Storms over Kelerak, Part II - Page 5 - Myth-Weavers

Storms over Kelerak, Part II


His eyes were not his own. His ears were not his own. His thoughts were not even his own. They all belonged to the future, to the countless others who would follow him, be they human or elf or orc. That was the greatest wonder of this miracle he had been given. All who came after, regardless of who or what they were, could be taught. Tamarrik the Reaver, champion of the Blacksun Legion, once-Hoth of Gorug, had not feared death in decades. Blessed as he was, he did not fear it now either, though he sensed it drew ever closer.

Memories are strange things indeed, he mused to himself. They are so fragile, yet dictate our every action. They suffuse our lives, yet leave no trace in the body. We cannot speak without memory of words, or walk without memory of motion. A warrior and a wizard alike are helpless without memory of their skills. To be a teacher is to a be champion of memory, to wage war against the oblivion that would claim the past. Perhaps I shall be the first to score a victory.

A related thought occurred to him then. Ah, or is it the boy who shall be victorious, and I seen only as his tool? That is no less a triumph. A sword does not complain its wielder steals credit for the kill, or argue it could slay of its own accord. The two must work together. If I am but a tool, that is not a strange and new thing to me. Bred for one purpose, trained for one purpose - but not for this purpose. A tool indeed I remain, but for a nobler task than my owners would have allowed.

The ancient oluk could feel the pressure of the eye-shaped pendant resting against his chest. It seemed far heavier than such a bauble ought to be, perhaps weighed down by the senses of those yet to come, partaking of the memories he was laying out for them. It was his responsibility, as the host, to provide a suitable repast for the guests, and so he made sure to take in as much of his surroundings as possible.

It was the beatific barony of Greensreach that he beheld, from his post at the Carn Keler garrison, in the height of midsummer. A dawn chorus of worgs had woken the soldiers, briefly, before their handlers threw in an extra ration for them to gorge upon. This, as with much that happened under Tamarrik`s watchful eye, was entirely against regulations and carried severe penalties, but the oluk had no patience for such idiocy.

Nominally, he was not the commanding officer, but his tremendous age and wisdom had engendered a respect from the troops that Commander Durz-Gha could neither comprehend nor ever receive, being far too fond of the stocks and the lash for even the slightest infractions, perceived or genuine. Therefore, in Durz-Gha`s absence, the garrison was able to vent the frustrations and urges they had needed to keep restrained, and Tamarrik made sure to encourage it all.

There had admittedly been a nasty scene the last time Durz-Gha reported back to Green City, but it was mostly resolved now. Golbnag of the Bleakspear had promised to recite his poems from now on, which even Tamarrik had been relieved to hear (for as a formidable warrior and loyal battle-brother as Golbnag was, a bard he was not!), and Kurzil had agreed to bite on a stick before calling out her pleasure. The pair would hopefully no longer be quite such a distraction as they had previously been, especially on those nights when Kurzil was in the mood for poetry before love.

Less intimate releases, though no less important, were taking place throughout the garrison. Pash Worgbosser took the lead seven times in a row, with even his meanest fellow goblins admitted that there was nobody quite so fast on worg-back, at least not on this side of the Deadlands. Somewhere below them, a labyrinth of tunnels was no doubt being dug out and filled back in again by the kobolds pretending they were back mining for grubs in a respectable warren. To judge by the enticing smells coming from the mess hall, Janusz the Ladonite and Valerian Octavius, who hailed from the Far City itself, were performing culinary experiments with confiscated spices and herbs. Even the hobgoblins were relaxing with a makeshift tourney, wrestling and jousting and duelling under the tribal laws forbidden to the professional soldiers of Sin.

All this, and more, Tamarrik observed closely as he made his rounds of the camp. To every soldier he offered a greeting, a compliment, a piece of advice, those little daily pleasantries so vital to morale. There was a general air of calm contentment that would not last, and everyone knew it, but for the time being, it was enough. Peace such as this was hard to come by, and none knew it better than the soldiers, whose fate would ever be death - either by the hands of rebels and outlaws, or by their own masters seeking to maintain control.

Tamarrik wondered if any of the Blacksun Kindred had ever died of simple old age in the service of the Wintervale. He did not consider it to be a very likely possibility. His own advanced years were more freak chance than a potential future for his orc and goblinoid cousins, and trolls were discounted from his thoughts - their constant and extreme regeneration meant that an incendiary or corrosive death often seemed to be the only way they could die, not that the brutes had the brains to appreciate their longevity.

