Colorful Characters 2: Spyri the Trinketeer

(NOTE: The Witch class is from the Pathfinder Advanced Player’s Guide. If you don’t have that available, the stat block below will not be of much use.)

Spyri comes from a gnomish merchant family of modest means. Truth be told, her youth was positively normal. She learned her parents’ trade well, and helped acquire and sell goods. She had a knack for the work, and in particular for finding more unusual items. She often came to her parents with some arcane bauble or other, which rarely seemed like something they would be able to find a buyer for. Luckily, Spyri had as much of a gift for selling oddities as she had for finding them.

One evening, when Spyri was perhaps 37, she was contacted by someone who had been a reliable source of goods to her in the past. He wanted to meet after dark in the stables of a nearby inn. Not unaccustomed to unusual behavior in her associates, Spyri agreed. The two met, and after some negotiation, Spyri made a good deal for a tiny sundial which functioned even without light. Just as the gold changed hands, however, torches of the town guard appeared around a nearby bend in the streets. Apparently Spyri’s associate had some reason to fear the law, because he quickly leaped onto one of the horses in the stable and sped away from the place as quickly as he could–trampling Spyri in the process.

The gnome woman faded in and out of consciousness throughout the night. Even now, a lifetime later, Spyri seems to become tongue tied when attempting to describe the experience. She claims to remember nothing at all, and yet to remember a detailed conversation with an unknown entity she refers to only as “Whispers from Lightless Corners.” This conversation which she seemingly does not recall changed her life. She awoke in the wee hours of the morning with a pony nudging her with his snout. And, without entirely knowing why, she led the pony away from the stable and went out into the wilderness for a year.

When she returned, her parents were jubilant. They had thought their daughter dead. Their joy was short lived. Spyri told her parents that she was leaving, did not know where she was going, but that she might return someday. She then left, again leading the pony (which she named “Shade Tender”), and taking nothing else with her.

Spyri was changed by her encounter with the unknown force she named Whispers from Lightless Corners. Not only did she act more erratically, and seem somehow detached from the world around her, but through her connection with that force she began to learn witchcraft. By communing with Shade Tender–witness to that first fateful meeting with Whispers from Lightless Corners–Spyri could reconnect with that power. Could draw knowledge from it, and learn powerful spells.

In her travels, Spyri met a group of adventurers traipsing through the woods. They asked her:

“Who are you, and where are you headed?” Spyri looked at them a long moment before responding by repeating their question. Somewhat confused, but willing cooperate, the adventurers introduced themselves, and added that they were trying to find the Crypt of Anakhot, which was rumored to be nearby.

“Now,” said a well dressed halfling bearing an instrument, “What about you?”

Without pause, Spyri responded “I am Spyri, and I seek the Crypt of Anakhot, which is rumored to be nearby.”

Confused though they were by her oddity, the party allowed Spyri to tag along on their adventure, and many others which followed it. The gnome was capable in a tight spot, and as she socialized more with the group, she seemed to become more lucid. Though she still had some difficulty dealing with strangers or acting whilst alone, Spyri found she was able to be much like her old self whilst around her new friends.

One day, while raiding the treasure horde of a goblin who had fancied himself a king, the party found an unusual deck of cards. One of the party members excitedly identified it as a Deck of Many Things. An item of rare power which they were fortunate to have found. Without a thought to the danger, each party member in turn drew a card. Defying the odds, each received some boon from the act.

When it came time for Spyri to draw, she did not think twice. She pulled her card from the top of the deck. It was The Demon’s Laugh, a card unique to this deck. As soon as it was drawn, all those whom Spyri most loved–the entire party–blinked out of existence, leaving her alone. The etchings on the card promised that her friends would return again once the card was drawn a second time. Unfortunately, a Deck of Many Things never lets the same person draw twice.

Grief stricken, Spyri now travels the world with Shade Tender. She’s taken up her family trade as a merchant, buying and selling oddities along the roads. She asks every customer if they would like to draw a card from her deck, hoping to someday be reunited with her friends. Even after 100 years of traveling, Spyri is still hopeful that she will see them again.

Personality

Spyri is an oddball. While not mad, she is certainly eccentric in the extreme. She will often Hex those who are kind to her with Fortune and those who are unkind to her with misfortune. If ever asked about her past, she will make up a lie, which will probably not match up with earlier lies she has told.

She can be pushy as a merchant, attempting to convince characters that they cannot go on without whatever bauble she’s decided she wants to sell them. And, after every transaction, she always offers to allow a customer to draw from her Deck of Many Things.

Tactics

Spyri does not like to fight. If forced, she will attempt to use spells like Cause Fear or Fog Cloud to escape as soon as possible.

Interesting Facts

*Spyri has a facial tick. Her left eye and check twitch and quiver while she talks.

*Spyri talks in her sleep, often directly to Whispers from Lightless Corners

*Spyri’s hair has gone prematurely stark white.

*Spyri will often show unusual kindness to adventurers, as they remind her of happier times. If, however, adventurers ever treat her poorly, she becomes vindictive.

Thoughts on Use

Spyri is a great character for players to meet out in the wilderness, or while traveling along the road to a destination. She will try to sell them a number of very odd things, and the party might even buy one or two of them. If they do, she will offer to allow them to draw from her Deck of Many Things. If they do, roll a d% before each card drawn. If 100 is rolled, then the card drawn is The Demon’s Laugh, and Spyri’s friends suddenly appear, having aged not at all since their disappearance. Otherwise, treat as a normal Deck of Many Things. Spyri, like the deck itself, is intended to add spice & an unusual twist to a gaming session, rather than define it.

Cart

Spyri travels on her merchant cart, drawn by Shade Tender. Among many other oddities, it contains the following items which she will attempt to sell to the PCs.

-50ft of rope which unknots when the slightest pressure is put on it; 1gp
-A brown bag. 2lb of sand can be poured out of it every day; 2gp
-Gloves which make whatever they touch slightly colder; 5gp
-A working divining rod; 10gp
-A ball of yarn which will attract the nearest cat, up to 5 miles away; 1gp
-A stick enchanted to cut & stab like a normal shortsword. AC: 5, Hardness: 1, HP: 4; 2gp
-Ring which causes anyone who wears it to speak only the truth; 1,000gp
-Leggings which allow someone to be comfortable no matter where they sit; 10gp
-A torch which never goes out–no matter what you do; 10gp

Spyri, the Trinketeer (CR 3)

XP: 800
Gnome Witch 4
CN Small humanoid
Init +1; Senses Perception +6

Defenses

AC 14, Flat Footed 13, Touch 14 [10 + Armor(0) + Dex (1) + Ring(2) + Size(1)]
hp 32 (4d6 + 8)
Fort +3 Ref +2 Will +8

Offense

Speed 20ft
Melee Masterwork Dagger +2 (1d3/19-20 x2)
Ranged Masterwork Dagger +4 (1d3/x2)
Witch Spells Prepared (CL 4th; Concentration +7)
2nd–Detect Thoughts, Fog Cloud
1st–Identify(2), Cause Fear
0(at will)–Touch of Fatigue, Dancing Lights, Daze, Light
Patron Shadow

Stats

Str 9 (-1) Dex 12 (+1) Con 14 (+2) Int 17 (+3) Wis 15 (+2) Cha 11 (+0)
Base Atk +2; CMB +0; CMD 11
Feats Iron Will, Brew Potions
Skills Heal (+9), Perception (+6), Profession(Traveling Merchant)(+9), Spellcraft (+10), Use Magic Device (+7)
Languages Common, Gnome, Draconic, Celestial, Abyssal
SQ Hexes (Save DC: 15) Fortune, Misfortune
Gear Simple grey robes made for traveling, Masterwork Dagger, 3 potions of Cure Moderate Wounds, a Ring of Protection +2, Two silver rings worth 5gp each, 6gp, a Deck of Many Things.

