There’s no way that this force can be beaten. At least by anything mortal that I can think of…except maybe Imperial war mages. Or another god of combat oriented domains.
They are impressive. What about my body?
It’s going to take time, I've told you this. You can't rush perfection. I assume you don’t want to be trapped in a gem during that time?
Of course not!
Then you’ll have to be patient. All good things come in time. Any cosmetic changes you want?
Well, maybe you can give me some flattering proportions...
He spent some time with Vythin converting some buildings to school-houses, and putting together a standardized curriculum for children by age. He took the liberty of contacting academies and mage colleges to notify them to send evaluators each year. And, before the first of Shine Season came about, he went to Valleyhome and delivered the letter to Hanslow’s wife. He included a pouch with a large amount of dreks courtesy of the god of wealth. She seemed to take the news relatively well, "The life of a mercenary is dangerous. Thank you," was all she said to him. Slate could not help but feel a twinge of sadness for her. He invited her to Bastion, but she simply closed the door in his face.
He returned to Bastion and welcomed the new citizenry as they arrived. Along with his fellow gods, he was quite busy - barely having any time to himself in his workshop. Inundated with requests for miracles to be performed, instructing individuals in how to be teachers, and organizing a schooling system; Slate found himself quite occupied. Which suited him just fine. Some time passed and Slate took to an eclectic routine to constantly keeping his followers guessing as to where he was and what he was up to, leaving several clues to help sharpen their investigative skills. As he was skulking down an alley, a voice came up behind him.
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"Excuse me! Professor!"
Slate turned around and this young human man, no more than twenty, ran up to him. He was bedecked in traveler's gear with a large pack on his back. The man halted and leaned over for a few moments drawing in gulping breaths before rising up and slicking back his medium-length brown hair. "Thanks for stopping. You're tough to find."
Slate nodded, "And you wanted to see me because?"
The man shrugged, "Delivering a message." He held out an envelope which Slate grabbed. He opened it and found a strange message;
Slate,
You have no doubt heard of me. I have heard of you. I want to meet you. The balance of cosmic forces are at stake. Meet me at midnight at Saint's Hold, in the Conflux of Creation, on the darkest night of the year.
Arglenaut, Prince of The Dark Moon
He looked back up and the young man stood there - a blank expression on his face. As he began to open his mouth to ask a question the letter in his grip dissolved into a black sludge that he shook off. It plopped onto the ground before dissolving away. He glanced up once more and the young man seemed to have come to his senses.
"Where...where am I? Who are you?" he asked in a near-panicked state.
Slate held up his hands, "Calm down. You're in Bastion. What's the last thing you remember?"
"I...I was in Lliot running an errand. How did I get here?"
Slate shrugged, "Beats me. Here," he pulled out a handful of dreks and gave them to the young man. "Go to the main thoroughfare. Ask any of the folks in tabards to point you to the gate, and you'll find a portal back home."
The man, still confused, nodded and urgently walked back down the alley.
Would you look at that? A meeting with a Demon Prince. You must be making waves with this whole 'war against Umbra' thing, his passenger commented.
Apparently so. What do you make of it?
Demons are capricious by nature - well, most of us. It could be he is working for Umbra and wants to get you alone to kill you. If I was to wager, I'd say that Arglenaut is making a power play for his own benefit.
Interesting...Slate rubbed his beard as he walked down the alley, back into the neat, organized corridors of Bastion's streets.