why, I'd be delighted."

It was surprisingly easy, too. The halfling slinger got blindsided by a couple of Shadows, and torn apart before he could lift his sling. The gladiator proved tougher, and managed to fend off the Shadows quite well, but ultimately never managed to close the distance long enough to touch Hamrik himself. Whenever he came close, Hamrik would almost lazily throw him back with a burst of mental force, and draw on the man's life-force to heal damage from any lucky hits.

Finally, the arcane blade emerged. Strong though this opponent was, he was nothing compared to the drem that had nearly taken Hamrik's life. This time, Hamrik was ready, and he made sure to stay within blasting range and keep hammering away. When the arcane blade eventually succeeded in dispersing the Shadows, Hamrik simply walked up to him, and struck the man down with a single gesture that sent unendurable, lethal pain through his entire body (a refined version of the attack he'd used on Brotoq the Reaver).

And that was that. The cornac, evidently impressed, introduced himself as Rej and gave Hamrik some surprisingly insightful combat tips. Although they were clearly predicated on the mistaken notion that Hamrik was some sort of mage, he knew that with a little time he could find ways to apply them to his own abilities. In the meantime, he'd got what he wanted out of the encounter, and politely but firmly refused Rej's invitation to join the arena proper.

It wasn't until he was halfway to the tavern that the implications of his actions struck him. He'd killed men, not beasts, not bandits trying to rob or kill him, but real, living men for no reason than his own grudge against Angolwen. And he'd even drained their lives like some gods-forsaken vampire, not even hesitating to ask if what he was doing was right. Just what kind of monster was he becoming?

He didn't know where to look for answers, but the bottom of an ale mug seemed like a good place to start. It was a little-known fact that dwarven ale was in fact the worst kind of ale in existence, being brewed by a monopoly which preferred sober, efficient workers over drunk and disorderly ones (and if that meant being able to cut corners for extra profit, all the better). Hamrik was too young to remember the wars started by the Campaign for Real Dwarvern Ale, but he did know that ale found outside the dwarven lands was an experience of an entirely different order.

More importantly, it was a good way of getting drunk fast. And so, Hamrik poured the coin he'd taken off the bodies from the arena battle straight into the barman's hands, unaware that he was being watched.

There is no shame in power...

Those who have earned their strength are superior to those that remain weak...

The only ones who should kill are those prepared to be killed themselves...

By the time morning came (Hamrik had no recollection of passing out and being taken to his room), he felt like his thoughts had started to sort themselves out. Those men in the arena knew when they signed up that they were fighting to the death. They'd been trying to kill him, and that gave him every right to kill them in retaliation. Why should it matter what originally provoked the battle? They'd chosen to test their strength against his, and they'd failed as they deserved to.

As for the life drain, well, when it came down to it, how was that any worse than sticking a blade in someone's chest? The enemy was going to die either way, and at least this way he got a bit of free healing out of it. It's not like he was actually a vampire, just someone who'd learned to fight efficiently. And the intense splitting headache he felt upon walking out into the sunlight was just an unfortunate drink-related coincidence.

"Hey there, friend."

Another human was calling out to him from the shadows, this one dressed in weathered-looking leathers rather than a concealing cloak. Hamrik recalled hearing some fellow apprentices joking about how the proximity of all those monster lairs had turned Derth into a sort of adventuring red light district, where mysterious strangers stood offering quests on every corner, each promising better xp, loot and fame than the last. Hamrik really needed to get out of there before some unscrupulous alchemist roped him into a fetch quest involving deadly monster parts or what have you.

"What is it?" Hamrik groaned.

"I heard you executed an arcane blade in the arena yesterday. I didn't get the details, but apparently it was a very impressive victory. They say the crowd was going wild."

"What's your point?"

"Well," the man hesitated, "would you mind giving me your opinion on something?"

Hamrik waited.

"How do you feel about vile transgressors against nature whose arrogant dabbling with powers far beyond their comprehension is sure to lead to the ultimate doom of all life unless they are stopped in time?"

Hamrik frowned. "Pardon?"

"Mages, friend. How do you feel about mages?" the man clarified.

"Oh. Those elitist bastards can all keel over and die for all I care." Hamrik's migraine was not leaving him inclined to lengthy speeches on the subject, otherwise they could have been there all day.

The stranger beamed. "That's wonderful. I knew when I first saw you that you were the right sort. And then the way you tried to drink yourself into oblivion after the merest contact with the foulness of arcane magic! You're perfect."

Hamrik stared at him uncomprehendingly. "Perfect for what?"

"I represent the Ziguranth, an ancient order dedicated to saving the world from the corruption of magic no matter what it takes. We have agents throughout the world looking for potential new recruits - and you most certainly fit the bill."

Hamrik raised his eyebrows.

"Listen, arcane magic is out there, spreading its taint even as we speak. Archmages are tampering with vast destructive energies that could doom us all. Necromancers are twisting the bodies of our deceased loved ones into mindless killing machines. Blood mages are spreading new and horrifying diseases as they bargain for power with beings that would see all of Eyal stripped of life. Every day, more innocents die or are tempted onto the path of magical corruption - which is as good as being dead. And only the Zuguranth can stand in magic's way."

The stranger's voice had acquired a sort of deep resonance, as if he was repeating a speech he'd honed to perfection over years of practice.

"We need warriors that are strong of arm and pure of heart. If you have the vision to recognise the horror of arcane magic, and the courage to stand up to it anyway, then we need you. Join us, and we will teach you sacred arts to shield you from the mages' taint and to turn their powers against them. We will provide you with equipment powered by better, purer sources than enchantment. We will give you everything you need to help us save the world."

Hamrik said nothing, struggling to process the stranger's speech through a haze of brain-melting agony.

"You may not be ready now, friend, but I believe in you. When the time is right, seek out the stronghold of Zigur, northwest of Last Hope. Your salvation, and the world's, shall be waiting."

The man took Hamrik's hand and shook it firmly. "It's been a pleasure meeting you, friend. So long, and remember - the only good mage is a dead mage." And with that, he walked off.

Chapter V

As the ancient dwarven proverb (which predated the modern ale situation) went, "better a cave that starts with a dragon than a workday that starts with a hangover". Hamrik was discovering this to be increasingly true as he escorted Emelyraldawen the lost sun paladin to her recall portal.

