#4 The Tomb of King Düm

Rush was unhappy. This being a relative state of being, given that Rushan Al Farooq wasn’t a happy man in general, but perhaps now; more so. In contrast to his usual malaise of unhappiness, he was unhappier.

There were a few factors which contributed to his unhappiness. For one, Rush did not like the heat. He did not like the cold either, nor temperate weather. In fact, weather was just a miss for Rush. The Lyzarin’ja Desert was hot, and Rush was unhappy having to deal with the heat. Moreover, Rush wasn’t keen on his native Lyzarin’ja. He had left long ago and sworn not to come back here, but over the span of twenty odd years following his exit as a guard at Gauntlet he’d been made to carve out exceptions for the vow over and over, till little beyond Copper Canyon remained. Rush swore he would never go back to Copper Canyon, which to him; felt like he was still living up to his expectations. Finally, Rush did not like his son’s boyfriend. Of course, Levi Smoggon wasn’t really Farid’s boyfriend – he was far too squirrelly a creature to commit, but they spent a lot of time together. Holding hands. Looking at each other. Not looking. It was a lot.

Now standing at the top of a half wall, looking down onto the bazaar at Shadiq he did his best not to look as though he was spying on the boy. The half orc had been traveling with them for some time, so it would seem natural for him to want to stretch his legs, but Rushan didn’t trust him. Having two timed his son once, he was bound to do it again, and when he was caught in the act Rush would take action. He wasn’t sure what action precisely, given that he also vowed not to interfere in Farid’s personal life so long as his safety was assured, but feeling vindicated would be a good start.

Just watching him shop; barter a little with a merchant here, sell a little there, made Rush anxious. He did not have a job. Prior to joining their little group he’d been a vampire thrall, which had no sort of retirement package and no way to support a family. Since joining the carnival he’d also shirked any and all work – it frustrated Rush to no end that his boy would pick someone like this; this slovenly, lazy, disloyal young man. There were plenty of nice young men in the Imaginarium who would meet with Rush’s approval more, who would be worthy of his son – in fact, almost nobody in the Imaginarium would be less well suited…

Rush found himself corrected as he rounded a corner to hear “… foot goes all the way right up your ass. I’m so tired of all this bullshit, I spent all that time and money – a lot of time and a lot of money, getting a hold of a truffle finding pig so we’d have truffles to make sunscreen and no one is wearing sunscreen. Why aren’t you wearing sunscreen? Seriously guys, good skin health is no joke. Oh hi Rush, do you want to buy some sunscreen?” The little blue potion master asked, looking up at Rush who stood nearly a full foot taller than him.

“I do not.” Rush cooed, counting his blessings; at least Farid hadn’t chosen this creature.

“This doesn’t make any sense.” He blustered to himself, or was it to the pig? Little Oliver was a pink boar with friendly eyes and a perfectly curled tail. He and he alone, seemed willing to hear Gulliver out. “It’s like you guys don’t give a shit about your health! I’m telling you, once we’ve been here a few weeks that tune is gonna change. The flaking and peeling is a nightmare.” He applied more sunscreen as he spoke, replacing his rank body odor with a pungent plum smell.

Blast, Rush had lost track of Levi. Gulliver Weighs was a sort of attention sponge, just letting him speak was enough to hypnotize even the strongest will. Pushing him out of the way, Rush continued down the wall.

“Hey, wait a second! We aren’t done here! You and I need to talk about what we’re going to do about your skin!”

“There is nothing wrong with my skin.”

“Yeah there is! It’s absorbing ultraviolet rays from the sun. If you don’t give it the protection that it needs you’ll end up getting sun burn, or worse; skin cancer! There’s loads of things that can go wrong with skin care if –”

“I am passed the age of caring about my appearance, Master Weighs.” He was also past the point of caring about anything Gulliver said, but the plum smelling wizard was keeping pace with his deliberate creep. “It would be best if you peddle your wares to someone else.”

Not one to give up on a sale, Gulliver kept pace. “Ok, maybe not you. You’re a dumb old man set in his dumb old ways, and I can respect that.” He said very disrespectfully. “But maybe this isn’t about you and your weird commitment to wrinkles and blotches, what if your son wanted to keep his skin safe?”

“Farid’s business is his own.” Rushan said in what may have been the most virtuoso demonstration of cognitive dissidence yet seen in this tale.

Gulliver sighed. “I can’t try to sell directly to Farid because he’s super busy, and every time I try to talk to him or Ediniira they’re just like ‘we’re busy doing our secret training’ bull, which is really stupid because they’re out in the sun and it’s like – that’s just exactly the kind of outdoor physical activity which is going to lead to the eventual medical issues I’ve been trying so hard to –”

“What.” Not a question; Rush growled.

“Um.” That actually did get Gulliver to stop, like a stalling motor he ran over the same syllabic sound for a few seconds before repeating “that’s just exactly the kind of outdoor physical activity which is going to lead to the eventual medical issues I’ve been trying so hard to” in the exact same tone and cadence he’d used before.

“The other part.”

“They’re like ‘we’re busy doing our secret training’ bull.”

“Yes, that.” Rush was angry. Though not at Gulliver, his anger was aimed toward the silver eyed wizard like a glass shard burning an ant with sunlight. “Elaborate.”

“Um, well; it wouldn’t be much of a ‘secret training’ BS if they were being open about it, but you know how Ediniira practices that weird fighting style that she calls ‘martial arts’.” He made little air quotes when he said that. “I think she thought that Farid needed to know how to fights so that he could fight if she wants to fight so she’s training him to fight the way that she fights, which I have to say; seems like a bad idea because she doesn’t really seem to know what she’s doing. Not that I know how to fight, but at least –”

Having extracted the information that he was looking for, Rush moved on without so much as a word. Gulliver’s eyes tracked as he walked away, but reader; Gulliver did not stop talking.

Like a man on a mission, Rush cut through the bazaar. He was like a sardine swimming in a school he’d long since forgotten, taking currents that his muscle memory knew better than his waking mind. For all the growth, the explosions of opulence, the colonization of the Claimers: Shadiq was the same town it’d always been and try as he might to change it; Rush was the same man. Though Rush did his best to give Farid a sense of freedom and autonomy, the boy had just entered manhood, afterall; there were barriers to his independence. Sacred walls erected for the boy’s protection, and one of them (the tallest by far) was that Farid would not grow up to be like him. He would not be a man of violence.

Across the bazaar in a sunny open plaza, Ediniira Skye was sparring with Farid. She stood in a fighter’s stance – ill formed, sloppy. Extending a hand to Rush’s son, she said “That was really good Farid! You just need to be faster!”

On his knees, Farid spat out some blood (human blood, despite his blue skin) and stood. “Can you go a little easy, Edi? That was really hard.”

“Where’s the fun in that!” She beamed before rocketing herself forward – lunging over the boy she dealt a couple quick jabs, flurried here, guarded there; before sweeping the leg and returning Farid’s limp frame to the mudbrick cobbles. Rush raised an eyebrow, his first facial movement of the day; Ediniira was going easy on him.

“What is the meaning of this?” Rush entered the scene, putting every ounce of menace he could muster into that tone which, for him, bought the octave down to a diabolic pitch.

Helping Farid to his feet, Ediniira offered a foolish grin. “Oh gee Rush, Farid and I were just sparring and –”

“What did I tell you.” Also not a question, though it included the inquisitive word ‘what.’ It was a command.

Farid’s glowing eyes dimmed, flicking down so he wouldn’t have to meet his father’s very human black marble irises. “You said…” He whimpered. “You said not to do that.”

“That is right.” Rush turned his eyes, not his whole body, or even his head; just the eyes flicked to Ediniira. Brown so deep they could be massive pupils, they reflected the Lyzarin’ja sun like an angry fire. “And what did I say to you?”

“I dunno, lots of stuff!” Ediniira scratched the back of her head, a little too cute. Rush could never tell if she was really this dense, or if it was an act. If it were the former he’d made a foolish choice bringing this girl into his home, and if it was the latter; he’d made a foolish choice bringing this girl into his home. Seeming to realize that that wasn’t the right answer, she changed tac. “Please, Rush! We were just play fighting! What’s wrong with Farid and I getting a bit of practice!”

“What is wrong is that I say it is wrong.” Rush lied, there was a deeper reason, but explaining the intimacies of his life with this little girl would be a fruitless effort. “You will cease this foolishness.”

Ediniira pouted, Farid still couldn’t meet his eye.

“Do I make myself clear?”

“Y-yeah Rush.”

“Crystal.”

