Legends of the Leftovers

Legends of the Leftovers Every world that has dungeons must, by necessity, have dragons. Every dragon, by tradition, must eventually be slain. And every slaying, of course, must be sung by a bard who conveniently forgets how often the “chosen ones” tripped over their own capes or got stuck in a gelatinous cube. It is a tale as old as ale. Heroes rise, monsters fall, and the kingdom celebrates with an inconvenient amount of trumpets. But what happens after? What happens to the dragon’s corpse lying across three villages and a major trade route? Who scrapes the hydra sludge off the water supply? Who comforts the shepherd whose flock was turned into dire goats by a stray spell? Certainly not the heroes. Heroes are far too busy basking in destiny, kissing royalty, or—most dangerously—founding guilds with names like The Order of Radiant Justice, which sound noble but mostly generate paperwork. The world, however, does not run on prophecies. It runs on people. Blacksmiths. Carpenters. Wizards who failed out of school but still know how to set things on fire (usually by accident). And when those people stumble together into something resembling an adventuring party, legends do not so much “form” as they “trip and collapse.” These are their stories. Meet the Leftovers First, there is Green Toby Dogtooth. Green Toby is an orc with shoulders wide enough to carry an anvil and a personality soft enough to apologize to one if he drops it. Once, he dreamed of being the finest blacksmith in the Northern Reach, hammering out blades for heroes. Unfortunately, heroes are terrible customers. They order legendary weapons and forget to pay, then return a week later to demand “upgrades” because the sword doesn’t sing when unsheathed. Toby, tired of uncollected tabs, finally decided to wield one of his own axes and join an adventuring party. He hoped to find paying work. He mostly found headaches. Then comes Broken Sparkles. Do not ask how the gnome druid acquired this name. It involves a stag, a bottle of enchanted glitter, and three separate guild lawsuits. What matters is that Sparkles has two great talents: communing with nature and tanning nature’s remains into oddly fashionable coats. He is both healer and tanner, preservationist and predator, often at the same time. If you find him crouched over a dying boar, he is as likely to weep for it as he is to measure its hide for boots. Next, The Mason. That is not his real name, of course. Elves have impossibly long titles that sound like poetry choked by philosophy. Nobody has the patience. So, he is called the Mason because he is, quite literally, a mason. And a carpenter. And occasionally a fighter, though his sword strokes suspiciously resemble a man leveling a beam. He has spent decades perfecting the art of building things that last. He often wonders why he is traveling with people dedicated to destroying them. Finally, we have Gable Doper. A wizard. Sort of. He attended the Grand Academy of Arcane Arts for three whole years before being asked, politely, to never return. Gable is a man of theory, not practice. His greatest magical invention thus far has been a potion that makes cabbages explode. His second-greatest invention is the ability to make excuses fast enough to avoid jail. Though a dropout, Gable insists that his destiny lies in wizardry. Everyone else insists his destiny lies in fire insurance. Together, these four form an adventuring party. Not the heroes. Not the champions. But the people who come after, mop in one hand, weapon in the other. They are the Leftovers. The World They Inherit The kingdom of Ellorath is a place of marvels. Floating towers scrape the clouds, while sunken cities whisper from the depths. Forests move of their own accord, and deserts breathe with ancient magic. But in every corner, the echo of heroes reverberates. Heroes topple liches, but leave armies of skeletons wandering

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