Chapter Text
"Okay, buddy," says Garl. "You can do this."
Davenport presses his face into his pillow. "Davenport," he mumbles.
"Come on," he cajoles, as gently as he can. "Just give it a try! And if you make a mistake, well…no harm no foul, right?"
Davenport stumbles out of bed with a groan and looks blankly around his bedroom in the Neverwinter apartment where Lucretia has taken him to live. Lucretia is out in the kitchen, making breakfast. Garl stands in the middle of the room, arms crossed, watching his emissary try to figure out what to do next.
He walks to the dresser.
"Good, good," says Garl.
Davenport picks up the towel with shaking hands and washes his face in the bowl of cool water. He sloshes water a bit, but doesn't seem to notice.
"All right! Step one down. Now, what's step two?"
Davenport looks around the room, a little lost. Garl can sense him trying to navigate around the static in his head, nudging his thoughts this way and that. Like trying to work his way through a maze without touching the static-shock walls. The gnome's eyes land on the set of clothes Lucretia has set out for him, hanging by a low hook on the closet door. She usually helps him dress after breakfast, but Garl wants to see what his emissary can manage on his own.
Davenport pulls the clothes off the hook, and they land in a heap on the floor. He frowns, scoops them up and carries them over to the bed. He looks down at himself, brow furrowed, for a good half a minute before he manages to shuck his nightshirt off.
Getting his trousers on proves a bit more complicated. Davenport ends up sitting on the floor and kicking his feet through the leg holes one by one. There's a lot of wiggling and grunts of frustration, and when he finally gets both legs in, he seems uncertain about how to pull them the rest of the way up while he's sitting on the floor. He tries to stand but his feet are still inside the trouser legs, so he stumbles and lands back on his rump. He sits on the floor for a moment, staring at the bumps of his feet through the fabric, frowning.
"Should we, uh, help him?" Arumdina says quietly behind Garl's shoulder.
"Give him a chance," Garl mumbles in reply.
Davenport rolls up the cuffs of his trousers, until his feet poke through. Then he grabs the post at the foot of the bed and hauls himself to his feet a second time. This time his feet are no longer caught, and he pulls up the trousers the rest of the way.
Garl smiles. "Good job."
"Davenport?" comes Lucretia's voice from the kitchen. "Is everything all right in there?" Footsteps approaching.
Garl flicks a finger, and the eggs on the stove begin to smoke. Lucretia swears, and her footsteps retreat again. "Okay, Davenport," he says, "what's next?"
"Davenport," he says, pointing to the shirt that's still rumpled on the bed.
Garl smiles. Davenport pulls the shirt on over his head. There's a bit of arm flailing, but he gets it on without a problem.
The waistcoat is, in theory, the simplest part. But it proves the most challenging. Davenport's manual dexterity has gone out the window with most of his memories. He fumbles with the buttons and only manages to get one through a hole--and the wrong hole, at that--before huffing in frustration and sitting hard on the floor, glowering.
"Hey, you did fine!" says Garl. "See?" He rolls the bedroom mirror so the gnome can see himself reflected. "That's progress."
Davenport's frown gives way to a look of surprise. "Davenport?" he asks, pointing to himself.
"Yeah, bud. That was all you."
He gets to his feet. And then he dashes off to the kitchen to show Lucretia what he's done.
Garl sighs, and drifts back to the Astral Plane.
#
Garl is sitting in a tree in a park in Neverwinter, elbows on knees, chin propped on his interlaced fingers. Davenport and Lucretia sit on a bench below the tree, tossing breadcrumbs to the ducks in the pond. Or, to be fair, Lucretia is feeding the ducks while Davenport stares into the distance, glassy-eyed.
"This doesn't…feel right," he says.
"That's because it isn't funny," says Arumdina. "It never was."
He sighs in tacit agreement.
Garl has pranked his fellow gods since time immemorial. He's pranked kings and high priests and all sorts of stuffed-shirt authority figures. A good dose of humility is good for the proud and the rigid, he's always thought. It keeps people in power grounded, so they don't forget their connection to the people they serve. His own high priests never take themselves too seriously. He makes sure of that.
But this whole mess doesn't sit right with him. It's too much. What's the point of a good ego-deflating prank if the person at the other end can't remember what he did wrong in the first place? Davenport was never a villain, just a good gnome who made a terrible decision. He might have deserved a slice of humble pie, but he didn't deserve to lose the very core of his heart.
