Chapter 1.3: A Reflection of Angels

They can’t look away from the horrid spectacle. As the descendant of Thrones falls forward, hitting the cobblestone path towards their unholy destination, the huge symbol at the top of the church glows with a dark red light. It initiates an ear-piercing screech. The twitching of the blue man’s facial features quickly spreads throughout his whole body, inducing painful spastic movements, while he tries in vain to crawl back to safety. The sound of his limbs breaking fills the air.
“We have to help him!”, Merodius shouts, panic woven into his voice.
(Wisdom 17)
“Pull him back!”, Oslando shouts. He runs towards him and Bruq joins him. Alexander just observes the situation he expected to happen.
Sadly, the guide is visibly beyond saving as his limbs break in different directions, connecting with each other to form a wheel with his body as the center. He goes up in flame directly afterwards, embers filling the smokey air around him.
(15 versus AC)
The half-elf is just quick enough to duck and evade the burning particles coming his way, but his satyr ally is not so lucky. The sparks just hit him on his chest, making the hairs escaping from beneath his leather armor sizzle.
“Oh, Obad-Hai’s stinking cock”, he swears as he furiously pats chest to put out the miniature fire, “why does everything want to make me hairless?”

“Why would you do this?”, Oslando shouts with his fists clenched, standing between the ashes of the blue man and the priest.
“I wanted to know which ward was guarding this area from angelic influences and now I know. I also know you can get closer to the church without harm. I recognize all other symbols. They are harmless. I guaranteed our protection.”
The half-elf walks towards him with big steps, each stomp making the dirt airborne, and pushes his index finger onto the priest’s sternum.
“No, you sacrificed someone to test a theory. What kind of cleric are you?” His distaste for injuste echoes with every word spoken.
“Apparently one who worships a dead god”, Bruq adds, after blowing at his fur one last time to get rid of the ashy smell. Alexander remains silent, looking at the sigil on the church, trying to remember every detail.
(Intimidation 11)
“Well, that’s not a question you want me to answer, is it now?” The priest stares into the satyr’s eyes. His own eyes are shifting from grey to a bright blue and his sceptre is pointed at him. Its sapphire turns red.
“Am I supposed to be impressed, Alexander?”, he says with raised eyebrows, moving his glaive from one hand to the other. “I hunt monsters for living. This doesn’t affect me.”
The cleric lowers his silver rod, turns away from him and starts walking to the church. “Let’s get this over with so we can separate ways again.”
Merodius looks worried, his troubled gaze meeting Lyssa’s. “I really hoped we could all be friends”, he says and starts to saunter in the same direction.
The siren nods, looking at the scene before her. “Would make a great song, though.”

(Perception 15)
“It really is a ghost town”, Lyssa murmurs as she observes the details of the buildings around her. The wood of the doors is perishing, the metal is changing colours, turning brown while it should be a clean and silvery grey. The parts of the roofs visible to her are riddled with holes. The dying trees are bare, the infertile grounds is covered with the decaying, dried leaves, whereas the road towards Bleakwight was covered with the merry marks of spring.
“I would almost believe Hadriel meant it literally.”
They pass one of the few edifices that doesn’t look like a sad home, but looks like a sad workshop of a blacksmith. A half-finished sword rests on the dusty anvil and the oven looks like coal hasn’t been burning in it for ages. The sign has fallen and been eaten by the crawling vermin of the earth, leaving only a metal horseshoe to be identified.
“I wouldn’t stay in a city run by blood cultists, either”, Oslando says, keeping his hand ready to grab and throw his knife when necessary. The air filling their lungs is cold. Everything feels cold as if everything wants to tell them this is a hostile and undesirable territory to be in.