No, so far as Tamarrik the Reaver, at eighty-four years one of the oldest oluks ever to have lived, could foresee, the future held nothing but short and murderous lives of slavery and despair. Not just for his kindred, but for those they all too easily subjugated at the behest of their merciless overlords, and to forestall the wrath of the Darkest God, who cared no more for His twisted creations than for anything else.


Chaos was spreading throughout the western realms. Elves had been seen openly in Kale for the first time in three centuries. Dwarves were claimed to be moving through hidden routes in Kelerak`s northern mountains. No reports at all were coming in from Daven, as the scouts were invariably eaten by the uncontrolled undead that now infested it.

On this day, the last of his and many other lives, Tamarrik found himself hoping that Durz-Gha survived whatever upheaval was taking place. Should he escape Green City and get past Dragonspur, likely slipping over the border into Zeland, he would be arrested for not dying at his post. Then it would his turn to experience the more inventive punishments that could be devised for dereliction of duty, rather than inflicting them. In his case, they would even be justly administered.

Pushing such pleasant thoughts aside, Tamarrik gave the garrison as much time to enjoy itself as he possibly could, before giving the last orders. Only when he was sure they were understood did he take his leave, marching westwards from the ruins to await the arrival of the invaders - or perhaps, liberators, depending on which side you were on. They were not long in coming, perhaps ten minutes behind the desperate flood of dark folk which the scouts had reported were trying to escape deeper into the country, and which passed him first, streaming into the relative protection of Carn Keler.

Tamarrik was nothing more than a wizened oluk, bare-foot and bare-handed, but seeing him standing so patiently in their path caused the pursuing force to halt. It was predominantly a mob of villagers and townsfolk, with only a few true soldiers and mercenaries, most of them Kalish officers who had clearly been looking forward to something more than chasing down helpless refugees. At their head, mounted on a warhorse that looked better fed than most of the mob (and a fair few of the officers), was a scowling altarim elf, presumptuously having modified his wilderness mail to bear the legendary insignia of the Summervale Shadow Walkers - insignia which no true member of that fabled order would ever wear openly.

"Kneel, orc, and we will grant you a quick death!" ordered one of the captains.

"It does not understand so superior a language as Kalais, fool!" the elf scolded, looking at Tamarrik as if the oluk were something he had stepped in. "Nor should we waste the time attempting to communicate with such filth. My guards and I will exterminate this nest of vermin whilst you get on with catching the rest of those monsters."

"Hile and well-met to you also," Tamarrik replied politely, though unwilling to resist doing so in perfect Kalais. "I formally request you stop trying to kill civilians and focus upon the armed soldiery at my back. It is a vaguely more fair fight."

The elf stiffened, visibly offended that a mere orc was speaking in a language of culture. He gestured imperiously and two of his guards advanced on Tamarrik, swords drawn. They were almost upon him when the oluk bent his knees, grimacing at the creaking of his old bones. What came next would be more painful than him than his enemies, but he still had the strength and energy to fight this last fight.

Tamarrik leapt, a salmon leap, over their heads. In mid-air he spun, with a single kick splitting both skulls straight through the helmets. He landed into a faultless balance on his other leg, a crane perch, and stretched out his hands to catch the falling swords of those that would have slain him. These he planted in the soil next to him, challenging any who dared to come and claim them.

One did, a hard-eyed warrior who moved too lightly on his feet and held his spear too gracefully to be a common thug. He thrust it at Tamarrik, and the oluk bent his back, a reed in wind, at once dodging the blow and retaliating with a kick. The spear danced back as its wielder danced forward, catching the weapon at its centre and parrying the counter with one end. As that half of the spear rebounded, the other was swung around in a great arc that left the man open for half a second too long. The edge of Tamarrik`s hand caught him in the throat, crushing the windpipe.

May your next life walk you further along the ki taote, young spear-dancer, Tamarrik grieved the loss of such a talent.

An arrow flew at him next. He stretched out a languid hand, letting ki direct him to act in the precise way, at the precise moment, required. He did not need to think to act, in fact needed not to think to act. Tamarrik`s heart began its next beat and the steel arrowhead collided with his thumbnail, scraping only the shallowest groove in its surface as it was deflected up and away. In the same instant, or perhaps just before, Tamarrik flicked his wrist, a viper strike, lightly tapping the spinning arrow. It flew back at the one who had loosed it, and came to rest between his eyes. Tamarrik`s heart finished its beat.

