The Numismatist

The stories of Barrow’s Maw–indeed, of the entire Roll of Ages–have a plurality of voices. Some wax poetic about their adventures, while others merely complete quest after quest for the Maw for the profit and prowess. For some, the smallest copper is of great import; for others, they shrug and tell the barkeep to keep the change.

This is to state that the stories of the Numismatist may not always be congruent with the tales of the Roll at large. Some players on its grand stage are forgotten by mistake and not through intent or disrespect, and those who are remembered may be wildly misinterpreted and find their stories aggrandized or diminished. But the truth should never get in the way of a good yarn.

(In other words, not everything you’re about to read may be accurate, especially if you were involved. On another note, stories like this usually benefit from the fact an author can write a cohesive narrative from start to finish, whereas with something like DnD, invariably, a story is subject to the caprices of dice, so there might be constant tonal whiplash. Parts of this might change wholesale. What I'm saying is, please have rock-bottom expectations. -LB)

On an edge of Al-Qashqa that Grand Sultan Malmon held no jurisdiction over, yet not quite close enough to be called part of Zweistrum, a stretch of wasteland made a natural border, an obstacle to be crossed or avoided–inhospitable at the best of times. At best, badlands dwarves quarreled with scab orcs; their corpses making a feast for thunderbirds, scorpions, and basilisks. And at worst, dreadful blue dragons and ashworms bored colossal holes under the earth, collapsing any homes on a whim while forming the only hospitable places outside of the hot sun.

Yet once upon a time, a few centuries ago, a faraway lord thought he saw the potential value of the place. Over by the Shining Sea, he commissioned an expedition of a group of displaced duergar who had been chased out of their mountainhomes by the Northmen and some holier-than-thou dwarves. The duergars’ task was simple–to excavate the desert for its minerals, gemstones, and any riches, and bring the profits back home. But the noble would learn the hard way what it meant to deal with duergar. They absconded with the money, and did indeed settle there, even attracting other duergar to their new home, but the ploy bankrupted the noble, who found himself absorbed into a rival home and forgotten by history. So, too, was his commission, which had since grown and thrived into the underground tunnel-city named Van Darkholme. And it is there that our hero, Spondulix of Van Darkholme, came to be.

Now the first forty-some years of his life are unremarkable. There is no need to tarry over how he came to be manager of the Great King’s Vault, collecting cheques signed by duergar labormasters to pay out daily wages to their charges. Nor will we belabor the point of his magical oddity–how the wizarding caste once tried to train him, seeing that he had the strange innate potential seen in sorcerers, warmages, or even runesmiths, but expelled him as an anomaly, an atrocity, a befuddlement, a beguiler, and a bewilderment to the magical arts and trained him no further.

We will start on Spondulix’s 47th birthday: the day he decided to leave Van Darkholme forever.

Kel scrawled the last few names into her ledger for the night. Most of the duergar had accounted for that year’s taxes, with very few deserters and welchers choosing to abscond rather than pay the royal tithe.

She and Spondulix, her boss, had been among those who had paid properly and on time, so she had no idea what had him looking so glum. He had moped for all ten days of the last week to a point where she worried she would have to take over his duties, and she wasn’t nearly as good at bookkeeping as he was. Humans often had a “midlife crisis” at around his age, so she suspected his birthday, which had gone by today uneventfully, may have had something to do with it. Then again, 40 was about when duergar became adults, and he was seven years past that, so in truth she had no idea.

“Headed down to the pub later, ‘Dulix?” she asked.

“No,” he sighed. This was always the answer; to King Wilbur’s delight, Spondulix seemed to always volunteer for overtime and labored constantly to count every coin and ensure the Vault had every copper counted, recounted, and accounted for. This was no issue really; most duergar were already a dour bunch, and she didn’t like drinking with them as frustrations over the workday tended to come out after a pint or two of cheap swill that had the color of dung and taste that was comparable, probably. She’d save up her silvers for the odd mushroom wine every month and sometimes nursed one in a corner booth hewn out of rock while she watched the men bicker and banter.

“Well, I’m off for the day,” she told him. He nodded morosely, but as she turned to head out onto the polished stone floors of the vault, she thought she noticed something about him change. Must have been her imagination.

Unlocking the door to their gilded cage, she turned just in time to see Spondulix quite literally leaping for joy.

“It’s here!” He shouted. “It’s here! It’s here! Thank the Overgods! It’s here, it came back!”

“What’s here?” She asked. It was the most excited he had been all week. Normally he was this cheery, to be sure, so the drought of his excitable nature was especially intense for the week that it had been gone. But this was shocking even by his standards.

And it intensified. Suddenly, he barreled towards her, grabbing her by the wrist and hand, and pulling her into a manic waltz, all around the empty room, across the polished floor of the Vault.

“Kel! Oh, Kel!” he sang, “It came back to me! It’s back!”

“‘Dulix!” she cried. “‘Dulix! Spondulix! Unhand me!”

He obliged somewhat, loosing her from his grip in a twirling pirouette where she grabbed a nearby table.

