Thors woke up with a throbbing headache at his temple, and it took him a good ten seconds to notice that he had blacked out for a moment. His mind was too much of a mess, roiling over everything he had suddenly learned.

But then he saw the creature, and in a flash, Thors was back in the moment. Time was still frozen around him, and the other dwarves were still in the same places they had been in before. Kjarr was steadying his feet after the quake, and Sten was at the window, concerned gaze fixed on the mine. But Thors had been moved. He was now seated at the feast table’s seat of honour.

And the creature was sitting just opposite him, waiting. Watching. Long stretches of milky-white skin full of stretch marks, pulled into an ill-fitting suit that bulged and overlapped, forming hideous pockets all over. A blank face framed by a naked chin and a forehead far too smooth.

With a curse, Thors jumped up from his seat and backed up to the wall behind him, hand reaching for the rose-crest ring that was still on his finger. To his surprise, it came off without a fight. He could still feel, no, remember how his father had felt as the ring stabbed in and drained him dry of blood.

He threw the ring as far away as he could, over the creature’s head to the back of the lodge, took another step back, then—

Thors felt a weight return to his right index finger.

The dwarf stopped and looked down at his right hand. The ring had returned to his finger, right the moment he had taken his eyes off it. Finally, Thors stopped acting on instinct and recalled an old adventuring wisdom. If a ring’s power takes hold over your whole body, it’s already too late.

A sinking feeling in his chest, the dwarf finally reined in his fight-or-flight instincts and began to think. He wasn’t in urgent danger right now. The creature hadn’t reacted to his movements at all—it was still seated by the table, just watching him.

This wasn’t a fight, not that Thors could have fought the creature. Power enough to stop time was far beyond him. But if not a fight, what was it? The dwarf’s thoughts raced. It’s just sitting there—amused? Malicious, yes, but not aggressive. It put the ring on, and before that it—

A surge of anger hit the dwarf as he remembered what had happened to his father. “What is your purpose, thing?” He spat, voice tight. “Come to gloat over a murder?”

It laughed. A rich, baritone laughter that rang throughout the hall. Then, finally, it spoke. “Oh, what choice words! Murder! Murder he says!” An eyeless gaze focused on him, and a grin revealed rotten teeth. “Don’t you remember? Tell me, who exactly was it doing the murder? I think you know quite well.”

Thors grit his teeth, and his voice came out as a hiss. “A murder that you, and this cursed ring manipulated him to. Through whispered lies and deception. A foul plot, and I’m to be next? No—I refuse.”

The creature sat back a moment, silent, regarding Thors with a gaze that pierced right through him. “Do you really believe that? You’ve felt his hunger yourself—you’ve felt what he wanted, and what he was willing to sacrifice for it. We have uttered no lies. A pact was made, and a pact will be fulfilled.”

Thors’ mind throbbed. He tried to reject the discordant memories that came to him, of his father in increasingly terrible bouts of madness. But he could feel it in his soul. Yes, the ring had stoked the flames, but that madness had always been inside his father, waiting for the perfect spark. But Thors also clung to those messy memories, trying to piece together the answer, some reason to reject the truth. Desperately, he clung to the creature’s words.

“No lies?” He said, sneering. “The ring whispered of immortality and glory. But it led father to death, reduced him to shreds of memory. Is that your immortality? Is that your glory?” Thors glared at the creature. “I spit on it.”

The creature scratched its naked chin. “Oh, no promises were broken, he just mistook the… wording. Yes, Merrick is gone, but his was a necessary sacrifice. The next times will be… more. Immortality will come to your line, in a way. And glory too. You spit on it?” It gestured at the table. “Go ahead.”

Thors finally noticed the scrolls. Gleaming white scrolls, placed on the table as if some grand mercantile negotiation was taking place. Fine paper, with black text inked with an elegant hand. One was placed right by his seat, and the other four were further back, waiting in front of the creature.

Thors just stared, dumbstruck.

Scrolls. Of all things, scrolls. It was quite frankly, the last thing the dwarf had expected. “What?”

The creature finally stopped lounging on its chair, and took a more professional pose, back straight like some waiting dignitary. As if it had been waiting for a council meeting to start. “I’m glad you asked—this is our business today. The scrolls explain most things—I just deliver them. And the ring.”

A wary eye on the creature, Thors took a step forward, snatched the first scroll from the table, then stepped back. He began reading, first with one eye, then both as he realized what the scroll was.

This is what was written on the scroll:

Quest completed!

Activate the ______ ring, and become the first ringbearer.

Reward: Personal Skill—Blooming Blood

As soon as Thors finished reading it, the scroll rippled and was enveloped by flames. Thors yelped and let go, then watched as it was reduced to ashes in barely a second. The ashes flashed with a reddish glow, then vanished, the glow sucked into his ring. He felt something slot into his mind. A power, waiting to be tapped into.

Blooming Blood (0/100)

Oh, Thors knew very well what this was. A quest, and a boon. A thing of gods.