"I was clearly mistaken," Tamarrik said directly to the elf, in a tone calculated to rile him to misjudgement. "You had best turn around and leave. If your men cannot kill one old oluk, what hope have they against a garrison of younger orcs?"

"More hope than they have if they anger me!" the elf screeched, gnashing his teeth in outrage. "All of you, go around that abomination and kill everything else, down to the last wailing spawnling you can find. I will purge this one myself!"


The mob streamed around Tamarrik, rushing up towards Carn Keler. Hobgoblins stood at the gates and upon the ramparts, bunched together at the ancient breaches of the ruins, in the tested formations of charge-breakers and horde-slayers. The mob collided with the shieldwall and those in the front lines were immediately reduced to pulp by the pressing mass of those following them.

Sheer weight of numbers overwhelmed the hobgoblins soon enough, however, for Carn Keler had not truly been a defensible position for several hundred years. The mob poured into the ruins and began to clash with the orcs waiting within. For the first few seconds of the engagement, those leading the charge could see many of the fleeing dark folk they had chased here disappearing rapidly, apparently just sinking into the very earth and vanishing with nary a trace! There was no time to ponder this oddity.

Eager howls rose on the wind, and once more Pash was in the lead, bossing his worgs and their riders into the exposed flanks of the attackers. A few of the clumsier goblins still fell, but their mounts did not turn on them. Treated well, fed well, far beyond any official regulation, the highly intelligent worgs had no animosity towards their riders - and human flesh was far more pleasant than that of goblin or orc.

The Kalais officers fought back furiously, bellowing orders and standing firm in the face of this adversity. Not one took a step back, or faltered in their determination, and the mob took heart from their fortitude. What had very nearly become a rout instead became a slaughter. Worg and goblin, orc and human, all fell equally as the fortunes of war dictated - and there were more of the humans than of the garrison.

Below, the elf continued to watch from atop his horse as several fighters, their mail also ostentatiously inscribed with the mark of the Shadow Warriors, surrounded Tamarrik. These, the honour guard, were less easy for the oluk to defeat. He could feel his bones and muscles protest the exertions, arguing that just because they had been allowed to keep the strength and flexibility of youth did not mean that they could maintain it without pause. Nonetheless, Tamarrik did not falter, the fighters breaking against him, rain against rock, eroding his strength piece by piece.

The last of them fell, and only then did the elf move in, refusing to dismount for a proper duel. Again Tamarrik flew through the air, but this time his foe was prepared for such a move. The elf`s delicate blade dipped into the oluk`s thigh, drawing a line in blood up past to his waist and over his belly to the very bottom of his ribcage. No mastery of ki could save against a wound, and Tamarrik at last knelt in earnest at the feet of his killer. From Carn Keler, the victorious but confused shouts in Kalais and Kelevan told the pair of the fate of the garrison, and of the refugee dark folk.

"Sounds like some of them got away," Tamarrik stated calmly, though his lifeblood was dripping from him. "You were so eager to kill one old man, you failed to slaughter the women and children behind him."

"I will find and kill every last one of them, and the rest of your kind," the elf answered in oath-making tones. "It may take me the next thousand centuries, but neither shall this world see my back nor my eyes see blessed Faerie until nothing remains, save but the least fading memory, of you or yours! Such is the word of Teventir Rethrorniel of House Anthelivar!"

Tamarrik smiled up at the elf, and let his ki reach out one last time to impart the final blow, spoken in the High Speech Altarian that would cut Teventir most deeply. "And thus is your doom revealed. Your wrath shall attract a storm, and it shall fall upon you with a fury beyond your understanding. Go then, fate-snared one, and walk in the shadow of what you have earned. Go, and when you look back on this day, know it was ever your actions that brought about your end."

Teventir spat. He raised his sword. He brought it down. A blood-streaked pendant in the shape of an eye rolled away unseen.


"-ch that stone!" finished Brokk, and Aidan`s hand jerked back from the plaque almost as soon as he touched it, Duke Sonnesberg releasing his grip at the same moment.

The half-elf started a scream, throwing up his hands to block the sword aimed straight at his face, but stopped as he realised who and where he was. And more importantly, when he was. He looked up at the still-disappointed expression on the Silver Duke`s face, starting to piece everything together. He heard Brokk, the most recovered than any of them, resume trying to cast a spell, and knew he could not allow that.