In the first place, Emelyraldawen's pretty name masked a truly infuriating nature. In seemingly perfect innocence, the woman kept dropping comments that suggested that she pitied him, with his cobbled-together magics (sic), for having to battle through life without the glorious power of the Sun itself as his ally. Now, Hamrik had never before heard of this strange solar magic, but what he observed of its power (see "hiding behind a dwarf two-thirds your height and running away whenever you see so much as a rat") did not seem to justify treating him as if he were some sort of... sort of... hedge wizard. Honestly, he was amazed both at his own kindness in offering to see her to safety, and at his patience for not blasting her to smithereens or leaving her to the skeletons.

In the second place, he wasn't even supposed to be here. Perhaps it had been a mistake to begin his search for information on Sher'Tul relics amidst the uneducated peasants of Derth. Just when he thought he'd got his first solid lead...

But no. Apparently, these weren't the Ruins of Sher'Tul. No, they were named after Kor'Pul, the famous necromancer whose tower had once stood there. And oh, how Emelyraldawen had laughed at him when he'd innocently dropped the name he'd been told into conversation. Hamrik gritted his teeth. When he got back to Derth, a certain farmer was in for a great deal of Kor'Pul punishment.

And in the third place, just for kicks, her aura of holy light made the Shadows give her a very wide berth, making her that much harder to protect. All Hamrik needed now was for Kor'Pul himself to rise from his grave and seek vengeance on those who would disturb his rest, and his day would be complete.

As it happens, by the time Hamrik reached the recall portal, he'd come up with an idea that made him feel a little better about his trials at the sun paladin's hands. It occurred to him that if he subtly adjusted the runes of the recall portal just so, he could make her return trip a lot more fun. He wasn't entirely sure where the configuration that had just popped into his head would send her, but it was on solid land, and not inside a wall or a volcano or anything, so that was good enough. Hopefully she'd land upside down in a swamp somewhere and learn a valuable lesson in humility.

Hamrik felt a lot better after Emelyraldawen's disappearance - it was almost as if the universe itself was thanking him for teaching that arrogant fool a lesson. His headache faded a little, and he felt a surprising new ease in focusing his willpower.

Now what? It wouldn't be hard to find his way back to the exit, but his inner dwarf pointed out the availability of plentiful treasure guarded by feeble monsters, while his outer dwarf looked forward to sharing the pain of the day with someone else.

The first floor contained a couple of strange rats with mystical powers that were frankly wasted on them (as Hamrik dispatched each with a couple of Willful Strikes), but more interestingly two sealed vaults that seemed to radiate an aura of wealth and mystery. And opening them up was like unwrapping birthday presents early - for each contained four skeleton mages to destroy.

Hamrik's tactical skills had improved by this stage, and he let his Shadows do as much damage as possible while staying out of sight, then finished the mages off as they emerged from the vault one by one. Though the loot was quite meagre - magical staves for which he had no use, plus infusions inferior to his own - the destruction of eight skeleton mages at his hands was reward enough. As he shattered their bones, he pretended he was facing the Angolwen disciplinary committee, a bunch of stuffed robes who wouldn't know a humorous prank if the Hat of Arcane Understanding had been jammed onto their empty heads.

On the plus side, he did find a copper ring of perseverance on a random skeleton. Its ability to protect the wearer from being stunned or frozen was limited on its own, but when combined with the liberating power of Hamrik's rage, he had a feeling he'd achieved effective immunity to such effects. There was also a nifty lantern dropped by one of the rats (which must have had it hanging off the tail?) which made him feel much more cunning and even a little sturdier. He was definitely hanging on to that one.

On the second floor, Hamrik discovered a gorgeous golden chest just lying around on the floor unattended. He gave it a look. What kind of dope would look at a chest like that even for a second without realising it was an obvious trap? Big golden chests didn't just appear in the middle of monster-infested dungeons by themselves (or the dwarves would be going around setting up a lot more monster-infested dungeons). The obvious policy was to ignore it and carry on.

To Hamrik's credit, he managed to walk a good three metres before his inner dwarf started threatening to have him excommunicated from the species for abandoning free treasure. Hamrik wasn't sure whether a subsection of his psyche had such far-reaching legal powers, but after a brief struggle he found his feet taking him back to the chest. Trying his best to be optimistic (good things did sometimes happen to the deserving, right?) he summoned his Shadows for extra protection and lifted the lid.

Naturally, it contained a skeleton warrior with rare supernatural powers. With a sigh, Hamrik silently repeated the mantra of Kurotsuchi the Experimenter to himself. "Why do things that would be fitting punishment for evil people always happen to me?"

Fortunately, the skeleton warrior was a melee type, and with the aid of the Shadows, Hamrik managed to defeat it without ever coming into serious danger. He never did find out, however, what kind of villain went around leaving golden chests full of skeletons in long-abandoned corridors already full of undead.

Level 8: +2 Wil, +1 Cun, +1 Blast, +1 Stoneskin, +1 Feed Power, +1 Relentless

At last, on the bottom floor of the dungeon, he came to Kor'Pul's laboratory. If there was treasure to be found, it would surely be here. Unfortunately, before he could even dispatch the miscellaneous undead shambling around inside, a terrible roar froze him in his tracks.

"WHO DARES DISTURB THE REST OF KOR'PUL, GREATEST OF THE NECROMANCERS?"

A translucent, ghostly form shimmered into existence before him. It wore the tattered remains of what must once have been a rich mage robe, and the skull set upon its skeletal shoulders had eye sockets that burned with a cold blue flame. On instinct, Hamrik launched a bolt of mental force at it, but the attack passed straight through to shatter a table behind the spirit.

Then the shade of Kor'Pul fixed its eyes on his, and suddenly Hamrik felt himself paralysed, unable to move, to flee or to defend himself. He heard an eerie, inhuman chuckling sound, like a bunch of pebbles rolling down a stone staircase.

"Why, what have we here? I thought you were just another set of raw materials - oh, I do beg your pardon, I meant adventurer - but I sense something more." Kor'Pul considered him with what appeared to be some interest. The flames in its eyes burned more brightly for a second.

"Ah. You have most thoughtfully brought back one of my old tools, the Unerring Scalpel. Yes, I can feel the necromantic pattern I imbued into it, shining as darkly as the day I wove it from the souls of those captured soldiers."