“My apologies,” he told her, and while her head reeled she looked at him to see tears in his dark eyes. What in the Roll had happened?

“Come with me! Sit, sit! It’s my birthday. And something very wonderful has happened to me! And I will not celebrate alone. Come!” He hurried back into the Vault’s cage where the money was kept, out of the foyer where he had pulled her into a dance.

When she re-entered, she saw him uncorking a dark bottle, and two stone mugs.

“Oh no, I don’t drink-”

“No, no, Kel, I insist. I dinnae think I would be drinking today, so ye’ll forgive me if I dinnae have any proper wineglasses around. But today is a cause for celebration!”

She looked, and saw that the dark bottle was not ale. Indeed, it was not even the mushroom wine she was used to. The bottle he poured had a simple label, decorated only with a spider.

Drow spiderblood.

So potent, that it would literally kill lesser races. It was a mushroom wine with a dose of spider’s venom. And it did not come cheap. In fact, it did not come at all; their only trade came from visiting kobolds and goblins who were more likely to raid than to trade, so this must have cost a fortune to procure. And whatever news he had therefore truly was a cause for celebration.

She wordlessly sat down across from him as he poured her a share, then handed it to her. She took a sip while he poured his own. It was delicious; duergar like themselves could easily digest poisons like these easily. But she could feel the alcohol almost immediately, and so she knew she had to pace herself.

Spondulix, meanwhile, imbibed a gulp easily without blinking, then launched immediately into explaining.

“Have a look at this.”

On the low counter near them, he slid a small coin over to her. It bumped into her hand, and she picked it up between two fingers. It was a gold coin.

“What about it?”

“Look closely at it.”

She peered at it. Maybe he meant that she would need torchlight to see what he was talking about? But duergar had good vision in even the darkest tunnels, so she could not imagine color would make the difference. She turned it over. Nothing about the obverse or the reverse stuck out to her.

“It’s a gold coin.”

“Yes, it’s-” he sighed, exasperated. “Kel, look where it’s from.”

She turned it over again, and suddenly saw. “By Xel’s blood!” she swore.

On the obverse, eleven tall, shadowy humanoids leered at her. The reverse had various draconian declarations of submission as a requirement; a miniature codex of laws, all inscribed on a coin… to think even the very coinage was oppressive. She dropped it before them, and it rolled on the floor neatly into his waiting hand, where he scooped it up with a smile.

“Zakar-” she cut herself off, then repeated in a whisper, as if the Mage-Governors of the far-off autocracy could hear. “Zakarion? A Zakarion coin, here?”

“I know!” He exclaimed with great giddiness.

“How is that even possible?” She asked.

“I don’t know!” He declared in a singsong voice, taking another gulp of the wine. “Haven’t the foggiest idea! Many years ago, this coin just ended up here! Here, in the Vault!”

“Years ago?” She asked.

“What a long journey it had.” He sighed, turning it over lovingly in his hand. “Someone escaping from Zakarion must have had it. Then traded it for safe passage, aye. Maybe he’s made it, and just as he’s tasted freedom, aye, marauding kobolds took it from him, and then we looted it from them when they traveled here and tried to steal from our mines. Probably. It's the conclusion I've come up with.” He took another sip. “I don’t know by what miracle it came here, but it’s here.”

“Slow yer Roll,” she slurred, then put her mug down. “Slow yer Roll. Ye said it came back though.”

“Aye, that I did.” He sipped from his mug again. As far as his drink, he was apparently fine, or unaffected, or hiding it very well. “When it first appeared years ago, I swapped it out for one of me own coins.”

“I’ll imagine yeh did.” She sighed, leaning back a little. Most duergar were opportunistic and would take from the larder freely, and to be honest, even on her part she only followed the law and never stole because King Wilbur would have her executed if she tried. But, for some reason, a sense of honor took priority in Spondulix that was unheard of in duergar. In fact, she suspected it was what made King Wilbur appoint Spondulix to such an important–and trust-dependent–position in the treasury in the first place. He was the type who wouldn’t steal a coin, and properly replace it if for whatever reason he took a fancy to one, which he often did.

“And I kept it!” He continued. “It was a lucky charm. Made the work go by faster. I’d spend so much time wondering where it came from, what its history was, what brought it here. And then…” His eyes darkened. “I gave it away last week.”

“How?” Kel asked.

“I don’t know. I must have pulled it out to admire it, but one moment it was there, the next it weren’t. I’d slipped it in with someone’s payment for their work that day.” He shook his head. “My apologies if I’d seemed miffed or sour this past week, Kel.”

“No, I haven’t even noticed,” she lied.

“No, no,” he said, “It was… a rookie numismatist’s error.”

There was that word, that word he loved so much. The regular duergar had no access to (nor desire to access) the Wizard Caste’s library. She knew that Spondulix had once briefly been under their tutelage when he was found to have spellcasting ability, but when they found themselves unable to train him, he’d been expelled. Still, he did read a great many books in that time, including older dictionaries of Shiner's Common, and found a term that he rather liked. Numismatist. He carried it as if it were a title that explained what the strange magic he could cast was, but when she asked around, she realized it was only a fancy term for “coin collector.” It made sense the longer she knew him and knew how seriously he took his work, but in no way did it explain his beguiling magic.