All he has left is the golden die. Lucretia let him keep it, as the one possession he had which didn't seem to bring him pain to look at. But he doesn't know what it's for. He recognizes Garl, and seems to understand that the two are connected. But the memories that made that die meaningful to him are gone.
Garl's had his own share of fuck-ups. One doesn't spend eons pulling off bizarre and unexpected schemes without some of them falling out the wrong way. But he hasn't miscalculated this badly in a while.
He's tried to nudge Lucretia again, hoping she might be convinced to inoculate Davenport. But her heart is stone and her path is set, as much as Davenport's had been when he'd dropped the Oculus into the world.
Garl reaches down and touches Davenport’s mind. The well-ordered landscape is gone, replaced by fog and static. Davenport sits in the middle of it, not even bothering to move. He’s charted a few tentative courses through the fog, a few safe paths for his thoughts to travel down. But there’s a gaping hole in his heart where a purpose used to be—a Mission to fight for, a family to lead—and without it, he doesn’t see the point in trying.
“Utirhant,” says Garl.
Davenport winces at a burst of static. He draws his knees up to his chest, curls in on himself.
Garl sighs. He gently brushes away some of the fog in Davenport's mind. He can't restore the missing memories, but he can at least make his emissary a little more lucid, for a time.
“Davenport,” says Garl. "Come on, buddy! Don't just sit there. There's a whole world for you to explore!"
Davenport's ears twitch. Slowly, his distant gaze comes into focus. Garl snaps his finger and an illusory toad appears, hopping through the grass past Davenport's feet. Its deep green backside glitters.
"See that?" says Garl. "It's an emerald toad. Very popular as pets in the forest warrens. When the sunlight hits them, they shine like emeralds!"
Davenport climbs off the bench and follows it, curious. Lucretia looks up from the ducks, keeping an eye on him.
He slips in a patch of mud and faceplants. "Davenport!" he cries, spitting mud out of his mouth.
"Davenport!" Lucretia echoes, running to his side. She helps him into a sitting position and wipes the mud from his face with a handkerchief. "Are you okay?"
"Davenport…" he mumbles, miserable.
Garl winces. "Okay, that didn't quite work out as expected…"
"Maybe we should just get home and get you cleaned up," Lucretia says. She stands up and reaches down to offer him a hand.
The toad leaps out of the grass at her feet. She shrieks and leaps backwards, and her heel slides through the mud and she lands on her rump, splattering mud all over her skirt.
Davenport blinks. And then he chuckles.
Lucretia's face turns red. "That's not funny, Davenport," she grumbles. She reaches up to brush a stray lock of pale hair off her cheek, but her hand is covered in mud and she ends up streaking it across her cheek. "Oh tits."
"Davenport," he replies. And then he lobs a handful of mud at her.
She gasps. He laughs, applauding. Lucretia stares at her captain. Very slowly, as if she can't even believe she's doing this, she scoops up her own handful of mud and says, "Two can play at this game."
The mud hits him in the shoulder. He gasps, looking mock-offended, and then laughs even more loudly. Lucretia grins, smearing more mud on her cheeks in dark swirls, like she's applying makeup. "Mm, yes," she deadpans with heavy gravitas, adding some just above her eyelids. "I will look stunning at the ball tonight."
Davenport falls back into the mud, laughing so hard he's shaking.
"Um," says Arumdina. "Did you set this off?"
Garl scratches his head. "I didn't," he says. "But I like where this is going." He stretches out along the branch, looking down at his emissary. He's never seen Davenport laugh so loudly or so genuinely since he'd arrived on this plane. It's a beautiful sound. Even Lucretia's façade cracks a little and she giggles. "Maybe…"
"You've got that tone in your voice," says Arumdina. "You've got an idea."
Garl rubs his chin. "Look," he says, "I may not be able to fix the Voidfish problem. But…he's not keeping me out anymore, right?"
"I suppose not."
"So!" Garl sits up, smacking his hands together. "If nothing else, I can at least help him find his joy again."
Arumdina is silent for a moment. "Long way to go, just to remember how to smile," she remarks.
Garl doesn't disagree. But it's the best he can do.
#
Davenport has a best friend, whose name is Garl. He can't say Garl's name, and sometimes he can't even remember it. But Garl doesn't seem to mind. He knows who Davenport is, and that's the important part.
Garl is a goofy sort of gnome, always telling jokes and showing him card tricks. Davenport talks to him a lot. Garl is the only person who always knows exactly what Davenport is saying. It's nice to have someone to talk to, who understands him. He loves Lucretia, and she takes care of him, but it's not the same. Davenport doesn't even have to speak out loud for Garl to hear him. Even on his really bad days, when he can barely even get his own name out through the fog in his head, he can whisper in his heart and Garl will hear him.
