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The Guardian of the Scared Ashes had awoken.
It had been years since he had last been called, and it had not been by humble pilgrims but mad cultists. They called for him to destroy the most holy of relics. The survivors had conveyed his response to the village.
His latest slumber had been disturbed by the deaths of those cultists. By the time the false Andraste herself had died the guardian stood ready to perform the duty given to him so long ago.
Two men entered the antechamber. One was a middle-aged well travelled but respectable looking man, most likely a scholar. He was gazing in amazement at everything and was even taking notes. He did appear to be wounded but was too focused to let it hamper him. The second was… a warrior, the blooded sword made that clear the rest…
The Guardian's first thought was perhaps not exactly in line for an immortal spirit but apt nonetheless.
The fashions of these young people today!
Still, his duty came first. He explained who he was, asked what their purpose was and, after they truthfully answered, mentioned the gauntlet they would face. The scholar looked intrigued and asked many questions, the warrior was indifferent.
"Before you go there is something I must ask. I see that the path that leads you here was not easy. There is suffering in your past, your suffering and the suffering of others."
The Guardian turned first to the scholar.
"Brother Genitivi, you chose to travel here leaving behind your apprentice Weylon. He trusted you, supported you, even in your darkest moments and yet you left him behind so you could take credit for discovering the Urn of Scared Ashes. Do you think you failed him?"
Genitivi looked crestfallen, "You're right I should have brought Weylon along, he deserved better than that."
The Guardian nodded and turned to the strangely 'dressed' warrior.
"Cohen the Barbarian, you fought countless battles and slain people beyond number. Do you regret the lives you have taken?"
"No, I'm a hero it'sh what I do."
"You have an interesting definition of hero."
"You're not the firsht to shay so."
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Odin looked at the…mage, madman? Both were possible, for now he'd stick with human. That was a fairly broad description on the surface and covered all sorts of things. He was rather dishevelled and the apron he was wearing was filthy. He was still trying to fend off an excitable piece of furniture. Odin knew the Chest well enough to recognise ecstatic happiness when he saw it, normally only seen when playing games with Poacher or a major fight.
It raised more questions than answers.
The Grey Warden quickly glanced at his companions out of the corner of his eyes, while the stranger was still struggling with the chest. Most looked just as incredulous as Odin assumed he himself did. But both Morrigan and Wynne wore identical thoughtful looks. He knew what that meant; it appeared the rather gaudy hat was accurate.
"Are you the Grey Wardens?" asked the man. "I had assumed you would be, the Luggage always had a knack for finding the most interesting adventures. I'm Rincewind by the way."
Odin looked backed at the man, Rincewind, odd name.
"Odin Brosca and I am a Grey Warden, along with Alistair here." He looked down at the Chest. "I take you two know each other?"
Rincewind had a wry smile. "The Luggage and I have had a fair share of…journeys over the years."
Alistair piped up with a question, "It's called the Luggage?"
"Yes"
"Just the Luggage? No other names or titles?"
"Nope"
"I would have thought that a few nicknames would be acquired. Like 'Chest of Doom', 'Furniture of Certain Death' or 'Box of Eternal Devouring'?"
"And how many people would be in position to give nicknames?" asked Morrigan.
"Good Point," decided Alistair.
"So the Luggage is, in fact yours?" said Odin, a touch of disappointment in his tone.
"More or less," replied Rincewind "It was given to me years ago by a very grateful and utterly insufferable friend. Where did you find him?"
"On the road, down south between Ostagar and Lothering," explained the Dwarf.
Rincewind nodded "That's where I landed, my… colleagues tried a magical experiment that went wrong so naturally I got dragged in and had to retrieve my Luggage. Now that I've got him back…"
Odin and the company held their breath feared they were about to lose their dangerous but thoroughly useful friend.
The Luggage meanwhile growled at his old master.
Rincewind looked annoyed "Oh come on just this once, I'd like to wait quietly for rescue without the constant threat of danger and death."
The growl was repeated.
Rincewind's shoulders slumped as he gloomily thought I'll end up in danger anyway, I always do and with a bad tempered Luggage if I stay.
Odin meanwhile was doing some quick thinking and said, "There's no safety with the Blight but there is protection in numbers, particularly with veteran Grey Wardens."
True thought Rincewind, nodding slowly.
"I still have no way to get back until my fellows contact me." He looked frustrated as he realised yet another flaw in this plan. Through gritted teeth he went on. "They did promise help but that never appeared, typical really." He bowed his head, accepting the inevitable pattern of his life. "Until that happens I'll join you."
And so Rincewind of the Discworld joined the Grey Wardens. He left his washing up apron behind. The Landlord never looked so relieved at people leaving his inn.
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Brother Genitivi was still recovering from the Guardian ordeal. Whoever or whatever he was he knew everything, as a good judge should. It wasn't exactly a test of faith, more a test of character, just as well or Genitivi was certain that his companion would be dead. Or perhaps not, the warrior seemed invincible. How in the name of the Maker could one old man with no armour carve his way through an entire mountain of cultists without even getting a scratch? He didn't seem to show any remorse to the Guardian's question, Genitivi assumed that would end badly but instead the Guardian let them both pass. Now the two men faced the Gauntlet.
The riddles were easy enough, particularly for an eminent Chantry Scholar. Cohen occasionally asked a question but mostly he stood back. Genitivi wished he could ask these apparitions questions but they only repeated their riddles and faded as soon as they got the right answer. He marked down all the dialogue, he had to record everything.
Next he faced another spectre, of Weylon. The spirit seemed to know exactly what Genitivi had told the Guardian and had comforted him about his choice, giving him a strange amulet before fading away. When he looked at Cohen he noticed that he too had an amulet but the warrior wouldn't say whom he had encountered.
The third challenge was a fight against shadow versions of themselves. Cohen wasted no time in stabbing Genitivi's shadow form straight through the heart before turning his attention to his own doppelganger. In the scholar's eyes this fight was far more difficult than all of Cohen's previous battles, including the High Dragon. The original Cohen eventually triumphed against the imitation but looked noticeably tired by the effort.
The next obstacle took some time. Genitivi stepped on puzzle piece after puzzle piece trying to find the right combination to activate the phantom bridge. Cohen had other ideas.
"Ah, Shod this! Hold on tight!"
Before he knew it the good brother had a rope around his abdomen and the two men swung across the gap to the other side. Years later Genitivi concluded that he mostly kept his composure. As well as anyone who had a crippling fear of swinging over bottomless pits anyway.
After they both recovered (in Cohen case instantly, in Genitivi's not) they found themselves in the heart of the temple. The magical flames that sprouted in the entrance could be bypassed as soon as they cast off all their earthly possessions, at least according to the inscription on the nearby altar. Sure enough the fire did not burn and they crossed over to face the Urn itself. The Guardian had also appeared.
"You have proved yourselves worthy pilgrims you may each take a piece of the Ashes."
"About time," muttered Cohen under his breath.
Genitivi stood in awe once the ascended the steps to the urn. He examined every detail, adding every single one to his journal.
Had he being alone Genitivi might well have spent days there, but he was not alone and his companion lacked the patience.
"Sho how doesh thish shtuff work then?" asked Cohen.
"I believe that the Ashes have to be ingested and any ailments will be cured."
Wordlessly Cohen picked a rather large pinch out of the urn and sprinkled a few specs onto his tongue and took a swig of water.
Genitivi stared; for a moment nothing happened then a white glow came from Cohen. Once the glow faded all he could see was Cohen's grinning face.
"Well, there goesh my backache."
Genitivi kept staring.
"My pilesh have alsho cleared up, good shtuff."
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