Familiar; “Shade Tender”

See “Horse, Pony” on page 177 of the Pathfinder Beastiary for stats.
Familiar Bonuses +2 Natural Armor, Intelligence raised to 7, Alertness, Improved Evasion, Share Spells, Empathic Link, Deliver Touch Spells & Hexes
Stored Spells
Level 0 – All Cantrips are stored.
Level 1 – Identify, Cause Fear, Command, Comprehend Languages, Cure Light Wounds, Hypnotism, Mage Armor
Level 2 – Detect Thoughts, Fog Cloud, Spectral Hand, Silent Image

Colorful Characters 1: The Governor

Many blogs some manner of weekly features. This seems like a fun idea to me, because there are a number of posts I’ve thought would be cool, but only really work if they’re part of a longer series of similar posts. Ergo, I would like to introduce you, my dice rolling readers, to Colorful Characters. Every week on Friday I’ll post detailed information on an interesting NPC. GMs are free to steal the characters for their games, and players are free to steal them for use as PCs. Though I think this week’s PC is best suited to being a quest giver for low level PCs.

Jordan “The Governor” Ephler

Jordan Ephler was fifteen when he left his family’s small merchant business to seek the path of a paladin, and for over a decade he lived up to that noble description. His signature axe and shield became well known in the region. For many small towns he was a more reliable source of justice than the distant courts & lawkeepers. Jordan had such a gift for diplomacy that many towns never even saw his axe, Razortail, leave its sheath. He even once negotiated a treaty between the humans and dwarves of Rockpoint, and the Orc tribe which had raided against them them for decades. Four years later he had to return to fight off a marauding force of orcs, but he viewed four years of peace and safety as a significant victory.

That isn’t to say he never failed. While trying to negotiate a territory agreement between the village of Opeth with the nearby tribe of gnolls, Jordan was captured and tortured for three days. He lost the four fingers of his left hand in the process. After escaping from his captors, Jordan played a game of cat and mouse with them for days as he tried to find his way back to Opeth. A week after his escape, he returned to the Gnoll village with the two dozen men and women of Opeth’s militia. Not a single one of the evil gnolls survived that day. Thereafter, Jordan was a little more grim, and a little less willing to trust in negotiation to solve problems.

When he was 28, Jordan was investigating a series of missing children in the small fur-trading post called Midroad Rest. The town believed a tribe of goblins had set up camp nearby and was stealing and eating their children. However, as the investigation continued, Jordan found more and more reason to believe the kidnapper was one of the townspeople. Sure enough, while surveying the town one night, Jordan saw someone carrying a bundle slip off into the woods. He followed the figure to a nearby cave. There he found Midroad Rest’s mayor, holding the body of a young child. Toys and clothes which had gone missing with the other children adorned the cave.

The mayor fell to his knees and begged for his life, but Jordan could summon no pity, and struck out with Razortail, killing the monstrous man. And, in killing one who had surrendered, Jordan strayed too far from the paladin’s code. The powers and clarity granted to paladins left him then. Saddened though he was, Jordan could not accept that his actions had been wrong, and vowed not to seek atonement.

With his life of adventure thusly at an end, Jordan asked the townsfolk if they would allow him to build a home in their community, thinking to become a trapper. So grateful were the townsfolk for his service, though, that they offered him the Mayor’s home and position. Jordan accepted, and has served the town faithfully in that capacity for 24 years now.

In that time as leader of the community, he has led the town through a number of hard times gracefully. So enamored are the townsfolk of their mayor that at some point they all decided to informally promote him to governor. When the townsfolk talk about him, they most commonly refer to him simply as “The Governor.”

Personality Though less idealistic, and a great deal more grim, than he was as a young man, The Governor is still a diplomat first. He is far more likely to attempt a negotiation than to engage in combat. Even if combat seems inevitable, he may attempt a diplomatic solution in the hopes of sparing any of his townsfolk from harm.

He’s also a wily old coot. Bandits and other criminal elements have often tried to outsmart him, but he’s always managed to root them out and keep the roads safe for travelers, and for his citizens.

He is likely to test any PCs before doing them any favors or asking their help. Or, often times, he’ll let the bandits perform the test for him, knowing that they like to “covertly” use the town’s tavern to recruit travelers into their gangs.

Tactics The Governor is unlikely to try and fight the PCs unless they are harming one of his citizens. He still carries Razortail with him at all times, though, so if he is attacked or otherwise forced to fight, he is prepared.

Against a single opponent, The Governor is confident and attempts to fight even footing. If grappled, he will try to use his clawed hand to attack an opponent. If The Governor is reduced below half health, he will attempt to use a nearby object such as a chair as an improvised shield. If attacked in his office, The Governor’s shield is readily available and he equips it at the beginning of combat.

Against groups, or characters who obviously overpower him, The Governor attempts to escape so as to don his armor & shield prior to combat. If one of his villagers is in imminent danger, however, The Governor will forgo his own safety to protect his people.

Interesting Facts

*The four fingers of The Governor’s left hand have been chopped off just below the knuckle. In their place are four hooks of equal length, roughly approximating the length of his fingers. These grant him a 1d4 claw attack, but he takes a -4 penalty on any dexterity checks which rely on that hand. This does not affect his ability to use a shield.

*Though there are none among the citizens of Midroad Rest with whom The Governor is intimate, he is gay.

*When using Combat Expertise (-2 AC, +2 attack roll) The Governor sometimes shouts “Smite evil!” or some variant.

Thoughts on Use I used The Governor in the first session of a new campaign a few years ago. At the opening of the adventure, bandits approached the PCs and asked for their help attacking caravans. Had the PCs accepted, The Governor would have been a boss they had to face at level 2. These players did not accept the offer, and so The Governor became a quest giver for the group.

If there is a paladin among the PCs, it may be fun to play The Governor as being made uncomfortable by a paladin’s presence. This may cause the players to think he’s hiding something, when in fact it is simply due to the painful loss of his own paladinhood.

