Epilogue – The Blade

Sharn was now a distant ember on the horizon, the sun swallowing up the light from the city. Up on the rigging it was quieter, taking on the crew needed had made the ship busy, bustling with sailors taking orders from the Lightning Pilot, they hadn’t even settled on a course yet but the pilots status as escaped outlaw meant they had to time to dawdle in Sharn. Cal preferred the quiet up here, in all that time alone he had found solace in it, lying in darkness listening to the wind as it rolled through the grass, hearing each leaf as it hit the ground. It was bad enough with the four he was to follow, their breathing, shifting and occasional mumble and that was when they were asleep, during waking hours each was a whirlwind of noise, joking, laughing, boasting and fighting, add the crew on top of this and it was all too much. Here in the rigging though the sounds below were muted somewhat, quiet enough for him to hear her song, see the campfire burning, the smell of her in the air, the memory of better days...

Word had spread of a blindness plague, much like the one that affected himself, it proceeded a massive attack by undead from the sewers, likely linked, Cal felt a pang of guilt, perhaps they could have stopped it somehow, but the voice was quieted by reason. Enough creatures to cause significant issue in the city would have surely overwhelmed we six, and why would the authorities listen to strangers telling tall tales of undead armies in the sewers. This is why Cal hated cities, the problems were too big, even with Maybell’s revenge on Despay and the death of Goldhand new organisations had tried to fill the power vacuum left by the Aurum’s demise.
Still these smaller groups still had to worry however, Jirke had ascended to a folk hero among the Warforged and more than one may well have linked the deaths of the Aurum’s heads to him too, cleansing the wicked, maybe something good had come from all this.
The cowards of Lyrandar’s expulsion of Jirke still tasted bitter in Cal’s mouth, if even one of the great houses stood up, made a stand for what was right they could change the world for the better. Instead they cowered, shielded by their wealth and power, content to let the world burn as long as it didn’t spread to their perfect little enclaves. One of their number makes a stand, says something must be done and instead of supporting him, backing his claim that the man was a killer brought to justice they declare he must be hanged, they are truly unworthy of the titles they bestow upon themselves.

Up in the rigging Cal whispers a prayer to Dol Arrah in the hope Maybell finds the guidance she needs to be better. He had found Eruleon and been turned to the path, he had hoped he would have time to teach her, show her she could use her skills for something greater. Despay’s death was a good start, but not out of revenge, he had failed her by not being there to teach her that.

Still there were more important matters, the Shard was in their possession now, or more accurately, the possession of a foolish boy who horded it like a trinket, an object that could bring ruination to everything we know! Perhaps the corruption he feared had already taken hold of him, this is what comes of such power Wizard and why in the long term no-one can hold this power. In the short term perhaps they could limit the problem, certainly no-one of arcane talent should be it’s guardian, those who's hubris could see themselves as master of the shard, Elend was still too much of an unknown, that left only one option... Tiny. He didn’t sleep, was certainly a powerful warrior in his own right and likely lacked the arcane knowledge to use the shard, he was the natural choice out of those presented. He had given Auron his word not to destroy it without the council of their “band” but this matter must be discussed.

Cal leapt down, hurling himself into the noise and chaos grabbing one of the younger crew.
“Gather my companions in the aft compartment, we have matters to discuss, make it clear that this is not a request...”

In which we find the elf and the wizard discussing the Sibyris shard's fate.

The old elf leapt down from the rigging, moving to the centre of the boat, limiting the view of the crowd to him. Auron recognised the moment: Rute doting over Loram and the others revelling in victory - the elf was alone.

“We should speak. I must know of your plans should we retrieve the shard, and though I fear I already know the answer, I wish to hear it from you.”

The old elf turned to him, looking Auron up and down, “The common people would be killed in droves by a war over the shard, I will not allow that to happen.  It is unlikely we will find a place or person who can be trusted to keep the shard safe, and in that case I intend to destroy it”

With his suspicions confirmed the wizard stared, a flicker of disappointment in his eyes. “How can you destroy something of such power? Not only is it of such power and likely well protected, but how could you rid the world of something that could do such good? Not to mention what we could learn from it’s study.”

“Power corrupts, I have seen enough to know this, and my dream and Cordric’s research confirm just how dangerous the shard is. I have travelled the length and breadth of this land and have yet to find somewhere the shard can be safe and protected by someone who wouldn’t abuse it power.  I will destroy the crystal by my own craft,” said the elf, his hand playing along the handle of his blade “The risk of entrusting this to another is too great”

Auron looked on, disbelief playing the edges of his face. “You realise what the shard is? This is a shard of the Dragon Above, Siberys. What makes you think you can destroy it so easily?”

Cal’s face remained emotionless as if the information held no bearing on his decision “Faith. Dol Arrah provides. She will see me through this task as well, even if I have to carry it to the edge of the world and give my life’s dying spark I will destroy it before I see it fall into the wrong hands. One life for thousands is more than fair.”

“Imagine what could be achieved with it’s study: perfect weather as needed, the lands could be rejuvenated and we might finally see an end to the warring between the nations”

The elf’s attention returning to the man showed a sadness, as if this were a discussion he had engaged in before. "To study the shard and turn it to good is a noble end, but where would the shard be stored during its study? Sharn? Aerenal? Karnath? And will the other nations stand by while it happens? The shard is the spark that will drive the world to war once more and no-one can afford to risk their rival’s possessing it"

Auron seemed to pause for a moment, as if considering and weighing options, before suggesting, “Take it to the centre of Khorvaire, to the Mournland. The land is virtually impassible, it could be safe there”

“A powerful enough group could still pass into there and come back with the shard with enough will, assuming it didn’t fall into the hands of the Lord of Blades.  You would simply shift the focus of the war from open battle so small groups who could survive there long enough." 

The old Elf seeming intractable in his stance yet not judgemental, perhaps even saddened by his own answer. “In the case of the shard even the great houses are bit players.  This land would be torn asunder in a war the likes of which it has never seen.  The Last War will be nothing in comparison, almost any cost would be worth possessing the shard”

Anger flared in Auron. How could this elf be so blind? “The Houses? Bit players? You do not know your history nor your politics. The Twelve would sooner the nations burned than let their own fall. There may not be much love lost between them, but they are bound together by their marks, fools that they are.”

A flash of steel crossed Cal’s eyes. “The war for the shard will call down powers beyond the houses, this will be a world at war, to lose the shard to a rival will make nations burn,
“And do you think that the nations and Houses have an appetite for war so soon after the last? They know the price of such a thing themselves very well.”