“In any case!” He declared, “It’s back. No more mistakes! Not going to admire it during work, by Icele. I’ll take it home, look at it there. Keep it in me breast pocket.” He patted his chest for emphasis. “No mistakes like that again. To no more mistakes!” He placed the coin in his pocket and raised up his mug to clink against Kel’s.

“To no more mistakes,” she echoed. They both drank.

And yet he seemed ill at ease.

“What is it?” She asked, watching him fidget and seem like the less-cheery Spondulix she had come to know the past week.

“Nothing!” He said, with a forced smile. “I have me coin back. What more could I want?”

A whole lot more coins, for a start, she thought, but instead said “Ye just seem… tense, is all.”

He exhaled. Fidgeted. Drank some more. Fidgeted. Tapped his fingers on the chair. Then removed the precious Zakarion coin from his breast pocket, placing it on the counter, next to piles of gold pieces the bank also had.

“Look,” he acceded, “Here’s where I found it.”

She got up (her head did a somersault, but she held on) and looked at the coin, sitting among its brothers. Honestly, one would have to be a “numismatist” to even spot it.

“I just…” he paused, then flattened his lips into a line under his mustache. “I spent all week terrified. Terrified! I thought it would never come back, this coin. But I didn’t need to, did I?”

“No?” She didn’t understand what he was saying.

“I mean,” he continued, “Duergar don’t leave here. King Wilbur’s reigned long enough here and gives them decent enough lives that they don’t leave, even if they can. So no matter what, any coin that comes through here always comes back. After it’s left, the Zakarion coin would be spent on some ale, and that pub would be taxed, and the tax would come back here–right back to the Vault, every time. Even deserters and tax-avoiders get hunted down and their money goes right back into the system.”

He laughed. Hollowly.

“It made worrying about it that much more silly, aye?” He took a sip of the wine. She noticed a bit of a tremor in his hand, and it was the only indication she got all night that the wine–or something–had been affecting him. She turned her gaze to the coin, sitting just slightly apart from the other gold pieces on the table.

Maybe it was the wine, or some of his numismatism got to her, but all she could see now was how different the coin was. The other coins in the pile were a mixture of Zweistrum-minted coins–meant specifically for trade and differentiating itself from Dathral, the more insular sister-country it bordered–and piles of Al-Qashqa coins, with a profile shot of Great Sultan Malmon, the Perfectionist, facing off to the side. And yet here sat the Zakarion coin. Minted in a strange place, for sure, and if coins had souls it was happy to be out of there and not funding something that the goodlier Overgods would bristle at, but even here it was out of place. Like it had fled a cage and just settled into a roll of mediocrity sandwiched between others.

It only resembled the other coins superficially. It was a gold piece, sure, and it was worth the same. But it stood out from the others in the Vault. Whether or not it lived inside of Spondulix’s breast pocket, it would only ever be stuck here, day in and day out.

“Do ye want to keep working here, ‘Dulix?”

“What?” He laughed again. “What sort of question is that, Kel? Of course. What more could a numismatist ask for? I’m surrounded by coins. A great collection of them.”

“Yea, but they’re all the same. Shouldn’t a collection have… different coins?”

He hesitated before replying. “I suppose. But it’s not meant to be, aye? Even if I could, I’d never travel so far in me life. Yakami, Zheng, Shuth, Malteca, Lunda and Ngonda, the Northmen Lands… though I suppose I’d have the most dangerous one taken care of.” He pensively prodded the Zakarion gold piece.

“Who says you would have to go to all those places?” She added.

“Beg pardon?”

“I’m saying there’s a place. Some of the trading goblins talk about it. People all around the Roll come to make their fortune there. A frontier or summat like that.” She tried to remember more from the idle chatter she’d heard at the pub.

“You don’t mean the Ohm Basin, do ye?” He offered.

“No. Someplace else. Barrow’s Maw?”

“That’s a town in Ohm’s Basin, that is.”

“Ah. I wouldn’t know. I never left Van Darkholme, meself.”

He leaned on the counter in thought. “Neither have I, I suppose. But what, I could just… leave? Like that?”

“I mean, stay and prepare, obviously!” And teach me how to take over your duties first, for the love of Icele, she thought; she was only a bookkeeper and scribe, and she didn’t have his panache for numbers or what to do and where. “But I don’t mind if this is what would give yeh some… purpose, or summat like that. Just teach me how to run the Great King’s Vault, ere you go.”

“Aye,” he said, picking up the Zakarion gold piece, pocketing it again. He took a deep breath. “By the Overgods. Me, leaving Van Darkholme. If this coin had never come here, I don’t think I would have ever thought about such things.”

“‘Tis only befitting a numismatist, though, aye?” Kel offered.

“Aye, I suppose it is.” He laughed. “Good day then. Tomorrow I’ll start pushing ye from apprentice to master. Thank ye, Kel.”