(Wisdom 12)
“How wise would it be to just walk in?”, Lyssa asks as they have reached the dark brown door.
“Not very wise, I suppose”, Alexander mutters. They look at the red markings on the wood, but refrain from touching them.
(Religion 15)
“I believe these aren’t of the same nature as we saw on the church from afar”, he continues. “I don’t recognize any pattern from some kind of religion or creed. Maybe it’s magic.”
Their attention shifts to Merodius, who walks up to the door, head tilted to investigate the markings above his eye level.
(Arcana 5)
“It could mean anything, really”, he says slowly as he waves his hand in front of the red paint, trying to feel something coming off of it. “I don’t know.”
Even though everyone would like to know what they’re up against, they abstain from commenting on the group’s sorcerer. Everyone does, except the cleric.
“What use is a puppet without a proper puppeteer?”, he growls with the music of distaste vibrating in the air. “We have to find another way. Maybe this alerts them, maybe it obliterates us. If when enter here, the scarecrow opens the door.”
“Enough”, Oslando says as if he is commanding a mere footsoldier to remember his place. “You’re not helping.” The half-elf turns to Merodius and sees a expressionless mask, facing the ground. “Ignore him. He doesn’t know what he is saying.”
Alexander coughs. “Yes, I do.”
Oslando places a hand on his shoulder. “You know magic, Mero”, he continues. “You are magic. You can do this.”
(Nature 15)
“Look at the plants”, he whispers as the pale mask is starting to show a face again.
“What’s up with the plants?”, Oslando asks him loud enough to make the others start investigating them as well.
“They are blossoming quite well in an environment that looks barren. Their roots are feeding on something below the surface that isn’t present in the rest of the town. Might be magic.”
The half-elf pats him twice on the back and notices everyone is looking at the door again, except Bruq, who walks beside the black walls of the building, crouching to inspect everything even from a closer point of view.
(Survival 25)
“A few of the flowers are snapped, stepped upon.” He lays his hands on the green and yellow grass and feels around a bit.
“Are you feeling homesick?”, Lyssa stutters with a weak laugh.
Bruq turns his head and smiles back, shaking his head. “Not more than usual.”
He knocks on the ground on several spots, creating a variety of tones that all sound the same to the others.
“We should walk this way around the church. The footprints that broke the flowers and trampled the grass are relatively fresh. I think I can find us a different entrance.”

Chapter 1.2: A Reflection of Angels

“You haven’t really said much during this trip. Don’t you want to make friends?”
Merodius looks up at the grumpy cleric, whose eyes stay fixed on the blue being walking in front of them.
“Friends”, he laughs, still not averting his gaze, “I’m here for one sole reason, sorcerer puppet. I want what Hadriel promised me, not to find my soulmate in one of you.” He turns quiet again, remaining very close to the descendant of Thrones.
(Insight 9)
“I don’t know if I should trust you, priest”, Oslando slowly speaks, observing him to spot the giveaway clue that would betray him.
The cleric sighs again, this time more aggressive than the many sighs that went before this one.
(Deception 23)
“If I would tell you that you may call me Alexander, would you be happy? I have no intentions to work against you. I just prefer being on my own. This feels unpleasant; forced company.”
His face mimics the expression of loss and regret, but his true, draconic heart remains hidden.
“Happy may not be the right term if it brings you unhappiness, Alexander”, Oslando says. The thrifty grin on the priest’s face is barely noticeable, although it’s sincere.
“Thank you”, he slowly speaks, surprising some of the fellowship. “I promise - if “promise” is the right way to put it - that I won’t be in your way to claim your prize if you don’t obstruct my way either.” For a moment he becomes silent again and then shows the first sign of interest in someone other than himself.
“What exactly are you promised as reward?”, he asks, tightening his grip on his silver sceptre.

“Well, that’s an easy one”, captain Kaklamanis shouts cheerfully. “Treasure! Enough gold to buy me the world.” Her eyes sparkle like the precious gems she desires so dearly. The uplifted sound of her voice sounds like the one of a child on his birthday.
“Open book”, Alexander whispers to himself, barely loud enough for Oslando to hear it. “And the others? Oslando? Merodius? Bruq?”
Only the half-elf seems to be at ease enough to share. “As you might have guessed, I’m here to do good and to grow. No money required. No offense intended, captain.” She puts her hand high in the air, thumb pointed upwards.
“That’s admirable, Oslando”, she says, “but not really my glass of wine.”
The sorcerer looks at her, a riddled expression cast upon his mask. “The expression is “not my cup of tea”, right?”
She shakes her head, taking a greedy sip from her flask, disappointed with the alcohol-free drink.
“Not for me, it ain’t.”

“So… I’m quite curious about your story, Mero. I don’t meet a powerful sorcerer every day, you know.” The words of the half-elf flatter him and he doesn’t see any reason not to share a bit of the details.
“I was supposed to be summoned into some strong and powerful golem-like metal construct, but some halflings”, he speaks this word with a clear disgusting tone in his voice, “failed to do so. They put me in this body you see. I’m not complaining, but I would very much like to know why this happened. Hadriel said he has information for me. I want answers. I need answers.”
The story of his life hushes their sounds and all of them remember a tragedy of their own past: rape, a loveless family, maddening solitude, everyone  has something that haunts the background of their mind.
“I understand”, Bruq slowly says in a deep voice. “I understand why you need to know.”
Merodius looks at him. “You are here to learn something as well? What question has Hadriel promised to answer?”
The satyr shakes his head, creating a soft brushing sound as his goatee scratches his high-reaching bush of chest hair.
“I am to receive a gift of him, something material instead of verbal.” He swiftly moves his fingers across his chain in a tapping manner. “Call me a collector of trinkets, beside a hunter of monsters. Just looking to expand the collection a bit.”
Lyssa observes the odd objects with visible inquisitiveness. “To use Oslando’s words: what are their stories?”
Bruq shakes his head and points forwards, turning the attention of his companions away from his belt. “I think that has to wait”, he stutters with a numbed tone in his voice. “I think we have arrived at our destination.”

