It is the hunger for power that tempts men to reach beyond their bounds. The insatiable desire to control another, placing the weak under foot, to abuse and neglect according to their whim. This is the perverted lust of all such beings. But even among the dogs, there is an order to evil.

A fight to the death.

Thule looked at the stoic faces of the six behind Gorack. It required six to Second the challenge. Should Thule fall, any one of the six could take his place and finish off Gorack, claiming the title for his own. It was a cowards way of taking control. If Gorack were to lose, however, the six would be sacrificed as punishment for their treachery.

Such was the Law.

Thule’s grin stretched wider. He would soon need such a sacrifice.

It would be a pity to waste so much blood.

They were powerful warriors. Fearless. Thule regained his composure long enough to realize the cost. Before him were masterpieces of death and havoc. The loss of such animals would soon be felt upon the battlefield.

He shook the momentary weakness from his mind.

They had issued the challenge. They had made the error in stepping beyond their place and reached for what did not belong to them. No, they shall pay most painfully for their grasp at power.

Their blood would serve another purpose.

“You command us to run when we should fight!” spat Gorack. His muscular body heaved with rage. He paced as he spoke, a giant cat, hungry for the hunt. “There are villages to destroy, slaves for our bounty and women for our beds! Instead you run like a whelp and hide like a worm!”

Thule’s slave stumbled into view. His arms were wrapped around the folded black cloth of a tent. He stopped, eyes darting between the challenger and his master…and dropped the supplies. Running to Thule’s side, the slave quickly removed the chain mail and wrist guards. The Law demanded the opponents engage in combat without encumbrance or protection.

Might against might, skill against skill.

The armor fell to the dirt, revealing Thule’s perfectly chiseled torso. His skin riddled with the scars of war and ancient symbols tattooed into his flesh.

Gorack threw his chain mail to the ground. Large veins pumped adrenaline tainted blood through the monolith.

“It is MY time to lead, Thule!” he roared.

“The dead cannot lead,” Thule answered cooly. He held the challengers gaze, unblinking, as he unstrapped his sword. He handed it to the slave.

“Take up your sword and fight me!” Gorack bellowed, beating upon his chest with an anvil-sized fist. “I WILL cut you down,…coward!”

Thule entered the forming circle of giants. Supplies were cast aside, horses left roped and tent left undone.

The camp gathered in silence.

Thule tilted his head forward, enough for his naked brows to cast a shadow over his eyes. His lips curled back to reveal his sharpened canine teeth. Lightly tapping the hilt of the small knife tucked into his belt, he said, “This will be enough.”

A howling wind cut through the camp, biting flesh, cloth and plate.

An eagle passed high overhead and shrieked.

Gorack lunged across the circle, swinging the chilled blade of steel. Thule hardly blinked before the gap between them had closed, his one good eye catching the blur of movement. Instinctively he threw his shoulders back and felt the hum of metal slice the air near his face. Snowflakes spun in its wake.

Gorack was indeed fast.

Twisting at the hips, Thule dodged a second attack…a blade thrust—allowing it to extend past his chest. He waited for the body to follow.

Dropping towards his outside knee, Thule reversed his direction, allowing gravity to increase his momentum. Opening his hand, he struck the giants windpipe with such force, the challengers mouth flew open with a reverberating pop.

Gorack’s head and shoulders stopped as his abdomen and legs continued their forward momentum. In an instant, the beast was prone on his back, unable to inhale.

“Giving up so soon, Gorack?” taunted Thule. “I expected more.”

Using the heel of his boot, he stepped on the giants unprotected fingers, grinding them into the snow and gravel.

Hacking, the challenger snatched his hand back and rolled to his side. Pushing off his good hand, Gorack got to his feet, broken fingers clawing at his throat.

Thule’s grin was unmistakable. “A leader must know when to move.”

Upon the utterance of the last word, Gorack launched a muscular leg in an attempt to kick Thule’s midsection.

Sliding his right side forward, Thule twisted once more. Letting the leg pass by, he scooped the calf with one arm and simultaneously delivered an elbow strike, just above the kneecap, with the other. There was a loud crunching sound.

Gorack gagged, trying uselessly to yell in pain, his body falling forward onto the ground. Thule watched the pathetic spectacle drag itself through the mud, towards the fallen sword.

“A leader must know when to strike.”

Forcing himself up onto his good knee, Gorack grabbed his sword and swung desperately in a backwards arc behind him. The motion was slow and clumsy.

Thule easily ducked under the attack.

Snatching the small rune blade from his belt, Thule stabbed Gorack’s forearm and ran the knife up the Vallen’s arm in one continuous motion. The blade melted through flesh like butter, opening the flesh wide from wrist to shoulder.

Dropping the sword, Gorack’s broken fingers went from throat to arm, black blood cascading to the ground. Eyes bulging from exertion and lack of air, he wavered. Purple veins protruded from his neck and forehead, saliva and foam bubbling through clenched teeth.

Thule slid behind his challenger and whispered in his ear.

“But most importantly, Gorack, a leader must be the darkest animal of all.”

Without hesitating, Thule sank his teeth into the giants neck.

With a sharp twist of his head, flesh, muscle and the carotid artery tore free. Gorack slumped into the soil, shuddering and twitching. Thick streams of blood pumping across the ground, seeping through the snow like oil.

Thule stood motionless. Arms held away from his body, he stood poised, ready for action. He waited for the Seconds in the circle to break the Law of Dominion.

Waiting.
Hoping.

His eyes peered from the shadows of his brow.

Weaklings.

Slowly he opened his mouth and let Gorack’s hot flesh drop from his teeth. He sheathed the small blade and wiped the blood from his face with his forearm.

Motioning to a nearby Tauku, it slithered up and bowed low.

“Yessss, my Lord,” it hissed, “What isss thy command?”