Rushan knelt. Bringing his lofty frame down to meet his son on eye level, his face softened – a subtle change in expression, so small that only one who’d known Rush his whole life could’ve read it. “My boy, you know why I do this. Do not allow this hate to fester, simply let this be.”

Standing alone in the little caravan that he and Farid had shared since the boy was old enough to walk, Rush did sigh. It wasn’t a large space, perhaps fifteen foot long and eight deep. It was divided by curtains into three sections – his area was spartan, unadorned with a simple cot and a stand for his armour. Rush’s scimitar had a nice little home above the bed, a plaque from which it could be hung though in the past twenty years it’d almost never rested – instead hanging from his hip. A constant reminder of the sort of man he was. Farid’s half of the wagon was diametrically opposed – paintings and poems hung from the walls, the boy had an artist’s soul and Rush’s heart murmured whenever he looked at that. He had studied war and bloodshed so that his son might learn to love poetry and art. To Rush, the lines on the papers were just words – arranged in a confusing way, but Farid seemed to understand their hidden depths. He was so much like his mother, sometimes it was hard for Rush to look at him.

In the central chamber, the one which segregated his ‘room’ from Farid’s was a little table where they shared meals, and on that table was an unassuming oil lamp. Lifting it now, Rush felt the cold of its copper skin kiss his calloused flesh. It had been panel beaten into shape centuries beyond counting past, with a few sigils etched into its metal surface. The lamp could not be opened, at least; not by him. Not again. “Soon, Wassatai.” This lamp was his most prized possession, though he was not its owner. He merely kept it.

A knock on the door awakened Rush from his thoughts, opening the portal he saw a towering man on the far side. Twig. The bugbear was grim, with a firm set jaw. Though the wagon was a few feet off the ground, and Rushan was not a short man by any stretch; Twig still looked down at him from his place on the desert sand. Twig’s jaw locked. “Hmm.” He said, as if to mean that man Goodman has misled us in our purpose for coming into the desert, the truth of it was fraught with complexities and double meaning.

Rush shook his head, a gesture which was taken to mean we should have seen this coming, though I somehow did not anticipate it. What is our journey’s true purpose?

Hooking his jaw leftward a little, toward the Claimerium, Twig seemed to communicate that Goodman was secretly in league with the Claimers, agreeing to send a small band of Imaginarium fighters into the deep desert seeking an ancient tomb – though the details remain opaque it seems as though this is a quest of some difficulty and importance.

A soft laugh escaped Rush’s lips, in this way he expressed that it was about time something happened. I have long since hated my native Shadiq, and would take any excuse to leave it. I know that you have been overtaxed already and would happily take on the burden of leading this expedition.

Twig’s facial muscles relaxed, almost imperceptibly. Without a doubt, he meant I am grateful for this gesture and will take you up on it. If you make your way to the Claimarium where our sham of a carnival is being erected you will find Goodman and can learn the details.

Rush nodded. There was no further meaning.

Some would call Shadiq ‘the jewel of the desert,’ though the pseudonym misunderstood both Lyzarin’ja as well as Shadiq. The desert was made up of billions and billions of jewels – clear white sand which spread as far as the eye could see. To call Shadiq the singular jewel implied it was greater than the rest, though in reality; it was just another grain of irritating, hot, white sand among so many more. It would erode and shift like the rest and, one day, would be replaced by another ‘jewel.’

That said, if Shadiq were the jewel, then the Claimarium was its shimmer. A mighty block of sandstone, towering over the typically one story ghettos that made up outer Shadiq, it was adorned with red and yellow portraits of heroes long past – the Gauntleteers, Camilla Groust, Isabella Markowski. Great adventurers who’d gone off to foreign lands in search of treasure, all for the accumulation of the elite few – the wizard behind his emerald city which horded the wealth of the ancient world below the shifting sands. Though the portraits were bold, towering over and judging down at Rush as he entered the lobby, the truth behind each was a belaying hypocrisy. The Gauntleteers had perished in the Gnarled Lands, Groust was lost in Ivorox seeking the legendary city of Plo, and Isabella… well, she had suffered a fate worse than death and now plagued Cadfael as a vampire lord.

Madam Carpenter had already inflicted a lot of her own personal flavour on the interior – what had been the grand assembly hall for the Claimers was now overrun with carny folk. Atlantica sang up and down her scales, Astrid focused her planetarium, Egon Ward bullied some kids who’d dropped one of his scrolls. A massive canvas sign hung from the ceiling: ‘For one night and one night only: Madam Carpenter’s Imaginarium.’ Poor Twig scurried around just out of sight; no doubt he’d been assigned to single handily secure the building. He and Rush had gotten close quickly this way, as the only true fighting men in the troop; though while Rush was on his way down towards retirement, it seemed Twig had yet to reach his prime.

On the far side of the room, Rush spied Farid and his… they were not boyfriends yet. He reassured himself. In fact, it seemed like Farid was entranced by the third young man they were talking to. Another Air Genasi with an exotic garb, even Rush recognized Ashire from the poster in his son’s room. Good. A celebrity crush was just the sort of thing he’d need to get over Levi after Rush had killed him – no. Bad. There would be no killing boys just because they were a bad match for his son; Levi just needed to give him another reason.

“Oh, Rushan, you’re here.” Madam Carpenter’s voice drew him in, and so Rush walked toward her. She was standing with a lizard man – Surhk? No, this was Ephron Kleft, leader of the Claimers and decidedly more civilized than the rest of his ilk. He wore a nice purple suit that clashed in all the right ways with his orange scales. “This is Ephron Kleft, leader of the Claimers.” Madam Carpenter filled in, and Rush pretended not to have known that before.

“I say, it is a privilege to make your acquaintance Mr Al Farooq.” Ephron’s accent was northern Verayian suggesting Bleagrity education. The pips on his lapel agreed, though Rush wasn’t able to read them. He had three, however; which seemed like it should be impressive. “Your Goodman Gray speaks ever so highly of you, particularly in regards to your prowess with the sword.” The lizard eyes flicked to the hilt of his scimitar – fear, perhaps he was still limited to the three emotions Surhk experienced after all. “Now you’ll forgive all the cloak and dagger, but we find ourselves in a bit of a jam. See there’s this dashed nonsense about a prophecy which needs to be sorted. One of our favoured dig sites, the tomb of an ancient Illithid king who ruled over the region in millennia passed, a King Dümahtmëbrö – or more succinctly ‘King Düm’ – is prophesied to open every thousand years during the conjunction of the lunar spheres with their deep multiverse counterparts and… and I can already tell this is beyond you.” It was not beyond Rush, he simply remained silent and inexpressive. “The point is that the tomb will be open for the first time in ten thousand years, offering us the opportunity to really learn about the ancient Illithids and the culture which was here prior to ours! It is essential that you pull together a team of crack adventurers who will guide our team of expert Claimers into the tomb, protect them from traps and potential competition, and ensure their safety.”

“Competition?” Rush asked.

The lizard man’s eye blinked sideways, “Y-yes, well the problem with a prophesied opening of an ancient tomb is that its somewhat predictable. We’ve done our best to spread misinformation about when the tomb will open, for how long it will remain open, but despite our best efforts there is only so much we can do. Likely you will encounter opposing expeditions and may have to… compete with them.” Rush did not break eye contact, further boring into Ephron’s soul. He blinked again and continued “Our biggest concern are the goblins – a small desert band out of Copper Canyon have been amassed under the leadership of King Vosguard.” The name was new to Rush, who’d had dealings with Charlotte the Avaricious when she previously held the throne. Apparently, her rein was not as immortal as she’d claimed back then. “Secondarily, we’ve been running afoul of some anarchists in Shadiq lately. They call themselves the Shadow Prowlers and seem interested in nothing but the acquisition of our rightfully appropriated artifacts.” He glanced around the chamber with greedy eyes, as though he expected to see a Shadow Prowler prowling in the shadows this very instant. “There is…” He lowered his voice. “An artifact of particular interest to them rumoured to be in the tomb. One of particular interest to the Claimers also. It would be just like them to follow you in and swipe it right from under your very nose, so be sure to keep your nose clean.” He mashed together the conflicting phrases with a confidence that granted him permission to do so. “Do you have any other questions?”

“One.” Rush did not alter his expression or body language in any way. “If this is so important, why do you not have a team of experts hired on?”

