Oliver and Dozia stood before the imposing guard post, their gazes fixated on the faint movement of the Lost Ones sentries as they shuffled into place. The sun's rays danced upon their stone spears, casting an eerie glow. Oliver couldn't help but question their choice of archaic weapons, a perplexed frown creasing his brow.
"Dozia, why are they still clinging to these outdated arms?" he inquired, observing a bead of sweat roll down her forehead. A hum escaped her lips before she replied, her voice tinged with weariness. "Well, Oliver, they insisted on waiting for your return before cracking open the armory."
Oliver groaned audibly. "And why is that?" he pressed, his concern growing. "We've just conquered this massive fortress. It won't be long before other tribes catch wind of our victory. They might seek to attack us, taking advantage of our vulnerability."
Dozia sighed, her tone heavy with explanation. "It's a matter of tribal tradition, Oliver. You led the charge, orchestrated the triumph. They believe it's your fiefdom, and that you should be the one to decide the fate of these spoils."
"The fate of these spoils..." Oliver echoed, his shock evident. "Are you telling me I can claim all this equipment for myself?"
"That's the way of it," she affirmed.
Oliver sneered, a surge of frustration welling within him. This ignorant adherence to tribal customs threatened the very existence of the Lost Ones and his terror troops. Swift resolution was essential, for it spelled potential destruction and disorder among their ranks.
With a heavy sigh, Oliver decided to postpone dealing with the matter for the moment. It wasn't the right time to delve into the intricacies of tribal politics. "Let's assume, for a moment, that I wanted to keep these treasures. Would that mean no one else can touch them?"
"Well, then it would fall under the jurisdiction of the council," Dozia explained.
"The council," Oliver mused, a hint of skepticism in his voice. "I can't help but feel that these rules stem from a fear of the loot becoming too enticing, preventing others from hoarding it."
A soft snicker escaped Dozia's lips. "You'd be surprised by the number of tales recounting tribes that fell apart or collapsed due to such foolishness. I once heard a story of a wolfkin who inherited a powerful, demonic sword. The tribe wanted it destroyed, but he refused to listen, and he was consumed by its corrupting influence."
"What happened to them?" Oliver inquired, his curiosity piqued.
Dozia shrugged nonchalantly. "I suppose the sword slew them all. You don't toy with possessed artifacts, Oliver, no matter how alluring or gleaming they may be."
Oliver nodded thoughtfully, realizing how desensitized he had become to this strange new world that had ensnared him. He marveled at how easily he had embraced the people and their customs, becoming a part of their daily life. It was both exhilarating and unsettling, this complete immersion in tribal dogma. But he shook his head, determined to forge a different path. He would absorb their teachings and strive to reshape the tribe from within, pushing them toward progress and enlightenment, away from the pitfalls of blind tradition.
The notion stirred a flicker of hope within Oliver's heart, a glimmer of possibility that perhaps he could avert the cataclysmic war that threatened to consume the world and twist the very essence of the Lost Ones. Maybe, just maybe, he could make them see reason and recognize the folly of their ways before it was too late.
But his reverie was interrupted by the call of the guardsman. "Oliver, Dozia!" he bellowed, flicking his spear to the sides of the road as Oliver turned his gaze toward him.
People stood before them, not akin to his own kind nor reminiscent of the Lost Ones. They hailed from a different tribe or a disparate lineage. Dwarves, Oliver recognized, flanking his surroundings. He regarded them with a sense of intrigue as their eyes fell upon his battered form. Men, women, and children comprised their ranks, the youngest appearing but a newborn, while the eldest stood at the threshold of fifteen years. Oliver's attention shifted back to the guardsman. "They seek entry into our tribe. They wish to become Lost Ones," the guardsman explained.
Oliver's gaze returned to the group, their numbers slightly exceeding a dozen, yet it was Dozia who stood beside him. "Dwarves, remnants of a mountain tribe, most likely," she whispered, turning her head to meet Oliver's gaze. "What does this tell you, Oliver?"
He shrugged his shoulders. "It could signify various things, but there's no harm in inquiring. Besides, you've mentioned before that dwarves possess natural aptitude in craftsmanship."
