The Curator's Lament

Art by Mackenzie von Pingel - 2021

The wax candle illuminated the mahogany workbench, highlighting the intricate carvings adorning its sides. A leatherbound book slammed on top of its wooden surface. Dust flew into the quiet air. It curled, reflecting for a moment in the dim candlelight, then settled.

The Curator opened the book and began thumbing through its roughly cut pages. He hummed to himself as he searched for the exact page he needed.

“Aha,” his voice echoed throughout the clutter in his workshop.

He put the goggles down over his squinting eyes. Inching closer to the pages to get a better look, he examined its complicated symbols and arcane runes. He hummed a bit more, grabbing his set of tinker’s tools, and began to work.

The methodical rhythm washed over him once more. His seasoned hands reached for various materials. He began by carving a few symbols into the base of a wooden handle. He was sure to copy every detail from the book down to the smallest stroke.

Carefully picking up gemstones from a small bag on the work table, he began placing them in a concentric ring pattern around the larger of the symbols. The design was flawless, and its applications would be as equally refined. The Curator only crafted the finest of magical artifacts and weapons. His collection was precious to him. He knew that one wrong symbol, one wrong carving, one material placed in a different form, could cost the user of an artifact their life. That was not the reputation he’d built up for himself.

He placed in the final gemstone, and stepped back for a moment to admire his work. A strong, wooden staff sat on his work table, its gemstones reflecting the flickering flames of the wax candles. He removed his goggles, and took a sip from his chalice in satisfaction.

A small brown tabby jumped up onto the workbench. It mewed and wrapped its tail around The Curator’s hand.

“Oh, Percy,” The Curator said fondly. “Always hungry, aren’t you?”

Percy mewed again. The Curator made his way towards the kitchen in the back of the workshop and searched through the cupboards for some dried meat.

Then, he heard a hard knock from the front.

Sighing to himself, he closed the cupboard and made his way to the door.

“Hello?”

He only held the door open an inch. The sound of waves crashing against the cliffside barely made its way inside.

“Ah, yes!” a loud, confident voice boomed. “We are great adventurers seeking to purchase artifacts from the most prestigious of craftsmen!”

“And who might you be?” the Curator asked.

“We are the Heroes of Elgithus! Slayers of monsters! Heroes of kingdoms big and small! Rescuers of damsels! Killers of thieves! Promoters of--”

“Seems like an excessive title,” The Curator said, “but I suppose I could assist you with finding some suitable weapons and items. Please, come in.”

He opened the door all the way and was able to get a better look at the adventurers before him. The man who had spoken was a muscular human with flowing blonde hair and plated armor. A sword was strapped at his side.

The woman next to him seemed to be a half-elf dressed in dark, muted leathers. Her hair was long and flowy. At her side was a drawstring bag and an awfully sharp, metal dagger.

Looming above them was a large half-ogre, tusks protruding from his large mouth. A battle ax was strapped to his muscular, shirtless back.

Next to the larger fellow was a halfling, a lute held in his small, nimble hands. His clothes were clean and perfectly pressed compared to the others, its purples and gold accents still shining in the gloom of the fog outside.

As each of the adventurers entered his home, The Curator looked outside and scanned the area. The waves of the Ballien Ocean continued to crash against the sheer cliff his workshop stood atop. A few small birds flew by before disappearing into the fog that seemed to perpetually engulf the coastal regions. It was a beautiful morning for a walk, but alas, he must assist these adventurers first.

The Curator took a quick look at his sign outside, advertising Finest Items in the Lands before shutting the door tightly and turning back towards his customers.

"Alright! What is it you are looking for?” he inquired.

“Well,” the woman said, “something magical would be best, preferably not cursed.”

“Ah, then you might be interested in--”

A crash echoed from the workbench. Percy scampered over to The Curator in fright.

“Gorro!” the human said. “What have we told you? Don’t touch anything.”

“Oops,” the half-ogre responded in a rumbling, child-like voice.

“My apologies,” the human returned his attention to The Curator. “You were saying?”

“Um, yes…” The Curator said, “I have a variety of different weapons, objects, and artifacts that might be suitable for a variety of different encounters and adventurers and--”

The halfling had the gem encrusted staff in his hand, swinging it around the room aimlessly.

“You, uh… you really shouldn't be--” he began to say.

A burst of sparks erupted from the end of the staff, hitting the halfling square in the chest. He rocketed across the room and collided with a table of blueprints and books. Papers and bound leather tumbled to the floor. The halfling stood up with a sheepish smile on his face.

“Sorry, sir,” he put the staff back on the workbench.

“Who did you say you were?” asked The Curator.

“The Heroes of Elgithus!” the human exclaimed, “Slayers of--”

“Yes, yes,” The Curator said. “You don’t appear to be… well… suited for some of these items. They can be quite dangerous, often fatal if handled incorrectly.”

“I think we can manage, old man,” the half-elf woman said.

“Yes!” the human agreed, “We have been on a lot of adventures in our time. More than one, in fact!”

“Your expertise says otherwise,” The Curator said sternly.

The room fell silent for a moment. The half-elf’s eyes pierced through The Curator. The human seemed simply shocked. The Curator assumed he wasn’t used to honesty or criticism. He must live in his own reality.

