The Storm King

WIP

This story is unfinished, check back later as Possum writes more.

In his youth, the man that became known as the Sad King Briareus was once the hero of legend, the lauded and great wizard known as the Storm King. He was the lord of lightning, the caller of thunder, where he walked a hurricane would follow and his mastery of ancient magic at such a young age made him known far and wide across the empire. Yet, the seeds of who he would eventually grow into were appearing even then. Yet if Briareus was ever asked what moment defined his life more than any other he would say it was when the emperor asked him to discover and deal with the man hunting down nobles and lords.

For years there had been an open secret that nobles were being assassinated. People within the echelons of power were dying and what began as a few random concerning deaths grew into a pandemic over the months. The first few to die were minor nobles, those sycophantic and craven scum that hung onto the coat tails of lords to garner what power they could. Such murders were common among their ilk as they sought power and jockeyed for position when their lord was not watching them. What set these particular deaths apart was that it was leaving a power vacuum as the slaying of rivals often meant the killer was positioned to take over, yet these deaths lacked the usual signs of black handed dealings. More so, these deaths were not made to appear as accidents but the opposite. They were bloody and ruthless deaths, the kind that struck fear into the cowardly upper class and concern with the less confident lords. The slow and seemingly random deaths that were only marked by being direct murders swiftly became more vicious and most noteworthy with time.

It began with a few random deaths, a pattern to be sure, but what did it matter? Nobles were a coin a dozen and there was always someone looking to backstab their way to a higher position to replace them. But these deaths became less random and far more frequent as time went on. Rumors began that those nobles who had gone too far, who had played the political game and become too corrupt were the ones being killed. Whoever these assassins were, they were skilled and ruthless, nobody had caught a glimpse of them while they carried out their merciless work. Perhaps, if the deaths had been truly random, then it would have lasted longer with less concern. But nobles are a craven group and those who do their jobs properly, who manage fiefdoms and improve the lives of the common man very rarely garner power beyond the direct favor of their lord for being the vaunted few that can be trusted.

Those nobles who have far reaching and more complete power are corrupt. Such corruption runs deep, from criminal syndicates to arms dealing to open banditry. They use the cover of their lords implied favor and the quid pro quo of their fellow nobles to create large criminal enterprises. Those who had a vested interest in continuing to live took far keener notice that it was the most corrupt who were being killed first. These nobles began to meet in back rooms, launching private inquiries as to who could be behind this and put a stop to it. These clandestine meetings amounted to nothing because nobles are incompetent at nearly everything besides lining their own pockets. Too much infighting, distrust, and potential for anyone to be the killer left little progress to be made.

But let it be said that incompetence matters little if you throw enough money at a problem. The ruthless murderers and cut throats often employed by unscrupulous nobles and the vaunted and decorated mercenaries used by the rare honest leaders were given new contracts. Protection details, escorts, double guards and additional patrols became a common sight. Assassinations were no longer possible and whomever this killer of men was they began to grow less concerned with remaining in the dark. The nobles that died in the following months did so in bloody and ruthless battles, mercenaries thrown into the meat grinder as the assassin came for the worst of the worst and they desperately threw every unfortunate sellsword in front of them to prolong their own lives. The killer left no witnesses, only piles of mutilated body parts and scorched bodies.

The secret spilled over now, with the citizenry learning of this noble blood sport and lords finally taking full notice. One lord in particular, a lesser orc lord of battle known as Bone-Breaker William vowed to protect his nobles and fief from this assassin. For his trouble he and his entire nobility were slaughtered to the man, the climactic battle a ruinous and monstrous death by steel and fire that’s collateral destroyed half his fiefdom. Rumors abounded of giants made of bronze and iron had assaulted the walls, blasting it apart and like man-shaped artillery walked among the streets shelling buildings with mana bombs and setting all who stood in their way ablaze. Such a ruinous assault could not go unanswered and with the death of a lord, the then emperor tasked the Storm King with putting a stop to it all.

