Destiny stalked him like anything he ever faced; the relentless, determined beast would not be deterred.  No matter how far he attempted to run from it, he only found himself running into it instead.

When he was presented with the idea of traveling far beyond the reaches of his homeland, months worth of travel at least, to fight a mythological beast that would quite likely kill him and his friends, he should have at least hesitated.  His battered, situational intuition should have flared like a lit gas pocket, fiery bright and expanding at a moment’s notice at a great speed.  He should have kindly declined the inquiry, stating that his presence was required at home, where a territorial battle was ensuing and he should have been present to put down whatever madness had taken over his friend and companion, which he could see warping his mind and heart as readily as a strangler vine choked a sweet flowering vine.  But all of these actions felt wrong, like he was crossing a rope bridge and the plank normal sought with his foot for balance was certainly gone.  He caught himself not only agreeing to this foreign slaughter in the cradle of the God’s right hand, where their stewards they spawned revelled among true mortals like Gods themselves, but adamantly insisting that this journey be taken, that this injustice be sought, confronted, and met.  Another man lived inside his skin now, speaking firm and hard words his lips never seemed to know and doubt was something that he had to bury with the dead.

Who had he turned into?  Or worse… turning into?

When they turned the corner of a stout bluff that rose almost impossibly into the heavens, it was there that he saw another that almost rose so high it almost bracketed the Heavens themselves.  The air was desperately thin up there, no trees felt the madness to grow their in verdant defiance, and Runt hadn’t see the signs of the tracks of a creature for several miles.  It was so high up that even the birds didn’t come here to die.  Carved into the face of this colossal mountain side was a Stone dragon, its granite wing furled as if to meet an updraft and pull the whole mountain face alongside with it.   Its looming presence stole into Runt’s mind, taking all the fears and concerns he had about this adventure and dutifully fleshed them out so they could rest inside of his stomach like a lead weight, refusing to be digested.  And yet… he knew he had to be there.  Something called to him through those ancient halls, beckoning him as surely as the wind howled through the peaks of the lesser summits and pulled him closer.  To what?  To his grisly death?  To unearthly treasure and untold power?  To fight for the fate of mankind as the weak shouldered man who had practically shook himself into a passionate fit to convince them?  All of these things and none at the same time was what his heart told him, and yet… something else lingered just past perception, moving in the darkness like a beckoning beast, prowling in the dim light, waiting for Runt to finally risk his life to know.

He knew things that he couldn’t possibly have known on his own, for he knew them somehow as if he walked the very halls themselves millennia before.  The moment his hands rested upon the first Dragon trumpet, it’s magnificence seemed to speak through his hands; he knew it was something of incredible importance.  He attempted to rationalize it; he was a thief after all to a fashion, he merely under what value felt like, it was the weight, the texture of the artifact that called out to him, nothing more.  But yet… yet something else was calling out to him.  Softly, too softly to be discerned but clearly just the same.

He felt like a raving madman when he insisted on digging up the poor music squire’s grave.  He didn’t know what was buried there, or that it was one of the trumpets, but he knew that they had buried something of incredible value with him just the same.  It was a gift that he deserved, earned by the hours of training and performance he did for the Kings, the painstaking beauty he conjured up for them, the tales he put music to.  The look of shame and regret on Gregor’s face as they dug through the graves, Runt nearly lost his nerve and stopped digging.  But he had to find what was hidden with the small creature inside.  Why would he think he was small?  Or even have any idea?  What was happening to him?

When he laid his eyes first on the Lorekeeper, he knew that he was in the presence of an ancient; regardless of what species or breed he was.  They could have readily have taken him if they so desired but… Runt felt he deserved the respect and admiration of one who had lived through the millennia … he would sooner strike out a stained glass window than dispatch such an artist as the Lorekeeper.  Why did this lizard matter?  Was he not the supposed killer of mythological creatures?  Why did their existence seem to fascinate and trouble him at the same time?

Finally the moment he could not find an answer for still plagued him…  He knew what to do when Xana and Thayna were turned to solid ice.  His heart sank like a river stone in the ocean when he turned and saw that they were solid ice instead of merely coated by it but his mind… his mind was still and patient, his intuition calmly instructed that he needed to take them to the pool and they would recover.  He knew that it had to have some magical properties to it after they fought the slime that lived in the water, it so strange that it was alien how it moved and attacked them… But he knew it was meant to cleanse, to prepare and perhaps to heal.  