"Brokk, wait! We yield! We yield!" cried Aidan urgently. "We may actually be in the wrong here!"

To his surprise, Aidan saw that Brokk was staring at him in shock, and had not understood a word he had said beyond the dwarf`s name. Come to think of it, Aidan would not have understood a word he had said either, for it was in no language he knew. Oh, he knew of it, certainly, none who had ever journeyed, let alone lived, in the Occupied Kingdoms could fail to have heard it almost daily.

"Try again in Kelevan, paladin," the Silver Duke said gently. "I think he does not know any Dark Speech beyond that used in invoking especially dire curses."

With an effort, Aidan concentrated on the language he was using, and did try again in Kelevan. Brokk did not look any less concerned, though he at least stopped trying to conjure a spell. Embla and Isolde picked themselves up, still fighting for breath, and joined Brokk in staring worriedly at Aidan and accusingly at the Silver Duke. Only now did the elderly man start to seem tired, his exertions evidently catching up to him.

"Tamarrik the Reaver came from Gorug," Aidan said slowly. "A city of the dark folk, in distant Yrrkune. A slave of the Wintervale from a nation enthralled to the Wintervale. He fought as you do."

"I fight as he did," the Silver Duke corrected, speaking in short bursts as his weariness intensified. "He taught me but a little of what he knew. Enough to confuse most. You only know one way of fighting, what little skill I have is still overpowering. In short bursts these days. Very short. Not hositan short. Hositan tall by comparison."

"It was the kobolds, wasn`t it?" Aidan asked, and the duke nodded. "They hid who they could in their tunnels. That was what Tamarrik had planned. Nobody who saw them disappear underground lived to tell Teventir. He could not finish the...the murders, he intended."

"And many of those who survived the years kept hiding," the Silver Duke continued. "Most in Dragonspur`s Goblintown. Or here in my Eaglesreach. The dark folk speak to each other. Across the borders of dukedoms and baronies, and entire nations. When Barghevor`s army was scattered, they knew it would be safe here. Safer, anyway. For an orc, or a goblin, nowhere in the Liberated Kingdoms is safe. Any more than an elf or a human is safe in the Occupied Kingdoms."

"Teventir pursued, like he swore he would," Aidan took up the story again. "You met him at the river Kel`s ford, the Kel Crossing. The border of your dukedom, where the authority of the barons and whatever sponsorship they gave to Teventir was ended. But he would have carried on anyway and anywhere. To kill them all. Man and woman and infant alike. So you killed him first."

"I knew who and what he was," sighed the duke. "The victory at Carn Keler was sung of by bards for months thereafter. A key moment in the Liberation of Kelerak. I knew Tamarrik had been posted there. I went there as soon as I could. I eventually found the pendant. It was expensive to enchant. It was more expensive to transfer his memories to this plaque. To judge by your face, worth it at ten times the price."

Aidan struggled to find the words. "He was an oluk. A servant of the Darkest God. He killed hundreds in his time. I should hate him. Now I felt his thoughts in my head and...I can`t. He sacrificed himself to buy time for people in need. Dark folk. But helpless. And one of my own would have seen them butchered no less hideously than if by the armies of Sin. I do not understand this. Any of this!"

"Make no mistake, paladin," the duke said more firmly, already showing signs of recovering. "Tamarrik was an exceptional oluk in many ways. Even without the influence of the Wintervale, orcs and goblins will always have a blackness in their souls that cannot be cleansed. He had to fight against it every single day and did not always win. What matters is-"

Isolde interrupted: "He was mortal. He was fallible. But he tried. Is that what you`re saying? Bunga damn it. That`s the same thing I said to the unicorns. I hate having my words thrown back at me."

The Silver Duke had strength enough for a short laugh at that. "Correct, little missy. He tried. So did those he saved, and the rest who came here, running from Teventir and others like him. I spoke to them as Tamarrik did. He is a hero to them, and as his friend, I was seen as the next best thing. They followed me. They made their homes here. They kept trying. Some, who did such evil in the farmlands, failed. They were punished for that. And now let me show you those who are succeeding..."


The Silver Duke placed his hand on the statue of Tamarrik the Reaver once more, this time on the cracked jewel held in the oluk`s other hand, and with a deft motion twisted it to one side. There was a faint creaking, and the subtle squeak of oiled wheels, and the statue rolled backwards into the wall. Beneath it, a stairway led down below the earth.

