Cris Jolliff

Fiction about a deity’s hunter-killer golem, called The Nombril. Copyright © 2003.

The Nombril stood silently at the edge of the chasm, seeming to stare mindlessly into the dark oblivion below. Just below it, a great crisscrossing of bridges and tunnels splayed a spider-web of paths and walkways across the yawning depths of the chasm. Grand Crossing was noted for the number of subterranean races that used its maze of walkways and bridges to move from one area of The Deep to another. Sometimes, traders stopped for a while to vend to those that passed by. Sometimes they were assaulted by the not-so­friendly races that used the pass, other times they plied their trade unmolested. Races of all type used the Grand Crossing during their travels in The Deep, as they had done so for hundreds of years. No one had ever solved the mystery of who had built Grand Crossing. Although many races claimed it was their work, most claims had holes large enough to march an army through. No one in all that time had ever seen the Nombril as it stood there hidden in its heights. Its silent vigil went unnoticed for over three hundred years, and the denizens of the deep had no idea how lucky they had been until the moment the Nombril went into motion. It had not created this place, but its purpose was served by observing this place, so that is what it did.

The Nombril at rest was a seven foot high statue of a humanoid. It had a non-descript appearance that was only offset by the fact that it was carved entirely from a single piece of obsidian. Its rough-hewn features could have been those of any number of humanoid races. Mostly it looked human, except for the slightly abnormal length of its arms. Its massively carved arms reached nearly to its knees, despite its usually rigid upright posture. The representation was almost devoid of garment, save the modest loincloth covering its groin. The Nombril most closely resembled humans, but it was not a human creation. It was much more than just a statue carved from obsidian, as well. It was “The Nombril,” the Vessel of Souls. Theologians and historians nicknamed it “The Eater of Souls” due to its alleged behavior. The combination of the souls which it consumed made it much more than the sum of its parts. It was a creature of unspeakable power, hidden in the relatively innocuous guise of a statue. It was a creature of inscrutable goals, an enigma to all those who observed its actions. The Nombril was seemingly impervious to outside persuasion. It leaped into action without pretense and, seemingly, without explanation. In legend, it had slain both good and evil indiscriminately, and it had been named a horror in the legends of places all over-and beneath-the world.

In its current location, it had come to rest in an odd position, bent deeply onto one knee with both hands splayed out to its sides, looking down into the chasm, as if silently observing the traffic below. Its position seemed tense, strained, as though it was about to spring into action at any moment, and yet it had been in exactly that spot, in exactly that position, for 298 years without moving…

A pair of Tolakian traders came by one of the Grand Crossing’s lower entrances. They were not heavily laden, but their cargo was quite precious. They were carrying an ancient jewel encrusted greataxe and a pair of equally over­decorated gauntlets in small packs, affixed to their belts. The axe and gauntlets were to be a gift-bribe to a neighboring
Dwarven kingdom, in exchange for being overlooked, and for having their caves unmolested, at least by Dwarves. The Tolakians were generally a peaceful race. Their motley and brilliantly colored scale hides gave away their reptilian ancestry; they resembled nothing so much as a pair of large bipedal Tokay Geckos. They were wrapped with long belts that circled their lithe bodies several times, but wore no other adornment. Dwelling as deep beneath the surface as they did, they seldom found the need for clothing, and disdained it unless painfully cold. The belts were dotted with pouches and small charms of all types and sizes, and their bodies were heavily bedecked with rings and necklaces of arcane power, the ‘tell’ to their sorcerous natures. Most wanderers of The Deep would and did avoid this pair of travelers, for as benevolent as they were, they were not to be trifled with. Many other races had lost entire platoons of warriors to a single angry Tolakian Sorcerer.

Although it was not apparent to most travelers, one of the Tolakians was female. Her name was Negaerion. She was traveling with Belectholdil, a younger male and a student of hers. Their journey was expected to be brief, but it would be cut much shorter than either of them suspected. Negaerion announced to Belectholdil that they were going to take a quick short-cut that another traveler had suggested they might be able to take advantage of. It was a path that most people of The Deep could not take without climbing equipment, but Negaerion knew that it would be easy for them, and would also cut a full day off of their journey. They dropped to all fours in unison and began to climb the treacherous walls of Grand Crossing. Their movement along the walls of the great chasm was more fluid and surer than when they walked upright as other races. Their heritage was clear as they passed by several crossing bridges and walkways, to the startled surprise of many other passersby. Light jingling from the pair of small packs on their backs could be heard over the din of small rocks and pebbles that were kicked loose by the Tolakians as they rose up through the chasm, completely unaware of the danger they were rapidly approaching.

The Nombril sensed the imminent approach of the two Tolakians. Both were exceedingly young from its point of view, but he sensed immense power coming from the leader of the pair. Her aura was easily visible to him, and it was rich with intelligence and command over arcane powers that he had not seen here in the crossing for many decades. It rose soundlessly to its feet and took a single step back, satisfied for the moment with the knowledge that this time at least, its prey would be coming straight to it.

Negaerion and Belectholdil continued climbing, barely even winded, until they were well beyond the highest of the heavily traveled bridgeworks of Grand Crossing. They kept their large golden eyes firmly locked on their goal. They were well acquainted with the heights in which they were working, as most Tolakian dwellings were made in vertical, rather than horizontal, caves in The Deep, so neither was much concerned with falling. Their goal, a narrow ledge, loomed larger in their field of view. Pale shadows were thrown by the dim lights of travelers below into garishly exaggerated pinwheels of shadow above the pair, but their large eyes were piercing the veil of darkness, and they could see the ledge clearly. Belectholdil reached it a split second before Negaerion did, and he halted, upright on his hind legs, while Negaerion finished the climb.

In the Tolakian tongue, he softly began to chide his teacher for her slow climb, but his admonishments were cut short by a black form that rushed between them, even before either of the speedy reptilians could reply. Belectholdil was snatched up by the neck by The Nombril, as Negaerion watched on in horror, unable to act. With seeming disdain, The Nombril backhandedly flung the young Tolakian out into the open space of the chasm, where there was nothing to grab and slow his fall. To the honor of his family, Belectholdil fell soundlessly to his death, facing it boldly rather than crying out in fear. He took the magnificent axe with him to the bottom, the only weapon that either of them carried on their journey.