Again, he could have discerned it in a different way, that the steps were meant to baptize or to bath but it seemed to have something more to it than that, something sacred.  It was a shot in the dark but he was desperate.  He needed to save them, especially Xana.  They had survived so much together, done so much together, he just couldn’t think…  No.  There had to be a way.  When he watched Xana spring back to life, struggling back and forth like a stunned trout caught in the hands of a bear as she came to her senses in Gregor’s hands, the look of sheer amazement and wonder in Gregor’s eyes as hope poured into his face.  Relief filled him to the brim, laced with his own personal shock and confusion; HOW DID HE KNOW THIS?!  HOW??  She should have been lost, she should have been gone… and yet, there Xana was because he knew that it was their only chance.

And now he stood before the Great Doors to the Vault.  He knew it was the Vault; there was no other way it couldn’t be.  The arch that loomed overhead with its staggering level of detail, how it echoed the outer-holdings except instead of fear and a treacherous ledge, it was designed with pride, prestige, and valor.  Something that one would design in reverence as much as a warning to those who mistook benevolent respect for weakness.  And he understood this on a level that he couldn’t quite figure out.

His hands shook a bit as he was able to open the doors and peaked his head inside.  He felt the age of the air that stood still as a mountain in the room as his eyes adjusted.  It was massive, holding thrones for each of the Kings and as his eyes moved from right to left, there in the far left… his heart stopped.  He felt like a mouse that had wandered into the lion’s den by accident when the King’s booming Draconic thundered across the room, clearly directed at him.  His eyes were as large as orc axes as he begged Nelea to join him and translate.  He wanted to bow, to rest his forehead on the ground to give the King of the North the respect he deserved but he knew that this would not do; he had a mission, it must be completed.

He had known that ancient ruler was going to be larger than life, but he never knew that he would be this large.  Sunken in, withered, and emaciated, he resembled something more like a collection of debris under cobwebs but yet… the titan’s eyes were sharp and alive between the dust and age.  His throne was the size of a mining lift, the jewels bracketing it were the size of an ox’s heart and unfathomably more rich.  The world had moved on a thousand times over since this court was held with pomp and circumstance but still it was just as dangerous.  Runt knew he could kill him just as easily as he would a gnat, if not more readily so.  And yet, Runt knew that he had to face him.

Soon the party joined them and through the assistance of Xana, they were able to explain their purpose and interest.  His heart nearly seized on him twice as the conversation carried on as he could understand bits and pieces of it, based on the inflections and context.  His tongue felt sore as he attempted to mimic the movements in the past but his mind kept up as best as it could.  The King of the North shifted under his veil of time, asking questions in the guttural but fluid tones of Draconic; Xana responding comfortably as possible, all things considered.

His attention was suddenly peaked when he heard what he assumed to be a reference to the Dragon Trumpets.  He fumbled with the sack, his hand already untying the straps to reach inside of it to sneak the first of the trumpets.  He could tell there was hesitation, both in Xana and Thayna’s behavior but he need they were sacred, essential to this quest and he was near feverish to bring them out, to present them the way a child shows a parent a bauble they found, seeking their approval and respect.  When the King confirmed their use and that they needed to be cleansed in the Shrieving pool (that’s what it is called!), Runt was practically beside himself in urgency to do so forthwith.

The party did as the King requested and returned as quickly as they could.  No one had the nerve to maintain their presence of the King while they did so, even though not everyone was needed to cleanse the Trumpets.  Runt placed them in a row in front of the King, like he was assembling an audience of greatness before him.  He caught himself looking back…  Why was he behaving this way?  He never gave such attention or consideration to anyone?  Before he could complete his thought, the voice of the King of the North drifted into his thoughts like a aberrant fog.

He bowed his head in thanks but then raised his eyes as his voice followed.  Words, once foreign and strange started to have more and more meaning in Runt’s head, as the King spoke, he could almost clearly understand what he was saying.  What needed to be said before action was taken, so it was understood.  The King wheezed and coughed, his massive hand resting briefly against his chest.  After he recovered, his gaze started to glower, his hand reaching in such a manner that Runt understood universally.  Between the motions taken and what he could make out of what the King said, Runt understood completely what was about to transpire.  

The King had given his life to shape, protect, and control the Dragon Vault, and did so with Pride.  And like any good warrior, he wanted to go out in the throes of battle and in which the mortals that have come to his Kingdom would prove their worthiness to enter the Vault.

In the back of his mind, his heart spoke, saying it would be an honor to die by this beast’s hand, but not today.

It was a battle that was worth of a King.

For years to come, Runt would only remember parts of it; like shards of a vivid, stark naked dream, sheathed in emotion and outlined in vague details.  Even when it was happening, he felt as if he was moving in the presence of the divine, that destiny had already chosen the outcome and he was merely following through.

