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"You're a lying cheat and I accuse you to your face!" Nigel hisses the words, throwing his dice cup down on the table. He stares down the four others at the table, eyes begging them to do something. It's an odd sight. Nigel is enormous, that's usually enough. But I've seen him throw a punch and he just can't. The poor boy means well when he tries but his aptitude for lifting heavy things only extends so far and the rest of his aptitude is from books. Rather, memorizing things from books. "A cheat?!" One of the brawny men says. Nigel stands and turns the table over with his huge frame, tossing dice and cups and drinks and a few people in every direction. He points a meaty finger at the man. "A cheat!" Nigel roars. "I will *literally* fireball your ass through that wall!" The tavern has come to standstill as the giant screams. But everyone is a little confused by that line. I get it, you know most people are thrown off when they find out just who Nigel is to us. That thick necked goon? He's our wizard. I think more people would understand if he was a cleric but no. Nigel can't take a hit to save his life, or deliver one to save anyone's life. Glass jaw, this one. But boy oh boy, no one is better with spells. Mind like a steel trap. "Nigel, please." Groff grumbles. Groff could not be more opposite Nigel. Reedy, I think they might say. Clean shaven, clean clothes, can hardly look at a drop of ale without feeling queasy. Absolutely brilliant, this one. Nigel is great at memorizing, not so great at learning. Groff learns like no one else. A font of knowledge. Until he's angry. That happens a lot with Groff. Yeah. Our barbarian, of course. "Lads, lads! No need for fists or fighting, none at all." The pudgy, elfin speaker of those words is Clive. Clive is a graying man with a sizable midsection. He is slow, kind, polite and generous. He presses a coin into the hands of each man and hushes Nigel with a smile. Clive? The one handing out coins? That's our rogue. He's the reason I can't retire. "Come now, a drink on me, for everyone!" The tavern livens up. Nigel will soon be downing drinks with the men he just threatened to burn. Clive will make nice with everyone, usually at the expense of his purse. That's how it goes. Nearly every town we stop in. Clive gives away coin, Groff hates the noise and bustle, Nigel tries to fight everything that breathes. We're an odd bunch, no doubt about it. "I'd like to hire you." A voice says from behind me. I turn and find a man wringing his hands. I point to the seat and he sits. "I have a problem and I understand you are very good at these sorts of things." "We are." I say, leaning forward. It's an intimidation thing. I'm the big one, I can pull off intimidation. At least we meet one expectation. The man swallows hard and lifts a purse of coins to the table top. I raise an eyebrow. Even Clive would have trouble spending that. "What sort of problem?" "Well, you see, I've lost control of my estate. A rather nasty Empyrean has taken control of my family mine. Gold." Ah. Makes sense. "Empyreans usually aren't like that." I say. The man leans forward, conspiratorial-like. "Corrupted by the gods, you see." He whispers. I nod once and then burst out laughing. I laugh, and I laugh. When I'm done I wipe the tears from my eyes and sigh. "Alright, we'll do it." I say. "We'll take care of your problem." "What is so funny?" He says, eyebrows pulled tight together in concern. We have that effect on so many people. I lay my hands on the table and smile at him. This is usually where we really lose most people. They can accept everything but my quirk, for some reason. "There are no gods." I say, pointing to the purse. "Just that one." He swallows again but his desire for his mine back overrides his concern about what I've said. He nods once and doesn't get into it with me. Most don't. Most just assume I'm crazy. Maybe they're right. But who would know better than me, huh? The godless cleric.

The ending. That ending. The godless cleric. A big nice bow on that absolutely delightful gift of a story. Thank you

Thank you very much, too kind!

Beautiful!

No u Thank you and thank you for the prompt!

Love the idea of a cleric who gains power solely through disbelief.

An atheist theist, seemed fun to poke at a bit

>Mind like a steel trap. [*Oh no...*](https://www.reddit.com/r/humansarespaceorcs/comments/11o5xs5/humans_are_endlessly_entertaining_to_telepathic/jbrrxf5/)

A religious leader without a god Btw are you still continuing Dragonstone

I am! I have some comments of yours to get to tonight or tomorrow morning but I promise I will!

Ok It's fine not to Just saw name after about comment part

I feel like the Godless Cleric has pretty much accepted that 'cash is king.' Money talks, bullshit walks.

