—Bas—

"That's right," Grimheld growled in approval as Bas aimed the borrowed crossbow. The dwarf reached out a meaty hand, steadying the crossbow’s shaking stock, adjusting the aim slightly and infusing a small amount of gaseous mana into the bolt, which began to iridesce with acquired energy.

The infused mana would help increase the damage that the bolt dealt, disrupting the target's internal mana flow. It was a hallmark advantage of the gaseous mana form's Skirmisher Variant, one which Grimheld utilized to its fullest extent, even if he wasn't the one depressing the trigger lever.

"Ya look good to go."

Bas hesitated, the memory of his first kill burning through him.

He fired anyway. Just as Grimheld had taught him to.

The bolt hit the springglider in its muscled hindquarters, causing it to reflexively leap into the air with a pained bleat. The involuntary contraction of its powerful leg muscles around the projectile elicited a second, protracted, bray of agony from the hapless predator as its blood began to water the thirsty earth from above.

At the height of its leap, the springglider spread its three uninjured legs wide. A translucent cloak-like membrane billowing out like a sail between its razor-tipped limbs. Its descent slowed as the membrane caught the wind.

Grimheld called out to the rest of the party behind him, "He's all yours Ola, just keep him alive for the boy. The kill's his, as it should be." He turned to Bas, grinning as he rested a spade-like hand on his shoulder, "Nice shot, kid. Just like an amateur expert."

Bas frowned. That sounded suspiciously like an insult.

His train of thought was interrupted as a dwarf shaped blur streaked past him, braided pigtails streaming behind her. It was Ola.

Bas looked closer, noticing how the muscles of her legs bulged with blue as she blazed past at speeds that were superhuman. And simply absurd for a dwarf. Ola would leave an Olympic sprinter eating her dust, and then choking on it again as she came round for the next lap.

She was accumulating liquid mana in her heart, airways, joints and muscles. Boosting her speed and endurance to an insane degree. She closed in on the springglider, readying to pounce on it when it landed for its next leap. The springglider was fast, but Ola was faster.

As a Daggerdancer Variant of the liquid mana form, Ola had none of Kort's legendary Brawler strength or durability. It didn't matter. Kort could take hits for days on end, Ola would simply be gone when the hits landed.

Grimheld chuckled as he saw Bas’ expression. "That could be you one day, if ya do what must be done."

Kort jogged past, "Are you ladies coming? Or are you just going t' stand around nattering all day?"

Bas' jaw clenched. He really wanted to punch the dwarf in the face after the stunt he had pulled. But he would just break his fist. Skin and bones that had been reinforced by liquid mana were no laughing matter. They weren’t good for hitting either.

Bas honestly had no idea how Blue could smack the dwarf without shattering every bone in her small body. He might need to ask her for lessons on her technique.

Grimheld placed a calming hand on his back, "Simmer down, now. Simmer down. Let's get going. Don't want to make Ola wait too long, she might eat yer kill... raw."

Bas let his anger drain out of him. Kort had put him through hell, back at the settlement. The only satisfying resolution, barring the increase in power, was that Grimheld had taken over his instruction and training. Kort was keeping a careful distance, held at bay by three feet of gnomish mild disapproval.

Grimheld was right, it wasn't good to hold onto anger. Which didn't mean that he wouldn't beat the shit out of Kort for what he had done, once he was able to. "Asshole dwarves," he grumbled.

"I heard that." Grimheld said wryly.

Shit... "Sorry."

"No harm in the truth, kid. If ya ever call me a duergar, though, I'll bunch ya into a bellows and beat ya like a drum."

Bas decided it might be a good time to jog away from the psycho dwarf.

The psycho dwarf was faster. And very talkative.

"You two lovebirds took your time," Kort yawned as he helped Ola pin the struggling springglider onto its back. They had slashed the membranes between its limbs, stopping it from gliding far, but that didn't mean it couldn't still jump like a gnome in a dark alley.