Whenever a deity needed something done on the material plane, they would grant some lucky mortal a quest. If that person completed the quest, they would gain an appropriate boon. Supernatural power beyond mere magic, called forth with just a thought. Throughout all his travels, Thors had personally met only two people who had received such powers. Both had been legendary adventurers. Rake the Skysplitter, and Merrils of the Divine Eye.

Thors’ hand shook. No dwarf had received a quest in eons, for dwarves no longer had Gods. But this quest came not from a god, but from a dubious scroll and a demonic envoy. But it had given him something—he could feel that presence in his mind. Blooming Blood. What did it do? A newfound hunger filled him.

Thors took a deep breath, trying to remember the danger, then looked back to the table. Four more scroll were waiting—the creature had pushed two of them forward. The dwarf had a feeling he knew what they were. More quests. A cold sweat ran down his brow as the implication sunk in.

Very very few people received even one quest from a god, and fewer still managed to complete it. Two quests and two boons? There was one such case in living memory. Three or more? The stuff of legends. Gods did not want mortals to overreach their positions.

Thors couldn’t hold back. For a moment, he forgot his anger and the demon that was watching him, and just rushed at the table, eyes hungering.

Quest:

Reach the first floor of the Fallen Kingdom of ______.

Reward: Personal Skill

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Quest:

Establish your demesne and raise its population to 100 permanent residents.

Reward: Realm Skill

Thors fell back, panting. He couldn’t take his eyes off the scrolls. They were more quests—more quests! But they seemed easy, far too easy. The ones Gods gave demanded a dragon hunt, or the eradication of a kingdom. In comparison, these seemed like child’s play. He took a deep breath, trying to calm down, and thought.

If the quest is easier, the reward is probably also lesser. No swords that split the heavens, no all-seeing eye, no wings of dragonflame. But even if that’s the case and the boons are weaker—

His eyes went to the other two contracts, waiting in front of the creature. Just how many of these quests are there?

The creature smiled. “Finally interested?”

Thors licked his lips and took a step back. He hadn’t forgotten what this was about. In a deal with demons, every branch offered hid thorns. A trap was closing in on him, and Thors felt it was far too late to escape. Was this why his father had done what he had? “What’s your game? Shower me with promises of power, hoping I forget your nature?”

“I have no particular stake in this, rather, I’ve just been contracted to handle the deliveries.” The creature said, as if it was a mere observer watching an amusing play. “As to the ring… I imagine it wishes only to return to its rightful place. Back to that forgotten throne in the depths.” It sighed in a clearly fake manner, then pushed forward the remaining two scrolls. “Would you now please get on with it? These last two require a choice—you may keep only one.”

Thors didn’t believe the creature’s words one bit, but still took the scrolls in hand, and began reading.

Personal Quest:

Ensure your realm is respected in neighbouring lands.

Reward: Realm Skill

The quest was different from the others, in that it was frustratingly vague about its completion requirements. What exactly did “respected” mean? How respected? And it was titled a personal quest, rather than just a quest like the others. But then Thors read the other one, and his face paled.

Personal Quest:

Die a glorious death in battle.

Reward: Personal Skill

Death. A quest that required his death to complete it. It sent cold shivers down Thors’ spine, and his eyes once more went to the creature, waiting there, smiling at him. Right. He had almost forgotten it for a moment. These quests were just one aspect of the ring, a bait to drag him in. But first, there was—

Inheritance. The first quest had called him the first ringbearer. Death and then inherited memories. And if the creature spoke true, the next inheritance would be more than just memories. But what did that mean?

“Wh—what is the meaning of this?” Thors demanded, trying and failing to draw back a façade of calm.

“A choice,” the creature replied. It gestured at the other scrolls. “The first two quests will always be replaced upon completion and have a set reward. However, the last of the three will always be personal, lifetime. When the ring passes, only then will they be judged, and fitting rewards given.”

The creature finally stood up, towering over Thors, and began gathering the other scroll away. “Now, have you chosen? Choose carefully. Don’t delay. If you try, I will choose for you.”

Thors backed away against the wall, shaken. He had forgotten how tall the creature was. He tried to think of something, any missing link in the puzzle. “You… you said they would be replaced. How many quests are there? Are they endless?”

It paused for a moment, scrolls in hand, and regarded Thors. “Perhaps… yes, there’s no harm in showing.” Its smile gleamed wickedly. “Do you want to see it? The destination of your fate?”

Slowly, torturously dragging out the moment, the creature reached into a fold in its skin, and began pulling out more scrolls. Not fully out, just enough to reveal the text at their top. “Truthfully, there are only three true quests. The others are just fragments, pieces of the whole. Read carefully, read and remember. Ringbearer—read your destiny.”

The text on the scrolls was in glittering gold lettering, far from the plain black of the others. The paper they were written on gleamed with magic. The three scrolls bore three quests. Three quests so grand, no one dwarf could possibly complete them in one lifetime.

Conquer the fallen kingdom of ______.

Reclaim the lost artefacts of ______.

Become high king of the dwarves.

Thors stared, just stared, trying to drink in the words. The scale of it. High king of the dwarves. And the other quests were supposed to be equivalent? Just how big was the dungeon he was to conquer? And if the ring was only the first of the artefacts, how powerful were the others?