It was no surprise that the emperor had asked Briareus to begin his investigation, in truth he had been investigating the murders for quite some time of his own accord. What he discovered in his own private inquiries only further intrigued him. The pattern of death was both at once obvious and obscure. Everyone was aware that it was the corrupt who were being targeted first and everyone was equally aware that it was their desperation to survive that made these executions increasingly violent. A message was being sent. Yet what was obscure to most was what that message meant. To Briareus he interpreted the message as something less practical, more … Even he struggled to put it into words. The killer was an agent against corruption, against the profane nature of the nobility and the temptations that authority and power offer. Yet time and desperation were turning them more violent. Some thought it was a group of killers, a full-blown syndicate, but Briareus was sure it was a single person. Someone who was not seeing the results they wanted, who was fighting more desperately with each passing day. An idealist with means, someone like himself, an artist with a vision.

It was not difficult to narrow down whom it could be, even the emperor thought it was one of the empire lords turned traitor. Nobody but another lord could be such an effective killer and the deaths by magic suggested a mage like Briareus. This further refined list of potential suspects to those with the means. Now he only needed to find the motive. His status as the grand master of magic meant Briareus knew every notable mage or magi that existed from the empire to the federation and even to the legion. It did not take him long to find his prime suspect. Lonesome Gract, the lord of clockwork, the master of bronze. Gract was a friend of Briareus’ father, a reclusive goblin alchemist whom later in life turned his alchemical talents towards the creation of clockwork and bronze. Alchemy and mechanical mastery, steam and magic and science, Gract was responsible for many a great invention and yet his reclusive nature left him rarely in the company of even his fellow lords. Gract had long since secluded himself in his fabled city of brass, emerging only by way of his followers and journeymen to market or sell his inventions to gain further funding for his creations. The city of brass was where Briareus would find answers.

Briareus, an ogre in his prime at but a mere age of five decades was a fitting specimen of his people. He towered over even his fellow ogres, broad shouldered and muscled despite his learned nature as a mage. He wore a set of full plate battle mage regalia, shining steel and gold trimming amongst a calligraphy of runes chiseled into his armor by the greatest of ogre rune smiths accented by his majestic deep blue cloak. Power thrummed from his very core, the center of his breastplate exposing the rune lantern embedded in his chest, a multicolored shifting parade of color that matched the thrumming beat of his heart and the whirring gear of his power staff. Every inch of him was as splendid an art as his nature, outgoing and jovial, a nature that never took anything for granted because a wise and calculated mind pulled the reigns of a spirited and passionate heart. Yet he was not merely the last king of the ogres, nor was he the greatest battle mage or artist or poet or any other titles of fancy and dabbling he took. He was also the strongest of all lords, the emperor’s executioner, the man whom all lords feared because when he was set upon the enemies of the empire or the alliance the earth was shook and the skies darkened for the terrible might he could call upon. Yet even a man as splendid and storied as he was left humble at the sight of the city of brass.

The city itself was little more than a quite large village, a gleaming edifice of stone and bronze that Briareus found himself looking upon with awe as he teleported outside the city borders. Towers shone in the morning sun like a light house, golden rays reflecting brilliantly off glass mosaics depicting the machinations of gears and clockwork. The walls churned and whirred, all manner of gizmos and cogs rolled and clanked with life as they operated the complex networks of pipes and wires left bared to the sky as if daring nature to attempt to topple the machinations of Gract. Briareus traced his eye from the top of the tower, where a massive stone of mana sparkled with life, a lightning tower that no doubt stored the essence of the storm when weather turned foul and struck the metal and crystal with its ire. Connecting to it was a reinforced and carefully protected power grid that Briareus was sure fed the entire city. Each tower or building was built tall, the dimensions of the city made deceiving by being so readily compact. While much of the foundation was stone and concrete, every building was likewise bedecked as the tower of Gract was.

