The Tragedy(?) of Hamrik, Prince of Shadows

Prologue

Hamrik's acceptance into the halls of Angolwen had probably been the best moment of the young dwarf's life. Appropriately, his ejection from them felt like the worst. Bad enough to be denied the training his intelligence deserved, but to have his Manasurge rune erased, his staff snapped in two, and a seal placed upon his aether channels to forbid him from channelling mana for evermore? It was as good as being dead.

"And anyway, what goes up must come down," Hamrik muttered, glancing sideways at the Shadow. "It's only a matter of time before Archmage Tarelion's staff falls back down from the Abashed Expanse. Is that really worth an expulsion?"

As ever, the Shadow made no response. However, even without it saying anything, Hamrik was painfully aware that certain other of his humorous pranks had probably contributed to the situation. Like the Great Displacement Shield Food Fight. Or the Linaniil Peeping Incident. Or the Chain Lightning That Wouldn't Stop. But what else was he supposed to do? His teachers actually left Runes of Invisibility lying around unattended. Runes of Invisibility. It would have been an insult to the spirit of creativity not to take advantage of the infinite opportunities presented by his environment.

At least he'd managed to get in a parting shot. Even now, a fair proportion of the underwear in the archmage laundry room was enchanted to proc Teleport on the wearer upon removal. He just wished he could be there to enjoy it.

"I hope it comes down in the middle of the ocean somewhere." Hamrik returned to his original school of thought. "Or better yet, right on top of his head. Maybe the impact will dislodge the other staff that's constantly up his-"

He broke off as he rounded the top of a hill, and saw the hidden entrance to the Iron Throne at long last. It had cost his family more than a little money and influence to get him sent to Angolwen, a place that didn't even officially exist. They wouldn't be happy to see him back like this.

Chapter I

Level 1: +1 Con, +1 Wil, +1 Cun, +2 Willful Strike, + 2 Call Shadows, +1 Resilience of the Dwarves, +1 Feed, +1 Gesture of Pain

Hamrik cowered behind Norgan as the berserker split another orc in half with his battleaxe. He'd been right about his homecoming. It was a miserable experience all round, doubly so once he'd got over his initial gloom and started looking at new career options. There just wasn't anything he could be as good at as magic. Even the Stone Wardens, the dual-shield warriors whose dabblings in the arcane arts he had once sneered at, now represented heights of power forever beyond his reach. And then things had taken yet another turn for the worse, as the council started recruiting mercenaries to send on an expedition to Reknor, and Hamrik's parents suddenly decided that here was his much-needed opportunity to contribute to the household.

Apparently, communications with the small kingdom had been cut off, reasons unknown, so naturally the best thing to do was to send in some random shmucks to investigate - instead of, say, hiring a mage to teleport in, take a quick look around, and teleport out. Heck, find a guy who knows Probability Travel, and you could probably get it done in one day. But all these options were cut off from Hamrik now. So instead, he (eventually) swallowed the last of his dignity, and asked his father to lend him an axe, a shield and an old chain mail shirt. If he was going to be forced to lower himself to the absolute rock bottom of serving as a Bulwark - a fighter so incapable of the slightest degree of finesse that he was reduced to standing there and letting things hit him until they tired themselves out and presented him with openings - then dammit, he'd at least make a good job of it.

But his father just laughed at him. "What nonsense is this, boy? It's only Reknor. Up a level here, down a level there, and you'll be home in time for tea and baked rat. What will you be wanting next, stralite full plate to go buy mushrooms from old Granny Throatcleaver down the street?"

Hamrik had no answer to this that wouldn't make him sound like he'd been completely spoiled by his time in the ivory towers of Angolwen.

"Good. Now let's have no more of that. Trust me, this Reknor trip is just what you need to get back into the swing of things."

Unfortunately, the swing in question turned out to be that of Norgan's axe. The oversized weapon, and the wild-eyed dwarf behind it, was the only thing standing between Hamrik and a swift and violent death. The two of them were the only survivors of the expedition - the rest had been ravaged by rats, overwhelmed by orcs, slaughtered by snakes and, in defiance of probability, mangled by moulds. And there were still three great halls left between them and the exit. Meanwhile, without his magic, and with no conventional combat training, Hamrik was a sitting duck, except that ducks were at least small targets with the ability to fly.

