future global event? Or could a real seed of Chaos have sprouted in our world's backyard? I needed to have a talk with the Fallen One and monitor all the known temples, those of Light included. If any shit hit the fan, at least I would know what was going on.
I'd folded my experiments and okayed the summoning of my half-blood gang.
From that day, the goblins had been scurrying around the building site, driving everyone white-knuckle mad, but they had already earned their keep tenfold, to the point where the dwarves would try to drop an apparently dislodged rock right on top of them. In return, the goblins had gotten mithril detection down to a fine art, stripping the dwarves of any surreptitious gains.
A couple of those budding security agents had already shown some promise. One of them, the lame guy I nicknamed Tamerlane, had uncovered a scam by one of the foremen to smuggle out mithril in double-bottomed barrels. For that he'd received a commendation from me, a Corporal's insignia and a whack on the head with a hammer from the angry culprits. Much to their regret, instead of being swallowed up by the universal void, the freshly-minted corporal had happily respawned in the barracks, then grassed his assailants up in cold blood. The Dwarves' foremen mumbled their apologies, paid the fine without a sound and moved on, coming up with ever more complex building traps for their offenders. Their confrontation rocked the celestial boat, swelling with the emotions of both parties and naturally leading to the result I expected: the entire special-service gang was to go perma any day now. How'd you like that?
As a side effect of the memorable RV, the dwarves had developed a new fad — that of wearing fake modified beards. Silk colorful ribbons were immediately out: now dwarves would decorate their pride and joy with assorted bits of wire, precious stones and the hair of magical animals. They quickly came up with a strict hierarchy based on a rigid system of rules. I witnessed two silver-bearded old-timers giving a good hiding to a rank-and-file apprentice who'd dared to braid a gold thread into his own beard.
Durin wasn't upset about their copycat practices. He would just screw his face up as he decorated his own beard with his new insignia: the silver stars of a warrant officer and the 'Clean Hands' : a modest iron medal I'd invented to award exclusively to support troops. The dwarves were in for a new shock.
After I'd demonstrated the Heart of the Temple fragment to Patriarch Thror and the deputies of the Dwarven priests' underground, I'd demanded the promised seven million gold and five hundred craftsmen for the restoration of the castle's defensive capacity.
The dwarves played hard to get, asking me to hand the artifact over to them, and then maybe... I didn't listen any further. What if they lost the artifact in some of their internal priestly games or just summoned the wrong deity — say, Hephaestus who too was a patron god of blacksmiths. And that wasn't the worst option even. The problem was, the Fragment was neutral to both Dark and Light, capable of restoring a temple of any existing pantheon. And I really couldn't allow the Light ones to have a power tool like that.
Another thing was, whoever summoned the god automatically received all of his gifts, depending on the level of the temple. I'd already cashed in whatever the Fallen One and Macaria had had to offer, but it was Ruata who'd laid her greedy mitts on Lloth's gifts. That Dome Shield around her altar was too good for words. Even the Fallen One complete with girlfriend had spent a good quarter of an hour trying to breach it.
No, I don't mean that I hoped to get something equally as awesome. After all, her Impregnable Dome Shield was erected in a divine place of power, the closest thing to Lloth's own halls. There, the goddess had been in peak form which had in turn allowed her to inflict the ultimate discomfort upon my two rescuers. But still.
I didn't want
I'd folded my experiments and okayed the summoning of my half-blood gang.
From that day, the goblins had been scurrying around the building site, driving everyone white-knuckle mad, but they had already earned their keep tenfold, to the point where the dwarves would try to drop an apparently dislodged rock right on top of them. In return, the goblins had gotten mithril detection down to a fine art, stripping the dwarves of any surreptitious gains.
A couple of those budding security agents had already shown some promise. One of them, the lame guy I nicknamed Tamerlane, had uncovered a scam by one of the foremen to smuggle out mithril in double-bottomed barrels. For that he'd received a commendation from me, a Corporal's insignia and a whack on the head with a hammer from the angry culprits. Much to their regret, instead of being swallowed up by the universal void, the freshly-minted corporal had happily respawned in the barracks, then grassed his assailants up in cold blood. The Dwarves' foremen mumbled their apologies, paid the fine without a sound and moved on, coming up with ever more complex building traps for their offenders. Their confrontation rocked the celestial boat, swelling with the emotions of both parties and naturally leading to the result I expected: the entire special-service gang was to go perma any day now. How'd you like that?
As a side effect of the memorable RV, the dwarves had developed a new fad — that of wearing fake modified beards. Silk colorful ribbons were immediately out: now dwarves would decorate their pride and joy with assorted bits of wire, precious stones and the hair of magical animals. They quickly came up with a strict hierarchy based on a rigid system of rules. I witnessed two silver-bearded old-timers giving a good hiding to a rank-and-file apprentice who'd dared to braid a gold thread into his own beard.
Durin wasn't upset about their copycat practices. He would just screw his face up as he decorated his own beard with his new insignia: the silver stars of a warrant officer and the 'Clean Hands' : a modest iron medal I'd invented to award exclusively to support troops. The dwarves were in for a new shock.
After I'd demonstrated the Heart of the Temple fragment to Patriarch Thror and the deputies of the Dwarven priests' underground, I'd demanded the promised seven million gold and five hundred craftsmen for the restoration of the castle's defensive capacity.
The dwarves played hard to get, asking me to hand the artifact over to them, and then maybe... I didn't listen any further. What if they lost the artifact in some of their internal priestly games or just summoned the wrong deity — say, Hephaestus who too was a patron god of blacksmiths. And that wasn't the worst option even. The problem was, the Fragment was neutral to both Dark and Light, capable of restoring a temple of any existing pantheon. And I really couldn't allow the Light ones to have a power tool like that.
Another thing was, whoever summoned the god automatically received all of his gifts, depending on the level of the temple. I'd already cashed in whatever the Fallen One and Macaria had had to offer, but it was Ruata who'd laid her greedy mitts on Lloth's gifts. That Dome Shield around her altar was too good for words. Even the Fallen One complete with girlfriend had spent a good quarter of an hour trying to breach it.
No, I don't mean that I hoped to get something equally as awesome. After all, her Impregnable Dome Shield was erected in a divine place of power, the closest thing to Lloth's own halls. There, the goddess had been in peak form which had in turn allowed her to inflict the ultimate discomfort upon my two rescuers. But still.
I didn't want
Similar Books
