The Ring

Illarion and the Dwarven Jeweler

Illarion Vale, the planeswalker of Aralheim, was upon Ikass. He had come lately from Keter, and more recently yet from Alara, and from Jakkard, and most recently from his home upon Aralheim. Having done good turns and received such rewards as they might deserve in all those places, Illarion did not pass by the jeweler’s shop when he visited one of the dwarven holds of Ikass to see its wonder.

The shop was very small, as were most things dwarven-made and not made expressely to impress, but it was also very well-appointed. Here and there were glass cases filled with such wonders as had been made there: silver broaches set with lapis lazuli, gold pendants in the shape of hearts with rubies cut in the same manner, great goblets studded with gems in all the colors of the rainbow, and many other pieces besides. The most numerous and varied of all forms, though, were the rings, and these Illarion paid special attention to.

There were rings of all manner of precious metal: silver, gold, and platinum as well as lesser sorts that were of copper, of bronze, of pewter, or of brass. Exotic rings with electrum bands or bands of vivid rose-gold or the steel that the dwarves favored in all things as the most modern and noblest of metals. They came in many styles, for men or for ladies as was the fashion among dwarves, and some clearly for trade intended for the hand of a man or woman of the human, and a few after the Kor fashions. The rings were set as well, those that were set, with many marvelous gems and devices. Many were diamond, glittering in the light that filled the mountain hall, but also were there colored gems, rubies, emeralds, and star sapphires. And for some had been carved opals or other jewels into the shapes of animals or the charges of heraldry, these mostly of the dwarven style, and some of those that looked to be in Kor fashion featured small and cunningly carven charms that shone like pearls, for they had been placed within the clams that lived in the fresh streams and allowed to be changed by their habitation therein to something quite wondrous.

One ring in particular, however, caught Illarion’s eye. It was, he figured, though it was in the back of the case and too dimly lit to make a careful observation, platinum in its band, which was very thin either to conserve the metal or else to conform to some style. Indeed, the band seemed at that glance more of a braid to slip about the finger. As to it’s style, it was very elegant. Its thinness was not dwarven, and its adornment was not Kor, and from its size Illarion guessed it was made for the hands of a human lady. The most marvelous part of that ring, however, was its setting. All the other rings used one sort of gemstone, or perhaps two arranged in a pleasing pattern. This ring, upon its outward face had a careful arrangement of five gems, each cunningly carved and fitted together with the others, and luminous despite the shadow in which the ring presently resided. Peral, Sapphire, Jet, Ruby, and Emerald were arranged in a star, five pointed and with its heart divided amongst the points, so that all came together in the center of the design. Yet let it not be said it was a gaudy thing, for the presentation was as tasteful as it was strange, for who ever saw another ring set with so many sorts of jewel, or any in which a pearl was carved to facets like a common stone of the earth, and yet still shone?

“Jeweler?” Illarion asked, “That ring in the back – what is its asking price?”

And after guessing at one or two other rings near the five-gem ring in the case, the dwarf hit upon the right one, and brought it up to the counter.

“Ah, sir.” The dwarf said, “You have a very good eye, but I am afraid the asking for this ring is not simple. Indeed, there were days when you might not have done it at all!”

“Really?” Illarion asked, “What is it, then?”

“This ring,” the dwarf said, “Was made by my great-grandsire, who was a young lad when he made it and to the end of his days insisted that he would sell it to no soul, as it was commissioned and paid for and should go only to its proper owner. My grandsire as well held to this tradition, though no doubt he who requested the ring was rightly ash by his time, so many years passing for us, and more generations for human folk. Rather, they displayed it only as an example of our family’s fine craftsdwarfship. My sire, therefore, took a more practical approach, and this is the superstition to which I hold, though surely when my son inherits this shop he will name a sum in gold: The tale of my great-grandsire’s making of this ring, and the tales imparted to him of its origin, are truly wondrous things, and cannot be compensated with coin. But, listen to that story, and if you present me with an item that is even nearly so wondrous in its nature and history as the ring, I will consider it a fair exchange.”

“Well,” Illarion said, “Tell your story.”

The Dwarf’s Tale of His Great-Grandsire

In those days, there were not many humans to come to the mountain, and most that did brought news only of Ariva, a place that the old records of the dwarves insist existed in truth but now none can discover in the far-off place where it was said to lie. Of Ariva and its master, though, the tall folk who came that day talked not at all. But rather one of the two, a woman who was for her part fair like the paintings of ladies of the lowlands, showed the then proprietor of the shop five pendants. Set to each of these pendants, in its own fashion, was a fantastic gemstone.

Never before or since has the like of these gems been seen by any dwarf beneath the mountain. Their size was exquisite, as was for most their clarity, and for the pearl, that was one of the gems, its smoothness and luster. All seemed to have an inner light, though it could not be rightly said that they glowed, for in the dark they did not shine to the eye, but rather to the soul, that seemed to always and in all ways know that the gems were there.

When the jeweler had inspected those pendants, he frowned, and spoke to the woman and her companion.

“If you mean to sell these,” he said, “I cannot offer you a fair price for them. Nor can the king in his high hall, for they are finer than all the jewels in the royal treasure chambers of our land, and all the lands around. But the king could do better than I, and perhaps in Ariva, if you can reach it, you might find one who could offer their true value.”

“I do not want their true value,” the woman replied, “I only come here because I wish to not waste the jewels entirely in my aim, which is nothing sort of their destruction.”

At this, the stout jeweler nearly fainted dead away. “Destruction?” he asked, “How can you show me the very wonders of the world and then say they are to be destroyed? How, if I catch your meaning, can you ask an artist to destroy art that is so utterly beyond his ken?”

“I know it is a heavy burden,” the woman asked, “And if you would not take it up, I will not insist, though if you would sunder these things for me, the precious metals in them and the fragments of the gems will be yours to do with as you please. How many things of beauty could you make with the shards of even one of these? I offer you all five.”

“I do not understand,” said the Jeweler, “Please, tell me why you are so intent on the destruction of these things, and I will consider your words.”

“You may not believe the story I would have to tell.” Said the woman, “But I shall tell, at your insistence, that these jewels bring only sorrow and destruction in their wake, and the world would be better off without them whole. Know that these gems, the Mox gems, are one set of their kind, which are very few in number, and which many covet for their magical powers, and listen to how the Ruby came to be in my possession.”

Rhonwen’s Tale of the Ruby
Before Rhonwen came to own the Mox Ruby, it was owned by a great warrior-Planeswalker, who ruled over a plane as Bearer of the Ruby. And his lands, by ancient pact, would not be violated by the bearers of the other four gems, for there had been many wars over the jewels, and now that each one rested in the hands of its own master, those masters had an accord to not interfere with the others, lest the uninterested bearers strike down the aggressor, and wars begin anew over the unowned gem.