They pass all the grim wildlife of nature, try not to let the cold get to them too much and now face the church of Bleakwight. The small buildings - supposed to look like houses - seem to be fully abandoned, and are slowly turning into ruins. Wood rot, fungi, rust; all signs of impermanence are present. Everything about Bleakwight looks ominous, but they all bleak next to the immense sun-blocking, sacrilegious building casting down its seemingly life-absorbing shadow.
“Well, this couldn’t be more ominous”, Lyssa says, taking out her spyglass to look around.
(Investigation 10)
“I see no cultists or any other signs of activity”, she sighs relieved, putting away her telescope. “I think we can walk right in without someone seeing us.” The priest Dargothoth raises his hand, gesturing the siren to stop moving. He remains silent, staring intensely at the dark building ahead of them.
(Religion 19)
“See those signs painted on the church?”, he asks and the others squint their eyes to observe them better. In a red liquid - probably blood - dozens of symbols are decorating the walls of the building in an ill-omened way, as if this village wouldn’t be able to scare off all potential visitors on its own.
The man still stands there, fixing his gaze on one of the symbols. Way above the dark brown door, painted above the three rectangular stained glass windows that let a dark red light pass through them, he studies the biggest of all the sinister glyphs.
It is similar to a pentagram with it’s tip pointed downwards. Every corner of the five-pointed star has a circle drawn, instead of sharp corners. Five different, unidentifiable sigils are painted in the middle of each circle, all connected to each other with a straight line. In the center of this grim symbol, an “A” is written in a very elegant handwriting.
“You know what that means, right?”, Merodius asks Alexander, who responds with a stern nod.
“I think I do, but I am not certain. Yet.”

Alexander walks up to the blue guide and looks at him.
“Why have you stopped moving, descendant of Thrones? Why don’t you bring us to the door of our destination?”
Hadriel’s servant turns his head towards him in a rigid way.
“I can’t move any further”, he cries in a squeaking tone. “I must stop here.”
An unsatisfied expression becomes visible on Alexander’s face and he inspects him again from head to toe. “What happens when you bring us any further?”
The sound of his voice unsettles his companions slightly, making them look at each other with question marks nearly visible floating around their heads.
(Insight 6)
“What are you planning, Alexander?” He takes a few steps back and looks Lyssa dead in the eye, more worried than charming this time.
“Testing a theory”, he smiles.
(Strength 16)
The cleric turns to the sobbing blue man again and kicks him in the back, violently pushing him forward towards the church.

A small update

Hello, dear reader of The Demonomania! This is a very short message to provide some additional information on this blog. As mentioned in the first post (Welcome to The Demonomania!), this story is based on D&D and, for those who don’t know, you can only play D&D with dice to determine the outcome of your actions.
In this blog, all of that hasn’t been really very visible, until the most recent post (Chapter 1.1: The Reflection of Angels). At some point during that post, you could see “(Investigation 23)” written above a couple of sentences. That was the outcome of the 20-sided die, combined with the character’s skill bonusses, deciding how well someone could use the investigation skill to gain information.
If you don’t remember or just don’t know what all these skills mean anymore, you can check the “D&D Terminology explained” post on the blog. From now on, you’ll see a lot more of this in the blog posts. And if you only care for the story, well, just ignore everything in parentheses and you’ll be fine.

And thank you for reading The Demonomania!

Chapter 1.1: A Reflection of Angels

As they walk out of the small and simple temple they are met by another one of Hadriel’s servants. This one is slightly less radiant than the former one and doesn’t seem to have his wings anymore.
“What kind of angels are they exactly?”, Oslando asks. He observes the man and he looks very similar to the being that came down a few days ago. How could he ever forget that strike of blue lightning?
“They are far descendants of the Thrones, beings in charge of the heavenly armies after the Seraphim and the Cherubim. While I, as a descendant of the Seraphim, was a direct product of a simple recreation, the descendants of the Thrones have been, how do I put this… They’ve undergone a bit too much of trial-and-error procedures. They are partially broken, have a short lifespan and are only usable for simple tasks, sadly.”
He looks at the azure being, just standing there, restlessly shifting its weight between his left and right foot, waiting for a command, any command. This one hasn’t been blindfolded, but the empty gaze stares right through them, as if his eyes are no longer functional.
“He will guide you to Bleakwight for as far as he can. It takes about an hour to walk there and it’s fairly simple to find, but I wouldn’t be a good employer - so to speak - if I would let you just wander about.”
They keep staring at Hadriel and the other being, until Lyssa interrupts the endless gaping. “Alright, mateys, off we go then! But first, does one of you have something to drink? Red wine, perhaps?”
They shake their heads, the cleric more excessively. It becomes clear to him he has to deal with an alcoholic, one that’s supposed to have his back.
“Hadriel? Could you possibly turns this into wine? It sharpens my senses for your quest, you see.”
The angel doesn’t move. “I can’t turn the water in your flask into wine”, he says, slightly agitated. “That would be stupid.”
The siren sighs. “Well, so much for the miracle worker”, she whispers to herself. “Let’s go!”