A smile tugged at Oliver's lips, the possibility of utilizing their skills beginning to form in his mind. Yet, one of the dwarves, an older boy, stepped forward, drawing closer to Oliver and Dozia. Both watched him intently, a tension rippling through the air. Dozia's hand instinctively moved toward her back, her fingers tightening around the hilt of her sword. But Oliver raised his hand, signaling her to stay her blade. Dozia shot him a questioning glance before exhaling a silent breath of heated air.
The sound of the sword slipping back into its scabbard echoed as Oliver and Dozia remained focused on the approaching dwarf. "Are you a human? A true human?" the young dwarf inquired, his voice laced with curiosity.
"My name is Oliver, and yes, I am a pure human," Oliver replied, his words resonating with an air of confidence, strength, and an electric fervor that Dozia couldn't help but perceive whenever she glanced at him. Gone was the tearful boy who yearned to flee at the outset of their journey. In his place stood a man transformed, seamlessly melding with this strange new world.
"A human... within these woods," the dwarf murmured, his gaze locked with Oliver's. Oliver's hand curled around the stone knife concealed within his belt, his dark blue eyes narrowing as he...
But before he could utter another word, a thunderous cry shattered the moment. "Silence, you wretched swine!" the guardsman bellowed, his voice cracking with a mix of rage and reverence. "You stand before Oliver, the Warlord of the Lost Ones, the Deus Imperator!"
A ripple of energy coursed through the crowd, their eyes fixated on Oliver, mirroring the weariness of the Lost Ones. There was hesitation, disbelief, and the flicker of a long-forgotten hope—a race stripped of its honor, yearning for redemption. And for a fleeting moment, a glimmer of belief surged through their collective consciousness.
The dwarf took a cautious step back, his gaze locked with Oliver's. Oliver stood motionless, neither nodding nor disagreeing, content in his composure. He recalled Dozia's words and his own steadfast determination to prevent the Lost Ones from descending into fanatical zealots.
He was no messiah, no prophet, no deity or god. He was merely a boy driven by a desire to safeguard his tribe. He had found the family his grandfather had spoken of, and he would use every ounce of his strength to prevent them from transforming into raving lunatics under the banner of the Deus Imperator.
"The Deus Imperator?" the dwarf questioned.
Oliver slowly shook his head, a faint smile gracing his features. Finally, someone with a sense of reason.
"Are you kidding me?" the dwarf exclaimed. "You expect me to believe that this ordinary human is the Deus Imperator?"
The question reverberated through the air, but Oliver could instantly sense the stifling silence that followed, imposed by the guardsman. "Silence!" he snapped. "Even kings and emperors shall tremble at the mention of the Deus Imperator. For he possesses the might of the Lost, and the heavens gaze upon him with favor!"
Oliver's eyes widened as he heard the rush of wind preceding the spear hurtling toward the dwarf. Acting on instinct, he grabbed the boy, yanking him down to the ground, narrowly evading the reckless trajectory of the weapon.
"Damn it, Dozia!" he exclaimed, his voice sparking with urgency. Dozia's eyes widened as the realization dawned upon her. "Handle that!"
The sound of the gates swinging open reached Oliver's ears as he helped the shaken dwarf to his feet, already hearing Dozia's vehement reprimands directed at the guardsman.
"Listen, I'm Oliver. That's my name. What's yours?" Oliver asked, patting the dwarf's back reassuringly.
The dwarf stammered, his earlier bravado now gone. "Jacob," he managed to utter.
"Alright, Jacob," Oliver said. "Welcome to the Lost Ones, a tribe that embraces various races from this region. Now, I must ask... why are you here?"
Jacob glanced back at the camp where his people had set up, taking a deep breath before turning to face Oliver. "We escaped from a slaver attack," he revealed.
"A slaver attack?" Oliver repeated, his mind slowly processing the information at hand. "But you're all from the mountains."
Joseph nodded. "It was unusual. Slavers rarely venture that far, but they did for this raid."
Oliver nodded, his thoughts piecing together the puzzle before him. The slavers had chosen to assault a mountain tribe nestled deep within the icy peaks of this region. He overheard Dozia mentioning the rarity of such occurrences. With the newfound knowledge, Oliver's unease swelled within him, an overwhelming sense of foreboding settling in the pit of his stomach.