Thule nodded to the Enforcers, standing at the ready. The soldiers elite knocked each of the traitors onto their bellies, binding them in chains. Thule looked back at the snake-headed mägo.

“Prepare the tent and see that all things are prepared for the ritual.”

He looked at the six Vallen traitors and grinned.

“We just found our volunteers.”

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Who Is Master Mahan?

Master Mahan is the most feared name in the history of the Chronicles of a Hero world.

Known as the Lord of Darkness, Master of Lies, and The Betrayer, he stands at the center of nearly every great act of corruption recorded in the ancient archives.

Some say he is a fallen creator.
Others believe he was once mortal.

Two dark subjects are always tied to his name:

• The Unembodied
• The Book of Dark Bindings

All agree on one thing:

Where Mahan walks, kingdoms fall.

Archive Warning

This is a dangerous subject.

More than once I have returned to my notes to find the words themselves altered—as if something unseen were attempting to erase the truth.

Entire passages have shifted. Evidence has scrambled itself into nonsense.

I do not understand what magic is responsible.

To protect the integrity of this record, I have written a small program that compares photographs of the original documents with the text you are reading now. Every five hours the system scans the materials and restores any changes it detects.

So far, the photographs remain untouched.

I hope this record survives.

The Ancient Origins of Mahan

Some of the oldest records…dating back tens of thousands of years…speak of a whisper of anger spreading through the hearts of mankind.

A shadow claiming dominion over the world.

Those records name that shadow Mahan.

Certain ancient archives claim Mahan existed even before humanity, once standing among the jumälät, the beings who helped shape the world itself.

But he refused to bow to Pääjumä, the Father of All.

Three times he was given the chance to submit.

Three times he refused.

Instead, Mahan gathered followers and attempted to seize the throne of creation.

The war that followed shattered worlds.

When the rebellion failed, Mahan and his followers were cast down—stripped of their immortal bodies and bound to the mortal world.

Mahan Among Mortals

In later centuries, the records begin describing Mahan not as a myth—but as a man.

A warlord of terrible power.

Armies followed him across the world: vallen, therrin, and dark servants known as Täuku, who drew power from the dead.

Cities that resisted him were annihilated.

Those who surrendered were enslaved.

Even the greatest heroes of mankind could not defeat him alone.

The Defeat of the Dark Lord

In the end, the combined forces of humans, evolu, kutollum, and nocturi isolated Mahan from his armies.

He was forced into battle with the Hero of the Gem.

The Dark Lord was defeated and brought to Castle Andilain.

But no mortal weapon could end his life.

What happened next is recorded in Demoni Vankil.

“Two Kutollum take the other irons from the fire and we follow the man in red up the stairs and to the devils side. He examines the iron in his hands and then leans down to the devil’s ear and I am forced to follow.

“‘For this moment I have sacrificed all I have ever had to give.’ And without a moments hesitation, he thrust the burning iron into the devils forehead, chanting words I cannot recall or identify.

“The hysterical laughter turns to screams as the man in red leans in hard. A scream which rends the very fabric of nature. I can smell the stench of burning flesh.

“Trees within the courtyard split in twain and the ground rocks and trembles. The Gnolaum calls out to the man in red but he is unmoving. I question if this is really necessary. He only smiles as he pulls the iron from the wound, casts it aside and holds out an open hand to the Kutollum. I am stunned to see the flesh completely burned away and the marks seared into bone.

“The Dark Lord’s screams grow with each touch until I fear the world will rip asunder. Three times is the devil branded thus, but as the third mark penetrates the devils flesh, silence falls upon us. The ground is still and though evil thrashes, eyes wide in pain and terror, he cannot scream.

“The Gnolaum speaks the words and the Prime Gate is opened. Through the portal I can see only darkness. The devils body rises from the alter, an invisible force pulling him violently into the void, but still being restrained by chains.

“The man in red whispers so only the devil and I can hear: ‘From darkness you came, to darkness you will return.’

“With a snap of his fingers the chains of the alter release their captive. The contorted body of Mahan is cast into the darkness, his eyes wide with a terror I cannot even imagine.

“The Gnolaum closes the gate and all is silent. There are no cheers, no laughter, not a sound of nature.”

The Secret Only Chuck Knows

There is one living witness to Mahan’s earliest days.

Morphiophelius Smith.

And according to Chuck, the truth is far worse than legend.

Mahan was not always a monster.

He was once mortal.

And once…

He was Chuck’s friend.

There are things which are unlawful to utter, but this I can tell you: Mahan was once mortal, just as you and I are mortal. He was flesh and bone, muscle and sinew, with hopes, dreams, and passions as any among us.

I know this because he was my friend.

From a good family, a good people, who knew better than to allow such a rebellious soul to remain among them.

Branded Mustäti (moo-STAH-tee) or ‘black star’ for his crime of fostering discord among his brethren, he was cast out to wander the world alone. Bitter and filled with rage, he sought revenge for a just sentence…and I was foolish enough to think I could save such a hard-hearted soul.

How he got his hands upon the Book of Dark Binding, I don’t know. But the essence of the true Mahan was within the folds of those pages, and they spoke to a darkness already residing in Mustäti’s heart.

When I pled with him to relinquish the book, he turned upon me, a mägo many years his senior. Enhancing his military training with his newfound control over the elements, we fought.

Nature screamed in agony that day…but I defeated Mustäti in the end, and he fled from me.

Only to take revenge in bloodshed.

So I will stand with dear Wendell for as long as it takes to find Mahan…and destroy him, once and for all.

Not defeat him. Not kill him, for you cannot kill one guilty of death.

I live to destroy him, body and soul.

~ Morphiophelius Smith

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Filed by Höbin Luckyfeller, Senior Scribe, Clockworks City

There exists a persistent misconception that violence is loud.

I suspect this belief is maintained intentionally.