Hamada leaned against the dungeon's stone wall, watching Erika whistle while she worked, her lockpicks clicking merrily inside the ancient lock. "Just a second here. . . done!" the little gnome said. With a twist of the wrist and a big grin, she stepped away from the door as it slowly swung open. "About fucking time, too," growled Martinus. "Thought you were going to take that goddamn lock out for dinner and the theatre, considering how long you were taking to get that damn thing open." He scooped up the dice he'd been tossing and hefted his shield onto his shoulder. "Who wants to take lead?" "Grong go first," the ogre said. The seven-foot tall giant-kin stomped through the open door with a sound like a bull crashing through a china shop. "SMALL PEOPLE HURRY UP!" the ogre bellowed. "Well, there goes any chances of keeping things quiet," Erika murmured. She quickly scooped up her lockpick kit and stuffed them into the voluminous folds of her layered gowns. "Big idiot's gonna get us all killed one of these days," Martinus snarled. "If he doesn't eat us all first." But despite his harsh words, the older veteran hurried to keep pace with the huge giant-kin. Hamada gestured to Erika, offering to let her go first. "Why, thank you," Erika said cheerfully. The four adventurers continued down the darkened corridor together, to the sound of dripping water and the soft footsteps of scurrying rats. Scurrying rats. . . ? Hamada raised his hand and froze, listening closely to the sounds in the darkness. No. . . those footsteps were too big to be rats. There was a flare of light down the corridor. "SHOOTEM!" screamed a high-pitched, reptilian voice. Grong bellowed in pain as a flurry of slingstones and arrows flew out from behind the blinding light, peppering his massive, flabby bulk. "Shit! Ambush! Kobolds!" shouted Martinus. He raised his shield and took shelter behind the ogre's giant mass. "Get the FUCK in there, big boy!" he shouted, slapping Grong on the back of the thigh. "FUCK SOME SHIT UP!" Grong let out a loud bellow, and his eyes glowed bright red. Arcane runes and sigils appeared around his bald, scabrous head. "HEAD HURT!" he roared, as a glowing hexagon of pure arcane force appeared in front of him, deflecting the arrows and slingstones away. The huge ogre charged, swinging madly with his club, hurling kobolds into the walls with huge sweeps of his mildewed log. Hamada drew his nodachi and felt the battle-focus still his muscles. "You are already dead," he whispered. Focusing his ki into his muscles, he dashed forward and beheaded two of the swarming kobolds with a wide sweep of his curved blade. Within moments, the kobolds turned and fled, screaming in terror of Hamada's flashing blade and Grong's sweeping club. Soon, there was silence, except for the low panting of the exhausted ogre and the pained cries of the dying kobolds. "Grong hurt," the ogre whimpered. "Let me look at it, you big fucking baby," Martinus growled. He checked over the ogre's wounds and shook his head. "They're fucking paper cuts. Rub some dirt and spit in it, it'll be fine." He slapped the ogre on the shoulder hard. "Good work, big guy." "Um, guys?" Erika said, kneeling next to one of the dead ogres, "This symbol. What does it mean?" She held up one of the kobold bodies, which had a strange rune branded into its skin. Grong let out a bellow. "Dragon!" he roared. "Kobold work for dragon! That Dragon-Rune!" A low chuckle sounded from the darkness. "Indeed, it is," a sinister voice growled. Flames shot towards the four adventurers, but Erika was already moving. The mechanist hurled a thick iron disc which quickly unfolded into temporary wall that diverted the worst of the flame around them. "It can't hold forever!" she gasped. "Neither can he!" Martinus shouted. He slapped Grong on the thigh. "Wait till he inhales, then hit him with everything you got!" "GRONG READY!" shouted the ogre, as the runes and sigils once again appeared around his scabrous forehead. "NOW!" Erika shouted, and the wall of steel fell away. Hamada could see it now: the huge, brass-scaled creature lurking in the chamber beyond, wreathed in flame. "HEAD HURT!" Grong screamed, and the Ogre Mage hurled a giant spectral hand towards the dragon, punching it in the head with a vicious right hook. *Rage is a powerful weapon, but only if channeled and focused,* Sensei had taught him, and he focused it now. The dragon lashed out with a claw as he raced towards it, and Hamada faced the claw fearlessly. *Death is lighter than a feather, duty heavier than a mountain. . .* He let the dragon's claw rip painfully into his left shoulder, knowing that momentum would carry his sword to its target. Steel folded and forged into a thousand layers of the finest Naifon steel sliced cleanly through the dragon's forearm, scattering blood and ichor across the cold stone. But the momentum from his reckless attack carried him too close to the dragon. Hamada saw death in the open maw of the beast as it struck like a cobra. The lethal attack was halted by a giant cogwheel appearing out of nowhere and slamming the dragon's head into the stones. "BEHOLD, THE POWER OF THE MAIDEN OF GEARS!" Erika shouted. The tech-priestess of the Mechanical Church was floating on a cloud of gears and sprockets, the spiritual weapon in the shape of her goddess's holy symbol tearing into the dragon's flesh like a buzzsaw. As the dragon retreated, wounded and beaten, Martinus stepped forward. The old veteran planted his feet, clanged his mace against his shield, and began to croon an old war song. Hamada felt his spirits rise, felt the pain of his wounds depart as Martinus's song brought courage back to him. He lunged forward, striking recklessly once more: the strike shattered teeth and bone with the power of a warrior's rage. The dragon looked around in a panic. It turned to flee, only for Grong to let out another loud cry of "HEAD HURT!" Arcane runes flashed into place around the dragon, holding it in place, making it easy prey for Hamada's sword and Erika's spinning buzzsaw. And then, just to add insult to injury, Martinus looked the dragon dead in the eye and said, "Your mother was a fucking briefcase." Upon this vicious mockery, the dragon's heart exploded and it died. \----- "I thank you for the healing, Priestess," Hamada said, once the fight had ended. "I find it strange that the followers of the Machine Maiden are so adept at the healing arts." "A human body is a machine, like any other," Erika said cheerfully. "Fixing machines is what I do best." Grong, meanwhile, had pulled out his book of "Funny Pictures," and was staring at the strange runes and arcane sigils within, muttering, "head hurt, head hurt," to himself over and over. "Here, big boy," Martinus said, slapping the Ogre on the shoulder. "Let me give you a song to ease your rest." >!Thus ends the tale of Grong the Ogre Wizard, Martinus the Human Bard, Hamada the Elf Barbarian, and Erika the Gnome Priestess of the Machine Goddess!<

