The Lord Bishop of Cataluvia climbed the stairs of his throne to preside over the festival- The town may have been small, but they could put on quite a party. It was a modest affair, but with all the stops. Stands and kiosks were erected for food, drink, music, and games. But, the Bishop was also alarmed to note, the festival had become something of an international affair, with folk coming to Cataluvia from all over the realm, other kingdoms, other continents... Just like prior blacksmith festivals! Could this be a sign that the omens of the Forge-Saint's vision was really as urgent as he feared? Well, if this was true, there was nothing he could do about it. He could only appoint the first official customer of the festival to kick things off for the smiths assembled, and pray that the ritual reached its conclusion before time itself unraveled again, and the fate of Skalreach, or even Volkheim, that mysteriously disappeared city, would befall his little fiefdom. He could feel it in his old bones, that reality was on the brink, and no mere adventurer could save them from calamity! What they needed here in Cataluvia was a
And he'd have to hold out till the end of the month. And they'd have to be strong, and they'd have to be fast, and they'd have to be fresh from the... Glunth. They need a blacksmith! They're hanging on with all of their life! And they've gotta be sure and it's gotta be soon and they've gotta at least forge a knife!
@mizal @hetero_malk @Anthraxus @Darius_Conwright @PerforatedPenguin @Yummyfood
A capybaraman in a crown sitting astride a litter enters the city, carried with a set of (much more finely dressed than last time) warrior-eunuchs. That well-traveled man who needs no introduction, Pasha Malk, immediately begins to introduce himself: "Peace be upon you, friends. I have arrived to peacefully expand the borders of the Capybaliphate once again. I realized some time ago that crusade against the infidels is a vastly inferior mode of expansion; the wise path is simply to annex cities by winning as many blacksmithing competitions as possible. I uh... smithed this one on the way over here. Eunuchs! Fetch me the Blade of Ne'erf!"
A long-suffering eunuch presents him a blade on a velvet pillow, underneath a velvet curtain. What's inside is anything but velvet, however; it is a double-handed greatsword of cheaply-wrought foam, with the blade at the tip cracked enough to reveal the hard plastic core within. "I am pleased to present, the HILARIOUS | PLUSH | WHUPPIN' STICK. Intended for the amusement of barbarian children, this is a blade soft enough that one can swing it directly at a child's head and not do lasting injury. However, it can cause just enough pain that it appeals to the sadist in every child's heart; if you hit your playmate hard enough with it, it hurts like a motherfucker. Your barbarian children (no offence) will delight as they bash each other in the face, leaving you plenty of time to lawfully bone down your wives and concubines."
A phlemgy and congested voice attempted to call out over the crowd, but it lacked the power to carry. Slowly, a bent and withered figure made it's way through the crowd, clearing a path with a long staff of blackened wood. The butt of the staff was capped with bone, while the top was a strange and ornately twisted spiral of dark wood. Hanging within the center fo the spiral was an ornate iron lantern that glowed with a soft blue luminescence.
The crowd gave the figure space, falling back as they see the skull like face under the hood. As it neared the orcs, it called out again, "BAH!" The force of the call faded into a racking cough. After a moment the ancient crone continued, "Orc pups have no need of second-hand basheries and implements. What you need is an entertainment that will lead to productive character growth. Behold!" With a flourish the ancient figure raised its' free hand. The light of it's lantern brightened for a moment and a faint spirit swooped over the heads of the crowd, carrying a parcel wrapped in black cloth.
The bony hand caught the package from the air and shook the saturated wrapping free. A long staff made of consolidated moisture was revealed. The water flared at the top of the staff in to a dramatic snake-head design. "Behold!" the nearly skeletal blacksmith called again, "The Snake-headed | Morning Dew | Walking Stick | Of the West! With this mighty relic your neices and nephews will not only have the joy of a water fight on hands at all times, but will be able to wander the entirety of your combined lands watering the bone fields and rejuvinating the Sundered Hills. Abundent crops and your wards off being productive out of the way! What more could a parent or babysitting relative want?"
Amidst the crowd of towering orcs, a tiny sniveling gremlin pushed through, tugging a gargantuan sack with him. Although Klam prided himself to be almost as tall and twice as frail as a newborn goblin, he now sought for a way to flee from this festival and preferably from Cataluvia altogether.
The letter that summoned him didn't say that they were dealing with those kind of green skinned giant brutes. He thought from this description that he would be dealing with drunk dwarves from Ottawania... or Bob... screw Bob. However, if he were to turn back, he would for certain experience something much more gruesome than any kind of orcs sacking and burning his beloved workshop.