Jordan “The Governor” Ephler (CR 3)

XP: 800
Human Paladin 6 (Fallen)
NG Medium humanoid
Init +3; Senses Perception 6

Defenses

AC 20, Flat Footed 21, Touch 9 [10 + Armor(9) + Shield (2) + Dex(-1)]
hp 46 (6d10 + 0)
Fort +5 Ref +1 Will +8

Offense

Speed 30ft
Melee +3 Battleaxe +11/+6 (1d8 + 5/x3)
Claw +8/+3 (1d4 + 2/x2)

Stats

Str 14 (+2) Dex 9 (-1) Con 11 (+0) Int 13 (+1) Wis 17 (+3) Cha 13 (+1)
Base Atk +6/+1; CMB +8 (+2 on Disarm, no A.A.O.); CMD 17
Feats Improved Initiative, Toughness, Combat Expertise, Improved Disarm
Skills (Armor Check Penalty: -6) Diplomacy +10, Heal +7, Perception +9, Sense Motive +12, Survival +6
Languages Common, Goblin
SQ Combat Expertise (Can take -2 to attack rolls for +2 to AC for a round.)
Gear Battered Masterwork Full Plate Armor (gilded with gold which has chipped away in pieces), Masterwork Heavy Steel Shield (emblazoned with a roaring lion in green). Razortail a +3 Handaxe, small collection of maps detailing local areas, Amulet of Detect Evil 3/day, 50gp

The Girl and the Granite Throne: Chapter Three

“But if the Hidden Lord teaches that each of us has in our heart a dark seed of weakness, then why would He bestow upon his high priest the title of “The Heart?”” Erin asked, incredulous.

“Ah, but The Hidden Lord also admonishes us never to reveal all that we know, child! Our greatest strength is our secrecy.” Argetta replied “Surely, you do not think that even a priestess such as myself would know His thoughts. It is enough that he has given us his Heart, and that we follow the teachings the Heart passes on to us.”

Frustrated by the dodge, Erin pressed “How can I know what teachings come from Vecna if I know not who the Heart is?”

The two women sat in the chapel, as they often had in the three years since Erin’s encounter with her god. The Whispered Lord had not spoken to her often in the intervening years–He had made it clear that she had not yet earned His full support. So Erin had taken it upon herself to seek out his teachings through the religion which worshiped Him. Increasingly, however, she found herself frustrated by the shortcomings in the dogma spouted by low level priests like Argetta.

Just as the older woman opened her mouth to respond, Immar stormed into the chapel, throwing the doors aside with a reverberating thump as they struck the walls. Erin stood and turned to face him immediately.

“How was your meeting with Mayor Geonlad, Master?” Erin asked. Normally she would be nowhere near so formal, but she did not want to give her teacher any excuse to focus his mood on her.

“That piss drinking son of a troll!?” Immar shouted, “That pompous bag of flatulence!?” Erin did her best not to quirk a smile, but the corner of her mouth quivered a bit. Immar was not very good at cursing.

“I take it then, sir, that the audience he requested did not go well?” she asked. From the corner of her eye she saw Argetta skulking out of the chapel, and very much wished she could join the stealthy old hag. “Is he still claiming that the tower is within the bounds of Heathrop to try and extort you for taxes?”

Immar took several deep breaths, which seemed to reduce him from a towering pillar of anger, back to an Illumian man. “Would that it was just the large words of a small man as it has been in the past. Today he presented forged land titles to that effect before the captain of the town’s guard. We are to comply within a fortnight, or he will order my arrest.” At this, Erin did laugh, though only for a moment before Immar’s glare made her cover her mouth to straighten her face. As quickly as she could, she explained herself.

“What hope could Geonlad have of restraining you? His city guard can barely keep on top of a rambunctious drunkard!”

“Paladins,” Immar replied, his tone still seething. “Eight of them, Cuthbertians. Apparently here to help the ‘goodly’ people of Heathrop by dealing with the wizards who are ‘abusing their power to avoid their legal responsibilities.'”

Now Erin was starting to feel angry too. “Gods damned paladins!” she cursed through gritted teeth. “Always more interested in being ‘heroes of the common people’ than they are in doing things right.”

Immar rubbed his eyes, then turned and began to walk out of the chapel. “I must meditate and pray.” he said, not bothering to look behind him. “Find Argetta and tell her I would like to see her in my chambers, then get some sleep. In the morning we will discuss whatever plan seems best.”

Erin nodded, and moved ahead of him out the door so she could find the priestess. She avoided looking back at her teacher. Eight paladins was a very real danger, and after all these years she knew Immar was not likely to pay for something he did not owe. She was afraid, and did not want the older wizard to see the fear she knew was evident on her face.

Loattie climbed onto Erin’s face just before dawn, and hopped up and down. Erin awoke, and made exaggerated sputtering sounds of disgust until the frog hopped back onto the bed side table. She gave her familiar a withering glare with her one good eye.

“I know I told you to wake me up in the morning, but shouldn’t you have figured out a more pleasant way to do it by now?” The frog chirped throatily back at her.

“Oh shut up.” Erin spat back, never much a fan of mornings.

Uncovering her Everburning Candle, Erin sat on the floor and cracked open her worn and trusty spellbook to begin memorizing the spells she thought she might need that day. By the time she had finished laying the mental framework required for casting, the first rays of the morning sun had begun to filter through the trees outside of the tower. She washed quickly before rummaging through her armoire for the day’s clothes. She had (somewhat clumsily) sewn additional pockets to all of her shirts and pants to store any spell components. And, of course, each had an extra pocket for Loattie.

Before rushing off to meet with Immar, Erin took a moment to stand in front of the mirror. She checked to make sure her hair was neat, and to quickly adjust the way her clothes rested around her increasingly curvaceous figure. She was not a vain woman, but she had discovered the potential of boys to be very entertaining. Though, she had also learned that most of them needed to be singed a bit in order to get them to do it right–but she didn’t mind. Burns healed.

Thoroughly satisfied that she looked alluring, Erin briskly walked out of the room, scooping Loattie off of a table and into her breast pocket as she did so. She quickly ascended the staircase, which gently wound along the inside edge of the tower’s cylindrical frame, eventually opening up into Immar’s laboratory on the top floor. There she found her teacher surrounded by a dense forest of papers. She saw maps, letters of correspondence, and tomes covering a variety of subject matter, covering not only his desk but the floor around him.

“Master?” Erin asked from the stairwell, unsure of whether to approach through the maze of documents. Immar stood and turned so fast that his wooden chair upended itself.

“Erin! Come here! You must see this.”

Erin could see even from across the room that the older wizard had not slept since the previous night. Before moving to join him at his desk, she moved to the windows and drew back the heavy curtains, allowing the early morning light to fill the room. Immar winced and brought up his hand to cover his face.