The Bearer of the Ruby was a tyrant, who ruled his people chiefly through raw strength and through fear. Long was his rule, and his subjects too utterly terrorized to rise up against him, a terror he ensured by the savage practice that earned him the title “Eater of Children”, as he dined solely on the flesh of the young, his proviences offering up their young, from babes in swaddling clothes to boys and girls of eight years, for their master to select from his favorites for his meals.

When Rhonwen came to the domain of the Eater of Children, she knew it not. Though her might was great, she preferred to live as mortals live, and Cornelius with her, she sheltered with couple in their later years and their daughter. The family had a spare bed, they explained, because their son had died some two years past, and now their daughter, at the age of seven, was all that was left to them. And Rhonwen and Cornelius remained a day, and prepared themselves to remain a second night, for even though it was not a mirthful place, it was comfortable, and for a moment at least one place was as good as another.

It was in the second evening that the court of the Bearer of the Ruby arrived, for it was his custom to be in constant motion, forever touring the lands that were his, and thinning every herd of his favorite prey rather than annihilating any one. At his coming, the hosts of Rhonwen and Cornelius were greatly afraid, and when the mystification of their guests was clear they said it was a visitation like this that had cost them their son, and before he had been born their first two children while those were scarcely nursed, for evidently the flesh of their family was sweet, and greatly did they dread losing their last child, the kind and gregarious girl who had spoken so nicely with Rhonwen and Cornelius, in the same way as their prior three.

And at that Rhonwen was resolved what to do. All the children with eight or fewer years were assembled for the Eater of Children to make his choice, but before he could decide if he desired that maid of seven years, who was very much a front-runner in his tastes, or if he would rather the tenderness of a babe, Rhonwen stepped forward and challenged the mighty planeswalker for the lives he would steal.

The battle was joined instantly, and with the Ruby was the Eater of Children naturally advantaged in power. But Rhonwen was clever, and skilled, and had no little experience in the exercise of her magic, and so they proved evenly matched, giving counters and returns, and setting titanic forces against one another that blew the clouds away and set the sky ablaze for their conflict.

Yet, for all her skill, Rhonwen would have been lost if not for Cornelius, for she was slowly losing her ground, and her assaults came fewer, and her counters more desperate, and the raw force of the Eater of Chidren began to win the day. Cornelius, though, in the form of a great warrior, took up a heavy stone, and cast it and struck the Eater of Children, who was utterly occupied with Rhonwen, in the head. So dazed, the Eater of Children could not resist Rhonwen’s next attack, and recoiling from the pain of that strike, was cleanly finished, his life and his rule ended.

Rhonwen took from his body the Ruby he had used to such cruel effect, knowing not the fullness of its significance, and a great feast was set in honor of her and Cornelius, and for three days the people of the town, and many from adjoining places that had heard the news that seemed to spread on the wind, feasted on simmered cabbage and apple, pies of leeks and cheese, savory potatoes, egg custards, cakes and pastries and all else that did not remind them of the bloodshed they had endured for generations.

***

“Truly,” said the jeweler, “The past owner of this Ruby was a bad sort, and used it for mighty ills. Afraid am I that we in the mountain had not heard of such a tyrant, even living in lands beyond Ariva, and gladdened that he has fallen. But surely this is not enough reason to destroy the gem. One can hardly blame the sword for the man that wields it, for the blade will cut for holy and base alike.”

“There are four more gems,” Rhonwen declared, “And the evils of the Ruby’s bearer were not the greatest, nor is it just their owners that make me believe no good can come of them. Hear, if you will, how I became Bearer of the Sapphire.”

Rhonwen’s Tale of the Sapphire
It was not very long at all until the other Bearers of the Moxen became aware of Rhonwen as their new partner in that station, and their messages and heralds appraised her of this fact. The four seemed, for the most part, pleased with this turn of events, for while their accord and the wisdom thereof had prevented any of them from acting against the others, they despised each other very fiercely, and the death of one under such circumstances momentarily brought gladness to the hearts of the other four.

But, before Rhonwen had decided any stance she might have on the Accord, which was in all likeliness to be to sign onto it and then vanish from the presence of the others with the Ruby she had taken, she was invited to sup with the Bearer of the Sapphire, who dwelled in her domains within a hall of crystal glass that stretched to the heavens.

And the Bearer of the Sapphire, who went by the title of Queen of Minds, was very eager and avid with Rhonwen and Cornelius, and showed them many of the splendors she had wrought with the sapphire. Her palace was open to the air and the light, and she showed them the azure hues of the sea through glasses that showed it at all hours of the day and night at once, and lead them to the spires through which silver wind flowed, and these she said were the very Æther winds of Thought, which she might weave in the tall reaches of her palace as threads might be spun upon a spindle.

And then they supped on the rarest delicacies, fish-of-the-sky and sweet waters seasoned with the very concept of their flavoring thus that a bite might taste of forbidden love and a quaff of the water bear the bouquet of a child’s mirth, headier than wine, for the Queen of Minds was supremely skilled in all ways with handling the products of her dominion.

It was drawing late, and the silvery moon gazing through the refracting crystals of the palace, and casting all in seventy-seven hues of silver, when Rhonwen began to note her own unease at the situation. She had been lost in her drink as surely as had it been the most potent of liquors, and Cornelius was fast asleep beside her. She shook him, to rouse him, and her hostess gave a dainty laugh that echoed across the crystals and resonated with the moonlight.

“His cup was full of dreams.” She said, “And he will sleep until they are out of them, which will be past noon.”

“You think this funny?” Rhonwen asked.

“No,” said the Queen of Minds, “But I take my humor from your foolishness. If you give me the Ruby, I will perhaps be content, and you and your toy may leave when he wakes upon the morrow, and tell no living soul of what has been wrought here, such that those other fools think you are still one of our company. But if you resist me, all minds are mine to shape, and what I can do, you will suffer as no other to see.”

And Rhonwen’s own thoughts raced, looking for a solution. Meekly, she would have surrendered the ruby but for that damnable word, ‘perhaps’. Yes, perhaps she could go onward, and put this place and the moxen behind her, but perhaps the Queen of Minds would desire some other diversion, and in that Rhonwen would be disadvantaged to resist, having no jewels against two.

And Rhone dared not flee, for what power the Queen of Minds might hold over Cornelius, and so she hit upon another idea, to force the Bearer of the Sapphire, by her pride, to accept a chance of Rhonwen’s victory when her defeat had been achieved already.

“I give you another choice.” Rhonwen said. “You say all minds are yours to shape, yet have you not shaped mine. Let us contest our wills, and if I win you will release us both without protest or injury.”

“And if I am the victor,” the Queen of Minds said, “What then?”

“Then,” Rhonwen offered, spirits low, “You shall have overcome my mind, and will own us both to do with as you please.”

And the Queen of Minds accepted this challenge, and the two of them went into the high spires, and immersed themselves in the Silver winds of Thought, and there did battle in the gale.

Neither of them moved their bodies in the slightest during the contest, but their minds soared through the wind, and clashed in great blows above, that would give all the world around them unquiet dreams. Their wills contested one another, grappled, and wrestled invisibly, and the duel that played out in their minds was one of extreme speed and savegry, and detail such that an entire world of the mind formed about them, the battlefield shaping itself as their memories and flaking away in the silver wind.