He shivered as he thought about the thunderous shrieks of Grandmother and her notorious art of cheek pinching. He was never fast enough to escape her wrath, even when her wheelchair was located at the other side of the workshop.
Therefore Klam had no choice but to raise his shriveled little finger. He made eye contact with the least threatening looking orc, you know, the one with the giant eye scar brandishing a bloodstained battle-axe.
"Ah yes, Mr.... grorgh?"
The orc scratched his nose and sneezed. Immediately Klam shrunk back. After his heart stopped beating as the overwhelming stress pushed him to the brink of death, he saw the image of his grandmother with a plush ‘whuppin’ stick and hurriedly crawled back out of hell.
"Ah yes sorry, Mr. Elfsmasher the third, kids are very difficult, yes. Education is very important, but you know, it's hard for them to listen and sit down and uhm, not commit fratricide. The best way to teach children is through positive encouragement, so us gremlins have a device that will do just that, at least according to my grandmother. Of course these things are family heirlooms, so I forged a duplicate."
Out of his sack he pulled a |talking|bagpipe|that will turn your brain to shit|. He timidly urged the orc to crouch down and placed one end of the bagpipe in front of the orc's ear. Klam’s eyes turned a bit watery, such kind words can only be heard once a month.
The moment Klam blew on it, the ogre collapsed into a seizure. Klam fiddled with his hands as he watched the orc's eyes roll back. Foam frothed out of his mouth and all of his limbs were still twitching. Klam smiled dreamily, raising four of his fingers.
"My grandma used it on me too and look how I well I turned out! It gave me at least three IQ points."
A man in a dark cloak makes his way to the customer. A rancid smell clears a path for him through the crowd. His green clothing, muddy boots, and quiver mark him as one of the strange men that decide to live outside of society. The burger-shaped pin that holds his cloak around him probably represents the strange group he belongs to, but no decent civilized being talks to one that chooses to live in the woods on purpose anymore.
The man reaches the orcs and pulls down his hood, revealing his human features. He tosses a bag over to the orcs. The bag is quickly identified as the source of the awful smell, as it gets much more potent when it is out in the open air. The man looks like he may puke for a second before once again composing himself to speak.
"I do not know what orc children play with, but it seems to me that all children like strange, smelly, and shiny things. I present to you in that bag, the |Pyramidial| |Electrum| |Inkwell| |Quenched in a flammable heap of dragon crap|. As you can clearly tell, the smell of the dragon crap has remained with the inkwell. The shape of the inkwell should confuse them, and the electrum still shines despite the quenching material."
With everything now explained the man turns and walks to the back of the crowd, presumably to get away from the smell of his own creation.
That's a good idea! I've also editted in the link to the generator from the first post since I forgot to include it earlier.
Two hooded riders, well, ride into the square at mach speed, displacing burghers and shopkeeps and kicking up a great cloud of turd dust from the filthy street. Unfortunately, it absolutely coats Pasha Malk, who must now spend the next round making ghusl and tracking down a fresh robe and turban. The riders doff their hoods, revealing freakishly pale and inbred features. Their eyes are both far too small, their jaws burgeon at angles hitherto unknown to theology and geometry.
"Greetingths," one of them says. A man, apparently. He has a terrible lisp that will only be spelt phonetically on this line, so I hope you enjoyed it while it lasted.
"I am the Prince of Lower Bunigkeinsteinstenfjorde, and this is my lady love, the Princess of Upper Bunigkeinsteinstenfjorde. As all literate souls know, our two realms are locked in a state of bitter conflict over whether Fantasy Christ's literal body is present in the Fantasy Eucharist. Given as our families... well, family... is locked in an interminable conflict, we need something to help resolve our troubles. If you make a fanciful tool that can resolve a dispute between two houses alike in dignity, that's great; if all you fucking lunatics can produce is some kind of horrifying weapon, that works too."
"Horsey," the other says, staring vacantly at her own horse.
A musclebound figure somewhere on the town's horizon could be seen pulling himself up between the merlons of a castle. A bird-like man, again- In fact probably the same one, dragged himself onto the walkway and then staggered toward the stairs. From the state of his breathing and the baying of wolves that could be heard vaguely from behind the town's cobblestone fortifications, it seemed an awful lot like he had been chased all the way here, as if by some strange first-act montage.