“It’s morning already…?” he started, before apparently deciding that the hour was irrelevant, and waving emphatically for Erin to join him.

She did, picking her way through the papers on the floor as gracefully as she could to join her teacher at the table. Immar had never demonstrated the absent minded eccentricity often attributed to wizards before. Erin could not wait to learn what had caused him to start now.

Among the items on the table was a book Erin had perused once or twice before, entitled “Tome of War: The Arcane, and the Mundane.” Speaking as a scholar it was of only minor note, detailing what a wizard named Feyun The Crimson Blade believed to be the optimum application of spells in warfare. Presently it was open to a brief chapter detailing the problems posed to a wizard by paladins.

Erin’s eyes bulged, and before Immar had even said a word she spun on him, carelessly tearing some papers beneath her heel.

“You mean to fight them!?” she nearly shouted, aghast at the thought.

“Of course I do.” he replied, in the same tone he might use if she had just misunderstood the simplest of cantrips.

“But there are only the two of us and Argetta!” Erin replied, “And the tower isn’t exactly a fortress.”

“Which is why we’re bringing in more people, and won’t be fighting from the tower.”

“Indefensible as the tower is, I hardly think the forest will be a better place.”

“Which is why we won’t be defending.” Immar continued.

Erin, still unsettled by the idea of fighting trained and seasoned warriors, unconsciously cocked her head to the side and furrowed her brow, unable to decipher her teacher’s cryptic leading statements. Immar let her dangle for several moments before taking pity and making the leap of logic for her.

“We are going to take Heathrop.”

Erin felt her knees weaken, and fumbled for the chair, righting it and sitting down to avoid falling over. The idea seemed ludicrous, but Immar was clearly serious. Of course, he was a powerful wizard, and though he didn’t make much use of them he was fairly well connected within the Illumian covens of his people. But there were well over 1200 people in Heathrop, and she doubted Immar could muster even a tenth of that.

“Then what?” was all she managed to ask.

“Then,” Immar continued, straightening his back and looking as commanding as he could “We hold it. We rule it. And we guide it into prosperity with the light of intellect.”

Erin was silent. She had been fearful about the paladins before, but had gone to sleep confident that Immar would overcome. Now…

“What role then am I to play?” she asked, looking up to meet Immar’s eyes.

Immar put a hand on her shoulder, and let another moment of silence pass before he spoke.

“You are my right hand, my dear. You will lead a portion of those who join with me. It will be dangerous, but I have confidence you’re up to the task.”

“Master,” Erin began, “I am a scholar.”

“You are a wizard, Erin.” Immar replied. “One of the finest wizards I’ve ever seen at such a young age. This task may test you, but you’ve never failed a test I’ve set before you yet.”

The younger wizard stood, trying to wipe away the small welling of tears in her eye without her teacher seeing. She took a step towards the table, and unrolled a map of the surrounding area which she found there.

“So,” she asked, “what is the plan?”

The room was much cleaner two weeks later when Erin stood next to Immar as he explained his plan to the five Illumian commanders. They, and their men, had been sent in response to the wizard’s request for aid from his cabal. Erin had insisted that the 50-some odd warriors would not be enough against a town with a population more than twenty-times that. But Immar had assured her that not nearly a twentieth of the town was so attached to the mayor, and his leadership, that they would fight and die.

“Besides” he had added “even those that will are peasantry who’ve been given swords and called soldiers. An Illumian Warblade is worth a hundred clumsy fighters. It’s the paladins we need to worry about, they’re the real dangerous element here.”

Immar was droning on, pointing at key locations on the map and using minor illusions to better demonstrate his plan. Erin tried to pay attention, but found herself fading out. None of this was new to her–some of it had even been her idea. Simply put, Erin would go into town ahead and organize those few who were among the faithful of The Whispered Lord. On the night of the upcoming festival of high summer, her group would take any action they could to disrupt the town’s ability to defend itself, while the Illumians would quell any major resistance. Immar would personally lead one of the Illumian Tenche, a group of ten soldiers, directly to the center of town where they would capture the Mayor and his family. There were details, but the plan was straightforward.

Straightforward enough that Erin found herself far more interested in the Illumian boy across the room. he was perhaps a year her junior, and most certainly was not in command of a Tenche, as the five other Illumian visitors in the room were. Part of her was curious to learn why he had been invited to attend this meeting when the rest of the soldiers had been left to wait in the camp erected outside. A much larger part of her, though, was very interested in finding out if he was as well formed as his light leather armor made him look.

Erin barely noticed when the meeting ended, and only turned to look at Immar again once she noticed that everyone else was filing out of the room.

“Will that be all, master?” she asked, hoping he hadn’t already answered that question.

“No, I need you to remain a moment. There are a few final matters for us to discuss.” Immar gestured for her to sit, and she did. He waited until the commanders had left the room before he began.

“You’ll be leaving for Heathrop in the morning, and I need to know that you understand what this role will require of you. It’s just been the three of us here in the tower for most of your life. You’ve never really needed to be a leader before.”

“How difficult can it be?” Erin asked. “You’ve got authority over the faithful in this region, and have put me in charge those in the town. They must do as I command, correct?” Immar bit his cheek.

“It’s not quite that simple, child.” he began, picking his words carefully “Much as I have faith in your abilities, they will still see you as a fifteen year old girl. Many of them will likely have daughters your age, or even older, who they still view as young children.”

“I am no peasant child!” Erin growled, a little more offended at the implied comparison than she knew she should be.

“Precisely why you will be leading them. But if you want them to listen to you at all then you need to be firm with them. You cannot accept any dissent, and you must never show them any fear or indecision. If they view you as weak, then you cannot lead them.”

Erin opened her mouth to respond, but Immar interrupted her and continued. “And you must lead them, Erin. If you fail then so fails the entire conquest, and you and I will both likely lose our lives at the hands of a paladin inquisitor.”

Pursing her lips, Erin merely nodded.

“I haven’t forgotten what’s on the line.” she said, softly, but with a determination in her voice which put Immar’s mind at ease.

“I know you haven’t, my dear girl.” Immar said, leaning forward and placing a hand on top of Erin’s. The two sat silently for a moment, enjoying the familial comfort for as long as they could before the coming battles threatened to separate them forever. Finally, Immar stood.

“I have something for you,” he said, as he walked across the room to one of the tables near the wall and picked up a long shaft wrapped in velvet. “I had thought to make you a proper wizard’s staff, but this seemed more appropriate. I commissioned it a few months ago, and it only just arrived.”

The older wizard handed his student the shaft, and she expectantly unrolled the velvet to reveal a long, expertly crafted war spear, with two additional blades angled back along the shaft.

“It’s called a ‘duom,'” Immar offered, “I was told they are favored weapons among those Warblades who favor the spear.”

Erin turned the weapon over in her hand, admiring the light weight and beautiful craftsmanship.

