Mrhappyface nodded to the 8 supersmiths and they set down their hammers and walked to the center of the chamber. On top of it was a large wooden chest, and with reverence, the oldest opened it. 100 mugs of pure obsidian lay within. Mrhappyface smiled, for they were part of the reason why so much suffering existed in this region.
A long time ago, there was a dwarven fortress named Weathertwists. It lasted for twenty years, overcoming tragedy and obstacle. And like most dwarven forts, it was a center of industry and drink. The militia was strong and the traps brilliant. Their steel was strong and their smithing legendary. But it was abandoned. No one really knew why, but many whisper that one year, the only things produced were mugs. 100 masterwork mugs of the darkest obsidian, decorated with ivory and steel were set outside the gates. When the caravan came in the summer, the fort was silent and the doors barred. The strange thing was, the doors of the fort were sealed from the inside.
Regardless, Weathertwist's products were still renowned, even half a world away. The goblin overseers and human lords would all claim they had a piece of Weathertwist, be it a battleaxe or a fine statue. But only the highest had the privilege of the obsidian mugs, with their almost abyss like qualities.
This is where it has become ominous. In nearly every town, there had been reports of grizly murders. Decapitated bodies thrown into wells and dried husks drained of blood. No town was safe from such happenigs.
Now there was one village, Breakmasts. It was a quiet farm community, with a small militia of five. It did not know the terrors of goblins, only the occasional kobold thief and bandits. But all things must past into the fold. One night, they all went to sleep as usual, making sure to stay close and indoors to be protected from the horrors of the night. But such petty attempts against greater terrors were futile. The only thing that remained of the villagers in the morning were their arms, each one grasping a ceramic mug. One survivor remained, a small boy named Adol Dayends wandering around with an obsidian mug. For a lonely month, he spent burying the remains with naught a tear in his eye. He knew that they would say it was the work of demons or vampires. His only companion was the mug. Its rim was rounded by spikes of bone, the handle steel, and its body the deepest black, the black of the ocean trenches.
Adol was only 14 and a peasant boy. He knew not how to swing a sword or draw a bow. But he had his father's knife, and that was enough for his quest: To return these unholy boutiques back to Weathertwist, for the gods spoke to him in a dream, that as long as these relics exist, that they would continue to taint the realm.
"What does a mug hold?" was their message.
It was a labor that took many years, for there were still 99 of them left. The first was perhaps the hardest, for he was only a boy with an iron cleaver. The guards of the castle eyed him suspiciouslly, keeping their hands upon hilts. They asked him of his reason for being here, and he replied by saying that he wanted a place to rest. Their dissaprooving scowls turned to oblivious smiles with a few coppers and a silver.
"Don't think we won't keep an eye on you." they said.
Adol simply said nothing and went in. He waited till nightfall, lying in the corner of the courtyard. With the guards stupid from drink and meat, stealth was not a necessity. They weren't that much different from when the cattle had finished grazing, and he past them effortlessly into the center of the keep. He climbed up the staircase on all fours until he reached the topmost hatch. Gingerly, he pushed it open and he crept into the bedroom. He was a portly man, the lord and in his hands laid the prize, identical to the one Adol possesed in his pack. He traversed the room in silence and stopped only when he was a foot away from the noble's slumbering form. Adol reached out and grasped it.
The man's eyes opened, as if the smooth glass was his flesh. Without certainity of the deed, Adol swung the knife. It cleaved through the throat, not too different from when his father did at the slaughterhouse. He gurgled as he died, crimson flowing down through his nightrobes and into the mug. Adol thought he heard a low moan, that of pleasure and pain coming from the mug. But that was just his imagination.
The town was in an uproar the next day. But he has already fled, away and back to his abandoned town. None lived there, not even the kobolds. It was in his old house he kept them, on the table where he once broke bread with his parents and siblings.
And so it continued, with many minor nobles and landowners dead, but with only their precious mugs gone and their wealth untouched. His tale has been lost to time, but it has been said that the creatures of the night have only feared one man.
The creation of the cursed mugs:
In the main hall of Weathertwists, a great mural was enscribed upon a monument of casted obsidian. The monument was shaped into that of a giant mug, 5 stories high. Upon it was shown the creation of those vile gifts...
It began with a tale of doom. The dwarves have dug too deep, but were also prepared for such. When the goblin hordes came, many a dwarf and greenskin met their end. But many were caught alive. The dwarves have created a cube of steel and brass, to honor their god of blood. Within it, there was a grinder of steel blades and those unfortunate enough to be caught by the dwarves were thrown into it. A bloody froth was formed from it, and the waters of the cavern deep kept it in a constant liquid state.
But it was later, when the foretold doom came. The mineral of the gods were taken, and from their prison escaped the demons. But it was not the doom for the dwarves, but for the spawn of the underworld. The blood of the earth mixed with the blood of the enemies from above, encasing the demons in a prison of rock. The dwarves rejoiced upon this.
But then, the god of blood spoke again.
"Give me tokens worth showing to the world. To represent us and our great union!"
The dwarves looked upon what they held most dear, their booze and industry and decided that the mugs, were necessary to sate this lord of all the hells.
From the demon obsidian they took the cup, mined from the deeps. Then the steel handles from the blades that tasted a hundred greenskin flesh. And the ivory, from the creatures of the deepest caverns. The god of blood laughed that day and a lever was pulled.
Now all 100 of Adul's mugs lay in front of him. The others must not know of the mugs' presence, for even the least adept of mages have learned something of them.
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