In Clockworks City, the most efficient harm is conducted at conversational volume. It arrives with paperwork prepared in advance and an apology rehearsed just well enough to sound sincere. It does not rush. It does not threaten. It asks you to sit while decisions are made elsewhere.

I have observed that when voices rise, the system grows uncomfortable. Raised voices draw attention. Attention invites witnesses. Witnesses complicate records.

Thus, true authority prefers calm.

The Citadel is a case study in this preference. Its halls are clean, reflective, and remarkably well-lit. One can see oneself in every surface, which I have long suspected is not an accident. The building does not intimidate through force. It reassures through symmetry. It implies correctness through order.

Within those walls, no one is punished openly unless they are already considered disposable.

Others are managed.

Management is quieter than punishment and far more effective.

I have cataloged numerous instances where individuals entered the Citadel voluntarily and exited diminished without ever raising an objection worth recording. They were not struck. They were not shouted down. They were simply redirected into smaller rooms, longer waits, and conversations conducted without mirrors or clocks.

Time, I have found, is one of the system’s preferred instruments.

It stretches silence until the subject fills it themselves, often to their own detriment.

This method is especially effective against those with “loose lips.” Not because speech itself is forbidden, but because unregulated information threatens classification. A system that relies on procedure must know where everything belongs. Speech that does not align with existing categories creates friction.

Friction is addressed quietly.

By contrast, those who are easily categorized are handled with remarkable efficiency.

I note with some discomfort that physical violence is applied most readily to those who require the least explanation. Bodies that already fit a narrative absorb what the system does not wish to acknowledge about itself. Their injuries are logged, if at all, as incidental.

This is not inconsistency. It is sorting.

One may observe this principle clearly when comparing three recent cases: a loud old gnome with wealth and an erratic manner, a woman who speaks sparingly and controls access to her knowledge, and two young men whose circumstances make them convenient.

The loud gnome is indulged.

His behavior disrupts decorum, but not order. He offends without threatening structure. His wealth insulates him, yes, but more importantly, his unpredictability confuses the machinery. He is allowed to be loud because the system has decided he is harmless.

This decision is incorrect.

The quiet woman is isolated.

She is not beaten. She is not publicly charged. She is simply removed from witnesses and given fewer surfaces against which to reflect herself. Her silence resists categorization. Her restraint denies interrogators the emotional leverage they prefer.

Silence, I record here for future reference, is more dangerous to authority than anger.

The young men are struck.

Their pain is visible, immediate, and uncomplicated. No extended explanation is required. Their injuries communicate compliance to others without requiring words. This is considered efficient.

I wish to note an additional pattern: when harm is assigned a cost rather than a consequence, it ceases to be discussed as harm at all. Once violence becomes a transaction, it is no longer debated. It is processed.

Credits change hands. Records are updated. The system remains untroubled.

This is what I mean by polite violence.

It does not announce itself as cruelty. It insists upon its own reasonableness. It apologizes for inconvenience while ensuring there is no alternative.

Loose lips are dangerous not because they reveal secrets, but because they suggest the presence of choice.

Choice, in a procedural system, is the true disruption.

I file this note not as protest, but as preservation.

Should future readers wonder how such a city functioned with so little overt rebellion, the answer is simple and deeply unsettling:

Most harm was delivered gently enough that many mistook it for care.

— Höbin Luckyfeller
Filed under: Civic Observations / Procedural Harm / Matters Best Left Unpolished

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Of all the people trying to learn and to be who they truly are upon the face of this world, I would have to say my own daughter does the worst job at it.

For all her attempts to be the close-fisted, hard-hearted warrior, refusing to allow the world into her personal space…she always seems to find people to help, serve and love.

PERSONAL HISTORY

Alhannah Luckyfeller is arguably one of the unique gnome personalities you’ll find.

While the race of the Gentre has an overwhelming fear of outsiders, especially those bigger than our species (which is virtually everyone but the Undeloo ), Alhannah fears no one. Not gnomes, humans , and not the darker races of the vallen , therrin or täuku.

That fierce courage includes defying authority, beast, magic and our beloved technology. She doesn’t fear what she firmly believes she can affect.

Alhannah is the spitting image of her mother and resonates with my glorious wife’s personality. Born to headstrong and independently thinking parents, they raised her to question everything. Not in defiance, but with a perspective that all things should be understood.

For one cannot truly be who they are meant to be if they live by lies.

At the same time, she experienced some of the truths about mortal nature, specifically the violence—beings subjecting their weaker counterparts to the unrighteous rule of another, all for the sake of control. To lay claim on the lives of others, who should have been allowed to forge their own, independent lives, despite the differences.

Even at a young age, this infuriated her.
So she fought back.

Alhannah’s mother was a highly respected and decorated soldier within the N.E.R.D.S. division of the Government Faction . She was allowed to travel with her mother at times, witnessing the cool discipline and unwavering dedication of a strong female role model.

This not only inspired our daughter, it forged a personality that would never back down, yield…or break.

Losing her mother at a young age would devastate any child—especially when the connection is strong. Yet I don’t recall Alhannah crying more than a handful of times. Instead, her emotions came out in aggression and determination to protect the weak and ignored. When she was old enough to compete in combative sports in school, such as wrestling, roundball, grappling or fighting competitions, she enlisted.

Having been trained by her adopted uncle Dax , Alhannah developed a unique style to conflict. Always aware of her environment, the tools and weapons available to her and her near-perfect control over her own body dynamics, my daughter cleaned the floor with the competition.

But it was never enough.

RUNNING AWAY

When Alhannah came of legal age, she applied for her black card to leave Clockworks City.

“It’s too quiet around here,” she would say, though I don’t see how a city with over a billion gnomes could ever be considered quiet. She opted to serve as a bodyguard and mercenary with Morphiophelius (a.k.a. Chuck) , a close family friend.