Bas was about to reply, but Grimheld beat him to the punch, "Fuck off, Kort. Ya literally just got here. Anyway, Dirri, Gern and Blue aren't here yet." He gestured behind him.

Kort looked mollified at the thought of more victims. He turned to Bas, "C'mon, lad." He tilted his head towards the subdued springglider, "You do the honors. Would have taken Ola hours t' catch this beauty without that shot of yours. There's a knife in my boot." He wiggled his foot in what he thought was an alluring manner.

Bas approached slowly, Grimheld spurring him on with a motion of his hand and a curt nod.

Bas reached for the dagger.

And his hand froze. It was the same vicious looking blade that the dead Jord-elva had once wielded. Sure, it was clean and shiny now, but...

When had Kort picked it up?

Ola noticed his hesitation, "Gods dammit, Kortvalund. You know how springgliders are when they get some lift. The kid saved us hours of chasing down dinner and you had to be an ass about it."

Bas was stunned by the torrent of words from Ola, a sudden oasis of speech in a silent desert. Maybe she was warming up to him? He almost laughed at hearing Kort's full name.

Kortvalund. Who would have guessed? He even sounded like an ass.

Ola beamed at him, "Come on, darling. Don't be bashful. I've got plenty of daggers on me, take your pick." With one hand, she lifted the long blue tunic sitting on top of her chainmail, exposing a veritable arsenal of knives and daggers so numerous that they would set off an unpowered metal detector back on Earth.

As he selected a knife, a simple blade with sharp edges and clean angles, Bas thought about Earth. He hadn't thought about it for a while now and his conviction that he was just in a dream was waning with every passing day and the surge of power each new kill sent through him.

He felt better in so many ways. He could run faster and for longer. He had shed a good deal of weight and the joy of perfect vision without the need for glasses had remained, despite all of his worries that his eyesight would regress to its former state.

Where Kort had brutally forced him to kill, Grimheld had been more compassionate and understanding, teaching him how to do the deed, quickly and efficiently.

Each kill sparked him with new vitality, racing through his veins to fill his body with bliss after every swift slash or stab of a knife, after each thrum of the crossbow's thick sinew bowstring as the bolt was flung towards its target at incredible speeds.

It was addictive, Bas recognized that. He recognized that it should have felt sickening, knowing that each rush of energy was verification of another death. But it wasn't. The acceleration of the murmur of electricity beneath his skin reminded him of one simple truth. He was alive.

"Well? Are you just going t' stand there?" Kort grumbled at him.

Ah. That was right, he had to finish off the spr...

He looked down at the knife in his hand, covered in the animal's lifeblood, recoiling at the shock of the involuntary execution. It hadn't been a conscious choice. It had just happened. How long had he stood there with his knife buried in its neck?

He calmed himself, as Grimheld had told him many times, it was just an animal. And now, it was their supper.

As the last of the sun's rays exsanguinated over the knife-edge horizon, they began to clear the area around them. Careful, to uproot every single blade of grass under Blue's watchful eye.

Known as powdergrass, it accumulated toxins from the soil, converting it into a flammable substance that would set the green hills alight for days until the fires finally abated, leaving a scorched hellscape behind. The powdergrass would return, its seeds wafted above the conflagration by the plentiful thermals, and then the cycle of inferno and rebirth would resume.

There were no plants except powdergrass for miles all around, and no sane creature without the ability to fly would live here, either. Which meant that an all-dwarf adventuring team, two honorary dwarves included, were right at home.

Of course, they didn't want to tempt fate, especially not in a region called the Tinderbox, and so all the grass in the vicinity was uprooted and piled into a hastily dug pit.

Many would consider it the height of idiocy to then set fire to that selfsame powdergrass-filled pit and cook dinner on top of it. But these were dwarves, and they knew better.

Still, they were here for a reason.