Hamrik, completely immobilised, looked desperately around for some means of escape, or at least distraction, but his Shadows were occupied fighting Kor'Pul's skeletal minions (a depressingly even match - apparently Kor'Pul really had been no slouch when it came to undead design), and no other help seemed to be forthcoming.

"You have my gratitude, adventurer." The necromancer's voice, as cold and cruel as the icy aura emanating from his form, sounded amused. "Once I finish reabsorbing the energies left behind by my living self, I shall no longer be bound to these pitiful ruins. No, I shall finish the work I began so long ago, and this time no so-called heroes shall stop me." Even as he spoke, he seemed to grow more solid, as if he were making a gradual transition from ghost to skeleton.

Something was wrong. Hamrik couldn't quite figure out what, but he could feel it at the edge of his consciousness, a vague awareness that something important was just out of reach.

"What reward shall I give you for your service?" Kor'Pul's shade bobbed up and down slightly in the air as it lifted a skeletal finger to its jaw. "Why, what a foolish question. More service, of course. Yes, you shall be an armoured skeleton warrior. Perhaps even? Yes, yes, I think so. A skeleton mage. Fully sentient, of course, though bound to my will. See how magnanimous I am even to my fallen foes?"

The necromancer was still enjoying the sound of his own voice, but Hamrik had stopped listening at the words "skeleton mage". There was something there. He almost had it. If he could just stay alive a little longer...

Unfortunately for Hamrik, Kor'Pul was done monologuing. He turned away and began drifting towards one of the nearby autopsy tables.

"Ah, so much to do, so little time. Which city shall I raze first? I wonder if Shatur survived into this new age." He paused. "On which note, minions! Shatter this adventurer for me."

And that one word, "shatter", was all Hamrik needed. Extending his senses fully, he realised that he wasn't in the grip of some mystical lich paralysis gaze. It was an ordinary, bog-standard, conventional Freeze spell, coupled with a little magical misdirection.

With a wicked smile, Hamrik channelled his inner rage in a surge through his body and outward, breaking the ice that had been restraining him as effortlessly as if he'd been shrugging off a cloak.

The sound brought Kor'Pul's attention back to him.

"What? How can this be?!"

Hamrik stepped forward. "Did you think your feeble arcane magic would be enough to stop me? What are you but a mere shade, fleeing from oblivion's embrace like a barmaid trying to escape an amorous drunk?"

He drew himself up to his full height. "But I am Hamrik, Prince of Shadows, and by right of power I hereby banish you from my domain!"

As he spoke, Hamrik had been focusing his destructive mental energies as much as possible, trying to compress them into an ever smaller space inside Kor'Pul's increasingly solid but still-transparent body. And as he finished, he released the pressure that had been holding them in place.

Kor'Pul opened his mouth, to deliver a retort or perhaps to command his minions. Then he exploded.

The force of the blast shattered most of the furniture in the room, and smashed the skeletons against the walls so violently they were reduced to component bones. The Shadows, remarkably, were completely untouched, apparently immune to Hamrik's destructive powers. Of Kor'Pul himself there was no sign.

Level 9: +2 Wil, +1 Cun, +1 Shadow Warriors, +1 Gesture of Power

Hamrik smirked as his Shadows gathered around him once again. His expression slowly changed, however, as he observed the remains of Kor'Pul's laboratory. All of its precious magical scrolls, its potions brewed from ancient recipes long lost, its masterwork equipment... everything of any value had been destroyed by the explosion. If by some magical power Kor'Pul's shade had been carrying any artefacts of fantastic might, they too were gone forever.

Hamrik could feel his headache returning as he slowly made his way back up to the sunlit world.

Chapter VI

Although the Ruins of Kor'Pul were relatively close to Derth, Hamrik had been travelling for hour after hour without getting anywhere. While it was inconceivable that he could get lost so close to the place where he had spent so much of his youth, if by some trillion to one chance this was the case, he was fully prepared to blame his headache.

He was also a little worried about the potential consequences of carrying around a necromantic artefact with Kor'Pul's own power infused into it. Now that he knew what it was, he recalled his history lessons, and realised that this must have been the very blade used to vivisect thousands of unwilling victims in the process of Kor'Pul's twisted experiments. He wasn't powerful enough to destroy an artefact - and he had, at best, a one in three chance of finding a volcano to throw the thing into - but the thing most definitely needed getting rid of in some safe fashion before other necromancers found out and came after him.

He was at the point of calling it a day and making camp in one of the caves in the nearby mountains when he saw a young man, in what were unmistakeably Angolwen apprentice robes, standing around looking rather lost.

Hamrik wasn't sure what made him go over and start a conversation. Perhaps some part of him thought that here was a tiny connection to the world he'd lost. Perhaps he felt that the apprentice, not being one of the bastards who'd chosen to exile him, could be treated as just a fellow sentient being. Perhaps he just wanted someone to prank. In the event, when he got close, the apprentice's eyes grew wide.

"Y-You!" The young man stammered, and for a second there was something strange about his eyes, like they were glowing with supernatural rage that was about to turn him into an enormous, fiery dragon of vengeance.

Hamrik took a step back. "Uh, have we met?"

The apprentice recovered his composure quickly. "Oh, um, no, of course not. But everyone in Angolwen knows about Hamrik the Scourge."

Hamrik felt a warm sort of glow at this. If he'd become an Angolwen urban legend, that was an almost acceptable second best to becoming its most hallowed alumnus. Especially if it inspired future generations of pranksters to follow in his footsteps and give their instructors hell.

"Hang on, though, how do you know what I look like?"

The apprentice shrugged. "Well, these days there are pictures of you in most of the classrooms - some are even full-size."

Hamrik was starting to feel almost touched when the apprentice added "they've replaced the more traditional orc as targets for battle magic training."

Yep. Figured. Well, infamy being not as good as fame but much better than obscurity, and all that...

"So what are you doing out here? Don't tell me old Merriweather's got you gathering herbs as punishment detail. He did that to me a lot - anyone would think it was my fault he had such a long, flammable moustache."

The apprentice shook his head. "No, no. I'm here on a special mission. I'm looking for adventurers carrying artefacts infused with arcane magic, in case one of them's carrying my- something valuable for Angolwen's research."