“Well we do.” Ephron cut in, a little too excited. “In addition to your unusually unique experience with ancient world structures, what with your time served at Gauntlet and all, we have drawn in a ranger by the name of Edith Waywander to help. She is said to be a master of exploring the deep desert, knowing the ways of sand like none other. She’ll get you where you’re going safely and… now I will admit I am not familiar with the crew who travel with the Imaginarium, but your Mr Gray claims they’re all winners. Peerless warriors, two Blaegrity scholars, a buke – really, I was surprised to hear of such a decorated band simply guarding a little carnival, but Mr Gray made such a compelling sales pitch that I am inclined to believe in your prowess. I leave it up to you and Madam Carpenter to sort out the details.” Ephron turned around immediately to be faced with Ba’Tok – the former lizard leaping out of his skin at the sight of the latter.

Though Rush did not react or comment in any way, he understood the words Ba’Tok hissed in the Surhk tongue which loosely translated to “You have abandoned the ways of the trinity, you are a disgrace to the Surhk.”

Before he could decide whether he’d need to step in, the suit clad lizard folk stood up straight and responded with “The Surhk adapt to their surroundings, the hunt is more sophisticated, but I am still a hunter.”

That genuinely seemed to take Ba’Tok aback, as the lizardman did not respond. Ephron walked passed him like that closed the matter, and Rush was beginning to understand just how screwed they were.

“Are you beginning to understand just how screwed we are?” Madam Carpenter asked, drawing his attention back to the present. “Goodman seems to have oversold our profile somewhat to the Claimers which puts us between a bit of a rock and a hard place. Either we can turn down the job and be financially boned six ways to Sunday, or we draw straws to see who gets killed this week.”

“They will not die if they are capable.” Rush said with none of the self-assuredness his tone suggested. “I see why you called me. You wish to assemble the party most likely to succeed.”

“You’ve got it in one.”

“And if I told you no such party was possible?”

“Then I’’d tell you to lie.” She put bluntly. “Now it may feel like we need to succeed, but I’m not even asking you too do that. I’m just asking you to fail with enough grace to keep this client in future.”

Rush nodded. “Very well, we should eliminate anyone who poses a risk to our success and work from there.” In his mind, Rush realized that eliminated almost anyone from the adventure. “I would bring Twig.”

“Out of the question.” Carpenter snapped. “He’s the only person I trust with security apart from you, and you’re going. No, you can have Clarice –”

Rush cut her off. “I will take Ba’Tok.” He glanced over at the lizardman who was already planning to stalk Ephron further. “If only to keep him away from that one.”

“Good thinking. You should take a wizard too – lord knows we’ve got them coming out of our ears. Stuck up little egoists, I wouldn’t mind losing a few of them in the desert.”

Scanning the assembled Imaginarium, Rush was filled with doubt. Egon Ward shrieked at another little boy for bringing him cold tea, despite Lyzarin’ja tea being traditionally served cold. Astrid Saturnis was next to her observatory trying to convince people the show wasn’t worth their time. Zora Astria had conjured a hand from thin air to pick Hentaur’s pocket (but how does a Centaur wear pants, reader; you must decide) – turning back to Madam Carpenter, Rush cocked his head. “I do not require a spellcaster.”

Gulliver Weighs, Zora Astria, and Vaughn Ashford all walked three abreast into the desert. Already the trio of spellslingers was holding up the little procession of Claimers, already Rush wished he’d stood his ground. By this point, Gulliver’s blue skin was almost green with sunscreen. “Seriously you guys, there’s no reason for you to be so stubborn about this! If you just let me put some sunscreen on you then you won’t have to worry about the sun, which we should really be screening ourselves from.”

“Hard pass.” Zora took a long drag from a cigarette. Her skin was a patchwork of scales which neatly reflected the sun’s light, further; she was cold blooded so ‘too much sun’ was a good thing for her. “You good, Vaughn?” She handed him a cigg.

“I want rougher skin.” He muttered through the embarrassment. Despite his adult frame, Vaughn had a decidedly childish look to him which conflicted with otherwise world weary soul. “Besides, I could’ve made some with aloe vera. Grows everywhere ‘round here.”

That seemed to aggravate Gulliver. “Do you mean to tell me that you’d just slap some pointless plant juice on your skin, when you could have hand crafted magical elixir? You know the two aren’t one for one, this has the same effect as being inside a fucking building but you think that just a little green slime would protect you. I spent four hours optimizing the formula, and you’re gonna just go with the midwife solution?”

Zora chuckled, but Vaughn responded like it was a valid line of questioning. “Simplest solutions usually the best. Why waste time on magic pigs and rare ingredients when some bullshit plant juice works the same?” He picked a stem of aloe vera and rubbed it on his cheek. “See? Just as good.”

“Ok, for one, go fuck yourself – you know, or at least I would assume you would know, that the sun reduction rate for aloe is like half of what I can give you, and that assumes optimal circumstances and ripeness, but for two Oliver isn’t a magical pig. He’s a regular human pig just like you or me and –”

“I’m half elf.” Rush couldn’t tell if Vaughn was lying just to wined Gulliver up further, or if he was just being honest; but either way it got a laugh out of him. A laugh, for Rush, was actually just a sharp exhale through the nostrils which went totally unnoticed by the insular arcane trio. This was going to be a long few days.

There were a total of eight wagons being pulled along the desert sands – they travelled on sleds to make cutting through the dunes easier and were pulled by overgrown reptilian creatures which may have seemed fantastical to anyone not used to Lyzarin’ja. The column was led by the previously mentioned Edith Waywander – a dark skinned elf who seemed bored by everything. “Sand worm.” She’d say, pointing off to one direction like you might indicate a mountain range. Naturally, the rest of the group paniced, shuffling to stillness so as to avoid alerting the beast, but Edith would just reach into her pouch and pop a berry. She had a seemingly unending number of the odd little purple fruits, they also seemed like the only thing she ever ate even at meal times.

Characteristically, Ba’Tok did not have much to say on the journey. Though Rush understood the Surhk dialect, he was less equipped to actually speak it and so did not offer much in the way of conversation to the creature. That said, Ba’Tok seemed to have a natural understanding of tactics and his roll – favouring the opposite side of the column to Rush so as to provide maximum security. It also seemed as though the lizardman slept in shifts opposed to Rush, that; or he did not sleep at all.

It had been some time since Rush was a caravan guard trekking through the high desert, and he’d forgotten just how much time alone with your thoughts it provided. On the empty nights, Rush often found himself staring out across the unending rolls of sand thinking of times long past. When his eyes weren’t so faded from the sun, his muscles were looser, and his steel wool beard was a thick black bush; things were not all that different back then, and yet; things weren’t remotely the same.

As a young man from the outer towns of the desert, Rush had been taught early that violence was the only way ahead for one such as him. He’d gotten exceedingly good at ending the lives of others, like everything else in the desert only the strongest survived. It was a time of high adventure and excess, some things he wasn’t proud of happened, but also; it was where his life had discovered true purpose. It was on one of these adventures that he’d met Wassatai.

The story went that he’d been contracted by a band of miscreants called the Shadow Prowlers to steal an artifact from the Claimers. Their conflict went back decades, and at the time; it had just seemed like easy money. The night was much like this one, unexpectedly cold and still, as the crisp desert air blew a thin haze of brilliant starlight down a sandswept mesa. In those days, Rush had favoured Fu Tao – Cefeng hooked blades that required a more brutal style. In those days, Rush had been called the Desert Storm by his enemies.

From his position atop the plateau he saw a small caravan pushing through the sands by starlight. They were in a hurry to cross the great divide because they carried precious cargo, in one of the many dig sights up in northern Stromppish they’d found something (an artifact from the Empire that Came Before) which apparently needed to be stored in the Claimarium as soon as possible. To his left and to his right, Rush was accompanied by four Shadow Prowlers. He was the only one here who wasn’t part of their band, but they needed him. They needed the Desert Storm. Given that in those days Rush only served himself, he had paid little attention as they’d explained their philosophies – their high agendas and goals. It seemed like they were just another band of misfit adventurers looking for something they shouldn’t have had.

Alone across the top of the mesa they stood, silhouetted against the moon. For a moment they were five individuals in the night, but at a cry from their leader the five lowered Shade masks over their faces. Gone were the individuals before, and in their place; stood Shade. Rushan Al Farooq drew his Fu Tao and leapt.

There were three wagons and five Shades – two to the front wagon, two to the back, and Rush would take the middle. Their agreement was to strike swiftly, brutally; take whatever cargo was being stored and identify which was the decoy later. Rush landed his kneecap on one of the Claimer’s skulls – slamming his head into the side of the cart and splintering his jaw.