"HAIL!" The birdman called out once he reached solid ground. He jogged into the festival square as if by a second wind, "Listen, all, for I bring DIRE NEWS from the foul plains of the north and west! The sea kingdom up beyond the mountains..."
He had to stop, drop his hands to his knees, and catch his breath. Eventually the hand that held up one finger to beseech his audience for pause had come down to reach into his shoulderbag.
"Behold," He said, retrieving a perfectly auburn boomerang of bread wrapped within itself, its sublime overlapping golden-brown hues highlighted with a subtle shine. Steam swirled in spectral clouds from its many flaky nooks, and filled even this street clouded by turd dust with a hot, mouth-watering buttery scent, "This magnificent bread-moon I have forged with my own BARE HANDS at my anvil. Long hours and fabulous craftsmanship had gone into perfecting the method- Held herein are tens of thousands of crispy Layers. The smell draws all godly creatures to this object- Crunchy on the outside, moist on the inside, you can feel it all tighten and bunch between the edges of your jaws on the first bite before splitting apart! And the taste is, of course, exactly as a pastry should be."
He held the bread roll aloft, clenching his free fist in rage, "The injustice of it all! I entered a baking competition in that northern kingdom- And so unaccustomed were they to anything resembling a pleasurable culinary experience that the judge who tasted one of these rolls died on the spot as if SMITTEN DEAD by a holy epiphany, and I was run out of town with torches and pitchforks while the townsfolk feasted on the judge's remains! Truly, I say, the Dutch are GOBLINS of the highest order! I ran as far as I could from that place, and then came to this town when I saw orcish warbands and armed nobles coming through the gates! These are the people I need to speak to!"
"Please, sirs!" The birdman said to the two inbred mutants at the head of the crowds, "You seem of... Noble and distinctive bearing- You have ridden here armed and armored with your destriers! But I ask, how truly urgent is your cause? How can you fight other human beings, when the DUTCH are up in the north, AT THE VERY BORDERS of this kingdom, continuing to live like ANIMALS!? Taste for yourselves the wonders that these beasts cannot stomach nor comprehend- Witness the |Croissant| |That was banned in Holland for its flavor|!"
After Klam had committed suicide with two bullets planted behind his back, his cousin Slam swooped in. In contrast to the ball of neuroticism Klam had been, Slam had enlightened himself by traveling to the far lands of the Himalayas to ‘find true spiritualism’. The call to Enlightenment all started when he saw his friend Bob post a picture of himself with some orphan children from South Sudan and got more Gremstagram likes than a picture of his protein shake. Thus he commenced his pilgrimage with the purchase of a plane ticket, ten starving wage slaves enthusiastic porters and guides and a permit straight to the highest mountain in the world.
With lots of pictures, an infinite amount of Buddha sculptures and a new tribal tattoo in his possession, he sauntered into the room. Due to his small stature, he had always carried a walking stick that he uses to poke other people to move aside. Although dozens of eyes leered at the gremlin, whose head barely rose above their knee, shamelessly prodding their sides.
“Perhaps I can be of help. During my many travels I’ve encountered this very question myself. I have traveled in many inhospitable places, homes of barbarians, locations where they don’t even have air-conditioning and people who speak fantasy English.”
Slam’s voice rose.
“Anyway, do we all eat Fantasy Jesus’ body when we take part in the Fantasy Eucharist? We can discuss the answer to this question all day, but how about we hear it straight from the mouth of the fantasy son of our fantasy Lord? I have found this in the heartlands of a souvenir shop in fantasy Serbia.”
With a wary caution he lowered his voice.
“Be warned, ascending to heaven had caused some… surprising changes to our beloved Christ. Our Lord had tried to temper his worst habits, but fantasy Jesus’ love for us had never died.”
He rolled his eyes upwards, muttering some Kama Sutra prayers he had read in Wikipedia. Out of his tiny pockets he revealed a:
|Sterilized| |Lute| |Possessed by the soul of a horny koala|
The lute shook when he presented it to the two hooded riders. Both of them leant forward to hear the voice echoing from the instrument which slowly pointed upwards.
“Honey, you can eat my body anytime you want.”
The skeletal figure cackled, a ghastly, rasping sound. "Bread and Music? One would replace your Fantasy Eucharist and the other would demean Fantasy Christ as reborn as a horny marsupial! Terrible. Your families are the issue, not your faith. Behold!"