Machinery and spinning cogs woven among stained glass, clockwork and artifice interlaced. The artist in Briareus nearly wept at the sight of it all, splendid and imperial, even from the outskirts he could sense its majesty beyond the towering walls. The storm king strode forth, approaching the gates and noting to his pleasure that its artistry did not merely end at aesthetics. The gate was open but by no means unguarded, two towering giants of bronze flanked either side of the opening, still and lifeless like a statue and yet Briareus could sense the magic within them. Golems, artificial golems to be precise. The seemingly lifeless and simple constructs of perfect logical mind were at ready to destroy intruders with their incredible might. As Briareus drew closer, he understood that Gract was expecting him and allowing him to pass as neither giant spurred to life. An understanding was made, thought the last king of the ogres as he passed through the bronze gate.

The city was bustling with life and yet not a soul wandered the streets. Briareus walked alone, the citizens and members of Gract’s order either feared his presence or were instructed not to appear before him. Only the machines had life, the golems and constructs and clockwork automatons dutifully carrying out their orders with the machine precision they had be crafted to have. Briareus paused to study the street before him, concrete and brass with an impressive array of electrical grids at work. Set paths made of bronze and electrified served as pathways for clockwork automatons clanking in lock step along the designated road, every step sending a low yield bolt of current up their brass legs to perpetually charge their mana batteries. Streetlights decorated every corner, each one a pole decorated in calligraphy as fine as Briareus’ own armor, precision so detailed that the storm king pondered if they had once been pictures. Yet the lamps had more to offer as he drew near one. Not oil, not magically enchanted, but light bulbs that must be rigged to a timer to flicker alit during the night. Clever, very clever, the brightness alone would be a sight to behold beneath the stars above. Part of him wished he had waited until nightfall to see the city of brass alit in its artificial gleam. Too late now, he mused, as he continued onward.

With each street heading towards the towers Briareus grew more and more enthralled. Every building, every street corner, every single inch of the city was an artistry of mosaics and machines. Nothing was wasted, not a single surface left untouched by a creator’s hand. Even the factories held style and beauty, yet what impressed him most was the practicality hidden beneath it all. Pathways, sign postings, designations and careful planning revealed a deeper nature to the glory that was merely surface level. The city was a fortress. Streets structured to become kill zones, walls waiting to be shifted into unbreakable cover for its defenders and rigged to collapse upon retreat to offer nothing if lost. Sniper posts, gun nests, even the brass pathways the automatons walked upon ready to overcharge and offer a painful death by lightning to the careless stepping attacker. Every single creation was outfitted with the weapons of war, down to the smallest trundling menial of brass a weapon was quick at hand. Redundancy was built into everything. Shields upon shields ready to power on to guard against cannon and artillery while circular power grids and alternative pipes would reroute with damaged sections to provide ceaseless operations.

The more Briareus studied the city of brass, the surer he became that Gract was behind the murders. A full company of ogre battle mages, even one led by Briareus himself, would require weeks or even months to siege this bastion. Nothing short of the full might of the empire and extremely heavy losses would overcome its defenses. Briareus pondered how difficult it would be to kill Gract, should he not come quietly, his thoughts of the potential coming battle interrupted by a single solitary figure as the storm king neared the entrance to Gract’s tower. On the side a singular comelier building stood, one that was more brickwork than machine compared to all others, with its front entrance a mosaic of a glass tau cross. Its heavy doors were open, the pathway leading through it covered in a rug sewn into familiar dwarven runes. It led to a large magical altar where at the base kneeled a dwarf in prayer. Even kneeling and with their back turned the shape was unmistakable. Briareus was hardly surprised given the nature of the city to find one of the few remnants of the dwarves here. His father had been the war host during the War of the Rune, his legacy that of the destroyer of the theocratic dwarven empire.