“For this prize? In a heartbeat,” the elf exclaimed. “And with the Jade Dragon lands could easily be replenished, renewed as you suggest, almost any devastation could be undone, only this will not be for all, but for those who finally possess the shard” The steel was gone now, once again replaced with tiredness and resignation at perhaps even his own words.

It was no small wonder that the elf’s stubbornness had not already got him killed. “But who knows of the Shard? It seems a precious few at this time and they aren't going to make the competition harder. Your pessimism condemns the shard and the people Khorvaire, it doesn't save it.”

“This knowledge is more widely known than you think youngling. If word spreads the shard is claimed, this world will burn - torn apart in a pre-emptive strike to ensure it is not used”

Auron sighed. How could Cal be willing to risk so much for people he has so little faith in? “Again this pessimism. Then do not let it be known the shard is claimed. Or indeed, let it be known it has been destroyed.” Auron lowered his voice, “And do not call me youngling again elf.”

Again he spoke and again with that tone, like a lecturer repeating the same lessons he has taught before, bordering condescending even if that were not his intention. Cal retorted, “Your academic mind blinds you to the realities of the world. This shard when harnessed will be capable of shattering nations in a day, blasting civilisations from the face of the world leaving no trace they ever existed and you would trust this power to a single group? With this power even a good man with good intention could deliver this world a blow it would never recover from, imagine the devastation it would cause in the hands of someone with a true lust for power. Your misplaced faith would doom us all”

“Your elven insight fails you if you think I am a mere academic. I have seen and experienced more than you know.You can’t fix this world one small problem at a time. If you truly wanted to help people you wouldn't destroy the shard so casually. Anyway, when you finally pass from this world, who will take up your blade? The shard would help ensure that no-one need to.  You are blind to the possibilities because of your fear!”

Why couldn’t he even show some passion in this, simply stating his opinion as if facts he knew were true, as if he had simply accepted them and moved on. “In an ideal world perhaps, and maybe one day I will find one. The shard however, will cause nothing but war - Eberron’s people are not ready. There is too much strife, too much hatred, the shard will throw fuel into the firestorm and consume this world. It takes a watchful eternity to use the shard well, a spiteful moment to destroy everything. In all your high hopes I have yet to hear the name of anyone who could be trusted to use the shard for the good of all, and certainly no-one with the power to keep it from those who would not.” With that the elf sat, rigging supporting his weight. Seeing him like that finally showed just how many years he was carrying.

Auron, face turning impassive, said simply, “Who? You, perhaps. If only you were not so blind.” With that Auron turned away, a deep silence pressing upon his back as he walked up the deck and toward the cheering crowd.

The Blade Unbound

"Your making my friends uncomfortable, I don't like it when people make my friends uncomfortable..."

Drayth was still talking, the smell of him oppressive at this close range, steel and oil, he made sure he was ready for us, fear, he knows what we are capable of, Cal blinked and the scene changed...

****

The Warforged Murderer lay at their feet, he could feel the blade tight in his hands, the rage at this man subsiding as he bled out into the street. He had hunted innocent Warforged, slaughtered them and people concerned themselves with loss of property, as if them being made of steel and wood made them less real, less alive. This city was full of such darkness, such hatred, it was too much for one man, even in his prime with 'Lyssa's song in the air and blade by his side perhaps, now the task was far beyond him. So much suffering and he cannot stop it, the city needs more than I can be, it needs a Legend...

A spark of recognition, no-one could truely be enough to fight this battle alone, but the darkness works by making the people afraid, prisoners of their own fear, if they could find a simple flicker of hope. Perhaps there was a way, perhaps as Eruleon was right and words could best the sword, something to summon fear in the darkness. Not a foe they could buy off, poison or defeat, one that would haunt them in their safest places, a storybook hero...

The Lightning Pilot aided him in pinning the man to the wall and from his backpack Cal produced scroll and ink and began to write:

"The man who would murder Warforged has been brought to justice, those who would stand by and treat them like property have their champion no longer. Sharn has been ruled by darkness too long both in the shadow of the criminals who stand untouched and the indifference of those unwilling to make a stand for what is right.

Those who would harm the innocent will face judgement.

The Blade of Dawn"

The young man watched reading the script as it was written and as Cal signed touched his arm "and House Lyrandar"
Cal was puzzled "I'm sorry, I don't understand"
"House Lyrandar stands by your proclamation"

He added the houses seal after the signature and stood back, allowing Cal to pin the note on the dead man, clear for any walking by to see.

The old Elf smiled, sure for it not to be seen, perhaps after all these years he could still be surprised, these four could easily have been considered part of the problem in Sharn and he had doubted them but for this young man to want Lyrandar included here…

The Blade moniker was an old story, no link to him, over dramatic and exaggerated stories of a simple man, for the Pilot to place Lyrandar’s seal with it made them a target, made him a target, and yet there it was…

It was the perfect story, the seal grounded the myth in reality, An immortal Elf who walks the world righting wrongs is just a story, to have a noble house throw it’s name behind it however changed the story. Perhaps the Blade has come to Sharn and is being sheltered by Lyrandar!

****

Cal’s eyes opened again and once more his senses were filled with oil and steel the girl was being carried below decks by a hulking orc on the other ship, now he knew where she was. Drayth was still posturing, he clearly would rather we left without a fight, but clearly it did not occur to him that he had placed a serious player in the cancer eating at Sharn right in front of their blades and while the others may negotiate Cal had no intention of letting Drayth leave alive.

First things first however Lauram was still prisoner aboard the other ship, an innocent dragged into all this and as his fingers danced along the blade handle under his cloak:

“The Avenger is sworn to valour, his heart knows only virtue, his blade defends the helpless, his might upholds the weak, his word speaks only truth, his wrath undoes the wicked”

“5, kill them all!”

But the Elf was already in motion…

The Priest of Justice

Left cut, step, parry, sweep, spin…

Cal’edor stopped mid strike, was Eruleon giving another of his sermons? The old priest was way inside the temple but he must be talking to the woman who went in earlier. He sheathed his blade and tied up his long golden hair and quietly moved to the entrance to the shrine from his hidden practice area to better hear the priest speak. The temple was only small but beautifully ornate, the arches and detail all carved by Eruleon himself, the old man had poured so much of himself into the shrine and given most of his life tending to it and the needs of the town. Inside on one of the simple wooden pews Eruleon sat with the woman Cal had seen enter earlier, she was weeping and visibly shaken.