Yet again a boney hand was thrust skyward and a rush of spirits swept over the crowd. The nameless ancient figure's cloak rustled in a ghostly breeze. With a sudden rush there appeared in the long nailed claw an ornately engraved recurve bow of some scintillating reflective mineral. "You asked for a fanciful tool, or a horrifying weapon. Behold, for I give you both in one! This Disquieting | Antimony | Recurve Bow | Inscribed with an erotic depiction of your mother! Within it's crystalline refractions you can behold the moment of your own conception, and of your mother's conception, and so on all the way back to your true relation as the great 42 times removed third cousin fo Fantasy Christ himself! Knowing that and with the graphic depictions contained within of so much graphic sex it is capable of ending any family dispute or breaking the mind of any family member.forced to watch."
With a horrific lear, the bow was held out to the Prince and Princess.
The woodsman runs up in a panic, hoping he isn't too late. He unwraps the freshly forged weapon in his hand.
"Behold..... The... Exceedingly Long...*gasp*... Crystal... Mongol Sabre... Of Spain! I had to travel far for the materials to make this, so I apologize for being so late. Its use is pretty obvious."
He then goes back into the crowd, most of them now booing him for his tardiness and poor presentation. He promises himself to do better next time.
As the contenders gather, so does a shadow great and terrible on the edges of the market square. The smell of *dragon dung* still permeates the air strongly. As you see a familiar human man in dark cloak, tattered in dirt. Or perhaps more dung, hard to tell. In fact, yes, the smell does increase.
But something is off about the man, for as he does the darkness looms and spreads around him. As he lowers the hood, his eyes appear an unearthly reddish orange like the sunset.
A voice that is not his own speaks out, one that is at all times foul, garbled. A whisper of grating steel on steel, perhaps a fork and plate or something. "My lords," it almost hisses with a smoky rasp. "I am the dark lord beyond the ashen reaches of Skulthaven. I am the great and terrible, the smoke in the flames, the wail of the mourning." It says, the figure becoming more inhuman with every word.
"I am the great and mighty Dark Lord Norbert." It says. "I have traveled far through the dung heaps of the ogre, one slightly more dreaded than I. And sullied this vessel in more ways than I care to explain." There is what might be some sort of malicious sound, or perhaps an awkward cough.
The creature reaches back and there is searing, hissing sound that rends the ears like sizzling sparks on water as it suddenly produces an object of some size, though it wields it with ease. You see a long handle, made of ancient steel covered in glyphs and runes, it's also covered in mud or something more foul. The head of the mallet is made of some strange dark stone, that seems to reverberate through the air with a shrill whine as the dark lord swings it about.
"With this, my Prince." It says. "You will smite your enemies ten and tenfold again. Yes, bring them to their knees time and time again. The OGRES SELF CLEANING MALLET OF DRUNKENESS cleans itself." In a twist the mud clears from it, as the creature starts to sway. "Dip it in your most foul dung, and it shall assault your enemies senses, their sight, their smell, and their ears. T'was covered in shit but now look! I am clean! And I am becoming most drunk while doing so!"
"My great lord, take this which lies bound to my whim, make it yours and I shall be relieved of this mortal coil. Or at least this fucking smell!"
The Prince of Lower Bunigkeinsteinstenfjorde pinches his formidable nose in consternation and disappointment. "Jesus this was a poor showing. If we were in the court at Bunigkeinsteinstenfjorde Castle, I would ask my noble father (the King of Bunigkeinsteinstenfjorde) to have you all defenestrated. Alright, line up your entries, let's get this over with."
He begins with Slam. "I'm really not sure you understood the prompt, and I'm further unsure as to what exactly your bit is supposed to be. I am quite certain that this instrument you've presented me with would spread further discord. Pass."
He winces as he takes the bow from the skeleton man. "This is a potent weapon, and were the goal to obliterate my family entirely, I would order a dozen; although, implicating Our Lord in our incestuous family tree feels like it edges on blasphemy. On this one, I must also pass."
He looks angrily at the woodsman. "You had all this time and this is what you came up with? You fucking suck. Fuck you."
He reluctantly extends a hand to inspect the mallet. "This is indeed very clean, especially impressive considering as you smell quite awful. However, I'm not sure that bludgeoning both our families to death is the direction I want to move in. Pass."
He smiles as he tests the baseball bat. He swings it at someone's imaginary skull, then lets the bat drop to the ground, before driving it up into someone's imaginary balls. He smiles dreamily. "As much as I would love to use this on my lady love's mother-aunt, I fear it would not be in the spirit of uniting our houses."
The harpoon is second last. "This shit rules, and it would probably be the best weapon for obliterating two royal houses at once. Also, my drooling lady love is very impressed by fireworks. This one is not the winner, but I might buy a couple anyway."