Lucretia doesn't seem to notice Garl is there. Nobody does. Garl is very sneaky like that. But he's a nice sort of sneaky, so it's okay.
Garl comes with him to the moon base. He's not on the payroll, and he doesn't wear a bracer, but he can go anywhere Davenport can, which is most places on the base. In fact, there's no place Davenport can go where Garl can't find him. It's comforting, in a way. Like there's a door in his heart, and Garl can step through it whenever Davenport needs him.
When Lucretia gives him the dark water to drink, he remembers the Relic Wars. It's an awful thing to remember, and it makes him sick just to think about it. But he knows what he needs to do now. He throws himself all the more into Bureau work, running whatever errands Lucretia asks him to, because he knows he doesn't want the Wars to happen all over again. The Relics need to be found, and destroyed.
Garl is very pleased when Davenport tells him this. Davenport is just happy to be helping. Sometimes he gets a feeling that this is what he was supposed to be doing for a long time now, but his head hurts when he tries to think about that, so he doesn't.
Sometimes Garl leads Davenport around the base, sneaking around to watch other employees. At first, Davenport isn't sure why. But then he watches what his friend does. Whenever tensions run high, Garl sets up a prank (bucket of glitter over the door, laughing powder sprinkled over the morning's muffins, instigating a food fight). And like a magic trick, the tension in the air diffuses.
Davenport picks up on what he needs to do. He might not be able to set up the complicated pranks that his friend does, but he finds his own way to bring cheer when times are tough (and times are often tough around the Bureau). He draws a big smiley face on Maureen Miller's elevator designs. He leaves a care package outside Johann’s door when the bard is having a particularly glum day. He finds Killian and Carey sobbing over the death of Boyland, and he makes them tea and hugs them both and sits with them as they talk out their feelings.
"You're doing great, Davenport," Garl says one night, as they sit out on the grassy quad and watch the stars drift by overhead. "I'm proud of you."
Davenport smiles at him. "Davenport," he says.
#
When the apocalypse comes, Garl is taken off-guard. By the time he retreats to the banquet hall, he and Arumdina are the only ones left. Gaerdal Ironhand's domain, so long the unbreachable defense of the Golden Hills, fell with shocking speed, flooded by black goo which is now seeping everywhere in the celestial planes and pouring into the underground homes of his friends.
"Gaerdal?" he shouts. "Flandal! Is anyone still there?" He spreads his awareness through the Golden Hills, but the gold-tinged trees drip with tar, and the hills are silent.
He curses as the tar sloshes at his feet. Black tendrils reach for him, stretching out of the tar. He draws Arumdina and strikes. The tar doesn't part as he expects. Instead her blade sinks into it and she screams. He pulls her back in horror, yanking with all his divine strength as more tendrils cling to her, trying to drag her back in.
"Get it off, get it off!" she cries.
The last of the tendrils snap and he staggers back, climbing onto the banquet table. "Arumdina, are you all right?" he asks. "Arumdina…?"
"Fuck."
His heart swells at the sound of her voice.
"Ugh, whatever that stuff is, it's cold and it's angry," she says. "Garl, I…"
"It's all right, Arumdina."
"No, Garl, you--this isn't all right! You know I've never turned away from a fight, but this...it's different, in a way I can't explain. I think…if I go in there again, you might lose me. And not just that I might be ripped from your hands." Her voice is faint, and for the first time in all the long millennia he's wielded her, Arumdina sounds scared. "I think I'll be gone."
Garl looks at the axe in his hands, his boon companion, his friend through thick and thin. "Don't worry," he says. And he hefts her over his shoulder, and flings her up into the rafters, where her blade sinks deep into the wood.
"Garl, what the fuck?!"
"It's the end of the world, my dear friend," he says, as gently as he can. "The best I can do is buy you a few extra minutes." He sits down hard on the table and smiles grimly at his flooded banquet hall. "I mucked this one up good, eh? This was what Utirhant was supposed to stop, this was his mission, and I let the Journal-Keeper make him forget." He reaches out to his emissary. The black goo is occluding the connection; he can't pass through to the Prime Material Plane, and it's all he can do to peer through the door in his heart and call Davenport by name.
The gnome peers back, alerted by the sudden pull. He tilts his head, squinting, like he's seeing through frosted glass and can't quite understand what he's looking at.