“Father, they have taken my daughter, as payment for failure to pay so called protection taxes, these brigands and murderers have taken my daughter. What can we do against trained and armed men? Have we done something to anger the gods?

When Eruleon spoke it was always with a measured calm, comforting and strong, he had seen people through the darkest of their lives times and been an unshakable font of strength to them in those times.

“My child, there is nothing that you can do, chasing these men would simply lead to pain and suffering for you and your husband. Return to your home, stay safe pray to the Goddess Dol Arrah”

The priest spared a look, catching sight of Cal peeking around the frame of the door, how did he always know he was there? And he smiled.

“I have a feeling her agents are already moving regarding the matter”

“But Father Eruleon, surely the gods themselves do not interfere in the matters of simple folk, I had hoped… hoped you might be able to gather the villagers, perhaps we could muster enough of us to drive them off?”

Eruleon gripped the hands of the woman tightly and looked into her eyes.

“Normally I would agree child, the gods must work on a grander stage but in this particular case I feel a greater power at work much closer to our hearts”

The priest and woman exchanged a few more hushed words before he took her leave and Cal made sure to allow her to be clear away before he slipped into the temple where he found the old priest waiting.

“You were listening I take it?”

“Perhaps I can do something to help her, the town has no real guards to speak of, no-one who could stand up to these men but she is in desperate need and you always say it is the responsibility to those with power to defend those without and I have trained myself in the art of the blade longer than most in town have been alive, I can at least try”

The old man smiled “It pleases me to know it was not just this morning you were listening, the Goddess truly blessed this town the day you strolled into it. I was worried the day you arrived and cut down those troublemakers that you would be just another sellsword, a man who would kill whomever for the right price, but you keep surprising me boy. What I said about the gods was true, Dol Arrah herself can’t swoop down on every crook and brigand and cut them down like Arawai can’t bless every child, so they each have their priests, those of us who give our lives to the cause.”

“Now a wise man knows that not every problem can be resolved with talking and the gods know this too. Look at me, people like having a kindly old man giving their services, blessing their children, they see age as a source of wisdom, but whats gonna happen you think if I go out and find these bandits and try to given them a lecture in sacrifice and justice?”

The old priest ran his thumb across his neck making a cutting noise.

“Schuckt, that’s right, so sometimes the gods look to warriors, now it’s rarer to find because those that wield the blade often see might is right and they have the might, but now and again someone comes along who truly believes in the principles of the gods and who has the will and the skill to fight for em, and that’s where you come in lad. You need to watch yourself out there the gods don’t have time to reach down and pluck away every little arrow some idiot aims at you, but your faith is your shield, if you do right by the Gods they they’ll do right by you where they can”

“I won’t fail you Father, I will bring the girl home” And he ran toward the door drawing his cloak about his body as he ran.

“It’s just Eruleon lad, your one of us now…”

*****

It had taken over 2 hours to track them, he only hoped that had not been too long, he’d seen another man hunting the woods following the tracks with much less success, the woman’s husband perhaps? Had he chosen to come looking even knowing he had no chance? Cal knew he couldn’t afford to let the man find these brigands first, they’d slaughter him and that little club of his.

These men in the clearing were far more than even Cal had expected, 10 possibly 11, night had fallen and lit only by the fire it was impossible to be sure. The group were all human and half elves, men and women, they drank and rolled around with each other in plain sight of they comrades, even cheered on by them, Cal had stalked the bushes trying to evaluate the situation makes sure he knew where the girl was before he struck, they were being so loud though if the husband was still looking he would surely find them and that couldn’t be allowed to happen.

Then he saw her, bound and gagged at the base of a tree, she seemed otherwise unhurt. She was in her early teens perhaps and so had escaped the groups predations so far but he could tell a few of the group eyed her hungrily, time was of the essence, he had to act now.

Cal burst from the bush drawing his blade “Relinquish your weapons, release the girl and submit to the authorities now and you have my word you will live”

The bandits looked alarmed at first stopping whatever they were doing then they caught a glimpse of him, at 46 he must look like a mere slip of a man to them and they laughed, several getting to their feet collecting weapons

“What are you, her brother? Think you’re a bit handy with a blade? Let’s kill this dumb little kid and then get acquainted with his sister!” He grinned at Cal.

Your first then he thought, and in the blink of an eye Cal was amongst them.

Left cut, step, parry, sweep, spin…

*****

The man broke into the clearing, drawn by the earlier sounds of violence and nearly dropped his club. Men and women were strewn around the clearing, each slain by a single slash or swipe then he nearly lost his balance as something slammed into his side and arms latched around him.

“Father!”

Cal watched from the treeline, the bloody wounds in his shoulder and thigh burned fiercely but he watched the father and daughter hurry away in one another’s arms from the site of his carnage and he smiled…

The Bard and the Blade

There is a tale told across the land of a love born of fire and passion that burned so bright that the gods themselves took notice. The tale tells of an Elven swordsman who had devoted everything to the world, wandering the land alone helping those in need. This swordsman had a habit of showing up just when times were darkest and bringing people back into the light and so since no-one ever knew his name they called him “The Blade of Dawn”
The Blade travelled the land and drove back the darkness wherever he found it but gave no thought to himself, he had given his life to others. So Dol Arrah reached down and nudged the faithful swordsman just enough and he found himself in a tavern on a dark and stormy night just like this one and on stage, stood a bard.
While I consider myself fair of face indeed of course compared to the beauty who took the stage that fateful I am a mewling monster. The human woman danced with a grace that turned elves green with envy and a voice that rang out clear and strong as her fingers danced across her instruments and stole the hearts of all around her. In the corner a man who had never given thought to himself stirred, moved by the bards beauty and song and as he saw through her eyes the beauty too within her for the first time he lamented his solitude.
And so that night the blade left with a heavy heart, he saw suitors lined up by the stage their flowery words to woo the bard and gifts for her beauty filling the air but he was a man of action not words and nothing to offer but a life of danger and nothing to give but the clothes on his back. So it came to pass that the Blade sat sleeping beneath a tree just outside the town, the rain pattering off his cloak and the tree’s leaves when he was awakened by a pressure on his arm!
His normally keen senses having failed him and a potential enemy so close already, too close for a true strike the Blade woke with a rush reaching for a dagger in his belt before he was able to identify his assailant. Hand on the blade he looked for an opening and to the cheek of a woman curled against his arm who replied “Stop moving I’d just gotten comfortable”
For you see the Blade was not the only one looking into eyes that night and from that very first she saw the good in him, that which he kept hidden from all others and as the two settled back the Blade found himself filled with the joy the Bard seemed to carry everywhere with her and for the first time was truly happy.
From that day on the two were inseparable, they wandered the lands from the furthest seas to the highest mountains and wherever they went the joy of the Bards song raised spirits and the Blade cut down those who would harm the lands people and towns far and wide came to rejoice at the sight of the blonde swordsman and the flame haired minstrel, she who was his heart, and he who was her steel.
Time however waits for no man and in due course the Bard’s years caught her far swifter than the dashing Blade and he was eventually forced to leave her side after all those years, leaving behind an unmarked site, for no fanfare was needed as he would always carry her in his heart and now no force could stay his hand for he had to fight twice as hard to bring the joy she no longer did to the world. For Dol Arrah had given him such joy that he swore eternal fealty and stalked the land for those who would bring pain and injustice.
And that is the end of my tale, or perhaps not, some say the Blade walks the land still, they say he stands as the Eternal Guardian of the lands she loved so much, the chosen Champion of the Goddess as he strives to earn his place at her side and be with his love once more.