They moved quickly, their instincts never quite letting them believe that the parley would be enough to escape the presence of the hallowed king unscathed.  Gregor, his jovial face sharp with determination as he pulled what appeared to be raw earth from one of his pockets, quickly rolling it between his fingers as he chanted heavy notes.  He rolled the clay with his palms in such an unusual fashion that Runt briefly worried that the stalwart man had caved to the madness that plagued their hazardous occupations.  Giving one last vocal tone, he bellowed it out like a hammer as he rolled his right hand over his left, splaying the clay into a wave and suddenly the very stone ledge that the King of the North’s throne rested upon shook itself like a dog waking from a slumber and rolled itself up over the throne, trapping him on gilded seat.

The King of the North raged at this action, his cragged face twisted in outrage as he drew a massive Greatsword that immediately burst into flames in his hands, licking at the air with a barely strained hunger.  He struck at the stone itself like a smithy working at his forge, chunks of stone spraying about has he fought to gain purchase with his legs.

The rest of the party didn’t hesitate to strike true during this time.  Magic was thrown with precision and focus, Roken grew to meet his match with the King’s ghostly right hand cleric, who stood to the bitter end in defense of his ruler.  Tathnya rolled away from the Wall of Fire that had strung up in the middle of the room and nearly ran with Runt hip to hip up the stairs, waiting to attack.  Jathyn had thrown his mass of black, writhing tentacle net around the struggling pair, sectioning off the battleground for most.  Runt ground his teeth in anticipation, his blood rolling in his veins; the passionate embrace of combat sang in his ears and drove him to the edge of the black net, his feet practically levitating.

Blow after blow struck the aged ruler, he fought to hide a rough cough that choked every other breath he attempted to take.  Runt felt his heart tug a little at the sight and caught himself shaking his head.  Striking an old man down, is this not weakness?  Why did he seek such a bloodied end?  His humanity waivered his resolve a bit, he almost caught himself pulling back when a growl rose up in his own mind, deep and primal.  The growl vibrated his very bones as he felt an answer be forged in near feral words.

No; there is no death more fitting of a king of the wilds than to die amidst the defense of his kingdom – to lie down and allow it to be taken would be as if he never deserved to wear the Crown at all.

Tathnya’s battle cry next him roused him out of his mental interlude, swiveling his head back to where the groans of stone and steel meeting violently emanated.  He watched as Roken dispatched the spectral cleric’s earthly flame, the King roared in response and drove his sword clean through one of the sections of stone completely.  A bolt of brilliant light struck the King solid in his chest, throwing him back into the slab of the throne, his eyes bulged out, his hands thrown up in the air as if to defend off the strike.  He shuttered hard, his body convulsing as he wheezed, his lungs failing him as fought to hold on.  A cough punched through his chest so hard that it forced him forward, bloody spittle flew from his lips as he was thrust back forward, his face twisted in pain as his body fought against his will.  Every vein seemed to pull hard against his skin as a deep wheeze pulled out from his frail frame.

It was about that time that a sound caught Runt’s attention over the King’s death rattle… it was the sound of something scraping on steel; his ears whipped his eyes downwards and saw that the King’s claws were digging into the throne, gouging it like it was cheap wood and it dawned on Runt that the king had hands moments ago.

Oh.  Gods.

The wheeze that was pulling itself out of the King deepened in tone, like someone had dropped it into a well, as the dracomorph’s eyes went from a watery hazel to flaming, passionate burnt copper.  His face chased the growing wheeze that was rapidly transforming itself into what was clearly beyond the mortal plane – a growl that made the root of Runt’s very body start to tremble as it grew.  And grew.  And grew.

His legs swelled far beyond the strength of the stone work; the molded granite burst into pebbles as the King pushed away from the throne, like a Sparrow lifting off of a sapling branch.  His form lifted up as it continued to change, the rags of riches he once wore curled off of him like dirty smoke as his wings sprouted from his rolling, expansive back and unfurled as he climbed higher and higher, like a nightmare that drifted out of their very troubled imaginations.  Every inch of Runt’s skin stood at attention as the King of the North, one of the last great Dracomorphs twisted his elongated, triangular head back towards the puny, annoying mites that had infiltrated his domain, narrowing his eyes in disgust, the way a God must look at ants that have absentmindedly wandered into their chambers.  His body had finally caught up with itself, his brilliant and terrifying scales shimmered with promises of certain death and violent dismemberment; his wings effortlessly holding his massive weight as he idly flexed his four claws, deciding which ant he would like to obliterate first.

Runt found himself suddenly standing on the other side of the room with the rest of the party; huddled together within a 15’ area when Jathyn started casting.  Snapping his head back and forth, he barely got his bearing before he realized that the sorcerer was twisting the magic necessary for them to take flight.  The King of the North sneered at them with a cocked head, amused at their efforts.  Runt felt the words shift the air around him and just has Jathyn completed, Runt caught the eye of the King of the North just as he pulled his head back and unleased a volley of flames their direction.  Taking immediately to the air, Runt rolled out of the way of the fiery breath, pulling his momentum around with him while unwrapping the spiked chain from his body.  He flew with near sloppy grace at the massive beast, his spine screaming at him to run away but his will shutting it out completely.  This will be done.