The words hung heavy in the air, laden with the weight of tragedy and loss. "The majority of us were killed, and many more were enslaved," Joseph revealed, his voice tinged with sorrow. "I took what I could, and we escaped. It was around that time when we heard that the Lost Ones had emerged victorious in a monumental battle... that they were the new owners of this fortress."
Joseph's eyes sparkled with a mix of awe and admiration as he gazed at the towering walls of the stronghold. Despite its cracked and weathered facade, to the Lost Ones and his tribe of dwarfs, it represented a true bastion against the world—a place to retreat to, a permanent home worth fighting and dying for.
Oliver turned his attention back to Joseph. "Do you wish to become part of the Lost Ones?" he asked.
Joseph nodded, a glimmer of hope dancing in his eyes.
"Very well," Oliver declared, clapping his hands together. "Listen, I have a few questions for you. Answer them honestly, and we will determine if you and your people can join us."
Joseph eagerly nodded, anticipation etched across his face.
"First question," Oliver began. "Do you have any issues or prejudices against other races? Elves, Wolfkin, Ratkin, and so on. Can you work and cooperate with them without discrimination?"
Joseph shook his head. "No, us dwarfs have always been known for our ability to trade and forge relationships with all races. We treat others fairly and without bias."
A smile tugged at the corners of Oliver's lips. "That's good to hear," he acknowledged. "Now, let me ask you this: Do you have any qualms about women assuming leadership roles in our tribe? Would it bother you if a woman fought alongside you in battle?"
Joseph's eyes widened at the unexpected question, his hand lightly scratching the back of his head. "I follow those I'm told to follow," he replied earnestly, his voice laced with humility.
Oliver nodded, pleased with the response. "Alright, those were all the questions I had for you."
He turned his gaze toward the entrance, signaling for the massive gate to be lifted, its rusty hinges creaking in protest. The sound echoed through the air, accompanied by the hurried commotion of the tribe as they packed their belongings, readying themselves for what lay ahead.
He found himself seated in what was now his room, though it had likely been several decades, perhaps even a century, since he had arrived in this place. The contrast between this room and the places he had previously awoken in was immediate and striking.
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Dozia's tent, while comfortable, had an air of ruggedness and wear, its fabric showing signs of age. And then there were the caverns, those underground passages that always stirred a surge of anxiety within him as he navigated their depths. Perhaps it was the memories of his previous encounters in such caverns, how they had inadvertently led him to this very spot. The mere sound of rain outside or the shifting of rocks would quicken his heartbeat, reinforcing his preference to sleep near the entrance or close to that familiar stump.
The stone walls of his current abode provided a welcome insulation against the cold that loomed beyond. The crackling of the fireplace filled the room, its fiery tongues casting dancing shadows on the archaic, yet finely crafted furnishings that adorned the space. Each piece exuded an aura of nobility and antiquity, transporting him to a bygone era.
Oliver dragged a chair from the desk and positioned it by the crackling fireplace. Weary and worn, he eased his tired body into the seat, propping his legs on the table before him. Lurking in the dim corners of the room were the remnants of his terror troops—Rena and two others, the sole survivors of the brutal battle against the orcs. He had spent months with them, training, instructing, molding them into formidable combatants. Yet only three had endured the onslaught, Rena herself bearing a gruesome injury.
One of Rena's eyes had been irreparably lost, an agonizing sacrifice that condemned her to a lifetime of seeing the world through a single lens. Oliver couldn't help but fidget uneasily within these regal confines. The opulence made him feel like a king, a title the Lost Ones had bestowed upon him—the Deus Imperator. It was a role he needed to navigate with caution and rectify the sense of unquestioning acceptance that had taken root.
The faint rustling of his terror troops caught his attention. These were the most loyal, zealous members of the Lost Ones, those who yearned to serve in his special unit. He wondered if he would encounter difficulties in recruiting new members after this battle. Before, hesitation had rippled through the tribe, but now they saw this fight as a divine sign. How many more friends and allies would perish? How many would sacrifice life and limb in their belief that Oliver was their god?
Closing his eyes, Oliver sought solace in the serenity of the moment, relishing the calm before Dozia's impending arrival with news from the armory. He tried to banish the weight of grief from his mind, but...
"Oliver, how are you holding up?" Rena's gentle voice pierced the silence.
He took a deep breath, grappling with his emotions. "I'm thinking about those we've lost and the battles that lie ahead," he replied.