"Huh." This was an unusually responsible mission for an apprentice. While some artefacts were just so-so magical items with impressive histories, others had the kind of power that turned the tide of wars and elevated peasants into dragon-slaying heroes. It was bad enough that adventurers were allowed to handle the things (in the words of Hamrik's old tutors), rather than wise sages who could be trusted to look after them properly. It seemed hard to believe that anyone would deliberately let a half-taught apprentice anywhere near them. It was almost as if...

"So how do you tell if an artefact is arcane-powered? Aren't some of them awfully complicated?"

"Ah." The apprentice nodded. "Well, it is an established fact that, much like the ability to channel mana, some people are naturally born with the ability to differentiate different types of magical energy, and others can develop it through extensive exposure. The writings of Archmage Undrang (note this down, this will be on the test) speculate that this is a result of the influence of specific charged magical particles on the anterior-"

He broke off. "Sorry, gone into lecture mode. Anyway, unless you're naturally attuned, or become that way through frequent encounters with many different types of magic - as many adventurers do - you have to use special identifying spells to learn a magical item's power source. I'm using a spell taught to all apprentices, or at least all the diligent, dedicated ones, that allows you to open your spirit to an artefact's magic, experiencing its entire history in the blink of an eye and learning all of its powers and properties."

"Oh, really?" Hamrik, having more or less confirmed his theory, now had an idea. One of those ideas, in fact. "It just so happens that I have a couple of artefacts on me which I suspect might be arcane-powered. Care to give them a try?"

And he threw the apprentice Brotoq's axe.

The startled apprentice caught it, narrowly avoiding being decapitated in the process, closed his eyes, and focused for a few seconds.

- Crazed laughter coming out of his mouth as he clove another halfling's skull in two, blood gushing from the wound and painting his face a delightful crimson. Piles of corpses at his feet, what was left of their faces frozen in expressions of horror and agony. A backhand blow decapitating another of the little rats, sending its head rolling away, then burying the axe all the way into the chest of a third, watching the life, full of foolish hopes and dreams, drain out of his eyes as he fell. Then onward -

The apprentice, deathly pale, dropped the axe, then fell onto all fours as if about to be violently sick. After a minute, he gathered himself enough to speak, in a sort of choked whisper.

"Skullcleaver. First carved from human bones by the orc shaman Grak'Thul. Used in the orc wars by both sides, being taken whenever its previous wielder was killed. Has seen regular use since. Notable powers include draining the life from those it strikes."

After a few seconds, he added "please take it away".

Seeing his reaction, Hamrik almost felt sorry enough for him to stop. Almost.

"Sorry about that. Try this one instead." He handed the apprentice Kor'Pul's Unerring Scalpel.

The apprentice, his spell still active, carefully picked up the scalpel, and held in his hands for a few seconds. He then let out the most horrifying ear-piercing scream Hamrik had ever heard, flung the scalpel away as if it were a poisonous snake made of red-hot coals, and fled, screaming all the while.

Hamrik watched the figure of the "apprentice" as it vanished into the distance, eventually seeing the flash of light that indicated that his victim had remembered he had an Angolwen Portal spell. He smiled to himself in satisfaction. Hamrik 1, Archmage Tarelion 0.

After a good night's sleep in a nearby cave, Hamrik considered his options. The one thing that stood out to him about his experience in the ruins was that he had been in real danger. Looking back, if the Shade of Kor'Pul hadn't underestimated him so badly, and had opened with any one of the devastating high-level spells the necromancer must have known in life, instead of a puny basic freezing effect...

No, this was no good. He needed something to give him an edge against spellcasters in case something like that happened again. Maybe it was time to visit Zigur, and find out what the mage-slayers had to offer. Based on the vague description he'd got of its location, it was likely to be somewhere east of the Trollmire, so the Trollmire is where Hamrik headed.

The first thing he saw upon reaching the troll-infested wilds was a big wooden sign nailed to an oak tree. It looked handwritten, as if by a very tall yet young child, and read "WELKOM TO DA TROLMAER. BANKI BANKE BANQI BIG FEEST DIS WAY."

This naturally piqued Hamrik's curiosity. He'd never before heard of trolls capable of writing. The ability to write suggested unusually high intelligence. Unusually high intelligence suggested leadership. Leadership suggested a high concentration of treasure. Hamrik hurried to follow the "BIG FEEST DIS WAY" signs, arriving at the easternmost third of the Trollmire in the blink of an eye.

The first thing he encountered, surprisingly enough, was not a troll. It was, in fact, an injured sun paladin, whose resemblance to a troll was limited mostly to the smell (which told Hamrik she'd been in the Trollmire for at least a few hours).

"You there! Please help me! I'm looking for a recall portal set nearby by a friend, and though I fear not to die in battle, my duty as a paladin of the glorious Sun demands that I reach the portal alive."

Hamrik rolled his eyes. "Very well, but I'm only doing it on three conditions. One, you stick close to me so my Shadows can protect us both effectively."

The sun paladin nodded.

"Two, you don't move a muscle unless I tell you to. No running off just because the coast seems clear. You got me?"

The sun paladin nodded again.

"And three," Hamrik paused for emphasis, "if I hear you use the word 'sun' even once, or 'solar', or anything that so much as alludes to the existence of a celestial body, then I will personally strip you naked -"

The sun paladin's eyes widened slightly.

"- cover you head-to-toe in honey - "

The sun paladin's eyes developed a strange glint.

" - and tie you to the nearest tree for the man-eating bears to find."

The excitement faded from the sun paladin's face, to be replaced by a distinct paleness. "V-Very well."

Things went surprisingly smoothly from thereon out. Belylaith the sun paladin carefully stayed behind Hamrik and generally tried to keep far away from the action. Although she started out only slightly less terrified of Hamrik than of the rest of the Trollmire, she did eventually calm down, and took pains to explain to him how, even injured, the Something Paladins were an army of elite warriors with the best training on the continent, and that while his backup was highly valued, that was ultimately all it was, and she was entirely capable of fending off any limited number of the monsters they faced. Were it not for Hamrik's insistence, she would gladly be fighting alongside the Shadows rather than hiding behind them.