Finally, he turns to the croissant. He passes it underneath his malformed nostrils; it is a testament to its tastiness that even the snot of incest does not damper its flavour nor its savour. "This is glorious. I will bring them together for a meal, and we will resolve our differences under the croissant of peace."
Point sent, cards being sent now.
IMPORTANT RULES AMMENDMENT:
For the purposes of expediency in dealing and clearing up confusion in card holders, players will be asked to include a footnote at the bottom of each of their posts saying what cards they used and therefore will need a replacement of. Add an Asterisk (*) after a card if you do not need a replacement (I.E. it's a bonus card and you're going to ask for a different bonus card)
If I submitted the "|MOLDY| |GREEN| |POOP| |SCISSORS|" in a round, for example, it would be useful to note that POOP is not an item (though it could be used as one) and GREEN is my bonus card, in which case getting two prefixes back would leave me with way too many cards. So I'd just leave that notation at the bottom of the post when I'm done, like so. Hopefully this clears up some recurring dealer confusion we've been having in games.
Prefix, Prefix*, Material, Item
Mere moments after the royals rode away with their croissant, the skies over the town darkened. Eyes turned skyward only to widen in fear as a colossal dragon circled overhead. It's scales were an iridescent rainbow, and streamers of glittery acidic saliva drools from between it's broadly spaced fangs. The buildings it landed upon groaned under it's weight, solid timbers and beams cracking and splitting. The people within ran out screaming in panic.
The dragon glared down at the gathered crowd and blacksmiths. In a voice pitched so high as to cause spines to crawl and glass to shatter the dragon said, "I am the fabulous Glittersmackasses. I demand tribute from the assembled masses here, or I shall destroy this town in a fierce tirade of glitter, claws, fangs and general bitchiness as none of you have ever seen. Yet I am a generous and munificent queen, so will only take the most ostentatious and expensive thing made to offer. Hurry now, I grow bored and hungry."
The birdman was confounded for a moment- He really didn't have a smithy or any tools to make use of his materials- Or, frankly, that many exotic and ostentatious materials. If he wanted to make something ostentatious and expensive, he would have to go old-fashioned.
2 DAYS later, after many hours of hard work, the penguin-man barbarian arrived from under a blacksmith's porch, wiping sweat from his brow, "BEHOLD, fair dragonoid Glittersmackasses, my offering-"
He withdrew a guitar that shimmered in many complicated directions with a complicated pattern of interwoven chatoyance, "Now, I'm sure a dragon of your particularly fabulous bearing has been to the Bazaar of Etsya before. And what are some of the most expensive things you can find there? That's right, bespoke functional instruments! They are absurdly complicated bastard things to make by hand, whose individual parts can each take years of training to make on their own! Why, you could spend a fortune on just guitar parts from Etsya and have spent well more than it takes to buy something industrially produced from the Guitar Store! But that's not all!"
He flipped the guitar up in the air, balancing it on one of his fingers. The penguin creature looked suspiciously like a black and white Conan painting, but it was clear from the lack of resistance to one of his muscular fingers this was still supposed to be relatively light, "It weighs nothing at all, yet looks like perfectly laquered wood- That's because I spend the past 48 hours knitting this guitar together from sustainable organic materials! Strands of bamboo fiber, to be precise. My hands are still bleeding profusely. Everything made of real bamboo costs more- And nothing knitted ever costs less than 60 gold because of all the man-hours it takes! In fact it was a work of actual sorcery that I managed to finish the |Bamboo| |Crochet| |Guitar| in time for this contest at all!"
(Two materials, one object)
The Woodsman walked back into the wilderness, knowing he must craft something. The idea he had would take a while to accomplish.
He first ventured far to the south, deep into the rainforests. He was looking for a specific materal that could only be found there. The journey was difficult. The bugs were relentless, always biting and stinging, getting into his ears and nose and mouth. The natives were not happy with his presence either. The savages attepted to ambush him multiple times. They got close to suceeding on one occasion. He recieved a scar on his face to remind him of his weakness.
After several days, The cloaked woodsman finally made it to the heart of the jungle. He collected the material he needed. He spent a day crafting the weapon, taking special care carving ancient runes on its surface. When he finished, his creation glowed with sinister power. The power attracted some unwanted attention.