It was more of mercy upon her father than a real job—though I’m told they had adventures and dangers that would make my nose hairs curl. Either way, my daughter grew in both experience and reputation, fighting alongside Chuck, Dax and ‘company’.

Yet the more I asked her to come home to visit, the further her employment took her.
So I let it go.

The only time she came to visit was to appear on her birthday to introduce me to “the twins”. No, not two handsome young gnome males, but rather her bonus from a job she’d done for Chuck: a set of enchanted swords.

The pristine blades were light as feathers, impervious to rust, wear, breakage and always maintained its edge. So what did she ask for her birthday that year?

A whetstone.

Danger is packaged into a sport

When the Brothers Trench had their Trench Wars competition picked up by WHRN , word spread fast. Thousands of competitors flocked to the studio to join the elite rank of steel warrior pilots.

Forty-foot robots, ruled the day. Equipped with machine guns, swords, shields, grenades and missiles, gnomes became pilots.

Trust me, it’s a hard thing to miss.

Whispers of these S.L.A.G.s spread to the rest of the world within days. Alhannah was home before the official tryouts started. With a natural gift for conflict and a brilliant mind for learning (like her father, if I do say so myself), Trench Wars was dominated by the pink-haired, sword-wielding warrior.

Smashing through (and beheading) the competition, Alhannah Luckyfeller became the first official Trench Wars Champion. Her trophy received a brother in season two, but personal conflicts between her adversary, S.L.A.G. pilot Darcy Dunnit forced Alhannah to take a break during season three.

Not a friend to boredom, she left the country once more, bumping into her old friends, Chuck and Dax…and meeting the The Hero .

That adventure took a few twists and turns, leading the warrior-princess back to Clockworks, shocking the whole gnome world as she competed side by side with her uncle Dax and the Gnolaum himself in Season Four.

Abilities & Connections

Ever since she could walk, Alhannah was looking for trouble.

Not to start conflicts…but to finish them.

After the loss of her mother, she threw herself into training her mind and body for conflict. Accepted by Dax as a student, she learned many non-conventional ways to apply various fighting styles in hand to hand combat, allowing her to use her size and speed to face and defeat opponents many times her size and weight.

With weapons and her extensive knowledge of humanoid anatomy, Alhannah is a dangerous foe by any definition.

She is proficient in the use of the knife, sword, double-sword, spear, shield, single-bladed axe, double-bladed axe, dart, garrote, rope, mace, hammer, whip, buckler, bow, all firearms, both auto and semi-automatic.

While performing her duties as a mercenary and bodyguard, Alhannah has made friends with both Lord and Lady, King Robert III, wizards of note, dozens of high profile merchants and even traveled briefly with members of the Nethinim.

That’s my little girl.

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Never insult a mägo.

When the chronicles of this era are finally compiled and sorted into appropriate bins…Heroic, Tragic, Gruesomely Hilarious, and “Please Don’t Let This Happen Again”…you will undoubtedly find the tale of Fred Cobblewick filed under the latter.

Because if history teaches us anything, I’ll say it again:

Never insult a mägo.
Never.
Especially not Morphiophelius “Smith.”
Especially not repeatedly.
And especially not when you’re already unpopular, unskilled, and chronically incapable of recognizing social danger.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

This story begins in the Black Market—the Gypsies’ legendary crossroads of commerce, culture, controlled chaos, and innovation. A place where almost anything can be bought, sold, traded, bartered, repaired, improved, or broken spectacularly with witnesses cheering.

And into this rich tapestry waddled a man named Fred Cobblewick.

Who Was Fred Cobblewick?

Fred was a tinkerer by trade and a nuisance by nature. Not malicious—just profoundly unaware of how the world works and even less aware of how he works within it.

He possessed:

• A toolbox full of mismatched parts

• A dangerous level of self-confidence

• A voice that carried

• A sense of humor only he found funny

• And a complete inability to read the room

Fred modified everything.

It didn’t matter if the device was magical, mechanical, delicate, dangerous, or older than the founding of Andilain…Fred believed he could “improve it.” More often than not, he couldn’t. But he tried anyway, which made him just useful enough to keep around and just irritating enough to avoid.

Still, the Gypsies tolerated Fred.
He wasn’t cruel, nor criminal by intent.
Just… ambitious beyond ability.
And in the Black Market, ambition…however misguided…is still currency.

The Black Market and the Gentre

Now, to understand the depth of Fred’s miscalculation, you must understand the Black Market’s unique relationship with my people, the Gentre.

Gypsies respect technology.
They respect creation.
They respect ingenuity and innovation, even when it borders on madness.

They allow us Gentre into their halls not because they trust our devices…many don’t…but because they value what we represent.

We are thinkers. Builders. Tinkerers.
Problem-solvers.

But we also have rules…strict ones:

• No cybernetics

• No techno-mägo dimension-folding devices

• No high-tier computing cores

• And absolutely no time anomalies before noon

We bring clever things. Safe things. Useful things.
The Gypsies, in turn, give us a safe haven to retreat to when the world hates us…and allow us to practice our craft.

Fred Cobblewick, had no such rules. He desperately wanted the prestige of the top Gentre inventors. He mimicked our mannerisms. He adopted our jargon. He attempted our craft—with predictably disastrous results.

And then he made the mistake that would define his existence.

Enter Chuck

Morphiophelius Smith…known by most as “Chuck”…is a mägo of power so profound that the air around him hesitates before moving. He is kind beyond measure, wise beyond compare, and patient to a degree only reached by saints, old librarians, and parents of fourteen-year-olds.

I have known Chuck all my life.

He is gentle. Thoughtful. Compassionate.
A friend to the lost, the weak, the wounded, and the foolish.

But even he has limits.

And Fred sprinted past those limits with the determination of a man who had never once considered consequences.