It was perhaps for this reason that the dwarf refused to hide like the others. His prayers ended and he turned to face Briareus, his bearded face held nothing but black contempt and pure unthinking hatred. Briareus gazed back without emotion. His father’s war was not his war, he did not agree with what the dwarf felt, but he understood. Without a word, he scanned the temple, an artifice no doubt built for this one man alone. The need for faith for dwarves was as deep as magic and Briareus recognized the uniquely dwarven architecture. Part of him wished to linger, to study this modern example of a lost age and forgotten kingdom that so few, even he, knew. His own spells were once dwarven prayers, litanies and cants once inspired by their forgotten faith. The historian and scholar in him yearned to know more of this forgotten age and yet he had business to attend to.

He moved on, approaching the threshold of Gract’s tower and passing two of the largest and most intimidating golems he had ever seen, each one deeply embossed with anti-magic runes and arms made of ballistic cannons fed by chain belts. That design was entirely new to him, such artifice was beyond its years and the storm king made a mental note to revisit the very idea when all of this concluded. Even now, Gract impressed him with his ability to create. Yet what anticipation built for meeting such an artist and architect was dashed then and there as the man opened the doors to the tower. Gract awaited him in the lobby, dressed in simple blue overalls and a white shirt. Each clawed hand was protected by fingerless brown leather gloves, his feet protected by matching steel boots and his head clad in a likewise brown welding helmet modified with varying degrees of magnifying lenses and magical scanners of dwarven spec. He stood a mere four feet tall, less than half the height of Briareus and despite being nearly the same age looked far older than the storm king. For a moment both men smiled as they realized with amusement the absurdity of age.

Goblins lived far shorter lives than ogres and for it the years had been far less kind to Gract. His age was writ upon his face, wrinkled and surly, what passed for his wild and unkempt hair was filled with streaks of gray and white among his black mane. Yet, teetering on the edge of becoming venerable, he was near Briareus' age and the storm king looked like a young man, not even to his mid-life. There was a joke that both men could not articulate, a somewhat grim muse that they shared before Gract finally greeted him by name.

"It is good to finally see you again, Nimrod."

Nimrod. It had been a long time since anyone had spoken to Briareus in such a manner, using his first name and forgoing his title. Once more the storm king was struck by what was being offered, the design of it. Gract had allowed him into the city, had ordered his people not to engage him, and then spoken to him as an equal despite the difference in their nobility lord or not. In a way, Briareus was almost impressed at the gall. Luckily for Gract, the storm king cared little for such formalities as he was king in name only.

"Lonesome Gract, son of clock maker Thomas, a man as reclusive as he is mysterious. Yet I will not insult you by being coy. You know why I am here; you were expecting me. So, tell me then Gract, son of Thomas, what drove you to be the slayer of men with your clockwork assassins?" Briareus intoned calmly, he was unsure if Gract was prepared for a fight, just as he was unsure if the golems outside were the same that had killed Bone-Breaker William. He was confident that even in Gract's seat of power he would win, but the cost of it was not something he felt he could pay.

Gract looked back at him calmly, blue eyes twinkling before he spoke, "You would win." Gract replied, reading the storm king's thoughts. "But you would also destroy the city when claiming your victory and neither of us wish to see it come to that. Is it the people, the magic, or the creation that you wish to preserve, Nimrod?" Gract turned as he awaited his reply, gesturing to what Briareus thought was a large open closet. He followed Gract inside before the doors slid shut on greased pistons. A sudden strange lurch in his gut was felt as the room began to rise to take them higher into the tower. "All of it." Briareus replied thoughtfully. "What you have built is the most amazing merger of magic and clockwork I have ever seen, Gract, before now I thought that trains were cutting edge. This... You and your acolytes, what do you call yourselves?" The storm king restrained himself, so many questions...

