The Wedding of the Giantess Morwenna - Epilogue

Flying away from the wreckage of the wedding as fast as possible, Jack Fatherd received a telepathic message through the talking sword Agia, given him by the Cave Elf Carnamagos prior to his final mission against the Giants. His handler in the Hundred Hands, using the mated sword Agillus, asked him for a report on the mission. Jack reported that Morwenna was dead, the Giant Cleric and his servitors were dead, the Red Ball mages were dead, but Aldrich and the Brazenkragg Agents escaped. Jack got an image from the guy on the other end of the line. A man sitting in front of four plates, two of them filled with cakes. The man was smiling. The next image was Jack's next mission: a room full of people, hands soaked in purple grape must, stabbing Aldrich to death. 

 

But that would have to wait, because Jack needed to take care of the Giant Bat who almost died. If his asshole Case Officer wanted it done faster than that, he could come down here and do it himself.   

 

The Ring of Control Animal on Grimm Dundragon's left pointer finger pulsated with energy as the rhinoceros he rode smashed through the brush of the open woodland. He planned to turn south and, eventually, back to the land he came from, to the Commonwealth. He couldn't wait to speak proudly of how he helped slay the last vestiges of the Giant Kingdoms with a bunch of random adventurers. A smirk crossed his face as he brushed the coat of the rhino. Good things were on the way.

 

The Dark Creeper archaeologist Glorietta and her husband the Svirfneblin Menemen only had a moment before more powerful scavengers showed up. The beach was a plane of fused glass, almost too hot to walk on. The sturdy clockworks of the Giant Scarificator had survived the flames, though the ivory button was cracked by the heat. The real prize was the transformed corpse of Laguna Tempest. The little creatures shoveled his Robe of Spell Turning and Red Crystal Ring and Stone Sword into their loot bag. The Young Red Dragon was partially eaten and they almost didn't notice his scales were iron ore, banded hematite in beautiful stripes. Menemen insisted they leave, but Glorietta refused to retreat until she had peeled several loose from a wound around the neck.

 

Russ Nicholson

 

The Acrobat Ganga stripped out of her soaked gambeson and braced herself against a tree, back arched and toes curled in anticipation. The Illusionist Cangue struck her with the birch until his arm gave out and she swore at him until he relented and blew one of his spell slots on Phantasmal Force, flogging life back into her frozen veins with the damp fingers of the treebranch. He watched her dress and she told him to conjure an image, it would last longer. So he did, nimbly dodging the cuff she aimed at the back of his head.

Zigar Kneecapper crouched behind the counter at the Iron Cup and fondled the brass valves of the espresso machine. This work suited him better than the life of a rogue. Wonderful smells and delicious treats. Well organized ambushes and secure logistical tails. Clearly understood roles and preplanned evacuation of casualties. 

 

The machine shot a burst of scalding steam and he whipped around, ready to throw his hammer and run for the door, kill the Dog-Man blocking the exit, break line of sight before-

The Dwarf shift-leader grabbed his wrist before he could fling his weapon. She snorted through her misshapen nose, reattached one-too-many times by Clerical healing during her life of adventure, and mumbled an epigram.

 

"Peace, Friend, Coin Already Taken."

It wasn't the first time she had said this, nor he the first she'd said it to. She could tell just by looking that a part of him was still writhing on the lakeshore, burning.

Speaking of bars: at the Bronze Head, largest tavern in the the tomb-city of Brickmountain, the legless Kobold Rat King III rolled her one enormous eye lazily as she cried out the news from the frontier. The Giantess Morwenna had been slain, along with the Cleric Kadminion of the Godsfeast Abbey, last Reliquary of the God King. The newly crowned King of the Giants Aldrich Brisbane was nowhere to be found. Courtesy of documents recovered by informers in Morwenna's entourage, three Trade Wardens of the Brazenkragg Colony were under embargo due to their suspected complicity in the deceased Giantess' slave trading enterprise. The Kobold coughed, prompting her solicitous entourage of doctors, mages and bodyguards to descend on her like a wave.