As the heavenly smell of cooking springglider caressed their nostrils, Kort withdrew a tightly wrapped bundle from his bag.

Ola immediately moved closer, hands at the ready.

Earlier that week, they had found something very interesting indeed, while travelling close to the, literally, volatile region.

Kort loosened the ties on one end of the linen wrapped package, tipping it upside down to dislodge a massive black beetle inside. Its legs had been tied together with spare bowstring and its mandibles had been given a similar treatment after they had bruised Kort's nose. A truly impressive feat in and of itself, given Kort's resilience to physical wounds.

Then again, when he had first captured it, the dwarf had tried treating the beetle like a household pet. The rest of the team were hardly sympathetic to Kort's plight when he shot bolt upright, trying to remove the beetle swinging from his nostrils.

It seemed that Kort bore a grudge. He gave the black beetle a hefty kick on its armored side. While the blow flipped the beetle onto its back, otherwise, it's not very effective. At the attack, the beetle immediately began wiggling, with its legs still tied, towards the distant mountain range. Known as the Heaven's Parapets, they sectioned off Adamer and its surrounding wilderness, from the rest of the continent.

"Huh?" Kort murmured, "It was going in a slightly different direction yesterday."

"Maybe it's not a Dungeon creature. Or maybe it was one, but escaped in order to satisfy its need for adventure." Grimheld seemed happy with his conclusion, gesturing expansively with a bottle of sacchar that had appeared, seemingly, out of thin air.

In response, Kort lifted up the beetle, spinning it around, flipping it over and generally trying to disorient it. Then, he gave it a hearty punt in the opposite direction of where it was trying to go. "If it's a Dungeon creature it'll be back this way."

"With its legs tied like that, it'll take all night." Grimheld chuckled.

Kort cussed in agreement.

The springglider was delicious and tender, a mix between succulent lamb and gamy wood-pigeon. Bas quickly discovered that the wing membranes were particularly tasty, like the crackling of roast pork. Compared to the trail rations, the taste of the cooked springglider's crispy skin crunching beneath his teeth, gushing delicious rivulets of molten fat, was to kill for.

The enlarged beetle eventually crossed their path, the ties on its legs having finally worked themselves loose, long after the group had treated themselves to a third helping of springglider and settled down to sleep.

Grimheld was babbling merrily to himself as he caressed his empty bottle like a lover. Kort watched the entire performance with a hint of envy. Not even deigning a glance at the returning beetle as he intercepted it on its beeline towards the mountains, scooping it up into a bundle of linen and securing it. He didn't bother binding its legs again. Too much effort.

Bas watched as the grumpy dwarf slid gently down onto his sleeping roll, not bothering to set up the tent. He wanted to find out more about Dungeons, to see if they were what he thought they might be, but Kort was the last person he wanted to ask for help at the moment. So with one last look at a snoring gnome and the sleeping dwarves, he closed his eyes, resolving to ask about Dungeons in the morning. The sound of Grimheld's crooning serenade to the empty bottle filled his dreams.

They didn't burn to death in the middle of the night, which was small solace given the ungodly hour that Kort decided to rouse them at.

He was insisting that they make the most possible haste available to them. The renewed prospect of an undiscovered Dungeon had ignited a fire in his belly and spurred him on to set a brutal pace for the rest of the morning.

Bas made conversation with Grimheld, even as they both struggled to match Kort's urgent stride.

"So, kid," Grimheld began, "have ya spared any thought as to which form of mana ya might be interested in?"

"Gaseous mana."

Grimheld's bushy eyebrows both seemed to lift off his forehead. "Really?"

"Yes."

"That's a mighty mature choice, actually. Why not the others?"

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"From what I've seen, liquid mana is oriented around combat and weapon use. Before I came here, I'd never used a dagger for anything more dangerous than chopping onions, and even that made me cry. The rest of you have been training for years, and even you admit that you're not the best adventuring team out there. I want to get stronger, but that doesn't mean that I have to do it alone."