As the blue servant walks - faltering would be a better term - the five adventurers follow, easily keeping up with the tedious slow pace of their guide.
“Maybe an introduction would be appropriate, right?”, says Merodius, switching his head from left to right and back again to see how his fellow travelers respond. “Might be nice to know who we all are if we are going to run into combat together?”
The half-elf visibly agrees, just a bit milder than the head banging yes of the satyr.
“Well, I’ll start then”, the puppet says, “I am Merodius Darvantigo, but you can all just call me Mero. I don’t really know what to tell you besides this, because I have no memory of my life before this life.”
With a naive innocence he tells them about how some halflings - pesky dog-sized humans - summoned his soul into this doll and then treated him like a failed experiment.
“So, what’s up with the mask?”, Bruq asks, intrigued by the similarities it shares with the burial mask on his chain.
“Ah, yes. I have no real face. See?” He removes the pale disguise and reveals hundreds of yellowish straws, all bound together with two dark orange strings of thick rope and hidden away beneath leather patches.
“The mask is enchanted with illusion magic to mimic facial expressions, blink, move my mouth and so on, but it is fairly basic. Does scare less children, though.” Dargothoth chuckles.
“And you’re a sorcerer? Always a good thing to have some kind of wizard on the team.” The expression of the mask shows anger and looks insulted by Lyssa’s words.
“I am no wizard, siren. Wizards learn magic from books, sorcerers are born with magic. Big difference. Huge difference.”
Lyssa holds her hands up, as if someone was forcing her to surrender.
“You’re quite the fiery type, aren’t you? You could set your own skin on fire. I like you, though. Magic with a temper.” She laughs playfully, while Mero stays silent.

(Investigation 23)
“And you are a pirate, I presume? The captain of your own ship?”
The siren looks pleasantly surprised at Oslando, blushing at her cheeks.
“Well, yes, I am. The name is Lyssa Kaklamanis, but captain Lyssa will suffice. What gave it away? I am curious of nature, I’m told.”
The half-elf reveals a small smile of satisfaction on his stoic face.
“You have a piece of dried seaweed on your left boot, together some salt residue, probably from your nautical adventures. You have a spyglass on the right side of your belt, a cutlass at the left side and let’s not ignore the obvious blunderbuss strapped to your back.”
She hides the fact she’s impressed, although she doubts he wouldn’t immediately see this as well.
“So, I’m a pirate. What gave the captain-part away?” The others look at her as well, trying to see what clue rests in her outfit.
“You’re a siren, captain Kaklamanis. Ever seen a siren working for men instead of the other way around? Would be a first.” She nods heavily.
“I am known for my charming voice, so I would stay on my good side”, she jokingly threatens him. “Next time you may guess the meaning of my accordion.”
Oslando shakes his head. “No guessing involved, just logics.”

“Oslando”, he answers, after being told it would only be polite to introduce one’s self after forcing someone else to do it. “Not much to tell, actually. I’m decent fighter with some interest in magic. Not born with it, but getting the hang of it as my learning process progresses.”
He looks down, peaking at the corner of his eye, seeing the expression change of the sorcerer. Where he expected the same despise as he expressed before, he spots shame.
“No need to look so down, Mero.” The puppet shakes his head with vigor.
“Not my intention to insult you, Sir, I’m sorry.”
The half-elf lays his hand on his shoulder, stooping a little to reach him.
“No offense taken. Everyone has their own story. You probably have your reasons to say what you said. And don’t call me “Sir”, please. I am not your master. You are your own master.” Merodius smiles - or at least his mask does - and he feels appreciated and respected, something he hasn’t experienced in a long time, if he has ever experienced it in the first place.
“My story leads me here, trying to do what’s best for everything and everyone around me. I try to find ways to improve myself. Never stop growing.”

“And how about you, my horny friend?”
The satyr looks at Lyssa and they both burst into laughter.
“Did you just call me “horny”, siren? Have we really sunken to this level of humour, just after our first encounter?” He wipes a tear from his good eye, unintentionally putting the attention on the other one.
“Care to share your story?”, Oslando asks, pointing at the hairless, pinkish part of his face, ignoring the slightly childish conversation. “Burned?”
Bruq shakes his head. “No, corrosion. Without all too many details, I was hunting an acid breathing cockatrice-looking abomination and it hit me in the face. I should have seen it coming.”
The obviously quiet priest chuckles again. “Well, seeing might be part of the problem now.” Bruq ignores him for now as his one white eye eagerly wants to turn black.
“Do you play pan flute?”, Lyssa asks, excited. “We can make music together.” He raises his bushy eyebrows.
“Just because I’m a satyr I’m supposed to play the flute? That’s a stereotype”, he bluntly says, as he pulls an instrument out of his bag. “And you’re absolutely right.” And, once again, their laughter exceeds the silence.