“Aye,” she replied, finishing the last of the spiderblood to help her sleep soundly tonight. “Happy birthday, Spondulix.”

Two weeks later…

King Wilbur sat idly in his throne room, fiddling with his scepter and gazing at the symbol of Icele on the wall. He had made her the de facto religion of Van Darkholme about a century ago. His father served Fowgt primarily, but allowed other Overgods to be worshipped. Crafty Wilbur took this, and Icele specifically, into a more self-serving direction. The duergar had a propensity to drive themselves into hard labor until death. He would claim that she was displeased with the amount of lollygagging, and the lack of toil on the duergars’ part was why she did not grant them reprieve with her blessed cold breeze miles beneath the burning surface of the Al-Qashqan desert. And if this was blasphemous, then he was never affected. His clerics of Icele got spells daily, meaning she was pleased, while those of Fowgt were exiled as useless louts. His riches, and his waistline, swelled. And every so often, a cool breeze would waft through the tunnels of Van Darkholme, as if to praise them for a job well done. And so, strangely, King Wilbur came to genuinely worship Icele, for the Overgods worked in mysterious ways. Perhaps it was she who had manipulated him into being her conduit, and driving out the fellow Overgod Fowgt in the Overgods’ many petty rivalries, as Immotian had driven out Xel. King Wilbur did not know, but paid tribute to Icele all the same even when he thought this, preferring to stay on her good side. She kept his borders safe, his duergar in check, and his pockets lined.

But tomorrow, the other, more secular facet to his financial success–Spondulix, the treasurer–was leaving under suspicious circumstances. He wrapped his hand around the scepter, which had been his father’s walking stick polished and remade to bear the symbol of Icele atop a golden orb with runes that spelled out “Van Darkholme.”

He’d had him summoned under false pretenses today, to give him the “King’s Royal Blessing” before he went or some such drivel, but the truth was to see what trickery he’d been up to. No one made a fool of King Wilbur, and he thought himself besotted to have trusted such a mysteriously efficient worker until now. Whatever gold he’d squirreled away, he would collect, and send the treasurer to the racks or other terrible devices they’d had for deserters or raiders.

Spondulix, the one they called Numismatist, entered. He looked ready to leave, by all accounts, in an outfit meant for the surface world and not the dark, dusty depths of Van Darkholme. He wore the wide-brimmed pointed hat of one in the wizard caste, but as he was not trained as they were. Civilians were only ever allowed to purchase bright red ones. The Wizard Caste of Van Darkholme was a mighty important group, and their robes were one of a kind on purpose. Standard civilians were forbidden from wearing their dark robes with starry speckling, and only red robes and hats–meant to denote costumes for plays or Dead Fellow’s Day–were permitted for non-wizards. That was to say, only children wore the red robes, for only they had the time to squander not working for the betterment of Van Darkholme. King Wilbur was unsure where Spondulix had been able to even buy one in an adult size. Spondulix was also wearing a red poncho to match instead of a robe, one that drooped over his arms all the way to his knees, so that only his black leather boots were visible. A makeshift brooch of holly and mistletoe was affixed near the shoulder, and underneath the conical cloak Wilbur espied the tip of a sickle hanging off of a belt loop. Near the back, the spikes of a morningstar flared the poncho out, slightly.

Kel came closely behind Spondulix as he entered. As Wilbur understood, she was to take his place and was explicitly trained to do so, and so had a right to watch the proceedings. Kel leaned near a far wall while Spondulix stood atop a slightly raised dais, where King Wilbur addressed him.

“So,” said Wilbur, stroking his beard. “Today’s the day yeh mean to leave.”

“Aye.” Spondulix replied.

“Why’re yeh dressed like that?” Wilbur said, deceptively. He was trying to catch him off-guard, find his true intention, lead him circuitously into what he was up to through a slip of the tongue.

“Like what?”

“Like a wizard!” Wilbur raised his voice, and Spondulix snapped to attention. “Red robes are a costume for children. And that’s not even a robe, that is!” The court wizard in attendance scoffed in agreement, from under his dark hat covered in snowflakes and his resplendently black robes.

This seemed to offend Spondulix—one who already did not register petty things like insults in the first place. “I need a wide-brimmed hat for the sun. Immotian does not make topside duergar-friendly.”

“Aye, that he doesn’t.” King Wilbur reclined back into his throne. “Sunstroke is a problem for us.”

“And this is better for the desert. I won’t spend me whole time out there, but it’ll keep sand, and eventually rain or even snow, out.”

“Gentle snow is a blessing of Icele, and you’d do well not to abjure it.” Wilbur reprimanded, but then conceded: “But to brace for the many forms of storm her temperamental sister, Kalyun, takes; that is a wise move—whether that is sand, rain, or even when she sees fit to corrupt blessed snow into a blizzard.”

“Aye, your majesty.”

“And how much gold do you take with you?”

“Fifty pieces, your majesty.”

King Wilbur raised an eyebrow. “You understand why I must find your sudden departure suspect?”

“Aye? Perhaps. Er… no.” Spondulix fumbled.