The Incident

Chuck arrived in the Black Market on private business…quiet business…the sort where a mägo should be left alone unless the sky is literally falling or someone is on fire.

Fred was neither aflame nor in danger.
But he believed he was entitled to comment on Chuck’s presence.

Eyewitness accounts vary slightly in detail but remain unified in tone: Fred began by insulting Chuck’s robe, then his beard, then his age, then his profession, then his beard again, then the nature of mägo work in general.

Chuck endured. He tried to walk away.

Fred followed.

He heckled, muttered, sneered, and peppered the mägo with questions ranging from “Why are you here?” to “If you’re so powerful, prove it.”

Dax, who was present during the altercation, later summarized:

“Fred never had survival instincts. Not even the basic ones goats have.”

Eventually, Fred made the mistake that sealed his fate:

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Stupid as this may sound, I didn’t think anyone was listening.

Growing up a nobody, all I wanted was to do something important.
To be someone who mattered.

The one time I decide to bellyache out loud, the Universe hears me and I get the chance of a lifetime to change my life??

Wouldn’t you take it?

You’d have to leave everyone you know, everything you’re used to and understand...and jump feet first into the unknown. Completely starting from scratch. Kicked out of your comfort zone, every belief challenged and every scrap of worldly knowledge now invalidated.

Would you do it?

Me too.

The Kid Who Chose To Help

Seventeen years old.
Just a kid when taken from his home.
A normal teen, from an average family, yanked from some small backwater planet called Earth.

This was never Wendell’s fight.
Mahan, Thule and even the Ithari weren’t his problem.

Yet this kid found himself in an impossible situation, back against the wall…an anomaly…an exception to the rules we knew of...and the greatest magical artifact of our world history chose HIM as host.

Who and what Wendell was before he found himself here on Elämä I can’t say, but Morphiophelius, Dax, and even my daughter Alhannah, have told me the Ithari saw something in this kid.

...and she was right.

It’s impossible not to like and admire Wendell, once you get to know him…and get past the occasional whimpering.

The Mantle of the Hero

The Hero mantle has been passed down from father to son since the Lanthya first arrived on our world.

That’s one of the main purposes of the Iskari High Council…keeping track of the bloodline. Someone has to know where and when to grab a new hero if the Ithari calls for one…even when that bloodline is hidden off-world.

Still, I’d paid good money to see the looks on their faces when Wendell entered the room.

*snort*
That had to be a shocker…

I can understand Wendell’s hesitation.
If I were given some monstrous diamond by strangers, no questions asked and no explanations either, I’d be suspicious too.

Add to that, being pushed about by a bunch of robed mägo…demanding you fight their battles for them?

Yeeeeeah, good luck with that one.

The Boy We Know Now

When you first meet Wendell, you notice his manners.

Oh, he’s awkward and he may be nervous, but he will smile at you and shake your hand with a kindness you just feel to your toes.
Because he’s a good kid.
He will reach out, offering his hand in friendship upon meeting people, even for the first time.

If I could sum up the youth, I’d say he’s thoughtful, kind, giving and honest.
Nearly to a fault (or so Wood says), wearing his personality on his sleeve for all to see.

In my personal opinion, it’s refreshing to see such a kind and positive personality in this dreary world.

That’s what makes this young man so special.
What you see is exactly what you’re going to get.
He’s not always sure what he’s doing, or even what he’s SUPPOSED to be doing…but he’s willing to sacrifice for those in need until he figures out what that is.

“Wendell, it doesn’t matter if you believe in God or not, the Universe doesn’t MAKE mistakes. You weren’t brought here to fail, so unless you give up, the plan is still in play. Learn in motion. Don’t look back. Just meet every challenge with your whole soul. Trust yourself, son.
You have a good heart…the rest is just PRACTICE.”

— Mr. Dipmier

Wendell’s Magical Abilities

Wendell’s abilities have yet to be fully discovered…but the mantle of the Hero has provided some distinct powers:

• HEALING: Wendell has shown multiple examples of healing, which he has confirmed comes from the Ithari herself. He is not susceptible to normal illnesses, and any physical damage sustained -- including broken bones, deep flesh wounds, and even extreme burns -- have healed in full.

• LIGHT: Wendell has shown a natural ability to call forth and manipulate light in various degrees.

• FIRE: Through intense concentration, Wendell has shown a basic influence over magical flame.

• HEIGHTENED ATTRIBUTES: There have been specific instances where Wendell’s heightened emotions and focus brought about physical aspects above and beyond those of a teen male of his height, weight and age. Increased strength, endurance, speed, and agility are a few of the attributes manifested.

• INVISIBILITY: Though the spell taught to Wendell by Chuck was specifically shared to hide the presence of the Ithari. Yet Wendell performed Silmä Inäkmään, with exaggerated results--far beyond the original capabilities of the spell.

• ANIMAL EMPATHY: Wendell seems to have a connection with those of the animal kingdom. To what extend that influence or control is, is unknown--but Wendell has received the protection of natural apex predators in the wild, without any effort on his part.

The Mantle Inheritance

Wendell somehow won the affections of a rare Ridge Hound named Mouse. This 22+ stone (350lb) canine is the crossbreed of a Ridge Wolf and a Keep Hound which refused to leave the Hero’s side when he left the small village of Putayal. In addition to this companion, Wendell acquired several specific magical artifacts when he accepted the Hero Mantle.
They are:

• CHUCK’S COTTAGE: Taking up the space of less than 50 square feet of land—once inside, the cottage provides a vast and ever-changing space, easily compared to the finest of castles. Crafted by the last hero, the cottage is the main dwelling of the one who holds the mantle of the Gem.
  This unique structure seems to be connected to the world around it.
  Able to move to various locations, many of its doors open to other structures…and holds within its rooms, deep secrets of magic known only to previous heroes (and close gnome friends who happen to be historians).