Things went from bad to worse as Norgan unexpectedly charged off to deal with an orcish archer in the distance, leaving Hamrik facing a particularly large and menacing rat. He backed away in a hurry, but then he felt his backpack press against a solid, impenetrable, impassable dwarf-built wall. The giant rat, sensing weakness, lunged for his throat.

But it never made it. When Hamrik opened his eyes again, he saw a) a stunned-looking rat trying to figure out what had hit it and b) the Shadow, silently hovering in front of him. However, the impact had clearly harmed the Shadow in some way - its edges were wispy and ragged, and its movement had become unsteady. It could not take a second hit.

Observe the enemy... behold its hateful visage...

Hamrik glared at the rat. Now that it was within the light radius of his lantern, he could see it more clearly. Its filthy whiskers, its scowling expression, the mad glow in its little eyes... the more he looked at it, the more it resembled Old Boniface, the fire magic tutor who had so delighted in mocking his every tiny mistake in class. Hamrik could feel hatred swelling up inside him, building with every second he spent looking at his foe.

On impulse, he made the gesture for a bolt of Lightning, trying to draw on these feelings as he would have once drawn upon his reserves of mana. To his utter surprise, something slammed into the rat, flinging it violently through the air. Its broken body fell to the floor with a crunch.

Hamrik grinned. This he could work with.

A minute later, Norgan finally returned. "Ach, sorry for leaving ye like that, laddie. But I see ye can defend yerself just- Atamathon's Glowing Ruby Balls, what is that thing?!"

Norgan pointed at the Shadow with a shaking finger.

Shocked, Hamrik whirled round. No-one else could see the Shadow, not even the mightiest archmage. It was just another thing that made him special. Was this another constant of his old life that had no place in the new?

"Uhh, don't be alarmed, Norgan. It's a friend. We met back in Angolwen."

And oh, the pranks they'd pulled together. It had been odd at first, having a featureless ball of impenetrable darkness follow him around while everyone else acted like nothing was going on. But eventually Hamrik had got used to it, and the Shadow became his silent friend, his companion and confidant. It never judged him, never condemned him, and it always stayed by his side. It even came back within minutes after being vaporised by stray fireballs and the like (don't ask how Hamrik had found this out).

"Funny friends ye have, lad. But right now, I'd even kiss Garkul's hairy green behind if it meant help getting home alive."

The three moved on. Their teamwork steadily improved - Hamrik blasted enemies with his newfound power, injuring them and throwing their formations into disarray, while the Shadow (apparently now visible to everyone) distracted them when they tried to seek revenge. Norgan, meanwhile, carried on doing what he did best - splitting skulls and shrugging off blows that looked like they could fell a giant. It really made Hamrik wonder why so many adventurers were loners.

Hamrik soon noticed that his power spiked with every foe he defeated, but declined during periods of rest. This was like nothing he'd ever heard of. What name would one give to a resource drawn from victory in battle? "Badassery", perhaps. Or "Awesomeness". Certainly nothing as bland and uninspiring as "mana".

Eventually, the three found the staircase leading to a lower hall, and decided to make camp and rest. Norgan took the first watch while Hamrik slept.

Interlude

In a place that is no place, they speak without voices.

This one shows promise.

He is weak. He lacks power. He lacks conviction.

He has potential. He will grow. He can be shaped.

This is a risk.

Come.

Chapter II

Level 2: +1 Wil, +2 Cun, +1 Call Shadows

Hamrik woke up feeling good about himself. He'd survived an entire monster-infested dwarven hall, and a little downtime had helped his brain filter valuable combat tips from his experiences. His watch was uneventful at first, but then he noticed something startling. There wasn't just one Shadow patrolling the area as he looked out. Now there were two.

"T-There's more than one of you?!" Hamrik looked at the Shadows. They seemed completely identical in every way. Even their movements followed the same sort of patterns. They did not appear to acknowledge each other's existence - but then, it was hard to tell that sort of thing without a face or any body language to speak of.

"Or... wait." A half-remembered fragment of a lesson on greater earth elementals floated into consciousness. "Are you both the same Shadow?"

Unsurprisingly, he received no answer.

The going got easier from here on out (though Norgan was more than a little freaked out at the thought of mysterious shadow beings multiplying around him while he slept). Regrettably, the Shadows were still too incorporeal to do more to enemies than bump into them and generally get in the way. But between them and Norgan, enemy attention was sufficiently split to allow Hamrik to mentally buffet them against walls with near impunity. In addition, he was delighted to discover that the deaths of enemies fed him power even when those deaths were at the hands of his allies. He entertained visions of great armies doing battle in his name, with every blow empowering him to unleash grand magics far beyond the dreams of his former instructors.

