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The receptionist fell quickly to Crucible’s hammer, and they beat back building security, but the enchanted cold of the server room made them easy prey for sysadmins: they lost Elfstar to a razored backup disc. Black Dougal’s eyes were cold with vengeance when they burned HR to the beams.

Now they stand in another reception room, eerily recalling the start of their adventure, but glass-walled and empty. Beyond waits the chief execulich officer. Crucible hefts what they hope is his phylactery and offers one last prayer to Machina.

Behind them descend the chicks from Sales, blueteeth glinting in the shadows.


Crucible hasn’t been wound in a while but since his squadron got eaten in Greymarsh he hasn’t had anyone to do it. That’s all right. He just needs his warhammer, his faith, and the next room in the catacombs.

He kicks in a door on yet more goblins. The goblins squeak.

“Prepare to be smitten–” he begins, and his heartspring clicks one final time, then stops.

The goblins wait, glance around, and then walk backwards out of the room, very slowly.

A few millennia later somebody gets curious and cranks his key.

“–in the name of Machina!” Crucible roars, spitting dust.