The Dream of Beginning

As Cal’edor lay in the long grass he felt weary, all those moons ago his now bandaged wounds wouldn’t have even slowed him down but now the years were catching up with him. His once blond locks now grey and he was tired, deep in his bones, soon he would move beyond this world and on to the next.
Not that this held fear for him, 172 years was a long time and he had done more in his life than many could dream of, seen things most people wouldn’t believe, loved… and lost.
The people of the village had offered him a place to stay, a soft bed, hot food, but he had no interest in those things. He had been shown the wonders of the world and now felt most uncomfortable sleeping without the stars looking down on him. He knew so many names and stories about those stars, each night as they lay together Lyssa would spin her tales, Elven princesses crossing the night sky, the pride of Wizards and Warlocks and beings on unimaginable power looking down on their little world…
He shifted against his bedroll, settling in for the night, closed his eyes and as he had every night prayed:
“Dol Arrah by your grace I serve, thank you for all you have given me, please watch over my love that I may be with her again soon”
…
Cal’edor knew he was dreaming, the sky was a bright blue, the world was just too perfect, this was not his world.
His blade was gone, he had carried that blade by his side for the best part of half a century he would never let it leave his side. He looked down and saw he wore fine silk clothes, not his normal travellers fare, he would never wear this, he hadn’t worn anything like this since…
He span instantly at the scent, he had missed it at first but now it filled his senses, a smell he had not experienced in so long. There she stood in front of him, the vision of beauty he remembered.
Allyssa…
He dreamed of her each night, but here she was always like a half forgotten dream, colours muted by the passage of time, but not this time, now she stood so vibrant in front of him as if he could reach out and touch her.
As if she could read his thoughts her hand reached out to brush his cheek, he felt her warm soft touch and she smiled, smiled as she had done all those years ago and melted his heart.
He scooped her into his arms vowing to never let go again.
“Cal, we must talk, we don’t have long so just listen okay”
He knew when she was being serious, this wasn’t the time for games, something important was going on, he nodded his agreement.
“You have already given so much but you have one last thing to do before your done. Don’t ask why just please trust me, The Blade of Dawn must find the 4, the 4 who can help you. Through them you can finally do what must be done, they won’t be easy to find but you must succeed”
Looking into her eyes he saw flashes of people he had never met and her voice in his head:
The Brass-armed Tinkerer
The Wizard of the Sands
The Lightning Pilot
The Clockwork Man

“One way or another this will be your final journey, it may last a day, a year, a decade, I can’t say but this is the path you must take, and these will be your companions”
She looked up at him and he felt her press something into his hand, squeezing it closed around the item.
“There are so many eyes on you now Cal, some want to help, others would like nothing more than to see you dead. Please Cal, be careful, come back to me”
…
Cal’edor jolted awake, lying on the grass he found himself already grasping something painfully tight, by the light of the moon he opened his hand and saw the leather thong he always wore round his neck with a lock of her hair preserved in a perfect moment by magic. He never took it off, had he undone the strap during the night?
He rolled to his side, propping his head on his hand looking out over the hills, the grand city of Sharn twinkled in the distance. He sighed, sat up and began to pack away his makeshift camp, Cal’edor found himself smiling as he did “She never could stay put for long, always rushing off in search of the next story” and with all he owned in the world on his back he began toward the city…

Rute

Rute

Rute meandered his way through the narrow streets of hell. Ok, it wasn't hell but it wasn't far off. This part of the Cogs was dark, smelly and foul and the same could be said for most of its inhabitants. It had been eight years since Rute had been in the Cogs and much had changed. New passageway and routes linked old structures which the ravages of time had made renovating necessary. Rute wondered how long it would take before the foundations of Sharn were so whittled away that the whole city collapsed under its own inadequacy.

Where were they...?

He remembered clearly the day that had changed his life forever. Most people would have thought that cliqued phrase would have applied to the event that caused the loss of his arm (and an eye, though most people hadn't realised the extent of the damage the accident had caused). It stood to reason it was only a matter of time before a small child working in a scrap metal yard and foundry made some small mistake that would end his young life. Rute was lucky in that his life hadn't ended that day. In fact, he didn't even consider he'd lost anything. His uncle who had some small skill in metal working had fashioned him a replacement arm and the rest of his small family, consisting of his parents, his grandparents and his uncle's wife had spend some of their hard-earned savings on a glass eye. The eye had been pure, whole and white. It wasn't any more. For Rute had a skill and this same skill that enabled him to animate a metal limb and change the basic properties of glass had drawn attention. That was the day his life had changed.

Rute had a vague idea of where he was now. The sign scrawled on the wall in charcoal had faded with time but still pointed the way to one of the poorest parts of the Cogs and the place where his family had lived. Not that there was much difference down here – how did you define between poorer and poorest? If anyone had any kind of money, they got the hell out altogether.

The dwarf had smelled like a brewery and had a face like a sackful of rocks. Not that Rute had had any idea what a brewery smelled like (nor what a dwarf was mean to look like come to that) but after eight years in the company of one of Mror Holds' most belligerent dwarves, Rute had come to learn that the smell (and the face) was the norm for this particular dwarf who on that fateful day had introduced himself as Kilbrek. Kilbrek had not been too impressed with his family's stock of scrap-metal but something had caught his eye.

“You boy!” a harsh and accented voice had rung out across the yard, “Let me see that arm.”