But Rena's response caught him off guard. A zealous spark ignited in her lone eye, transforming her expression into a sly smirk.
"Yes, Oliver, many battles await us," she declared. "For you are the Deus Imperator. Everything touched by the pale moonlight, everything basked in the warm, life-giving glow of the sun—it is yours to command and conquer."
A silent rustling swept through his terror troops, their voices blending into a murmur that filled Oliver with a sense of foreboding agreement.
"Every star, every grain, every inch of land—it is the birthright of the Deus Imperator."
In that moment, Oliver glimpsed the metamorphosis his terror troops and Rena had undergone. They were no longer mere children, their innocence long since shattered, yet their bodies still bore the frailty of youth.
The rugged armor clung to their frames, adorned with grisly trophies and weapons. They wore their new identities with pride, untouched by the pity that welled up in Oliver's gaze. They were no longer the friends he yearned for but had become fervent worshipers, twisted into his war machinations. Monsters, warriors, soldiers—now transformed into religious zealots of the Deus Imperator, ready to face any foe in service to his cause.
Oliver shook his head slowly, refusing to acknowledge their mad proclamations of devotion towards him. He contemplated the changes that lay ahead, pondering what his followers had gleaned from their first taste of real battle and the dire consequences yet to come.
Deep down, Oliver knew what must be done. He was destined for this, created for this purpose. Whether he liked it or not, a battle against the malevolent entity that had stolen magic from the Demi Humans was imminent. But he also understood the urgency of stopping the impending religious fervor, not just within the Lost Ones but throughout the entire world. Failure in his quest to prevent his people from losing themselves to blind faith in the Deus Imperator would spell doom, not only for himself but for the world at large.
He needed to effect change, not only among the Lost Ones but also within the Demi Human tribes. It had to be a gradual, calculated process to undermine their faith in the Deus Imperator. There were other options, his mind gravitated toward the council—a nascent form of democracy that Dozia and the others had established.
"The key," he muttered to himself, the realization taking hold. Rising from his seat, he strode toward the door, Rena and his terror guard hastening to catch up. As he made his way down the pathway, his mind churned with thoughts of the council's potential. If he proved himself and championed democracy, it could sow disillusionment among the Lost Ones, eroding the legend of the Deus Imperator and quelling the fervor of religious fanatics.
The Lost Ones and any tribe drawn into their ranks would be saved from the corrupting influence of the Deus Imperator. It had to work.
Oliver's gaze landed on Rasmus, surrounded by a crowd. Joseph and his tribe stood on the sidelines, watching hesitantly but keeping their distance. A dwarfan puzzle, and Rasmus had just solved it.
"Oliver, care to do the honors?" Rasmus exclaimed, clapping his hands in astonishment. All eyes turned toward Oliver. With a nod, he approached the door, his hand finding the button that lay before it. The machinery sprang to life, gears spinning, and cogs whirring, prompting everyone to instinctively step back.
As the door slowly opened, revealing a dark expanse of stairs, the thunderous footsteps of people raced to join his side.
"Doamn it," Dozia muttered. "I missed it!" "There wasn't much to miss, Dozia," Thomas retorted sarcastically. "Just a door opening." Rena, Lena, and Rasmus descended the steps, accompanied by the Lost Ones and Oliver's pair of vigilant Terror Troops, stationed as sentinels until they were granted entry. This was still Oliver's domain.
The crackling sound of ignited torches filled their ears, casting light on their surroundings as they navigated the dimly lit staircase. It took them less than five minutes to reach the bottom, where they were halted in front of an iron door that Thomas effortlessly kicked off its hinges.
As another torch was lit and placed strategically around the room, their eyes shimmered with anticipation. "No way!" Rasmus exclaimed, attaching himself to the nearest table. Before him lay a mound of silver coins.
"In eo multa dona ac benedictiones reperies," Rasmus spoke in the ancient tongue, his eyes gleaming at the sight of the silver pile.
"What is this place?" Oliver questioned, surveying the assortment of supplies, weapons, and armor that surrounded him. Although some appeared worn, they were far superior to the padded leather armor the Lost Ones had donned in their battles against the Orcs.