The dragon decended quickly, used to killing its prey without much trouble. The man narrowly dodged the attack and decided to use his new weapon. He threw it, the deadly object seeming to find its target by its own will. It aimed well. The dragon roared in pain, a pain so gerat that no human or otherwise had ever inflicted on a dragon before. It curled up in a ball, and the man finished it off without an issue.
It took several days of walking and native slaughtering to get back to town, where he pushed through the crowd to present his gift to the dragon.
"Apologies for the wait mighty dragon. I was delayed for a bit. I present you with my creation, the Undead/Balsa Wood/Chakram/Which once sliced a dragon's cockles, with its long and shiny blade! It may not be the flashiest of objects for your hoard, but you do have a new undead slave force led by a Dragon Eunuch waiting outside.
prefix, material, item, suffix
Spending my mulligan here
“Forgive my tardiness.”
Another merchant hopped over and bowed before the dragon who was growing ever more impatient by the minute. He sighed as he saw the two lifeless sacks of rotten flesh piled on top of each other. It was always the gremlins that succumbed to their overconfidence and hubris. Why did that one tiny gremlin think it was a good idea to present a talking lute to a horde of religious fanatics? They were lucky that the departing party of orcs weren’t that keen on bony gremlin lunchmeat.
It was quite a shame that he made such a late appearance as he could have saved them from this awful fate and more importantly the embarrassment that comes with it.
And thus the dwarf rabbit opened up his carrot suitcase.
“I’m aware that these two brought us of the small-races-federation quite some shame, but fear not, I think I have just what you’re looking for.”
Out of his tiny paws he revealed a shiny |Self-cleaning||Unicorn horn||of Aluminum|
“Unlike steel, this metal will never lose its shine. Aluminum is notoriously difficult to refine ever since a group of dwarves discovered it at a lonely mountain peak. Amongst the dwarves, a single refined ingot will exceed the price of many golden bars. Why, oh, why is it so valuable? Well, this metal has some very unique properties. Even the ravages of time will never place a single speck of dust on this prized treasure. I’m aware that possessing so many treasure would make cleaning duties very tedious, so I also added in a self-cleaning feature.”
“Where did ya even get that thing?” A voice in the crowd yelled.
The dwarf rabbit perked up his ears. He cleared out his throat while adjusting his tie and monocle.
“It seems that my name procures a certain trust amongst the dwarven population. I wonder why? It couldn’t be due to my stature since they chased away both of my gremlin colleagues for looking like, in their words, mangled elves suffering from food poisoning.” He said. “Truly a mystery, but I’m honored to have such a fruitful business relationship with them.”
*Items *Suffix descriptor *Prefix descriptor
A small dog approaches the dragon, poops, then leaves.
I'm working on that. My son was in town this weekend, so I didn't have as much time to respond to this on friday as I thought I would.
The grandiloquent Glittersmackasses, having lounged in the square for days and days with only the entertainment of the racous , rose up on their haunches as the offerings were laid before them. Turning a baleful gaze at the Woodsman and the penguin-headed fellow they say with a theatening hiss, "Ssssshame on these pitiful offerings. I demanded ostentatiousness, expense and opulance, and you are giving Balsa and Bamboo. You did not understand the assignment. And of special note, Woodsman, you are lucky I don't take your head for wasting perfectly good dragon dong. I mean, really, what the fuck?"
They nearly decapitate the Woodsman with their tail as they turn and dead-drop. "Weren't there more here before?" the dragon asked, "Whatever. At least you three understood what I was after. Let's take a closer look here." The purple and glitter scaled dragon moved forward, raising up the silver talisman over the heads of the crowd, "Now this is pretty good. Expensive, likely unique, gaudy even." They set the talisman back down and survey the last too items. "This horn is very nice, shiny and cool, and while I think we might kiki about the versatility of that interesting metal later. But for now... Silence! I have made my decision. The skilled craftsman behind this glorious unicorn eleganza has saved you all!"
With barely even a glance back, the great dragon scooped up the dynastically gifted unicorn and flew off to the west.
Point to Mizal. Cards being sent shortly.
An old man appears shorty after the dragon leaves. He looks around at the broken buildings, dead creatures, and general mess the crowd has been making the last couple of weeks. He shakes his head slightly before banging his mop and bucket together a few times to get everyone's attention. The crowd slowly quiets down for him to speak.
"Thank you. I do hate raising my voice. I am in need of a new tool. I work as a janitor for fancy folk around the country, you see. They tend to have quite a habit of leaving their large attics and basements unused. Then they hire me to deep clean and there are always large nasty vermin I have to clear out. I would like something to help me with this. Anything will do really, I'm not very picky."