DaddyBear the Minivandian returned to his home.  A long period of toil was finished, and he looked forward to a night of joy and entertainment with his mate and their progeny.  As he came in, Lady of Eire told him that a minion of the pizza gnomes would be delivering Italian pies for their dinner.

While waiting for the good delivery gnome to arrive with his food, the Minivandian bid his magic elf box to tell him of the events of the day.

“My Lord,” said MacElven, the box of elven sorcery, “I regret to tell you that my vial of blue smoke is leaking, and that I shall soon fail you.  I shall decant my essence into my magic flask of spinning disks so that I may return from the grave to serve you once again.  Once I have done this, I bid you to return me to the temple of my makers, who may be able to resurrect me.”

The Minivandian watched as his servant copied its soul to the flask of spinning disks, then closed its eyes as if in sleep.  After contemplating the fleeting nature of this world and the inevitability of all things passing on to the land of their ancestors, he summoned his other minion, the small box of elven witchcraft.

“Go, my servant, and find the closest temple of the Cult of Fruit Worshippers.  Once found, arrange with the chief monk of customer support so that I may render unto them this husk of my most worthy servant, along with the flask of spinning disks, so that they may craft a spell to return him to his proper state.” ordered DaddyBear.

The small servant, whose name was Eye of the Jobsian, did as bidden, and duly reported that the monks of customer service would be ready for the Minivandian the next evening at the hour of a late dinner.

The next evening, after bidding his son, the Young Prince, and his daughter, Listens to Stories, to refrain from putting his abode to the torch and summoning a horde of young barbarians to rend it from its foundation, the Minivandian and the Lady of Eire ventured forth in his mighty war steed, CreakyTurn, to the temple of the Cult of Fruit.  In his bag, he carried MacElven along with the flask of spinning disks.

Upon his approach to the temple, the Minivandian noticed the evidence of a great battle.  Paper was plastered to the walls, extolling the virtues of the Eye of the Jobsian.  The local population walked about with them, and the two monks of customer service who guarded the entry portal, though smiling, had the look of a happy warrior who had just fought his saga-battle. 

“My Lord, how may we serve you this evening?  Hast thou come to us to seek out the new generation of our Eye of the Jobsian, which will allow you to complete your life’s work in a rather cool and smart fashion?” intoned the first guardian.

“No,” replied the Minivandian, “I bring to you the earthly remains of my worthy servant, who was created by your sorcery.  He bade me to return him to this temple, so that you might resurrect him.”

“My deepest sympathy on the loss of your servant, my lord.” said the monk.  “If thou wishest, we can make an appointment with the elves of our Wizard’s Bar on the morrow.  They will be able to find the cause of your servant’s troubles and correct them.”

“My other servant has made such an appointment for me this very evening, which is why I and my mate have ventured here.”

“I am sorry, oh might warrior and carrier of an older example of the Eye of the Jobsian, but this evening there can be no appointments at the Wizard’s Bar, for they are all busy assisting our customers who have purchased the newest breed of the Eye of the Jobsian this day.  Allow me to find out what is to be done for you.” said the monk, his eyes widening as the Minivandian’s eyes narrowed.

As the friar went to consult his Eye of the Padwan, the Lady of Eire placed her delicate hand upon the rough arm of the Minivandian.  “My love,” she purred, “I do not wish to tarry here while you dicker with these skralings.  I shall be off now, to peruse the wares at the Shoppe of the Giant Rat.  Our son has told me that he wishes a raiment of their manufacture, and I noticed that their prices are low this day.” 

As his mate walked to the Shoppe of the Giant Rat and the monk continued his animated conversation with the magic elf box, the Minivandian considered the cost of a new Eye of the Jobsian, but decided that his faithful servant yet had the means to serve him.

After consulting with his Eye of the Padwan, the monk returned with a pained and fearful expression.  “My lord,” he said, showing the whites of his eyes, “I have found the problem with your appointment.  Your servant has made it for tomorrow, not this evening.  If you wish to return then, I am sure that we can correct the issue with your fallen servant.”