There were three others, all of whom noticed him too late. A hook came up, gripping the second Claimer through the mouth, Rush yanked; taking the man’s face with him. He spun around and leapt back to avoid a jet of magical fire. Mages were all the same. They thought that their powers were unknowable and absolute, but a quick kick and the man took a face full of sand. He couldn’t cast without his eyes, and so; was helpless.

Rush turned to face the final man. A massive orc warrior with a hammer bigger than Rush’s whole body, but he was too slow. The creature only got one swing before Rush had got to him – leaping into the air he embedded a hook into either side of the orc’s neck and yanked. Gallons of hot red blood sprayed on Rush’s Shade mask, the massive creature clutched at his neck desperate to save fluids but the thirsty desert sucked it up. The orc struggled under the moonlight as more of his blood escaped him.

Rush didn’t need to kill the wizard, but he also had no reason not to. A quick kick to invert the knee, a hook to the back of the neck, and a tug reduced the gibbering Claimer to ground meat. At last, there was nothing between Rush and his prize.

Entering the wagon, Rush was confronted with what should have been a sophisticated network of magical traps and puzzles – intended to delay potential thieves, but alas; Rush had killed the wizard. All but the most potent forms of magic are contingent on the continued survival of their caster, and so Rush was treated to an impotent light show of dying sparks as he effortlessly crossed to the little metal case. It also seemed inscribed in runes that indicated an arcane lock which would be unopenable, though the skin of the container itself lacked any such protection and was splintered easily enough with a quick hook.

Reaching his hands into the dark ruin of a magical box, Rush felt something which he did not expect. He knew what this was and could barely believe his good fortune. Lifting his hands out, a glint of moonlight kissed that supple outline of the Djinn’s lamp. This was the genuine article, it had to be. Even feeling it now, Rush could sense the dominating power held within. The enslaved Djinn would grant three wishes to whomever rubbed this lamp, it would do anything.

In his later years Rush developed a sense of responsibility and honour but when he was younger that trait was sorely lacking. These ideolog Shadow Prowlers no doubt had a noble purpose intended for the Djinn, but Rush was the Desert Storm. Like his eponymous force of nature, he disappeared out into the desert as fast as he’d come – genie lamp in hand.

Though it may seem foolish now, Rush actually took several days to build up the nerve to conjure the Djinn. Despite her being magically enslaved by him, he was terrified somehow that she may judge his shabbiness. On the first night, Rushan Al Farooq took a bath. He was sure to spend extra time cleaning his beard which had been matted with blood and sweat from the battle. After his bath, Rush sat in the little apartment he’d been squatting in for hours just staring at the lamp, but could not build up the nerve.

On the second night, Rush had gone into the Bazaar at Shadiq. He spent the better part of the day shopping for fine clothes and garb, desperate to appear as the kind of person worthy of a genie’s wishes he had spent much of his savings on fine clothes and silks. That night he sat in the shabby apartment again, dressed up to the nines he stared at the lamp for some hours before falling asleep again.

On the third and final night, Rush decided that he would need to summon the Djinn in a palace worthy of such a creature. Not being a wealthy man and, therefore, having no access to a fine palace, Rush spent much of the third day seeking a publicly accessible building which would appear affluent enough for the genie. He eventually settled on the Claimarium – ironically the place where the Djinn was destined to end up would be where he would summon it, climbing to the highest level of the library he was able to summon her in relative privacy.

The touch of the cold copper lamp felt different this time, as he knew the three rubs would bring the genie out. This was no casual, unintentional touch like before. This was a call into the dark void of ancient magics beyond his ken, and the call was answered by a beautiful woman.

Emerging from the lamp in a cloud of stardust and purple smoke was none other than the most beautiful woman Rush had ever seen. Though he did not know it then, “I am the Djinn Wassatai” had his son’s face, or he had hers. Aside from his slightly broader jaw, the pair were nearly identical. It was this beauty which drew Rush to the genie when he first saw her, but it was also what made it so hard for him to look at his son. Her eyes were almond shaped, blue within glowing blue that seemed to glitter and shine when she smiled. Her eyebrows were fine lines that arched ever so slightly above, but her most defining feature were those lips – thick and beautiful, wide as they spread into an all too human smile. Her skin was a shimmering blue that seemed to glitter in the darkness. “Is there… a reason you’ve chosen to summon me to the Claimarium?” She instantly seemed to recognize her surroundings and laughed.

The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

Rush blushed. “I am the Desert Storm, Rushan Al Farooq.” It may be difficult to picture a man like Rushan Al Farooq, the Desert Storm stammering and blushing through his own name, but that was exactly what had happened. Something about this woman, this celestial being of unknowable beauty and perfection, had cast a spell on Rush.

She looked him up and down, her eyes glittering with humour. “Of that I have no doubt, Rushan Al Farooq the Desert Storm.” Turning her head to the window, she took in the city’s skyline. “Shadiq certainly has spread out since I last saw it, still beautiful as ever.” She tutted. “I take it you have called me here to make your first wish – you get three, but there are some rules. Would you like me to lay them out?” She didn’t wait for him to answer. “First, you may not make any wish that subverts the will of another – people will do what they will do and it is not within my power to change that. Second, you may not wish to raise the dead if their souls are owned by another. Devils, demons, and celestial folk get frustrated when we try to meddle in their affairs so we ask that you avoid those sorts of wishes altogether. Third, you may not –”

“So I cannot wish for you to love me?” Rush asked, cutting her off.

The genie Wassatai laughed. “Well, no; at least I don’t think so. You may not interfere in the will of others, but as a Djinn I am already your slave. Would you like to wish and find out?”

Rush thought. “No.” He considered carefully before saying. “Instead, I wish for the chance to win your love.”

“Oh do you now?” Wassatai blushed, though for her it made her skin turn a vibrant purple shade and glitter more intensely. “Well, I suppose that doesn’t violate the rule, but you realize… even if you are successful you’re a mortal and I am not. I could never really love one such as you, because of how temporary it will be.”

“Then you should have no fear in granting my wish.” Rush said. “If you are so sure you will not love me, you risk nothing.”

“This is true, and so…” There was a moment as the magic took effect. “I have granted your wish. You may try.”

And reader, try he did. It would take Rush a little over a year, but he was successful in wooing the beautiful genie Wassatai. He’d loved her and been loved in return, now staring across the desert as the sun rose – some twenty years later, Rush felt a little mist come to his eye. That was so long ago, he thought; but he still loved Wassatai like it was yesterday. Peaking rays of light scratched at a structure in the far distance, what Rush knew to be the Tomb of King Düm. They’d made it.

“The Tomb of King Düm.” Edith said with the same level of interest she’d shown in the sand worm, just popping another berry into her maw.

“Oh my, this is simply marvellous!” One of the Claimers took a step forward, this was Feryse Lockheart. A mousy girl who’d done little to register on Rush in the week leading up to this moment, she spoke from under piles of scrolls and tomes. Apparently, she was the Claimer Archivist who’s job was to note and catalogue the findings of the more seasoned adventurers. “We’re forty minutes early, this gives us even more time to penetrate the structure!”

“Gross.” Zora flicked her cigarette, then looked to Rush. “We going in?”

“Yes.” He responded, not looking at her. One hand rested on his scimitar while the other shielded aging eyes from the sun. Something was off. The Tomb of King Düm was a freestanding structure, a perfect cube of white sandstone emerging from yellowish deep desert. Intricate carvings on its exterior seemed to tell a story none living could recall, with two Illithid standing on either side of what, presumably, would be the door. An Illithid, for the uninitiated, is a creature who looks like a man with his head shoved down an octopus’s throat (which is located under the whole tentacle situation). In all his travels, Rush had never encountered an Illithid before – they were supposed to have ruled over the desert at some point in ancient history, though; now made their homes deep in the underdark as they plotted… whatever.

The little train of wagons began to work their way down the bluff, setting up in the shade cast by whoever King Düm was. It was a little before high noon so his shadow wasn’t especially imposing, however; they had the effect of penning in the expedition. One of the first things to go up was a little tent, close by to the tomb’s entrance. What made up the core of the Claimers – led by a wizard Rush had never met, a pair of explorers he didn’t care for, an archaeologist he didn’t remember, with Feryse to write it all down: and he only remembered her name because they used it like a slur. “Feryse, write down –” “Feryse, jot a note about –” “Feryse, acquisition the following –” It was what passed for entertainment this far into the desert, these Claimers weren’t exactly new to pillaging ancient ruins they had no claim to. In fact, they’d distilled it down to a science.