• COIN PURSE: This pouch was a direct gift from the last hero to his son—an enchanted coin purse with a fortune attached to it. The total contents of the purse are unknown. Specifically enchanted to the Ithari itself, the purse only works for Wendell, activating at his touch.
  Though Wendell has misplaced the purse on several occasions, and even had it taken from him…it’s always found its way back to him (so far).

• THE LETTER: Presented with the coin purse was a single letter, encased in a white envelope. This letter, I’m told, was written by the last hero, and cannot be read by anyone but he who possesses the Ithari. The parchment has yet to be damaged or lost, always appearing near Wendell when needed. Its true magic is the changing message it displays from time to time, providing direction to the Hero on his journey (though Wendell has openly complained that it’s rarely been of any true use to him, other than to frustrate him to action).

• MÄGOWEAVE: Wendell is in possession of the most extraordinary gift in what he wears. Preferring what feels comfortable, which usually means sneakers, blue jeans, and a black shirt with an animated smiley face, the result of wearing the unusual hybrid design of Mägoweave.
  The creator of this outfit is unknown, though when Chuck allowed me to perform an age test on the cloths, the results revealed its creation to date hundreds of years before Wendell arrived.

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Widower, father, friend, warrior, rebel, philanthropist, master botanist & butterfly farmer.

Morphiophelius ‘Smith’ (a.k.a. “Chuck”) is the oldest known mortal and considered one of the most powerful mägo in history, with the exceptions of the The Hero and Mahan himself.

What We Don’t Know

Fiercely private about his past, you’ll be hard pressed to discover much about the origins of the happy-go-lucky-but-be-nice-or-I’ll-hit-you-with-my-staff mägo, unless he’s revealed it himself.

It’s a distinct advantage when you can outlive everyone around you.

How old he is, we don’t know.
How powerful he is as a mägo, we don’t know.
How many people does he know or has connections with, we truly don’t know.

So what DO we know?

What We Do Know

Chuck has a seemingly never-ending list of skills, interests, and connections which he has manifest during his interactions with others in more modern times.

Though we lack records of Chuck’s actual birth, I can confirm through the ancient Evolu archives that a powerful mägo, roamed the land, battling side by side the Evolu, Kutollum and even the Nocturi races in their fight against the encroaching forces of Mahan.

“All through the night, we received the wounded and weary. Many whispered about a grey-robed mägo, calling down wind and lightning from the sky to allow for their escape…and commanded the ground to swallow our enemy whole…”

— Brother Tynn, Kirk of Willowcreek

It has never been a secret as to why Morphiophelius has lived this long...Chuck has always openly admitted that he used his vast magical knowledge to slow his own aging until a new hero was called. His sole intent was to help whoever possessed the Ithari next to destroy Mahan once and for all.

A Mägo’s Influence

Another advantage of long life and a lack of social bubbles, is being able to play a key role in the development of society. Chucks titles and exploits include (but are not limited to):

• Professor [School of Magic, a.k.a. University of Magic];

• Mägo of the First Order;

• Olen Grand Champion {14 titles won, not including 5 title defenses}

• Regular contributor to Wizard’s Day, Better Shacks and Gardens and on occasion, to Gnome Geographic (as a foreign correspondent) ;

• Founded the first official bank in Clockworks City, with personal and business loans starting as low as 12.275% OAC;

• Holds Fastest Land Speed World Record On A Rocket Tricycle (642.7mph) ;

• Member of the Neuvo-Kuisa ;

• Creator of Santa ;

• Initiated ‘The Great Disco Infusion’ of Clockworks City;

• Disgusted at how gnomes were “shaking their booties,” initiated ‘The Great Disco Ban’ of Clockworks City;

• Was the only mägo to assist the Kutollum during The Invasion At Hollow Pass;

• President and Co-Founder of the Olen Rogers Fan Club (check him out on YouTube). The club has 612,435,118 active gnome members (Betty Shirp [a.k.a. The Shadow] is the other co-founder, but because she tends to be a stalker, we don’t talk about her much…so, ya know…Olen, be careful, man).

• Invented the ‘ Holiday Umbrella ’.

• Chuck is an expert swordsman, hand to hand combatant, and is known to be an extreme competitor in:
  • Skateboarding,
  • Mountain Boarding,
  • Drifting,
  • BMX,
  • Motocross,
  • Aggressive Inline Skating,
  • Mountain Biking,
  • Caving,
  • Rock Climbing,
  • Free Climbing,
  • Bouldering,
  • Mountaineering,
  • Parkour,
  • Sand kiting,
  • Zorbing,
  • Surfing,
  • Body boarding,
  • Waterskiing,
  • Wake Boarding,
  • Kitesurfing,
  • Windsurfing,
  • Cave diving,
  • Kayaking,
  • Cliff Jumping,
  • Scuba Diving,
  • White Water Rafting,
  • Jet Skiing,
  • Snowboarding,
  • Snow Skiing,
  • Ice Climbing,
  • Snowmobiling,
  • Base Jumping,
  • SkyDiving,
  • Bungee Jumping,
  • Hang Gliding,
  • Paragliding
  …and he also likes an occasional game of croquet.

“Let them think whatever they like...I can’t fix stupid.”

“Humans are plagued with the same diseases which bring the downfall of EVERY civilization: GREED! LUST FOR POWER! IGNORANCE! FAT WOMEN IN SPANDEX!!“

“You have to be the kind of person your friends can count on. The kind of man who will stand firm in the face of adversary.
...unless she’s REALLY cute.”

“Think that’s talent? That’s nothing! ANYone can pull a rabbit out of a hat. You pull a hat out of a rabbit and THEN we’ll talk!”

Professional Parent

Losing his wife and only child to war, Chuck has taken great joy and pride in stepping into random roles, especially as a father-figure. Both Dax and King Robert III were raised by the mägo…in both cases, to save the infants lives.

