What's the problem?
Well, aside from the fact that this entire party is made up of giant lumbering blood lusting megalomaniacal opportunists. Other than that, what's the problem?
Navarre lifted his helmet off his head and turned it about slowly in his hands.
The problem is....
The problem is: the gnome who made me this armor is dead.
His family is dead. His village is dead. The people I've saved in this armor are dead.
The only one alive is me. Well... me and the Slaughterhouse 7 here. And we can't even claim victory. We just suddenly ... weren't where we used to be. We aren't where we are *needed*.
The Whisper gnome scowled and stepped back in thought.
Are we?
So much death. SO much death. And suddenly... none? Is that why I lashed out at the guardsman? None of this makes sense. The work of the gods? Everything I've ever known has fallen to darkness. If I *am* here by divine might...
Navarre sighed and re-donned his helmet.
...what lesson was I suppose to bring with me?
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