Yet as their intellects wrestled, neither woman could gain the upper hand, for while the Queen of Minds was of far greater skill and practice in this exercise, Rhonwen had the focus of her conviction, and her desperate need of victory, and seemed to be of a somewhat greater raw strength besides.

Many times the Queen of Minds threatened to turn Rhonwen’s strength, both what was naturally hers and what was hers in desperation, against her, and by some artful maneuver redirect the force to overthrow her and thus gain utter domination, But each time Rhonwen’s thoughts slipped her grasp, or stayed true their course, and as the match continued their illusions became more real, for both their holds upon the real below were slipping inch by inch into oblivion.

At last the Queen of Minds sought to use the illusion itself to be Rhonwen’s undoing, and thus she brought the battle to the edge of their reality, where the land they had formed dissolved in the silver wind. And there their minds wresteled, as surely as had they locked their arms against one another in body, and always the Queen of Minds aimed to throw Rhonwen into the wind, or else to threaten that end in such a manner as Rhonwen would be forced to submit to a lesser doom, and the battle be given to the Queen of Minds.

Yet, Rhonwen was mindful of her surroundings, and much time did they spend in the corner of their minds’ eyes, until at last the Queen of Minds grasped Rhonwen about precious memories and heaved. But Rhonwen held tight to the Queen of Minds, and pulled her foe with her over the precipice. Both women grasped at the flaking edge, and both found purchase on the border between sanity and oblivion. And for a moment, both were afraid.

But Rhonwen had a guiding purpose, and her need to return was great, and she saw the silver wind for what it was, and the edge to which she clung. And she released it, and knowing its unreality, rose above it in a flight of exultation. Rhonwen turned to the Queen of Minds, who yet clung desperately to that illusion, and saw the terror of the Queen of Minds, for she had forgotten that their contest was a contest of the will and the imagination, and had lost herself in the world she had created.

And Rhonwen spoke one word to the Queen of Minds.

“Fall.”

At that, the last scab of mental terrain crumbled beneath the intellectual grasping of the Queen of Minds, and she was born away and dispersed into the silver wind.

Rhonwen opened her body’s eyes the second after, just in time to see the lotus-seated form of the Queen of minds blow away like dust in the silver wind of thought, for where goes the mind of a Planeswalker, so follows the body. And when she was gone, the Sapphire clattered to the crystal floor, and Rhonwen took it up.

And when Cornelius awoke the next day, he apologized for dozing, and said he had dreamed nightmares and fantasies of Rhonwen in battle with their host, and then Rhonwen’s triumph thereupon.

And Rhonwen and Cornelius were at ease.

***

“It is a bad precedent,” the Jeweler admitted, “How that other’s avarice for the ruby earned you the Sapphire.”

“Even so,” Rhonwen said, “Do you not see what the jewels cause, and why I would have them trouble us no longer?”

“I can see why you might believe such.” The jeweler grudgingly admitted, “But yet I am unconvinced that it must be done. Please, if you would have me do the deed, I must know more.”

“Very well,” said Rhonwen, “I will tell you of the darkest of the moxen.”

Rhonwen’s Tale of the Jet

In the wake of the fall of the Queen of Minds came war. No matter who had been at fault, nor the reason for the taking, one now held two of the jewels, and those others who bore moxen held the Accord thereupon abolished. They were resolved, now, to not rest until one of them bore all five of the gems, and held dominion over all their worlds, alone and unopposed by any other soul.

Rhonwen, for her part, who had wanted no part in the conflict, was held as the loftiest mark, for not only was she the one who had no plane nor faction at her back, and not only was she the one of the lot who was not part of that ancient and broken accord, but overcoming Rhonwen would earn the victor two moxen, rather than one, and that made her head the prize for which they might compete.

The most eager of Rhonwen’s foes, however, and the one most set upon great profit, was the Bearer of the Jet, the bloody-handed Maiden of Night who wore the face of one scarce surpassing a child’s age to better hide her evils. Yet though the face she gave the world was one of just-past-innocence, still short of stature and weak of limb, let it not be assumed that the Maiden of Night was in any way a lesser foe, for that frail body was not, in fact, the bearer of her soul, but rather she resided in that body’s shadow, and the darkness that surrounded her, and thus she was very large and fearsome when the night was blackest, and while she might be reduced at noon, still she had her claws.

The Maiden of Night came on Rhonwen in the darkness, when she was most powerful, and from that surprise attack she might have succeeded at wringing the life from Rhonwen and taking away Ruby and Sapphire both, for the shadow passed wholly over Rhonwen and engulfed her, had Cornelius not been quick of thought and, as something like a mortal, easily overlooked by a Planeswalker.

Cornelius took up a lamp, then, and lit it with what magic he could, and shone it brightly upon the body of the Maiden of Night, throwing her soul and her true form back and away from Rhonwen who, pale and exhausted, gasped for air and in her heart dearly thanked her love as she could not then in words do.

But the Maiden of Night saw Rhonwen’s weakness, that which the first assault had created, and rather than retreating to attempt a more cunning ambush yet, she set herself again upon Rhonwen. Against the greater light of the lamp, favoring the penumbral shadows cast by the moon and stars, the Maiden of Night advanced, but this time Rhonwen was ready for her. She cast fire here, and light there, and each time forced some change in the Maiden of Night, though ready was the Maiden to evade utter disorientation and maintain the attack. So through the wee hours of the night they fought, until, as the sun began to rise, the shadow of the Maiden of Night was cast long and gigantic, a terrifying state that no lantern could deter her from.

But Rhonwen had better than a lantern, and with surges of magic she made the light shine every way, so that no shadow could be cast from that body. And this at first seemed to be the end of the Maiden of Night.

The girl, just past a child, still stood, and she seemed in a daze, and spoke as though she was a woman possessed, and gave a pretty name and said she could remember nothing since she had felt a clammy shadow pass over her in a distant place. And this Rhonwen believed.

Rhonwen and Cornelius brought the young woman to the house of the family that had hosted them when Rhonwen fought the Eater of Children, for that is where Rhonwen had been staying, not knowing what danger was following in her wake and might be brought down upon those good people.

And they invited the young woman into their house, and set about baking, as would be a pleasant diversion, to which the young woman said she knew something of the art, and offered great help.

Some time after, the daughter of that house returned home with one of her closest friends. So near were they so often that some might jest they could be stitched together with needle and thread and not know the difference, but the boy, a year her senior, was more prone to adventure and to misadventure than she, so in the fading hours of the afternoon, with cookies cooling and giving off their wonderful aroma, he was sorely tempted to try one before any were allowed.

And so he pleaded, begged, and cajoled the daughter of the house to join him in his thieving enterprise, and while at first she was resolute that the cookies should not be touched, slowly she came to accept that while she would not swallow the least crumb herself, he was her guest and dear friend both, and she could not deny him anything.

