//------------------------------// // Daddy's Warbringer // Story: The Warbringer’s Companion // by Pony Paradox //------------------------------// Were gonna die. Right here, on this messed up world of talking horses and bipedal dog men, Fizzle and Grunt will meet their end. I’m sure there’s something poetic about this, if I tried hard enough, but then again, I hate poetry. “Why are we here again?” I ask, cradling my last bomb as the Diamond dogs slowly closed in on us. “Save ponies.” was his simple answer, his iron grip tightening on the hilt of his great sword. “Yeah, I know the mission, Grunt. I mean... Why are we here? Since when did we go out of our way to save a bunch of talking pack animals?” I’m usually pretty calm with the big guy, but this was a stressful situation. I didn’t even like these freaky locals; what did I care if they were sold into slavery? Not my problem, and it shouldn’t have been Grunts, either. If they didn’t look so much like that damned doll... “Grunt, these guys are not Swiggybooze. The similarities are just a coincidence, and I don’t want to die for it!” “Save. Ponies.” I stopped complaining when I heard the determination in his voice, and I knew, suddenly, that things were gonna turn around on us. There was something he wasn’t telling me... As if on cue, there was shouting from the back of the crowd, and I could barely see diamond dogs being thrown carelessly into the air as something bounded towards us. “Is... is that..?” “Yes.” Grunt’s smile was all the confirmation I needed. “There they are, Ruska! Lets pound these puppies!” So... writing. Why not? I always enjoy taking up new hobbies, and what with all the adventures I’ve been having lately with my new friends, writing seems like the perfect choice. Besides... speaking of adventures, I’m going through a real doozy of an adventure right now! My name is Fizzle. Just... Fizzle. And I’m happy with that name, thank you very much. And what I do? Alchemy. Basically... I take some stuff, add some other stuff, give it a bit of a magical charge, and voila! Instant potion! Or explosion. Well... actually, usually it’s an explosion. But I swear, I usually plan the explosions! As for my other stuff... well, it can do all kinds of things, like make you bigger, or smaller! Or harder to hit! Or more healthy! All kinds of things, really. I also have these... other potions I can make. Sorry, but these ones only work on me. Coded to my genetics, you see. And what they do... well, they change me. Physically. For a short time, anyway. Gives me all kinds of advantages... I can become tougher, or faster, or stronger... Kind of a nice little boost for a little guy like me. Didn’t I mention? I’m a Goblin. That’s right, capital G. I really am that important, you know. So, yeah. Concoctions that change my physical attributes. I call them mutagens, and they change the way my body works. Specifically, they mutate my limbs and musculature.... and to an extent, my brain, as well. That’s the down-side. There’s always a downside, you know. No matter how good something seems, there has to be a downside. It’s like the very universe itself was designed with total fairness in mind. Silly, I know, but go adventuring for a while, and you’ll start to notice how meticulously balanced everything seems to be... Am I on a tangent? This feels like a tangent. I’ll stop now. So... them’s the basics. Fizzle, Goblin, Alchemist. Potions, explosions and mutagenics. And bawdy songs. I really love bawdy songs. There once was a lady, the lads called her Lucy, but Loosy was more then her name... So! As I was saying, epic adventure! And for someone like me, who took a direct role in the colonization of the Greenbelt, established a nation, toppled warlords, and took down the all-powerful Lich Asgaroth the Flayed (with bombs, I might add), when I say it’s an epic adventure, you better believe me. Okay... so maybe I didn’t do any of that on my own. Maybe I had some help. Maybe there was a stealthy Drow, and a plucky Cat, and a very un-offensive sorcerer, and a really big, bear-riding barbarian helping me. But I was there! I swear! I even really did throw a bomb at that Lich! And without my potions, do you think the others would have stood a chance? Nope! None! Well, maybe some. They’re pretty good, after all, as far as adventurers go. Right! Back on track! Man, writing a coherent thought is hard work! So it was a sunny day in the Comelands. Yellowed grass rustled across the endless rolling hills to a faint autumn breeze, while a flock of game birds took flight, startled by the long strides of the creature under me. Well... one of them, anyway. See, technically, I wasn’t actually riding Ruska, so much as riding upon the shoulder of the massive orc barbarian who was sitting astride the great northern Grizzly. That’s right; I’m so important that my mount has a mount. How cool is that? Please don’t let Grunt get a copy of this. I don’t think he would appreciate the joke. Or even understand it. We didn’t really have a destination in mind, Grunt and I. It had been years since we’d tamed, mapped, and even populated the Comelands, so it wasn’t as if there were any real adventures to be had here. But, since the worst we might have to deal with might be a few Trolls and the odd Tatzlwurm, it was a great place for a stroll. Call it a vacation. Well... it would be more accurate to call it ‘Grunt decided to take Ruska for a walk, and I happened to be seated on his shoulder at the time.’ You would be amazed how many adventures have started this way. I took the opportunity to sing a song I just made up about the bartender and his ugly mug, while mixing up a few volatile ingredients in case we actually did run into those aforementioned Trolls. Seriously... those things must breed like rabbits, considering how many of them we seem to run into out here. Grunt, like usual, wasn’t talking. Sometimes, I wonder if he’s stoic, or just too dense to formulate conversational topics. I suppose it doesn’t matter either way. Grunt and I... we have an understanding. A bond, if you will. Whatever you call it, it’s stronger then a simple friendship, or even mutual respect. We just... go together. I really don’t know how to explain it, but it’s like his stature is incomplete without me sitting there on his shoulder, and vice-versa. Except, you know, the opposite. Because I really hope Grunt never decides to sit on my shoulder. But as I was saying, it doesn’t matter if we never really talk to each other... that unspoken connection is still there. I don’t say this often, but I would die for the big guy. I don’t know if I can say the same for him.... but I like to think so. And there we were. Me singing, Grunt... not singing, and Ruska taking us both for a ride to an unknown destination. It was then that I did something I don’t normally do; I asked Grunt where we were going. I don’t know if you noticed, but I’m a pretty laid back kind of guy. Go with the flow, as I say; in most cases, the flow being wherever Grunt and Ruska decide to go. Sometimes things get exciting, and sometimes things don’t. Whatever the case, I would take it in stride. As a result of my adventuring apathy, I rarely ask questions. Never-the-less, here I was, suddenly compelled to know what grand venture lies before me... almost as if such exposition would somehow benefit the progress of some unspoken story. “So... where we headed, big guy?” “East.” No kidding. “Well... yeah. I mean... what’s East?” “Hills.” Okay, why was I doing this again? It’s not like I cared, really. Still... I continued asking. Asking Grunt for information was going to require a more direct line of questioning. “Alright, Grunt. You are right... there are hills to the east. What I’m asking is... what’s in those hills? What are we looking for?” “Dunno.” ARRG. Why was I doing this again? I might as well ask Ruska. Alright. One more try. “You don’t know. Well, that fair, neither do I. The question is... Why? Why are we going East, into the hills? I thought you wanted to try out that new tavern? Have a few drinks? Maybe start a fight? What spurred this unexpected venture unto the unknown wilds of the Comelands? His answer was as simple as his others, but a lot more revealing. And when I say revealing, I really mean confusing. You’ll understand in a moment (or fail to, as the word ‘confusing’ would imply). “Swiggybooze.” “Oh, right. Swiggybooze.” I suppose I should talk a bit about Swiggybooze. Basically... Swiggybooze is a toy. A little wooden pony with a white mane. He even has a cartoonish mug filled with beer carved into his flanks. The thing with Grunt is that he’s protective of it. No, really. No one but Ruska and his ‘Kitty’ get to even get close to it half of the time without the forcible removal of limbs or intestines. That, and the fact that its his security item. It also seems to talk to him. I don’t really know if that’s just Grunt, or if the thing is actually able to talk to him. Either way, it usually can be used as a way to incite Grunt into action. Or cause him to burn down a whole village. I still don’t know where it came from, since, as I said, he doesn’t talk much, but he’s had it for all the years I’ve known him. So. Swiggybooze told him to go this way? Good enough for me. I stole a glance at the tiny wooden pony as it bounced merrily along, suspended by a rope which looped around his neck. It seemed so strange to me that a big, raging, barrel-chested barbarian would so lovingly hold onto such a childish item, but I knew better then to get between Grunt and his Pony Doll. The autumn day became an