Grimheld nodded, "And why not solid mana? There’s nothing better for pure power output."

"It requires years of practice. Years that could be better spent getting stronger quickly. If obtaining enough Lifeforce to achieve a higher Rank really extends my life, I can learn it later. There's nothing stopping me from changing my mana form."

"Absolutely right, Bas. Although, it’s best to stick with optimizing one form, as reaching a higher Rank in a single form is more effective than reaching a lower Rank in two different forms." Grimheld had to admit that Bas' reasoning was spot on. The canny dwarf was actually somewhat disappointed that he couldn't give him a grilling. "Why gaseous mana, then? It's shit for combat, unless you choose to go down the route of a Skirmisher Variant, like myself, and as you said, you have no weapons training."

"Kort promised that he would help me grow stronger, I believe him when he said that. If I fight at the front, I'll only be a liability. But with gaseous mana, I will be able to contribute from the very beginning and still be able to provide some value to the team. That will, in turn, accelerate my own growth. Also, I can still learn how to use your crossbow from time to time if I ever want to go down the more offensive route."

"Right on, kid. Right on." Grimheld gave him a hearty slap on the back. "I'm proud of ya. It's not the simplest path to power, but it's the one that suits yer situation most."

Bas smirked to himself. Everything he had said was true. He just hadn't said everything. He had been reading through his physics book and confirmed what he already knew. There were more than three states of matter.

Sure. The mythology of Era stated that their was a form of mana for each of the three moons. One solid, one liquid, one gas.

It was a pretty explanation. But to Bas, a visitor from a different and more advanced world, it seemed like a trap. A widely believed fallacy, too superficial to actually be true. After all, they were missing something very obvious every time they looked up.

The moons weren't the only objects in the night sky.

Stars, small miniature suns, raging balls of hydrogen and helium visible across distances so large and with so many zeros on the end that he didn't even know the name of the number. Incandescent spheres of gas, heated to such a degree that they formed the fourth state of matter. Plasma.

He didn't know how long it would take to be able to create such high temperatures in his mana, but he did know that gaseous mana was a prerequisite for its formation, if it existed.

He would help the dwarves happily. Each kill helping him grow stronger. And when he was strong enough, he would burst forth in a blaze of glory beyond this primitive medieval world's comprehension.

Using his imagination, and the knowledge contained in his book, he would send change sweeping out to the farthest corners of Era. A tide of change that every member of his species would recognize, drawing them and their expertise to him, like iron filings towards a magnet.

There were humans out there, stranded, just like him, on an unfamiliar world. Many would soon be dead.

Bas had been lucky. Many would have killed him on sight, and a large segment of the rest would have tried to quietly exploit him to an egregious degree. Kort had been more than reasonable, and honest about his motive.

The other members of Era’s new human species would have it harder. They would have to fight for even the smallest fractions of power as they tried to avoid death. All Bas had to do was serve. And eventually, the revolution would begin.

The mountains were close, looming over him as he pulled the crossbow bolt from another springglider's neck. A clean kill, no pursuit required. Grimheld had helped him aim, but a victory was still a victory. No matter the means in which it was achieved.

Even as the Lifeforce flooded into him, he knew something was different.

The quality of the pulsing had changed, becoming more localized. A tangible surging ball of energy within him, moving and morphing with each mental prod he gave it.

Kort approached him, veins in his eyes flashing turquoise with liquid mana, trying to see the change in Bas that he had sensed.

He gave Bas a congratulatory slap on the back, sending him flying face first into the tall powdergrass.

"Congratulations, lad. You got dinner and you achieved your first Rank. You, my boy, are now Rank I. And in good time, too." Kort nodded as he spoke, it almost sounded as if he was congratulating himself as well. "This calls for a celebra—"

Blue was there in a flash. Swatting the dwarf on the back of the head, "How about, let's not get shitfaced and burn down the Tinderbox right when we're about to leave it. You can save it for tomorrow."