Runt was lining up his positioning when Roken found footing against the wall and shoved off of it with shout, like a lightning bolt striking the heavens in reverse.  The ancient foe saw him coming and with what appeared to be barely any effort at all, he fell the stoic monk as readily as an ant with wings.  His broken body fell to the ground; his blood pooling on the floor like so much spilled ink from a storybook yet to be written and told.

He didn’t have to look at anyone else to know that they all collectively took one solid, meaningful pause and charged just the same.  They all screamed a battle cry as bodies, magic, and weapons were all hurtled towards the king for such senseless and unnecessary death.  He would pay for such an act, crown, or no crown.

A tail slammed against Runt as he got close, although his armor took the brunt of it, it rattled his teeth and he nearly dropped the spiked chain as he felt his nerves spasm a bit.  Going off a hunch, he spun himself around to gain momentum, hooking his arm as he twisted around, his stomach lurching as he hooked his spiked chain around and struck at the dragon’s glimmering hide.  He watched in shock as the spikes struck true and deep as he feel the chain gain purchase around the back side of the creature’s underbelly.  He pulled hard on it, its hide rending into pieces, his head rearing back with burning eyes that promised it would taste his heart’s blood for such a blow. 

That is when the Bardarian struck.

Her eyes flashing like a thunderstorm on an open plain, her falchion cut the very air as it carved chunks out of the front quarter of the beast, making Runt’s attack seem like an opening act.  The dracomorph roared in pain and struck wildly at her for it, another blast of magic striking it in the chest as Runt repositioned himself.  Drawing back, he aimed true yet again, aiming for the same area as he struck before, his chain disappearing around the back side of the dragon and once he felt it catch, he pulled back on it with all his might.

He knew he didn’t strike its heart, it wasn’t possible, it was too far inside its massive chest yet… He could feel the beat of the great bloodied thing, pounding against its own rib cage, panicking as it felt its shelter being torn into, it quickened itself as it could tell the great body it belonged to was dying.  Runt felt the chain pull free finally, his hands covered in rich, heady bloody as the largest dragon he ever saw drooped downwards, his head crashing to the ground, his body following like a limp rag doll.    He watched as the bloodied and heavy shook the ground a bit as it completed its all, it’s limbs twitching.  

Without thinking about it, Runt flew down to the head of the King of the North, the wheezing had returned but he seemed to have a sense of … prideful resolve about his large, reptilian face.  His eyes caught and tracked Runt and nodded a bit, as if to thank him for a proper, fair endgame; so he might die with honor and dignity.   Coughing blood out of his throat, he willfully opened his eyes to look at Runt and stated in what was left of his voice in draconic a request, in words that even Runt could understand.

“My sword.  Please.”

He could hear those who understood him panick a little but Runt flew up and fetched the sword just the same, making it a point to put it in his proper hand so that he might pass over armed.  Runt stepped back and wished told the King of the North that he was an honorable opponent and worth to die by, in his best draconic.  The King seemed both amused and pleased at his attempt at such a statement, as he fought no longer to stay in this world.  His last breath slipped out of his body like a summer breeze as the rest of his long, near immortal life finally came to a close.

Runt dropped to his knees beside the beast, resting his hand on its hide and sighed.

It felt like an entire day had gone and past in the brief moment between when the great King of the North breathed his last and Runt remembered to breathe again.

He simply felt exhausted at that point.  Whatever fire was breathing through him when the battle with the King of the North was going on had gone out inside of Runt and every ache he had been ignoring and powering through suddenly found it’s voice and started up a passionate harmonious chorus in his weary frame.  And his stomach; it found it’s own voice in the cacophony that was his nervous system and alerted him that he hadn’t eaten anything in several hours, as he knew that an empty stomach was wise just before battle, as it meant there was less to be bound in the firespring that was his form.

Someone had moved their light source in the dimly lit room and the glistening of the King’s scales reflected sharply for a moment and the looming wall of corpse in front of called to him and his tanning techniques that he still had use for.  He rubbed his eyes enough to gauge the depth of the body, where it would be best to make his starting cut to get past the rigid membrane that held the scales into place over the muscular frame of the great beast.  There was just so much, he just shook his head, he couldn’t fathom that a dragon could be so large, so massive.  He knew it would take him the better part of several hours to properly skin it but he knew his time frame was short; far shorter than his stamina so he needed to move quickly and deliberately.  Focusing what he had left for his will, he located a section near one of the older wounds the King had sustained and started to cut through the thick hide with his skinning knife.