The rising room halted and the mechanical doors slid open silently to a parlor. It was a simple but large room, on the opposite end was a large glass window that overlooked the city. A small bar dominated the left side of the room while the right was a worktable filled with parts and instruments. The center was a set of couches and a small table, books scattered about the top along with empty tea glasses. It was lit by electric bulbs rather than candles, something Briareus was coming to expect now. Gract answered him as he took his seat on one of the couches. "They called themselves the Order of the Cog, we have a bit of a schism in that area, some consider us a religious order given the few dwarves we have and the proselytizing they extoll at their workshops. Others consider us purely scientific, those iconoclast types. I never pay much attention to the debates." He replied with a sigh, settling him comfortably as a nearby wall slid open and a bronze automaton trundled out, clearing away the empty glasses on the coffee table before setting out new cups. "Tea, coffee, or spirits?" Gract asked politely while Briareus took a seat across from the man, the couch groaning in protest to his armored bulk.

"Mint tea, two sugar cubes and a dash of honey." Briareus answered, the automaton obediently placing its fingers over the empty glass before sugar and tea squirted into the cup before being drizzled with a small bit of honey. One finger extended, spinning like a drill to stir the contents before it filled Gract's cup as well. Both men reached for their drinks, sipping their scalding brews in a comfortable silence before Briareus finally broke it first. "What made you do it?" He asked simply. He could have pointed out what was being shown to him. All this splendor, this invention, the means to remake the world and bring it into the next age and yet Gract chose to ... He chose to be an executioner. Briareus needed to know why.

"Do you think it would ever get better without violence, Nimrod?" He began, the elderly goblin sipping his own drink slowly. "You are neither blind nor foolish. You have seen the state of the nobility. Craven, corrupt and caring only to line their pockets and rarely doing even the bare minimum to manage their fiefdoms. Think, dear Nimrod, think what that will mean with time. The empire is in a position of wealth, of splendor, but what happens when it is not? How terrible will our leaders be when the empire comes to hard times? Do you think these corrupted coat hangers upon our uncaring and clueless lords will lessen their greed?" Straight and to the point, Briareus had already surmised that this was the cause Gract would have and his reply came immediately. "The machination of the nobility is difficult to navigate even for clever lords, the emperor does as he requires to manage a functioning empire and it would be foolish to think we can root out corruption entirely. More so, what right has been given to you to kill these men? What court was held to prove the justice of your actions?"

Gract smiled, perhaps a small part of him had almost hoped the storm king would be unwilling to debate but he took it in stride. "What court would find them guilty when, judged by their own corrupt peers, would allow for any meaningful punishment? Violence is the means which change is driven. Just as the frontier towns across the dusty southern plains mete out justice, I too have chosen to play the role of sheriff and bring an end to the corruption plaguing our empire." He responded carefully. Briareus almost frowned, it was a strange position to take but the storm king could not help but point out the obvious flaw. "I will surmise the same conclusion as to why you did not petition the emperor, the situation is too delicate for eve him to act. He must maintain the status quo, even if it means allowing corruption to continue to flourish, it is ultimately for the sake of the empire. You suspect some lords have fallen into the same corruption that their nobility has, which would be why the emperor would hesitate. It could lead to conflict, something the empire cannot afford right now." Briareus looked into his tea, seeming to feign disinterest as he continued. "Which leads me to conclude that you knew this day would come, that you set about this plan, damn the consequences, to cause as much bloodshed as possible no matter the collateral. Which, if I am correct, will conclude with your death and give the emperor the excuse to crack down on the nobility now that most of the power players are now dead."

Gract chuckled and nodded along, "Not very dramatic is it to come with the answers in hand? It lacks the dramaticism I would expect of a poet." Gract replied almost teasingly, there was mirth on his wrinkled face but his blue eyes did not share in the merriment, he was watching Briareus closely. "But you would not be having this conversation if you had all the answers. You want to know the why of it. You know my reasoning and my plans, just not the motive, the spark that set this whole humbug into motion." Gract said more seriously as he rose from his seat and moved towards the parlor window, Briareus rose to follow. They gazed out across the city, sipping their tea while Gract gathered his thoughts. "The emperor did not put me up to it. You are his executioner, not me." He said quietly, his drink rising to his lips. He paused again, waiting for a moment before he sighed. "What makes us lords, Nimrod? Our powers? What gives them? What offers us these unique traits that set us above others. Lords have legends and yet what makes a lord nobody can truly say. Some find it by accident, others like us by skill, some like the emperor are born into it. Yet nobody can deny a lord who has it, as if we can all sense it. Each of us has powers unique to us and for it the emperor grants us our fiefs and our wealth so that we might use our abilities for the empire."

