Bobbing on the Ambivalensea

Lo, it feels to have been a veritable Age since we last cast Our Eye in the direction of Our Hero, and the Mists of Time have since crept in, veiling much that was once clear. But a few vignettes are still visible through the murk.
 
There he stands, the Serendipitous Riddlefist, his flute bloodied, lightning crackling from his eyes, over the fallen “Crownsguard” who thought to assassinate him as he innocently relieved himself. Apparently they have learned the error of their ways! The Riddlefist sees all!
 
But what's this? It seems the impostors were in league with the Hunger, if one believes the sole living remnant of their murderous band. Oh well, these misunderstandings oft occur when meeting new folk in the Wilds, a fact with which the survivor seems well-acquainted, for he agrees to let bygones be bygones and to lead Squoan & Co. to Kornan Rinsae after only the mildest of shakings (courtesy of Sarett) and some bloody flute brandishing performed more for form's sake than anything, really. Hardly necessary when dealing with an amiable fellow such as the Philosophical Pseudoguard, or PP for short (his name being one of those details shrouded by the Mists, although it is quite possible that Squoan neglected to ask for it; nay, more than possible, it is both likely and eminently understandable considering how many plates Our Hero had spinning at the time; it's remarkable that he remembers his own name when you look at it that way). No, make that Pepe.
 
Next we see Pepe leading Squoan & Co. to a hollow tree which opens to reveal a staircase leading down to a magical underground lair. There, Our Hero comes face to face with Kornan himself. Having come to suspect that he is being manipulated by the Ruby Queen, his trusting nature exploited for nefarious purposes as may have happened once in the past, the Riddlefist offers to aid the Hunger in their struggle against persecution if Kornan, in return, offers his word that the Hunger will not abandon him should the safety of Eraiel Othcalt (Squoan's mentor, recently freed from the Barracks and now under the “protection” of the Ruby Queen) be threatened as a consequence of Squoan's high-mindedness. Kornan agrees, and expresses a need for the explosive powder Chromite.
 
Which gives Our Hero enough pause that his first action upon returning to Orham is to seek the advice of Hayn Enterett, for it would be tragic if such destructive force fell into the wrong hands. See, there he is entering the Wolf's Maw once more, disguised as one of the Racist Gnome Miners who populate its depths, their souls as cramped and benighted as the warrens in which they toil. We can see on his face as he descends into darkness that Squoan is doing his best to separate the Playas from the Game, so as not to hold the former entirely accountable for the latter's sins, and to recognize that these RGMs are a product of their environment, but it is also apparent from the indignant quivering of his moustache that his efforts are yielding mixed results. His relentless striving for perfection no doubt makes his judgment of his own kind less charitable than it is in most other cases, knowing as he does the vast potentialities Gnomes could actualize if they but applied themselves, as exemplified by his own life. Yet instead they choose to squander their energies on meaningless toil and to blame their fellow downtrodden for the demeaning injustices they face daily, rather than the true enemy, those who profit from the Game while standing above it, unsoiled by the suffering it engenders and perpetuates.
 

 
And there is Hayn in his hidey-hole, confirming that he and Kornan are of one accord and that Chromite is indeed necessary for the furtherance of the Hunger's goals. As he turns from Hayn and steels himself for his return journey through the Maw, we can see from the soft glaze over his eyes that Squoan is attempting to distance and distract himself from the intractable, self-defeating attitudes of the RGMs (at least for now) as he surfaces by pondering the question of what the true enemy in this equation should be called. The Gamelords? No, not nearly Epic enough.
 
Well, this is a surprise! Isn't that Ralafiss he's now carousing with, carrying on as if they are Archfriends rather than Archenemies? No, wait. Look closer. Upon deeper examination of the scene, it appears that Our Hero is engaged in a Pretense of Friendship designed to extract certain pieces of information from the Conniving Rogue, specifically how one might gain entrance to the Armoury where the Chromite is kept under lock and key. And such is the Buffoonish Narcissist's confidence in his own charm that he cannot conceive how preposterous it is to believe that he could bend the unyielding iron of the Serendipitous Riddlefist's soul with a few twinkling smiles and ribald japes and thus is entirely taken in by the Ruse, divulging that Baern Diamondblade (a Dwarven Blacksmith known to be sympathetic to Mages) also does work for the Pyre Knights and might be able to aid Our Hero in his Quest. Imbecilic Ralafiss!
 
Oh, but what's this now? A moment of blackest despair! An abject pose: Squoan face-down in the road, posterior in the air, woollen coat fallen around his head so that even the dim light its twinkling sequins might have shed upon this scene are swallowed in its darkling folds. What has brought him to such an impasse? Has the grey weight of the Moral Ambiguity under which he has laboured for so long finally squeezed the last glimmer of Hope from him? Or is it just that the Dwarven Blacksmith turned out to be singularly unhelpful? Difficult to tell from the brief glimpse we are allowed.
 
But here he is again, roused to his usual energetic self and retracing his steps to the dwelling of Filere Gonergan, the murdered tinker. Searching for something…. Callooh! Callay! In his eager little fist he holds aloft a bag of precious Chromite, aka Tinker's Delight.
 
And now we see him in the common room of The Bearknuckle Brawl, the establishment of indecorous repute which now must serve as a base of operations for Squoan & Co. due to a cashflow crisis orchestrated by the… the… Masters of Misdirection? No, no. At any rate, he is joined by Pepe, who has mostly recovered physically as well as spiritually from their last encounter and now counts Our Hero among his dearest friends, the momentary flinches he exhibits in response to sudden movements no doubt caused by an overindulgence in caffeine or some other stimulant rather than a remembrance of past trauma. Squoan produces the Chromite, Pepe pockets it, and now it seems there is nothing to be done but wait to see what chain of events Our Hero has set in motion, and whether he will come to regret the placement of his conditional loyalty.
 
But is the Serendipitous Riddlefist ever content to merely wait? Ha! Does Justice ever sleep? (It does not.) And like Justice, Ever-Vigilant Squoan is never content to rest on his laurels when there are wrongs to be righted. Although in this case, unusually, the wrongs may be more Internal than External. From the introspective drooping of his moustache, coupled with the steely resolve of his jawline, we can infer that he is taking a long hard look within himself and resolving never again to be Overwhelmed by Negativity as he was outside Baern's smithy. In the past he has placed his trust in High Ideals and allowed their illumination to make of the world a war of stark contrasts, surfaces of Light versus depths of fathomless Gloom. But that is not the true world. The name of the grey ocean into which Our Hero has been thrown is Moral Ambiguity (or maybe the Ambivalensea) and if he is to survive the turgid chop of its waters, he must adapt.
 
But is that enough, to merely survive? Does Justice merely survive? (Maybe…? That one doesn't work as well. But for the sake of the larger point:) No! He will not be twisted by his environment as were the RGMs, becoming some scaly and/or tentacled denizen of the Ambivalensea. Rather, he shall become a beacon for other like-minded Aspirants to the Ideal. In the ocean, but not of the ocean.
 
Going forward, he will not cloud his mind with fantasies; instead he will see things as they are, placing his faith in tangible objects. He will trust the evidence of his senses and guard against Wishful Thinking whenever it attempts to distort the physical world. His flute shall act as his grounding rod, keeping him in the here and now, and if he could get a longbow to act as his grounding bow, that would be Cool too.
 
And he will grow his hair out into little knots and tie red feathers to those knots so that it looks like his head is on fire! For he is a Bonfire of Positivity!