And so he went to the cookies, and examined them, looking for the one he liked best. And there was a greater tray, for all the family, and a smaller one for Rhonwen, given such treats alone as took extra work for mighty still was the gratitude all bore her, and they would repay that in what little ways they might. And the ones for Rhonwen, being far the fairer, and smelling very sweetly, were the ones from which the little boy took his prize, reckoning that while the smaller batch, one would still not be missed.

But no sooner had he swallowed the first morsel than a terrible thing befell him, and he began to scream in agony, and a foul smell rise from his flesh. And soon all in the house came to find him writing upon the ground as he was, and the little girl, daughter of the house, gave her account of what had transpired.

“What a shame,” said the Maiden of Night, for her shadowy essence had survived inside that hollow body, “That my poison did not find its proper mark. But this will have to do.” And she looked to Rhonwen. “You see this child in pain,” she said, “And all I ask for the knowledge of what can help him are the gems you stole from my confederates. Give them to me, and I will tell you.”

And Rhonwen took the Ruby and the Sapphire, and held them out to the Maiden of Night, and the Maiden of Night took them with glee.

“What is the antidote?” Rhonwen then demanded.

“There is none,” replied the Maiden of Night, “Nothing can save him”

And she meant to add “or you” and then to strike at Rhonwen, but Rhonwen, full of blind and fiery rage, struck before the Maiden of Night was even aware that Rhonwen had moved. And the light poured over the land again from every way, banishing all shadows and casting none. And this time the light devoured the fleshy shell of the Maiden of night, and poured inside where her shadow could lurk at such provocation as Rhonwen had given at dawn, and in the space of a heartbeat, the Maiden of Night was wholly obliterated, and three moxen were left amidst the glittering ashes.

***

“Vile,” said the jeweler, “Vile treachery you have endured for the love of those things.” and then heavily, mournfully he sighed, “I am convinced. If not that this must needs be done, that it will be done, if not by my hammer than by some other, for you will not be turned from your path, and surely such tales of these, of wonder and of terror, will sway some heart utterly, and as you have said perhaps my hands can do some good with the fragments.”

“That is well.” Rhonwen said, “Please, let the deed be done.”

“I will.” Said the Jeweler, “But before I do I simply must know how the other two jewels came into your possession, for while the manner of the three thusfar has been somewhat alike, in the exacts are there so many wonders as all that the travelers sing of Ariva would not contain them.”

“Very well,” said Rhonwen, “I shall finish my stories.”

Rhonwen’s Tales of the Emerald and the Pearl
After the lamentable events of her confrontation with the Mistress of Night, Rhonwen moved her habitation to the vacated palace of the Queen of Minds, and there called council of the Bearer of the Emerald and the Bearer of the Pearl, for Rhonwen was prepared to make some settlement for peace, and give up her stake in the moxen if it would mean the loss of innocent lives would stop. And the other bearers came as Rhonwen requested by means of the couriers they had used to contact each other in the times of the Accord, and this despite Rhonwen’s slaying of the greater part of their company, though each time was she sorely provoked.

And the Bearer of the Emerald was the Lord of Beasts, and the Bearer of the Pearl sytled herself Goddess of Harmony, and together they arrived with minor companies, but they would hear nothing of Rhonwen’s pleas for a new accord to be set, for did she not possess three of the five Moxen? Surely, said they, they could not trust Rhonwen, and in any case even if the moxen were divided then and there, there was no way to separate them equally between two, or even three.

Said the Goddess of Harmony: “If you would end this war, face me. We are fortunate yet that no other Planeswalkers have heard of the breaking of the Accord, and set their eyes upon the Moxen. Hungrily, no doubt, shall they come, but if one of us has achieved victory, the pretenders will not stand against her.”

And at this, the Lord of Beasts was riled, for he noted carefully how the Goddess of Harmony had intoned ‘her’, meaning of course herself.

“You should do better to challenge me.” Said the Lord of Beasts, “For I am as ever the strongest of the Accord, and would best resist the war. If you would prevent it, die by my hands and give me the power to overcome this strumpet.”

And the Goddess of Harmony took great offense

“Your ways are beastly, as is your domain.” She said, “and like the Bearer of the Ruby, whose ways provoked this all, you will certainly lead to ruin in good time.”

“Bah,” Said the Lord of Beasts, “That isn’t for you to decide. The newcomer will battle me, and the winner, whoever he may be, will come for your head thereafter.”

And at this Rhonwen asked why she could not simply give one or the other of them the Moxen, and begone with her life, and the life of Cornelius intact. And to this the Goddess of Harmony answered.

“You have bested three of us already,” she said, “I for one shall not trust my safety while you live, as you should not trust yours while I yet exist. Therefore, one of us must die.”

“In that,” the lord of Beasts said, “I agree with her. You could surrender your jewels, but it would not save you.”

And so Rhonwen was resolute. “Then which of you shall I slay first?” she demanded.

And the Lord of Beasts answered

“While we have talked and taken council, my servants have, in this house, bound your spellsquire. Therefore, you should take my challenge, lest he die regardless of your victory over or defeat by the Bearer of the Pearl.”

Rhonwen’s face grew grey to hear this, and she asked to know what contest the Lord of Beasts had in mind, while the Goddess of Harmony sighed in disgust.

“This is it,” said the Lord of Beasts, “We shall fight with only what powers as Nature gives us, but as you are a Planeswalker, and so am I, our natures are changeable, and this is to be permitted, to take any form in nature and use its powers to overcome the other. I do not ask you to yield me your life for your squires, and I am honest when I say I have given orders for him to be released to you upon my defeat, because I know that otherwise you will not take the battle on my terms.”

“And when you have done with this foolishness.” Said the Goddess of Harmony, “Let the winner face me in my tower, where our conflict may be civilized.” And thus, she disappeared.

Then were the Lord of Beasts and Rhonwen set to their duel, and went out of the Palace and into the wildlands besides, which better befitted both their attempts to fight in other shapes than the ones to which they had been born.

First to change was the Lord of Beasts, and he became a mighty tiger and sprung upon Rhonwen. Rhonwen, for her part, became a sparrow, and darted from his gigantic paws, up into the reaches of the sky, where a tiger could not challenge her, thus to gain thought as to her next move.

But the Lord of Beasts was quick to the chase, and he became a falcon, and hastened to the air to pursue Rhonwen. As he gained the advantage in height, Rhonwen dove and became the nimble hart, which would fear very little from the talons of a hawk.

And yet the chase continued, for the Lord of Beasts dove, and became the great baloth, which might swallow the hart in a single gulp of its massive jaws. Rhonwen, for her part, still reacting more than acting, transformed herself into the shape of the clever fox, and darted through a hole in the rocks the Lord of Beasts was too large to enter and yet not mighty enough to overturn.

Thus did the Lord of Beasts transform himself into a venomous snake, and slither into the hole to kill as snakes kill, but when Rhonwen heard his slithering begin, she had changed herself from fox to mongoose, and the space within was enough that the Lord of Beasts was surely outmatched, and could do little but flee from her.