“It’s magnificent.” she whispered, unable to take her eyes off of it.

“I’m still not sure why you insist on using such unsophisticated weaponry when you have spells available to you, but I’ve never been able to change your mind so you may as well have the best tools available.” Erin looked up and met her teacher’s eyes.

“Thank you.” she said. “I will use it to ensure your victory in the coming battles.” A little flustered by the emotional exchange, Immar changed the subject.

“Speaking of, there is one last thing we need to discuss.” without waiting for an acknowledgement from Erin, he turned and called loudly “Byert!” Almost immediately, the young Illumian Erin had been eying earlier was on the stairs, and moving to stand at attention before Immar. Erin quickly made her face stern, not wanting the emotional moment she had just shared with her teacher to be on display.

“Erin, this is my nephew, Byert. He will serve as your guard during this offensive.”

“What!?” shouted Erin. “Am I now some child who needs a chaperone whilst I overthrow a government for you?”

“Do not overestimate yourself, young wizard!” Immar replied, raising his voice to match her indignant shouting. “There is a limit to how many spells you can cast without rest. No wise mage enters battle without a fighter to protect them.”

Erin refrained from pointing out that the spear fighting skills her teacher had discouraged were useful in precisely that situation. Whether she liked it or not, though, he was right. Even Immar himself would be fighting with ten trained warblades by his side.

“Very well, master.” Erin said, mustering as much of a respectful tone as she could through clenched teeth. “But you-” she continued, whirling to face her ‘protector.’ The warning comment she had ready for him died on her tongue, however, when she saw he was kneeling on the floor.

“What are you doing?” the two wizards asked, almost simultaneously.

“Lady Erin,” the boy said, his voice resolute and his head bowed “I vow I will serve and protect you faithfully, with my life if need be.”

Erin and Immar looked at each other, a little confused by the young warrior’s zealous pronouncement.

“Um…rise?” Erin ventured, and he quickly did. The two youths stared at one another blankly, both waiting for the other to speak. The silence might have continued indefinitely had Immar not stepped in.

“The two of you will leave at first light for Heathrop. Now get some rest.”
The young warrior crossed his arms over his chest in a formal Illumian salute, spun on his heel, and marched back down the stairs. Annoying as Erin found him, she couldn’t help but watch him with lusty eyes, and wonder if he still had his cherry. She was in the middle of enjoying that thought when Immar grabbed firm hold of her ear and painfully twisted.

“He’s my nephew, you cad!” The older wizard scolded, only half joking.

The Girl and the Granite Throne: Chapter Two

Erin’s eyes fluttered open and glanced out the window. It was still dark out. She started to roll over to find a comfortable spot to drift back to sleep, but the mechanical alarm Master Immar had placed in her room sounded a shrill ringing sound, abrupt enough to cause her to start. She reached out to silence the monstrous thing, cursing it to the depths of the 9 Hells as she did every morning. Moving slowly, with all the eagerness of a 12 year old who had chores to do, Erin pushed back the covers and dropped down from her bed.

Bare footed, she padded across the stone floor, which was pleasantly cool on her feet compared to the warmth of the summer’s night. She washed her face at the wash basin next to her door, paying special attention to the creases and folds caused by her scar. Once that was done she pulled on her simple leather breeches and boots, along with her loose white shirt.

Dressed, Erin darted out of her room to get about her duties cleaning her master’s laboratory. First, she dusted, using chairs and ladders to get to the spaces she couldn’t reach. Following that she swept. By the time she was half done with the mopping, the rising sun’s light was making its way down the wall opposite the east window. According to the system she had worked out, she had until it reached the floor to finish her chores and meet her master downstairs. She hurried her way through a cursory inventory of the available spell components, noting that they were running low on Bat Guano, Obsidian Orbs, and Birch leaves. By the time the sun reached the floor she had placed the list on her Master’s desk and was darting for the spiral stairs.

Immar often reprimanded her for sleeping in too late to get all her chores done, but what did he know? Every task was complete–at least complete enough that she probably wouldn’t be scolded–and she’d gotten plenty of beauty rest. Erin was descending the stairs two at a time as she rounded the final bend. Only to find Immar had gotten there first. He was looking right at her, biting the inside of his cheek the way he always did when he was annoyed with her.

Maybe she should get up earlier.

“Erin,” Immar began.

“Yes sir?” she replied, sheepish.

“What have I told you about being late for morning prayers?”

“I am sorry, Master.” Erin whispered, head bowed. Not so subtly, the Wizard rolled his eyes and sharpened his tone to emphasize his annoyance.

“I don’t buy your false regret for an instant. If you’re going to lie, make it better than that.”

“Yes, Master” Erin replied, the injection of remorse mostly gone from her tone.

“Now get inside, Child. Priestess Argetta is waiting for us.”

Erin did move quickly to enter the small chapel, and wondered (not for the first time) why she had ended up apprenticed to the only Wizard in all of Regalia who made time to serve the gods. Most were too busy unlocking hidden mysteries of the universe to bother with kneeling on a stone floor breathing bad incense and regurgitating the cryptic teachings of some far off deity. Master Immar not only spent time on religion, but had devoted an entire floor in his modestly sized tower, to worship. When she was a wizard, Erin wouldn’t waste time on such nonsense.

Still, she was expected to chant along, so she obliged.

“Knowledge is the root which grants the fruit of power.” she droned. The words had been heard so often that she didn’t even acknowledge their meaning anymore. “Hidden beneath the flesh of the fruit lie the secrets–the seeds which grow and grant evermore knowledge, evermore power.”

She listened half-asleep as the old crone, Argetta, told the story of the battle of Fleeth, and the lessons to be learned regarding the value of forgiving one’s enemies. Erin had heard it all before, and so far it had not become more compelling as she aged the way master Immar was always telling her it would.

As the short service began to wind down, Erin heard a loud murmuring. It was like a dozen voices all shouting at one another. But the sound was muffled. It was as though the shouting was happening two rooms away, shaving the words down into indecipherable sounds. She looked around to see if anyone else had heard, but wasn’t surprised to see them all still intent on the end of the service.

Argatta loudly slapped her hand over her eye, ceremonially ending the service, and with it, the murmuring.

Erin wasn’t too terribly concerned about the sound. It was hardly the strangest thing she had encountered in Immar’s tower. The constant use of magic had a tendency to cause random minor effects in the area. None the less, she resolved to ask Master Immar about it during their morning study.

She skirted out of the chapel with as much speed as she thought she could get away with and still avoid a lecture on reverence. Once outside, she dashed back upstairs to her the laboratory, and began pulling the last book of spells she had been studying off of the shelf. She was halfway through deciphering the diagrams and runes which made up the “Orb of Acid” spell, when Immar finally made his way up the stairs. Erin stood, making sure she marked her place before doing so.

“Can we study evocation today? I really think I can avoid setting anything on fire this time!”