After following the signs a little further (a navigational trend Belylaith did not seem to have registered), the two arrived at the edge of a small lake. Hamrik was rather confused as to how to proceed - surely the "BIG FEEST" wasn't supposed to take place underwater - when the trap was finally sprung.

A truly enormous troll suddenly leapt out of the water, landing on the shore right in front of Hamrik and waving a huge club. Belylaith promptly screamed "omigodsitsatroll(totheeast)!" and ran in the opposite direction at top speed, vanishing out of sight in seconds. Hamrik resisted the urge to facepalm (exactly what had she been expecting to encounter in the Trollmire?) or to turn to chase her and leave his back exposed, and instead faced the new threat.

"Me is Prox the Mighty, cleverest troll in the world!" The hulking beast proudly proclaimed. "Youse fell for me cunning trap, and now youse going to be big feast! For me! Bwahahahaha!"

Hamrik raised his eyebrows slightly and spoke two words. "Willful Strike."

Prox's laughter suddenly turned into gurgles as the wave of mental force threw him back into the lake.

For several seconds, there was a peaceful, idyllic silence. Birds sang, the Sun shone brightly (if not on its paladin), and a gentle breeze ruffled Hamrik's almost-regrown beard.

Finally, Prox the Mighty re-emerged from the lake, looking a little worse for wear.

"Hey, no fair-"

"Willful Strike."

Splash.

Hamrik smiled gently to himself as he enjoyed a few more moments of reverie. The natural environment topside was nothing like the deep silence and magnificent curving stone of the caverns he used to play in as a child, but his time in the mountains near Angolwen had taught him to appreciate nature in all its variety. Maybe the Trollmire wasn't so bad after all.

Really, he was starting to get a bit irritated with Prox for insisting on interrupting his enjoyment.

" using stupid-"

"Willful Strike."

Splash.
By the time Prox next climbed out of the lake, he looked distinctly battered and unhappy.

"stinking magic-"

"Willful Strike."

Splash.

Technically, Hamrik didn't really need to say the words - they were just an optional aid to concentration - but somehow on this occasion it was really satisfying to do so.

After a few literal rinse and repeats, Hamrik had finally had enough. He took a step back and gave a nod. The Shadows swarmed, and Prox never came out of the water again.

The catch, as Hamrik soon realised, was that any loot Prox might have had in his possession was now also at the bottom of the lake. He was starting to wonder if he had incurred the curse of some dwarven post-battle looting god, since his luck with the stuff appeared to vary between "disappointing" and "abysmal". Still, at least this meant no opportunistic scavengers were likely to make off with what was rightfully his while he looked for Belylaith.

Who was busy showing off the supreme courage and might expected of a something paladin. Namely, Hamrik found her up a tree, refusing to come down until he cleared out every monster in the Trollmire that could possibly be a danger to her. Literally every monster. Hamrik mentally added "intelligence" and "charm" to the list of Belylaith's troll-like features.

He fulfilled her request - he wasn't going to turn down easy XP - but it did get rather tedious, especially when Belylaith quite inexplicably took against a honey tree she could see from her high vantage point, and insisted that he chop it down forthwith. Hamrik lacking any sort of suitable cutting implement (with all his extra power, he still couldn't wield Brotoq's axe), this took quite a while. In the end, it should have been no surprise that Belylaith got to enjoy the same sabotaged teleportation which had (hopefully) taught Emelyraldawen a lesson. And once again, Hamrik felt an odd surge of mental strength after the act, almost as if the forces of karma were rewarding him for delivering punishment unto the unworthy. It felt good.

Which was just as well, since retrieving Prox's possessions from the bottom of the lake was exactly as much fun as it sounded. Especially when Hamrik (very) eventually dragged up what he thought might be a casket containing the burial treasures of ancient warriors, and it turned out to be a tree trunk. An elaborately carved and polished tree trunk, to be fair, rather than some random hunk of wood, but getting the thing out of the water had nearly killed him, and for what?

The only other noteworthy item was a decaying halfling foot on a string. Hamrik was about ready to throw the foul thing away, but noticed in the nick of time that it had a faint aura of arcane energy. Could the old wives' tales be true? Hamrik felt an evil grin appear on his face. Imagine how much money he could get from the halfling rulers in return for not revealing material proof that severed halfling feet really did magically bring the bearer luck.

Of course, he reflected, they might just choose to have him assassinated instead. These were halflings he was thinking about.

While so pondering, he came across Prox's now-empty lair, easily distinguishable by the presence of an enormous, foul-smelling cooking pot. Hamrik got a vaguely sick feeling regarding what might have happened to the rest of the halfling.

Looking around, there was no more treasure to be had - apparently, Prox had wisely kept all his valuables on him at all times. At this time, Hamrik made a deliberate policy decision. He would not wonder where Prox had been carrying an entire tree trunk such that it could not be seen on his person, yet became clearly visible after he'd been torn apart. Some mysteries of troll anatomy were best left unknown.

He also discovered what he could only assume was an unsent ransom note.

"if youse reeding dis, Bil has kidnept youse to maik youse reed dis for him bekos da dum bugr kant reed. tel him if he wonts his belovd tree trunk bak, he got to giv Prox all da jewls he has in his hidn lare in da kaiv behind da greit big bolda. or els."

It made Hamrik's head hurt a little to read, but the message was clear. Some troll called Bill had a lot of jewels hidden in a cave behind a big boulder. Hamrik even reckoned he knew which boulder - he'd used it to create a blind spot for dealing with an uppity wandering skeleton mage earlier. Opportunities for treasure other than an enormous piece of carved wood (which was seriously stretching his encumbrance limits) and a rotting halfling foot on a string (which was seriously stretching his hygiene limits)? Yes, please.

Now that he knew what to look for, there was just enough room for him to squeeze past the boulder, given a few minutes' wriggling. Presumably Bill would just push it out of the way with monstrous troll strength (which apparently significantly exceeded the pushing force Hamrik could exert with his mind - not a good sign).

Behind the boulder was a long, narrow, claustrophobia-inducing corridor which Hamrik navigated without much difficulty (a couple of blind corners and a very surprised troll notwithstanding). Hamrik and the Shadows were forced to move in single file, though he couldn't help noticing that one or two of them would periodically disappear and not come back. This wasn't in itself worrying - he knew they could perform short-range teleportation, and scouting ahead was a good move which meant less fighting for him personally - but the well of power inside him was gradually depleting, both with time and with the energy drain from having to reconstitute the Shadows (which were presumably having a hard time of it further ahead).