When Rhonwen darted out of the hole after the Lord of Beasts, the Lord of Beasts changed his form again. In this, he became a roaring fire, and surrounded Rhonwen on all sides, for he had not said that their competition should be limited solely to the shapes of animals.

But Rhonwen perceived that very quickly, and as the Lord of Beasts closed in around her, she turned herself into the shape of a naiad, and her rushing waters washed over the flames of the Lord of Beasts, and extinguished him utterly.

Thus she returned to her natural shape, and picked the Emerald from the sodden ashes, and she went among the servants of the Lord of Beasts, and displayed the Emerald to them, and Cornelius was yielded back onto her, unharmed as the moment he had last left her sight.

And so it was that only the Goddess of Harmony remained, to whom Rhonwen would have gifted the Moxen had she not be intent on making it a mortal affair, but who now stood as Rhonwen’s avowed enemy, such that the destruction of one or the other must be the necessary result of their being both in Dominia.

Rhonwen went to the Tower of the Goddess, upon the plane of her ordering, which was very silent and uninhabited. And Cornelius came with her, for he would not be parted from Rhonwen’s side again in this matter, though she may have walked into the very jaws of destruction.

Thus they came to the spire of alabaster that rose from the stony plains, and began the ascent of its steps. At last they reached the high chamber wherein was the Goddess of Harmony. She sat resplendent on her throne, which was like all things about the tower and the whole world without very minimal, its clean and even lines and lack of adornment or color striking despite the same.

“So,” the Goddess of Harmony said quietly, “You at last have come to die, and render unto me all the moxen.”

“I haven’t come to die.” Said Rhonwen, “I will give you the Moxen if that is the price for our lives, but if we fight, it shall be a dearly contested thing, and I have already bested four who you could not.”

“Yet never were any of them so bold as to come to me in my own fastness.”

“It did not bar my way.” Said Rhonwen, but slowly she was becoming uncertain. She felt small, and noticed she was kneeling

“No, it did not.” Said the Goddess of Harmony, focusing the intonations and resonances of her voice upon Rhonwen, “It was never meant to prevent passage to me.”

“The spire is perfect,” the Goddess of Harmony continued, noting how Rhonwen’s eyes were glassy and standing slowly and smoothly from her throne. “Within it my voice resonates in whatever way I choose, and my words have a meaning in that and not their sounds.”

And thus she approached Rhonwen

“And so when I tell you of its features, when I challenge you, I command you to rest yourself. And lo, your body, so close to mortal as it is, obeys my every whim. So what shall I make of you.”

And the Goddess had reached Rhonwen, who offered no resistance, owing the hypnotic harmonies of the Goddess, which the Goddess had prepared and had unleashed the full nature of against Rhonwen’s body and her soul.

“Listen to my voice, little usurper.” Said the Goddess, “Hear your doom approach, but know I speak the truth when I say you do a great service for Dominia with your death. For with all the moxen in my hand, I can spread harmony to all planes as I have spread it here.”

“Imagine, if you can, that world. Imagine a Dominia without strife, without sound. A Dominia without birth, or death, or disagreement. A Dominia as perfect as I have made this world perfect, where nothing dares move to spoil it. There will be no pain, no love, no hate.”

And she tilted Rhonwen’s head back, and thought best how to slit her throat without spoiling the perfection of the harmonics.

But once more had Rhonwen’s foe ignored Cornelius. At first, he was caught up in the sound the same as Rhonwen. But he was at Rhonwen’s right hand, and a little behind, and so when the Goddess had approached and the critical focus of her harmonies tightened around Rhonwen, Cornelius had fallen out of it, and on hearing of the sterile perfection of Dominia to come, he heard the monstrous nature of the words and not the harmonic demands to be still and obedient in the absolute.

Thus, Cornelius took from his belt a small knife, that when he wore his amulet would have been a bright sword, and lunged forward at the Goddess of Harmony and, from his position at his knees, cut her across the hip. The Goddess cried out in pain, surprise, and indignation, and that uncontrolled sound echoed throughout the spire, and spoiled its harmonies, breaking the spell that was over Rhonwen.

Then the battle was joined, and before the Goddess of Harmony could speak again, Rhonwen called upon the power of the Ruby. At once a rain of stones pounded against the tower, shattering its high spires and obliterating its subtle harmonics, and when it passed by the power of Planeswalkers alone did three souls stand alive amidst the rubble in the now cratered plain

And the Goddess of Harmony sang out to the plane, and its distant corners, and spirits of the emptiness and sound attended her. But Rhonwen called on the power of the Emerald, and all manner of wild beasts were summoned to her service to battle the empty creations of the Goddess, and while the beasts were felled, they gave of themselves a superb account, and bested the minions of the Goddess with force, and verve, and life, such as she was obliged to obliterate the last few with her magic directly, for she claimed the title of Goddess and possessed the wrath thereof.

To this, the Goddess of Harmony began to wrap herself in the power of life, hoping to weave an invincible shell for herself and then obliterate her foe at leisure. But Rhonwen then utilized the power of the Sapphire, and the mana sunk out from the Goddess’ spellcraft, and Rhonwen herself was filled with power.

To this, the Goddess of Harmony conjured many blades of solid light, and these hurled at Rhonwen. One smote Cornelius, who had taken his warrior form in order to press the assault, in the arm. Another stuck Rhonwen across the cheek, and a third in her left foot so that she was brought to kneel again before the Goddess. Yet this assault was not enough, for Rhonwen had the power of the Jet, and lashed out with all the power that was in her and that gem to strike against the Goddess of Harmony a lethal return blow.

And thereafter, Rhonwen claimed the Pearl from her foe, and with its power healed herself and Cornelius of their hurts. Then looked she out over the empty world the Pearl had wrought, and saw how even if some good could be done with the moxen, it would not be worth their existence when they could also produce such evil.

The End of the Dwarf’s Tale
And with that, the jeweler took up his hammer, and dashed the moxen to pieces before Rhonwen’s eyes, shattering the gems in the order in which she had acquired them. And when all were rendered into pieces, Rhonwen, heart at ease, thanked the jeweler most vociferously.

“Now,” said the jeweler, “You have gifted me these amazing tales, and with them gold and gems to ply my trade, for surely the shards of these gems are as grand as any whole crystal I have ever worked. Yes, even the Pearl, now in pieces, I migh cunningly shape to gain great beauty. And this you have done for the price of the taking, and that does not sit well with me. Please, let me do something for the two of you, and at least return with my art some token of what you have given me.”

And to this, Rhonwen was not opposed, but could not herself think of anything she would want. But Cornelius stepped up, and adjusting his conical hat upon his brow, asked Rhonwen if he might make the request, to which she readily agreed, and then if he might make it beyond her hearing, to which she agreed with good humor and feigned exasperation, exiting the shop.