“No.” Immar said, his voice flat.

Erin’s face fell a little, but she pressed on.

“Well…maybe we could do some conjuration? It’s kinda similar, and it would give me practice!”

“No.”

Erin screwed up her face, an expression which her scar made a just little more creepy than cute.

“What will we study today, then, Master?” Erin asked, refraining from allowing any hint of exasperation into her voice. Immar was a kind enough man, but her sharp tongue had earned her more than a few switchings over the years. She wasn’t eager for more.

“We will study nothing today, apprentice.” Immar said. “Today, you will leave the tower, and you will not return until you have correctly summoned a familiar.”

“But sir!” Erin wailed in a tone she was starting to get too old for “I’ve tried that four times already! I can’t do it.”

“You can, and you will. It’s long past time for you to get this over with. Now off with you! I’ve got work to do, and I can’t have you underfoot.” The wizard then turned and sat at his work bench, gesturing for a tome which drifted through the air and opened in front of him.

Erin wanted to argue, but she knew it would get her nowhere. She gave a deep, sarcastic bow to her Master’s back, then bustled down the stairs to get ready to leave. She realized that, in her frustration, she had forgotten to mention the murmuring to her Master. But she was too upset with him to stomach asking him for any help right now. Fifteen minutes later she walked out the door at the base of the tower and into the surrounding forest. She wore a large hat to protect her from the sun, carried her tiny (and still nearly empty) book of spells in one hand, and her spear in the other. Around her waist was a belt containing what components Immar said she would need, and a few more she’d managed to slip off with in the hopes of trying them out herself.

Lacking any specific destination for the ritual, Erin decided to make the trek two miles north, to a small clearing where she sometimes came to read. Once there, she began using the red mud from her spell component’s pouch to make the summoning circle on the surface of a large rock. It was an hour before she was finally satisfied that each and every line was perfect, every arcane word conjugated correctly, and every intersection at the precise point indicated as ideal by her studies.

Stepping back, she tossed a handful of dirt, a feather, a pebble, and a bit of tinder into the circle with one hand, while furiously signing the gestural elements of the spell with the other. She began to mutter the verbal component of the spell as well, but stopped when she saw the items she had tossed into the circle fall naturally to the surface, instantly destroying an hour’s worth of labor as it marred her circle. Not that it mattered, if the spell was going to succeed the components would have been suspended in the air above the circle for a moment to allow her enough time to speak the words.

“Curse the Blackleafin’ luck!” she shouted, relieved that Immar couldn’t hear her gutter mouth.

After gathering her things, Erin began to wander through the woods again, nose deep in the spellbook she had brought. Her circles had been right, she had no doubt of that. She had checked them, and checked them, and checked them a dozen times over. That was far more precision than the spell even called for, so it couldn’t be the problem. No, her problem was somewhere in her selection of material components. She knew she needed the dirt, but the rest of it was a bit of a puzzle. She’d tried making the circle out of tree sap, water, even bear feces. Nothing had channeled the arcane energies correctly to allow the other components to work.

A half hour of wandering and reading later, Erin arrived at a small lake where she sometimes swam. The sight reminded the fisherwoman’s daughter that she hadn’t had time to break her fast yet. She was famished. It was the work of twenty minutes to spear a fish, and only twenty more to cook it over a simple fire made with the flint and tinder in her spell component pouch.

As Erin ate, she thought about the spell. It wasn’t the most complex spell she had ever tried to cast, by a long shot. Yet the exact method for casting it eluded her. For every other spell she’d ever learned, everything was very specific. The gestures, the words, the materials, all were specified in exact amounts by whatever spell she was casting. The caster could vary amounts slightly, or even substitute similar gestures or materials to create different effects, but the essential elements of the spell were always there. By contrast, the spell required to summon a familiar left several important spaces blank. Supposedly the intent was for the spell to be more personal, yet Erin didn’t see how it could be personal when all the items she had selected had failed.

“Wait a moment!” She shouted, causing a squirrel to flee from a nearby bush. It was obvious! The spell being “personal” was not an invitation to try any elements which struck her fancy. The components had to be personal in order for her to form a personal bond with a creature.

Leaving her fish half eaten, she found another flat rock and knelt in front of it. Using the tip of her spear she made a small cut in her palm, wincing as she drew blood. Using the index finger of her opposite hand like a quill, Erin dabbed blood onto the rock, reassembling the summoning circle just as she had created it back in the clearing. She moved much more quickly now, less concerned that she had been missing some mistake now that she had latched on to this new hypothesis.

When the circle was completed, she began to glance around, trying to figure out what materials she could cast into the circle to be consumed by the spell. She tore a strip of cloth from her sleeves, then grabbed a few bones from the fish she had just caught. Finally, she used a rock to chip off a tiny splinter of wood from the shaft of her spear, then clumped all three into a ball of dirt. She repeated her actions from earlier, throwing the ball into the circle with one hand, while gesturing with the other. This time, the ball of dirt and everything in it did not succumb to gravity. Instead, they formed into a whirlwind, obscuring her vision of the circle. Erin grew excited, but didn’t allow her voice to falter as she uttered the verbal portion of the spell.

“Arcanacus chryot zho uleer!”

A sudden gust of wind blew past Erin, whipping her hair into her face. She quickly brushed it back, only to see that the wind had carried everything away. Even the circle of her own blood was completely gone, as though it had never been there. And, in its place, sat a toad.

Grinning from ear to ear, Erin knelt and held out her hand.

“Hello there, little Loattie!” Erin said, having decided a long time ago that she would name her familiar after the stuffed toy she had loved as a younger child. “My name is Erin!”

The toad obediently hopped towards her waiting hand. The moment it touched her, the murmuring returned. It was louder now, like it was coming from just behind her. And now that she wasn’t in a wizard’s tower, it suddenly seemed to Erin a much more serious thing. She whirled around, holding Loattie to her chest, but saw nothing there which could have caused the cacophony of sound.

The murmuring began to change. The dozens of voices became one dozen, then half a dozen. Each voice seemingly merging into another, until there was only one voice left. One remaining voice which spoke int a terrifying, rasping sound. One whose every word seemed to slice through the word before it.

“Well done, Erin.” the voice said. The murmuring returned when it–‘he,’ she now recognized–spoke, repeating his words over and over again in tones which seemed even more frightened of the original voice than Erin was.

“Who…what are you?” Erin shouted, trembling.

“Be not afraid, child.” spoke the voice. “I am here to guide you.”

Erin couldn’t say she was relieved by that. “But who?!” she shouted.

“I have been with you all your life, child. And with your deepening powers of the arcane, I am now able to speak to you more easily.”

Erin was feeling bolder now. “To the Nine Hells with all that, I asked you who are you?” She couldn’t be sure, but she thought she heard the voice laugh.

“You know me, child. I am The Whispered One, The Secret Holder to whom you offer your insincere prayers each day.”