The realization of what had happened snapped like the crack of a whip into Negaerion’s mind, and she erupted into action, rolling backwards along the ledge, while simultaneously chanting words of power and reaching into one of her pouches for spell components. With her left hand she flung dust, and with her right hand she drew arcane sigils into the air, all the while clutching a lodestone and chanting her words of power. The Nombril seemed to understand the words of power, because it took a step backwards at the sight of the small reptilian chanting the powerful words. It quickly decided a path of action that would provide it with the greatest chance of success in catching his prey. It knew that the spell Negaerion was about to cast would harm it, perhaps even grievously, but it had to secure her from escape before it could neutralize her threat of magic.

Negaerion’s spell blasted out of the air in front of her, and the sigils, now visible in the air between them, slammed into The Nombril with a force that surprised them both. The statue froze in the middle of its own spell casting response, but only just for a split second. During that split second, however, immense cracks and flakes of obsidian shot through The Nombril, and his footsteps tread lighter afterwards. Negaerion’s spell of Disintegration was quite effective, and her best defense against a target of immense size. Unfortunately, the damage was not even sufficient to distract the creature from its spell and after uttering some words of power in a hideous language that Negaerion had never heard before, it gestured to her with its lengthy arms, and a beam of bright green light issued forth from its hand, striking Negaerion full in the chest before she could react. It spread out over her form, engulfing her in a greenish light that felt like a thousand ants crawling over her bare hide. Unaware of the effects of the spell, she began to prepare for her next act, which, under the circumstances, seemed to be best served in flight from this dangerous and powerful foe. This time she needed no components, and turned away from The Nombril, gesturing out over the ledge into thin air. The Nombril knew what she was attempting, the words of power being familiar to its hearing, and it also knew the danger that Negaerion was about to place herself in. The Nombril was not interested in any of that. However, if Negaerion was allowed to attempt what it believed she was doing-generating a dimensional gap, or doorway, for her to leap through-then she would fall to her death, as its spell had anchored her soul to this dimension, and such travel was forbidden to her until its ward was removed. It quickly paced forward, ash and dust falling from the plethora of cracks along the length of its body, silent testimony to the power that she had just unleashed on The Nombril.

Just as her voice died on her scaled lips, a shimmering black sheet of pure energy, roughly oval and approximately the height of the Tolakian, appeared just inches over the edge of the abyss, and she lunged forward into it. The Nombril reached behind the sheet of energy and she fell through the doorway untouched by its power. She fell, surprised, right into the considerable grip of The Nombril. It yanked her back over the safety of the ledge, in case its own grip failed and the creature in its clutches decided to rob it of its prize. Negaerion struggled uselessly, her strength being only a fraction of the massive construct that held her. She knew that her options were few, and chose to go fully offensive, seeing it as her last option, now that flight from the battle seemed unlikely.

Negaerion fell back on her memory for a powerful spell that didn’t require her to reach for components, since she was firmly clutched by the strange black creature. She began chanting, and waves of energy began to flow between her hands. The Nombril, unaware of the effects of this spell, decides to put an end to the battle once and for all. While still clutching its prey, The Nombril reached out with its many consciousnesses and began to bore into the psyche of Negaerion, using all of its power to launch a psionic attack of incredible force. Negaerion was completely unprepared for such an onslaught, though her mind had never been opened to such forces, her natural defenses peeled back quickly like the layers of an onion wilting away from the direct blast of a dragon’s breath.

Suddenly, Negaerion’s vision went dark, and she sensed that a shift of some kind had occurred, but was not able to pinpoint the sensation. She could no longer feel her limbs, or move or speak aloud. She could hear nothing, smell nothing. It was as if her senses had all been instantly snapped shut. With an immense force of will, she attempted to push past the veil of senselessness to see or hear anything she could. What she saw shattered her mind utterly, and although she would never be alone with her thoughts, the other souls trapped within The Nombril would avoid hers, as much out of fear as out of respect. Her vision blurred to a dark shadow, and spirals of shadow and light whirled across her field of view. In the distance, she could hear a guttural, choking sound, and as her vision continued to clear, she saw a stout green and yellow reptilian, heavily adorned with gems and jewelry, not unlike her, being choked to death at the end of an immense and crack-riddled pair of arms. The sudden realization that she was witnessing her own demise from within the body of the statue was too much for her, and the will and focus that had been her greatest strength was consumed in an instant by The Nombril, even as it choked the last gasping breath from the soulless Tolakian at the end of its great arms.

Its prey was secured, and its feeding completed. The Nombril slowly digested the knowledge carried by the powerful little Tolakian, and searched her memories for something very specific, a hint at its purpose that lay dormant in the mind of each of its prey that drove it closer to its final goal.

Deep below the Grand Crossing, another day in the life of the Ota was about to be interrupted. The peaceful agrarians had become used to the constant rain of dirt, rocks, and other debris that fell from the “sky” above them. They were no longer truly surprised by anything that fell. Occasionally, a humanoid or unlucky animal would burst in out of the darkness above them to rain death down onto their small village. Only once had an Ota been killed by the fall of another being, since that day, the Ota had changed their roofs to the narrow, high peaked roofs more common to those dwelling high on the backs of mountains, rather than deep within them. The Ota were practical, often to the point of indifference, or so their neighbors thought. Their neighbors seldom understood the behavior of the Ota at all. This could have been for many reasons, but mainly it was because most of the Ota’s neighbors did not understand that Ota were actually vegetable, not animal, in nature. Their likes, dislikes, and motivations were similar enough to most humanoids to prevent outright dislike, but alien enough to give the Ota more than their fair share of ridicule and misunderstanding.

Geremy, being a typical Ota, was not particularly surprised when a dead Tolakian “appeared” in his garden, his impact destroying several rows and uprooting or crushing about thirty plants altogether. Geremy’s real name was an unpronounceable series of amino acids that he would excrete through the plant fibers at the ends of his fingers when he made physical contact with other Ota. Only Ota could “read” this language, and it had no spoken equivalent, so when he had first met another race, and was inevitably asked his name, he replied simply “Could you please give me one?” The adventuring human he met was amused by the young Ota, and was happy to comply. Geremy was not aware of his good fortune at his first meeting with another race. His name didn’t have the amusing qualities that many of his friends’ names did. There was Elfnose Warthead, a childhood friend that had been named by a Gnome, and his next door neighbor was simply called ‘Gruud’ (Molbur-speak for “not very dirty”) by a Molbur that was passing through their region of The Deep. Of course, most Ota overlooked these lingual oddities and used their own language to identify each other in private company.