Morphiophelius was uniquely qualified to teach Dax how to harness his teleportation abilities, while his extensive connections in human society enabled him to groom Robert III to take back his throne as King of Andilain.

Chuck has quickly stepped into a parental role with Wendell P. Dipmier— showing both guidance and extreme protection over the youth.

An Ordinary Guy...

There is another side to this amazing mägo, however…and it’s one few people get the chance to witness.

An avid cook and passionate collector of cheese, Morphiophelius loves to wind down with an aged glass of homemade grapefruit kombucha and a pipe full of mullen when the weather gets nippy.

Late at night, if you sneak close to a cottage window, you just might hear him relaxing to the brilliant musical sounds of Sultans of String, Break of Reality or the ever-popular Gnome band ‘Big Benny & The Fat Bottoms’.

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Cast out as an infant.
Unwanted by his family.
Destined to be the downfall of his own people.

Could you keep your head up and be strong when those around you rejected your existence?

Few could.

Born as Daxänu [dax-AHN-oo], which means ‘unsolvable problem’, the child had no idea of the incredible life he would lead, or how his actions over time would significantly influence the world around him.

Carried by a giant eagle across the Tilliman Highlands and deep into the Andle Forest, the bird landed at the remote cottage of Chuck (a.k.a. Morphiophelius Smith).

Snatching the note from the basket, Chuck scoffed, offended by the name imprinted upon the paper. The mägo knew what it felt like to be misunderstood by those around him. Of the pain one feels from being scorned, mocked, spat upon and rejected.

…and there was no way he would allow such pain to fall upon a child unchallenged.

Daxänu was renamed ‘Dax’ (solution).

Adopted by a Loving Psychopath

Dax had a fierce protector in Chuck, who raised him as his own. As Dax grew, the mägo taught him to be rough, tough, and emotionally independent.

Dax proved to be a child without fear, intense, blunt, bold, and with a curiosity near impossible to contain. That, coupled with his extraordinary resistance to pain, injury and a heightened healing capability unlike anything the mägo had seen before, danger became the child’s constant companion.

Can you milk a grizzly bear?
Dax wanted to know.

Did fish taste better once it rot in the sun for a week, mixed with ripe bananas?
Dax ingested it.

Would it taste even better being left outside until it grew fur?
Dax ingested it again.

Could you actually snowboard on top of an avalanche and survive?
Apparently you can, IF you’re quick enough.

Exposure to Other Cultures

When the teen became more than the old wizard could manage, Chuck moved The Cottage to the one society known to embrace other cultures: the famed city of Erimuri (otherwise known as Sanctuary ).

Dax was introduced to the Iskari High Council who greeted him with open fascination. It was quite the event—the Iskari people being a blue-skinned race, welcoming Dax, who had a deep green sheen to his own.

Yet wherever he traveled throughout Erimuri, Dax was welcomed with open arms.

Better Than Minimum Wage

As he grew older, Dax displayed signs of a latent talent for the arcane and an ability to understand and recall certain magic, difficult for even the most seasoned of mägo. This prompted Chuck to school him in the fundamentals of magic , symbolism and understanding the balance of the world around him.

This training helped him form stronger (and expanded) control over his teleporting abilities, eventually breaking free from the binds of his environment. With his newfound abilities and earned trust, Dax was officially employed by the Iskari High Council as a formal steward and messenger of the people.

It was an honor he would cherish for more than 200 years.

During this time, Dax traveled with Chuck on various adventures (see Jaime Buckley‘s “Adventures of Chuck & Dax “ series), only returning to perform his duties as a messenger from time to time. Traveling with the famous mägo not only gained him a considerable reputation among the races, but it also strengthened his already considerable skills in combat.

Going Rogue

Rumors whispered through the years of Dax enlisting as a mercenary. Others say he traveled the world, seeking reputation or more accurately, solitude.

Chuck has confirmed a combination of both.

“What does a parent do when their child comes to you, hurt and confused, asking, ‘Do I matter?’
“Mahan’s Pink Panties, how do you ANSWER a question like that?
“It’s then that you have to look at yourself and wonder if you’ve loved enough, accepted enough and instilled the principle of intrinsic value in the heart of your child…”

— Morphiophelius Smith

In the end, Dax turned his heart to those who had accepted him. Taking up residence once more among the Iskari (at the suggestion of Chuck), Dax offered his services as a messenger, a position he’d often missed. Accepting dangerous assignments from the Iskari High Council , he labored in return for his citizenship among the blue-skinned populace.

No longer bound by the powers of the Prime Gate‘s , Dax could travel at will…and did so frequently.

Present Day

For more than a hundred years of dedication and unwavering loyalty in the face of certain peril The High Elder bestowed the title of Guardian upon Dax…to be the protector of Wendell P. Dipmier for the duration of the human’s stay upon their world.

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If you ask any Clockworks City gnome about the Legend of Billo Stumbleshanks, you’ll get one of three responses:

1. A groan.

2. A prayer.

3. Or a sudden, urgent need to leave the room.

Because everyone knows Billo.
Or rather—they think they do.

Only one problem: every story about him contradicts the last.
Which is exactly why I, Pivver Thimblebrass (professional witness, amateur survivor), am here to set the record straight.

…Probably.

It happened during Trench Wars Final Match Season 4

Two million screaming fans packed the new megastadium. So many bodies, the place shook like an over-caffeinated thunderbug. Vendors were weaving through the press of bodies selling steaming gear-oil stew, glowworms on sticks, and questionable snacks that smelled like pickled lightning.

I had terrific seats, though,…three rows up from the railing, close enough that when the spiraling pyres ignited along the arena edges, the heat crisped my eyebrows.

That’s when I first saw him.

Billo Stumbleshanks.

Standing on his seat.
Cloak whipping dramatically.
Goggles reflecting the firelight like some ancient oracle.
Holding a paper cone of fried crisps in one hand like it was a holy relic.