Let them, Rush thought as he circled the camp aimlessly. Sooner or later, they would draw up their plans and then the group of Imaginarium adventures would be called into the pit to risk life and limb against its many traps and puzzles. God, Rush hated ancient tombs. Whoever built them always thought they were so clever, building puzzles and riddles for someone they’d never meet to solve. He had no head for puzzles, an argument Madam Carpenter had wielded against him for the need of wizards. Wizard, singular. Vaughn was an alchemist and Zora… well, Twig had said she was a warlock, which made Rush uneasy. Pact magic was the most fraught with difficulty, and a warlock was loyal to their patron first – not the party. If it came down to it, he would not be able to trust her.

Rounding the edge of a wagon being set up again, Rush saw her talking to Ba’Tok and Vaughn. “I do not understand.” Ba’Tok said, clearly the pair were making fun of him, though Rush doubted they could read the subtleties of Surhk tone. As a race Surhk were the most alien humanoids, but that shouldn’t be mistaken for stupidity. “How can this be so?”

“Its math.” Vaughn said, accompanying his claim with a hand gesture. “I’m taller than you, its just bad perspective that makes you think I’m not.” Vaughn was rocking a healthy 5’8, while the Surhk was titanic in proportion.

“I want no part of this.” Zora laughed, turning away. Clearly amused, she did want part of this.

“This does not make sense.” Ba’Tok was all but scratching his head, a gesture never learned in the Conclave. “You make claims which do not align with what I see.”

“They figured out he doesn’t know what a lie is.” Gulliver explained helpfully, to Rush who wasn’t interested. “It started with something small a couple days ago, but now they’re just pushing it as far as it’ll go.”

“It’s sadistic.” Rush turned up his nose, watching the noble creature scrabbling for explanations which were beyond the reach of his reptile brain. Sooner or later, Rush figured, Ba’Tok would figure it out, and then Mr Ashford would suffer the consequences of all his abuse. Until then, it was Rush’s responsibility to bring as many of them out of here alive as humanly possible. A number that would be higher if Ba’Tok didn’t start eating them.

Then he saw it.

The sand was all the same colour, totally homogeneous across the horizon. Exactly an off tea colour between copper and tan made up of a thousand individually, identically shaded grains – except for a few patches. All about four foot by four foot laying against the dune they’d climbed down.

Rush reached up and tapped the red jewel on his turban – a gift from Wassatai (though not one of his wishes), at the touch of his fingers the wind swirled around in the distance and then a literal desert storm was standing before him. It shared his appearance, and more than that; it shared his thoughts. In an instant, the sandstorm was on the faraway dune and drove its gale scimitar into the canvas disguising a hidden goblin. The plume of blood and cry of pain in the Copper Tongue clarified his worst fear. “Ambush!” He called, as dozens of goblins leapt from their places under similar blankets and rushed the Claimers. This would be a massacre.

As a young man, Rush had been the storm. A wall of death, be it his own or the foe in front matter not. Now he was older. His life was needed to protect a young one and he fought differently. In the near distance his clone flew from one goblin to another, a wave of death slicing through the sand and carving away the screaming creatures. Drawing the shield from his back, Rush guarded against a blow and leapt back, the sand was uneasy under his feet giving him precarious footing. In his day, he’d learned to use its subtle shifting to his advantage, but now; it was all he could do to keep the shield between him and three goblins who’d beset him.

One vanished squirming and screaming into Ba’Tok’s maw. With a snapping crunch the crocodile person swallowed the Goblin’s corpse (let’s hope it had become a corpse by this point) whole, before turning to the next and asking “Are you taller than me as well?” Before rending him in two with inhuman strength. Rush took down the third and they stood back-to-back.

“We must defend the Claimers.” He said, turning to see their wagon in particular overrun with the swarm. Individually, they could be formidable; but when they fought as a pack there was little to do.

“If they are unable to defend themselves, they are better as food for the strong.” Ba’Tok answered before barrelling off to eat more goblins.

Frustrated, Rush sent his wind clone to the Claimer’s wagon – for the record, wholly the opposite direction which Ba’Tok had gone. It was faster than a human, especially on the sand; but even so fought with about the same strength as he would. Sprinting next to it, Rush and his clone carved a line through growing ranks of goblins but it wasn’t enough.

Vaughn was leaning up against one of the wagons, crossbow in one hand and flask in the other. He took a pot shot at one of the goblins (which missed, by the way) before letting out a heavy sigh and returning to his flask.

Fixing him with a gaze, Rush growled “Ashford, with me.”

“Eh.” He shrugged, holding up his unloaded crossbow. “I’ve expended about all of my offensive capabilities for one day.”

Before Rush could decide if he should continue undressing Vaughn, Zora came to do it for him. “Stop being such a selfish fucking asshole, if we die so do you!” She flicked her wrist and sent a skittering blast of what can only be described as ‘death magic’ towards some goblins (which hit, by the way; reducing them to jittering black bones). “Stop being lazy and fucking help.”

“Sigh.” Vaughn said the word ‘sigh,’ before reaching into his utility belt to produce some kind of bag which Rush also could not recognize. Reaching in he found what he was looking for, a small trinket and whistled. “Hey, Ba’Tok.”

Goblin part way down his throat, the Surhk turned one eye to face Vaughn.

“Eat this.”

“No.”

“It’ll make you taller than me.”

“Alright.”

Swallowing the small grain of magic something had the effect that Vaughn suggested and then some, causing the Lizardman to swell and expand in size to monstrous proportions. Now Fifteen foot tall, probably nine across Ba’Tok leaned back and let out a bellowing roar which stopped the fight. The goblins who’d been harassing those Claimer wagons turned and realized that this was their new biggest threat, and so; all rushed him.

“Thanks.” Zora said sarcastically; before turning to unload a volley of her arcane bolts on the goblins as they rushed toward Big’Tok. Though he’d already eaten two or three of them, this did little to slow the now gargantuan lizard man’s apatite as he continued to pick up and devour the little goblins as weapons impotently chinked against his neigh impenetrable scales.

Shrugging, Vaughn took another sip from his flask. “That’s all I got.”

Rush did sigh, before taking a step into the fray carving as he went. The Claimer’s wagon no longer menaced; this would be a good opportunity to secure them. On top, Edith was carving out targets with her bow. “Ga’uul, get ‘em!” She yelled, while still sounding totally disengaged, as a tiny drake skittered from under her pouch and coughed up a little plume of fire. Igniting the arrow, it sent a flaming shaft through a stray goblin’s eye. Setting an arrow aimed with such deadly precision on fire was probably overkill, but she kept doing it. “Good boy!”

“Is everyone alright?” Rush asked one of the Claimers, the one called Feryse.

“What darling? Oh yes, we’re doing swimmingly.” The only one still on their feet, the remaining wealthy wizards and antiquarians had done the smart thing and taken cover. Edith picked off the stray ones as they got closer, but even with Rush’s wind warrior holding the line there were still too many. “We had a feeling Vosguard would make a move, its just surprising to see him this early.”

“The new goblin king?”

“Of the week.” She quipped, flirtatiously. “Now, if you’d be a dear and kick some of their asses for us I’d be grateful.”

Then Rush noticed Gulliver. He seemed totally disinterested in the battle, sitting with the Claimers he thumbed through a thick tome with rapped concentration. “Gulliver.” Rush snapped, drawing the wizards attention for literally no time before he went back to turning pages. “Your services are needed.”

“Oh, I see how it is. You think just because there’s a bunch of goblins here, now we get to work together. It’s a shame we didn’t establish this kind of repour sooner – you know, the idea that I would offer magical help and services to you, resolving a threat to life and limb, sooner? Its not like I, in the entire time that I’ve known you, haven’t ever tried to do this before. It’s a shame, I can’t think of one example when I wanted to help you with my magic and you turned me down – the sun screen, this is about the sunscreen.” He said, in the span of a breath, flipping page. Either he’d been reading that whole time, or he was doing a damn good job at pretending.

“What.” For the third time, not a question.

Gulliver sighed, a little melodramatically. “Yell duck.” And then he said something truly fast: the incantation for a spell. Now, reader; you’ve gotten through three of these stories by this point, and in that time the ‘rules’ for magic have been kept vague. This is by intention, as magic itself is a nebulous thing which always changes. It would be pointless to explain what magic is, or how magic works, in the same way that it would be pointless to explain time to someone who lived in a single moment. That said, while magic itself is a chaotic amorphous thing, the practice of magic is not. There are those like Zora who draw their powers from an entity, or Hentaur the Centaur who has a natural affinity for such forces. There’s Vaughn who uses magic to make things which are magic and Rushan who uses magic things he only knows the form of, and not the function.