Geremy observed the destruction for several moments, assessing the damage and determining the most logical course of action. Geremy then set to the work at hand, which consisted primarily of removing the non-biodegradable components of the corpse from the garden, and then turning the body under the soil, both enriching it and providing a makeshift burial for the recently destroyed Belectholdil. Fortunately for Geremy, the long mossy shag on his head only provided him with breathable air, and not a sense of smell. The warm air of The Deep was quickly making Belectholdil into something quite unripe. Geremy gathered the metal items and any other heavy pieces of bone or wood or other large pieces and set them aside for cleaning and consideration later.

Later, when the foul deed was completed, and Geremy had taken nourishment from some of the destroyed plants and replanted those that had survived their exhumation, he dug through the pile of Belectholdil’s belongings. His head, which was mostly intact, was placed carefully into a sack to be shown to the Elder Ota, and Geremy wiped his hands onto his tunic as he sat down to look at the other items of interest that came from the recently fallen Tolakian. Geremy had seen Tolakians before, and was aware that they often had great magical power, but was mostly interested in returning the head to the nearest Tolakians as a gesture of respect, so that the deceased’s family could mourn him. The head was still adorned with a small golden ring through its nose, though no other jewelry was present. The Ota did not observe such behavior themselves, but understood that it was common practice for other humanoids. He figured that the commune would agree, and studied the rest of the belongings, noting that many were likely to be magical. He decided at last that most of the belongings needed to be seen by the Elder Ota, an ancient druid that was called ‘Brambles.’ He was more likely to know about these magical belongings than simple Geremy was.

Geremy called out to the elder Brambles when he reached the edge of Brambles’ mushroom field (which was only a few hundred yards from his own little garden). As far as his vision held clear, Geremy could see the shoulder high fungi spread out through the chasm floor. Brambles kept a great deal of growth around his domicile, and when he was home it was nearly impossible to navigate through the great caps without irritating Elder Brambles. Ota farmers are very particular about their crops, and Brambles was no exception. He seldom left, and usually it was to run political errands with neighboring Dwarves, or to look after the other Ota. He often took the forms of the creatures of The Deep when he wandered, just to keep an eye on the Ota’s neighbors without drawing undue attention to himself.

Brambles was wandering his fields this day in search of food. He was hoping to find a nice tasty blind rat or some delicious little salamanders to eat, since his current form was ideally suited to eating such things. His snake body slithered silently between the great fungus stalks. Today, he was an impressive subterranean version of the anaconda nearly 14 feet in length and weighing nearly 150 pounds. He noted the presence of an Ota at the edge of his senses, the warm signature of the Ota’s body cleanly differentiated from the background coolness by the snake body’s incredible infrared senses. Distracted from his hunt by Geremy, he assumed his natural form, that of the Ota, a few feet away from Geremy.

Unsurprised by the sudden appearance of his leader, Geremy simply reached out his right hand, the normal Ota gesture of introducing communication. The Elder Ota responded in kind with his off-hand, and Geremy shared all that had transpired that day with the Elder. The elder turned to walk back to his domicile, still maintaining the light grip that they shared as they conversed. Geremy followed, more mindful of where he was going than of looking at the Elder. It was always this way when Ota conversed. Their touch communicated everything an Ota needed to understand, and was completely inscrutable to outsiders. In fact, a casual observer might mistake the two Ota walking and talking for two lovers lost in thought, silently walking along and holding hands. This of course, would have been a gross misconception, Ota being nothing like most humanoids.

Ota were, for starters, asexual. They looked like humanoids well enough, with their bilaterally symmetrical approximations of bipeds. Their bodies were comprised of dozens of symbiotic colonies of plant matter that worked together to approximate humanoid form in order to communicate with others, to work, and to find food and safety. This gave them a very humanoid appearance, but a very non-humanoid mentality. They were in fact quite well known for the misconception that they didn’t have a single mind, but instead had a group mind that simply thought of itself as “I” for simplicity’s sake. It was certainly a matter of fact that mind-altering effects did little to keep an Ota from fleeing or defending itself. Most Ota appeared more male than female, but most Ota considered themselves to be neither, although most outsiders referred to Ota as ‘he’ or ‘him’ in conversation.

Geremy related the tale of the fallen Tolakian to Brambles, who was very interested in the possessions of the late Belectholdil. Brambles was very aware of the powers of sorcery that the Tolakians wielded, and was concerned that the Ota he nurtured in the belly of the chasm might somehow be blamed for this accidental death. It was a possibility with very bad outcome for the Ota, if he was right about it. As they reached Brambles’ home (which was really nothing more than a smaller cave) he decided what must be done. Brambles would have to take the belongings back to the Tolakians. It would be a long journey, but it was safer than having angry Tolakians bearing down on his commune. (Brambles did not pretend to understand Tolakians very well, and had no idea that they were almost as non-aggressive as his own people. It was a common mistake that most people held against the Tolakians, due to their kinship with other reptilian races.)

Brambles said his farewells to Geremy, who returned to his farming. Geremy was a good person, but was not really interested in the affairs of the world. He was more than happy to hand off the responsibility of returning the Tolakian’s possessions to Brambles. He decided that going through Dwarven territory with so much magic might be awkward for the Dwarves, who were uncomfortable with arcane arts. It would be more dangerous, but he would take the old ways inhabited by the Khazini. Their self discipline and strict adherence to the formality of contracts should ensure his safe passage through the region. He could think of no reason for the Khazini to bar his passage. He would simply flow through their area like nutrients through a root.

Khazini territory was not loosely defined. Its borders in The Deep were very well defined, and very well guarded. Most races avoided the Khazini as much as possible. Of course, that was mostly due to the well-earned reputation the Khazini had concerning the value of life. A typical Khazin would not bother a wanderer, unless it had a contract out on said wanderer. In that case, the wanderer would probably be bothered to death by the Khazin. Brambles was counting on this to get him through their territory with a minimum of hassles. The alternative, moving through the Lizardfolk’s territory, was unthinkable to Brambles. They were-by comparison to the Khazin-mindlessly violent, with little in the way of discipline or rules, and there was a good chance that anything walking through their territory would end up in a stew-pot, animal or vegetable!