Gract shook his head, his expression seemingly almost disgusted now. "We are granted the means to act, to change, to use the speech of the rodentfolk, be 'the movers and the shakers'. So when I saw the corruption, when I saw how the nobles made backroom deals, the way they lied to the people and spat in their faces. I could tolerate what was in the darker corners of the empire. I could tolerate the syndicates and bandits and even the more legitimate criminals posing as businessmen. But when I saw it in the open, when I saw nobles promising to aid the poor, promising to cut taxes, make all manner of lies to shift the public to their goals only for these bastards to spit in their face by ignoring or even outright changing their plans once they were in power. When I saw them gloat, Nimrod, when I saw them openly gloat about duping our people and suffer no consequences because all it took was a lord appointing them by public favor and their fellow corrupts nobles for them to begin fleecing the coffers. It was the arrogance, my friend, that I had to punish. We are lords, Nimrod, we are men and women of means. I saw within my hands the chance to put an end to it. So yes, I am guilty, damn the consequences. If the price of bringing the empire out of this pit it has found itself in is my life, then so be it. You are powerful, Nimrod, as am I. I will fight you if you make me, but can you not see the purpose in my work? Can you not see what I must do? I do not ask you to join me, nor to let me go unpunished, I ask you to leave this place and allow me to continue my work. A year, Nimrod, I ask for but one more year and then I would surrender willingly."

Gract turned to him now, his voice had grown in fervor and passion as he spoke, his blue eyes alit with the flame of purpose. "Think about all I have said. Look at all I have built. It could be shared, once my work is done."

Briareus met his gaze evenly, his thoughts slowly examining the man. What had caught his attention most was not the goblin's excuses, nor was it that Gract was ready for a fight. It was that the man believed his in cause and carried the passion to continue, no matter what would happen. For a moment Briareus wondered what really had happened to Gract, what had taken this idealist and turned him into a mass murderer. Once, perhaps if he had known him better, he could have turned him away from this path. What Gract was now was a man who had once been heroic, who had once wanted to change the world and now he had used the power granted to him try and make it happen.

Yet Briareus came to the same conclusion as Gract had. This would only end when Gract died and when he did, when his story was told and the facts laid out, the emperor could and would crack down on the corruption among the nobility. Popular support and the knowledge among his fellow lords that one of their own did this... Gract was right. Yet Briareus could not merely walk away. He could not let Gract continue his rampage. More would die be they innocent or guilty and the collateral was already too much a price to pay. Briareus made his decision and yet delayed his words by first looking out the window and then around the room, he made the pretense of thinking by downing more of his tea before moving towards the workbench while Gract watched him. A battle between them would destroy this tower, it would destroy the magical power source above them. Even if either man survived its collapse the city would not. Everything he saw would fall to ruin. He realized now the trap that Gract had laid before him. Gract would have known he would never convince Briareus to join him, nor would he convince him to stand aside, but to preserve what he had built? Briareus looked at the worktable, the last project Gract had been working on still mounted in a pedestal. It was a half-finished watch, its gears and mechanisms a complex network of springs and cogs that would keep time for centuries down to the nanosecond with perfect precision. Briareus could kill Gract, could remove this idealist from the world and play his part here and now. He was sure he would win. But could he destroy this tower and this city and all the art he had already fell so deeply in love with?

He studied the half-finished time piece, looking at it with the eyes of a novice but the soul of an artist before inspiration hit him.