Every gnome in the section gasped.

“Is that—?” someone whispered.

“It can’t be—” said another.

“I lost three teeth because of that guy,” muttered a third.

But he was unmistakable.

The legendary figure.
The myth.
The gnome who once attempted to ride a Trench Wars S.L.A.G. back when the rules explicitly stated:
“Do not ride the S.L.A.G.s.”

Also the gnome who rewrote the rules one emergency surgery later, when the new rule became:
“Seriously, do NOT ride the S.L.A.G.s.”

Billo raised a hand.
The crowd around him quieted.

He pointed across the arena to the S.L.A.G. pits where the competitors rolled out.

“You all see that?” he said.

We all strained to follow his gesture. Two S.L.A.G.s…hulking, steel-plated monsters…stalked toward their position in the arena, pyres swirling around them like glowing tornados.

“That,” Billo said gravely, “is a machine designed to cause dramatic suffering.”

He paused.

“And I,” he added, “intend to bet my entire savings on the black one.”

Someone gasped.
Someone fainted.
Someone shouted, “Billo, NO!”

But he was already climbing.

Up the railing.
Past the barrier.
Standing where no sane gnome stands—right at the edge of the fall to the arena floor.

The flames lit him like a prophet.

“THERE’S ONLY ONE WAY TO FIND OUT WHO WINS!” he declared.

Then he spread his arms dramatically, nearly losing his fried crisps to the wind.

“That’s not how betting works!” I yelled.

But he was beyond reason.

This is where things get a bit… fuzzy.

In fairness, half the section was screaming, the other half trying to stop him, and all of us were very aware of the Trench Wars stadium security, who had a strict policy of “taser first, ask questions later.”

I swear I remember Billo leaning forward to “get a better angle.”
Truly.
That’s all he meant to do.

I also remember the railing being unusually polished that day. Almost… greased.

Which may, or may not, depending on who you ask, have contributed to what happened next:

Billo Stumbleshanks vanished over the edge.

One moment he was there.
The next—gone.

Screams erupted.

“He fell!”

“He jumped!”

“He slipped on a beetle!”

“It wasn’t me!” I yelled preemptively.

Down below, the two S.L.A.G.s paused mid-stomp, scanning the pit as something small, round, and screaming plummeted between them.

That something was Billo.

The stadium went silent.
Two million spectators held their breath.

Even the pyres around the arena spiraled slower, as if the flames themselves didn’t want to miss the ending.

Billo hit the sand in a cloud of dust and fried crisp crumbs.

The S.L.A.G.s turned toward him.

The crowd gasped.

Security panicked.

I fainted (briefly, heroically).

And Billo…legend, menace, walking lawsuit…pushed himself to his feet, wobbled, and shouted up at us:

“I’M FINE!”

The stadium exploded with cheers.

Now, what happened next depends entirely on who tells the story.

Some say Billo tamed the nearest S.L.A.G. with sheer charisma.
Some say he challenged it to a duel.
Some say he tried to steal it and got electrocuted so hard his hair grew back.

Me?

I distinctly remember him pointing at the towering machine and declaring:

“ROUND TWO!”

…right before it flicked him across the arena like a bread crumb.

But hey—memory’s tricky.
I was concussed at the time.

The Facts (as much as can be verified):

• Billo survived.

• The crowd loved it.

• Security hated it.

• The S.L.A.G. remained un-ridden (thankfully, for all involved).

• The spiraling pyres resumed their show.

• Billo was banned from the stadium for “reckless enthusiasm, property damage, and attempted S.L.A.G. boarding (again).”

• He will absolutely sneak back in next season.

And that, friends, is the real story of Billo Stumbleshanks.

…Probably.

If there are inconsistencies, inaccuracies, or impossible details, please remember:

I did get hit by a flying gnome that day.

So, you know.

Unreliable narrator. Occupational hazard.

Watch our Speed Drawing of Billo here.

Lore Note by Höbin Luckyfeller

Filed under: Trench Wars Folklore – Spectator Incidents (Category: Preventable Chaos)

After extensive interviews, three signed affidavits, one medical bill, and a surprising amount of fried beetle residue, I have concluded the following:

1. Billo Stumbleshanks exists.
Unfortunately.

2. The incident described absolutely occurred, though eyewitness accounts range from “gravity-assisted misfortune” to “intentional stunt for spiritual enlightenment.”

3. Trench Wars security has now updated their official spectator guidelines, including the new clause:

“No standing on railings, no leaning over barriers, and absolutely no Stumbleshanksing under any circumstances.”

4. Stadium archives confirm a temporary disruption in S.L.A.G. pathing protocols at the precise moment Billo entered the arena. This has led some engineers to theorize that the S.L.A.G.s recognized him and chose diplomatic restraint.
Others insist the S.L.A.G.s simply “did not wish to touch whatever that was.”

5. The spiraling pyres do, indeed, react to dramatic tension.
This is not supernatural.
This is physics.
Gnome physics, but physics nonetheless.

6. All reports indicate the narrator of this tale suffered a mild concussion, severe indignation, and a brief identity crisis.
Therefore, details should be considered colorful approximations of probable events, and not legally actionable testimony.

Archivist’s Summary

Billo Stumbleshanks is not a hero.
He is not a villain.
He is a cautionary diagram with legs.
But as a folkloric figure of the Trench Wars spectator culture, he has become a beloved, exasperating symbol of unfiltered enthusiasm.

If referencing this account at the end of Season 5, consider this historian’s humble advice:

“Heroes inspire crowds.
Billo inspires rule updates.”

— Höbin Luckyfeller
Gnome Historian, Witness to Too Much
Clockworks City Lore Registry

P.S. For those who care, this very situation has a direct reference in the Chronicles serial: Chapter 71 - When It Rains, It Pours.

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