He heard what could only be described as a dragon roar that was put through a syphon pitched up to the sky as Neela screeched and flew over at top speed into Runt’s range, her claws grasping in midair.  She bore a look of rage and concern in her reptilian features as Runt could barely make out the words in Draconic.  He caught himself nearly waving her off with the tanning knife out of reflexive and paled inwardly at the idea – Neela meant nothing offensive about her sudden approach, although she was outraged.  Runt stopped the cut he was doing, partially out of concern that sudden movement would tear the start he had carefully made and that he wanted to piece together what Neela was livid about.

It was then that the cleric of Gorhan, Gregor strode around the massive flesh mound that was the ruler’s corpse, his face pinched in anger and disapproving concern.  His arms were swung open in a wide arch, clearly gesturing that Runt’s behavior was inappropriate and not considerate; his words drove like staves into Runt as he demanded to know why Runt would be so disrespectful to such a great and powerful foe.  He looked shocked and disappointed at the smaller humanoid, who stood there in stark, rigid form, processing the behavior of what he considered to be reasonable and sensible party members.

Then it dawned on him that they were upset that he was skinning the King of the North.

Several emotional flooded him at that exact moment, so many of them he almost fell unto his back in the wake of the tide of their onslaught.  He was tired, bloodied, worn out, and far, far away from anything he remotely called home, even if he knew what that even meant at all.  Ice water felt like it was thrown on his raw nerves as he felt the color drain out of his face.  He felt ashamed that it didn’t even dawn on him that he should be considerate of such a creature, that he had grown so much more respectful, that form and function was beginning to pool around him inside, that he felt stern in his life for once.  And in the moment, it dawned on him that he had been gently leaning towards the teachings of Gorhan, that perhaps he could find justice and peace in his life in the ways of the Church, and somewhere inside of him, he started to … believe that he could trust in such a God.

And that belief was snapped in half; like a brittle castle in the wake of a storm.  The destructive force that tore through such meager beginnings was every time the Law told him that he belonged to his family and they had a right to decide his Fate, that every law abiding person who ever stood in the name of justice would surely either leave him to die in the hands of evil or turn to such a ghastly force for their own designs, as his lost friend Meph had surely done so before they left Malac’s Cross.  Runt wasn’t sure what he would come home to when they left but he knew the day they walked away, it was the last he would ever see what he considered to be his friend, one way or another.

And now this fickle man demands that he simply throw away his spoils to the dogs, that the gain from the death he helped bring together should be forsaken.  As if the Dragon Kings themselves didn’t hoard?!  DID THEY NOT BEHAVE THE SAME WAY?!  He felt feverish as he dropped the tanning knife back into his satchel and wandered away from the Cleric, refusing to meet his eyes.  He turned his back on him as the Law turned its back on Runt countless times.  He felt the world unravel away from him once more, blood once cooled pulsing in his veins again.  Embers that were quietly fading out rapidly were stoked up again in the belly of his soul and his eyes ignored everything that wasn’t ready to be stolen, broken, or destroyed.  Shapes and sounds blurred around him until he spotted what he sought.

The thrones.

He moved quickly up the stairs, he could hear the cleric chanting something behind him but it was of no concern or interest to Runt.  He would surely kill the man as he stood for denying him what he truly deserved, what he had earned in the heat of battle but he knew that the consequences would be far too risky and messy in the end.  He would save his revenge for a day that was truly worthy of it.  He reached the first throne on the high stone dias, it’s frame wrought with an embarrassment of riches and wealthy.  

Too easy.  He wanted a challenge.  He knew that the Dragon kings were far too clever to not have some sort of readily accessible pocket or storage space for when they needed to respond immediately.  He found the catch for the secret compartment that was in the base of the chair, a cleverly hidden leg plate on the right side of the chair.  Not finding any wires or smelling anything, he flicked the first lever open.

He knew the second he pressed the plate, he had depressed it the wrong way and triggered the trap.

His senses nearly blew themselves out as he threw himself off to the right, his eyes spotting the vents mounted under the seat just in time for them to spit not doubt poisonous gas right where he stood.   Having just enough forethought to let the gas dispate before checking the contents, he waved the remaining gas away and scooped out the contents of the seat; placing the potions and wand that he acquired on the ledge and continuing over to the King of the North’s throne itself.

Kicking away the rest of the crenelated granite around the throne, Runt was push himself hard to pay attention to make sure that he was more agile springing the trap on the seat, knowing full well that the last three were likely trapped as well.  Carefully sliding a section of the lower underseat where the Dragonking could have readily done while seating, he lifted the seat’s hidden compartment up.  He felt the spring’s tension give away and he was able to throw himself aside as a dagger the size of his forearm snicker-snacked through the lid and the base like a tongue between a set of lips, ready to razz him to death.  He could hear someone off in a distance calling out to him but they were immaterial now, just birds on a seashore somewhere in a different world.  All that was left was the thrill, the risk pounding through his veins, his blood ran scolding as he slinked down the stairs, moving past a dulled blur that tried to wave at him as he moved past.  In the back of his mind he knew it was likely Gregor but he had nothing left to say to him, may his rules serve as a trapfinder once Runt was done.

