Galamon blinked his eyes open. The whole of him felt heavy, but it was considerably better than the numbing pain that had come after his battle with the demon of ice. That had been one of the fiercest opponents he’d ever faced, beaten only by the Shadowlander in Dirracha. But for foes that he’d fought personally, and killed personally, it took the prize by a large degree.
He felt a slight grip on his hand, and remembered that the last time he’d awakened, his wife had been by his side. He saw her there even still, and felt a sense of peace that he had seldom felt in Berendar during all his years of wandering as a mercenary. But he also saw two others sitting quietly. They wore familiar dusters and a breastplate bearing an indented symbol he’d come to know quite well—the sun-and-snake, Argrave’s personal heraldry.
“I believe he’s awake, king,” Muriem said, grabbing Argrave’s attention.
King Argrave rose from his chair quickly and looked down at him, Queen Anneliese waiting patiently with arms behind her back. The king said, “Galamon. You had me worried there.” He planted his hand on his wrist, then said vigorously, “Getting injured after big battles was my thing. I never wanted you to take up that role. You’re feeling better, I hope?”
Galamon focused, briefly questioning if he was hallucinating. Finally, he said only, “Yes.”
“Anything about these wounds I should know? Is this concerning?” Argrave continued, looking over him.
“No,” Galamon answered. “It’s passed.”
Argrave let out a sigh of relief. “That’s good.” He sat back down in a chair he’d pulled up. “Provided you’re up to snuff… let’s talk about why there’s a big hole in the city wall, and why this out-of-place fellow is here.”
Galamon looked to his dwarven companion, Anestis. The man gave him very pleading eyes.
“I’m not sure myself.” Galamon rested his head back on his pillow.
#####
For the early game of Heroes of Berendar, warriors and rogues had quite the rough go of things. Sure, spellcasters started off very bad—F and D-rank spells could kill people, but generally a warrior or rogue could walk up and cut someone down far faster than a spellcaster might zap someone to death. Magic was a limited resource, too, by and large. Argrave had recklessly met Erlebnis to mitigate that fact, then pranced about avoiding battles when he couldn’t use the ancient god’s blessing.
But by C and B-rank, it was abundantly clear spellcasters had the true damage-dealing ability. The gap could be bridged with enchantments, and the physical classes were generally hardier than mages, but in terms of raw power magic users outclassed warriors and rogues by a good magnitude.
But that couldn’t remain the case forever. Heroes of Berendar was, after all, a game—one class shouldn’t outperform another by an extremely obvious margin for the entire duration. The developers had to create some illusion of balance, even if it might not be totally so. And so by the midgame, options opened up for the mundane classes. Better equipment, godly blessings…
They had seen one such example of a mid to late game warrior—Orion. His strength was unparalleled, and using nothing but his body, he could conjure waves of flames, sparking trails, and walls of ice. This power of his came from blessings. They were a part of his being, however, unable to be taken away by those who granted them. But these were blessings.
A mid-game feature of spellcasters was shamanic magic, which employed spirits to achieve devastating effects. If spirits were only available to spellcasters… players would surely complain.
Argrave and Anneliese sat before Galamon’s bed. The snow elf had sat up, leaning against the back of his bed as he ate a huge bowl of stew. Muriem was returning home to fetch their son that he might speak to his father now that he’d woken up. Argrave was curious about their relationship, but other matters were at hand.
“You described spirits as a sort of currency to me, once.” Anneliese said to Argrave delicately. “Is this what you meant?”
“Not a bit.” Argrave stared at the dwarf on the opposite side of the bed. “As a matter of fact… what happened was wasteful, dangerous, and despicable.”
Anestis was a dwarf. Not someone with dwarfism like Artur, but a racial dwarf born deep, deep within the depths of the earth. Their people persisted even below the Ebon Cult, exposed to extreme pressures and high temperatures at all times of the year. Down there, the Dwarven Senate colonized the underground bit by bit. They sought to avoid the cycle of judgment entirely, leaving the rest of the surface-dwellers to deal with it alone.
If Argrave were to describe their people physically, they dressed like the Greeks of antiquity, and ranged from all skin tones just as humans did. Anestis, though, had rather tan skin that contrasted harshly with the pale Veidimen. The dwarves were extremely isolationist and took many cues from ancient empires like Rome and Imperial China—namely, like those ancient empires, the Dwarven Senate posited that dwarven culture was firmly superior in all respects.Content is property of .
To their credit, the dwarves did lead enviable lives compared to the average human in Vasquer. With a true democracy, quality of living relatively equal across most classes, and safety from war, Argrave might’ve enjoyed waking up there. After so long being seven feet tall, perhaps the other end of the height spectrum might enlighten him somewhat. Even still, as he watched Anestis… perhaps not.
“I saved this entire village, empowering this man as I did,” Anestis defended himself, the disdain on his voice bleeding through. “How was it wasteful?”