"Yes, lassie." Blue glared at him, "I mean, yes, Miss Blue." Kort rubbed his shins out of force of habit, muttering something about 'fucking shin-smashing head-bashing gnomes' under his breath.

Blue smiled contentedly. She had the dwarf well trained. A little backchat was fine, as long as Kort knew who the real leader of Acherys' Dread was.

Bas sat back and relaxed, special privilege of killing their dinner and ranking up. He watched as distant springgliders leapt up to snatch birds from the air with their needle-like claws.

It had been a good day, even with the punishing pace that Kort had set.

He loosed a snort of amusement as Grimheld brushed past him. He quickly hid the small flask of sacchar that the dwarf had ‘accidentally’ dropped into his lap. He spent a moment to appreciate Grimheld's thoughtfulness, the gesture did not go unnoticed, especially considering Grim's fondness for the stuff.

Bas gave the flask a quick shake. It was mostly empty, but that wasn't a bad thing. It was enough to have a good time, but not so much that he would forget the fun that he was about to have.

When no one was looking, he took a quick swig.

Okay. He had definitely overdone it. Why did he even drink that stuff in the first place? It was just an obviously bad idea. A bit like splitting up to look for the murderer in horror movies.

He groaned as he retched onto the ground beside him. The sour taste of bile and sacchar clung to the back of his throat like napalm.

Blue shot him a disapproving look, shaking her head in a disappointed manner while Kort gave him a thumbs up behind her back.

"I would give you a long talk about consequences," Blue's tone was dispassionate, "but I suspect that you're experiencing them already." She smirked, "Still, it wasn't as bad as it could have been."

Something about the last part made Bas uneasy. He ran a hand across his head.

Good, his hair was still there, although some of it was a little charred. He brought his hand lower, across his face. Nothing. His eyebrows were gone.

Yep, he had definitely overdone it.

Blue gave him a knowingly superior smile. "So," she began, "what's plasma?"

Oh dear. "What did I do?" A worm of dread began to writhe within his gut. He looked at the hills around him, slightly panicked. Green. He breathed a sigh of relief, he hadn't burnt down the whole Tinderbox. Only his eyebrows.

"You," Blue emphasized the word, "spat a mouthful of sacchar onto the fire while shouting something about how mana and fire makes plasma."

"It was something t' see lad." Kort cut in from where he had been listening, "the pillar of fire must have been visible for miles around. It was definitely impressive, I think you're onto something. We've been drinking it for years, and it still does a ton of damage. Little did we know... Mix in a little fire, and BOOM." The deranged dwarf cackled madly.

"Kort," Blue's single word admonishment cut his laughter off short.

"Sorry la... Miss Blue." Kort's expression became serious as he turned to Bas, "What I meant t' say was, don't do it again. Sacchar ain't cheap." His attempt at solemnity was, however, foiled by the teasing way in which he waggled his eyebrows.

Kort's face froze for a second, before brightening. "Seeing as Miss Blue," he sketched a shallow bow in the glowering gnome's direction, "was talking of consequences, how about we teach you how t' change your mana into one of the three forms. Have you got any preferences?"

"Gaseous." Bas responded curtly, slightly annoyed at the capricious dwarf's antics.

Kort's eyebrows raised, "Good choice." He turned and shouted at a dozing figure ten feet away, "Oi, Grim, get up you lazy bastard. You've got t' teach the lad how t' become a gasshole."

"Fuck off ya cunt. Can't ya see I'm sleeping."

Kort gave Bas a rueful shrug, "I tried, lad. I tried."

"I can still hear ya."

Bas chuckled as both dwarves vented deep, long-suffering sighs.

Oh well, he wasn't going to get any help, so he might as well try and see how to use mana himself.

He zeroed in on the amorphous pulse of energy within him.

It deformed with the slightest exertion of his will, forming improbable shapes as it flexed beneath his scrutiny.