He couldn’t help imagining the power. The glory. He had been an adventurer, he had lived for that glory. Dungeons? Artefacts?

…King?

The creature was enjoying this. It saw the hunger in Thors’ eyes, then finally pushed the scrolls back, far out of reach. “Now you understand, don’t you? So—time is running. Choose, ringbearer. Choose your quest.”

Thors snapped out of it, and looked between the two scrolls in his hands. One was a quest of diplomacy and respect, and the other was a quest for a glorious death. He knew which one he lived closer to. He knew which was likelier to be his fate. But he couldn’t choose it.

Rationally, his explanation was that he would rather go for a domain skill than a personal one if he was to become a ruler. But truthfully, he just couldn’t take a quest that demanded his death. Looking the demon in the face, he handed over the quest for ensuring his realm’s respect, and let go of the other.

“I choose this one.”

The discarded scroll floated in the air for a brief second, then burst into blue flames. It left no ashes, burning away perfectly, in an eerie, haunting light.

The creature extended an unnaturally long arm and accepted the remaining scroll from Thors, smiling. Then the creature stretched, hands reaching up to the ceiling and coils of skin unveiling in its legs before it started to turn and walk away towards the door. It had three scrolls in its hands. Three quests for Thors to fulfil.

Before it stepped outside, the creature turned back, eyeless gaze focusing one last time on Thors. “Do you know, ringbearer, what the true nature of man is?”

Thors did not answer. He stood silent, suddenly exchausted.

The creature pointed at him. “Some say that within all men, there resides a strength and a weakness. They are what define one’s life. A burning power that pushes forward, towards glory, and a glaring weakness that brings about their final ruin. A start and a finish. For your father, it was ruthlessness, and arrogance. I wonder…”

It turned around. “What will be the flaw that spells your end? I look forward to finding out. We shall meet next when you complete a quest. Or at the end.”

With a final, haunting laughter, it began to walk out. The fire in the firepit slowly began flickering, and motion around Thors began to return. As the scene gradually returned to life, Thors paced in the middle of it all, thinking. Staring at the Rosecrest ring, and trying to piece together his new memories, along with everything he had learned.

In the time it took for time to fully resume, Thors learned two things.

First, the memories he had received from his father were incomplete. Initially he had thought it was just disorientation from trying to process them all at once, but the more they settled in, the more sure he was. There were gaps in them—consistent, annoying gaps.

There were no memories of how his father had found the ring. There were no memories of his father forming any demonic contracts. In fact, there were barely any memories relating to diabolism at all—as if it had all been cut away with a surgeon’s knife.

The second realization shook him more. It went to his core, far further than anything the demon had said.

Thors realized that he couldn’t remember his mother.

In fact, he hadn’t remembered his mother for a long time.

It came about from the edges of memory, memories that felt fuzzy and wrong. A combination of his father’s point of view, and his. The more he examined them, the surer he became. When he had first left home to become an adventurer, he had had a mother—he was sure of it.

Then sometime after that, she had completely vanished from his memories, as if she had never existed. And Thors hadn’t noticed at all. Never questioned it. His father’s memories contained nothing about her either, except vague hints at the very edges. Father, what did you do? Was that part of the price you paid?

The ring was tempting him with boons, powerful boons, but it was still fundamentally a curse—a curse that would follow his whole bloodline for years to come. It didn’t matter how much power it offered him. The adventurer’s guild had a simple guideline for such situations.

If you couldn’t take an enchanted item off, it was always a curse.

Thors had noticed how many of the quests were missing words. The ring and that creature were hiding things, trying to keep some information away from him.

And that meant the information could be used against them.

An idea started to form in his mind. A plan so arrogant only a dwarf could think of it.

By now, the room had returned to life, with people getting back their bearings after the sudden quake. A few concerned friends were even approaching Thors, questions in their eyes. But Thors didn’t heed them yet.

He walked to the door, and looked toward the mine, into the direction the creature had gone. Smoky, brimstone footsteps were visible in the ground, slowly fading away. The creature had come up from the deeps—and walked back down. Whatever the answers were, they awaited him down there. He could run from this, away from the dungeon inviting him in, but then the ring would only pass to someone else in time. Someone weaker than him

A new presence was in his mind. Blooming Blood [0/100]. The ring wanted to give him power? Fine—he would take it. But he was a dwarf. What he took, he didn’t like giving away. He would take all the power the ring wanted to give him, and then when it tried to take it back, he would be ready.

Thors turned around, then slammed his fist against the doorframe. “Dwarves!”

All of the dwarves in the hall turned to him, and Thors took some time to regard his forces. Twenty in the room alone, and ten more elsewhere. Mostly the young and inexperienced. The remnants of a mining expedition, not an army.

He would need to forge them into a tool to conquer a dungeon, and found a nation. He would need to gather allies and research dark powers. But he didn’t feel any hesitation.

Thors’ voice was steady, a newfound strength already emerging. “Emergency meeting. Tragedy has struck. Gather everyone—go!”

Thors was deep in the trap, but he would do what dwarves always did—dig deeper.