Popping up to the parallel dias, he searched the throne enough to recognize that it was a similar arrangement as the previous one and easily drop his crow-bar into the spring mechanism into the loaded spring plate, he grinned like a maniac as he saw a wicked, arched blade poised to cut him down as he attempted to remove the contents of the compartment.   He withdrew the sequestered contents of the casement and set them down in front of the throne that the spell casters he most certainly knew were following him.

One left.

He could almost feel drums playing in his head as he strode over to the last throne, which was undoubtedly the King of the West from the coloring of the gems embedded in the throne.  He swore that he had the trap contained by sealing the gaps of the trap without opening the lid completely, his hand almost grasping what was inside when he felt a rush of air blow past his arm and suddenly his face was covered in acid.

Immediately he threw his hands around his face, attempting to wipe it off, completely forgetting that the magic in the armor he wore protected him.  He felt its power sliding over him, the acid rolling off his face like water and as it dissipated, he found his face in his hands and his knees on the ground.  He could hear the gentle flap of wings nearby, he would have waved Neela off if he could convince his hands to leave his face.  He felt a soft hand on his shoulder, he really couldn’t tell who’s it was but it was soft and kind so he left it alone as he collected himself.  He could hear murmuring somewhere past the elder dragon’s remains, voices echoing off the great cavern walls.  He pulled the large staff like object out of the compartment, set it down on the ground and walked quietly down to the dias wall and sat down.

–

Hours passed.  He went from feeling stupid to feeling empty to falling asleep.  They shifted their watch shift around so he could rest, they must have because he woke up by feeling Thanya’s hand on his shoulder.  He idly wondered if it was her hand earlier when he was distraught but it was never confirmed.  For a woman that was strikingly beautiful, both physically and vocally, he never quite understood why she rarely spoke and half the time, she did so in a battle cry.  Having watch with Thanya was a contrast of fact as she spoke so little and Quinn and Runt would speak for hours.  In hindsight, Runt realized that the exchanges Quinn and Runt had were quite dangerous, for they were distracted enough that they might have been overtaken but … he was never concerned about that.

Thanya was something exotic and almost surreal to him.  He couldn’t quite get his mind to comprehend her conceptually; she seemed to have many of the qualities that would make the McWac tribe quite impressed but he could tell that such behavior would easily be blown off by her.  She had a primal passion to her that was subtle at times, only to rapidly explode into action, catching him as well as their opponents off guard just the same.

She smirked at him and he realized that he had been staring at her for the better part of… he didn’t know how long.  She had been idly tuning her stringed weaponized instrument while cleaning it, and he attempted to play it off like he was fascinated by the relic she cared for but they both knew it was her that he was transfixed with.  No words were being changed, just wordless feelings from across a tight circle around a tiny fire that Neela helped start.  He pulled his eyes away and let them dance across the thrones out around them.  He glanced back at her, a tool in her mouth as she seemed to have the bladed lute at an awkward angle, getting the strings in a proper place.  Her eyebrow arched up subtly, in an unspoken understanding of those who lived outside the law.  With a subtle sliding, she put the wires back into place and tweaked the twines a bit before softly strumming the strings.  The notes slid out and curled around Runt’s ears, climbing inside and making him feel… at peace.  And … confident.

He returned the raised eyebrow, to which she raised the ante with a smirk, daring him into action.  He slipped out from his little perch, and quietly slipped up the stairs to the dias, his prying blade already floating in his hand.  He looked back at Thanya, who had changed her chords a bit and softly, very so softly she sang – everyone at rest seemed to fall into a deeper rest and Runt… felt more clear headed than he had in quite some time.  He smiled without hesitation then spun around to examine the throne.  He felt like he had all the time in the world and there was no need to rush as he slid his prying blade under the first gem, getting behind it and carefully, so carefully pushing it out into his open hand.

An emerald that was size of a child’s heart rested in his hand.  It was worth several thousands.  

His eyes nearly leapt out of his head and he shared another speechless conversation with Thanya, who had nonchalantly sprawled herself against her pack, looking like a lounging amazon goddess who only had time to be relaxed and be adorned.  How her hair glistened in the darkness, her eyes seemed mischievous as Runt made himself turn around and continue the process over, and over, and over again.