Rute stopped stoking the fires of the and wiped the sweat off his forehead with a rag which only served to move the dirt around his face. Wordlessly and without caution he rolled his sleeve up further and proffered it for inspection.

“Over here boy! I'm not of a mind to get scalded!”

Rute moved closer to the stranger and winced as he was treated to a face-full of breath that Rute could have sworn would have removed the shine off a mirror had he known what a mirror was. His arm was prodded and examined. He was told to lift his arm over his head, bend his elbow and drum his fingers. The last task he failed. He didn't have any.

“Who did this for you boy?”

“Sir?”

“Who made this arm?

“My uncle sir. Well, he made my first one but I couldn't move it. I had to make it move.”

A look of surprise flitted for an instant over the dwarf's craggy face. “You made your arm move?”

“Yes sir. And I changed my eye too. It's better now.”

“Let's see it then.”

Rute removed his goggles and met the hard gaze of the figure who was only a fraction taller than he was at an undernourished 15 years old. The dwarf stiffened. Finally he said, “I think that'll do boy. Cover it up now. And I'd leave those on as much as possible after you leave here if I were you.”

“Leave? Where would I be going sir?”

“Boy, would you like to learn how to drum your fingers?”

And that had been Rute's passport out of the Cogs. Saying goodbye to his family and all he had known (which wasn't a lot) Rute was taken under Kilbrek's rather ripe wing and relocated in the Mror Holds. There his skills in artificing were trained and honed. His masters realised he not only had a talent for artificing but also an innate skill for mental calculation. He could tell you the angle needed to approach the promising seam you'd found, he could calculate why your sword was off balance and tell you exactly how much leverage was needed to lift a boulder off a trapped miner. Rute took exceptional delight in coming up with new ways of doing things and improving whatever he could in his field of weapon making and the maintenance and repair of engineering equipment. “Improvement” became his watchword and as he grew and his arm needed replacing, he worked at it until now at the age of 23, wearing long sleeves and thick leather gloves, no-one could tell it wasn't his own flesh and blood. Despite his skills, Rute remained a simple lad, shut away from the wider world until he found a new itch. An itch to go home, an itch to improve himself, improve his skills, improve the world...

Rute stood at the gate of his family's scrap metal yard. Or rather, what had once been the gate. The big plates of welded metal were coming off their hinges and hung open like a dullard's mouth.

“Rute?”

Rute turned and regarded the man behind him. The man who stared back at him bore a vague resemblance to his uncle. If his uncle had looked like he'd been ravaged by wolves.

“Rute lad, you shouldn't be here. You shouldn't have come back.”

---Another brief insight into Auron's past---

Three figures made their way slowly towards Auron's hut, which sat on stilts at the edge of the Crawling Swamp a region in the north-west of the Shadow Marches. The figures were in a poorly constructed boat, and the smallest of the three was being made to row. Auron, sitting cross-legged at the door to his makeshift home, peered into the mist that hung expectantly over the viscous water at the boat and its occupants. He watched them intently for several minutes as they rowed steadily closer. He then got up and fetched his staff from a corner before returning to his seated position with the staff laid across his lap, both hands resting upon it.
They were close enough for him to hear them now as they argued amongst themselves. When he could speak between gasping for air through effort the smallest figure was complaining about being made to row, but he was being ignored by the other two who were concerned about other things.
“I still don't understand why they sent us to deal with this interloper?” said one loudly in a gruff voice.
“Interloper?” said the other quizzedly. “I thought we were gonna kick out some guy what didn't belong here.”
“That's what I said, fool. I don't understand why we had to do it though.”
The fool wrung his hands, “The boss said that what with the big find in the west there was no-one else what could do it. They couldn't spare nobody else.”
“I should be there with my expertise, but no, I've got deal with some wretch who thinks he's clever. I'm better than this; he's gonna be so very sorry when I'm finished with him.”
This exchanged continued in the same way for a few more minutes until the boat finally floated gently up to within a few yards of Auron's hut. Auron could see the three figures clearly now, two human and one half-orc. The smallest man was sweating profusely and had now slumped forward panting. The half-orc, who Auron had mentally labelled as the 'leader' of the three, was typically built for his race and looked like he could lay out either of the other two with little effort. The final man, the 'fool', who was almost as large as the half-orc was holding what appeared to be a rather large club. He twisted it around in his left hand nervously.
The boat stopped and the half-orc, spitting into the swamp, drew a pistol from his belt saying to Auron, “You're trespassing on House Tharashk land. I suggest you move along.”
“Where do you suggest I move along to?” asked Auron without taking his eyes from the pistol.
Turning and laughing to his companions he replied “I don't know, perhaps the swamp beasts will have you.”
There was nervous laughter from the other two, who weren't feeling good about Auron. He was different. He didn't look scared at all. Normally people got scared when they showed up, but not the man in front of them. He looked, if his face showed any emotion at all, confident. He looked dangerous. The half-orc didn't share their concerns and continued:
“How'd a thin streak of nothing like you get out here anyway? S'ppose it don't matter now, since we're gonna beat you into a pulp.”
“Is that what's going to happen? Auron said, “I risk to differ.”
The three thugs in the boat started to laughed again, but very quickly stopped as Auron started to chant arcane words that they didn't understand.
“What's he saying?” said the club-wielder eyeing Auron nervously. “No-one said he did magic. Is he doing magic? I don't like magic.”
The half-orc turned and said angrily, “Of course he isn't, does he look like a wiz----?”
As the half-orc turned the very solid end of Auron's staff slammed into his face knocking him over the edge of the boat and into the swamp. There was a loud plop and the half-orc disappeared under the surface. Before the club-man could react the butt of the staff slammed into his face as well and he fell backwards into the boat. The small man looked up to see a very small ball of flame growing in size in the palm of a now very angry looking wizard who was aiming for his head.
“You've got a choice...” Auron started, but the man was already responding before he could finish.
“I row away and didn't see nuthing. I row away and didn't see nuthing...” the small man was repeating over and over with his eyes closed.
“That's the one,” Auron responded smiling.
The small man started to row vigorously away from Auron still repeating to himself, “I row away and didn't see nuthing, I row away and didn't see nuthing...”
Sighing, Auron turned his head and said to the inside of the hut, “<We had better get moving my friend; the next lot they send will be more numerous and less inept. We got what we came for in any case. It's a shame really...it was rather peaceful here.>”

--A glimpse at the life of the wizard Auron--

Approaching the city limits, Auron breathed in the familiar air of Sharn for the first time in years. It was also a great deal better than the putrid air of the Shadow Marches where he had spent the last six months. He smiled; he was home once again and it felt good. The magnificent towers of Sharn spiralled up to its mighty peak before him as he continued on into the city. Auron made his way to the district of Dura where he found his old watering hole The Crooked Marquess. Nothing had changed since he was last here, and he thanked the Host that the Last War had left this place untouched. Only the staff seemed to have changed and striding up to the bar Auron ordered a tankard of ale, asking at the same time whether a man named Falstaff still owned the place. Receiving his answer Auron smiled and sat down in a quiet corner. The tavern was reasonably empty with only a few people scattered here and there. None of them had noticed him enter, or if they had they hadn't make any sign. He sipped his tankard of ale. It had some time since he had tasted the sweet ale of The Crooked Marquess. Quietly and to himself Auron sighed, closed his eyes and began to think about the last five years and how he had come to leave Sharn and his home behind.