"Oliver's right, this isn't your ordinary armory," Rena murmured under her breath. She noticed discarded packs brimming with supplies, weapons, and other provisions. Her gaze settled on a table, drawn to what seemed to be a messenger bag of sorts. She unfastened the clasps and opened it.
Inside, she discovered a pair of iron daggers. The wooden handles were wrapped in comfortable leather fabric that glinted in the torchlight.
Seated on an upturned crate, Oliver took a deep breath, his gaze transfixed on the treasures within the room. All of it belonged to him, and according to Dozia's words, he could claim it for himself. Yet, he slowly shook his head. The path before him was already clear; there was no doubt about what he had to do. It was right and just.
"Take what you want," Oliver's voice resonated, filling the room. Instantly, silence descended upon them as they turned to face him. "Are you sure?" Thomas asked, speaking for the group. "Oliver, you don't need to give us everything. You know that, right?"
Oliver shook his head, his movements unhurried. Unbeknownst to him, the other members of the Lost Ones and his terror troops made their way down the stairs, joining the crowd. Even Joseph and his assimilated tribe were present.
"What would I do with such possessions, Thomas?" Oliver questioned. Their gazes fixated on him, attentively listening to his words. "You are my family, and whatever threatens you threatens me as well. We are a tribe, and whatever I possess, the tribe possesses. For we shall stand strong together."
A hushed stillness fell over the crowd, an eerie silence that Oliver had never witnessed before. Faint whispers reverberated through the corridor. "Did you hear that? One of the chosen of the great god, an imposter, the Deus Imperator... a human, of all things. He sees us as equals, as family. Together, we are stronger."
A cacophony of voices fixated on that sentence, a revelation that spread like wildfire, unbeknownst to Oliver. The legend of the Deus Imperator had taken on a new light. The Demi Humans were no longer seen as savages or beasts but as family, as equals.
Even Joseph and his tribe stirred at those words, but Joseph shook his head, dispelling any notions of brewing fanaticism.
Rena smirked, extracting one of the daggers from the bag, twirling it skillfully in her hand. "Rena, toss me that blade," Rasmus requested.
Rena complied, throwing him the weapon as his gaze fell upon the hilt. His eyes widened momentarily. "This isn't Dwarfan."
The commotion in the armory ceased. "What?" Rena exclaimed. "Didn't we have to solve an entire Dwarfan puzzle to gain entry here?"
But it was Dozia who shook her head. "Perhaps this was a Dwarfan raiding stronghold. It would explain a lot."
Rasmus nodded in agreement. "Yeah, that could be it." His eyes wandered to the array of weaponry, armor, and tools representing various races. "It must have been recent. Was it..."
"The Last Great Demonic War."
A profound silence settled over the armory. "The war that robbed the Demi Humans of their magic and led to the extinction of the demon race," Lena spoke solemnly.
Rasmus nodded, piecing together the puzzle. "It must have been a renegade group of dwarfs, maybe one of the Demon King's corrupted units. That would explain the assortment of weapons and armor from different races scattered here."
They absorbed the weight of this newfound knowledge, allowing it to seep into their consciousness. James walked over to a corner of the room, his eyes fixated on a peculiar box. Layers of dust, cobwebs, and stone had accumulated around it. He grasped the box by its edges and upended its contents onto the table.
Lena approached, her hand reaching for one of the swords, while James set his sights on the other. Hesitant, he gripped it with both hands, and there it was—a faint hum of blue resonance that momentarily danced along the blade's edge.
Rasmus's eyes widened. "A spirit sword," he murmured, Thomas still entranced, his gaze fixed upon the sharpened, pale metal. "An Elvish blade, with its weapon spirit sealed deep within. James, with that sword, you can wield magic."
Rasmus stared at it, recognizing the ancient treasure it represented. "That blade was forged before the demonic war, during the reign of the elves in their majestic forest and mountain cities. It is a potent weapon, a truly remarkable one."
"I understand, Rasmus," James said, his voice filled with a mixture of resignation and acceptance. He slowly shook his head, ready to place the blade back on the table, but Lena's hand halted him. "I'm not a full elf, Lena," he protested, attempting to push her hand away, but she stood her ground.
"But you still have elven blood within you. The weapon's spirit is beckoning you to wield it, and it wants you to do so."
