He found the tunnel to his house choked with rubble, but was able to struggle through and gain entry. The Red Caps’ hatred of gnomes was apparent in the destruction. Smoke still hung lazily in the underground dwelling, mingling with the stink of excrement. Deglan’s bed was burnt, his stores of herbs as well. The shelves of potions, unguents, salves and liniments had been ripped from the walls, broken into splinters. He had known comfort here. Safety and warmth. He lived and worked in this home, using his craft to heal, ease and sometimes prolong the fleeting life of mortal-kind. There should have been memories in the very walls, phantom feelings of past days echoing in the familiar space, wailing in pain at its degradation. But Deglan was passed all feelings of loss. The memories that returned to him now were not of happier days, but of days before. Days of war and fear and hunger. His body and mind slipped back into the old rhythms with tragic proficiency. There was no more time to mourn. Survival was the only concern.

He salvaged what little he could and tucked the rescued medicines into his satchel. He scavenged in the ruins for warm clothes, taking anything he could find, heedless of the burns in the wool or the reek of goblin piss. The heavy, bronze-bladed cleaver he used for amputations lay in a corner and he snatched it up, a tool of grim purpose now a much needed weapon. As he turned to leave, his eyes fell upon the large nook where Bulge Eye used to sleep. Strangely, it was untouched, free of offal and scorching. Empty.

Deglan passed it without a pang of sorrow.

When he emerged from the tunnel…it was waiting on him. Deglan froze, the instinct to fight or flee as motionless as his feet. If he ran, it would catch him. Maybe not instantly, as they were not exceptionally swift, but it would pursue at its own tireless pace and catch up when Deglan was broken by exhaustion. To fight was ludicrous. It was huge and made of solid iron. Living Iron.

It faced him, the narrow black holes that served as its eyes staring at him and above him and beyond him all at once. The slim limbs of heavy, dark metal hung motionless at its sides, large hands tipped in long fingers. A shabby mantle of raw wool was draped formlessly over its torso, but underneath, the thick plating of its body gave it a powerful frame at shoulder and chest. The legs stuck out from beneath the makeshift cloak and appeared sparer, suggesting agility for all its weight.