Durosh blinked, the fiery drool sizzling where it met the mud. It wasn't vaporizing his roof, not exactly, but it was leaving an unsightly trail of blackened, scorched earth. His eyes narrowed. This wouldn't do. His hut was supposed to be *spotless*. He pushed himself up from his mat, the compacted floor cool beneath his bare feet. He opened the small, circular window with a gentle push. The air, thick with the scent of cosmic destruction, rushed in, making the delicate mud-daubed walls tremble faintly. Outside, the colossal head of the beast filled his field of view, its scales like jagged slabs of obsidian, its pupils blazing with the glare of dying suns. It let out another rumbling growl that rattled the horizon, and another stream of molten plasma dribbled down, landing inches from the plot he had cleared for an herb garden. “Hey! Watch it!” Durosh’s voice, though not loud, cut through the apocalyptic roar with an almost physical presence. The colossal behemoth paused its destructive drooling. Its incandescent eyes focused on the tiny figure standing in the doorway. The beast leaned closer, its snout nudging the hut, sending tremors through the surrounding dirt. A puff of superheated air, smelling faintly of charnel planets and primordial chaos, brushed past Durosh’s face. He could feel the heat, but it didn't burn. It just made him feel… sticky. “Ugh, no, don’t rub your nose on my clean wall. And what’s all this mess?” Durosh sighed, stepping out of the hut. He looked up at the titan, which loomed high enough to blot out the sky. It looked… lonely. And maybe a little confused. “Alright, come here, you overgrown puppy.” Durosh reached out, his hand glowing with an almost imperceptible, gentle light. He ignored the gaping maw, the serrated fangs like stone pillars, and the swirling furnace in its throat. He just saw a creature that needed a good pat. He patted the dragon’s snout. The scales yielded under his touch, feeling smooth like polished river stones. The monster blinked, a low whimper escaping its throat. Durosh, with a casual disregard for all known physics and a complete lack of concern for his own safety, maneuvered himself to Bumbash’s side. He climbed onto one of its forelegs and began to rub its scaly belly, right where the heavy plates met the softer underside. “There you go, big fella. You just need a good scratch, don’t you?” Durosh murmured, his movements surprisingly agile for a man who just wanted a nap. As his hand glided over the hide, the fires in the beast's eyes dimmed, replaced by a drowsy glow. Its tail began to thump against the dirt with the rhythm of a contented, oversized dog. From the edge of a jagged rock formation, half a league away, a figure watched. Vankar, Blade of the Sundered Peaks, renowned Swordmaster of the Ascendant Blade, lay in the dust, battered and bloodied. His relic blade was clutched in a stiff hand, its steel chipped. Barely escaping the wasteland horrors, his stamina spent, he had crawled toward what looked like an oasis—a small earthen hut radiating an aura of tranquil power. Then he saw it. The World-Eater, Bumbash, the dread beast of the Prophecies of Unmaking, being given a belly rub by a man in simple robes. A man who was vigorously scratching the belly of an apocalyptic terror. Bumbash let out a sound that was undeniably a purr, a deep, earth-shaking rumble that vibrated through Vankar's very bones. Vankar's jaw dropped, hitting the dust. His mind, drilled for decades in temple dogma, buckled. A sudden clarity swept away his exhaustion. This was no mirage. This was no mortal. This was… *God*. With a strength born of revelation, Vankar pushed himself up. He stumbled forward, ignoring the throbbing pain in his ribs, the exhaustion in his limbs. He dropped to his knees before the threshold, his blade clattering beside him, and pressed his forehead to the dirt. “Oh, Architect of the Humble Earth! Forgive this unworthy servant! I, Vankar, have journeyed through the desolate plains, seeking power, and I have found it here in your boundless grace!” he cried, prostrating himself against the stone. Durosh, having finished the belly rub and wiping his palms on a clean rag, looked down at the kneeling stranger. Another one? He just wanted to clean up the scorched roof. “Are you alright there, friend? You look a bit roughed up,” Durosh asked, stepping closer to the prostrate man. The beast, meanwhile, had curled up into a compact coil beside the hut, its tail occasionally thumping the dirt as a soft snore rumbled from its throat. The man looked up, his face wild with devotion. “My Lord! To gaze upon you is to be healed! My wounds are nothing before your radiant presence!” Before Durosh could process this dramatic misunderstanding, a glint of white light flared atop a distant crag. A solitary arrow, wrapped in pale golden light, streaked across the sky, arcing straight toward Vankar. “Master, the inquisitors hunt those who seek true enlightenment!” Vankar yelled from the dirt, his eyes locked on Durosh. Durosh merely watched the arrow. It was fast, a silvery streak against the pale sky, but it was heading right for his clean mud hut. Specifically, it was going to hit the corner closest to his planned flowerbed. “Oh, come on,” Durosh muttered. He didn’t even flinch. The arrow struck the mud wall of the hut with a soft *thwack*. Instead of piercing the wall, the shaft snapped and dissolved into sparkling dust. A sharp crack echoed from the distant ridge as the marksman's bow recoiled, exploding into splinters. Vankar, startled by the sound, finally turned around. Seeing the fading glow against the wall, Vankar gasped. “Truly, Master, your abode rebukes their weapons!” He then remembered something. With a frantic scramble, Vankar rummaged through a pouch on his belt, pulling out a crumpled, mud-splattered parchment. He presented it with both hands, bowing his head again. “My Lord, I believe this may be of import. It speaks of a dark, unholy presence, a fortress of unspeakable power that has manifested upon these plains. It… it bears a striking resemblance to your h-humble dwelling.” Durosh took the parchment. It was a bounty poster, crudely drawn but surprisingly detailed. At the top, in bold, stark script, were the words: ‘HIGH ALERT: VOID EMPEROR’S LAIR.’ Below it was a crude sketch: a small earthen shack radiating jagged black tendrils, surrounded by horned figures and skeletal beasts. It was titled, in glaring red letters, ‘THE FORTRESS OF DARK MIRACLES.’ The bounty was listed as 'Continental Obliteration'. Durosh stared at the drawing of his cozy mud hut, depicted as a bastion of evil. He glanced at the real hut, then down at the poster again. Continental Obliteration. And that drawing… those dark tendrils were clearly just the warmth of his home, entirely misunderstood. He just wanted a nice, clean garden, and now his home was a 'Fortress of Dark Miracles' with a continent-ending bounty on its head. He sighed. This was going to be more trouble than he thought.

Belly Rubs and Misguided Devotion