He moved it around his body, sending it flying through his arms and down to his fingers as jolts of vibrant power seemed to transmit shock-waves through him.

It soothed his aching muscles and stiff joints wherever it passed, filling him with renewal. Its size diminished with each ache it quelled, but was fully restored within a few minutes.

Comfortable with moving his power around, he sent it flowing slowly into his skull, wary of messing with his brain too much. The hangover headache dissipated by a small fraction but his power was shrinking rapidly, its form becoming turbulent and incoherent as it fought against the hangover.

Why was it shrinking so quickly? Did it have something to do with the sacchar? What was it Kort had said about it? That is was mana fortified, or something.

He knew it had been too good to be true. In a world where magic existed, of course there had to be magical hangovers. Because why the fuck not.

A chill at the implications crept down his spine. If there were magical hangovers, were there magical poisons and magical diseases too?

He really didn't want to find out.

"So, kid. Did ya enjoy my present?"

"I hate you so much."

"I'll take that as a yes." Grimheld chuckled with good humored wickedness.

"Just teach me how to manifest gaseous mana and then let me die."

"Sure thing, kid," Grimheld said. "Just imagine yer skin is full of tiny holes that ya can push mana out through. It can be a difficult concept at first bu—"

"You mean pores?"

"What?"

"Pores," Bas repeated slowly, "the tiny holes in your skin that sweat comes out of."

"Don't be ridiculous. If ya actually had holes in yer skin, ya would be leaking blood everywhere. I wouldn't think too hard 'bout it, it's just a tool to help you visualize." Grimheld said, disconcerted by the idea. "Just push yer mana outwards."

Bas' mana had recovered from when he had tried to dispel his headache, with partial success. Apparently even magic couldn't fully cure a hangover.

He pictured his skin on the microscopic level, covered in thousands of small holes, leaking a fine mist of blue mana that swirled around his skin, clinging to his fingertips. Thickening into whorls of smoky blue fog that tested the surrounding air, flicking forwards like a serpents tongue before retreating.

"Well, I'll be... You got it, kid." Grimheld exclaimed.

Bas down look at his arm, sheathed in a writhing blue mist, "Now, extend yer senses through it."

Bas' world expanded. Rushing outwards, retreating, flexing and falling with every rush of air. Through his mist he could taste the scent of grass and ash carried on the breeze. He could see the errant eddies of wind as they buffeted against him, causing him to billow away into the leeward side of his arm.

And he was gone.

His connection to a large part of his mist was cut off as it was ripped away by a strong gust, leaving his reserves depleted.

"Ya need to be careful about that, kid. One of the weaknesses of the gaseous form of mana. It's prone to just flying off when you don't use a little bit of mana to keep it held in check. When yer only using a small amount it doesn't matter much, but it’s useful when ya start being able to manifest large clouds of mana."

Bas was a little disappointed, sure it was cool but... "Was that it? I can sense things through my mana and that's all."

Grimheld laughed, "Not at all. There is so much more, but I'll show you while we walk. Lots of great stuff ya can do with it. Imbuing projectiles, healing and strengthening allies, making shields, even turn yourself invisible. And who knows, as an added bonus, we might just reach the Parapets by nightfall, it'll be good to get out of this grassy shithole and into some real landscape. Mountains, now they're a joy to walk along and under."

—Tyl—

The Goddess passed her hand through the Ethereal Plane. The Veil was slowly falling into ruin. It would take time for it to fully disintegrate, but the process was beyond her ability to reverse. No matter how much mana or Lifeforce she tried to patch it with.

The Exiles were returning to Era in a slow trickle, there was now a sighting once every two days or so, and panic was starting to spread.

If only her precious flock knew what was coming.

Humans. Millions of them. Billions...

She peered through the Multiverse, her eyes boiling in their sockets from the power coursing through them, her unseeing gaze alighting on a small star in the outer spiral of a backwater galaxy in a mostly empty universe.