Prologue: A Gathering of Heroes - Part 8

Everyone knows at least something about the history of Crimson Gulch. It’s an enclave between two mountains and it resides within the cold shadows of the draconic bones that form the bridge between the rocky peaks.
When an ancient black dragon terrorized the land, many fought him, men and angels alike. His scales fell from his decomposing body over time and his blood fed the wildlife below.
Now, overgrown by thorned vines and poisonous plants, a small passage is hidden beneath the twisted nature, passing a small stone temple on its crooked way to the forgotten city of Bleakwight.

The last mile beneath the darkness the dragon bones cast down upon the land is a long one. These five adventurers are so close to this life-changing meeting, this quest that will be bestowed upon them.
They can feel the angelic warmth as they are closing in, the source being the small stone temple along the abandoned road. A golden glow can easily be spotted, shining bright through the small glassless windows. It has no door to hide the building’s insides to the outside world, making it easy for him to see the scenery inside.
“Welcome”, an echoing voice speaks, filling everyone’s head with his majestic presence, “I almost feared you wouldn’t show up in time.”

The humanoid cleric, his sapphire inlaid sceptre in his hand, nods.
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world”, he says calmly. All others seem to fade and bleach within his radiance. He sees a half-elf, a satyr, a small puppet-like being and a siren.
“We are your heroes?”, Oslando asks, as he observes the latest visitor.
“Strange lot”, the hunter adds and the captain agrees with a stern nod.
“Yes, children, you are the prophesied ones. I was surprised as well, if I may be honest with you.”
His skin is of the same kind of gold most expensive rings and necklaces are made out of and his long white hair is draped across his naked torso, covering his entire rib cage. His eyes burn with white flames, undoubtedly able to see past every lie and illusion they could tell him. A dark brown cloth hangs from his hips towards the dusty ground, covered with silver symbols written in an unknown and ancient language. His wings seem to be incorporeal. A bright light originating from his shoulder blades fills the entire room.
“Now that everyone is here, I think it’s time to tell you what your mission is.”

“Just a couple of miles from here you will find a small ghost town called Bleakwight. It is the perfect hiding place for the blood cult that stole the artefact you’re supposed to retrieve, the Enochian Mirror.”
The angel waves his hand and a look-a-like of the relic materializes from his warm light. It’s a simple looking object, five foot in diameter and surrounded within a silver framework with five different sized holes evenly spread across the circle.
“These miserable creatures took it from our temple, killing the entire order protecting it and now they’re using it to learn about secrets that no man should know.”
They look intrigued at the apparition and turn their attention towards Hadriel’s face as the image dissolves back into golden light.
“They are hiding in the church of Bleakwight, but - sadly - I can’t enter to retrieve the object myself. They have warded the whole village with barrier spells. The entire church has become an anti-angel bastion. Luckily for your quest, none of you are angels.”

“And what about our rewards?”, Lyssa asks, interrupting the silence the radiating man has created after revealing their task. Bruq, standing next to her and leaning on his glaive, visibly agrees with her.
“We are risking our lives to clear the mess your own order couldn’t”, he speaks bleating as he says the word “mess” and stares deeply in the emotionless eyes of their employer. “That’s worth something up front, Sir. An advance, sort of speak.”
Merodius raises his hand to add something to the conversation.
“You don’t have to raise your hand to speak, Merodius. You are with equals here.” He thanks the angel and looks up to the others.
“I don’t think we are in the right position to demand something from the angels. They are, well, you know, the embodiment of everything pure, good and holy. They are beings of their word, I presume. Right?”
Hadriel nods.
“You will get your payments. Don’t worry, but I need that mirror before I can give it to you. Do I make myself clear?” The temperature in the stone building rises, making them sweat and impeding their breathing.
“Perfectly clear”, Oslando says to end this pointless discussion. “Can we get on with the task at hand?”

“What cult?”, the cleric asks. Hadriel stays quit too long for his taste. “What cult?”, he repeats with a more growling tone to his voice.
“They don’t worship a deity from this realm. They are followers of the Archdemons of Abaddon.” The sapphire instantly turns red, red as blood.
“The Archdemons of Abaddon”, he repeats angered. “You’re sending us to our death, that’s why you’re not going yourself! It’s not the warding, it’s fear for an opponent you can’t overpower!”
A blinding light fills the room, making all of them dizzy, pushing them onto the ground.
“Think carefully about what you are going to say next, monster in disguise! You are not in the position to speak to me such a tone. I could wipe your existence from history, like we did to your god!”
The light dims and they manage to stand up again with heaving breath. “If you want to leave, fine, you won’t get what you desire and I’ll make sure to find you when you don’t expect it.” The priest just stands there, like all others, struck with awe about the anger burning with the angel.
“That’s what I thought”, he says calmly. “Let’s get you prepared for your journey.”