Five years ago...

Auron stepped off the boat and into a whirlwind of dust and sand. Shielding his eyes he made his way in the direction the first mate had pointed him.
“[Where are you from stranger?]” asked a stern man in riedran. The man was wearing a large overcoat pulled up over his mouth and a wide brimmed hat pulled down to help shield his eyes and nose against the storm. Because of this Auron couldn't make out his face, but he was sure the man was human.
“[Khorvaire],” he answered. His riedran wasn't great, but he could remember enough of the language from his days growing up in Adar.
“[Khorvaire?]” the man repeated back to him. “[What business do you have in Adar, Khorvian?]
“[I look refuge from Final War. I grow up here.]” Auron replied in his broken riedran.
“[I see. Then you know about the troubles on Sarlona with the Kalashtar and the Inspired. No profit to be had there; we humans need to stick together and stay out of their trivialities.]”
“[I know of troubles, and have no want to be part of it. I just want to see the war away in peace.]” Auron replied.
“[That's good to hear. The last thing we need is another freedom fighter on this godforsaken land. Now friend, do you need a place to stay this night?]”
Auron nodded in all earnestness.
“[You'll find a tavern with rooms down that street over there. The beds are hard, but the prices are low. That should see you good for the night.]”
Thanking the man, Auron headed down the street in the direction he had been pointed. The sky was showing the first signs of dawn, but this did not deter the storm as it flicked the sand up wickedly, whipping anything that dared to venture outside. Reaching the tavern Auron smiled, opened the door and stepped inside.

Auron finished his drink in one and waved to the barkeep for another. As he did this a tabby cat jumped down from the hearth next to his table and started to rub its body against his left leg. Bending down to rub the cat's flank he heard the door of the tavern open and the sound of several men walking in, voices raised in good cheer. Ignoring them, Auron patted the cat, stood up and walked to the bar.
Reaching the bar, Auron hear a gruff voice from the group that had just entered say, “Your money isn't any good in here my friend.”
Turning towards the speaker, Auron's features spread into a wide grin across his face and he laughed a mighty laugh.

-- Here we have Verity's sky pirate's troubled adolescence and recent disaster --

A great streak of purest white split the sky in two, lashing through the pelting rain like the tongue of some gigantic serpent. The deck of the airship beneath their feet trembled and groaned.

“Captain! We're losing her to the storm!” Lieutenant Commander Garonne screamed into the wind, his voice, though he was hardly a foot away from his target, was barely audible.

“I'm working on it, Garonne!”

This was no storm like any the captain had encountered before. Though the Mark of Storms burned furiously on his chest its power seemed useless. The clouds above The Sky Bard heaved and billowed in shades of mauve and charcoal and darkest purple, completely unaffected by the forces he could feel flowing out of him. It just wasn't strong enough. He just wasn't strong enough...

“Jirke Hanna-D'Lyrandar! Can you repeat what I just said?”

Jirke threw his head back. He pulled off the piece of parchment stuck to his cheek with dried saliva and smiled widely at his teacher.

“Absolutely not.”

He enjoyed the way Mistress Heleina's pale neck became mottled with splotches of red.

Her eyes blazed but her voice remained steady as she said, “Then I think you had better get out of my classroom.”

“There are only ten minutes left, mistress. Surely it would be better to reprimand me after the lesson so as not to take your precious time away from my classmates?” He cocked his head to one side and gazed at her imploringly. The figures seated at the desks around him tittered and muttered.

Mistress Heleina spoke through gritted teeth and did not meet his eye, “I do not intend to reprimand you, master Jirke. I will leave that to your parents when they receive my letter that you have been suspended from my lessons forthwith. Now collect your belongings and leave at once.”

Jirke's blood ran cold. He stood, scraping his chair back, slung his satchel over his shoulder and exited the classroom.

The academy was situated on one of the upper levels of the island. Open air was a necessity for students learning how to control weather after all. But there were other reasons a large group of teenagers of House Lyrandar should remain within easy access of the sky. Jirke could feel the repressed anger twitching inside him and he quickened his pace as it threatened to break through. He imagined his mother's anger. He could see his father's disappointment.

Two minutes were probably all he had.

Once outside he broke into a run and swung into the nearest loading tower, feeling his heart in his ears as his feet pounded the steps that would take him to a higher point in the sky.

One minute.

The door to the top of the tower slammed against the wall as he threw it outward and himself to his knees on the flagstones below, gasping for air. The sun beat down on his sweat-soaked back, a typical day for the holiday destination of Stormhome. Seagulls mewled all around. He could not remember a day he hadn't heard seagulls.

It was time up. The convulsions hit the pit of his stomach and spread out through his torso. He struggled to lie on his back and watched as the clouds above darkened almost imperceptibly. Electricity coursing from the Mark on his chest snapped his entire body rigid and he keened through his clenched jaw pathetically. Puberty sucked. It had never been as bad as this before. He had no clue what would happen if he released it as he was but the energy was starting to burn through his innards as if he were being cooked from the inside out. He had read about cases where marked individuals seemed to have spontaneously combusted and wondered if this was the cause. It was not the kind of information that was taught in the academy.

Jirke raised his rigid arms into the air above his face, spread his fingers apart and marvelled at the webs of blue-white light that danced between them. He tentatively focused his energy into his hands and watched the dancing sparks speed up and burn brighter. It was painful but exhilarating and as he pushed more compressed energy into his arms to ease the inner burning sensation and the sparks stretched up from his fingertips and scratched at the sky he began to feel light-headed from the power. He closed his eyes and mentally prepared himself to make one last push and send it all out of his aching arms.

