"I cannot accept such a treasure!" Gord said.

"No, man, you cannot refuse it," the dour demi-human rebutted. "We all depend on you, and this is our offering of success."

Gord took the band, clamped it around his bicep, and nothing more was said on the subject.

The next day they came to a place where the hills became more gentle and trees dotted valleys and hilltops alike. In the distance the mass of a forest could be seen, blanketing the last, low ridges and mounds of the Pen-Wilds. Here the company of dwarves told Gord that they would go no farther.

"You are now at the edge of Briartangle Woodland, Gord," the gnarled captain of the demi-human band said to him. "That little brook there is the headwater of the river the Baklunish humans call the Toosmik. If you keep it on your left hand, it will guide you through the forest to Hlupallu."

Such a speech was quite a bit for a dwarf to say, and this impressed Gord. "Many thanks, Good Captain. May I ask a question?" When the dour fellow nodded assent, the young adventurer went on with, "Why do you name me as a Chosen One?"

"Our folk know Basiliv the Demiurge, and the Master of All Cats, too," answered the captain. "We neither serve them nor care overly much about their whims. But some greater force is at work now — we know this. They send you, but their purpose is not of them. It is of the greater power." And then the broad-shouldered, curry-bearded dwarf clamped his mouth shut and folded his arms. He had said all he would say in response to Gord's question.

"I see," Gord replied, not fully understanding but accepting this mysticism as something the dwarf chose to believe. "Fare you well, captain and company all!" As he turned away and began to stride northward, the stout demi-human rumbled after him, "The armlet you wear, Gord of Greyhawk, was forged long and long ago by the smiths of Grotheim. It bestows the strength of our folk upon you in certain ways."