James glanced at the sword again, a struggle evident in his voice, but after another gaze at Lena, he took a deep breath. "Fine, you win," he conceded, noticing the faint outline of Lena's victorious smirk. He began dusting off the cobwebs from the blade.
Meanwhile, Dozia made her way to the center of the room, with Rasmus trailing behind. She cast a glance back at Oliver. His shoulders slumped forward, his gaze fixed on the floor, his mind racing a mile a minute. Even Dozia knew that, despite any pep talk, Oliver was still wounded. She doubted he would run away again, but he needed something.
His spears were battered and broken, the slaver's sword was lost and damaged. Now, he needed his own weapon. Dozia's eyes landed on the far end of the room. "Rasmus, lend me a hand with this," she called.
Both of them grasped the large box by its sides, placing it on the table with a resounding thud. The Lost Ones had descended the stairs, their eyes fixed on their leaders and Oliver, listening to the whispered conversations about him.
"Oliver, the Warlord."
"He will lead us to glorious victories."
"The Lost Ones shall spread across this land, bearing his mark. No tribe or army shall stand against us."
Oliver didn't respond to those words, nor did he address them. But he had an inkling of what was to come in the end. There was meant to be a feast, a grand celebration to commemorate and mourn the aftermath of this battle. Oliver knew that the Lost Ones needed a leader, a person who could truly guide them into battle.
...and he suspected that Dozia understood it too.
Taking a deep breath, Oliver rose from his seat and maneuvered through the crowd. He needed some time alone, away from this place. He planned to wait until dinner, to give his weary muscles a moment of respite and to check on the progress of his injured arm.
Unbeknownst to Dozia and Rasmus, they continued their work. Rasmus brought a torch, illuminating the surroundings, while Dozia surveyed the crowd. "Lena, ensure that none of the young ones lay claim to any of the weapons here. Do the same for the others," Dozia instructed. "We must distribute the weapons and equipment based on merit and skill."
Lena nodded, securing her new dagger in her belt. She approached the gathering crowd, her voice rising to command their attention.
The chest stood apart, a striking sight. Its surface adorned with intricate decorations, a gleaming array of gold and delicate jewels. Mysterious glyphs, unknown to Dozia, danced along its edges. Rasmus lowered himself to one knee, his gaze transfixed on the chest.
"Eastern Island Nations, can't say which one exactly, but it hails from there," Rasmus declared.
James's eyes widened. "All the way from there?"
"Yeah, but us dwarfs have a knack for deciphering metal. Trust me, whatever lies within this chest is going to be exceptional."
Rasmus unfastened his hammer from his belt, delivering a solid blow to the decaying lock, causing it to shatter effortlessly.
Their eyes widened as the treasure unfolded before them, a singular bounty that captured their attention. A sly smirk crept upon Rasmus's face. "This is a fine piece," he remarked. "Exquisite craftsmanship, might have been fashioned for a warrior general of royal lineage."
Dozia cradled it in both hands, inspecting it closely. A subtle grimace formed on her face as she ran her fingers along the edge. "...and it possesses a remarkable sharpness. How can it remain so pristine after all these decades? Its durability speaks volumes."
Dozia felt the temptation to claim the weapon for herself, but she resisted the urge. Slowly, she shook her head, returning it to the crate. She knew precisely how to brighten Oliver's spirits.
"This is for Oliver, he deserves it," she declared.
Thomas, Rena, and Rasmus nodded in agreement. Dozia's gaze swept through the crowd until she found her target. "You, Joseph," she called out.
Joseph extricated himself from the throng, his eyes mirroring Rasmus's enthusiasm as he beheld the heap of equipment. But it was Dozia who greeted him with a smile. "Joseph, how skilled are you in craftsmanship?"
"Pretty good... if I may say so myself."
She smirked. "Alright, then I have a task for you and Rasmus," she revealed. "Construct a scabbard for Oliver's blade. Rasmus will provide you with the precise measurements, but make sure it's completed by tonight."
"Tonight?" he echoed, a tinge of hesitation in his voice. "But..."
"Don't you want to express your gratitude to Oliver for welcoming you into the tribe?"
He sighed, acquiescing to her request. Nodding, Joseph watched as Dozia's smirk illuminated her face. She strolled away, attuned to the silent deliberation of the scabbard that would be crafted for Oliver. Because... after all, what boy didn't cherish a sword?