Gulliver was like none of them. As a wizard, he only could use magic that he understood. This is, by far, the hardest path to magical power as one needs a staggering intellect to follow even the most basic form, far be it the advanced aspects of the craft. To perform magic in this way would be like charting the desert with a toothbrush, and from the state of Gulliver’s teeth he probably hadn’t ever used one. Despite this, when he muttered that incantation (the length of which would fill a couple pages in this book, though he got it out with his characteristic brevity), something happened.

Finishing a complex flourishing gesture with one hand, a plume of light leapt from his fingertips. Arching like red lightning, goblin to goblin, the volt of power did more than just kill them. For each target the spell hit, their skin writhed and boiled. Popping like overcooked steak, their bodies fell to the ground spasming.

Gulliver turned to the next page in his book.

“What the fuck was that!?” Zora screamed, she’d been knocked to the ground and was now covered in Goblin viscera.

Pretending not to care, Vaughn helped her up. “Blue’s a wizard, no big.” Now, Rush had been a study of the human condition for some time. Though he rarely said, there were few who could spot a liar like him, and now he knew; Vaughn was lying. This was, indeed, some big.

“Huh.” Zora said, also aiming for nonchalant disinterest. She lit up a cigg and offered one to Vaughn. “Ba’tok ok?”

From under the sand rose the giant (but only by human standards) Ba’Tok. “I AM THE APEX PREDITOR!” He tore a chunk out of a goblin he’d been holding. Though it seemed that the creature was also cooked by Gulliver’s spell, it did little to affect the taste. That, or Ba’Tok didn’t super care about flavour. “Shall we continue the hunt?”

“No, Ba’Tok.” Rush put in his usual cool way. That had gotten out of hand in just about every way, but Rush took it in stride. Before now, he had no idea how his party stacked up, now he worried their odd combination of unstable egos and raw power would make them a liability. Quietly, he adjusted expectations of who would survive and turned to the Claimers. “We should move to enter the tomb, if Vosguard is like his predecessor the ambush was just a feint.”

“Eh.” Vaughn said, before squatting – clearly out of shape and physically exhausted, he scanned the horizon. “I think that killed all of them.” He thought for a moment before clarifying. “All of the goblins in he desert, maybe more. Smart move for Vossy is to call this tomb a write off.”

“That depends on what’s inside.” Zora put in, turning her attention to Feryse – who hid behind a clip board for a moment, before no doubt realizing that it was a small piece of wood and she was an adult sized elf woman.

“Oh yes, um, right, well…” She scanned the faces in front of her. The least intimidating of whom was capable of kicking her ass six ways to Sunday, before starting. “Would it be too much of an imposition to reveal, at this stage anyway; that we may have not been wholistically honest with you when we hired you on to this little venture?”

“It would.” Rush scowled.

“Right, well um… we did that.” She began. “Legend has it that the artifact within was the source of Dümahtmëbrö’s power.”

“You mean the source of his power wasn’t the fact that he was a brain eating squid?” Vaughn asked.

“No, he was also that, and in no small way would that probably contribute to his… um, he could alter the fabric of reality itself.”

“What.” Four.

“Its true!” She cried, before rephrasing. “Well, it may not be true, but its probably a little true because he ruled for some fifty thousand years which is, and I don’t know if you know this, but longer than Mindflayer’s are supposed to live.”

“Immortality, godlike power, fine.” Zora chucked her cigg. “Maybe you should step back and let the professionals handle this.”

“My sentiments exactly.” She began tidying up her things. “Edith, if you would be so good as to protect us while they’re in there…”

While they’re in there was not as easily said as done, the group would find; when they mounted the steps toward the tombs great brass door to find a riddle printed on its skin.

“God fucking damn it.” Zora said, before taking out her reading glasses and squinting at the lettering. “Does anyone read Ilythid?”

“That’s not Ilythid.” Vaughn said, a bit too matter of factly.

“What makes you so sure?”

“I’d be able to read it.” He shrugged.

Surprised that he was the one who could solve this, Rush slowly traced his finger along the copper writing. Though he wasn’t familiar with the Goblin Language’s written form, it apparently used a lot of the same characters as common. Clearly an older form, but he could still put it together. “Though grain am I, you won’t be fed. My skin is gold, my skin is red. Though I am a wave, you cannot drink. Yet on dry ground, you will sink. What am I?”

“Bad at riddles!?” Vaughn high fived Zora.

“It is a door.” Ba’Tok said, clearly perplexed. “It is a door, with writing on it, therefore; it is a door.” Nothing happened. “You are a door with letters on you, open!” He was clearly getting angry, his favourite of the three emotions he could experience.

“I hate these things, its always the most obvious word play but you can’t ever just work it out. Its like you have to know what the answer was before you –”

“Sand.” Rush finished, cutting Gulliver off as the door slowly pulled open.

The blue skinned wizard turned to Rush and scoffed. “I would’ve figured it out eventually, don’t think that guessing some stupid sand riddle makes you smarter than me or something.”

Not responding, Rush walked into the tomb. Instantly ducking, a pendulum swung from above. He shook his head heavily. It was going to be one of those days.

Though palatial in scale and labyrinthine in size, the Tomb of King Düm was actually pretty boring. Traps like pressure plates dotted the floor so liberally that one could avoid them just for knowing they were there – toss a rock down a hall, poison darts. Toss a rock, bolder. Toss a rock, gelatinous cube drops down and devours granite. The predictability made the peril uninteresting, and what had started as a daring dive into parts unknown and ancient lore quickly opened up into a slog.

Passing time with his most unwise hobby, Vaughn began trying to lie to Ba’Tok. Now telling him that he had to carry all of his packs (a lot of packs, remember Vaughn is an alchemist) because it was the will of Semuanya. That almost did get Rush to step in, if only for Vaughn’s sake. For an alchemist, he’d made a grave miscalculation.

Zora had been chain smoking this whole time, pulling hand rolled cigarette after hand rolled cigarette from her pouch (usually filled with supplies like water or something). Though at first she was very invested in the whole life and death nature of this adventure, she was the first to have the malaise of boredom set in. “Heh, bore-Düm.” She muttered, but other than that was silent for much of the venture. The same could not be said of Gulliver. Though before, his ideas about his and Rush’s relative intelligence was expressed in the form of two, mercifully short sentences, in reality he continued on that (and really any other) topic for the entire time. It was like having a radio set to full blast as he gave a play by play of what people were seeing. For instance “this gelatinous cube is a really good source of protein, actually; and I think if you guys would just give me a couple minutes to fill some vials with it we could potentially make some really neat stuff with it. Being so calorically dense there’s a real good chance we could use it to feed ourselves on the return trip, now I know we packed enough for the trip plus an extra week just in case, and the idea of eating gelatinous cube probably doesn’t sound like the most appetizing thing in the world, but hear me out on this because they actually don’t have any flavour at all which might make it easier to forget about it. This is only if we get stranded in the desert for a protracted period of time, which we probably won’t, but its always good to over prepare since I don’t want to starve out here. Where are you guys going, didn’t you listen to me?”

Eventually, the group emerged onto a massive chasm. This being a stark contrast from the otherwise samey, winding paths which led them to this point and showed what truly could be hidden beneath the great sands. Expanding almost indefinitely in every direction, at least; further than the shadows would let you see the void called in a rasping whisper. It was also rather high up, with a thin bridge connecting the two sides of an otherwise insurmountable gap. Glancing down, Rush made a mental note that he could see the bottom. It would probably be a nasty fall for someone, and so would make a poor short cut.

In front of them, blocking the path was a figure. Seemingly growing from shadowy tendrils, the outline of a crowned Ilythid stood before them. “I am King Dümahtmëbrö, the great ruler of this desert. Who dares enter my final resting place and home to my secret power?”

Though he addressed no one, Gulliver answered. “Gulliver Weighs, Wizard. Can we get this over with, I’m getting kinda bored.”

“I…um… you found my traps and perils… disinteresting? In what way?”

“Look man, we’re not gonna workshop your dungeon for you.” Vaughn said in as nice a tone as he could muster. “Its pretty cliché.”

“Well… um… I’m sorry that you feel that way.” King Dümahtmëbrö, the ancient Illythid Godking who had somehow learned the secrets of life and reality itself, said in dismay. “But now that you’ve proven yourself… worthy.” He didn’t feel very worthy. “You must complete the second trial.”

“Is it more riddles?”

“It’s… It’s more riddles, yes.”

“Nope.” Gulliver teleported behind him and continued walking.