autumn night, when suddenly Grunt motioned for Ruska to stop. We didn’t seem to be anywhere special: a rather plain hilltop, just as grassy as the rest. There was a small cliff on the north-north-west side, and a few moss-covered boulders poking out of the yellow sea around us. There was a small tree here, which was almost noteworthy, considering how few trees there are in the comelands, but the thing was barely more than a sapling. It’s the kind of tree you see in a cage in front of a rich person’s house. You know the type. Short, skinny, and a small bush of leaves on top. Wouldn’t even make a decent fire. With a casual swing from Grunts greatsword, the living kindling was put to use (like I suspected, the fire was rather mediocre. Trust me, I know a thing or two about fires) And soon we were seated around something pretending to be a roaring campfire (No, I will not let this go!). All and all, a dull end to a dull day, but that was no matter. Like I said, I’m a pretty laid back kind of guy, and since Grunt was kind enough to carry my Portable Alchemy kit, I had plenty to do. As a matter of fact, I had been experimenting with a new potion lately. Keep in mind, however, that when I say potion, I really mean ‘chemically-infused-stuffed-jalapeno-pepper’. What? Cooking isn’t really all that different from Alchemy, when you break it down. Why not combine the two? I had this theory about the particularly spicy acids inherent in Peppers that I wanted to test out. So, I carved out a few Peppers, stuffed in a mixture of Cottage Cheese and Sulfur, and stuck them all into a big bottle of Brine to pickle properly. Of course, the brine was also somewhat treated with a teency bit of Magnesium. For that extra kick, you know. This is either going to be delicious, or deadly. Grunt, in the meantime, took the time to prepare the fresh Venison that he and Ruska caught earlier. It was a sizable buck, but he still wanted to get as much meat off the bone as possible. After all... he was Grunt, and that means protein. And as for me? It’s a little known fact that when a Goblin only eats five times his bodyweight in any given day, he’s considered malnourished. Even though I only weigh about forty pounds... well, do the math. Yeah, we eat a lot. Part of the reason I like cooking. If it’s any consolation, most of us actually are malnourished. There we were; Grunt butchering a stag while I firmly attached the lid to my bottle of soon to be pickled potions, when our meager campfire exploded. For most people, this would mean screams of fear, or at least shocked indecision, but me and Grunt? Well, we were seasoned adventurers! (did I mention that yet?) Grunt was on his feet in a flash, great sword in hand and a deadly gleam in his eye (which I recognised as the beginning of a battle rage. Trust me... once you see Grunt go into a battle rage, you don’t forget what it looks like). Likewise, I was standing behind him, a small round bomb in one hand, ready to be ignited, and a large green marshmallow in the other. Oh yeah, baby, we were ready for anything. That’s what I thought, anyway, until I saw what was standing in the epicenter of our pathetic campfire’s less pathetic explosion. At first glance, you could be forgiven for mistaking the being before us as an orc. After all, it had all the basic features normally associated with the brutish race: Greenish-blue skin, wild and unruly hair, massive lower jaw and tusks... and yet, there was something else about him, as well. Keep in mind that Grunt is massive. Even by the standards of his race, he is particularly large muscled. So, keeping that in mind... this creature dwarfed him. Seriously, this thing was so huge, that even Grunt barely stood past its waist. It was wearing extravagant hide armour, adorned with tribal looking skull-and-bone fetishes, and over his back was casually slung the hide of what could only be a dire bear. His right eye was wrapped in bandages, and seemed to bleed constantly, as though his eye were only recently lost. In its hand was a cruel looking double double headed axe, which also seemed to be dripping blood. Suddenly, the monster’s face contorted into a snarl, and it let loose a blood-curdling roar which seemed to resonate with the very hills themselves. In it’s one good eye, I suddenly saw Endless fields of battle, strewn with the dead and dying, broken banners, ruined and burning cities... I saw clashing armies of Orcs and Men... I saw Blood and Sweat and Bone and Steel. I say the Green General himself, astride his Direwolf Longfang, and he slew the senate of the Sword Lords and finally claimed Brevoy as his own. I saw all of these things... and yet, time had not passed. Whatever this creature really was, it it’s eye was the carnage and destruction of war. The cold and bloody