"Davenport," he begins, but isn't sure what else to say. Trying to remind his emissary of what he's forgotten would only bring him pain, and it would be a futile effort, besides. He opens his mouth to try another route. "Keep your family safe," he says. "I believe in you. Don't forget that, okay?"
Davenport's eyes widen as the wrongness of the situation begins to sink in. "Davenport?!" he cries, voice rising. "Davenport!" He punches his fist against the barrier separating them, but he can't break through.
And then the connection is severed.
#
The die lands on a twenty. Nothing happens.
Davenport picks it up from the floor of his bedroom and rolls again. 16. 4. 11. 17. 6.
Nothing continues to happen.
The whole base is quiet. Lucretia is on edge, her words tight and sharp. He doesn’t know why. There’s a storm in the sky and it makes him uneasy. The grass on the quad is fading and he feels like he should be doing something, but he doesn’t know what.
You’re Davenport…
A feeling in the back of his heart tells him that the die is supposed to do something when it’s rolled. He’s not sure what. Something to do with his gnome friend, the one who's in trouble. Maybe it’ll bring him here.
…and you’re mine…
So he keeps rolling it, over and over, Davenport Davenport Davenport, hoping this dread gray tension will break and something will happen. But nothing happens.
He picks up the die and holds it tight, brings it to his lips. Maybe if he speaks to it, says a prayer? Something about cows.
…and I love you.
He squeezes his eyes shut. Tears slide down his cheeks. He is so, so scared. The door in his heart is open but there’s nobody on the other side.
#
The Reclaimers are back. Davenport goes through his routine, or a sped-up version of it, at least. Lucretia wants the relic now, everything’s happening so fast, and he’s trying extra hard to stay focused while his veins thrum with tension.
He doesn’t know what he can do to fix this. But his gnome friend—Garl, his name is Garl, he remembers that even if he can’t say the name—told him to keep his family safe. So when the man in blue jeans attacks Lucretia (his family, the only family he’s ever known), he leaps to her defense.
And when the world opens up and his memories crash through his brain like a sea breaking through a dam, he holds back a scream and forces himself to focus. He needs to take charge. He needs to protect his family.
#
“This apocalypse sucks,” Arumdina remarks, when the tar begins to churn. “Now what’s happening?”
Garl flicks his hand, and a long dagger appears. Arumdina may be out of the way, but he’s never unarmed. He crouches on the banquet table as the tar coalesces and figures emerge, hardening into beings of shimmering black opal. At least a few dozen, surrounding him. They’re all gnomes, or maybe once were gnomes.
They’re all him.
He sighs. “So that’s how you got through Gaerdal’s defenses,” he says. “You know them like the back of your hand. You know all the weak spots.”
The other Garls glare at him. “Join us,” they say. None of their mouths move, but the words seem to come from all of them at once, vibrating through the tar and the opal.
He shrugs. “Eh, I think I’ll pass. For one thing, the amenities look terrible.”
“You will join us,” they say. “When we find the Light. All will be consumed.”
He laughs. “That’s definitely not me speaking, then. I’m never that dramatic.”
Arumdina snorts. “What’s next? ‘Are you afraid’?”
The figures shift, and one of them steps forward, taking the lead position in the crowd. He draws his own axe and readies it. It’s made of the same black opal, and it is silent.
Garl’s heart cracks a little at the sight.
"Well," he says, readying his dagger. "Perfectly symmetrical violence never helped anything. But if you insist—"
The barrier blocking the Astral Plane cracks open. Garl grins. "Whoops, that's my cue!" he says, and leaps from the table. He lands on top of the lead Garl's head, and uses it as a stepping stone to launch himself into the air, flipping once (just for show) and grabbing Arumdina by the handle. He yanks her out of the beam, and spins once, popping out of his banquet hall in a shower of golden glitter.
He lands hard on the ground outside Goldspur, the largest warren on Faerun. It is well-hidden in the mountains, but there is no hiding from the columns of black tar that pour out of the sky. The gnomes are retreating to the warren tunnels, trying to hide from attackers they cannot see. Bodies already line the streets.
The air is torn open and the rest of the pantheon appears at his side, one by one. Gaerdal gives him a sorrowful look. His armor is dented and scored with clawmarks.
"I could not defend the Golden Hills," he says. "I am sorry, Garl."
Garl nods. "I'm just glad to see you alive, my friend," he says. "Right now, we must defend our people who still live. Then we'll worry about the Hills. Gaerdal, you’re with me. Flandal, circle around and watch Goldspur’s back pass. The rest of you, split up to the other major warrens. Nothing gets past you.”