“Nay, my master!” squawked the Eye of the Jobsian, resting in his place in the Minivandian’s pocket, “I made this appointment for this eventide.  Harken to the missive of confirmation that I am showing unto you!”.

After consulting the missive of confirmation and affirming that the appointment was to be that evening rather than the next, the monk again went off, this time to consult with his abbot.  The abbot, an elven mage of great power and prestige, was regal in his flowing black robes as he approached the agitated barbarian.

“Minivandian,” he rumbled, “I offer my apologies for the mix-up.  Our imps of scheduling appear to have made the mistake of scheduling our sorcerers to assist you on a day in which a mighty host of our followers descended upon us.  Fear not, for I have summoned Christophotus, our most skilled sorcerer, to assist you.”

The Minivandian took his hand off the hilt of Gnarlthing, his magic blade of +5 disemboweling, and followed the abbot to the inner sanctum of the temple.  At the Bar of Sorcerers, a tall elven warrior-monk sat upon a stool, studs of gold and silver dotting his body, images of skulls and eagles adorning his arms, and his brow clear as he mumbled a prayer to the gods of tech support.

Upon noticing the arrival of the abbot and the barbarian, the elvish sorcerer opened his eyes and a smile crossed his countenance. 

“All the blessings of the Jobsian be upon you, Minivandian. I have been in commune with the spirit of MacElven, your most loyal servant, and I am prepared to assist you in returning him to this plain of existence.” he said in a lilting, musical voice. 

Seeing that the Minivandian was in good hands, the abbot took his leave.  As he walked away, DaddyBear could hear him ordering his monks to continue their work of completing the rite of commerce with as many adherents to the faith as possible before the doors to the temple closed in 30 minutes time.

Satisfied that he was speaking with the correct being, my lord DaddyBear handed over the body of his servant, along with the flask of spinning disks, which housed Macelven’s spirit.  Upon seeing the flask, the monk’s eyes lit up.

“Rare is it that such a thing is brought to us unbidden.  With it, we can restore the essence of your servant to life in the event that his body requires complete replacement.  Normally, we must ask that its keeper return to the temple with it, but having it now will make things easier.”

Placing his hands upon the husk of MacElven, the monk closed his eyes and began to chant a prayer of diagnostics.  He knotted his brow as the depth of the problem became apparent.  After a long period of prayer and note taking, he opened his eyes with a troubled look.

“My brother, I am sad to tell you that your servant is much aggrieved.  In order to return him to health, we must keep him here at the temple for several days, so that we may plumb the depths of the failures and remedy them.  Perchance we may even have to send him to the temple of hardware overhaul, which will require that a messenger take him far for healing.   Please, leave with me the manner by which I may contact your servant, the Eye of the Jobsian, and I shall inform you of our progress.  I pray that we can return him to full function soon, but as you have brought with you a copy of his essence, in the worst case we shall be able to replace him completely and place him in his new body.”

The Minivandian bid the Eye of the Jobsian to give his information to the monk and thanked the friar for his time.  Leaving the temple, he sought out the Shoppe of the Giant Rat.  Just as he was coming to its door, the Lady of Eire emerged with a packet of clothing in her hand.  Apparently the prices of the Giant Rat had been enchanting enough to entice her into buying not only a tunic for the Young Prince, but also one for Listens to Stories.  

The Minivandian noted his hunger, and confirming with his mate that she too wished to sup, strode down the wide boulevard to a public house.   There, both he and the Lady of Eire ordered meat of the hoofed beast, hers charred in the manner of her people and his served as raw as the local magistrate would allow, along with flagons of golden ale.  My lord DaddyBear then sat with his wife, chatting about the days events and her plans for improvements upon their dwelling. 

In time, Macelven returned to the Minivandian, and he served his master faithfully on many adventures, but those are stories for another time.  Now let me tell you tales of high adventure!