King Wilbur twisted his scepter—a quiet cue to the attending mage of the wizard caste to turn the dais upon which Spondulix stood into a Zone of Truth.

“Tell me how many pieces you plan to take with yerself, again?”

“Fif…”

Spondulix felt his throat tighten, unaware of the Zone’s sudden influence. The court wizard had activated it with subtle gestures, and without so much as a whisper. King Wilbur leaned forward sadistically as Spondulix kept struggling to speak his lie.

“Fif…ty… one.”

Here was where King Wilbur had expected to burst into a wicked smile, and to send Spondulix to the guillotine. Instead he only raised an eyebrow.

“Fifty-one?” He repeated. Why would he hide just one away?

“They are here.” Spondulix pulled a coinpurse out from under his poncho. Wilbur cocked his head, and the court wizard who cast the Zone of Truth approached to count them.

It was a mix of coppers, two platinums, gold, and silver, and the court wizard counted through them, arranging them in less-than-neat stacks that seemed to offend Spondulix. He looked up at King Wilbur and declared: “Fifty here, milord.”

“Spondulix,” King Wilbur said, more with confusion rather than accusation, “Please present the coin you have hidden.”

Spondulix, with great hesitation, fumbled under his red poncho. He lifted the front to show his gray hand holding a single gold coin. The court wizard squinted at it through his half-moon glasses. Wilbur was unsure, but he thought he saw Kel stir somewhat. Laughter? Bemusement?

“Did you… steal this coin, Spondulix?”

“On my life, never!” Spondulix cried.

“Then why have you concealed it?” King Wilbur asked.

Kel stepped forward. “It is his lucky coin.”

“It has a… sentimental value to me.” Spondulix added.

“Then, answer me this,” King Wilbur growled, unsure of where this farce was headed and feeling very frustrated for it, “Why are you leaving?”

“I want to collect more coins!” Spondulix blurted. “I want to collect coins that aren’t from Zweistrum, or Al-Qashqa. I want to see Northmen coins, Shining Sea coins, Ohm Basin coins, coins lost to time and coins from Yakami and the Zheng Confederacy! This is what it means to be a Numismatist like myself. And I’ll never do that here!”

King Wilbur was stunned. Wanderlust? As simple as that? No grand heist, no emptying of the royal larders? No scheme with Kel? Spondulix continued raving:

“And another thing; the Wizard Caste rejected me. And even if I’m not very good at magic, I aim to be a grand spellcaster. I heard of great wizards from other worlds and stories, called the Grey, the White, even the Mottled. I know my magic is beguiling, and I will be the first who is known by the red robes!”

“More fool you,” the court wizard said snidely.

“Silence!” King Wilbur exploded, and both the court wizard and Spondulix straightened and spoke no more.

Wilbur had expected this to go very differently; to catch Spondulix in a fib, and to punish him accordingly. Instead he looked and realized a young duergar was simply heading out on his own. Moreover, into a world that was unsympathetic to their kind. Wilbur’s father had taken the commission of a royal house by the Shining Sea that thought nothing of their safety, and it took his son–him–and the will of blessed Icele to turn things around. King Wilbur sighed.

“Spondulix,” he asked. “Where do yeh mean to head?”

“The Ohm Basin, my liege.”

Wilbur drummed his fingers on his scepter.

“A caravan,” he said, “of bhukas from topside comes through every week with a delivery of meats, milk, cheeses and honey. Do yeh speak Goblin, lad?”

“Aye.”

“Most of them do too. Their caravan runs from here to Al-Qashqa, to Shuth, then to Mesa Sfaira. We’ll ask that they take yeh with them.”

“Thank… Thank you, milord.”

“Don’t be no burden to them, y’hear!?” the duergar king snapped gruffly. “Van Darkholme relies on their trade, and their means to track the ashworms before they burrow into our city. They come ‘round tomorrow to trade for our gems and weapons. We’ll ask they take you with ‘em. Provide for yerself. Don’t take their food, lest they come asking for traveling expenses from us later.”

“I won’t. I won’t do nothing of the sort, milord.” Spondulix assured him.

Wilbur sighed again. Spondulix looked at him expectantly.

“What is it, lad?” Wilbur demanded.

“Er… I thought I was here to receive a blessing, milord.”

Wilbur was caught off-guard for what felt like the umpteenth time that evening. He hated it.

“You heard him!” he barked at the court wizard, deflecting his frustration. “Bring me the high clerics of Icele, now!” The court wizard nearly tripped over his dark robes in his haste to flee the room. And it took him entirely too long to return, to the King’s mounting frustration. Two clerics entered, in vestments of bright sky blue and white fur, with patterns of snowflakes speckled all over. They took a place on either side of the King, who raised his scepter.

“Come forward, Spondulix of Van Darkholme.”

Spondulix obeyed. The clerics in attendance swung thuribles from their sleeves, which dispensed a mint-like incense that put a frosty feel in the air around them, soothing everyone in attendance, including Wilbur. Breathing deep, and exhaling, he rested the orb of the scepter on Spondulix’s shoulder.

“Icele,” he began, softly and solemnly, enunciating every word, “All duergar are your children.”