“What? No, that’s not –“ More powerful than an ancient god, a creature who’s voice had once inspired trembling at its very utterance, stammered. “Fine, fuck you.” He flicked his wrist, sending a blast of wind across the bridge and balling Gulliver over. It sucker punched him, and so; he free fell onto the ground below. A sickening thud came up to warn the party that he meant business. “There’s always one.” Turning to the rest, the super being who probably had been used to people respecting him implicitly in life asked. “Now, who’s for some riddles?”

Rush had no time for riddles. Using the second ability of his jewel, he conjured his windform at the bottom of the pit, and blinked. Exchanging places with the simulacrum in the basin; he’d had quite enough of that. Gulliver had fallen face first, Rush checked his pulse. Though the little blue wizard had been knocked out, he’d recover.

Looking down at that face, Rush found himself struck with a pang of nostalgia. Gulliver was at the very dawn of manhood, much like Farid. Paired by their shared azure skin, they could’ve been brothers. Now silent, mercifully still, Gulliver reminded Rushan of his second wish. Long ago, after he and Wassatai had been wed and their child born.

Holding Farid for the first time, Rush looked down on that blue face. He had his father’s features – wide cheeks, thick lips, and a flat nose; though he had his mother’s almond eyes. Even at that age, they glowed. “Does it trouble you that he shares my pallor?” Wassatai asked, in her usual ethereal way. Though she’d literally just given birth, she was implacable as ever. At one point, she’d explained that djinn were enchanted to be flawless, but Rush knew it for a half truth. Wassatai was the sum of a hundred tiny chinks in the armour of that fact, each of which illustrated the portrait of his love for her. Even now he was beginning to see, though Farid looked like him, he was his mother’s son.

“It is a blessing he inherits so much from you.”

“Now don’t be that way.” She floated across the tent to join him. “You’re a better man than you think, Rushan Al Farooq, and our son would be great if he shared just a fraction of that nobility.”

“It is the purpose of a man’s wife to placate his ego?” Rush didn’t look up, but he did smile. Smiling, for Rush, was actually the subtlest possible crease of the lip. Perhaps his facial muscles had atrophied from disuse, but Wassatai could read him like a book. Being an all-knowing Djinn, she was fluent in every language including Rush’s love language.

“A wife’s purpose has nothing to do with her husband, my sweet.” She chided playfully. “Incidentally, our purposes are aligned in this.” She looked down at their son. Though Rush could only see her in Farid, she saw nothing but him. “For the name… Farid?”

“Why Farid?”

“He looks like a Farid.”

“H-hello. Farid Al Farooq.” There was a long silence in the tent, both new parents were suddenly struck with the uncertainty of all this. Nothing but the soft breathing of their newborn son, even at that age he was perfect like his mother, punctuated the atmosphere. “I am not great.” Rush said sternly. Though Wassatai was about to reassure him, he cut her off. “I wish that my son will be.”

“Our son will be great.” Wassatai took Farid from him as she spoke, feeding him for the first time. Her face squared up in a scowl as she looked back toward her husband though avoided eye contact. “And you know to avoid that particular phrasing with me.”

“I used it intentionally.” Rush shot back, quicker than usual.

That drew a gasp from her. “Rush, I… you only have one wish left then.” And the couple said nothing else on the topic, for almost the rest of their relationship.

Gulliver stirred, snapping Rush back to the present. Almost unthinkingly, he’d been tending to his head wound. His blood was silver, like his hair. This wasn’t his son. For one thing, Farid was a sweet tempered kid. This guy was a real asshole – a fact illustrated artfully as the wizard awoke. “What the fuck happened?”

“You sassed the spirit.” Rush’s tone included the subtlest poisoning of disapproval, though he continued knowing Gulliver wouldn’t catch it.

“God fucking damn it, that was too fucking close. I should’ve just dispelled that son of a bitch, then we wouldn’t be down here.”

Gesturing the doorway on the far side of the room, Rush shrugged. “This was a shortcut.”

“Uh… yeah.” Gulliver thought for a moment. “And I totally planned all of this.” Gaining some of his usual steam, he launched into another monologue. “It would’ve been a huge waste of time to continue talking to that guy, and even if we solved his stupid pointless impossible riddles, there’s no reason for us to have spent however much time looking through that passageway. This was better.”

“You know something.” Rush asked, withdrawing the cloth from Gulliver’s temple. “I used to read riddle books when I was your age.”

“Y-you…”

“I had seen that riddle before.”

“I…” Avoiding eye contact, Gulliver admitted “I don’t think people really like me most of the time. I get so excited about things, but then when I try to tell people about it they act like they don’t give a shit about it. That makes me feel like they don’t give a shit about me, and that makes me feel bitter. It was mean to call you dumb, and I don’t want to be mean.”

Taken aback, Rush began sorting his medicine pouch. The swell of voices from the adjoining chamber cut them both off as Ba’Tok’s bewildered tone echoed through the chamber. “How can a thing be something other than what it is?”

“It isn’t something other than what it is.” Vaughn echoed, balancing playful condescension and considerate teaching with an effortlessness which may have saved Gulliver a fifty foot fall. “That’s the point. He uses deception to make you think that he’s talking about one thing, but in reality he’s talking about something else.”

“What is deception?” Ba’Tok and the other’s emerged from the archway. Vaughn led, while Zora lagged behind on her umpteenth cigarette.

“It’s when you say something that isn’t true.”

“What is ‘true.”

“Another word for correct. Basically, you can say things which are not correct intentionally, to get people to do things that you want.”

“So you are in fact not taller than me.” There was a long silence between the two, Vaughn looked like he’d just been stabbed. Sinuously, Ba’Tok drew up on him. Holding his full seven foot height the lizardman looked down at Vaughn for a moment, before he reached up and dropped his pack. A clattering of glass echoed throughout the chamber, and then he walked away; simply adding “this was not the will of Semuanya.”

Zora grinned at him, flicking her ash at Vaughn’s foot before re-joining the group.

On the far side of the chamber was a little pedestal which the light shone down on. Rush was passively aware of the facts that this hadn’t been visible from the bridge above, but also; that no natural light could possibly reach this far below ground. Standing abreast with him Zora asked “Do you think that’s what we’re here for?”

“Yes.” Rush said, taking a full stride he and the others approached the steps, leading up to the sarcophagus of King Düm. It was sealed, as one might expect, with the same inscriptions that he’d seen on the door. Now, another man might have taken some interest that the ancient Ilythid kingdom had used a script which eventually devolved into Goblin, however; Rush only cared that he could read it.

“What does it say?”

“Only one of the Djinn’s blood can open it.” He answered. “Curious.”

“Great, well this was a massive waste of time then. We go all the way down into this tomb, fight all those traps, solve all those goblins, and what we get for it is a big racist plaque that explains we can’t open it because our folks fucked the wrong thing. Well fuck that, I’m blasting it open.” Gulliver bristled, clearly ready to unleash a torrent of death at this artifact of unknown age containing a wealth of historical knowledge which would be lost forever if he did that.

“Um… actually, I can open it.” The group spun around, face to face with the last person Rush would want to see. His son, accompanied by his boyfriend (not his boyfriend), sheepishly walking toward the pedestal.

“Farid. What are you doing here?” Farid didn’t respond at first, simply pushing the lid off and revealing the prize within. The mummified corpse of King Dümahtmëbrö clutched at the copper flesh of a Djinn lamp. “Shit.” He picked it up, handing it to Levi.

“Thanks babe.” Levi pecked him on the cheek, which made Farid blush.

“What the fuck, bro?”

“Levi knew about the tomb, he said only an Air Genasi could open it. I wanted to help, dad!”

“My son…” Rush shook his head. “You are not ready for this.”

“Bull.” Farid’s eyes flashed a white-hot azure. “You know my destiny, you know what’s gonna happen. I’m gonna slay the demon that’s got mom’s soul. How am I ever going to do that if you don’t let me do anything!?”

“You will deal the killing blow, but mark me boy; the demon will be so close to death as to be unable to harm a fly before you come anywhere near it.”

“But dad –”

“That is how it will be.”

Farid’s eyebrows creased, his hands shook in clenched fists. “I’m ready.”

“Then ask, how did this boy know any of this?”

“He… I…” That took the wind out of Farid’s anger, as he looked up to Levi – holding the genie’s lamp. Levi grinned wolfishly. “How did you know?”

