Adamantium Hunt, Part 1 (Smith, Avroc Strongman, Tanya Blackstone, The Great Chef, Abbess Lumina, Cinnis Sarva)

A wanted poster flaps in the placid wind. Depicted upon it is a rough sketch of a giant tortoise, with blades and spears stuck into its thick, ridged shell. Fire belches out of the tortoise’s jaws. WANTED: The Adamantoise is written across the top of the page, and a hefty bounty is offered. For some, the hunt itself is all the reward they require.

Creaking wheels trundle over the root-wracked, unkept road through a forest of burned trees. The reins are lashed to the shoulders of a colossal one-eyed figure at the fore, who trudges slowly forward. It is a slow journey. For Avroc, the knowledge that one more threat is gone is all the reward he needs.

In the driver’s seat is a woman, face stoic as stone, eyes sharp as daggers. She adjusts the wraps upon her fists for the fifth time this hour, fingers itching for an impact. Tanya is a weapon. And a weapon needs no reward for the blood it sheds.

Seated beside sacks of ingredients, a pale woman shines the underside of her oversized frying pan. She licks her pointed teeth. The liver of an adamantoise contains one of the most potent alchemical substances in the world. Properly seared, the organ can grant the consumer long-lasting immunity to disease. For the Great Chef, the reward is preparing a meal that will protect the world’s heroes long into the future.

And then there’s the tiny figure sitting cross-legged upon a chest at the back of the wagon, staring out blankly into space. Strapped to his back is an object, ostensibly called a ‘hammer,’ as large as he is. Upon the item, a gleaming glass eye peers out at the others with its red gaze. The Smith’s mind is elsewhere, folding metal into the curvatures of a calf, then a thigh. The adamantoise is best known for the vast deposits of adamant metal within its shell. A metal worthy of forming the foundations of a divine body.

Passing into the radius of a ruined castle, the party of adventurers feels a shift in the air. It ripples over them like a heat mirage. On a flat stone near the turn-off from the old road, there is a single candle, half-height and burning in the eerie red twilight of the dead sun. Avroc turns into the rubble-strewn courtyard, carefully navigating the lumpy ground. Ahead, there is a broad, padlocked cellar door. The cyclops reaches up for a chain hanging around his neck by a length of hemp rope, and unlocks it.

Shrugging off the harness around his shoulders, Avroc holds the doors open for the others. He has to crouch down to fit inside the stairway. At the bottom, a castle wine cellar has been converted into a monastery, draped with recovered relics of the Fell God of Hope. Tapestries, painted in fantastic, warm colors, depict rising cities set against a gleaming sunrise. Smith is shaken from his thoughts to stare up at them in awe, eyes a-sparkle. Reaching out with a hand, he feels the tassels that hang from the bottom, threads spun with gold.

“Beautiful, are they not?” walking towards them, a human woman in a black and white habit carries herself with a serene smile. The Smith’s head twists towards her like a wild animal on alert, eyes wide. His hammer stares at her over his shoulder, saliva dripping between its perfectly uniform teeth. Her smile falters seeing the wretched thing the tiny man carries. “But you can take that demonic artifact outside. I will not have it tainting this place,“ her hand outstretched, finger in a crook, she gestures her command.

“That would be awful,” Smith agrees in a small, gravely voice, like a chain-smoking house cat. Reaching over his shoulder, he flicks the hammer in the eye. It shakes and shudders, sucking in its dribbling trails of saliva. If it devoured any of these wondrous pieces of art, the Smith would disassemble it and reassemble it inside out for a week. That would teach the hungry fucker. “I’ll be right back.”

Ignorant to the looks the templar-knights on either side of the door, glaring in distrust at himself and the weapon-woman, Smith hops and strides up the stairs. He goes to his chest at the back of the cart and opens it. A bundle of floating swords, a halberd, and a glowing helmet ascend out of the opening, their mithril construction gleaming in the deadlight. “Don’t eat the help,” Smith commands his hammer, which lets out a metallic whine as he stuffs it into the container and locks it shut. Rubbing his hands together, Smith licks his lips and sprints back down, into the wonderful art gallery below.

Scattered pubs and taverns throughout the remnants of the world house bulletin boards, where adventurers can find word of newly emerged monsters, demons and dungeons. Somewhere among them, a worthy dragon hunter. Reaching up, Cinnis pins another wanted poster to the board. The Adamantoise. A lesser kin, a wyrm, a dragon turtle, barely worthy of sharing a classification family with true dragons such as herself. But perfect for testing and training her next special someone. Smiling to herself, the woman leaves as quickly as she came. Soon, they will be flocking to the dungeon the turtle has made its den, and Cinnis wants to be there to watch.