“Ye blessed us with eyes to see through your darkness; so, then, this child of yours will know your safety, when you surround him as such, through the sight you have given…”

“Ye blessed us with runes to let us speak your will; so, then, this child of yours will know your wisdom, when you speak to him as such, through the words you have given…”

“Ye blessed us with frost to suffer not the harsh heat of your brother; so, then, this child of yours will know your respite, when you breathe unto him as such, through the winds you have given…”

“Ye blessed us with sharp icicles to defend against your enemies; so, then, this child of yours will know your protection, when you guard him as such, through the spears you have given…”

“For this child, and all your children that leave their mountainhomes and tunnels, guide them with your wisdom. Bring them cool breezes on hot summer days, and in return, they continue to bring pride and exaltation to your name.”

Wilbur, Kel, Spondulix, the court wizard, and the clerics breathed evenly as the prayer drew to a close. Wilbur drew back his scepter, looking at his soon-to-be former charge with uncharacteristic kindness.

“Not everyone loves duergars, Spondulix of Van Darkholme. We have a tough go of it, even between ourselves. But Icele will never mislead you, lad. Her heart is in every rune you read, and her love for all duergar in every snowflake on a gentle breeze. Remember that, Spondulix.” The king spoke. “Remember that, and she will give you all that you ask for.”

“Even coins?”

“Especially coins!” boomed King Wilbur, by this point more heartily, less morose. “You’ve worked in the Great King’s Vault, haven’t yeh, lad?”

Spondulix nodded.

“Aye, aye. In the Ohm Basin, there’s plenty more, and in different varieties. If nothing else, you’ll not go in want of variety, Spondulix. Now, go rest. The bhukas come in the morrow. They sleep through the nights, unlike duergar, and arrive halfway through the days when we sleep. Be punctual. First thing you’ll learn is that most species topside are diurnal.”

---

As Spondulix came to find out, the bhukas were fairly reserved; the trader that came to parlay with them had learned their language, some offshoot of Goblin, and seemed to be explaining that Spondulix was to be going with them. They seemed to protest, conferring and chittering amongst themselves, but in the end the leader of their expedition came up to Spondulix, speaking in a strange hiss.

“You, coming with me-us. Hurry. Needing to Mesa Sfaira, a delivery-make. There, as far as we-you-take.” The bhuka’s Goblinspeak was unpolished, but Spondulix understood enough to know he would be on his own once they got to Mesa Sfaira. He'd have to find his own way to the Ohm Basin.

They traveled at intense speeds; speeds that threatened to rip his hat clear of his head. It seemed that the bhukas knew some odd druidic magic, and made their horses pull them along at breakneck speeds. They had goggles on to keep the sun out of their eyes, and tight suits that preserved their body’s water. Poor Spondulix was left to the mercy of the buffeting sands, and the sun made his eyes hurt something fierce.

The desert raced by in a blur, but that was owing to the horses’ alacrity. What Spondulix did not expect was that Mesa Sfaira would be more of the same, despite being stationary. The bhukas told him that the town was a place called “Nementhe,” before departing back into the wastes. Hundreds of humans milled around a bazaar, shouting prices, fighting in the streets, drinking, carousing, laughing, swearing, eating, crying, groping, chewing, spitting… it was a world inundated with noise, like hundreds of duergar picks swinging at unbreakable stone in a great echoing chamber. He kept an eye on his pockets, and made his way near the city gates.

“Folks on their way in and out stable their horses there.” King Wilbur had told him. “If ye can, find some dwarves. Our cousins mislike us, but we have more common ground with them than we do the humans.”

He did find such a pack. Several dwarves with hair on their heads and thick beards were stacking sacks and barrels on a large carpet. There were three in all, and they had darker skin compared to Spondulix’s grey shade. Golden dwarves, they were called, if he was not mistaken.

“Hello there!” He exclaimed in Dwarven, walking over. “Hail and well met!”

One of the dwarves heard. He looked up with a smile, which dropped from his face as he saw a duergar approaching. He nudged the other one who looked distracted, and whispered something to him. As he came closer, their hands rested on the hilts of their falchions.

“Easy, gray dwarf,” the first one warned. “We don’t want any trouble.”

Spondulix halted.

“Speak yer business and move along. We’re not ‘ere to cause a fuss.” The first one cocked his head.

“What are you supposed to be?” The second one added. “Are ye some sort of dark wizard?”

“Myself? Absolutely not. I cannot and will not be a dark wizard.” Spondulix stated emphatically. “Do yeh see my robes?”

“Aye… I know of red wizards too. From legend. Tattoos on the skin. Ruffians. Ne’er-do-wells.” The first one curled a hand around the sword, but seemed confused by Spondulix’s response.

“No… I am no wizard! I am Spondulix, the Numismatist. And I only seek passage to the Ohm Basin. Barrow’s Maw, if yeh happen to be headed there.”

“A ‘numismatist’?” A third voice behind the stacks of goods rang out. “That’s an odd one.”