Without further ado, the duke started down its steps, and Aidan hurried after him, both eager and afraid to learn more. The others, bewildered by the turn of events, followed more cautiously, and mainly out of the desire to keep Aidan safe if this was some especially elaborate trap - although, based on how swiftly they had been defeated by the Silver Duke already, it made very little sense for this to be a trap or ambush.

Then again, as Isolde reminded them darkly as they descended, Marius Sonnesberg was crazy. Immensely talented, and extremely resistant to the frailties of age, but crazy. The duke made no effort to counter this argument, and if he had, the bursts of hysterical giggling coming from him would not have helped his case in the slightest.

Fifty steps later, they were at the bottom, and standing in a hub of tunnels that reminded the four adventurers of those they had entered in Elder Daven. Those had grown up fairly accidentally, through the simple desire of nobility to have their servants out of sight as much as possible, in the backways and underpaths of their vast manors, which had slowly been joined together by the lower classes over the course of centuries.

Here, however, there was clear intent. The walls had been chiselled out and reinforced expertly, marked with crude but legible maps indicating the next three junctions along any particular corridor, the same spherical paper lanterns illuminating the way from shallow slots in the floor. Now it was Embla`s turn to shed some light on this peculiarity.

"Kunese lanterns. I saw these before. Before even I come to these lands. Your oluk teacher taught you more than fighting, old man. He brought much else he knew of Yrrkune with him to this country. You honoured him by making this part of your house like his own home in the east. Though Gorug is not so pretty as your house. Smells worse too."

Everyone stared at her in surprise, though she ignored the stares and instead studied the wall-maps for a minute or two, until the Silver Duke decided to continue leading them deeper into this hidden half of his estate. It did not take them long to emerge into a respectably-sized room that was more than a simple intersection of tunnels leading in various directions and to various depths, but an actual antechamber of some kind.

A purple-red curtain hung across the only other doorway, and several semicircles of plinths were arranged before it, resembling nothing so much as a crude vestibule in some temple. Aidan had seen similar rooms in the hidden churches where he had received his training, but even in those places there had been some small feeling of sanctity that was simply lacking here.

The Silver Duke sat down on one of the plinths, tapping his cane firmly against the floor as he did so. There was a tiny but noticeable split in the stone there, worn away over the years by that firm tapping. Aidan joined him almost at once, with the others hesitantly following suit. Even in this time of truce, they still arranged themselves around Duke Sonnesberg such that they could defend themselves against any treachery he might show, with Embla positioned behind him and Isolde nearer than Brokk to one side, where she could leap out of the way of any attack and allow the dwarf to attack by spell.

The curtain twitched, and three of the friends tensed involuntarily. It drew back, and they did not relax. That lesson had been learned quickly this day already. Just because the orc now emerging from the room beyond was clearly an aged and grizzled specimen, missing half his left arm and limping heavily, that did not mean he was not dangerous in some fashion.

Aidan, however, looked ready to stand up and offer a helping hand, and was just as surprised by this as his companions. The old orc held up his remaining hand, shaking his head. Slowly, he turned to the side and pulled up his tunic, showing the hideous scar that coiled up from his leg along his flank, reaching back to his spine. The movement was stiff enough, controlled enough, that the ailment of this old wound was clear. The orc could either stand or lie down, but could not bend, and thus could not sit.

"Vazzish here is the last bar myself who served alongside Tamarrik," the Silver Duke explained. "His mate died at Carn Keler. Their daughter lived. Then came the cambion Barghevor, his voice infused with the irresistible command of Sin. Vazzish could barely crawl, so the army cast him aside. His daughter died at Dragonspur. He has refused any further healing, mundane or magical, since that day. Vazzish, tell them why. Kingdom Common, not Kelevan, your tongue suffers that speech enough."

The old orc looked each of the five in the eye, then slowly answered: "Pain hurts louder. More than voice of Sin in head. Voice say 'come, obey, kill'. Pain hurts louder than voice of God in heart. Voice say 'go, obey, kill'. Hear to voices, not hear to voices, orcs die. To elfblade, to dwarfblade, to orcblade. Voices not care, but pain stops voices. Vazzish have pain, Vazzish live. Dorg-Kaz have no pain, Dorg-Kaz die at Carn Keler. Galzin have no pain, Galzin die at Dragonspur. If Vazzish have enough pain, Dorg-Kaz and Galzin not die. Live in head, live in heart. Live in silence."