Erin’s eyes widened, and she nearly dropped Loattie to the ground in shock. She let her feet drop out from under her, landing hard on her knees.

“My…my lord I am so sorry…” she began.

“Save your apologies, I have no stomach for them. Nor do I care for your prayers.”

Erin nodded, speechless.

“What I want is you. To groom you, to grant you the opportunity to earn the right to be my chosen representative on the Material Plane. I will mold you, if you are worthy.”

Erin remained silent. This was too much to take in. But then…the favor of a god could only help her…right? She raised her head, though the voice–the god–had offered her no form to meet eyes with.

“Yes, my lord Vecna. I will prove myself worthy of your favor.”

The Girl and the Granite Throne: Chapter One

Immar Twistfinger strolled casually through the countryside, dressed in a blue robe, with a pointed, wide brimmed hat. It was a ridiculous outfit, but he found that it occasionally helped to look the way most peasants imagined a wizard ‘should’ look. And today was likely to be such a day. While speaking with a priest this morning, Immar had been advised that his god wanted him to meet someone on the Shildhaven trade road today.

Sometimes he thought the gods took pleasure in being cryptic, just to amuse themselves watching their followers fumble about trying to follow their instructions.

It was nearing mid day now, and Immar had been strolling since just after breakfast. He’d passed a few travelers, but none seemed to him worthy of a deific message. There had been a young woman shapely enough to be a celestial creature, but Immar doubted his libido was a matter of divine concern.

As he passed through a small fishing village he’d not visited before, he saw a small group of children standing around, and heard indistinguishable shouting from the tiny mob. In all likelihood they were throwing bones or partaking in some other childish pastime. Immar remained only vaguely aware of them as he scanned the rest of the village for anything which stood out. As he continued down the road, though, Immar saw that what the children surrounded was not a game, but another child. A young girl, unless he missed his guess.

The other children were hitting her with sticks, and kicking dirt on her. The kind of simple minded cruelty reserved for goblins, and children. Immar had just resolved to frighten the little cretins away from the poor child, when a man from the village interceded before he could, shouting loud enough that Immar could hear him.

“You little beasts! Leave her alone before I tan every one of your hides and drag you to your parents by the scruff of your necks!”

The children complied without argument, collecting into smaller groups and moving off in different directions and, Immar hoped, less cruel forms of play.

With the children now gone, the wizard could get a better look at the young girl, and could see why the children tormented the poor creature. Her face was a mess. A large, unnaturally puffy scar took up most of the left side of her face, devouring her eye, her ear, and large tufts of hair, leaving her red locks thin enough that her scalp was visible on one side.

Immar slowed a bit, impressed by the sheer brutality of her disfigurement. What could possibly leave that kind of horrible mark on a child?

Then he noticed one of the larger boys from before come out from behind a nearby tree and move slowly up behind the girl as she was pulling herself to her feet and dusting off her dress. The boy pushed her to the ground, and Immar was close enough now to hear his taunting.

“Pretty girl, pretty girl, you’re so beautiful.” His tone was beyond sarcasm. It was contemptuous, even hateful. The girl lay on her face, and she appeared so defeated that Immar quickened his pace to teach the little brat some manners. But before he could reach her, the boy grabbed her shoulders, spun her around–and got stabbed in the eye with the pointed stick the girl was clinging to like a dagger.

With her other hand, the girl grabbed the boy by his tunic, and pulled her face close to his, whispering something the wizard couldn’t hear. She then pushed off of the boy, knocking him to the ground before he scrambled to his feet and ran off towards the village. The stick was still stuck in his eye, which bled freely. The organ was probably ruined.

Immar stopped dead in his tracks, stunned. He was only a dozen paces from the girl now, just staring at her back as she watched her attacker flee. If her appearance had not intrigued him before, her quick minded and decisive ferociousness most certainly had. Moving close enough to speak without shouting, Immar asked,

“What did you say to him?”

The girl jumped and turned around, startled.

“Who are you?!” she shot back, clearly distressed by an adult presence so soon after she’d half blinded the boy. Rather than answer her, Immar said

“He deserved what you gave him. I won’t tell anyone. But what makes you so sure he won’t?”

“Everyone will make fun of him if they know.” the girl said, appearing to relax as she shifted her attention to examining the wizard. Immar was silent as she did so, and after only a moment she spoke again. “You’re an Illuminan.” She stated, without any question in her tone.

Before, Immar had been stunned. Now he couldn’t help but let his mouth drop open for a moment. Most humans had never even heard of Illumians, assuming that the lighted runes circling Immar’s head were the result of his wizardry, not his heritage. None the less, he corrected her.

“It is pronounced ‘Illumian.'” he said.

“I knew that!” the girl shouted. Immar didn’t press the point.

“How do you know about Illumians?” he asked instead.

“Vicar Tolkris lets me use his library sometimes.” she replied, gesturing towards a small stone building with the symbol of the god Pelor on the door.

Once more Immar was taken aback. Most peasant humans he had met were barely literate, yet this child apparently took an interest in study, and at an age of no more than seven or eight! The wizard had no doubt that this remarkable girl was the one he had been sent to to meet.

“I’m still curious; what did you say to that boy, after you wounded him?”

The girl’s eyes dropped to the ground, her fear of Immar as an adult apparently returned. He guessed she had been punished for a sharp tongue before.

Nervously, she said “I told him that now he can be pretty too.”

Immar had to suppress a boisterous laugh at that, and knelt to put himself at eye level with the girl.

“What is your name, young human?”

“Erin.” she said simply.

“Well, Erin, how would you like to be a wizard?”

—

Erin’s mother was more difficult to convince than the girl herself had been.

“She’s seven summers old!” the woman shouted, becoming distressed as Immar continued to press her.

He gritted his teeth as subtly as he could manage. He had to take this child as his apprentice. If not for the will of the gods, then simply because she deserved it.

“How long can your daughter be happy with the books at the chapel?” Immar asked.

“He’s right, Mother.” Erin chimed in, not one to be left out of adult conversations.

“And even if she could be, what future is there for her in a village this small? The boys who throw rocks at her now won’t show her any more love when she becomes a woman.”

“Hey!” Erin shouted, turning on Immar angrily. He pressed onward.

“And how effective can a one eyed fisherwoman really be, anyway?”

“HEY!” Erin shouted again, louder this time. “I’m the fourth best spear fisher in this village!”

Immar turned to look at her.

“I really must learn to stop being surprised by you. I apologize for assuming.” he said, before looking back to lock gazes with Erin’s mother. “But that only goes to demonstrate my main point. Erin is made to face greater challenges than those offered through the eternal struggle between fish and fisher. Let me give her the tools to do that.”

“Please mom!” Erin begged.

Her mother looked back and forth between her daughter, and the wizard who wanted to take her away. Tears began to appear on the woman’s eyelids.