truth of battle. This thing wasn’t just an orc... it was as if it embodied all that the orcs stood for. All that they were. All that violence and rage, condensed right now in a single body of flesh and bone. And right now, it was charging. Now, I like to think of myself as a fairly stout fellow. Maybe not, you know, physically stout, but I have faced down Giants and Dragons, Mad Kings and Undead Monstrosities... but in the gaze of this being, I was absolutely powerless. Despite my fame, and despite my accomplishments, I was a mere insect to the likes of this creature, whom I was sure just crawled up from the furthest layers of the Abyss. Luckily, it didn’t even seem to see me. For once in my life, I was happy to be insignificant. Grunt, however, didn’t seem to be so lucky. I should point out that there was something in Grunt’s eyes, as well... something that I’d never seen before. I’ve had time since then to think about it, and I believe that what I was was resolution. Grunt knew that, despite his strength, he would be no match for this being, and yet I could see that he would not give in without a fight. With a mighty howl of his own, he met the charging monster head on with a flash of enchanted steel. The otherworldly creature struck first, twirling his orcish weapon in a blinding flurry, which reminded me of a clockwork propellor which had amused me when out group had ventured to the home of the Tinker gnomes. With a flash of sparks, Grunt met the whirling weapon with his own, though the force of the blow knocked him back several feet. I could see pain in my comrade’s eyes as his arms absorbed the shock. The being was not deterred in the slightest as he prepared a second blow, forcing Grunt to duck and roll to avoid evisceration. As soon as Grunt recovered, an axe head was already falling towards him, and would have split him in half had he not jumped backwards at that very moment. However, this time, Grunt was not fully clear of the blade, as it tore a bloody line down his abdomen. For his part, Grunt ignored the damage, finally returning with a flurry of his own. His Great sword flashed up and down, and then left to right in a grand haymaker, but the creature deflected the blows as easily as if Grunt were merely a child. However, I knew Grunt well enough to see what he was really doing... and sure as rain, with a quick grunt of “Ruska, Kill!” He gave one final, overhead attack, putting all of his strength into the blow so as to force his opponent into a defensive posture, and giving the huge bear an opportunity to attack. Ruska pounced... ...And the creature casually swatted the bear away like a pesky fly. Head over haunches, Ruska soared through the air, over the edge of the small northern cliff and away from sight, a trail of blood arching through the air in her wake. This, I knew, was where things would turn. There were two general rules to follow when fighting with Grunt: One, never make a grab for Swiggybooze. In fact, this first rule was a pretty good rule in general. The second? For the love of god, don’t hurt Ruska. Remember when I mentioned that I had a connection with the big guy? Well, this was nothing at all compared to the connection he shared with his notorious war bear. More then once, I have seen the tide of a battle turned because a foolish swordsman would manage to graze Ruska’s flank. Once, I saw Grunt lay waste to half a battalion of our own archers because one of them mistook Ruska as a wild bear, and thought to score himself a trophy kill. And yes, I know how many soldiers are in a battalion. I stand by what I said. The resulting PR work was a nightmare, let me tell you. A deep, feral growl snaked it’s way up from Grunts bowels, and his eyes turned red. With a burst of movement, he was swinging again and again at the orc like monstrosity. Also, I noticed that his approach had changed. See, normally Grunt takes a fairly straightforward approach to fighting... hit it as hard as you can, again and again until it stops moving. Usually, this tactic is actually pretty effective, but I think at this point that even his dense minds could comprehend that this tactic was futile against such a being. As a result, there was a lot more than brute strength behind each attack... there was also a sort of rage-fueled cunning behind his strikes. Once again, I could see that Grunt was doing much more then trying to land a hit. The creature continues to deflect blow after blow with relative ease, but it was on its toes. The ferocity of Grunts swings presented no room for it to make an attack of it’s own, though even I knew this wouldn’t last forever. As if on cue, one of Grunts swings went wide, leaving him open for an overhead slash... Which he barely avoided himself. However, this was his moment. His opponent was