Soon he came to another boulder, this one blocking the entrance to a larger cavern. But no sooner could Hamrik devise a plan of attack than the boulder was pushed aside into a niche, and he was faced with a line of angry-looking trolls, who apparently did not appreciate having their recreation disturbed by floating balls of clawed darkness.

The worst of them was an enormous beast who shoved his minions aside and charged straight at Hamrik, his vast bulk such that he barely fit inside the corridor. Mercifully, this at least meant that no other trolls could climb past him to attack. But given Bill's estimated strength, Hamrik would be lucky if this ever became an issue.

The young dwarf swallowed. He was essentially going to have to repeat his Reknor strategy - i.e. backpedal as fast as his feet could carry him - with the difference that Bill had his own little army, Hamrik had no Norgan to back him up, and if Bill was still alive by the time they got to the other end of the corridor, he'd crush him into pulp before there was time to squeeze past the boulder and escape. Oh, and he was out of Shadows and virtually out of Badassery.

As Hamrik fled, he did his best to overrule the intense fear screaming inside him and instead look back to stare Bill in the eye. It helped that Bill bore an uncanny resemblance (in Hamrik's mind) to Old Urthagon, the overmuscled geomancer responsible for supervising back-breaking apprentice exploitation in Angolwen's few crop fields. While each apprentice had his scheduled turn in what was commonly referred to as "the crop rotation", it was also a popular form of punishment for persistent rule-breakers, and as such Hamrik was all too familiar with the sight of Urthagon's six-foot form towering over him, demanding that he put his back into it and quit whining like a little baby.

The more Hamrik looked, the stronger the resemblance grew. Both of the brutes had bulging muscles and impenetrably thick skin (Urthagon was even said to have trained with the weaponmasters of Last Hope), as well as a penchant for making those smaller than them suffer. The flames of hatred stirred once more in his heart, and he channelled them as best he could into both the summoning of Shadows and into blasts of force with which to keep Bill away.

He managed to periodically summon Shadows which gave Bill pause, and even to hurt the monster a little through occasional lucky hits, but ultimately this only bought him a little time, and at last he felt his back (or rather the tree trunk he had miraculously stuffed in his backpack through great dwarven feats of treasure packing) press against the boulder that blocked the exit.

He only had enough Badassery left for one more gambit. But the pressure at his back gave him just enough inspiration. He quickly pulled the tree trunk out, and used a blast of force to propel it towards Bill. Shocked to see his beloved weapon heading back towards him, Bill dropped his club and reached out to grab it, his eyes wide with joyful surprise. His hands were about to close on it...

when the thing detonated. Blown apart from within by Hamrik's focused blasting powers, the tree trunk shattered into a thousand enormous splinters, which buried themselves in Bill's face, hands and body at high speed. The screams echoing off the tunnel walls were deafening.

Blind, overwhelmed with pain and unable to pick up a weapon with his wounded hands, Bill was no longer a meaningful threat. On the other hand, he was still blocking the way for the other trolls, allowing Hamrik to steadily pick them off by detonating other blasts on their side of Bill. The discovery that unlike walls, organic matter didn't block his line of sight when aiming the blasts made Hamrik's mind race with possibilities. The poor trolls never stood a chance.

Unfortunately, nor did the corridor, as finally all the shockwaves triggered a violent and very loud collapse. And so, though Hamrik had survived the terrible battle against Bill, the treasure was now on the other side of vast walls of rock. Yes, there was definitely a pattern emerging in his boss battles.

Level 10: +3 Cun +1 Shadow Warriors +1 Shadow Mages

However, Hamrik was now convinced that the loot god whose anger he had invoked really wasn't a dwarven deity after all. No dwarven god would be inept enough to think that a mere cave-in could deter a member of Eyal's master race. Hamrik hefted his trusty old pickaxe, and got to work.

Admittedly, the digging did take only slightly less than forever, and Hamrik suspected he'd be washing rock dust out of his beard for weeks to come, but the other side did not disappoint. There were indeed jewels - making up in number what they lacked in rarity value - but also a few magical items presumably looted from the bodies of less lucky adventurers. This was more like it.

Now if only the universe were to suspend its trend of trying to drive Hamrik insane. Ordinarily, he'd be happy to find a powerful magical pickaxe after all but wearing out his old one. It's just that this particular pickaxe had been made using a very familiar monster tooth - a tooth of the Mouth from Deep Bellow, the invulnerable abomination which had had a full complement of teeth when Hamrik slew it.

There was no possible way he could be seeing the Tooth of the Mouth, yet here it was, reassuringly heavy (and perfectly balanced as pickaxes went), and with a slight eerie warmth about it, as if it were somehow still alive. Perhaps it was a sign - this was, after all, the closest Hamrik had got so far to a Sher'Tul relic. Maybe some greater power was telling him to press on with his quest. The fact that the quest apparently did not bode well for his sanity, while troubling, was ultimately a secondary concern. Hamrik had not come this far by ignoring the beckoning of his curiousity in favour of mere survival instinct.

Hamrik scooped up the remaining treasure (of note, a pair of boots that splashed acid when kicked against the ground, as if they were treading in some extradimensional puddle, and a mindwoven wizard hat of willpower that made him wonder if its enhancing effect on his powers meant he was a type of psionics user) and moved on.

It took some wandering around, because apparently the ancient and proud order of the Ziguranth transcended mere signposts, but eventually Hamrik found the stronghold of the mage-slayers. Zigur was a medium-sized town with a heavy presence of armoured patrolmen watching him closely as he passed through the gate. He felt a strange tingle on his skin as he entered, as if some unknown force had tested him for acceptability, and approved.

There was a signpost near the entrance, legible even at this late hour thanks to lamps carefully set nearby. The setup suggested a certain degree of importance, so Hamrik quickly skimmed it. The main body of the text simply listed basic rules of the Ziguranth - do not use runes or arcane magic, kill or report all mages and mage sympathisers, fairly predictable things like that. But the final item shook Hamrik to the core.