There were still a few moments of danger when orc soldiers, perhaps too dumb to consider something without a weapon a threat, ignored the Shadows and made a beeline for Hamrik in order to eviscerate him. If it hadn't been for the traditional dwarven signs of resilience and regeneration inscribed upon his skin, Hamrik's escape would have been brutally cut short several times.

That said, there was something strange about how the signs didn't seem to heal him as efficiently as he was used to, like something was interfering with the natural energies that empowered them. It was probably just his imagination. The only thing that could clash with holy dwarven signs was some kind of dark curse, and those usually had pretty obvious symptoms. Hamrik didn't feel cursed. Heck, he hadn't felt better since before he'd left Angolwen.

At one point, Hamrik picked up an abandoned magical staff, and felt his hatred spike as he considered its resemblance to the staves of the mages who had cast him out, but he calmed down quickly. Why hate an inanimate object when he could simply hate the perpetrators of this injustice instead? He had his own power now, whatever it was. One day soon, he'd find his way back to Angolwen, and then they'd see that even their pathetic little grudges couldn't stop him becoming a master of magic.

Level 3: +1 Wil, +2 Cun, +1 Call Shadows

After another rest, they were finally ready for the third hall, and escape. However, they found the exit blocked - by the most enormous orc Hamrik had ever seen (though admittedly, "ever" in this case was counted in days). Brotoq the Reaver thumped his armour-plated chest, bellowed words of challenge scrambled into incomprehensibility by his helmet visor, and charged the party.

The following battle was brutal. Brotoq was stronger even than Norgan, and better-armoured. To add to these basic advantages, his blood burned like acid whenever it splashed on the dwarves, and his very presence seemed to engender a miasma in the air that choked them and sapped their strength. It was as though he were a different order of being altogether from the grunts that had filled the upper halls.

As Norgan's strength visibly flagged, Hamrik grew close to panic. His own attempts to break through the orc's guard through force of will were having little effect, and the Shadows were all but useless against such a tough foe. It was only a matter of time until Brotoq found an opening for a deathblow, and then Hamrik would be left one-on-one with the towering horror.

Those strong in body may yet be weak in mind...

Hamrik had a brainwave. Screwing up the last of his courage, he abandoned the pillar that served as his cover and ran up to Brotoq. Raising his middle finger in an ancient and universal arcane gesture, he shouted "hey, orc boy!" at the top of his lungs.

As soon as he was sure he had the orc's attention, he shouted the first insult that came to mind. "Your momma's so fat people mistake her for the lost Naloren lands!"

At the same time, he sent as much of his power as he could in a spike of hatred straight into Brotoq's mind.

The reaver roared in pain and anger. "Don't you dare insult my mother!"

And then he came after Hamrik with every ounce of his strength.

What followed was the most epic act of backpedalling ever seen in the realm of Reknor. Hamrik ran like hell, using the push of Willful Strikes to keep Brotoq mere inches away from cutting him in half. Shadows obstructed Brotoq's way, being chopped apart in seconds but giving Hamrik a breather whenever his unimpressive stamina began to flag. And meanwhile, Norgan took advantage of Brotoq's complete lack of defense to slash at him from behind whenever he caught up.

Just as Hamrik finally ran out of breath, Brotoq slowed, then stopped moving. Gradually, he keeled over, exposing an enormous axe buried in his back. Norgan grinned and struck a heroic victory pose over the remains.

"Nice work keeping him busy, laddie. Who'd have thought there were advantages to not fighting head-on?"

"You..." cough... "learn something new..." pant... "every day..."

Level 4: +2 Wil, +1 Cun, +1 Call Shadows, +1 Devour Life, +1 Gesture of Malice, +1 Relentless

The spoils were divided equally between the two dwarves. For some reason Hamrik couldn't quite fathom, he was particularly drawn to two objects - a viciously sharp scalpel and Brotoq's serrated axe. Not that he had any intention of fighting in melee range, and he wasn't sure he could even swing the axe, but something about the auras of cruelty and bloodthirst about them just felt... right. Hamrik was a little unsettled by this, but put it down to post-battle euphoria.

He pocketed a Rod of Recall - if only he'd had one of those at the start of this whole sorry escapade - and prepared for a hero's welcome.