By the time he was done, the throne room was devoid of riches and the party had piles of wealth.  Not soon after he wrapped up that the shift switched as Runt and Thanya shared the briefest understanding before going to their own bed rolls and he couldn’t help but wonder … what passed through her mind that night.  She didn’t need to do anything but she seemed to understand far more than he could say.

It was the kind of evening that had healed Runt in ways he never quite could understand or see at the time.  He was able to use his skills without fear, without pressure, and it was everything he ever thought he needed.        

Runt was simply spent.

It had been a grueling several weeks, enough that he was quite certain that there were parts of his face that he missed when he shaved but couldn’t quite muster the emotional wherewithal to care.   The night before left him bereft of anything more than functional energy and bones aching years before their time to do so.  The ground felt much colder than it should have several hundred feet underground and harder than the diamonds his grandmother proudly wore around her neck.

The battle with the silver dragon was one in epic futility.  The party had almost artistically prepared themselves for a battle that they were certain would bring the demise of at least one of them, if not all of them and in the end, such preparations was the first of many miscalculations that nearly cost them more than their lives.  It was like they were children throwing stones at an oncoming storm to stop it.

The great, massive dragon loomed out of the Pool of Dreams, its waters frozen and still underneath it.  It knew they were coming for it and it had waited as patiently as possible for them.  His eyes swirling voids of bickering madness and out from its mouth spewed such a calamity that even the strongest of wills fell to its cacophonous chatter.

The next few moments felt like some of the worst dreams that Runt ever had to live through.

His mind tumbled drunkenly over itself, the values of the world around him shifting and swirling in a psychotic cesspool of muck and backwater.  He felt his voice join in chorus with others, his words being gibberish and his mouth falling to answer to anything he attempting to relay to it.  Spittle and drool pooled and spackled around him as he felt his own mind do something so vulgar that he could only describe it as shitting its own bed.  Is this what happened to poor Meph, he wondered later.

He remembers vaguely swinging at Xana, his mind and heart certain with all great passion that she, she herself was behind this, that she lead them into a trap to die, mad and wild, with no one to ever find them.  The moment the spell broke and he recalled everything, his heart nearly broke at the idea that he ever rose his hand in anger at her, a sweet elf who did nothing more but protect him and capriciously devour tomes like a ravenous badger.  She told him over and over again that it wasn’t his fault, but guilt would linger some time in his heart, more so that he was helpless to stop it from happening.

The final futile moment had to be when he knew, he knew for certain that the great wyrm had regained its facilities and was coming to his senses, right when the ceiling shattered and the whole came crashing down around the majestic beast.  He howled in frustration; he nearly flew over to the boulders, weakly grasping at them to roll them away, his heart sank as he knew that one of the last great dragons was surely dead and with him, centuries of knowledge and a soul that had no interest in hurting anyone, no desire but to live and learn, proof that dragons could be the majestic creatures they were meant to be.  Dead.  Gone.

He quickly fled down the opening that was created when the Pool of Dreams, millennia of dragon ether, poured down into the mountain’s core.  He briefly wondered if they would wind up inside the dispenser that they used to distill the ether to open the portal but the party’s survival quickly overcame any unnecessary thoughts.

He felt his wobbly legs come into full contact as the flight spell that Jaithyn cast on him wore off.  He moved quickly, trudging through bit lit corridors and fishers that were created from the cracking of the mountain, adjoining rooms that had no earthy purpose to be connected.  

He had long enough to wonder what lay waiting for them in the mountain’s crypts when he was attacked by one of them.

Xana explained later that they were remnant spirits that were caught in the Ether from processed dragons that made up the Pool of Dreams.  Runt just found them to be remarkably obnoxious; an insult injury regarding how ready he was to be done, to be back home a in feather bed for one night – long enough for him to get restless the next morning for the next adventure.

After two remarkably frustrating combats, he knew that they needed to find a place to camp.  He hadn’t wanted to admit it but he was rapidly urning for sunlight, as cold as it would be where they would surface, he didn’t care.  He wanted to breathe fresh air and see the blinding, unforgiving sun again.  He kept wanting to press forward but the spell casters were understanding exhausted.

Gregor quickly found his voice among the weary and insisted that they double back and rest more.  Runt’s eyes narrowed into slits; he felt in his bones that if they kept going, they could avoid a possible cave in and be trapped; the rogue had no desire to make it this far only to be buried alive in some shrine for an extinct species.  Quickly the old tension between Runt and Gregor heated up again and he felt his blood begin to rise again.  Blowing the Law man off, Runt traveled down the passage, hoping to at least find a room that was larger, less filled with holes, and potentially more stable.

What he found was far from stable.