"In your travels in the wild, you may encounter filthy magic-users in search of recall portals and requesting an escort. While it is entirely laudable to laugh in their faces and leave them to their well-deserved deaths, it is even better to stealthily modify their portals by adjusting them to the pattern shown below. This altered portal draws upon the power of nature to transport the fallen straight into the Zigur torture chambers for interrogation followed by summary execution, and has served us well in gathering information on the mages' foul plots."

Hamrik's eyes were drawn downward, to a runic layout that seemed horrifyingly familiar. This was the pattern he had adjusted those two sun paladins' portals to. How had he even known it, never having been to Zigur before? And what did this mean for Emelyraldawen and Belylaith?

No. He knew what it meant for them. Suddenly, the consequences of his pranking hit him full force. Two women tortured and dead. Yes, they'd both been royal pains in the posterior, but this?

Suddenly, in spite of himself, he began to think of the many other victims of his pranks. How many had ended up like this? Maybe not tortured to death, but what might it have been like for all those archmages who found themselves teleported to a random part of Angolwen naked in the middle of the night, or perhaps during a romantic tryst? Or what of those who unexpectedly failed to heal their wounds after activating a Rune of Invisibility while in mortal danger? Heck, even Archmage Tarelion might not have entirely deserved what had happened to the beloved staff he had hand-enchanted over many years.

How had it come to this? Hamrik remembered his first pranks as a child, innocent ways of getting his parents' attention. Busy merchants both, they somehow never seemed to have time for him - at least unless they needed to find out who had added pink dye to his father's beard-smoothing lotion, or why and how the bi-monthly black market report in his mother's thrice-locked secret desk drawer had been replaced with an angry live octopus.

In the end, though, what it had got him was being sent to Angolwen, the mages' hidden city, to become a mage. Hamrik had been so overjoyed - who wouldn't want to learn magic instead of training to inherit a boring old merchant empire - that it took a long time before he realised his parents had effectively chosen to get rid of him rather than learn to treat him as a son.

Nor did things really improve at Angolwen, for all its wonderfulness. All the other apprentices immediately started going around making friends, forming cliques, and even -, as if this was all somehow natural. Had Hamrik arrived just too late to receive some kind of special manual which covered all these new skills?

Ultimately, he'd had no choice but to keep on doing what he did best, using his pranks to get the world to laugh with him rather than at him. But he was always aware that the people quickest to laugh at his antics were also the people quickest to laugh at his mistakes. All it would have taken was for one person to reach out to him, to break those barriers which apparently didn't exist to other people but were so solid for him.

After the Shadow came to him, his first ever friend, he ironically became ever more aware of his isolation. At that point, the pranks were less and less about making others laugh and more and more a sort of game, asserting his own intelligence over a world that was too stupid to recognise his value, never mind serve as an equal in a game of wits. If he was alone, then he would make his creativity work for himself alone, and those who laughed at him or dismissed him were fair game to become laughing stocks in return.

In the end, wasn't that the nature of things? From his parents, to his peers, to the Angolwen staff, it would have taken just one person to break the silence, just one source of love to validate the fairy tale model of human relationships that those around him seemed to operate on. Instead, it had always been Hamrik against the world. Most of the time, the world played him and lost, because he was just that good. Occasionally it won, and when it did, it showed no mercy, as with his banishment from the city of magic. And if so, there was no reason for him to show mercy in return. Those who challenged him entered the playing field as equals, and just as they would not hesitate to bring their full power to bear against him, he should not hesitate to do the same.

Besides, he didn't need friends any more. He had his Shadows now, trustworthy allies who would fight for him in the face of the greatest danger, never abandoning him, never turning on him. Together, they had the power to take on the world.

Feeling a new wave of resolve, Hamrik found the nearest inn and bought a night in its most luxurious room.

Interlude

In a place that is no place, he awakens while yet sleeping.

He is alone, or so it seems. There are no Shadows here, nor is there light to see by.

He listens, and he cannot hear. He reaches out, and he cannot feel. He does not breathe, and does not think to try.

At last, he turns to the unknown source of power within him. And it responds, as if it were some new sense that had until now lain dormant.

He senses a presence, infinitely distant yet also here with him now. And, for the first time, he understands.

Every shadow belongs to that which casts it.

Oh wow, how has this masterpiece escaped my attention so far?

I love the take you have on the Shadows, from the offhand way you introduced them to the awesome bit just there.

Here's hoping that the dwarf casting this particular story-shadow still has a long way to go! I will be tagging along...

Me too!

I'm also looking forward to reading more of these.

*applause*

Well done! I'm late in discovering this but I'm glad I did! I like that bit with the shadows at the end, with its double meaning and all.

Surely that wasn't THE end, though? Will we see Hamrik's journey continue?

I'm really glad you guys like the story.

Sorry for the lack of updates - resuming Hamrik's story is high on my priority list, and once I resolve certain technical difficulties, I fully intend to see it through to the end, whether that be victory or permadeath.

Chapter VII

+ 0.2 category mastery: Shadows

Hamrik woke up feeling... different. It wasn't like anything he'd felt before, so he struggled for words to describe it. He knew, without looking, that there were now four Shadows with him in the inn. He knew that his connection with them was deeper now, and altered in subtle ways. If before he had been like a summoner who sets aside a portion of his energies to sustain his summoned familiars, now he felt more like the head of some ethereal body, with the Shadows as its limbs. There was power in that knowledge, he could tell, if he could but learn to unlock it.

What he didn't understand was why. He'd had a dream, he was sure of that, but try though he might, he could recall nothing but the deepest darkness, and the purest silence, and, perhaps, a sense that something was watching. Something that did not need eyes to see. It was cryptic enough to drive him mad. Was it a premonition? A memory? Or maybe, just maybe... foreshadowing.

Either way, it was time to get going. The first thing on Hamrik's list was to check Zigur's shops for interesting new gear, as all the gold he'd gathered in his dungeon-delving was starting to burn a hole in his money pouch. This was something he'd heard of before, but never believed could happen to a dwarf - the desire to part with gold, not as an investment to be reaped in the future, but simply because he had a lot of it and the world was full of things to buy. Perhaps all the time away from the Iron Throne really was having a profound impact on his psyche.

After a little looking around, Hamrik decided to start his shopping trip with Temlin's Wondrous Armaments, a little weapons store built near a huge apple tree.