The Khazini were very well disciplined, both within their borders and without. They were known for their affiliations with various monastic sects, and though the disciplines that were taught were often very violent in nature, they were also designed to instill order among the Khazini. Khazini were an unusual race of humanoid, resembling humans for the most part, except for their thicker necks…and their huge, gaping, mouthfuls of teeth…and their penchant for swallowing little animals whole…and…well, you get the idea. They are frightening to look upon, especially the first time one sees a Khazin with her mouth agape. Khazini culture was matriarchal, and mostly their females traveled from home. Males generally didn’t travel unless they were exiled. A Khazin was only exiled for grievous transgressions of Khazini law. They despised those that could not keep their word, and those that behaved erratically. Females seldom fell to that sort of behavior, so mostly males in exile wandered The Deep, usually working for Drow, or sometimes being hired by races like the Tolakians as defenders or messengers.

Brambles had just entered Khazini territory when he was stopped by an advance patrol of three of the humanoids.
“What is your business here, Ota?” growled the leader, a large female with a dark, almost purple hide.

“I seek passage through your territory, Mistress,” replied Brambles.

“Can you pay the tax, I wonder?” returned the dark Khazin. She leered at the dark bundle tucked under Brambles’ arm. The outline seemed a little unfriendly, and the bloody sack at his hip seemed no less suspicious.

“I am returning a lost soul to his people,” Brambles offered, declining to respond to the blatant request for a bribe. “This Tolakian fell, and I am returning his head to his people.”

With that, he released the ties that held the bloody sack to his waist, and opened it for the Khazini to see. They all leaned in towards the Ota’s grisly prize. They seemed eager, almost exited, to see the dead Tolakian’s head. The lead Khazin reached out for the head, and snatched the golden ring from the late Tolakian’s nose.

“This will do fine, Ota wanderer. You may pass unhindered into Khazini territory. Be aware of the restricted areas, there are signs to ward unwelcome creatures from them. You can see, eh wanderer?”

“Of course,” said Brambles, returning the head to its sack, pleased that the bribe did not cost him personally, as he had little worth anything to offer the Khazin. He walked past the now-indifferent patrol, and journeyed deep into Khazini territory. He avoided the ‘restricted’ areas with ease. There’s nothing like a head on a pike to get your attention, after all.

The Nombril dropped the lifeless body of Negaerion to the ledge, and immediately went into a rigidly upright posture. An observer might have thought it truly to be a statue at that moment, but the moment did not last for long. The image of a gem-encrusted axe swirled slowly before the mind’s eye of the creature, and it contemplated its own unfair existence at the realization of the missed opportunity. It had thrown away a tool that could have greatly reduced the time it would need to prepare for its mission. It set out on foot to the nearest cavern leading away from its ledge, a place that it had come in through some 300 years earlier. It stalked away with purposeful strides, leaving the body of Negaerion to the scavengers of The Deep.

Brambles had been traveling The Deep for more than two days. He decided that he would be less bothered by the Khazini if he traveled and rested in his own form, rather than taking animal forms, since there was a good chance he would be mistaken for food by a Khazin that happened upon him in the dark. He had grown restless in his natural form and was beginning to contemplate the dangers of at least traveling in animal form, when for the first time in two days, he happened upon a lone Khazin. The Khazin was wandering the caverns almost absentmindedly. It was a warning sign that Brambles immediately noted, and began to consider his options for flight away from the lone Khazin.

The Khazin male, Gulan, wasn’t really interested in causing havoc to Brambles specifically. He just wanted to start his exile in a style befitting his newfound love of random violence. His exile had become the price of his choice to forego the monastic training and seek a life of chaotic violence. He had originally planned to kill a patrol or two on his way out, but seeing this lone Ota really gave him a charge. He was truly hungry for some of the old ultra-violent, and this wanderer was going to be the recipient of his gift of brutality. He altered course so that he would end up precisely in the path of the Ota, and when the Ota reached him, it stopped.

“Whatcha carrying, bean-man?” snarled Gulan, hoping his insults would jibe the Ota into some kind of reaction that he could use as an excuse.

“Only the remains of a fallen Tolakian,” replied Brambles, hoping that the sight of the head would diffuse the situation. He reached for the ties to his sack again, but the Khazin quickly shot a hand out to stop him.

“I’m more interested in what you have under your other branch, there, bush-head.”

“Insults will not endear me to your questions, young Khazin,” responded Brambles, now irritated at the insolence of the obviously young and impertinent Khazin. This was exactly what Gulan was hoping for, and he spat on the ground at Brambles’ feet, saying “You’ll pay for your attitude this day, little walking tuber!”

The Khazin erupted into motion, long before Brambles had realized that this was the Khazin’s preface to a fight. He began to shift into a fighting stance too late, as the Khazin’s fists and feet blurred before his eyes. He had been struck several times before he could even consider his alternatives. Hoping that the Khazin was as young an inexperienced as he seemed, Brambles called out a quick little spell of transmutation. His plan was to simply remove himself from the fight, and force the Khazin to look elsewhere for his trouble. As he was gesturing, though, the Khazin’s amazing reflexes gave it the time to reach out and deftly pluck the bundled axe from beneath the arm of Brambles. Too late to change his mind, Brambles completed the spell and sidestepped away from the Khazin, right into the solid rock wall of the cavern. The Khazin roared in frustration, exposing the great chasm of its throat, and forcing Brambles to cower in his stony retreat, despite his relative safety.

Flushed with newfound rage, Gulan tore at the package, ripping the beautiful greataxe free of its trappings. A moment’s hesitation as he marveled at the craftsmanship of the weapon was all he gave it; the rush of his heated blood was flushing all coherent thoughts from his mind. With a second horrible scream, he flung himself at the wall with the axe in hand, and began carving great gashes in the stone with the heavily enchanted axe. He had no idea how much the axe could take, he only knew the joys of his first barbarian rage, and was exulting in the strength that it had infused into his limbs. He felt as though he could actually carve the lousy Ota free of his rocky hideaway.

It took a while for the rage to pass, and Brambles began to seriously doubt the stone’s ability to keep him concealed safely, but the entire passage was carved by time and water out of stone, and he was in no danger of being ejected from the stone by the scratches of the axe-wielding Khazin, no matter how deep. Frustrated and now winded, the Khazin turned dejectedly towards a side passage, and stomped off into the darkness, still clutching the greataxe in his hand. Brambles, with great discretion, decided that the prudent course of action would be to wait as long as possible for the unruly Khazin to get as far as possible before leaving the safety of his rock wall. Nearly an hour later, he stepped free of the wall and continued on his previous course, determined at least to return what he could, and to report the theft of the axe to the Tolakians. It would be their problem, not his, to recover it if they wished.