“Is this really what you want, Errie? You know you can’t change your mind once you do this.”

Erin seemed a little surprised by that, and turned to look at Immar for confirmation.

“It’s true.” he said. “I live very far from here, and I am a very busy wizard. I cannot be bothered with an apprentice who is not dedicated to her craft.”

Erin’s face was as serious as a seven year old’s face had ever been. But it only a took her a moment to return her gaze to her mother.

“Yes, mom. I want to.” uttered with the solemnity of a soldier.

The woman stepped back until her feet met the edge of a chair, and slumped into it, bringing her hands up to cover her face. When she removed them, Immar saw her try to hide the tears she wiped away.

“Alright.” she said, sounding suddenly lonely.

Immar nodded, and moved to the side of the room to begin casting a spell while Erin and her mother made their goodbyes. He heard the woman telling her daughter to be good, and not to forget that she was loved. By the time the woman’s heavy sobbing had quieted, the spell had completed, creating a portal in the center of the room.

“Come, Erin.” Immar said.

“Just a moment!” she shouted, and ran into the next room. She returned shortly with a bag slung over her shoulder, and a fishing spear in one hand. Immar could see the leg of a stuffed toy sticking out of the bag. The wizard nodded, approving. Nothing about wizardry discouraged a fondness for possessions.

Immar then placed his hand on Erin’s back, and turned once more towards her mother.

“You are giving her a great gift. She will always thank you for that.”

Before the woman could respond, the wizard and his apprentice stepped through the portal, into a tower several days travel away.

“Welcome home,” Immar said.

The Girl and the Granite Throne: Prologue

Along a muddy road through the woodlands of Shieldhaven province trundled the black caravan. Three carriages pulled by six spindly horse-shaped figures shrouded in black cloth. Guiding the horses were human-shaped figures–no less spindly in their frame, and so buried beneath black robes that no other distinguishing feature between them could be found. The only sound as the caravan passed was the squeaking of the six axles, and slosh of hooves moving in and out of mud. Those who saw it pass thought it to be part of some funerary rite. A few even removed their hats and bowed their heads as the carriages passed, out of respect for the dead. In a manner of speaking they were correct to do so.

For I was very much dead.

As the last dim light illuminating the clouds faded into darkness, I flung open the door of my casket, and took a deep breath of air I no longer needed to function. I climbed out of my carriage and onto the roof to get a good look at our surroundings. I recognized them. The fishing village we were approaching was not far from the hidden mountain pass which would lead to my stronghold–the stronghold of Vecna’s power on the material plane. With my tireless skeletal minions marching ceaselessly, I would arrive long before I needed to sleep through another day. Long enough, in fact, that I had time to stop and satisfy my hungers here in this small, and delightfully defenseless village.

Instantly my form disintegrated, leaving behind a swarm of buzzing mosquitoes. As one, guided by my consciousness, the swarm moved into the air to grant a better view of the people below. There appeared to be an informal gathering in the center of town. Torches stuck in the ground, and bonfires over which food was being prepared provided light to the few dozen people sitting, talking, and drinking around tables. I eyed them one by one, wishing my form had lips I could lick in anticipation.

My gaze came to rest on a voluptuous young woman flirting with a boy about her age. I slid my many hundreds of eyes along her graceful curves slowly, savoring her casual sensuality. I would have lusted for her in life. I don’t know if it’s just my imagination, but the ones I want to fuck always taste the sweetest.

Single minded, I guided the swarm in a steep descent towards my meal. As the flitting insects began to skirt in and out of her vision, she waved them away with her hand as though they were any other bug. As they grew in number she turned to look, and at the sight of the cloud of insects gathering behind her, she screamed in terror. That gave me more pleasure than a dozen such girls could have given me in life.

I wrapped her in my swarm before coalescing into my “natural” shape–the pinpricks my bugs had made in her neck widening to accommodate my teeth. She struggled valiantly, screaming curses and calling for her nearby friends and family. But my unnatural life had granted me unnatural strength. She would have had more success struggling free of iron manacles than against my grip. And by the time her form grew limp, and grey in my arms, her fleeing boy was only two dozen stumbling steps away.

Spitting the woman to the side like the shell of a nut, I leapt into the air, alighting three paces in front of the boy. I heard him fumble to a stop, and turned just in time to see the oaf fall on his ass. I scowled, and held out my hand to the side. From the darkness, a cloud of bats appeared, and flew around my hand in a frenzy. When they dispersed, I held a great sword. So large a dwarf would have needed two hands to wield it.

“Coward’s blood is too bitter.” I said, before bringing the sword down to cleave the boy through from shoulder to hip.

The group was fully alert now, some grabbing rocks and sticks, the slightly wiser among them grabbing the torches mounted in the ground. The wisest ran to the houses, calling the town to arms as if it would do them some good. I took a moment to look around. The young lady had done an admirable job satiating my hunger for blood, and her lover my lust for slaughter. But the night couldn’t end without causing someone a pain I knew would last long after I left.

Then I saw the woman with the baby, hiding beneath the table.

Moving at no great speed, I walked towards her. I opened fatal wounds in four brave–but foolish–attackers in the space it took to reach her, without breaking step. The mother locked eyes with me, and I could see the panic fill them as she realized I was coming for her. She tried to climb out from under the table to flee, but a kick from my boot sent the table spinning, and knocked her to the ground.

I knelt, ignoring several large rocks as they bounced off my back and head, and took hold of the baby’s leg. I held the child in front of me as I stood. It was a girl, couldn’t have been more than six months old. I grinned, baring my teeth at the mother. She stared at me from the ground, frozen in suspense and terror. She jumped with fright when, suddenly, I threw my great sword to the side, burring it hilt deep in a young woman charging me with a sword. Apparently they’d found some weapons, useless though they might be.

Slowly, deliberately, I drew Vecna’s dagger from its sheath at my hip. The pommel was shaped like a dismembered hand, clasping an eye. And from the eye shot the blade, a glare made of steel. The dagger is sacred to the followers of Vecna– intended for sacrifices offered by only Vecna’s highest ranking cleric on the material plane: myself.

I held the baby high then. I couldn’t see, but I was sure that the cattle surrounding me were lowering the weapons in fear of what they were about to behold. Slowly, I brought the tip of Vecna’s Glare to the baby girl’s left eye, not quite touching it yet. I wanted everyone to see this.

The crackle of the fires was the only sound in the terrified silence the moment before I plunged the dagger up to its hilt in the child’s eye. And for a moment after that, the silence continued, the villagers too shocked at first to respond. But shock quickly became rage. In the moment before they charged, I dropped the child, letting gravity pull it off the blade. Just as the first blade swung through my form, I became again a swarm of insects, flitting off into the darkness to rejoin my carriage for the ride home.

It wasn’t until months later that I would notice the tiniest of flecks of metal missing from the blade of Vecna’s Glare, and wonder where it had gone to.