“What’s a ‘nyoo-miz-muh-tist’?” the first one of the dwarves grumbled. It had been the one word Spondulix had said that was in Shiner’s Common; if a word existed in Dwarven, he had yet to hear it.

A long-haired dwarf, a woman, stepped out from behind the barrels and sacks. “Why, he collects coins. Don’t ye, lad?”

“Yes. Yes I do.” Spondulix replied cheerfully.

“Shame on ye, Barundar,” the woman chided. “I hardly think a thief would be so brash and open about stealing from us. Ye need to be less suspicious, ye’ve met your fair share of good and bad dwarves at the Maw, ‘aven’t ye?”

“Aye, Joylin, but a duergar weren’t ever among them.” The first one, Barundar, said gruffly.

“And I repeat, we’ve met evil dwarves who weren’t duergar before. I should think the opposite can hold true.” She extended a dark hand out to shake. “Spondulix, you said? We can drop you off at the Maw.”

“Only because we need the coin. I didn’t think we were this desperate…” The dwarf who wasn’t Barundar grumbled.

“Ignore Roryn.” Joylin said, casting him a look. “It’s been an off season and he’s acting like things have never been this bad on the Roll. By Oao’s grace though, we will return. ‘Tis true we would not take ye for free, but we only ask for a pittance. Fifty gold?”

Spondulix gulped, relieved it had not been fifty-one. “Aye… but where are your horses?”

“Y’hear that, Roryn?” Barundar guffawed. “Horses, the grey dwarf asked for.” He kept laughing, ‘til Joylin flicked him ‘round the ear.

“We have a smoother means of transport,” Roryn said, warming up to Spondulix (once he handed over fifty gold pieces, that is.) “You’re looking at it.”

He stamped his foot on their rug, which began to hover. A flying carpet! Spondulix hurried atop it, as if it would fly away, even though the other three had yet to board.

“Look at ye. Never seen a flying carpet before?” Joylin laughed. “How old are ye, Spondulix?”

“Forty-seven, as of the last twenty days.”

She whistled. “Fresh from the mountainhomes, are ye?”

“Yes. I’m from Van Darkholme.”

“Never heard of it,” she said. “So you’re a numismatist, eh? I’m not sure you’re dressed like one. I expect them to have glasses and wooden boxes full of coins.”

“Not yet. I’m just getting started.” Spondulix explained.

“I see, I see. But otherwise, you’re dressed how a numismatist should be dressed?” She asked with bemusement.

“Aye,” declared Spondulix proudly as the carpet began floating past the city gates, and into great plains and fields unfolding before them. “I know some magic too. I haven’t had proper training as yet, but ‘tis summat I’ll learn as I’ll be going along.”

“Oh, are ye a warmage, Spondulix?” Joylin asked. The wind had whipped up part of his poncho to reveal the leather armor underneath. She’d heard of mages that could cast spells even in armor called warmages, but Spondulix would be the first she’d encountered of them.

“What are those?” He replied.

“Not sure,” she laughed. “If ye don’t know, Spondulix, I’d wager you aren’t one.”

“I suppose not.”

“Oi, settle something for us.” Barundar cut in from the back, and Spondulix turned to face him. “Do duergars worship Oao? Roryn says all dwarvenkind worships him, I’m not so sure.”

“Oao?” Spondulix replied, frowning. “Not sure I know who that is, not all that well. We worship the overgoddess Icele in Van Darkholme. Do you know who she is?”

Something about this had the dwarves exchange a look.

“Aye, we know,” Barundar said.

“Not all of Icele’s worshippers are bad folk.” Joylin was swift to add.

“No, ‘tis true. I weren’t sayin’ nothing. Just that it makes sense among duergar.” He looked at Joylin, who was shooting him a dirty look. “Oi! I ain’t sayin’ nothin’ about Spondulix. And I ain’t sayin’ nothin’ about Icele neither! She made the runes all of us dwarves write with, Oao didn’t even do that. So come off it.”

“Do people not like Icele topside?” Spondulix asked nervously.

“Of course they do, lad.” Roryn laughed. “Barundar’s just angry he’s lost ten gold pieces on this bet.”

“This bet?” Spondulix asked as Joylin whirled on them.

“Aye. Barundar wagered that you was about to answer with Raenar or Xel.” Roryn chuckled.

“The both of you are insufferable.” Joylin snapped.

“I didn’t say anything! I thought he’d have someone tame, like Fowgt.” Roryn protested, to which Spondulix piped up: “We used to worship Fowgt!” which led Roryn to gesture toward Spondulix in an I-told-you-so! way. This carried on for the rest of the journey, and as scenery flew past Spondulix realized that he would probably get along with all the new people he might meet at Barrow’s Maw, if these three were any indication of what to expect on the Roll at large. He was happy to be out of the Vault, he was happy to be out of those tunnels, and he was happy to be headed towards the highly promising Barrow’s Maw.

Immotian 31

To whom it may concern:

I am Spondulix, the Numismatist! And I am here to put an end to some ruffian goblins bedeviling the poor locals and their water supply, for coin that they do not have or that they do not wish to part with! If this enrages my fellow coin collectors, then I ask you leave your signature (in dwarven runic if you please!) below.