And this is what Cornelius requested: that the heart-most shard of each gem – the one that was fairest – be worked all into one ring that would be fit for Rhonwen’s hand, for though it had been their intent as children and though they had traveled far an seen so much of the world, he had never gifted her a wedding band as he had long ago promised.

And the jeweler smiled, and was well at ease with such a joyous work, and instructed Cornelius to tell his lady they could return in a fortnight for the thing. But, never were either of them seen again upon all Ikass, so far as the jeweler and his family knew.

***

“And that,” said the dwarf, “Is the tale of this ring. I only half believe it, I admit, and would not at all if it were not my family to have maintained it, but all the same I am pledged to give this ring to none but one of the two who commissioned it, or else in this latter day someone who might barter me an item half so wondrous in its form or provenance.”

And Illarion smiled, “It’s a good deal, and for what it’s worth I at least half believe your story. The tale, I cannot match, but I think I have something that is very much more wondrous in its form, perhaps unique in all Ikass, and it has a tale or two to it that might be worth telling.”

And with this, Illarion withdrew from his breast pocket a golden fob watch on a chain, and held it out. The front case, that flipped closed over the glass and hands, was somewhat bent inward, but when it was opened it was in good repair, and of the four hands, three accurately told the time to the second, while the fourth spun and pointed as the needle of a compass might be expected to point.

“This is a wonder,” said the dwarf, for he had seen the great pendulum clocks and knew them to be the height of all engineering. “A clock fit to be carried in a pocket, and I see it keeps time without a pendulum. Like the jewels brought to my great-grandsire, sir, this is priceless and likely magic.”

“It is not magic,” Illarion said with a shrug, “save for the compass needle, and if a cunning man dared he might open it to examine its workings and learn them. Nor is it entirely priceless, but I did say and do suspect that in all Ikass as you know it, there is presently no other.”

“Well then,” said the dwarf, elated at the wonder, “To think after these years I may at last see a fair trade for the ring. But tell me, what story has this piece?”

“Well,” said Illarion, “There is the story of how I got it.”

Illarion’s First Tale of the Pocket Watch
When Illarion was very young, he came to the world of Zent, in Zent the art of making the pocket watch is known, among the Aridon and among the Devotees of the Will. It was from this later group that Illarion received his watch.

A boy, more than a man, Illarion walked among that city, and did not know their laws, and this is what was critical: amongst the Devotees of the Will, you keep what you take, by theft or even by murder. They are takers, by culture, and do not give, nor does charity come to their minds, and nearly is forbidden amongst them.

As Illarion passed among them, then, it was good that he looked destitute, which he was, for he also looked lost and vulnerable and surely he would have been a victim had he had an air of richness about him. In these days, he did not know his way back home, and survival was a threat unto him, and so he stole for his food and did not know that among the Devotees of the Will that it was his right.

One day, Illarion saw a girl somewhat his junior run from the narrow door of a tall building. And pursuing her was a man with a tall hat, black tailed suit, and metal cane. And Illarion stepped between them, for the girl reminded him of those he dearly loved back home, his sister and his friend.

And the man looked down at Illarion, cruelty in his icy eyes, and raised his cane. But Illarion stared back, rage in his visage, and the tall man with the cane stepped back, and went inside.

The girl thanked Illarion and said that she had never seen the likes of his deed, for no doubt among the Devotees of the Will there would be none to risk their hides for another. He asked, in turn, why she was being chased and beaten so, and she explained that that man owned the deed to her mother’s home, and wanted to turn it into a factory. But while the girl and her mother squatted on the land, he contented himself with various cruelties and abuses to drive them off, for he was cowardly despite his wealth. If they could but steal the deed, however, all would be well for the girl and her family. And this she had tried.

At once, Illarion offered to aid the girl in her aim, for while he did not know the truth of her story he knew the truth of her bruises, and would rather aid her than see her drubbed again or worse.

Thus, when night came, the two returned to the building, only for the girl, who had made a counterfeit of the former key and thus gained entrance on her previous adventure, to find that the door was locked with a different lock. But Illarion had his answer, and filled the lock with crimson magic, at which it fell away in many pieces. And to that the girl praised his cleverness, and hugged him swiftly before going in.

Then, Illarion followed the girl to the office of that man, and began searching through the papers for the deed with the names the girl had said, while the girl rooted through other things. And when Illarion found the right deed, he called out his success, and said that they should flee at once, and this they did. When they got to the street, the girl asked to see the haul, and Illarion simply handed her the deed, but not before he noticed that her pockets were brimming with gold.

“Nothing else?” she asked

“No,” Illarion said, “This is what you needed.”

And the girl looked at the deed in her hands, and up at Illarion. And from her treasures she picked out a golden pocket watch, and pressed it into his hands.

“If anyone asks,” she said, “You stole it fair and square.”

***

“A strange tale,” Mused the dwarf, “But there is little to it.”

“Maybe,” Illarion said, looking at the watch, “But that’s part of why this watch is important to me, and I would not part with it for anything less wondrous than the ring you have.”

“Part, I hear. Is there another tale?”

“At least one.” Illarion said, “Perhaps you would hear of how the watch gained its compass needle?”

“I would hear it.” The dwarf said, and Illarion began his story.

Illarion’s Second Tale of the Pocket Watch

Illarion was upon Aralheim for the first time since the loss of his sister on Shandrovol, but he was not at home. Instead, he was in the Lands of the Midnight Sun, though it being winter it was more the land where the aurora glowed bright in the black sky of midday.

And here, Illarion Vale was lost. He had been wandering one of the large islands of the far north, in the hope that he would find some peace amidst the solace and the solitude of those lonesome places. But, in a storm of snow, he had lost his way, and now he could not tell without the sun crossing the sky nor any other common sign which way was north, which way was south, and which way would take him back to the sea.

It was true that Illarion could Planeswalk, but in his darkness, the thought did not occur to him, or if it did he discarded it, for he could not planeswalk away from all his woes, no matter how he tried to do so.

Thus, Illarion wandered, in desperation and alone, until he followed a faint light. Illarion rushed towards, to find a clearing where a valkyrie, wings ablaze with the light of the Aurora, stood to the head of a massive Ormr.

The great serpent was a terrifying sight, its head from the bottom of its jaw to its flashing yellow eye was taller than Illarion. It snapped at the valkyrie, who dodged to the side, and their battle, joined, was a marvel that Illarion knew better than dare to do anything but watch.

The angel and the serpent traded strike after strike, razor teeth against silver spear, the light of the valkyrie’s wings casting all the forest around in many-colored light and shifting shadows. At last, the valkyrie made a bold strike, and drove her spear into the serpent’s palette, but the venom of its fangs sprayed across her, and as the serpent thrashed into the darkness with its death throes, the valkyrie ell back and lay upon the ground.

Illarion ran to her without thinking. Somewhere in his mind, he knew that valkyries did not really die, but would return to the Aurora if they died beneath it. But he did not think that when he ran, and took her wrist, and planeswalked.

