Dénouement

Finally out of sight of everyone, Lord Ulbrec sinks down to sit on a piece of rubble, the faint scrape of metal on stone sounding from his heavy armor. "Oh Helm… Thank you for seeing this old man through, even though he’s never been a great servant. If I can ask just one more favor… I would very much like to see my wife again. But how can I leave now, when the Ten Towns are in such desperate need of leadership? Who can I trust to help lead everyone? The heroes… they’re busy. They always will be. Who can I trust to take my place?"

"Sir? Sir! Lord Ulbrec!" Isherwood sprints up to Ulbric and crouches down before him, dropping his longbow to the ground. "You’re bleeding! Why didn’t you see the healers? Sir…"

Ulbrec blinks slowly, then nods. "Good enough for me. Isherwood, there are some things... I need to tell you... Listen up, soldier…"

Tansia holds the glittering sash in her hands, then takes a deep breath… and hears in her mind the words of the spirit that inhabits the magical garment. Easy now, Tansia. You’re not your mother, and certainly not your father, but in you I sense the greatest chieftain yet to come to the Tribe of the Elk, perhaps even any of the Reghed tribes. A strong head and a flexible neck will keep your people alive in a changing world.

Tansia exhales, then settles the sash about her waist and ties it with hands battered yet firm.

Back in Kuldahar, Nancy takes Ras’ news about Ug with tear-filled eyes and a warm smile. "He was always a hero, ever since the first day he came into my life. Thank you for telling me, Ras." The little old gnome walks away slowly, but spends the rest of the next few days baking. "Think of all of the birthdays of his that I missed over the years… He loved the people of this town. Wherever he is, he’ll be so happy to know that people here are enjoying some nice treats…"

Conlan holds a bar of red-hot iron in his gloved hands. He puts it on the anvil. "Right there, lad. Give it a good pound." Sheemish takes a hearty swing with a hammer nearly too large for the boy to lift. "Well done! We’ll make a blacksmith of you yet."

He shoves the bar back into the forge and wipes sweat from his brow. "Remember, lad. When you’re going through fire and being pounded on by life, just think of what a masterpiece you’ll be one day when you’re all finished."

The boy’s brow furrows as he thinks on his father’s words. "You mean like Al and Ug and the others? I’ve seen them do some pretty hard stuff! Like fight a dragon and trolls and monsters and-"

Conlan laughs. "Yes, lad. Just like those heroes. Just keep doing your best and who knows? You could be just as strong as Ug!" He pulls the bar from the forge once more and puts it on the anvil.

Sheemish lifts the hammer dangerously high. "You know, da… I've seen you do some hard things. You’re a hero too."

Conlan tousles the boy’s hair and chuckles. "Well of course I am. I’m your da!"

As he tucks Sheemish in bed that night, Conlan murmurs a prayer of thanks for the heroes who have given so much to keep the North safe.

Brother Ferg blows the dust off a stone slab on a workbench before him. His hands ache from working the hammer and chisel, but he accepts the pain. This is the last one, after all. Of all the Ilmatari brethren and sisters who died in the last few months, this is the gravestone of the one he’d killed. His brother by blood, as well as by faith. Tears flow once again down his cheeks, but he lets them come. This is a good way to grieve. And maybe after the gravestone is put in place he’ll be able to find some peace…

A knock on the door of Ilmater’s temple has the priest climbing to his feet. He composes himself and opens the door to find an extremely small old woman standing there with a plate. "Um, why yes, Nancy. I would like some cake…"

Maralie sits on a large root overlooking Kuldahar, a slice of cake in her dusky hand. Even seated by herself, she has a hard time keeping her mouth from running. "Wow! Look at those stars. I never thought I'd see them again, but here I am! And I've got good food, a place to sleep, and people who aren't trying to keep me enslaved! Life's pretty good, don't you think? Why yes, yes I do. I'll just keep helping Nancy in the kitchen at the inn. She's lonely with her boy gone. But I can help. I'm a good helper." She pauses long enough to take a good bite of cake. After all, the only thing better than having a tongue to talk with is a having a tongue to taste with.

Ginafae sits at the desk in Malavon's demiplane. Even knowing her brother is dead, she has trouble letting go of all the abuse she suffered at his hand. But she is no novice to magic herself, and there was a certain half-elf who showed her what courage really looks like... She pulls the chair back and turns to face a blank wall, back straight. She closes her eyes and raises dark hands to cast a spell of her own.

When Ginafae opens her eyes, she finds herself in a lush forest. And just through the trees come the sound of friendly conversation from a nearby camp or village. Whoever, whatever, wherever... She finds she doesn't care. She is free to go where she wills and speak with anyone she wishes.

"Wherever you are, I wish you well, Zenithral. Thank you for showing me what freedom tastes like."

White balconies with streams of light greet Myllandra as she returns to the Upper Plains. A weary yet satisfied sigh escapes her hooded countenance, then she turns to Thaistius. "Well? I told you they could do it."

Thaistius stares down on Easthaven’s ruins from a window. He finally shakes his helmeted head, then plucks a pouch of astral diamonds from his waist and hands it to Myllandra. Without a word he turns to a stream of light and zips away down a far hallway.

A lump of bulbous flesh forms on a sea of red dust. Melted facial features wriggle over bland, corpulent flesh, a yawning gum-filled mouth open in a burbling murmur. Its thoughts are muddled and confused. This place isn’t right. What is it doing here? Where are the riches it was promised? Coherent thought slips away like a greased hog and a moan leaves its flaccid lips. It falls into line with a thousand other beings just like it, each hobbling along on a single bloated stump of a leg.

Urged on by whips and demands, the formation surges forward into a battle spanning miles of terrible bloodshed. The poor fool in the middle of it all, its life suddenly ends as a six-armed snake woman slithers forward in a whirlwind of abyssal steel… and for a bare, single moment of clarity it remembers the name it bore in a previous life. Pomab…

And then coherency is gone as its body reforms and is driven once more into the never-ending Blood War.

Belhifet strides through halls of blood-red marble. The features are just as he remembers them from the last time he was here, though this time he walks of his own free will, rather than being dragged in chains. He tries to force the agonizing memory from his mind, but it lingers just on the edges of his thoughts, refusing to leave him in peace. A magical influence of this fortress in the bottom of the Nine Hells, or a spell laid by Asmodeus himself over all who venture here?

He growls and continues on, pushing open a black door and entering an opulent throne room. The archdevil drops to his knees before a well-dressed human seated on the throne. "Lord, I-" He stops as he finds himself unable to work any muscle in his body.

"Bel, my old friend." Asmodeus’ voice is smooth and friendly. If Belhifet were not frozen helplessly in place, it would send a shiver down the archdevil’s spine. "I hear you’ve disobeyed every commandment I gave you. Why would you come here now, after all that’s happened."