The other gods nod grimly and vanish, one by one. Gaerdal draws his warhammer and eyes the monsters pouring out of the nearest column of tar. “It’ll be a close one,” he growls.
“There is nothing left but for us to try,” says Garl. “What do you say, Arumdina?”
“I say it’s time to kick the Hunger’s collective fucking ass!”
He grins. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
#
Davenport grips the wheel of the Starblaster and stares at the oncoming Hunger. He can't believe they're doing this. One last-ditch, all-or-nothing attempt to stop the Hunger for good, and if they fail—if they fail—
He can't think about that. He needs to focus.
He glances over the readouts, and only has a split second to mentally brace himself as another wave of memories crashes over him: endless days and nights standing at this very wheel, the times he taught Magnus and Barry how to fly, long nights in the IPRE labs designing the helm, late night joy-rides in experimental aircraft—
He grunts in pain as the memories unspool.
Gods, it was easier on the base when he could just focus on the immediate. But now it's just him and Lucretia in the helm as he weaves between columns of tar—the Hunger hasn't spotted them yet—and the thought of Lucretia sends another shock of memories through his brain, a hundred years of memories of this woman who's changed so much—
A groan escapes him. He pinches the bridge of his nose.
"Davenport?" Lucretia asks.
The sound of her calling his name brings a moment of comfort. But then he remembers where he is, remembers who he is, and the comfort sours into embarrassment. "I'm fine," he growls, and bites his tongue around the words he can't say right now. He rolls the wheel, taking the ship around another column of pouring tar. They're getting close.
"Davenport," a familiar voice calls, through the door in his heart that he'd left open.
He braces himself for another wave of painful memories. But he never forgot Garl Glittergold, not completely, and the things he did forget slide painlessly back into place.
He can feel Garl's smile. It's like a warm light shining on his skin. "My Utirhant," he says. "You remember."
His heart is torn. He wants to laugh, to call out to him in joy, glad that Garl wasn't swallowed by the Hunger. But he also wants to hide from that light, scurrying into shadow like the shameful roach he is. Arrogant, stupid, short-sighted, callous Captain Davenport, who shut out his god and put himself in his place. Who gave form and power to his own selfish temptations and put it out into the world, and let the world burn in it.
He barely dodges another column in time, overwhelmed by the emotions tearing through him. Ten years of not suppressing his feelings has badly eroded his self-discipline, and trying to contain them now is like trying to hold a gallon of water in his hands. His heart won't stop jackhammering his ribs. This was a mistake, he can't do this, the Hunger is going to kill them all and it'll be the end of everything because he can't hold it together! Panic eats away at the edge of his brain, and he thinks he hears static—
"Steady on," says Garl, tapping him on the forehead. "You've got this."
His head clears. The memory of static retreats, and his thoughts snap back into place. He breathes a sigh of relief.
"Garl," he thinks, "I'm so sorry. If I'm going to die doing this—"
He doesn't finish, because a green light passes through him. And he hears the story of Lucretia's journal pass through him a second time, in one painless instant. There's a pause, and then Garl says, softly, with infinite gentleness, "Oh, my Utirhant…"
And then a blue light passes through him, and he hears a Song. The fear in the back of his head melts away. He shifts his weight, hands steadying at the wheel.
He can do this. They can all do this. His crew, his family, fought for this chance for a hundred years, and they're not going to back down now. Afterwards, if they survive, there will be time enough to sort out all the messes they're tangled up in, but right now? Right now, they're going to kick ass.
The Hunger has spotted them. Black tendrils start to converge, on an intercept course with the ship.
"Davenport?" Lucretia asks, warily.
"Not yet," he says. The tendrils draw closer.
"Davenport?" she asks, more sharply, and right now he's so light he doesn't even mind the way she says his name. "Davenport?"
In his heart, he can feel Garl smiling. His patron doesn't even bother nudging him because he doesn't need to. Joy is flooding Davenport's heart, and it's just like that moment in the Streetslicer when the dust parted and he found himself looking straight down at the world from the top of an impossible road. He is where he needs to be, and he is alive.
"Okay, buddy," he says, grinning. "Dance for me."
#
Garl steps away from the connection, focusing on the battle before him. A sizable group of Hungerlings has broken from the column and is heading straight for the pass to Goldspur. "Are you ready, old friend?" he asks Gaerdal.
Gaerdal grunts. "Aye," he says. "And so are they, it seems." He tilts his head to indicate the sound of movement behind them.