“I will have to ask you to leave.” The Curator’s tone remained calm and collected. “I can’t have fools pretending to be heroes waving around my items as if they were toys.”

“You were said to be the best craftsmen on the coast,” the half-elf reached for her dagger, “and you turn out to be a fraud.”

The Curator chuckled, “I am no fraud. I know the reputation I have built up for myself. You are not the type of people I want on my record.”

She raised the dagger toward The Curator’s neck, “Give us the items, old man.”

“I don’t think I will.”

“Lucia,” the human said. “I don’t know if this is the best--”

“Gorro!” she shouted, “It’s time to fight!”

Gorro grinned, drawing his axe from over his shoulder.

The Curator gritted his teeth.

“Leave. Last warning.”

“I think we can handle you, old man. Don’t you agree, Gorro?” Lucia said.

“Kill,” the half-ogre agreed.

“Fine then.”

The Curator reached out his hands to the workbench. The staff on the table crackled, exploding once again as it was summoned to The Curator’s hand in a flash of red energy. He swung at Lucia’s head, and sparks erupted from its tip. She flew across the room before colliding with the front door. She slumped to the floor with a dull thunk.

Gorro paused, looking at The Curator, then at his companion lying crumpled on the ground.

“What are you idiots doing?” Lucia yelled, “Kill him!”

The half-ogre grunted. He charged towards The Curator in a fit of rage. The Curator leapt out of the way, and the large battle ax landed on a cluttered wooden shelf, slicing it cleanly in half.

The Curator swung his staff at the half-ogre’s chest. The sparks emitted from its tip once again, but the half-ogre simply snarled in discomfort. He heaved his ax and began his advance. The Curator reached for a table, snatched up a white sphere of crystalline ore, and held it in front of him.

Gorro made a reckless attack but was knocked to the ground as the white orb created a shield of shimmering energy. The Curator released the orb’s energy, blasting Gorro square in the chest. The orb hummed as its tendrils of energy subsided and warped back into its shape.

“The big one has been defeated!” the human jumped out from behind the shelf he was hiding behind and drew his sword. “For revenge!”

Both he and the halfling gave out a battle cry, charging from opposite ends of the room.

The Curator reached for a sword on his table, gave it a flick, and sent it flying towards the human. On its own accord, the sword parried the incoming blow, erupting in a sequence of perfectly timed strikes and blocks.

“Alas! This sword is possessed!” the human huffed as he struggled to match its swordsmanship.

The halfling collided with The Curator’s legs, sending them both crashing to the floor. The Curator reached to a nearby shelf, but couldn’t seem to lift his hand as haunting, rambling music began to play. The halfling had his lyre in his hands, plucking away at an eerie tune.

The Curator felt as if he was being constricted by an invisible snake slowly closing in on him. He tried to twist out of its grasp, but couldn’t seem to move any part of his body.

“Percy!” he managed to shout, “Percy--”

The brown form of the tabby leapt over him and lunged at the halfling. His lyre clattered to the ground. The music stopped. The Curator got to his feet, reached towards the table, and turned to face the halfling with a green knitted tablecloth.

The halfling grumbled in frustration. He shook Percy off of his back and turned back towards The Curator. The tablecloth flew onto his head and swept him off of his feet, sending him hurtling towards the door in the shape of a rolled up tapestry.

“Agh!” Lucia has finally gotten to her feet, “You idiots can’t even--”

Wumph!

The tableclothed halfling slammed in her chest. They both hurtled out the front door at an extraordinary speed and tumbled down the cliff side.

The Curator turned towards the human still attempting to fight off the enchanted sword and threw a bottle of fine, black dust. The glass shattered against the warrior’s plated armor. Smoke erupted from the impact. It was hard to see for a moment, but when the acrid darkness cleared, the human was gone. To the Shadow Realm he would travel.

He called back the animated sword back to his hand and immediately turned to point it at Gorro’s body sprawled out on the ground. He caught his breath for a moment, a bit of sweat forming on his brow.

“I suggest you leave,” he told the half-ogre.

The half-ogre stirred and rose to his feet. He rubbed his temples as he looked at the destruction in the workshop around him.

“No hurt,” he boomed. “I leave.”

He picked his battle ax off the ground and lumbered out the front door.

“Luc-i-a! Jar-yus! Hey! Where you go?” he called out as he made his way down the cliffside to collect his friends. The multiple syllables of his companions' names struggled to leave his mouth.

The Curator lowered the enchanted sword. The workshop around him was littered in splinters of glass, scraps of arcane material, and scattered artifacts. The few tables still standing were covered in debris. Most of the shelves were taken completely off the walls.

Percy mewed and pawed at The Curator’s feet.

“Yes, yes…” he said. “I best be feeding you now.”

The Curator made his way to the kitchen, once again opening the cupboards and finally finding a bit of food for Percy. He sat down at his table, looking out over wreckage in his workshop.

“I miss the old days,” he said as he stoked Percy’s neck. “When heroes were heroes.”

He rested for a moment, sipping from his chalice and enjoying a brief moment of silence.

That is, until another knock echoed against the door to the workshop. More heroes had arrived to equip themselves with the finest enchanted items in the land. The Curator only hoped they’d be the heroes he was looking for.