Lobsang the Yeti ran through the forest. The snow felt good. He didn't realize until he blinked and his eyes froze shut for a moment that he was crying. He had known there was nothing left of Gorrister. It wasn't a revelation that his friend was gone. But neither was death after a long illness, when the end was certain but still came as a surprise. He skidded to a halt until the snow covered him. Until the white mound of his fur and the mound of snow were one and the same.

Taking advantage of Morwenna's death and the division of her forces, the Halflings of the resistance cleared the steading room by room with grenades. They were big rooms. They used a lot of grenades. The Elf Datura stuck to the rafters, pilfering trinkets off the top shelves of giant cabinets and vanity sets.

 

Larry Elmore

 

The clone of the Ancient Red Dragon Hasdrubal, who until recently had occupied the body of the Bandit Chief Gorrister the Great, flew away from the Wedding of the Giantess Morwenna, very fast. It felt good to fly. To breathe fire and to tear things without a flabby pair of lips getting caught in his teeth. The loss of was unfortunate, tens of thousands of silver pieces down the drain and nothing to show for it but petty revenge. Another setback. Another scheme in between him and enough gold to lie down in, a crown upon his head. Why did everything have to be so fucking hard all the time?

 

He broke through the clouds, rising above the snow that turned to freezing rain as he flew north. There was a flash of light on the horizon.

 

His neck itched. Like there was something around it, distinct from the triple-knotted hoard bag he tied himself.

The Cave Elf Chelicera delicately mated her blue lips to her set of enchanted pipes. The assembled audience went silent. Their hearts were throbbing. They were red. The Bard began to play and there was no escaping the sound. A singularity that swallowed everything. The Weaver sawed her silk fiddle. The Headsman played his ax. Bloodfeast stomped out the rhythm with feet of bronze. A crowd clapping and dancing as they fed themselves into the flaming maw.

 

Aldrich Deathsbane washed up on the opposite shore of the lake, gasping and spluttering. A flask tumbled out as he picked through his sodden pack. He stared at it for a moment, before pulling the cap with his teeth and taking a sip of the giant wine within. His face hardened as he poured out the rest, red liquor soaking into the snow.

 

In the Madman's Court there were twelve Satyrs. They were freshly minted and they nursed priapic erections, excited by the newness of their strong bodies and the sound of orgiastic rites from the vineyards beyond.
 

A man who was at once powerfully built and bearded and a wan and androgynous youth smiled at the twelve new party goers.

The foremost of the party goers scowled.

"Where's the fat guy?"

The Liberator grunted.

"Not my problem."

The shade of Yad scowled.

"He stomped with us."

The Liberator laughed.

"He worshiped no God but himself. Let him look after his own soul. He would have sold you all for another spell slot, if he-"

"He STOMPED with us."

The satyr stomped the marble floor for emphasis. The others stomped with him. One slipped on a clump of grapes and fell over. The Liberator scowled. His face colored with drunken rage and his mask became transparent. The thing behind it was revealed. He tried to be angry.

"And let YOU look after YOUR soul, little thing. You forget who stained your hundred hands red, little thing, and I'll not take orders from you

 

Of course the Satyr wasn't cowed. He had his own courage, his own madness distinct from drunkenness.

"Then die, coward. None of us are free until all of us are free, as I recall you taught us.

The eleven Satyrs following Yad hadn't expected a death threat against their Lord, but it came so naturally they didn't hesitate. They would not abandon his teachings now, even with their lives in his hands. They braced themselves for one final combat, to be torn to pieces and forever put apart from the joys of drink and love and song and freedom.

The Wine God laughed. What a wonderful thing it was to have such brave followers. The tiny lives and tiny souls who took him places he never would have expected.

He reached out and found the life he was looking for. The red stone that seared his hand like a fire, burning.