Before he could get that far he felt a warm pressure on his chest and his eyes flew open. The sun above was blocked by the silhouette of a man. The man held his palm flat against the Mark on Jirke's chest and the electricity crackling around his hand disappeared as he felt it streaming back down his arm, into his chest and out of the Mark. When the last dregs of the magical energy left his body the man stumbled back, pulled out a pistol and fired it into the sky. Rather than a gun shot going off a noise like tearing cloth amplified by a hundred rent the air as a lightning bolt shot out of the barrel and into the clouds. The seagulls squawked frantically. The man watched it disappear before putting his pistol back in the holster at his hip and turning to look down at Jirke still prone on the floor.

Now Jirke could see him clearly he felt he recognised this older Khoravar but he could not place him among any of his father's friends. For a start he was a good deal more scarred and weather-worn than any of the Lords that attended his parents parties. His hair was also considerably more wiry and unkempt. Nevertheless there was something regal about him that marked him as at least having once been an aristocratic member of House Lyrandar.

The stranger crouched beside him and intoned gruffly, “Are you hurt?”

“How did you do that?”

The stranger caught Jirke's left arm and inspected his hand. It seemed to pass some sort of test as he soon released it, “Good. You're unharmed. Now get up.”

Jirke pushed himself up on his elbows and grinned excitedly, “Teach me how to do that.”

“Get up, boy. I need to speak to your parents.”

Jirke groaned and the skies above, though startlingly sunny only moments before, opened up and threw heavy drops of rain down upon them both.

One raw and blistered hand slipped from the handles of the wheel, slick with rainwater. He cursed as it jerked violently to the right and twisted the arm still holding it into an agonising angle. The ship careened sending crates, cargo and crew alike hurtling toward starboard side. Garonne swooped in to take control, eyeing his captain with fear and concern as he put the ship back on course.

The captain saw nothing in his eyes but pity and disappointment. He tore the gaze apart with a scowl and pushed his clinging wet, dirty-blonde hair back from his face. Water ran in rivulets down his collar but he barely felt it as his clothes were soaked through entirely from hours in the torrential downpour. Shoving his bleeding hand into the folds of his coat he turned toward the bow, his back to Garonne, and withdrew his pistol. Perhaps this would work. It had to work. He was entirely out of options.

Captain Jirke raised his arm to take aim at the distant horizon where the clouds, though black, held no crackling energy. Held no life. If he could only draw the storm away from them... A thought suddenly occurred to him as he made to pull the trigger. A phrase his old master had once muttered at him during one of their unconventional lessons resounded in his head in his familiar gruff tones.

“Purple skies in magicians eyes.”

Purple. Mauve. The storm was magic. And as the obviousness of this realisation hit him like a punch to the head a very unwelcome vision appeared through the parting clouds. A monstrously large, glistening black airship loomed toward them, and from it a deafening bellow rent the thunder from the skies and resonated through all that was wood, metal and bone. Jirke looked back over his shoulder at Garonne whose horrified face mirrored his thoughts.

“He was supposed to be back by now.”

“I'm sorry, my lord, but we've had no word from The Marauder for three weeks now.”

“Why isn't anyone doing anything?”

“Standard procedure, my lord. We wait a full month of no communication before alerting the Admiral.”

Jirke slammed his fist down onto the clerks desk. His bangles jingled. “Bullshit! He promised me. He promised me he'd be back in time for my graduation.”

The clerk had the good graces to look apologetic as well as confused. Jirke took a step back and ran a hand over his attempt at a sandy-brown chin beard. In a matter of hours he was to have officially completed his formal training as an airship captain. However, he was without the support of the man from whom he had learnt his most valuable lessons. Captain Aeryn D'Lyrandar: his Master, Mentor and the man who had saved him from becoming a teenage charred corpse on top of a loading tower eight years previous was missing. Tradition dictated that a students title be formally given by the person who had most influenced their education. Aeryn had sworn he would be the one to present it to him. Even with words rather than his customary grunts. Though it seemed likely that it would soon be given by his father – a man who had little to no influence in any of his choices excepting those that inspired him to do the opposite of what he demonstrated. Such as wearing yellow. Jirke despised yellow.

He was not without concern for the well-being of Captain Aeryn but the man was a war veteran. He had battled Dragonborne and infiltrated the guilds of rival Houses. His name was known in smoky taverns throughout the land. Aeryn D'Lyrandar was a hero. He had every faith that he would turn up eventually.

When he did he was going to be severely guilt-tripped by his disappointed student. His only student as far as Jirke was aware. He hated to think he might not be.

The horns signalling a day of ceremony blared tunefully in the distance.

“ABANDON SHIP.” Went up the cry. It echoed along the lengths and through the depths of the vessel.

A blast went off somewhere on the enemy ship followed by a bizarre whooping noise. Then there stretched a moment of silence. The bow of The Sky Bard exploded into splinters as a huge forked grappling hook tore into it. Jirke let out a cry of anguish as he watched the chain connected to the hook retract and his ship be seized from his control. He took aim once again at the hull of the beast that stole his livelihood, his honor and his home away from him. The gun fired a blazing tendril of lightning that hit its mark, sparked along its surface and fizzled out uselessly. He felt arms around his shoulders pulling him back and he could do nothing but comply.

“Captain.” Garonne's voice barely touched his senses, “Captain, we need to leave now. The emergency boats are ready. The artificers are detaching the elemental ring. It should have enough power to bring us to land but we need to leave now.”

The captain looked from the wreckage of the bow, to the unidentified pirate ship and finally at his Lieutenant Commander's face.

You'll never find him if you stay here with your lost cause, he thought. After a heartbeat he nodded numbly. “Very well.”

-- And here's Matt's awesome Elven Avenger. --

Cal’edor stood at the cliffs edge staring over and down at the village, a few small fires had already started and he could hear the bestial cries of the bandits mingling with the anguish of the villagers, the wind whipped violently through his long blond hair and for a moment he paused reflecting on his life…

Raised in Arenal by his parents Cal’edor had enjoyed a happy but uneventful childhood, his elven heritage would perhaps have brought him more grief had he not discovered his first love so young. He had been fascinated by the study of the blade, the art and dance of combat.  From the time he was old enough to hold a practice blade he had studied anything he could learn from anyone who would teach him.  This obsession came at the expense of his other studies, he had no time for language, mathematics or anything else, all that mattered was the sword.