Gulan stomped off towards the center of the Khazini territory. The axe felt quite good in his hands. It almost made him feel satisfied, but not quite. He decided that he would risk being seen by his people one last time, and travel upwards to the Dwarven kingdom. It was closer to the surface, and he would have a greater chance of running into stupid adventurers upon which he could recklessly mete out injury. As an added bonus, he would happen to be going through Scalemin territory. He recalled that the Scalemin were not as warlike as their Lizardman cousins, and hoped that he would get to try a few of them out on the end of his new axe before the journey was done.

He passed through the center of his former territory unhindered. Most of the Khazini were attending a matriarchal ascension. They happened whenever an elder matriarch died, and her position was taken by a new female. Gulan had sped that ascension himself, by slaying the elder matriarch for the female that was taking her position on this day. For that reason, and because of his disinterest in following the tenets of the Khazini lifestyle, Gulan had been exiled. He quickly climbed the columns and ladders to the higher levels above the home of his people. “Never again will I set foot in that hell,” thought Gulan, as he made the final climb out of his old territory into a no-man’s land between their caverns and those of the Lizardmen.

He stalked the Lizardman territory for several days…completely unaware of the danger that lurked just behind him at nearly every step. The Nombril was closing on its prey. Gulan had no idea anything was hunting him, or he might have fled. He killed Lizardmen as he found them, often without them even getting a chance to counterattack or even to react at all.

“This greataxe is clearly of a superior quality. It must be heavily enchanted,” muttered Gulan. To his extreme surprise, the axe actually responded. It was just a sensation, not a verbal or even telepathic response, but it was a definitive “YES.” Gulan’s hairless hide prickled, the tiny shark-like scales stiffened in an imitation of goose bumps. Intrigued, Gulan decided to pursue the thought further. /You must be ancient, to be so powerful,/ thought Gulan, still not convinced enough to even whisper aloud the thought. “YES,” was the immediate reply from the greataxe. This time, there was no mistaking it as a fluke or as an errant artifact of his own mind. Gulan nearly dropped the axe with the shock of realization that this gaudy, overdressed greataxe was addressing his questions directly even when he only thought them to himself!

Would you like to kill again?, thought Gulan, now thoroughly entranced by the “talking” greataxe.

“YES”

“Okay then,” thought Gulan aloud, “who’s next?” There was no reply from the weapon. Gulan decided that the weapon simply didn’t care who was next.

Gulan had wandered through Lizardman territory leaving a path of corpses that was easily readable by all but the most simple of creatures. The Lizardmen had finally been alerted to the menacing Khazin that was randomly killing their brothers, and had created a full search party to wipe out the intruder. When they discovered that he had passed on through their territory into the regions occupied by Dwarves, they decided instead to let the murderous Khazin go. They were uninterested in explaining their losses to the Dwarves, who would be eager to take advantage of a weakened Lizardman tribe. They chalked up the deaths to the cost of living near Khazini zealots and went home dejectedly.

The Nombril stood over the lifeless body of the Ota, Brambles. It had been even more difficult than killing the Sorceress, but The Nombril had prevailed once again. It had used more of its power reserves than it thought prudent in order to destroy the Druid, but a Druid would never have left The Nombril alone, once discovered. It was too much of an abomination to nature, no lover of nature would willingly ignore its presence. Fortunately, the Ota Druid had a great reserve of spells, which The Nombril had now added to its own repertoire. This was one aspect of The Nombril that historians had gotten right.

“It appears that most knowledge from a slain subject becomes temporarily accessible to the creature. This only takes place if the creature has the opportunity to contact the victim psychically during the encounter, and when faced with multiple targets, The Nombril unerringly seeks out those with arcane, divine, or metaphysical (psionic) powers, and attempts to usurp those powers from that victim before moving on to destroy others, often using spells stolen from the mind of the slain individual.” –excerpt from The Book of Constructs, by Uriah Paumborter, Artificer

Gulan’s grin went wide with glee as he spied the small band of Scalemin. He had unknowingly passed through the edge of Dwarven territory and back out into the wilds of The Deep. The Scalemin were particularly distasteful to the anarchic Khazin. He once again felt his blood boil in his head, and his arms grew light. The greataxe seemed to gleam with joy at the possibility of drawing the life from another creature. It buzzed positively in Gulan’s grip, and he tightened his fingers on the well-worn haft as he grimly strode forward into the field of view of the Scalemin.

It never occurred to Gulan that he might be quite close to the surface at this point in his travels. Ever since he had attacked the cavern wall that the sneaky Ota had hidden in, he had been overwhelmed with a desire to kill and spread chaos. It was overriding his natural inclinations to self-preservation, and driving him much closer to the sun that he had ever been before.

The leader of the small band of Scalemin’s eyes bulged even more than they naturally did, impossibly huge. The other two members of his foraging troupe were watching him with curiosity and apprehension. He immediately hissed to them to take cover, but it was too late. The obviously enraged Khazin had spotted them and was stalking right towards them. There was little chance that they could outrun this creature, trained as the Khazin often were to run with great strides that usually outstripped most evenly sized creatures. Cassimi, the Scalemin leader, contemplated the situation for a split second, and decided that although his education was centered on defense and skillful negotiation of hazards, that they might have to fight clear of this menace. He stepped into the open and whispered in his native tongue to his followers. “Draw your weapons, but keep them from his sight, unless he attacks me.” The low hissing whispers carried well in the cavernous chamber, and although Cassimi knew the Khazin might hear him, he doubted the thing had bothered to learn the Scalemin tongue. He dropped his torch onto a small rock outcropping to leave his hands free.

Gulan saw the weakling Scalemin dive for cover, but took no heed. There was still one standing, obviously brave enough to face him down. He took in the odd features of the Scalemin ranger as he approached. He noted the fine ridge of horns that started somewhere out of sight near the base of the Scalemin’s spine and culminated in a prominently displayed horn just above the reptilian’s nose. Gulan thought to himself that he had better watch out for that horn, but the twin pair of sickles at the Scalemin’s hip took more of his notice. Gulan strode purposefully across the cavern floor. If necessary, he would carve the other Scalemin out of their rocky hiding places, just as he had tried to do with the devil-plant Ota. First he was going to dispatch this brave little Scalemin, though.

