“Is there a problem, Gerith?” the warforged asked.
“Of course there’s a problem,” the halfling said with an irritated frown. “You’re making my job way more difficult than it needs to be.”
“Difficult?” Omax asked, peering about himself in confusion. “What do you mean? What am I making difficult?”
Blizzard landed on top of a nearby post with a leather snap of wings. The glidewing shifted from foot to foot, making himself comfortable, and settled in to patiently watch his master.
“I’m here looking for stories, Omax,” Gerith said, mildly exasperated. “I’m always looking for stories, so I can finally find the best one. That one unique story that my grandfather’s never heard. Look at all these people, all going interesting places, coming from interesting places, doing interesting things. They must have stories, but none of them are going to talk to me or let me overhear anything interesting with you looming around like that.”
“Looming,” the warforged said, tilting his head. “I was unaware that I loom. Shall I endeavor to cease looming?”
Gerith blinked. “Now you’re making fun of me.”
“Certainly not,” the warforged said.
“You know what I mean,” Gerith said. “You can’t help it. The Host knows you’re a decent and honorable soul, Omax, but you were built to scare people. You are an intimidating person. Just look around us.” Gerith gestured vaguely.
Omax looked over one shoulder compliantly. He was not surprised to find the crowded, busy dock had left avoid for a safe distance around him. “Not unusual,” he said, tracing a finger along the jagged scars on his chest. “The presence of a warforged fails to inspire trust in all but the most forgiving and sympathetic souls. It is a simple fact of my existence, and not a stereotype that is entirely unjust.”
Blizzard suddenly dove from his perch with a triumphant caw, disappearing over the side of the dock with a splash. The glidewing soared back up seconds later, clutching a struggling fish in its beak. The creature settled back on its perch and shook the water from broad wings, eliciting some muffled curses from startled passersby. Blizzard pinned his catch beneath one talon and began pecking at it contentedly.
“Doesn’t that ever bother you?” Gerith asked, ignoring the familiar display.
The warforged looked at the halfling, his shimmering eyes questioning.
“That people assume you’re a killer,” Gerith said.
“I am accustomed to it,” Omax said. “It was, in fact, what I was built to be. I am not without blood on my hands.”
“I don’t think it’s right,” Gerith said. “The same thing happens to me. Outsiders look at me and assume I’m a thief and a troublemaker because I’m from the Plains.” He looked at the water, thinking for a long moment.
“You are a troublemaker,” Omax observed. “You exult in it.”
“But I’m not a thief!” Gerith protested. “Not for weeks. It’s unfair.”
“In your case, perhaps arguably,” Omax said. “But why should people not fear me? Though I avoid violence, it comes easily to my kind. Why should they not assume I am a danger to them? It is safer for them to assume I mean harm, considering the ease with which I could inflict violence upon them.”
“That isn’t the sort of person you are,” Gerith said.
“Not of late,” Omax answered, returning his attention to his injuries. “I have earned some measure of trust from you and from the rest of my friends on Karia Naille, and I treasure that. Yet it would be all too easy for me to revert to the monster I once was.”
“Are you saying that warforged are inherently evil?” Gerith asked.
“I am not sure what ‘evil’ is,” Omax said. “I do not believe there is any value in such an arbitrary designation. What seems evil in one instance may be quite heroic in another. Marth does not consider himself evil. He clearly sees himself as a patriot, and those who follow him believe they still serve my dead homeland. Yet to us, their actions are obviously flawed and destructive. We, on the other hand, have committed crimes and taken lives to stop him. Does that make us heroes?”
“You’re talking about laws now,” Gerith said. “Laws don’t count when they get in the way of what’s right.”
“A thin distinction,” Omax said.
“Laws are what other people tell us to do,” Gerith said. “Other people don’t always know what’s right.”
“And how do we know what’s right?” Omax said.
“It comes naturally,” Gerith answered.
“And here is what comes naturally to me,” Omax said. He opened a broad, three-fingered hand and held it before Gerith’s face. “These hands can crush bone and tear metal, Gerith. I do not rest, do not tire, and can struggle on when my enemies have long succumbed to exhaustion. I have been given the tools to function as an efficient war machine, a living weapon to kill mortals. I was trained and encouraged to surrender to my violent urges. It is not what I aspire to be, but it is what comes naturally to me. It would be easy for me to be a monster, Gerith. Very easy. Does that make me ‘evil?’ Or does it grant my struggle to do what is ‘right’ greater value?”
Gerith shivered. “I think I want to talk about something else now.”
“Very well,” the warforged said, unperturbed.
The glidewing squawked happily and threw a stringy chunk of fish guts over his shoulder. The glidewing seemed to be aiming the entrails into the crowd.
“You look injured,” Gerith said, nodding at the dents and cuts that marked Omax’s chest.
“I am somewhat damaged,” the warforged said quietly. “It is nothing.”
“I thought Dalan had commissioned the Cannith thinkers to repair you,” Gerith said.
“I do not trust them,” the warforged said. “I would prefer to wait until Tristam has the time to do so himself.”
“And he hasn’t?” Gerith asked.
“He has done his best,” Omax said. “I have taken a considerable amount of damage in a short period. Given time, I do not doubt Tristam could fully repair my wounds. Warforged were designed to work in tandem with artificers such as Tristam. Their magic naturally boosts, heals, and sustains us-and Tristam is far more skilled than most artificers I have known. Yet I do not wish to tax his abilities when we need him focused on our quest.”
“That’s ridiculous, Omax,” Gerith said. “We need you in good shape.”
“Why am I needed so badly?” Omax asked.
The halfling looked surprised. “You’re the strongest.”
The warforged chuckled.
“What are you laughing at?” the halfling asked, brow furrowing in irritation.
“Nothing,” Omax said. “I was recalling a conversation I had with Seren. Do not worry about me, Gerith. I shall ask Tristam for aid when the time is right. We have a long trip ahead. There will be ample opportunity.”
“Good,” Gerith said. “We don’t need you falling apart on us, or breaking down, or dying, or whatever.” The halfling looked puzzled. “Do warforged die? I mean, if you fall apart, can you be fixed? Or do you die just like living people do?”
“Like living people?” Omax said.
“You know what I mean,” Gerith said. “I’m not trying to say you aren’t alive.”
“I did not take it that way at all,” Omax said. “I just found it somewhat amusing that you judge the finality of death as a gauge of legitimate life. Eberron’s history is peppered with individuals who prospered long after they should have been dead, and that is without even considering magic, which blurs all lines.”