Prologue: A Gathering of Heroes - Part 7

“It still will be called The Siren’s Nipple after all”, she whispers as she uneasily looks towards the sky, preparing for the next strike of lightning to disagree with her. Nothing happens and she relaxes her shoulders.
“Poor soul. What a horrible way to go…” Her attention is pulled away from his ashes and towards the envelope, glimmering bright in the light of the sun. “Oh, so shiny”, she whispers to herself and carefully peels of the red wax seal.
“Let’s trade you for some coin or wine”, she thinks as she carefully folds the envelope and puts it in her bag. “Now, what have we here?”

“Lyssa Kaklamanis, Captain of The Shy Maiden,

You’ve collected quite the crew to surround yourself with, siren. Your charming abilities are formidable and I believe they make you feel safe, but you aren’t safe, are you? You have ten bodyguards and yet you seem so easily frightened.
We know about your past and you have every right to doubt every stranger’s intentions. This includes us, but I will make clear why you can trust me.”

She looks around her, searching for her mateys, uneasily vigilant of her vibrant surroundings.
“Guys, can you come over here?” Silence is the only response to her question.
“Guys?”
She looks back at the letter, hoping to find comfort in the next lines of text.

“I know you could only desire one thing more than your own safety. You desire treasure.”

“And lots of wine”, she adds, reaching for her flask, disappointed by the absence of fluids inside.

“I have a very interesting offer to make, one that will take away any form of poverty forever. I will make you the richest woman of this region, any form of luxury you desire will be yours. You can buy your safety. You only have to do one thing: find me in Crimson Gulch.
You’ve set sail to this place before, so I’m sure you’ll know the way. I will fully enlighten you about your mission when you arrive, but here is the short version of the debriefing: a band of thieves stole something dear to the angelic council of the Silver Circle. We need it back and you, together with four others - hopefully - are going to retrieve it. Make haste, captain, and set sail.

Yours sincerely,

Hadriel, First Descendant of the Seraphim”

She looks up again, trying to spot any sign of her nearing crew, but she seems to be abandoned.
She walks back to the ship, finding Vincent DeRood laying in the sand with multiple bleeding cuts across his body.
“They were all released from your spell, capt’n”, he’s able to say, coughing blood, “and they took the ship!”
The Shy Maiden is only a few dozen yards away from the shore, but she wouldn’t keep up with it by swimming.
“No one takes my fucking ship and live to sing shanties about it. I am her captain!”
She jumps onto a rock, looking straight at her former crew looking back at her. She can see the terror in their eyes as she opens her mouth and starts to sing.

“With cradling waves guiding your sleep,
bringing me your minds, all ready to reap.
You think to escape through my mother, the sea,
never realizing how she’d bring you back to me.”

The ships starts to turn. Screaming men create the background vocals for the pristine sounds of her chanting.

“Walking the edges and walking the plank,
caressing the memory, the last time you drank.
No more red wine, just the waters of salt.
Prepare yourselves, mateys, and make your last vault.”

Her ship comes straight towards the beach, ready to strand and be taking back by her righteous owner.
She continues with the last part of her ballad, as she observes the nine mutineers balancing at the edge of The Shy Maiden. Their eyes are filled with terror and their bodies are struck with a magical paralysis.

“Many pirates forgotten, with the sea as their grave.
Free from their lives, no longer a slave.
Make a step, sailors, dive into the blue.
The Shy Maiden is mine and there’s no room for you.”

Prologue: A Gathering of Heroes - Part 6

“I most certainly did not create that”, he whispers, struck with awe about the horrendous scene Merodius just saw.
He can feel the magic filling the thick air of the swamp as an annoying itch covers his skin. It’s a new and exciting sensation, but one he chooses to ignore at this time.
Between his gloved fingers he holds the mysterious envelope. With his spare hand he summons a spectral, see-through hand to open it at a safe distance. As the wrappings fall onto the ground and no explosions or enchantments happen, he lets the ghostly hand bring him the piece of parchment and starts to read.

“Merodius Darvantigo, Soul of the Sorcerer,

We have studied your life for a long time, your current scarecrow-like life and your previous one as well, and I have to say I’m impressed by the power you possess. It isn’t unlikely for you to become one of the greatest sorcerers of this generation.”

The flattering words peek his interest, but only half as much as the fact the author of this letter knows about his previous life, the one before the halfling created him.