“Come out, little scaly-men, I won’t hurt you,” he growled. His evil grin gave away his intent though. The smile of a Khazin is not lightly observed. It is perhaps one of the most terrible images that a humanoid face can configure itself into. Cassimi’s knees began to quiver, and he silently thanked his Gods that the others did not see that, or else he might have been facing the wicked Khazin alone. Gulan’s lips stretched nearly from ear to ear, revealing multiple rows of teeth on each jaw, and when Gulan opened his mouth to speak, the gap of his open throat looked like a bottomless chasm to the poor Scalemin leader. Even though Cassimi knew that he was too large to be swallowed by the frightful Khazin, it still shook him to his bones to gaze upon the face of the terrible killer.
Cassimi was counting on his followers’ native ability to blend in with the background while he engaged the Khazin. As Gulan closed with the smaller Scalemin Cassimi, he felt himself fly into the now-familiar rage that seemed to make him incredibly strong and nearly invulnerable. Cassimi braced himself and drew his twin sickles. They seemed impossibly small compared to the deadly greataxe that the horrible Khazin was wielding. Cassimi decided that a defensive stance would buy him more time to draw the Khazin into a position where his followers could more easily come to the Scalemin’s aid. Cassimi took a step back, his long thin tail feeling the ground behind him for trip hazards. Gulan stomped forward and slashed into a sweeping attack, overextending his reach just as Cassimi stepped into his space and slashed out with a sickle, opening a fine gash on the Khazin’s chest. This only seemed to further enrage the young raging Khazin, and he launched into a furious rain of blows that Cassimi could only barely keep up with, his twin sickles curved away from Gulan as the Scalemin concentrated on deflecting the incoming blows. Cassimi’s companions saw that he would tire quickly. Fortunately, during the Khazin’s onslaught, he had allowed Cassimi to lure him backwards past the lurking companions. Gulan knew they were there, but for the moment was completely preoccupied with killing the impetuous little Scalemin.

“Your companions have deserted you little worm,” spat the outraged Khazin, his axe flying wildly at the small reptilian as if to punctuate his statement.

“And your wits seem to have deserted you, along with any hope of finding rapture,” replied the smaller Scalemin, deftly averting the down stroke of the gleaming greataxe. As he spoke, his two companions, a pair of young Scalemin that he was trying to teach, moved in unison to the sides of the Khazin, and almost as one, they flicked their wrists, sending their curved weapons into the muscled torso of the flailing Khazin. He howled with rage and fear as the kukri knives slid easily into his hide. One of the blows had struck something vital, and as he fell to his knees, he managed one last swipe with the greataxe, cleanly cleaving the surprised young Scalemin that had dealt him the death blow neatly in two. The axe thrummed with power even as it slipped from Gulan’s bloody fingers. He collapsed into darkness, and was gone.

The Nombril reached into its memory looking for a recent gift from the Ota he had slain. The plant-creature was not particularly powerful, but it had known a particular spell that was quite rare, and that would be very useful just now. The Nombril released the spell and touched a small rock outcropping that had recently been burned by a tar-like substance. A brief flurry of images were cast across The Nombril’s consciousness like a silent film on a screen of black glass, and it turned on its heels and walked over between the two corpses.

The Nombril knelt in a dried pool of blood, Khazin blood mixed with Scalemin to form a blackened sheet of death on the cavern floor. It beckoned a nearly forgotten spell from his memory, the spell would allow it to communicate with the dead Khazin, albeit briefly. Aware of the limitations of the spell, The Nombril was forced to also attempt to speak aloud for this. It had always had the ability, but rarely devoted the time to bother, preferring to communicate telepathically. Unfortunately, the dead could not speak in this manner, nor were they likely to respond to its questions if posed in that manner.

The horrible wounds inflicted on the dead Scalemin to its side were now distorted beyond recognition; several days’ worth of animal and insect feedings had all but hidden the clean cuts that had severed the body. The Nombril was not fooled though, it knew that the Khazini possessed the strength for such blows, and there was no weapon present. It knew that it must be getting closer to its goal. The Khazin, still nearly whole in spite of the scavengers of The Deep, lay in the dried pool of blood, its still-open eyes clouded with death, and its death’s head grin gaping. The Nombril’s voice croaked out of its long-unused mouth experimentally, saying:

“I am…The Nombril…you…will answer…my…questions.” With that, he released the spell that he had carried with him for more than two hundred years, and a foul sputtering intake of breath made a hissing sound as the dead flesh took in air to respond to the questions.

Gulan the corpse spoke. His voice too was weak and raspy, though not exactly from disuse, “Yes…God?”

Cassimi mourned the loss of his student briefly. The Deep was a harsh teacher, though, and they had both been warned. Class was over for the day, so Cassimi and his remaining student-a young female thief turned nature-lover named Jasixa-headed for the surface, the horrible greataxe safely wrapped and tucked into Cassimi’s belt.

Several days later, Cassimi and Jasixa, now on the surface, were wandering through a swamp in the foothills near the cavern entrance they had come from. They were foraging on the surface, not something they commonly did, but Cassimi knew there were valuable things to learn from surface-dwelling creatures and plants, just as there was from The Deep. They had been wandering for several days, never far from the entrance, thanks to the innate sense of direction that the experienced Cassimi possessed. They had found a multitude of edible plants and insects to feed on, and Jasixa was extremely exited about the feeling of being in the open, with no stone overhead.

Cassimi had known for some time that they were being watched, but whatever was spying on them was either very elusive, or simply in his imagination. Not being one to believe in dismissing his perception, he assumed the former, and stayed very alert, even while Jasixa slept, he did not. The sensations were worse during the night, so Cassimi dozed lightly during the hottest parts of the day while Jasixa watched over him. She was aware that something was bothering him, but her eyes were not trained as his to see every movement of the fens, and so she was largely unaware of the threat. Cassimi’s warnings to her to stay close and to be alert when he slept seemed to her more like a leash than a necessity. Her heart was well disciplined, though, by the recent loss of her partner and friend, Gissi. His death at the hands of the Khazin deserter kept her mindful of the dangers of the world. Cassimi had laid the murderous greataxe at his side. Jasixa decided to herself that no harm could come from a simple inspection of the weapon. It looked quite valuable to her; it was clearly not of Dwarven make, at least to her eyes. She had some experience with valuing items quickly, and had initially assessed the value of the axe to be well over anything she had ever seen before. She quietly stole over to Cassimi’s sleeping form, and reached for the weapon. The buzzing flies of the swamp were the only sounds to be heard, but her heart beat in her chest so loudly that she was sure that Cassimi could hear it.