Garl glances over his shoulder. A couple hundred gnomes, armed with makeshift weapons and armor, are marching out of the pass. Their faces are set with determination. They're coming to fight.
His old jewel of a heart is warmed at the sight. They've heard the story of seven brave adventurers with a gnome at their lead. A story that told them that they are capable of standing up against the Hunger, just as Captain Davenport did. And they've heard the song, telling them that they can win.
Far overhead, a silver ship goes streaking up into the night. Utirhant is laughing.
Garl closes his eyes. "My people," he says, and though he doesn't shout the words, they hear his voice in their hearts. "May your minds stay sharp and your hearts stay together." And his blessing goes out over them in a wave of golden light.
"And may your armor shield you from all harm," says Gaerdal, adding his own blessing.
From the other side of Goldspur, Garl can hear Flandal's blessing. "And may your weapons never fail you."
"Incoming!" Arumdina shouts, as the air parts before them.
Gaerdal throws himself in front of Garl, hunkering down and holding up his shield as a wave of force slices the air. Gaerdal stays steady, but Garl can tell that the blow is strong. A deep gouge marrs his shield's surface.
A Garl of black opal stands at the head of the horde, his black axe in hand.
"Thank you, my friend," he says, as Gaerdal gets to his feet. "But I think it's me he's after. You take the rest of the horde, I'll lead this one away."
Gaerdal hesitates, but nods.
Garl holds up Arumdina. "Hey you!" she shouts. "Yeah, I'm talking to you, Mr. Shitty Off-brand Garl! For one thing, if you haven't already lost all your street cred with that drab, shitty oil-slick aesthetic, you've definitely lost it when you decided to fight for the Voremaster 3000 up there. So if you think you can stroll into town and just curbstomp your own people, I've got a few words for you! The Stupid Police are here, and you are under fucking arrest!"
And Garl turns his back on his doppelganger, and moons him. And then he runs.
"Ooh, he's after us!" Arumdina calls over his shoulder. "And he's lookin' pissed! Dodge left!"
He rolls to the left as another blow comes, slicing a deep trench in the soft ground. He casts Misdirect and sends a duplicate of himself scurrying in the other direction, continuing to lead Hunger-Garl away from the pass, and turns around to see what he'll do.
His evil double catches up with surprising speed and brings his axe down, slicing through the illusion, which vanishes in a cloud of gold dust. He looks around, and spots the real Garl. He hefts his inert black axe and runs towards him, mouth open in an angry howl.
Interesting. He senses no divine power from this Hunger-Garl; if it's still in there, it's locked away so tight that this creature can't access it. There's no trickery to his attacks, no subtlety. Nothing but monstrous brute force.
"Arumdina," he says, "what do you think? Double Whammy?"
"You think it'll work? Doesn't he know all your strategies?"
He smiles. "Oh, I don't think he'll see this one coming."
She laughs. "Let's do it!"
He swings around, pulls back Arumdina, and lets her fly. Hunger-Garl ducks to the side, easily avoiding her as she goes swinging past. He holds up his hand and she sails back into his grip.
Hunger-Garl lifts his own axe to swing. Garl shifts his stance, preparing to throw Arumdina again—
--when the real Arumdina slams into Hunger-Garl from behind, digging deep into his shoulder. He’s thrown forward, and lands face-first on the ground.
Garl dismisses the fake Arumdina, and the real one pulls herself free and lands comfortably in his hand. “I think we got him!” she says.
“Careful,” he says. He approaches the downed Hunger-Garl cautiously. He’s not dead, but he’s not getting up, either. He reaches down to pick up the black axe.
Hunger-Garl leaps up with the speed of a viper, tearing the axe out of his grip before he can react. He brings up Arumdina to block the blow—Hunger-Garl roars—
The blow doesn’t land. Hunger-Garl looks suddenly at the sky, opalescent eyes wide in shock.
And then, light.
The columns break off from the Hunger, transforming into glittering trees of light that scatter and dissolve through the sky. And the black opal figure before him begins to shimmer. The dark opalescence flakes away as the being inside glows brighter and brighter. And then there is a burst of shimmering golden light, and the darkness is gone, and another Garl stands before him.
He blinks, like he's just stepped out of a cave into bright sunlight. He looks at Arumdina in his hands, shining and golden once more, and then he looks up at Garl of Faerun. His form is already beginning to dissipate into flakes of white light.
He smiles. "Long odds," he says quietly. "Biggest payoffs."
And then he is gone.