“Although few might introduce themselves properly to you in your current state, I don’t want to be the one continuing these barbaric manners. I speak on behalf of the entire angelic council of the Silver Circle as I say you this, kind sorcerer: we are in need of your help.

Something magical and immensely powerful has been stolen from us and we fear its new owners have ill intentions with this precious artefact. One of its many capabilities is to reveal hidden truths and secrets. You can imagine that these malicious thieves could disrupt our whole reality if they learn about all godly secrets our world holds.”

He nods, as if the letter could react to his non-verbality. “I don’t like evil persons”, he says aloud, having flashbacks of his current, brief life.

“We can’t get it back for reasons I will explain when we meet, but you can help us. If we interpret our sacred prophecies correctly, you are one of the few heroes who can put a stop to their infernal schemes.

As I wrote earlier, we have studied your life for quite a while now and we know about the different struggles you are dealing with. You don’t know who you truly are, where you came from and what your dreams mean.”

He looks startled. “How do they know this much?”, he asks himself as an eerie feeling crawls up his non-existing spine.

“And this is where your reward comes into the picture. As I mentioned before, the artefact we require reveals all kinds of secrets, including yours. This means we can give you the answers you are looking for. We can give you back your life.”

He stops reading for a while, daydreaming about what this would mean for him. This life would have purpose again. He can find a place in this world again.

“Travel to the northwest from the Earlorn Boglands until you reach a landscape that is covered with long grass and red and black flowers. You’ll see a chasm between the cliffs called Crimson Gulch. I’ll be waiting for you. Make haste, young sorcerer, the world is in dire need of your help.

Your sincerely,

Hadriel, First Descendant of the Seraphim”

Nothing has ever excited him more than this letter. To finally find out the truth about what his previous life holds. If this could reveal the true face he hides behind the mask... It would mean the world to him.
“What happened?”, the little girl shouts from the opening of the tavern’s door. He turns towards her with a smile on his artificial face.
“I found an answer to my questions”, he responds with a lifted spirit. “I’m going to go now.” He waves in a childishly manner and starts walking, almost hopping out of excitement, towards the northwest.

Prologue: A Gathering of Heroes - Part 5

He doesn’t look impressed nor does he show compassion for the soul whose body burned down in mere seconds. Instead, Dargothoth kicks his ashy remains into the air, disappointed by the lack of magical items, and spits at the blackened sand. “Nearly broke my wings, wet piece of kobold shite.”
He kicks again, moving more dust than ashes. He continues swearing as he shreds the wrapping around the letter. He inspects the parchment closely, observing seven intertwined silver circles behind the black written text.
“What in the Nine Hells do the angels want from me?”, he mutters, confused and disconcerted.

“Dargothoth, Hand of Nerull,

I think we can both agree times are desperate when angels are in need of the aid of demons. We know of your hidden life, the life you spend eating children and gaining power in the name of a pernicious god. We might not see eye to eye when me meet, but we add to each other’s interests.”

His face shows every sign of distrust and suspicion. He looks again at the place of impact and then throws his gaze towards the sky, questioning if a next lightning bolt is going to strike him down.

“If you look deep in your heart, as far as so-called priests may claim to have a heart, you know you only desire one thing: power. You want to dominate and control and to become your own master. You say you follow this god, but no creature desires his own godhood more than you do. Because you haven’t stopped reading by now means you know I speak only in truths. You feel we can give you something you desire.”

Although he doesn’t like to admit it, these words do peak his interest. He knows very well that celestials despise the god Nerull, as he is the Hater of Life and Bringer of Darkness. Addressing him for help is a sign of despair and that puts him in a more powerful position to negotiate the terms. Good.

“Something of the highest importance has been stolen from our temple and we want it back. Somehow, one of our prophecies spoke of a priest with a taste for flesh and power and I believe this priest is you, Dargothoth. You get to save the world and mean something for once in your wretched life.

I know I can’t persuade you with words or try to play you with kindness. You want might, power, something that grants you something. We both know Nerull isn’t going to give it to you. The Raven Queen killed him in his own realm eternities ago and all his followers feel his absence just as well as you do. I would like to make you an offer.”

“Radiant piece of winged rat shit”, he hisses. “Nerull will never die! Never!”
His shouting is directed at the sky, presuming every angel within range could hear his angered plea. His shoulders are heaving, moving in the same rhythm as his loud breathing. Although he knows the author of this cursed letter might be right, he refuses to believe it.

“I think you care more for power than for Nerull, even though you might not want to admit it. You might not even know this yet. I want to show you something that will grant you more power than any mortal follower of any thinkable god has ever experienced, but to do this I need the artefact back. I know this sounds mysterious and goes against your gut feeling, but it will be worth it. You have my word.

Come visit me as soon as possible. I’ll be waiting for you at Crimson Gulch. Although I am very certain everyone will be here on time, if I were to doubt, my doubts would lie with you. I will not wait if you don’t show up, but I know you will. You hunger for power. Don’t let your rigid beliefs make you miss a once in a lifetime opportunity.