Her heartbeat was audible, but not to Cassimi. His sleep had passed from a natural drowse into a magic-bolstered heavy slumber. The Nombril had crept through the muck and the mud of the swamp ever so slowly. It did not need to breath, eat, or sleep, and its quiet approach had taken days to engineer, but finally it was within reach of the source of its desire.

It watched the cagey movements of the younger Scalemin, her tail swishing in the air to balance her as she reached down to grasp the haft of the greataxe. She was so close to The Nombril that it could make out the fine rise and fall of her narrow chest, and the rush of blood that came with the adrenalin pumping through her small form was visible in the arteries close to the surface of her scaled hide on her neck. She never saw the chipped and flaked form of The Nombril, caked as it was with muck and submerged in the water just inches from her hand. Her hand closed around the weapon’s finely polished handle just as the great arm of The Nombril edged out of the water and grasped her arm firmly. She cried out, but to no avail. Cassimi slept as soundly as a young hatchling. Jasixa quickly brought her kukri to bear on the arm that was crushing all sensation out of hers, but the blade bounced harmlessly off of the creature’s arm. The impenetrable stone arm inexorably crushed first the muscles and then the bones of her arm, rendering it useless. The greataxe dropped soundlessly into the mud at The Nombril’s feet, as it rose out of the muck. Still clutching the useless arm in one hand, it reached for her slender neck with the other. She struggled uselessly, trying over and over to stab the obsidian horror with her kukri and screaming Scalemin obscenities. Finally The Nombril closed a stony fist around her throat, forever silencing her shrill cries.

The lifeless body fell to the ground next to Cassimi just as he was coming out of his torpor. The spell’s duration had expired just as the life was being squeezed from poor Jasixa, and Cassimi reached for the greataxe as he rolled to his feet to face the threat. He was wholly unprepared to face a mud-covered seven foot obsidian statue that appeared, initially, to be of a human male. He was further unprepared for it to thrust out its right hand, palm outward and blast him with several bolts of pure energy. The magic missiles followed Cassimi unerringly through his defensive roll, and struck him squarely in the chest as he rose to his feet within reach of the obsidian monstrosity. He staggered back a half-step, and then stepped forward, bearing down with all of his might on the greataxe, now uncovered. It bit deep into the stony form, and The Nombril roared. It was a horrible sound, the sound of great stones splitting and cracking in two mixed with the screams of dying animals.

Cassimi decided that discretion was the better part of valor, and spun on his bare reptilian heels, taking off at a dead run across the tufts of grass and low mounds of the fens. He heard the splashing of the abominable construct as it followed him, but he was not interested in trying to fight, he only wanted to escape the thing. He ran so hard and so long, that he did not even notice that he had moved from swamps back into the foothills. Nor did he notice the plethora of small, recently dug holes that dotted the area until he fell face first into one as he ran looking backwards on his pursuer.
The Molburs had recently moved into this territory to dig, having heard both that it was mostly uninhabited, and that it was rich in mineral deposits and food sources. All three rumors had turned out to be true, a stroke of luck that the Molburs seldom had in life. Their squat forms and furry hides made them look like large balls of hair to most other races, but for the Molbur, these compact and well-insulated forms made the digging of shallow earth quite a simple task. TeGran ab Red Hills was the digger of the hole that Cassimi had stumbled into. Word of the chase had reached TeGran through the Drum-Speak that all Molbur practiced by stomping on the packed earth of their tunnels. They had also passed on word of The Nombril. The Molburs had a strong tradition of oral history, and most of them knew the stories of The Nombril and its inscrutable questing and trails of destruction and mayhem. TeGran flexed his long, heavy claws involuntarily as the Scalemin ranger tumbled headlong into the tunnel.

Cassimi had been running for over 12 hours, putting greater and greater distance between himself and the obsidian entity. He knew instinctively that the thing was still following him though. Unfortunately he never made the connection to the creature’s true passion, so The Nombril /was/ following, much more slowly than the running ranger could travel, but Cassimi had no chance of completely evading him while he held the greataxe. When he stopped tumbling at last, he lay there gasping for air. His scales were hot and dry, and his heart was pounding in his chest. He had long ago reached the point of exhaustion, and wasn’t thinking anymore, instead acting purely on instinct.

“You are in my burrow, runner.” said the Molbur in impeccable common. Fortunately the Scalemin was a traveler, and knew the tongue of Man.

“There is a thing following me-”

“It is The Nombril.” TeGran interrupted the winded reptilian. As he said the words aloud his claws flexed again. The dim moonlight from outside cast only deep shadows into the little den. Cassimi clambered to his feet, the greataxe still clutched in one hand loosely. TeGran pointed to the axe with one of his heavy claws.

“That is what The Nombril seeks. You have brought it to us, and made our lives forfeit, because we must give them to ensure that the creature does not obtain this weapon.” Cassimi looked at the little furry Molbur with incredulity as he hefted the axe.

“This thing?” he croaked. It slipped from his fingertips and bit into the packed earth of the Molbur’s burrow entrance.

“That…thing…is the Greataxe of Malun-Khul. Please pick it up and follow me.” Without any further delay, the little Molbur turned on his furred heels and walked deeper into the burrow.

“Who are you, and how do you know about this axe?” asked Cassimi, plucking it gingerly from the dirt.

“I am called TeGran.” He replied, not bothering to answer the second question.

“I cannot see in the dark,” was the belated reply from Cassimi, as he stumbled after the waddling pile of fur.

From the darkness ahead came a glimmer of alchemical light. The creature had struck a hardened rod against his own thigh, and now it was emitting a soft but bright glow, like muted sunshine. The rod cast odd shadows from the claw-dug walls of the low tunnel. Cassimi put the Greataxe across his chest and ruminated to himself quietly about the Molbur in front of him as he quickly caught up with him. Was he being helped by the furry little humanoid, or was this another trap to be avoided. His wanderings had never taken him this far from swampy areas before, so he had no experience with their race, but is initial meeting with the Molbur seemed encouraging.

The Nombril quietly seethed with rage at being so close to the weapon only to have it snatched from him once again. If the enemies of the great Malun-Khul discovered what that weapon was before he could obtain it, the entire cycle of frustrated hunting would have to begin all over again. The Nombril easily followed the little reptilian’s tracks. The iguana-like reptilian was running flat out, and leaving very obvious tracks that even a novice hunter could have followed without difficulty.