It was a monstrosity that looked like a nasty combination of both Xana and Meph’s expertise pressed into one rotting, decayed, flawed, yet still … animated corpse of dragon.  Metal buttressed missing sections of a cracking skeleton of a dragon, its eyes were shrunken pits of rage and filth, it’s frame literally creaked as it swiveled it’s deformed head towards Runt.  It felt like someone had thrown ice water around his ankles but yet they refused to move as it swore to him in draconic and charged his direction.  Hung around the abomination’s neck was a massive capped jar of greenish ichor, magical and holy symbols glowed with menacing, seething energy as the beast continued to shout at Runt, charging all the way.

Runt nearly threw himself to the ground as it came at him, its first attack was wild, much to Runt’s surprise.  It roared in anger, throwing its head back in a motion that Runt readily recognized as a dragon that was preparing to breathe its weaponized attack.  He caught enough of the dragon’s rant (and the rest was translated by Neala through Xana’s magical communication spell) to know that the monster in front of them was seeking the King of the West; and it dawned on Runt that he wore of his children’s scales for armor.  Quickly drawing the massive halbard like it was a standard, he did his best to state in Draconic that the King of the West was at rest and they were the ones who finally put him that way.

In hind sight, Runt realized that he had told the monster that banana umbrellas are lovely unless it rains. 

It breathed it’s toxic acid across the hallway threshold, Runt dropping the halbard as quickly as possible to dive out of the way.  He drew his spiked chain and swung wildly at it, hearing a loud clank when it hit the mottled hide of the fused experiment.  Roken sprang past him, throwing a series of small shuriken at the creature in rapid succession.  He sprang back out of the way as the dragon swung it’s claws, catching Runt clean in the chest with one of the claws.  He felt it cut through the scales, digging into his skin, the pain burned as Runt grunted against it and then the strangest thall ing happened, he couldn’t feel it anymore.

He looked down at his chest, thinking at first that it just scratched him.  He could clearly see blood pouring out of the wound and that’s when his spine shook; what if the blow dealt to him was necrotic?  In the process of withdrawing enough to pull his crossbow, he realized that he couldn’t feel anything around the area of the wound at all, that it felt like it was already dead.

He could be dying right there.

He looked up in time to notice that Xana and Jaithyn had kept specifically hitting the ichor filled vial around the dragon’s chest and he watched as chunks of the jar blew off, the sickening green substance was dripping out.  The dragon seemed almost for a second, the briefest moment, slow down.

Runt felt everyone pull back and he made up his mind, if he was going to die, it was going to be on his terms.  He fired a shot at the canister, missed, and reloaded a second one just as fast.  He could hear Gregor, Xana, and Thayna yell at him to withdraw.  No, not if he could save them from dying as well.  From the touch of the dragon’s diseased claw.  He fired another round, this time striking the jar and knocking a small section out.  Xana and Jaithyn fired their magic at it again, doing further damage, it roared in frustration and attempted to take another attack at Runt.

A final blow of magic nailed it straight in the jar’s center and whatever magic that held together finally gave out and the mechanical beast clawed at the air frantically as it squirmed and grasped the best it could at air that would never be anything other than a casual element to it now.  It collapsed entirely to the floor, Runt swung his spiked chain around his body, drawing his long sword as he went and lopped its head off for good measure.  

He felt the sickness begin to spread through his body, his worn out, tired body almost wept as he felt dark, lethal relief creep into his shell.  He hadn’t consciously recalled moving forward but he found himself halfway into the beast’s cave with Thayna suddenly standing before him, her arms held up in a defensive stance; determined to make sure Runt didn’t travel any further.

Begrudgingly, he allowed himself to be corralled back to the Law man, whom Runt was rapidly losing any respect that he had left for the man.  The cleric flashed one of his jovial smiles and at one point, Runt was immediately set at ease at the sight of the jolly man, his lit up face rolling the half-elf’s dark clouds away.  But this time it felt like a cheap imitation, a painted horizon.
Gregor laid his hands on Runt, while chanting to his God to heal Runt so that he might continue to be a warrior for the cause.  He felt his stomach churn onto itself, Gorhan’s cause.  Such frivolous folly.  Desires of a lofty, remote God who was willing to allow innocent creatures to do it’s bidding while it safety reclined, far from danger.  The larger man looked Runt over after healing him, telling him that he would need more work to be done in the morning if he wanted to live.  Runt barely could make eye contact as he nodded.

He vaguely remembers rolling out his sleeping roll before he was away from the tiresome, rough world, slipping away from it like a summer breeze.  From what he could recall later on, his dreams were devoid of meaning or purpose, nothing more than wandering the field he used to as a child out side of the McWac Barony, before the sun set and they were forced into the compound for their… protection.  But in his dreams, there was a sweet blonde girl that held his hand as they walked in the fields together and when he looked at her, she beamed softly at him, with a face that knew the ages and what was meant to come.

If only he knew.