And the valkyrie was born from Aralheim to Aralheim again and again in instants, always in the Land of Midnight Sun, until at last they landed in a grand stone square of Rettrborg, where men and dwarves and jotun alike stared at the apparition, and swiftly shouts were raised, and healers called, and there arrived in mere moments other valkyries, many in battle-dress but some in the robes of the teachers. And they knelt over their sister, and the teachers worked magic upon her, and soon she slept comfortably, and where the ormr’s venom had scarred her skin, scarred was she still, but she lived.

At this, one of the valkyrie teachers spoke quietly to Illarion, and he told her his story, omitting the strange exacts of how he came from that lonely isle instantly to Rettrborg.

And despite how his actions were in some ways futile, the valkyrie praised Illarion’s courage, to act where others would flee or mourn. To this, she gave him gift: an enchanted compass needle, so he could always find his way to home, for it would point to the north at rest or if asked in an unambiguous way to any particular land.

Illarion set the needle beneath the glass of his pocket watch, finding it fit very well next to the clever hands, and that was how the watch gained its needle.

***

“Ah!” cried the dwarf, “Now that is a very fantastic tale. You are certain you want to part with the needle for this ring? It would seem a gift from an angel should not lightly be given away.”

“I don’t give it lightly.” Illarion said, “And if you ask again or would have the watch for itself alone, I would indeed like to retain the needle. But the ring you have is worth the whole, if that is how it is to be.”

“Perhaps,” the dwarf said, “If you have another tale of the watch itself, I shall accept it alone in trade, and leave the angel’s needle to he it was given to.”

“I do have one more tale,” Illarion said, “Of how this watch gained its dent, and saved my life in the same stroke.”

“Well then,” the dwarf said, “please tell it.”

Illarion’s Third Tale of the Pocket Watch

Illarion Vale stepped off the redline train and into the wastes of Jakkard. There was far more to see, he was sure, outside the polluted streets of Verkell. Here, the air might be as clean as it is dry, and surely something would be worth the seeing.

It was not as though that was his only reason for leaving the big city, however. Illarion had made an enemy or two, and they seemed rather unreasonable no matter how he assured anyone that he was simply passing through. In the end, that was the primary reason he had chosen to get out of Verkell.

The wastes, he told himself, would be different. Here, he would set his eyes on the great majesty of Jakkard, and when he had taken in the sights, he would go, and in the meantime he would keep himself far away from crime rings the likes of which were in Verkell.

This first town, though, was not very majestic. Squat and seemingly made of scrap wood, it had little but a main street, and with the dust Illarion wondered who could live in such a place.

Apparently, at least with the train stop here, they were numerous and all preferred to remain in the saloon, for that place was crowded to the point of having next to no open seats. At last, Illarion located a table that seemed disfavored, and he realized upon sitting down that he could not see the small stage at the other end of the hall and scarcely could hear the music over the din of the crowd. It was a sorry seat for a tourist, but he was hungry and there would be other shows.

And indeed, by the time Illarion had been served and finished whatever the kitchen could conjure at the odd mid-afternoon, the hall had somewhat cleared from the crowd at lunch, and one for dinner, many off the later train from Verkell, were just arriving. Illarion was starting to move up to a more advantageous position, when a woman sat down across from him. She was petite and slim, her stringy, sandy brown hair drawn back in a pony-tail, her skin tanned and dusty from the waste. She wore a brown hat with a wide brim on her brow, a necklace of coarse rope loose around her neck and carried a very fancy looking rifle over her shoulder. She gave Illarion a gap-toothed smile, and said

“You’d be Mr. Vale, wouldn’t you?”

“I am.” Illarion admitted, seeing no way to dodge it, “Who are you?”

“Name’s Deadeye Annie.” She said.

“Ah,” said Illarion, “A crack shot, you presume?”

“The best in the waste, at least so far as I’ve tested myself against. If my rifle can reach it, I can hit it.”

“So,” Illarion said, “How do you know my name.”

“Well,” said Deadeye Annie, “Ever since some bad days past, I’ve been right obliged to wait on the mail train each evening from Verkell, and today I got a letter from my boss back there. It seems he wants you dead and gone, mister Vale?”

At that Illarion started, “So, then why are you telling me?”

“Because I got a letter yesterday too, from my sister sayin’ she was leaving Verkell, and she wrote, quick as she must have, a thing or two about who was to thank for that. You’ve got luck, mister Vale, brimming over with good as well as bad.”

And Illarion Vale blanched, and wondered if he could planeswalk then and there.

“So,” Deadeye Annie said, “I’m in a pickle. It seems a cryin’ shame to kill a man what did my sister such a good turn as you, but,” and she fiddled with her hempen necklace, if I don’t listen to my boss, you never know what could happen to little old me.”

And at that, she lifted the necklace by a corner, tilted her head to the side, and stuck out her tongue. Illarion had never seen a hanging and never wished to, but he still caught her drift very well.

“Well,” Illarion said, “It is a pickle, like you say. I don’t imagine it would resolve itself if I… disappeared?”

“Maybe,” Deadeye Annie said, “And maybe not. If I didn’t at least chase you, there’d be trouble. So that’s what I’m going to do. You’re going to get the heck out of this town tonight, and when the sun comes up I’ll be on your heels. If you get away then, my boss’ll know I did my best, or well enough he won’t be too pissed off about the matter. If you don’t, well, would you rather I aim for the head or the heart? I can hit either at a hundred yards or more.”

Illarion, unthinking, reached to his breast, and then, in his breast pocket, just over his heart, he felt his pocket watch.

“Well,” Illarion said, “You’re being more than fair when your neck is where you say it is, but I wonder if I might make a few requests from the best shot in the Waste?”

“Shoot.”

“First,” said Illarion, “I’d rather not see it coming. Hear, maybe, but not see. That would be terribly frightening and might upset my constitution.”

“Whatever you say.”

“Second,” Illarion continued, “If you could please not shoot me in the back, it would be much obliged. The funeral would be much more impressive the other way around.”

“Back or front,” Deadeye Annie replied, “it makes no difference to me.”

“Third,” Illarion said, sighing and trying to not show that it was relief, “If you must shoot me, shoot through the heart. There’s only so much an undertaker can do through the head.”

“Well,” Deadeye Annie said, “I can promise you all of that, or I don’t deserve my name. Anything else.”

“No,” Illarion said, “I think that’s my affairs in order.”

“Well, then,” Deadeye Annie said, “You’d better get moving.”

And at that, Illarion thanked her, and left the Saloon before setting off into the Waste.

Through the night, Illarion walked, and into the next day though he was very exhausted and moving quite slowly. At midday, when he had stopped to rest many times, he heard a loud whoop nearby. And after that, another, and he looked from the corner of his eyes and saw no one, but somewhat more than a hundred yards away there was a great stand of jagged rock, and Illarion knew that it must have been Deadeye Annie calling for him to face her.

The whoop came again, and Illarion took a deep breath, and turned to face the rocks. The range was good, and now he only had to hope that Deadeye Annie could match her bosting indeed.