Eventually his parents learned the futility of trying to draw his attention to anything else and gave their blessings for him to abandon his other studies entirely.  Luckily for Cal’edor many of his practices were mingled with philosophy, religion and culture of those who developed the style.  These things he did study, with the intent of better understanding the world that had birthed each style.

By the time he was 20, still a child in the eyes of his people, he was already seen as a troublemaker though only by those who took no time to learn his intentions.  His youth mixed with study had bred an attitude into him that when he saw someone abusing their strength, position or just numbers he felt compelled to intervene.  Anything from a noble trying to argue an unfair price to muggers and bullies, be they 1 or 50 in number.  As a result Cal’edor’s sword and fist saw much use in those early years, he did not always win, but he survived, and now began to temper his learning in the crucible of real combat. Cal’edor began to travel, wandering Eberron widening the net of his learning, seeking new injustices and people.

By the time he was 45 years old Cal’edor found himself in his new home, a shrine to the Sovereign Host after saving a priest from bandits.  He had found himself intrigued by the Priest who favoured the Goddess of Self Sacrifice and Honorable Combat, Dol Arrah.   He would speak of the Goddess as if he spoke with her nightly, speaking of how she would certainly favour the actions of Cal’edor.  30 years passed in the blink of an eye as he learned at the feet of the priest, helping out in the shrine where he could keeping his blade keen on those who would seek to cause disturbance there.  It was then that the Priest was finally laid to rest, old age finally catching up with him and with that the shrine was closed and Cal’edor found himself on the road again, his wanderlust overtaking him again.

It was there that he met her, Alyssa, a human Bard from Fairhaven who enchanted him from the first moment he met her, with red hair like fire and whose voice rang out clear as any angel. They revelled in the company as their travel intensified their feelings for each other and eventually the two fell in love.

The pair were inseparable and spent several decades together never leaving one another’s side travelling the land from the halls of the Undying Court to the wilds of Xen’Drik.  As the pair always knew would happen however Alyssa began to age while Cal’edors long life simply stretched out before him and eventually she passed away quietly in his arms.  Cal’edor buried his love in a location he has never revealed, spending what little money he had on charms to prevent the disturbing of her rest and set out into the world once more.  He had no gift for dance or song to be vowed to try and brighten the world much as Alyssa had the only way he knew how, wherever there was injustice, he would be there, whenever the boot of tyranny fell upon the helpless he would be their champion.  He would do all this in the hope that one day, when his time came to an end, gods willing,  he could stand tall in the presence of his love knowing he made the world that bit brighter…

A guttural scream broke him from his reverie and Cal’edor, blade in hand began his headlong rush into the heart of the village…

-- Here's Celeste's bio for her Warforged Fighter. Personally, I think he's just darling. --

Tiny’s Character Background

Warforged Fighter, Male

Tiny was constructed in the small town of Bastion in Karrnath 4 years ago.  He was originally constructed for use in heavy industry (mainly in arms construction) although, as with all warforged constructed for Karrnath by House Cannith,  he was designed with combat as his secondary function.  As Karrnath’s armies dwindled towards the end of the war, they turned to their warforged workforce as well as the undead to replenish their ranks, and Tiny was one of those chosen to fight.  He and his fellow warforged recruits were accompanied to the front by the chief engineer of the Bastion Arms Works, a dwarf named Goldsmelter, whose task was to ready them for war and to keep them repaired and maintained whilst they were required for combat.  It was Goldsmelter who, taking a liking to him when he showed an aptitude for fighting, gave Tiny his nickname, distinguishing him from his nameless fellow workers and unknowingly sowing the seeds of his individuality. 

Tiny performed as well as a soldier as he had as an industrial worker, and he was often chosen for special missions which were deemed too dangerous for a ’living’ soldier.  He obeyed Goldsmelter unquestioningly, but he was considered remarkable among the warforged soldiers for his initiative and his battleground intuition, often surviving potentially fatal missions through quick thinking and independent actions not contained in his original orders. 

This quality made him valuable, but it also caused his superiors to view him with suspicion and fear.  When Goldsmelter was killed by a stray cannon shot whilst repairing a vehicle on the border of Cyre, they were afraid that without his original handler, Tiny would go rogue, or at the very least become unreliable as a fighter.  Thus, they decided to have him ‘decommissioned’ (a common fate for warforged deemed unsuitable for combat), and despatched a human soldier to destroy him.  When the soldier appeared before him and he realised what was intended, Tiny discovered that, despite his inclination to obey without question, he was not willing to give up his life, and after easily defeating the soldier sent to kill him, he ran.

After wandering through the forests of Karrnwood for several months, hiding and attempting to avoid the detachments of soldiers everywhere, he heard rumours of the disaster that had befallen the country of Cyre, and the creation of that desolation now known as the Mournland.  Assuming that the horrors described by the credulous peasants would not affect a warforged such as himself, he saw this as an opportunity to escape Karrnath, where he would be recognised as a deserter by his model and markings, and make a new life for himself in one of the other lands of Khorvaire. 

Keeping to the shadows of the Nightwood, he entered the Mournland at Dollen on the River, and stepped out of the dead gray mist three weeks later just outside Vathirond in Breland.  What he saw and experienced in the Mournland in those weeks, he has not yet told anyone.  The only thing he has revealed is that at some point in his journey, he encountered the undead corpse of his former master, Goldsmelter, who had been raised by the Karrnathi and sent into Cyre with an invasion force just before the entire country was destroyed.  What Goldsmelter said to him in the blasted lands, no one knows, but when he left the Mournland and entered Breland, it was with a new sense of purpose and identity. 

Tiny travelled the trading roads of Breland to Sharn, City of Spires, where he had heard that all questions can be answered, and all things can be found, if you only know who to ask.  He is not sure what he is looking for yet, but he hopes that he can find it here.  In the meantime, he wanders the streets of the city, searching for those who might have need of him, for he has not yet lost his inbuilt need to labour in the service of others.  He has also realised that he must earn money to supply his few needs, and to protect himself from those who would seek to enslave him again.  At first he took any work that was offered, without questioning its legality or its morality, but as he came to learn more about the society and the people of the city, he began to turn down the tasks which seemed harmful to others, and he is beginning to get a reputation in Sharn as a steady and reliable, if somewhat uncommunicative employee. 

Tiny is fascinated by the mechanical and alchemical processes which created and continue to animate him, and he has a small collection of clockwork toys, bought on his travels through Breland, which he will occasionally wind up and observe for hours at a time.  The clockwork mouse is his favourite.