ᛊᛈᛟᚾᛞᚢᛚᛁᚲᛊ•ᚦᛖ•ᚾᚢᛗᛁᛉᛗᚨᛏᛁᛊᛏ
-Shieldmaster
-Scarlet
-Eloen Amandel

Not one of the three undersigned names was done so in Dwarven Runic. It should not have surprised Spondulix, but it was the first demonstration he’d had that he was far, far away from Van Darkholme, and he would not be meeting other dwarves often, or anyone who saw them frequently enough to bother learning their runic script.

Shieldmaster was the first to appear, and with a name like that he certainly did appear—he made himself fully known. Spondulix thought a city guardsman had been approaching him for loitering or illegally congregating, but when he stopped and down came a great shield with a CLANG, Spondulix understood clearly.

“You would be Shieldmaster, then?” He asked. The human(?) nodded. His armor covered everything on his person, to the point where Spondulix could not even deduce what he could be. A human? An orc, even? And above all—a bona fide knight as his first compatriot!

He was already awestruck enough that he barely spotted a woman who seemed to be standing around waiting for someone. He looked her up and down until her hands, or lack thereof, caught his eyes. Where the woman’s hands should have been, two red claws with sharp talons hung. He thought for a moment, then spoke: “And you would be Scarlet, as I understand.”

Eloen was trickier to spot, but in the crowd an elf with glasses stood waiting. The duergar wizard caste was a mighty one, yes—but they often insisted that they were right to fear elves, for whom it was a favored kind of profession. But Spondulix had no such fear.

“A fellow spellcaster!” He crowed. “And where is your wizardly hat?”

“I don’t have one,” The elf responded quizzically.

“Well, what kind of wizard doesn’t have a wizardly hat? I certainly have one.” He bluffed.

“I heard it’s where wizards store their extra spells,” gossiped the Shieldmaster to Scarlet.

“Not so!” Spondulix swept off the hat with a flourish. “I use it to cover my bald spot in the sun.” Replacing it on his head, he asked the elf: “I presume you may be Eloen Amandel?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Splendid. That is all of us then.” He declared. “So we are good to proceed to Eastford. ‘Twas where the farmers were hurting for help.”

“Right.” The titan called the Shieldmaster straightened and clanked as he observed the three of them. “So who’ll be the navigator, and the quartermaster?”

Spondulix’s already pale skin turned a shade lighter. To his comfort, however, he saw that Eloen looked similarly flummoxed. He glanced over to Scarlet, who kindly seemed to catch on to that they were both still a bit wet behind the pointed ears.

“A navigator helps direct an expedition,” she explained. “Ideally, they should have some awareness of geography. If not that, then just some basic survival skills will help.”

“I know how to do that.” This Eloen offered, for which Spondulix was grateful. He had some know-how, but it was all theoretical.

“And I can be the quartermaster. They handle the provisions, the lodgings, they hire the horses if need be, and they help divide the finances at the very end.” Scarlet said.

“Then I’ll remain the leader,” Spondulix said, which seemed to brook no opposition from the one called Shieldmaster. The quartermaster seemed to be a good position for him next time, actually—if it wasn’t too dissimilar from his job back at the Great King’s Vault. The bulletin board they stood under had many jobs, and Spondulix made his own listing knowing very little. Next time, he would join an outing and know what to do; but for now, he studied Scarlet closely, who took point.

“Right. How far away is it?”

Eloen gestured to a rough map nearby—a woodcarving with various pins to help adventurers orient themselves.

“North,” they explained. “A ways to the east first; we’ll come through a small plot of farmland, New Fairfield, where we might ask for shortcuts. But we’ll be in the Direwoods for a fair while.”

“Enough so we’ll need horses?” Scarlet asked. Horses! Spondulix was in awe. Already this sounded so much more official.

“Horses may be expensive.” Shieldmaster warned.

“That’s true.” Scarlet tutted, with hands—claws—on hips. “And with the villagers already paying so little, it would help us to earn some money.”

“True,” Shieldmaster said.

This seemed like a good place to get a word in edgewise as the leader. “Then,” Spondulix said, “I think Eloen could provide us with a heading, whenever they see fit.”

Eloen nodded, looked out into the road, then started out ahead, leaving the others walking or clanking behind. The elf walked faster than they did, leading Eloen to cut their pace a little as they ventured out of Ohm Basin and into the Direwoods. But as the navigator, this was fine; it was probably best that they take point.

At one early stretch of their adventure, the elf kept the rest of the party held back by holding up an arm.

“Look.” Pointing straight ahead, they saw a dozing figure leaning against a tree. Spondulix didn’t think anything of it initially, at first thinking Eloen meant to assist the fellow, until he noted what was actually being pointed out—the stranger had an extra set of limbs, four arms total.

“What do we do?” Eloen whispered.

“Walk around. I don’t trust the amount of limbs it has. It should be less. Come along.” Scarlet said—herself possessing an odd pair of nieves, so it made Spondulix renew his pace doubly so. He was never quite sure what was and was not extraordinary in these parts.