"One of us had to die, Gract." He said, turning to face the goblin, his armored suit clanking as if on que, his battle regalia almost demanding attention in that moment as he returned the same sudden fervor towards Gract. "But should we make it so artless as a battle? Should we destroy this tower in the battle of titans?" Gract looked back at him, his own thoughts catching on slowly at first but still understanding the intent Briareus had. "We are both artist, Gract, you shape bronze as I forge runes. Let it be a competition then, to the death. Whichever made forges a statue of the other, whichever one makes the better work of art then let that man live. Let us prove who is right, not through our might but through our passion, then this tower and city may survive." He staff thumped the floor, sending a spark of finality flaring from the tip of its whirring gears just as Gract smiled.

"So be it."

And so, both men worked, Briareus was given access to his own workshop and both men labored tirelessly for days upon their statues. In the evening, when work was put on pause, they met to speak. They had tea and food and spoke of the past and recent events, never quite talking about their work or even what Gract had done. In a way both men came to an understanding without needing to say anything, that the cards would fall where would fall and nothing more needed to be added. In only four days Gract was done, Briareus finding the goblin already retired to the parlor they shared when he had come in by dusk. Gract said nothing about being done, nor did he show off his statue. It took another three weeks for Briareus to finish his own. The storm king was not as familiar with working bronze this way. He knew how to shape it of course, any rune master worth his salt was equal parts mage and artificer, but this was something more unfamiliar to him. It was not the dance of perfection and articulation that runes were, a complex tapestry of lines and mana. This was art, not something of precision nor math, it was about feeling and each day the storm king would work and work with the utmost care. He worked himself to exhaustion, he worked himself until his fingers burned and his nails frayed. Briareus worked until, finally, he felt he had nothing left to add and nothing left to remove.

When the day finally came and Briareus declared he was finished a trio of mechanical servants moved both statues, covered by a cloth, into the parlor before the window. The tension in the air was felt by both men and yet they were resigned to eithers fate. The first to be revealed, as the first to be done, was Gract. The lord of clockwork pulled the cloth from his statue and revealed the utter perfection of his craft. The statue of Briareus was entirely flawless. It captured the storm king in his armor, standing with his war staff held high above his head, a glistening bronze replica of the man so perfect that it had become a bronze tinted mirror of Briareus. The master of mages walked around his clone, his perfect copy, his expression seeming to wonder if he spoke the word would this bronze replica suddenly animate and become his twin, his perfect shadow. From every standpoint this creation was utterly flawless. Gract offered only a small smile, nothing gloating, his words left unsaid while Briareus inspected his work.

Twice the storm king walked around the statue, studying it with care until he finally offered a nod. Without a word he reached for the cloth covering his own worked and pulled it away. When the cloth slid from the bronze, it was clear to both men before the cover even floated to the ground that Gract had lost.

Briareus' statue was not perfect. It was not a copy, nor a replica of Gract, but it was his reflection. Within the bronze Briareus had managed to capture every imperfection of both his talent and of Gract himself. This bronze idol showed everything Gract was, its mistakes, its failures, each and every detail both marking its splendors, and the failure of its shaper revealed the man that Gract was. He looked tired; he looked weighed down by the position he was in. Briareus did not create a statue of what Gract was but who he was. A tired, aging man desperately trying to right the wrongs far beyond his power. A man whose shoulders slumped with the weight of his sins, whose aged face looked ashamed, his bronze body one that was worn by mistake and by failure. Whereas Gract had made a statue of perfection, Briareus had made a statue of art. Gract did not speak for a long time, the goblin merely circling his replica and taking far longer to study it that either had paid toward his own creation. Nearly half an hour had passed before finally Gract, eyes slightly misted by the realization of his loss and his failure both in this contest and as a person, looked to Briareus. The winner was undeniable.

Briareus took his victory with grace, neither gloating nor even seeming happy.