When they were back in the surface part of the estate, the statue of Tamarrik sliding back over the hidden sanctuary of the dark folk, Isolde summed up everybody`s feelings succinctly.

"I hate myself for feeling sorry for him, and I still hate him for being a part of the Dark Occupation. Things are simpler when it`s you or them, and they are soulless monsters to be killed on sight, if you can get away with it. Black and white is easy. Grey? What do I do with grey?"

Aidan shrugged helplessly. "You`re touching upon moral arguments older than the dwarves. Perhaps even older than the elves, if we assume that the celestials of the Heavens had these same qualms when first they met the fiends of the Hells. If you ever figure it out, don`t keep it a secret. Heshtail knows the world could use some solid answers on something."

"My people have solid answers," Embla protested, earning her worried looks from the others (and an interested one from Duke Sonnesberg). "Our answers are like stone. You are like air. It makes you weak. The Wintervale has stronger answers, but still wrong. They are like water. That is why they beat you, and why they dare not fight us. I had thought you knew this already?"

This was an argument hinging on a degree of madness so extreme that even the Silver Duke did not feel inclined to start a debate, and whatever further lunacy Embla might have brought to the discussion - and whatever further revelations on the beliefs and misconceptions of her people might have emerged as a result - was left to the realms of imagination. Besides, there was a far more practical question that needed airing.

"So, after all that has happened, will you be living up to your end of the bargain and coming to Dragonspur?" Isolde asked. "We sorted out the problem with the centaurs and the farmers. I can`t help but feel it`s going to recur at some point, but that`s technically not something I, we, came here to fix. Not right now anyway. But I know Aidan, and if he hears about your hidden bunch of dark folk breaking out again, he`ll be leading half the soldiers in Dragonspur here right after."

"If he does, I will be waiting to school him again," Duke Sonnesberg said nonchalantly, as though the possibility was of no importance. "Promised to protect them, and I will, just like anyone else in my land. If some go on a rampage from time to time, I will treat them the same as any human or hositan in the Eaglesreach who goes and does the same. The barons will hesitate to act, for whoever moves in first will be left weak to the others."

"And I will know what four people let the cat out of the bag, besides. Who puts cats in bags? Cats hate bags. They love mice and mice love bags, especially ones full of wheat. Of course, mice hate cats, if you think about it. The bags of wheat probably hate mice too. Just goes to show, one-sided relationships are damaging to everyone involved. What was the question?"

Isolde felt a headache coming on, but asked it again anyway, this time refraining from adding anything else to it.

"Oh, absolutely, you did what I asked of you!" he exclaimed, sounding surprised to have been asked. "Have to live up to my end of the bargain. Especially with a civil war to stop. Osbern is a good man, but a bit of a wet blanket when it comes to keeping the barons in order. Simply cannot do the job he is supposed to. You know that Starsul actually said to his face that he wanted the throne, and Osbern congratulated him for his honesty? Too many barons in this country, and all of them with ambitions of some kind, even the good ones like Felmund."

"Ridiculous notion anyway, creating a new barony," the Silver Duke added, just a hint of gloating in his voice. "Especially with that candidate of all the possible options. Tried to tell them once, I did. Wouldn`t listen to me, oh no. 'Oh honestly Marius, you think we haven`t checked for demon-worship in his background?' Think they thought I didn`t like him for being an Anarian. Married one, haven`t I? He`s playing them for fools. Smarter than most is that Niklaus."


Hope you enjoyed it!

I loved it! Your strength is in bringing the details of the setting to life. And taking things from an orc’s perspective is brilliant!

This was my first time reading your work. Great stuff, really enjoyable. As Farland says, really enjoyed the story being from the oluk's perspective and the moral quandary that resulted.

Well thank you Valaduil. It's nice to have some feedback from someone other than Farland: as much as I appreciate his appreciation, it's very nearly expected at this point and it does my hubris absolutely no good whatsoever!

Originally Posted by ChaosHarbinger View Post
Well thank you Valaduil. It's nice to have some feedback from someone other than Farland: as much as I appreciate his appreciation, it's very nearly expected at this point and it does my hubris absolutely no good whatsoever!
Then I will start being uniformly critical except for the occasional compliment.


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