It was only a second later that the shot rang out over the waste, and Illarion Vale felt the dull shock to his chest, and from surprise alone he would have been obliged to fall over as a man stricken. And he knew at once that the shot had been fired, and that it had struck the pocket watch over his heart as he designed. And so, alive and unhurt, he designed to move not a muscle, but lay still where he had fallen. If Deadeye Annie needed an ear or a hand or some other proof of demise, he might be troubled, for surely she would notice at close range that her bullet had lacked the power to pierce metal, rather than flesh, at so great a range.

But Deadeye Annie did not come up to him. He waited for some time, lest she still be able to spy him moving across the waste, and in the end slept, and woke after dark when his safety, at least from her, was somewhat assured.

And Illarion Vale picked himself up, dusted himself off, and examined his pocket watch. The case was dented in the front, but beneath the glass had not even been cracked, and the hands still ticked second by second, and the compass needle pointed north as Illarion knew no other place to request. Then, he made good his intent to leave Jakkard behind.

***

“Now that is a fantastic story!” exclaimed the dwarf, “And surely worth the price of the needle when that is a thing I would rather not deprive you of to begin with.”

And Illarion thanked him, and showed him how to lift the glass to service the hands, and how the watch was to be wound, and how it might be set, and the dwarf, with his clever and nimble jeweler’s hands took easily to the instruction, and removed the magic needle and gave that to Illarion. And thereafter he enclosed the ring of mox shards in a fine little box, and solemnly handed it to Illarion, who accepted the thing with great dignity and slid it into his breast pocket where the pocket watch had been. And thus each of the two had which was dearer to him: the dwarf possessing the machinery that he dreamed could alter his fortunes and the fortunes of his family in the reproducing, and Illarion the ring made so cunningly from gems storied throughout Dominia. And neither regretted the deal, nor thought he fleeced the other, and Illarion Vale traveled onward into the planes.

Reserved in case the story got truncated

Very nice. I'll put my comments in a spoiler block to avoid, well, spoiling anything for others, but I really enjoyed this piece overall. Once again, though, I did not read this for typos, so I won't be pointing those out to you. Also, I should note that I have a headache, and have already screwed up typing several of the words I've already put here, so I suspect something may be wrong with me. I'm only mentioning this in case something I say makes no sense whatsoever.

The vast majority of what you say makes a lot of sense, and I hope you feel better!

Cool story, though I also kind of feel Illarion's stories weren't nearly as engaging as his counterpart's.
Random thought, but I feel like it would be interesting if a pw ordered the ring, a second heard its story after-the-fact, and a third bought it knowing none of the above.

A few minor typos:

This looks really amazing and I can't wait to read two weeks from now when I actually have a life again

Oh, by the way, I totally forgot to mention. Craftsdwarfship? Awesome. Just awesome.

I can't take full credit for that -- it's a Dwarf Fortress convention that just felt right to utilize.

I finally made good on my threat promise to read this story, and I'm very glad I did, because I enjoyed it thoroughly. Thanks so much for sharing, Tevish!

Much like Raven, I was impressed that you managed to maintain the language style and tone all the way through the story -- that must have taken a lot of doing. There were a couple places where I felt like it made reading a bit of an uphill battle, but, by the end of the story, my internal voice was rolling with the style, and it really helped to create that sort of ancient fable or Arabian Nights quality. So I tip my cap to you for that, sir.

Similarly, I find myself fascinated by the parts of the story that we don't see. Namely, the question of why the ring was never collected. As soon as you're able to surmise what the intended purpose of the ring was, knowing that it never made its way onto the finger for which it was intended creates a palpable sense of tragedy which sort of hangs over the remainder of the story. I also enjoyed the characterizations of the mox-bearers. They're color tropey, but they're color tropey in the best sort way, and I think that you managed to put a little extra spin on each of them which made them feel interesting and fresh. I particularly enjoyed the battle of minds, and the Queen of Harmony's use of focused sound.

Among the Illarion stories, the one on Zent was my favorite, and the girl's exit line at the end might be my favorite line in the piece.

Honestly, the one part which fell pretty flat for me was the Jakkard portion. And my concern here is less what the reader doesn't see -- although Illarion must have fallen into quite a series of misunderstandings in Verkell, to have wound up in the situation that he finds himself in! -- but the part that we do see, with the watch somehow stopping Deadeye Annie's bullet. Because, contrary to Illarion's assumption that, at one hundred yards, a bullet would lack the power to pierce metal, Annie's bullet is going to have more than enough juice to go right through Illarion's watch and into Illarion. A gold watch isn't any sort of reliable protection from a rifle shot. I'm not saying that a one-in-a-million deflection couldn't possibly happen. But the most likely "good" outcome for Illarion is that, when the bullet impacts, it totally destroys his watch, he feels like someone has hit him across the chest with a two-by-four, and he winds up with a little shrapnel and/or a broken sternum. The most likely outcome more generally is that the bullet goes through the watch and kills him.

Again, I'm not saying that Illarion *can't* get very lucky here. People can and do get lucky. But I just can't imagine that Illarion would actually think of this as a realistic, actionable plan. I just found myself desperately wishing that he had at least cast some spell here, to explain how he survived without being hurt at all, and how his watch survived with only a dent.

Now, I get how arbitrary it is, at some level, to get so caught up on this one particular detail. And I know that the story here is a Western trope with a long history. But my suspension of disbelief just stopped working during this scene.

But, having said, that, I really enjoyed the piece! (I feel like a jerk for focusing so much on the one bit I didn't like... sorry about that. )

Anyway, thanks as ever for sharing, Tevish!

Thanks for reading! I'm glad that at least most of it was able to resonate. As for the "pocket protector" trope... I really don't know enough about guns and gunplay to know what kind of numbers are reasonable. 100 yards was, according to some basic research, the "maximum effective range" of a Winchester model 1873 ("the gun that won the west") so it didn't come from nowhere, but at the same point I don't even really know what range limit means for firearms, whether the limit is force (as I assumed) or accuracy.


Not related to anything, but most of Rhonwen's duel with the Goddess of Harmony was grounded in actual cards. Namely, Rhonwen brings to bear Stone Rain, Mana Drain, Mixed beast tribal, Hero's Downfall, and Healing Salve. The Goddess uses only white cards: Wrath of God, Solitary Confinement (a good "bubble of invincibility" sort of spell, perhaps not that EXACT one), Rain of blades, and some spirit tribal (white loves it's 1/1 flying spirit tokens)

I did notice that, and then I totally forgot to mention it! That was a nice touch -- I always love it when cards get woven in like that, and you did a great job of finding spells that fit the moment without sacrificing anything in the process. I totally guessed wrong on the swords, though -- for whatever reason, I was imagining Wall of Swords, even though it didn't really fit your description.



In this context, range is referring to accuracy rather than force. The limitation is the ability to actually hit what you're trying to shoot at.

Again, it's not like it's a big deal, one way or the other.

Everyone else has already raised the criticisms I was about to raise, so I'll just chime in and say that this story is fantastic.