fast, but Grunts surprising feint had left it open! Howling with victory, Grunt swung his blade with all his might and all his rage... The dust settled, and I stared with shock at the scene before me. Grunts attack should have been successful... would have been successful... had the monster not simply caught the great sword in his empty hand. A trickle of blood, as if from a minor wound, trickled from the monster’s hand along the length of the blade. As I saw the last of Grunts rage leave him, battered and fatigued. This was the end. I knew it, and so did the monster. Dropping his weapon, he balled his free hand into a fist, and punched Grunt with force enough to crack ribs. Once again, this should have been the end. But then... you don’t know Grunt. There was a loud, cracking thump as the massive fist connected with Grunt’s chest with all the strength of a being that could knock a Grizzly flying through the air. Grunt was, likewise, knocked off of his feet, but as the creature held fast to his great sword, so too did Grunt. The barbarian was flung through the air in a horizontal arc, and I grimaced as I saw the skin of his shoulder stretch as it was pulled out of place, but he held on, even through the pain. The force of the blow was enough for Grunt to use his own body's momentum to swing himself up and onto his opponents massive forearm, and wrench his blade free. With one, final cry, he raised the blade above his head and swung downward, connecting solidly with the beasts face. The enchanted blade barely left a scratch on the monster’s forehead. Finally spent, the heroic barbarian tried to resume his battle stance, but his ruined arm was clearly paining him. His opponent, this Arcon of Rage, hadn’t even broken a sweat, while Grunt was broken, battered and winded. It was then that the creature finally spoke. “I see. So then, my child. You are worthy, after all.” It’s voice was calm as the wind, yet as wild as a thousand orcs charging into battle. It spoke without cynicism, but held infinite malice. It was a Father, proud of his Son, maybe for the first time in the son’s lifetime. And what Grunt said next surprised me. “Thank you... Daddy Gruumsh.” As soon as he uttered that name, it all made a certain sense. Gruumsh, Patron of the Orcs. We were in the presence of a God, and this battle was a test. And although Grunt had clearly lost the fight, he had shown a ferocity and determination, even in the face of divinity. He had landed a blow against the father of War and Destruction, and had shed its divine blood. In short... he had impressed him. I, of course, was still cowering in a tight ball as far from the fighting as I could get. Long moments passed, as the two powerful fighters simply regarded each other; one with respect, and the other with awe. I have to admit, even I was pretty impressed with how things had gone, even if I was trying to dig a hole into the side of the hill with a bit of stone. Not saying I was, by the way. But I mean, come on. This was indeed Gruumsh, of that I had no doubt. Father of all of orc kind, Avatar of War and Bloodshed, God of both Evil and Chaos, and all around not a nice guy. So, you know. Give me a break, would ya? Grunt, however, had nothing but reverence in his eyes... well, almost nothing. I could also see... worry? That’s not good. If Gruumsh was to detect some kind of weakness... “Ruska...” Oh. Right. The deity was silent for a few moments as it read Grunts face. “Your pet is alive, if barely. Commanding it to attack me was foolish, but gave me a unique opportunity to truly test the limits of your rage. You were not found wanting.” Grunt simply nodded... even he could see that sparing Ruska’s life was an unusual act of kindness on the God’s part. “I also know that, had you been properly prepared, upon the back of the mount, the battle would have gone... differently. I spared her not out of pity. I spared her because she makes you stronger. She is your weapon, as much as your blade. Remember that.” As inspiring as this all was, I still had one question (that I wouldn’t voice for all the treasure in Brevoy). Why? Why had Gruumsh come here, now? Why challenge Grunt? How could a little battle and pep talk like this possibly serve the purposes of a god like Him? And then, he answered my unspoken question. “Rise, Grunt, for I am in need of a champion. A powerful warrior and a paragon to represent all of orc-kind in a distant world. I have chosen you, and tested you, Grunt, because you have excelled where others of your kind have failed. Even the so called ‘Green General’ was found wanting, in the end. He accomplished much, but could not land that deciding blow.” The connotations of this sentence were staggering... the Green General was a powerful orc warlord, renowned through the kingdoms of