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Johan was the kind of physical specimen that inspires sculptors, clad in the kind of cutting-edge gear that inspires bankruptcy.
He was the sort of rural soul who had more fingers than teeth—and he was missing several fingers.
Goblins do not excel at much, but they are masters at tactical retreat.
On the whole, professional heroes are remarkably prone to violence, and this is by necessity; a hero’s work consists almost exclusively of forcibly separating deadly monsters and nefarious villains from their valuables.
A long history of armed conflict had shaped the Heroes’ Guild into a group that was remarkably effective at killing and remarkably poor at conflict resolution.
A good charge is a hard thing to appreciate. Most people assume anyone can grab a weapon and run straight at an enemy, pointy-end forward, and for the most part, they’re correct. The tricky part of a frontal assault, Gorm knew, was surviving it.
“You’re no hero.” The wounded warrior gasped, struggling for as much breath as a broken nose and bruised sternum would allow. “You’re … you’re a common thief.” “I still ain’t found the difference,” said Gorm.
Rank Three had found time to reconsider the attachment to material possessions that had overtaken his life and had recently threatened to end it. He departed shortly thereafter, with a renewed appreciation for existence, his undergarments, and little else,
he spent most of the day’s earnings on enough alcohol to drown his memories and give them a proper burial at sea.
Mostly, he didn’t like the taste of killing someone, or something, just for being too friendly.
Heroics was an increasingly popular profession. Despite the low base pay, poor benefits, and a mortality rate that made working in a Gnomish foundry look like an office job, there was no shortage of men and women lining up to wield a blade and delve into some ancient dungeon in search of fame and fortune (not necessarily in that order).
He was sick of drinking, and sick of being sober, and regretting that those were essentially the only two options he, and everyone else, ever had.
The hero’s business model is based on the principle that ancient and powerful evils also tend to be wealthy ones, due to the fact that the FOE have spent so long pillaging the countryside and slaying well-equipped heroes. Thus the old axiom, “The bigger they are, the richer we’ll be.”
There’s a lot of fish in the sea, and if ye make any waves, they’ll eat you.
There must be a reason.” “There is.” “I’d like to know it.” “That’s your problem.”
“Oh, there’s always a choice. Choice is a constant.” Flinn grinned, a cold glint in his eye. “It’s consequences that vary.”
Arth’s pantheon was essentially a celestial administration that the Creator had left in charge once He decided that His work was good, or at least good enough. Like middle management everywhere, the gods seemed to be mostly concerned with petty conflicts and power struggles.
“You know, saying ‘no offense’ doesn’t count for much after saying something really offensive.”
The brothers of the Order of Adchul once famously saved a town from flooding by drafting a cease-and-desist letter to the river.
“I’d say you have a destiny, and choices are the steps you take to reach it.”
“Ye wait till ye’ve seen a bit of the world,” he grumbled, initialing the first page of the contract. “Ye’ll stop with such nonsense.” “And what makes you think that I haven’t seen enough of the world?” Gorm looked up from the contract straight into the priest’s mismatched eyes. “Yer still tryin’ to save it.”
“Settle the bill, Mr. Brunt!” snapped Flinn. A scream and a splash indicated Brunt had done so.
He was a firm believer that the best meals were made by holding dead things over a fire until they smelled good. As far as he was concerned, the tiny pile of twisted fruits and exotic extracts set before him was a blasphemy.
it was said that the only thing that could outlast Dwarven craftsmanship was a Dwarven grudge.
An indefinite lifespan is not the same thing as an infinite memory.
Mr. Flinn walked with a relaxed purpose, the kind of gait that says move along. Mr. Brunt stamped along beside him in a manner that added or else.
As far as Gorm was concerned, a ceremony was the most efficient way to expunge the joy and excitement from any event, refining it into the purest tedium.
He wasn’t sure what quality of a ceremony invited people to speak at extreme lengths on subjects that everyone was already familiar with, but it was probably the same force that invariably compelled some participant to wave a stick or a sword over a small fountain, or a cup of wine, or something extra symbolic.
And since there were so many magic-using foes out in the field, warrior heroes came in only two varieties: those who knew how to fight mages, and extra crispy.
“I must say, that was surprisingly effective,” said the wizard. “Aye. On account of the first principle of fightin’ wizards.” “What’s that?” Gorm dropped him with a hammer punch to the jaw. “Surprise,” he said.
“I know your type. Ye’d kill your own mother for tuppence.” “Ah, you see, that’s where you’re wrong,” said Flinn. “I know the value of a life, usually within a few cents. When I killed my mother, it was for well over five thousand giltin.” “That’s disgusting,” said Kaitha. “That’s economics.
Everyone is worth something, and some people are worth a lot more posthumously, which is rather the point, you see.
I must also insist that this conversation never happened.” “It seems more like it never ends,” said Jynn.
Not all who wander are lost; some are on quests.
“Aye. Sorry. Old habits die hard.” “Diplomatic relations die easy.”
“Professional implies there’s money involved,”
“I’ve heard it said that gear does not make the hero.” “Aye, but gear does make the hero live longer,” said Gorm.
It took a special kind of person to serve the Lord of the End—the same variety that made undertakers smile politely and edge toward the door.
Still, monsters are better than taxpayers, right?” “Sorry?” “Both will try to squeeze the life out of you, but you can take an axe to the monsters. Ha ha! Sorry. Little civil servant humor there.
“Is there a good way to be bankrupt?” said Jynn. “Morally,” suggested Heraldin.
Stone Drake was nothing if not straightforward—mostly because turning took so much effort.
Some men were too proud to ever admit defeat; the closest they came to surrender was learning to keep their mouths shut.
As a general rule, the best inn in any given area was only ever slightly more comfortable than the best alternative sleeping arrangement, and this particular inn was competing with some ruins and a deadly swamp.
Individually, a walking skeleton or a zombie was a nuisance on par with a door-to-door missionary from the Temple of Oppo; both had unnatural persistence, an unnerving grin, and a single-minded focus on making converts. Fortunately, zombies and skeletons tended to be rather feeble and slow, and so the odd undead was easy to get rid of—certainly easier than door-to-door priests.
“Marketing is its own kind of magic, is it not?” said Zurthraka. “An illusion that men pay to be fooled by.”
“The secret ingredient is bloodlust,” said Heraldin.
When such wizards rose again as liches, they were free to pursue their dark craft unfettered by the frailties of a mortal body or the constraints of a sane mind.
Beneath his curmudgeonly facade was, well, yes, a genuine curmudgeon, but a curmudgeon who clearly cared for her.
The whole world had gone mad, and sanity looked insane.
“When the whole world goes crazy, what can you do but try to keep up?”