“Don’t be a bad loser.” Like a snake, he whipped Farid back by the skull – cracking it on the sarcophagus and leaving him sprawled on the floor. Rush was about to draw his sword when a black tipped arrow whizzed past. A quick look up confirmed his worst fears, the walls were crawling with goblins. Thousands of them, like a swarm of ants. “Ya think you can make a fool outta me? Us goblinoids stick together, Vosguard saw me down on my luck and gave a way to get revenge. Now, I have three wishes and an army. You just have –” Rush slammed him into the ground, like a concrete piledriver the goblin fuckboy’s skull popped on the tile. Finally, a reason.

“Farid!?” The lamp skittered to the ground, Rush fell to his knees. Cradling his boy’s body (unconscious, not dead), Rush paid little attention to his fellows standing in a circle and preparing to ward off the horde. His wind clone popped up and drew its sword, but now there was nothing he could do. The swarms of Goblins would end them all and there was nothing he could do.

“Every man for himself!” Vaughn screamed, tossing his weapon to one side and making a mad dash for it. Realizing very quickly that he was at the bottom of a fifty foot pit, and also; that there was no way in hell that he would ever climb his way out of here, he looked back to Ba’Tok. “Ba’Tok, it’s Semuanya’s will that you save me.”

Leisurely, Ba’Tok carved a path through the goblins. They did little to intimidate him, but as he reached the bridge he did take a moment to look back at Vaughn. “It is the will of Semuanya that the weak feed the strong.” Effortlessly, he began to scale the stone. “I wish the goblin who eats you passion.”

Vaughn blubbered a gibbering nothing before turning back to Zora who shrugged – teleporting to the top as well.

Rush was holding his son in place, but he couldn’t move him. He’d be fine, but he needed to be cared for. Without knowing what had been broken he couldn’t lift him safely, for fear of jostling a broken bone. The wind shape behind him cut through goblins, but it was just a single being. It backed closer and closer to the sarcophagus. He squeezed Farid’s shoulder, then he heard a voice.

“Let me.” Looking up, he saw Gulliver. Muttering another incantation faster than Rush could process it, Farid was lifted up into a crystal chrysalis. Totally suspended in place, cushioned from any impact the odd little wizard gave a lopsided grin. “See you at the top.” And then he floated away. Rush turned, grim.

There was a horde of goblins slathering before him, standing between him and his son, between him and Wassatai. One step forward blade extended, the wind circled around him carving a path. He bashed forward with his shield then blinked – behind the goblins he took them down with ease. Vaughn desperately scrabbled at the rock wall, he would die here but Rush took pity. Madam Carpenter had made this his responsibility, after all. Taking Vaughn’s hand, the pair teleported to the top of the bridge and ran. Though it’d taken an afternoon to get through the dungeon, it turned out all of the traps and puzzles were much easier to solve backwards. In the blink of an eye, Rush was thrust back into the hot desert sun again – confronted with about what he’d expected to see.

The Claimer camp was wrecked, corpses of goblins and treasure hunters strewn over the sand. At first glance, it looked like the second wave of Goblins had gotten past Edith, but Rush had his doubts. This was a trap, the initial ambush was the feint and the noose closed when they opened the tomb. Why kill the Claimers now?

Climbing from the wreckage was Feryse, apparently the sole survivor. “Oh dear, would you look what happened.” She seemed more than a little put out, given that she was covered in blood and soot presented a well put together front. “The moment you got inside, more goblins.” Her eyes flicked lustfully to the lamp. “Did you get it?”

“Yeah, we got it.” Zora said, looking around. “Who has it?”

There was a bit of a shuffling, before Gulliver reached into his pack and produced the lamp. Rush bristled. This was almost identical to Wassatai’s, it could be her’s save for one difference. On the lid, this lamp had a small jewel. Wassatai’s had a brass knob, though as Gulliver passed it over he noticed the gem seemed to be missing. Maybe it fell off when Levi dropped it?

Feryse glanced at the lamp, then she looked back up at Gulliver. Her eyes narrowing, the feigned weakness melting to expose something very different indeed. “And the Ioan Stone which was adorning its lid?”

“Fell off?” Gulliver asked.

“I understand, he is lying.” Ba’Tok said, expressing pleasure – another one of his three emotions.

“Yes, darling.” Feryse reached for a knife on her hip. “He is.” But what she took from her belt wasn’t a knife, it was a mask. Brining it up to her face, she was no longer Feryse. Now, this was Shade. Rushan remembered when he had been Shade, he remembered battling Shade. “Now, you don’t understand how important it is that you give me that stone.”

“Nah.” Gulliver said, flicking his wrist and sending a wave of eldritch magic blasting forward. Like a spider flushed down the toilet, Shade was gone, and the desert was very quiet.

“You see, Ba’Tok? Deception can be good sometimes.” Zora said, ribbing the lizardfolk with a type of comradery which may have been inappropriate. “So you don’t really need to eat ol’ Vaughn.”

“It is wicked. Things are what they are, to misrepresent them goes against nature.”

“Nothing unnatural about what happened here.” Vaughn put in helpfully, while referring to a blue man using supernatural forces to steal a magic rock. “C’mon Ba’tok, it was fun.”

“I do not know fun. Only pleasure.”

Farid recovered a couple of days later, about a day before they got back to Shadiq. Even so, he didn’t have much to say to Rush for a while after that. Rush let him have his solitude, the boy had been humiliated in so many ways that it would be better just to let him stew for a while.

The day after the Imaginarium left Shadiq, Rush sat on the buckboard of his wagon. The odd lizard animals they’d purchased to travel the desert were slower than horses, but Rush was more familiar with handling them so they led the pack. This was good, he had no desire to remain in the desert a moment longer than was necessary.

Astrid’s wagon hovered to his left, and Gulliver’s a little behind it. In the walk back to Shadiq (which took about a week, so ironically Gulliver was right about the gelatinous cube afterall) Gulliver explained all about the mythical Ioan Stones. Great sources of magic power, apparently there were five of them and when combined would grant the wielder a single uninhibited wish. The blue wizard had stopped short of admitting that he’d kept the stone, but Rush let him have it. Afterall, he’d saved Farid. The boy couldn’t be all bad.

Farid sat next to him on the buckboard, though they didn’t talk. This was usually the case, a sad biproduct of Rush’s parenting. By ensuring his son didn’t grow up to be a man of violence, he had also grown up to be someone that Rush couldn’t relate to. Still, he loved him and that was what mattered. Farid was grinning, ear to ear. Reading and rereading the same scrap of paper. It would go unsaid, but Rush knew what it was. Levi was Farid’s first love, and a new infatuation was just what the doctor ordered. Not intentionally snooping, Rush’s eyes had drooped to the name signing off the letter: “Ashire.” Apparently, the attraction was mutual. Good for Farid, he thought. Good for my son.

When he had only been five years old, Rush remembered the first time he and Wassatai suspected. Farid had met another little boy and spent the whole night talking about him, far past his bed time. Rush always joked that he would use his last wish to get one good nights sleep, but those kinds of jokes grew less funny as time went on. The lamp yearned for its occupant to return, for her to grant that last wish; and its insidious control had crept back in.

The couple sat on their cot, watching their sleeping son on his across the room. He’d tuckered out around eleven after drawing the hundred millionth drawing of his little crush. “I did not expect it to happen so soon.”

“You have only lived one lifetime, pet.” Wassatai tapped his nose playfully. “Years pass so fast, it is all you can to grasp at the kernels of sand.”

“Should I wish for this to last forever?” He asked, his voice hardening. A subject the couple had been dancing around for years finally given flesh, a voice in Desert Storm’s quiet whisper.

“You cannot wish for my freedom, Rushan. It doesn’t work that way.”

“Why do you insist on using my full name? No one calls me Rushan.”

“No one else is your wife.” She paused. “I could… there is a way for me to be free from this curse, but it is beyond you.”

“Explain.” He tried to lock her in eye contact, though she continued to stare onward at their sleeping son.

“He’s so tired…” She said. “I wonder if he’ll live as long as you, or as long as I?” Wassatai laughed, then she got very quiet. “Wish for it. Wish me to tell you.”

“No.” Rush stared at the side of her face, willing her to meet his gaze. “If I never make a wish –”

“Then you shall by accident. The lamp knows and will not be cheated forever. If you wish now… if you ask…” She shakes her head. “Maybe we can be a family.”

For a long time, for the longest time that Rush had ever thought about anything in his life, Rush looked at the side of Wassatai’s face – he studied her profile, committing every detail, every contour, every pore to memory. “Wassatai, love, I wish to know how to free you.”

And then she said the last thing she would ever say to him. “Farid is the key. He will slay my master and then… then we’ll all be free.”

“Who is your master!?” But she could not answer, simply turning to him she met his gaze for the last time, and reader; Wassatai smiled.