the north for raising an army from the scum of the mountain tribes and conquering the mighty Sword Lords of Brevoy. He was reviled all across the land as the favoured of Gruumsh, but if he was tested, and had failed... I really doubted Gruumsh gave second chances. Wow... the next few years are going to be exciting, if the Green General is dead. Not that I would get to see them, of course. Hehe... this is foreshadowing! Maybe I really can do this writing stuff! So... back to the present issue... what did Gruumsh mean by “in a distant world”? Was he sending Grunt away? He wouldn’t do that... would he? “You will, by my magic, be sent to a distant world, where you will represent me in the presence of all the gods of the cosmos.” “Where?” Ah, Grunt. Don’t ever change. “Some weak world called Equestria. The creatures of this land have only a child’s notion of war. You will show them what true savagery means. You will burn their cities, and slaughter their armies. You will face the others, and you will emerge victorious. You will teach the Equestrians to Fear the word Orc.” Did he say “others?” “Yes.” Was Grunts simple yet meaningful reply. “Ruska?” he continued, a hint of hope in his voice. “Ruska will be the beast which harolds your name, the mighty mount which carries you to glory!” “Okay.” He sounded... contented. So. This was it then. Grunt was leaving for another world, to lay waste to its cities and peoples at the behest of his God. And, I supposed, I would be stuck here. “What about me?” It was merely a squeak... a murmur... but have you ever tried to hide your voice from a god? Just for the record... you can’t. “Ah. And so, the weakling you call companion finds its voice.” Eep. “And what should I do with you, then, insect?” “What... me? Oh... I wouldn’t bother with little old me! I promise... I’m not even worth your time!” “Little man comes.” What? “What?” “What?” “He comes, or I not go.” There was a moment of silence, in which I didn’t know weather to be happy or terrified. Did he just... backtalk Gruumsh? “Do you dare to backtalk your God?” “Yes. Little man comes. He is weapon, like Ruska.” “And yet, you did not use him as such when we fought.” “Didn’t need to.” Oh snap. You know, for all his density and blunder, I sometimes wonder if there’s really a deep intellect in that tiny orc brain of his. “Very well. The insect shall accompany you. Perhaps the peasants of Equestria will learn to associate his terrified squeals with their own approaching doom.” I may have left out the part where I was squealing like a frightened baby throughout the fight. I mean, come on, though. Wouldn’t you? “He comes.” This was not a demand, so much as a contented confirmation, and was punctuated with a smile. Can’t say I blame him... If I had won an argument with a god, I would smile, too. Assuming I wasn’t dead. “There is one final thing.” There always is, isn’t there? “Your weapon. It is unbefitting of a warrior of your caliber.” Are you kidding? Does he even realize what we had to go through to get that stinking sword? It was forged in the fires of hell, and cooled in the River Styx. Over four thousand years ago, its wielder was swallowed by a freaking Torrasque, and we had to follow that beasty around for months, digging around in its mountainous waste piles just to get it. And trust me... that is not as pleasant as it sounds. Grunt christened it “Smelly chopper.” Red still hasn’t forgiven him for that one. Gruumsh took hold of the ancient, indestructible blade, and it instantly melted into slag. I can’t even tell you how much that hurt me. However, he then took that slag, and reshaped it. Once again, it held the shape of a great sword, though it definitely had a more ‘orcish’ look to it. It’s blade was somehow... fuller, than before, it’s edges serrated, and it’s surface dark, as though covered in soot... or ash. It did have a faint sheen, though if you looked at it from the right angle, You could barely make out a scene of wartime desolation... Broken bodies... Mourning widows... that scene meant only death... Suddenly, I snapped out of... whatever trance I was in, though the cold certainty of doom had not yet left me. Huh... nifty trick. Finally, to complete the weapon, Gruumsh removed one of the bone fetishes from his armour, and reshaped it as a rudimentary hilt. The pummel of the hilt was reshaped into what appeared to be a sightless eye... the lost Eye of Gruumsh. Indeed, if the historians of the future were to ever study this blade, there would be no question as to who forged it. “A virgin blade, made from my own power. This will be my blessing to you, mortal. It’s name has yet to be decided.” Oh no. oh, please tell me he isn’t letting Grunt name it! “Daddy’s Warbringer.” Ye gods, that was... hmm. Actually... that’s not bad. Bit