When the tracks ended at the entrance to a small burrow, The Nombril permitted itself to experience a small grim feeling of success. It had seen these burrows before, and unless a great deal had changed, these little burrowing humanoids would be easy pickings for The Nombril. It crouched down onto all fours and began to crawl down the little tunnel effortlessly. It picked up the trail again easily, and was pleased that it saw also the Molbur’s tracks. It hoped that it would be able to slaughter some of the meddlers before it found the Greataxe of Malun-Khul. It hoped against dreaming that it would find a great number of them /after/ it had recovered the powerful weapon. Its purpose and that of The Nombril were so alike that a near-symbiotic relationship would probably assert if the two were ever joined, to the detriment of all living things.

“Stupid fool, you have doomed us all with this thing!” shouted the Duggan leader of the Molburs. It was normally his duty to lead the Molburs from site to site, and to act as the representative of their tribe when dealing with outsiders. He was not actually angry with TeGran, he was only upset that TeGran would probably not relinquish his right to be the Glumug leader while they had the axe. This tribe was huge, over a hundred strong, and its tunnels extensive and spread over several miles of land. Such responsibility was not lightly handed off to some young Molbur, regardless of his battle-prowess.
The others in the congregational chamber were not fooled by the Duggan’s inane outburst. They did share some of the sentiment of the statement though, and were visibly upset at the appearance of TeGran and the Scalemin ranger Cassimi.

They weren’t bothered by the Scalemin himself, they knew of the iguana-kin and knew they needn’t fear him. It was what he carried that bothered them so. The Greataxe of Malun-Khul had returned to the Molburs after three hundred years of peace and quiet. Over five generations of Molburs had passed down through their oral traditions the stories of what havoc had been wreaked on the world by the Greataxe of Malun-Khul and by those that sought it for their own use.

The meeting was quickly organized by TeGran, who did not relinquish his right to be Glumug leader, just as the Duggan had feared. Fortunately for all involved, TeGran appeared to be a very competent young Molbur. His insights into the problem seemed well thought out, and after the meet was over, many Molburs asked him about it and discovered that he had in fact thought about the situation a great deal for most of his adult life. Fate had driven the Scalemin into the one burrow being watched by the one Molbur who had the greatest chance of succeeding in solving their problem.
It was quickly agreed upon that the axe could not stay with the Molburs. Though it was currently safe, the Molburs hadn’t the true power needed to thwart The Nombril, of which they knew a great deal. Without powerful magic, there was little chance that the Molburs could keep The Nombril away from its prized possession. It had been created for the sole purpose of recovering the weapon by Malun-Khul’s followers. Once recovered, The Nombril would set out on a ferocious killing spree in honor of the elder god that created the axe, Malun-Khul. It would then only answer to the most devout and powerful of Malun-Khul’s priests.

No sapient creature would be foolish enough to allow that to happen, so the Molburs plotted quickly and quietly to determine their path. It was decided that they would travel to the land of elves, deep into the Menerwerdhil Woods, and give the Greataxe of Malun-Khul to them for safekeeping. They were not the only race the Molburs knew of that were powerful enough to protect the axe, but they were more trustworthy than humans, their second choice. It might have been a closer journey to travel to the human kingdom, but the foolish and superstitious humans would probably have rejected the Molburs’ request out-of-hand.

So the journey began, with TeGran and the Scalemin ranger, and a small band of burly Molburs, all proven warriors with a good sense of direction. They began to dig a path in the direction of the Menerwerdhil Woods, with their intuition and their powerful claws keeping them on the right road to salvation, or at least to purgatory.
The Nombril surveyed the damage. It had been a horrible bloody fight, but The Nombril had entered it almost gleefully. It had been surprised at how much stronger the little Molburs had grown in a few generations. Clearly they were breeding for strength now, rather than for speed as they had in times past. They had seemed almost awkward, but they were incredibly strong. Many of their mundane weapons had actually bitten into its stony hide, leaving long gashes and cracks in its body. Even their claws sometimes found purchase in its form, a fact that astonished and even concerned the ancient construct. What if it had become more vulnerable as time had passed?

It dismissed the thought even as it climbed up a small packed-earth tunnel. Clearly the little burrowers had simply bred themselves to be more powerful, and although they had actually caused concern to The Nombril over its own continued existence, they still fell in great numbers before finally fleeing. Enough remained for The Nombril to glean where the axe was being taken, though.

It crawled to the surface, covered nearly from head to toe in the filth of dead Molburs. It didn’t care for cleanliness, though. It still had mud from the swamps it had crawled through stuck to its back. It was completely consumed by its desire to get the axe.

Nothing else in its existence was even worthy of note. It began walking in the direction of the Menerwerdhil Woods. Its steady, measured stride was constant, never increasing or decreasing. It did not require sleep, or any form of rest. As it walked the gashes and cracks from the battle with the Molburs slowly began to close, just as every other time before. By the time it reached the edge of the wood two weeks later, the body was once again pristine.

It stomped past the edge of the wood with stern anticipation. It bounced back, a surprised look came over its glassy obsidian face. It reached out and tried to push past the invisible barrier, but to no avail. Nothing in its memory seemed likely to be useful…wait, it remembered that it had taken the power to cross great distances instantaneously from a human mind bender many long years ago. It had never used that power, preferring to save it for a special occasion. Now was the time. The Nombril stood upright and erect, as always, and concentrated on breaching the barrier and looked as far ahead of him as the forest’s limited field of view would allow. It released the psionic energy, and felt itself being thrust through time and space. Instantaneously, The Nombril ceased to exist at the edge of the wood, and began to exist in his new location. Each place was graced with a loud “POP!” as the air around the construct rushed in to fill the suddenly emptied air and was just as suddenly forced out of the location of its arrival.

It looked around and surveyed its location. It was not where it had intended to go. In fact, it was nowhere near where it wanted to be. It was not really quite sure where it was at all. A quick introspection revealed that it was still on its native plane of existence. It looked around for some visual stimulus to connect with. Everywhere it looked, there was nothing but blinding white. It felt solid beneath the construct, so The Nombril took a tentative step forward. On the edge of its peripheral vision it saw now that there was a small rock outcropping sticking out of the icy glacial wasteland. It focused on the outcropping and began to walk…

Coming soon: D&D 4.0 stats for the creatures described here in this work of fiction.