Argrave crossed his arms. “Do you still have the device you used to ‘awaken’ Galamon?”
Anestis narrowed his eyes distrustfully. “Why?”
“I’m going to answer for you: no,” Argrave continued. “The device was round, and was made of an orangish dwarven metal, wasn’t it? It had four prongs in particular locations, each of which could be manipulated in specific ways for specific results. And it’s still trapped in the ground, right where you found it.” When Argrave finished, Anestis’ eyes widening showed he was in the money.
Argrave continued, “What you used was a dwarven device that collects spirits. The way that you used it, the spirits were processed and projected into Galamon’s body, where their essence was expended to give him a temporary boost of strength. Mortal bodies weren’t made for divinity, and so it burned through his flesh while granting him tremendous strength.” He turned his head to Galamon. “The only reason he’s alive, probably, is because of his regeneration.”
Galamon held his spoon an inch from his mouth, then lowered it back to his bowl. “I knew the risks.”
At that, Argrave could only sigh and sink back further into his chair. “Yes, well… the milk is spilled, I suppose. I only wish it hadn’t been necessary.”
Argrave didn’t want to come right out and say that it was a waste, but spirits were a commodity. The fact was that the physical classes still got the short end of the stick, somewhat. Using spirits to empower oneself was infinitely less useful than using shamanic magic. On the optimal side of things, one could offer spirits to gods, earning their favor and perhaps a blessing. Most blessings were geared towards the physical classes, anyhow.
Argrave focused on Anestis. He did not know this dwarf. Unlike Veiden, the dwarven realms could be reached in Heroes of Berendar—consequently, he had substantially more knowledge about their cities than he did Veiden.
“Did you come searching for the ways to make dwarven metals once more?” Argrave asked flatly. “I know a lot of your people do just that.”
Anestis clasped his big hands together nervously. By his mannerisms alone, Argrave didn’t deem the dwarf some great person. Then again, judging people like this had failed him in the past. Titus came to mind.
“I would say he did come for precisely that,” Anneliese answered for Anestis.
“Don’t press him too hard. There had been attacks,” Galamon said, putting his bowl aside finally. “People thought it was the Ebon tribe returned. Lot of bodies, and more investigations… but no results. Eventually, I found a lead. It was fading fast, so I took a risk, went into the undergrounds. Went into a dwarven city. Found this man… and the ice abomination shortly after.” He focused on Argrave, his vitality largely returned. “You can guess the rest. The battle spilled out of the dwarven city, came to the surface. Wasn’t intentional.”
“That was no dwarven city,” Anestis protested. “It was the works of our ancestors, thousands of years ago. Our building techniques have evolved immeasurably since then.”
“Yet your people can’t make weapons like you used to,” Argrave said sharply, shutting the dwarf up. He looked back to Galamon and asked in exasperation, “You really went looking for the Ebon Cult?” He stared an unflinching Galamon down, then sighed deeply while rubbing his forehead. “Good lord… I’m glad to see you well, old friend. I’ll leave it at that.”
Galamon grunted in response.
“But what about me?” Anestis cut in. “I can’t stay here. I’ve done my part, used my people’s knowledge against my better judgment… but I have a home, a family.”
“What is your home like?” Anneliese asked curiously.
“My home?” Anestis repeated. “Well…” he began, his tone taking on pride.
Anestis, a classic example of a dwarven citizen, was more than willing to rattle on and on about the dwarves and their culture—how they were better than the Veidimen, how they were more efficient, how their empire had lasted one thousand years without a single civil war, et cetera. Anneliese was more than willing to ask question after question, quietly indulging his nationalism for the sake of her curiosity.
In time, Muriem returned. Argrave thought to see Galamon’s son, but the small snow elf was alone and said, “Rhomaden is coming, honey. He said he was going to bring Baile with him.”
Argrave narrowed his eyes, questioning if the little fellow had a girlfriend at this age. Galamon leaned forward and said, “Baile? Really? My boy… he can’t bring it inside, so…” He threw off his blanket at once, though fortunately he wore cloth pants beneath.
Argrave stared with surprise at the excitement the once-wounded man suddenly displayed. “Who’s Baile?”
Galamon grabbed his boots and said, “Family bear.”
“Fa…” Argrave trailed off. “Family bear?”
Galamon nodded, slipping his boots on. He walked for the door slowly at first, then increased his pace bit by bit until he was gone. Argrave rose to his feet, eager to follow him. Muriem flashed them a smile, silently leading them onwards. Anestis was left sitting on his chair, bewildered.
Anneliese came to Argrave’s side, pulling him to a slower walk. “I have never seen Galamon happier,” she told Argrave quietly.
Argrave looked at her strangely. “What are you saying?”
“Nothing. It just makes me feel nice.” She let out a self-satisfied sigh.
“Well, it makes me feel guilty,” Argrave said, thinking ahead. “We came here to pull him away from all this.”