The chaos of the lifeless void made her shiver.

There. Nestled close to a relatively dim star, three planets out.

Earth.

A planet always on the brink of annihilation.

There was no order there. No mana, no Lifeforce, no magic.

Instead the humans rode the waves of chaos, bending entropy itself to their puny wills.

She shuddered again. Such a thing was anathema. The humans, in their arrogance, thought that such a practice could last forever.

Tyl shook her head sadly. How many more of them would die trying to harness the disorder of their world.

How many more of them would have to die when they tried to harness the disorder of her world. She would not let that happen.

And it was all because of that fool elf, Luneil. Blinded by grief and hatred, he had failed to recognize what had always been clear.

The former Pantheon had been dangerously unstable, just like the Exiles. They had warred without end, trying to bend the land to their individual wills. Never giving it a moment's respite, or a single second of stability.

In their warlike nature they had happily seized the opportunity to cast out the powerful humans and set up the Veil behind them, thinking of it as driving out a powerful opposing faction.

Tyl supposed she ought to thank them for banishing those cuckoos of chaos from her nest of order.

Weakened by their combined spell, they all succumbed to her full might. After all, who would have suspected that she had a taste for betrayal.

The old gods fell and only the Goddess remained.

Order flourished.

Maybe not peace, or equality, or universal prosperity. Such things took time, but she had enough of it to last her far past the end of this world.

That was then.

Instead, the Veil had been sundered and everything was falling apart. Rivalries encouraged by the old gods were already boiling to the surface and her Pardoners and paladins were busy trying to maintain the balance. It was like trying to bottle an ocean in a teacup.

All because of Luneil. Tyl had scoured the Planes multiple times for his Lifeforce, searching for his soul. But she had found nothing. Not even he could have survived that blast. But he was nowhere to be found, no matter how much his soul deserved torment.

The necromancer had deserved to suffer, for the souls he had annihilated to gain power, and for what he had done with the power he had gained. There would be no return to the cycle for him if she had her way.

Tyl quashed the anger inside of her. She could not let her hatred flourish, that would only lead to instability. Instability led to chaos. And chaos was anathema.

She let the matter lie, for now. There were more important things than a single elf to worry about.

The Goddess tore her gaze away from Earth and that gods-forsaken universe, her eyes slowly healing from the trauma.

She looked at her Pardoners with distaste, many only followed her out of greed, viciousness or a lust for power, but they were vital to maintaining order in Era. For now, anyway. She dreamed of the day when her great Balancing settled over the world and she could dispense of those thugs and bullies. Now, that day might never come.

The best she could do was send them out to die, as she always had, completing their tasks in the most inefficient way possible in terms of lives.

She looked over her armies of Pardoners. They were spread too thin, given the dire state of Era. It was an impossible task to hold together a world that was falling apart.

She looked over the rest of her followers, observing them through the link created by their Devotions. The dwarves and adventurers were still only pretending to worship her when her Pardoners were nearby. She let it slide. After all, she didn't need everyone to give Devotions, but the more she obtained, the more clear her picture of the world became. And with the increased clarity, her ability to right the growing disharmony could be put to the best use.

Maybe one day—when she had achieved order, when she had cast aside the Pardoners and paladins like the broken dolls in armor they were—things would be different. Maybe then she could let her people give Devotions as they wished, instead of her Pardoners extorting it from them, as if the tithe of Lifeforce was a form of taxation or protection money.

Tyl sighed.

There was no way to achieve what Era needed without her going against her own morals. It hurt every time she broke them. But it was vital to maintain balance, she was the only deity left. She didn't like sometimes being a force for evil, neither did she find joy in being alone. But it was necessary.

She felt the old familiar agonies welling up inside her, threatening her with chaos.

"Damn stability!" Tyl muttered, staring at the field of thrones behind her.

The Goddess of Order wept.