silly perhaps, but we can just call it Warbringer, for short. Yeah, come to think of it, it’s actually pretty fitting! and here I thought he would call it ‘Mr. Squishy’ or something to that effect. “Yes, I feel that this is a fitting name for this weapon. Very well, then. Are you ready to depart?” “Heal Ruska first. Then, we go.” “Hrmmph. You are very demanding of your God.” “Daddy Gruumsh is god, but Ruska is weapon, like sword. You make sword better. Now make Ruska better.” “Very well, then.” There was a brief flash of light, and suddenly we were standing at the bottom of the hill, near the battered and unconscious form of Grunts closest friend. “Ruska!” For the first time since the battle started, Grunt dropped his guard, falling to his knees and tending to his fallen companion. Ruska was in a bad way, and I wasn’t surprised. After all... she was a heavy girl, and she fell with a lot of momentum. Her muzzle was clearly broken when Gruumsh has slapped her, and one of her hind paws was badly broken. There were also clearly internal wounds as well, judging by the state of her breath, which came in short, rattling breaths. I has seriously never seen the mighty bear in such a bad way before, and it actually kind of hurt to see her like this. After all, even though she wasn’t my bear, she and I have had our moments together... like that time the two of us hid in a wagon full of skins, for example. Overnight. The first time I met her. I’d felt like a plushy. Good times. I could see that if she didn’t receive some kind of attention, she would definitely die, and even powerful magic would leave her crippled, most likely. Granted, ‘powerful magic’ and ‘divine intervention’ aren’t exactly on the same level, are they? “It okay, Ruska. Daddy Gruumsh fix you, make you better.” Grunt held her head lovingly, even as the God of Orc’s began to pour his essence into her, slowly but expertly healing her wounds. I couldn’t help but wonder if this was the first time the God had ever used his powers this way, healing a living creature directly. It probably was, and judging by his expression, he didn’t particularly enjoy doing it. After all, his domains were war and destruction, not healing. Still, he continued his work. This ‘champion’ thing must have been pretty damn important to him. Finally, he was finished, and the first thing I notice, and she stood and nuzzled her master, was that she was bigger. I had to squint, to make sure I wasn’t seeing things, but no, she was definitely bigger. There was something else about her, as well... a sort of gracefulness? Not that she could really be called graceful, mind, but her movements seemed more fluid than usual. Then, there were her eyes. Where once, they had been a fairly standard brown, now they were distinctly red in hue. Not quite Albino, but noticeable. “You claim this beast as a weapon. Very well then. A weapon should be an extension of a warriors will, and a conduit of a warriors rage. She is now both. She retains her own will, but she is now linked to you. She will understand your commands without them having to be given. She shares in your strength, and has gained a modicum of your intellect as well.” (I had to try very, VERY hard not to snicker at this. Don’t... Snicker... At... The God... Of carnage...) “Furthermore, she now shares your rage, as well. Her pain will be your pain, and your pain, hers.” Waitwaitwait. I’m starting to put two and two together here, and I don’t know if I like what I’m coming up with. He did all this because Grunt identified Ruska as a weapon, right? But... didn’t he also identify me as a weapon as well? “And as for the Goblin Worm.” Oh gods... here goes! I squinted my face, as though doing so would somehow spare me the worst of Gruumsh’s... whatever he does. “... he is below my notice. Consider his life my gift.” Wait... what? That’s it? But... but... I’m important too, damn it! I once tricked the Royal Archmage of the Golden University to trap himself inside a pocket dimension! I raised an army of Goblins and took back the Vally of Blood from the Frost Giant Hamjir the Frozen King! I was at least as useful as Grunt in all of our adventures! Not that I would voice any of that, mind you. Still a coward, and he’s still a God of Murder. Still... a tiny bit of recognition would have been nice. Like a cool magic robe or something? Maybe a new hat? I could really use a new hat. My hat has never been the same since that incident with the Dryad. Right! Stuff happening! I can talk about my hat later! “Now, you are ready.” Wait... what? As in... right now? “Errmm... no offence, but were not exactly packed for-” And then next thing that happened would be best described as “Fwoosh.” Now, I know what you must be thinking. What happened with all that exposition on Swiggybooze?