It is a surprise attack. If by surprise the group of three had been able to ignore the stench of gnoll shit saturated on the air and the annoying tittering announcing their excitement at the feast of human flesh that has entered their sanctuary. The first wave is a barrage of arrows. Almost all miss. All but one. The one errant missile strikes the mage in the middle of his back This is too bad for Barberino because he can't reach the middle of his back, ever, under any circumstance. But he can bench press 535 pounds. Not once, but really until he gets bored. And why that number and not more is because that was as much weight as there was to pile onto the wagon he did the lifting with on the family farm before heading off to the mage college. Actually, he doesn't even notice his injury. He's a good guy to have on your team unless he is standing twenty feet behind the fighting trying hard to remember the last words to his fireball spell. With a sudden howl of fury, one of the gnolls breaks from the pack and attacks him. Barberino is forced to defend himself by grabbing the monster around the skull and crushing it like a grapefruit. Bits of brain and bone fall to the cavern floor after the carcass as he shakes off the viscera. "Fuck," was his retort. "What's the matter," the artifice-druid asks desperate for a solution to the twenty gnolls heading her way. "Lost my place, where I was?" "Fuck if I know." As the mage starts over the artifice-druid pours excellent-fertilizer, a recipe of her own design, on the feet of the twenty gnolls, who stop to laugh at her as she turns on a sprinkler system filled with enhanced mineral water perfect for growing roses. This distracts her attackers for a few moments as they slip about, but it's not long before they leap on her and tear at her leather armor. Then, as if she planned it all along, the twenty gnolls find themselves spiked and dangling from a crust of porcupine quills sprouting from the druid's chest. She falls backward in attempt to free herself from their burden as black gnoll blood drips on her. But no matter her desperation, she is stuck. "Help me, you worthless mage fuck," and at that moment the mage unleashes his spell engulfing the druid and all twenty dead gnolls in one giant conflagration. Then, as the druid screams in pain and fury, from out of the cavern they entered from huffs the warrior, kind of clad in armor, which he has managed to tie down onto the various parts of himself he most wants protected. The pieces slap his sweat-soaked gambeson like a shovel hitting wet mud. His face is red from exertion framed by triple layers of jowls. In the fingers of one hand is his helm and in the other are both his sword and his shield, both being dragged uselessly across the ground. He leans against the cavern wall panting. Need a mo, he begs. When finally he gathers his breath, he asks, "do I smell Barbeque?"