“And you, little fella, are definitely not allowed on the porch.”
Durosh lifted his boot, then brought it down. A faint, wet *squelch* issued from beneath his heel, followed by a final, reedy shriek that abruptly cut off. The crushed remnant of the theocratic parasite was now nothing but a smear of iridescent grime on the rich, dark soil of his front yard. Durosh frowned, then used the tip of his other boot to carefully scrape the residue off, depositing it onto a nearby stone. It wouldn’t do to track that into the house. Or, worse, ruin the pristine earth.
He glanced up. The grand armada from the Sun-Spire, now reduced to wreckage and a shower of harmless dust, was a memory. The air, once thick with acrid magic and the stench of arrogance, now carried only the clean scent of damp earth and the faint aroma of the tea Vankar had brewed. Above, the sky stretched in clear azure, save for the hundreds of captured temple soldiers slowly descending in Vankar’s expansive wind-net, each dangling like an unarmored doll caught in an invisible cradle.
Vankar, standing beside the porch, caught Durosh’s eye. The legendary swordmaster’s normally grave face held a look of profound, almost tearful relief. He clutched the Sun-Core to his chest, its stolen radiance now a placid, comforting warmth. Bumbash, having shrunk back to puppy-size, was busy nudging a particularly bewildered knight who had drifted too close to a clump of rare Yalutian night-blossoms, herding him back into the safety of the wind-net with soft, rumbling growls.
The wind-net settled with a barely audible *thump* a few dozen paces from the mud hut. Hundreds of temple warriors, clad only in their undergarments, spilled out, scrambling to regain their footing on the surprisingly soft grass. Their faces, previously etched with fanaticism, now displayed a range of emotions: disbelief, terror, shame, and, most prominently, utter bewilderment.
Then, one of them, a burly man with a distinctive scar across his brow, slowly straightened. His gaze found Durosh, standing calmly by his mud hut, wiping his boot on a patch of grass. The scarred soldier dropped to his knees, his voice hoarse. “The Void Emperor… the… the Great Cleanser… you have delivered us from the False Light!”
Others quickly followed, a ripple of understanding spreading through the crowd. Knees hit the ground with soft *thuds*. Soon, every surviving member of the theocracy's elite guard prostrated themselves before Durosh, foreheads pressed into loam. A murmur began, growing into a unified chant: “All hail the Cleanser! All hail our True Lord!”
Durosh blinked. He looked at Vankar. Vankar offered a sympathetic shrug. This was getting tiresome.
“Oh, for the love of… not again,” Durosh muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. He had just cleaned up the sky, his yard, and the last of that Pontiff’s mess. Now this. He valued his peace. And his quiet. This was not quiet.
He walked off the porch, his bare feet sinking slightly into the soft earth. The kneeling soldiers flinched as he approached, pressing trembling palms into the soil. He stopped before the scarred man, who was trembling visibly.
“Get up,” Durosh commanded, his voice devoid of anger, but carrying an absolute, undeniable authority. The man scrambled to his feet, staring.
“My… my Lord?” he stammered.
“Lord, shmord. Look around.” Durosh gestured vaguely at the scattered debris from the former fleet, the newly churned earth, the few singed patches where stray holy fire had touched down before his intervention. “This place is a mess. My flowers are still settling. And frankly, your ‘Holy Cleansing’ ritual was quite inconsiderate to the local ecosystem.”
The soldier looked around, then back at Durosh, utterly lost. “We… we are your servants. Command us, O Cleanser! Shall we raze the Shard-Plains in your name?”
Durosh sighed. “No. You’re going to clean this up. All of it.” He held out his hand. From the side of the mud hut, a broom, a shovel, and a rake seemed to materialize, hovering gently before him. He plucked the broom from the air and shoved it into the scarred man's hands. “Here. Start sweeping up these dust motes. They’ll track into the house if you’re not careful.”
The man stared at the broom like it was a relic of an unknown, terrifying civilization. “A… a broom, my Lord?”
“Yes, a broom. And you,” Durosh pointed to another soldier, who instantly snapped to attention, “you get the shovel. See that pile of Sun-Core dust over there? I want it spread evenly. Good for the soil, but too much in one spot will make the petunias droop.” He continued distributing tools, assigning tasks with the same casual authority he might use to tell Bumbash to ‘sit’.
“The Shard-Plains’ surface needs to be re-aerated. The displaced earth needs to be returned. And those blasted holy wards you people left everywhere? Dig them up. They’re interfering with the natural ley lines. I need this whole area back to its pristine state. And don’t even *think* about missing a spot. I’ll know.”
The captured crusaders, who had once commanded armies and scoured continents, now stood empty-handed. They looked at each other, then at the bizarre tools in their hands, then at Durosh, whose serene gaze promised untold, mundane horrors if they failed. With a collective, bewildered shrug, they began their new divine mission: yard work.
Hours passed. The fallen crusaders, under Durosh’s surprisingly strict guidance, meticulously swept dust, raked soil, and painstakingly replanted patches of grass. Bumbash, enjoying the sudden influx of activity, napped contentedly in a freshly dug patch of earth, occasionally letting out a low rumble that made the laborers work with renewed, frantic vigor. Vankar, watching from the porch, simply smiled, a profound calm settling over him. He poured Durosh another cup of mud-filtered tea.
“They’re… surprisingly efficient,” Vankar observed, taking a sip of his own tea. The Sun-Core, now radiating a soft, golden warmth, rested peacefully beside him.
Durosh nodded, leaning back in his rickety wooden chair. “It’s the discipline. Useful for something, I suppose. Just wish they’d been this efficient at *not* trying to vaporize my continent.” He took a slow sip, enjoying the quiet. The rhythmic scraping of shovels, the soft swish of brooms, and the distant, muffled grunts of men struggling with stubborn clumps of dirt were far more soothing than the cacophony of holy fire and fanaticism.
He watched as the scarred leader carefully smoothed out a patch of soil, his brow furrowed in concentration. The man, who had once boasted of conquering entire regions, now looked like a dedicated gardener. Durosh felt a rare, almost imperceptible sense of satisfaction. His home was safe. His plants were safe. And the future looked… gloriously mundane.
Just then, a ripple ran through the air in the far distance, near the jagged, obsidian peaks of the Sky-Tooth Mountains. A tear in reality opened, shimmering with an otherworldly, cerulean light. From within its depths, the faint outlines of something vast and unknown began to coalesce, suggesting a new, potent presence.
Durosh glanced at it, then back at his tea. He pulled the brim of his straw hat down, covering his eyes. “Wake me for dinner, Vankar,” he murmured, his voice drifting off into a soft snore. The nascent portal, the harbinger of whatever fresh chaos awaited, simply hummed in the distance, utterly ignored.