Temlin himself was a towering human whose leather armour was inscribed with dragon-themed patterns that joined up impressively with the tattoos on his skin. As Hamrik walked in, he gestured proudly to his shop's selection.

"Welcome, friend. Here for the finest mage-slaying gear? Why not purchase manaburn daggers? A warhammer endowed with the dread power of slime? Or perhaps you're interested in my speciality, newly imported mindstars?"

With this last, Temlin pointed to some rocks lying on the counter. Greyish, bread loaf-sized oval rocks. Some of them had moss growing on them. Hamrik raised his eyebrows.

"You're selling rocks? What are they for, keeping tigers away?"

"No, no, friend. Not rocks. Mindstars. Rare crystals endowed with the amazing power to amplify any and all psionic abilities." Temlin picked one up in each hand. "Come, let me demonstrate."

Temlin led the increasingly sceptical Hamrik outside. Casting around for a suitable target for a few seconds, his eyes finally settled on the apple tree.

"Now, here is a trick I learned from a wandering loremaster way back in the old days." He hefted the rock in his right hand.

"Mind Sear!"

With this loud yell, Temlin smashed the rock into the tree with all his strength.

Its upper branches shook a little, but otherwise nothing appeared to happen. Nevertheless, Temlin only looked more determined than before.

"Oh, made your mental save, eh? Well, unfortunately for you, Mind Sear only has a two-turn cooldown!"

"Mind Sear!" Temlin promptly smashed the rock in his other hand into the tree. "How do you like them apples?"

As the battle between man and tree grew ever more fierce, Hamrik took the opportunity to slip away, muttering "unbalanced" under his breath. His initial opinion of the Ziguranth was steadily being confirmed.

For now, he'd better stick to his original objective and find out about anti-magic training. Fortunately, the next shopkeeper (a Thaloren elf being followed around by a strange sort of slimebeast that seemed to double as a comfy armchair) was somewhat more helpful. She pointed him to the Zigur mead hall, where the warriors were currently celebrating a successful catch of not one but two sun paladins in quick succession, and told him what the anti-magic trainer looked like. Hamrik decided not to try his luck with further shopping and headed straight for the hall.

"So you want to join the proud ranks of the Ziguranth, friend?" the thickly-built, battle-scarred halfling demanded. "Well, we don't take any but the best, so you'll have to complete a series of trials to show you're worthy."

Hamrik resisted the impulse to roll his eyes. "And these would be ...?"

"Well, first off you can... hmm... collect... five... no, ten... crystal rat... tails! Yes, that'll do ni-"

"Absolutely not!" Hamrik interrupted. "I'm an adventurer on the road to wealth and glory! I have no intention of wasting my time on a procedurally generated fetch quest!"

The hall went completely silent for a second. Hamrik felt a chill go down his spine. Had he gone too far?

"... Well done!" The trainer roared. A cheer went up throughout the hall.

"Many adventurers think 'oh, I'm just gonna forsake magic for a bit here, save the world from the corrupting influence of spellcasters a few times there', and then with that lukewarm commitment they walk straight into the waiting arms of the nearest alchemist and help them make their devilish potions! As if rare elixirs that grant permanent new powers could be worth damning yourself forever in the eyes of Nature itself!"

Hamrik privately made a note to himself to visit an alchemist when the opportunity next arose. Perhaps he'd been underestimating their value.

"But not you! You are firm in your resolve!" The trainer slapped him heartily on the back. Hamrik did his best to resist his spine leaving his body via the front.

"Your real mission is to investigate the Scintillating Caves in the Shaloren lands. Scouts report seeing a bunch of those robe-wearing magical cultist types going to and fro near the cave entrance. We reckon that they're up to no good."

"How can you tell?" Hamrik asked.

"Because they're mages, of course. I see you still have much to learn about the ways of the world. Anyway, go in, kill all the mages you see, find out what they're up to - hmm, maybe those two should be the other way round - and come back here with a report."

Not that killing a bunch of evil mages wouldn't be great fun in and of itself, but Hamrik was the son of two master merchants, and couldn't resist trying to get the halfling to sweeten the deal. "The Shaloren lands are pretty far away..."

The trainer grinned. "Oh, did I mention that the Scintillating Caves are said to be full to bursting with rare gems the size of a grown cornac?"

Hamrik's eyes lit up. "Consider it done."

On his way out, something occurred to him. "Um, you know there's a shopkeeper outside trying to kill an apple tree?"

"Oh, poor Temlin. His brother was a warrior escort who foolishly set his recall portal on the far east edge of the Old Forest. Temlin's never been the same since that day..."

"Huh."

The last thing Hamrik saw as he left Zigur was the man in question, still facing the tree, his blows having apparently caused a bunch of unripe apples to rain down on the surrounding area. He seemed undeterred.

"Oh, summoning minions, eh? Well, unfortunately for you, Mind Sear hits in a beam!"

"Mind Sear!" Temlin skimmed one of his rocks along the grass, knocking apples out of the way like bowling pins before finally hitting the tree's roots.

And that seemed to sum up the Ziguranth pretty well. Unfailing dedication, endless determination, and tunnel vision beyond the imagination of any dwarf. Still, as long as they delivered on their promises, Hamrik would be happy to make use of them.

But first, he had a little detour to take...

Heh. That was pretty funny. Hope this doesn't have a huge negative influence on Hamrik's opinion of mindstars, they can be powerful tools for his type.

Which reminds me, what version are you playing on? I've been able to play my 1.0.0 saves on 1.0.1 without problems(although I would make a backup). That would give Hamrik a chance to pick up mindstar mastery...if he ever even talks to that guy again. He he!

Amphouse wrote:Heh. That was pretty funny. Hope this doesn't have a huge negative influence on Hamrik's opinion of mindstars, they can be powerful tools for his type.

Which reminds me, what version are you playing on? I've been able to play my 1.0.0 saves on 1.0.1 without problems(although I would make a backup). That would give Hamrik a chance to pick up mindstar mastery...if he ever even talks to that guy again. He he!

1.0.1. But I thought Mindstar Mastery clashed with Gestures, making it a poor investment. Also, it must be said that Hamrik doesn't want to be in melee any more than he can help. That's what the Shadows are for. (I don't have much experience playing Doomed, so any advice for Hamrik would be gratefully received)