Was signed,

Hadriel, First Descendant of the Seraphim”

Prologue: A Gathering of Heroes - Part 4

He ties his chain with trinkets back to his belt again so he can use both his hands to examine the envelope. He scratches the partially cracked wax with one of his dirty nails. Impatiently, he tears it off and rips apart the silver envelope. He puts it in his backpack, still aware not to pollute his own forest, and starts reading.

“Bruq Xantree, Hunter of Monsters,

Without going through all the pleasantries of elaborate introductions, I want to call for your help. We, the angelic beings of the Silver Circle, have been studying all life in your world and none of them look as promising as you.
I shall not shroud our request in mystery, hunter. Our prophecy speaks of a few heroes, whose goal in life is to save this world as we know it and the worlds beside ours. We have our reasons to believe you are one of these saviors.”
With a slightly overconfident smile he looks at the letter. “Well, obviously”, he says aloud, only adding to his cocky demeanor.

“I would like to personally tell you all about the mission we have in mind for you, but I can fully understand that a hunter of your qualities doesn’t want to travel without knowing if he is about to waste his time. This is a quality I like about you, satyr.

Something important was stolen from us, something that can tip the scales of fate of this world if it got into the wrong hands. When I say it goes wrong, I mean absolute oblivion.
These men are the absolute lowest of low and we want them punished. For reasons I’ll explain later, I can’t do it myself, although I would love to send them to the Nine Hells myself.

I know you aren’t always interested in money, but you have a weakness for your lucky charms.”

Slightly astonished by the knowledge this person has about him he lets his spare hand slide over his trinkets, hoping they will protect him from whatever this stranger is hiring him for.

“I think I can offer you something you would greatly appreciate. It will be a magnificent addition for your collection. I would like to offer you, beside a rich amount of gold pieces, an angel’s feather, one of mine to be specific.”
His mouth falls open. “An angelic feather!”, he shouts excited, as his voice echoes between the giant trees. No matter what he needs to hunt, flay or slay, he’s in!

“I expect you to travel to Crimson Gulch. If my predictions are correct - and they are - you should arrive at the same moment as your future companions if you leave now. Make haste, bring me what I want and the feather is yours. More details will follow if you choose to show up. We both know you will.
Yours sincerely,

Hadriel, First Descendant of the Seraphim”
He puts the letter away and releases a high pitched sigh. “Luckily, I have already packed”, he laughs and picks up his glaive.

He looks up to the sun, one eye white and the other still damaged from the acid attack from just a day ago, and navigates his way into the right direction. 

“Off to next adventure it is!”

Prologue: A Gathering of Heroes - Part 3

Oslando wants to tend to the stranger’s severe wounds, but nothing more than a small pile of dark grey ashes remains. He looks down at the burned pile as the wind slowly takes him away, piece by piece, spreading the celestial being across the pale rocks of the mountain.
He turns his attention to the other peculiar phenomenon of this event, trying to identify the “H” that stands out of the red wax that seals the letter. It looks rather fancy with curly edges at the end of it and the envelope seems to be made of some silver fabric. Without any more procrastination, he opens it and takes out the piece of parchment inside of it.

“Oslando, Keeper of Peace,

You have made quite a name for yourself in the last months. I would like to say I’m very impressed and satisfied with your achievements with the civilians of Mercury Creek, but I would rather use these entitlements of your past achievements for one of your future ones, hopefully.

I write this letter to you with one single purpose: to persuade you to help us save the world. I speak on the behalf of the entire angelic council of the Silver Circle when I say that we need your help. The first signs of an imminent threat have presented them in the last few days and we believe this could be the omen of something immensely dreadful.”

Captured by the weighty text, the half-elf reads on. Within his chest, a spark ignites his righteous passion, one that always burns fiercely as injustice pops up its ugly head.

“An evil cult of blood magic using heretics has stolen a certain relic from our temple, an artefact used to help us maintain the balance from the heavens we reside in. They murdered the protectors - my friends - and took it away, using it for their own malicious rituals.
Oslando, this is distorting the scales of good and evil. I can feel the passing of it. My brethren have fallen ill and no cure lies within our reach without your help. Our prophets believe a handful of mortal heroes are the solution to rid the world of the grasp of evil and the worlds beside us forever. You are most certainly one of them.”

And there it was: a calling, a cause, a goal. He always tries to be the best version of himself, challenging himself every day to improve, helping everyone around him and now he is met with something to live for. How can he say no to an angel, almost begging him to assist in saving the world?

“I will enlighten you with all details upon your arrival as I can’t share everything with you right now. I fear the cultist will learn too much of what we’re planning if they get to my messenger before he gets to you. Continue your travels through the mountains. When you get past them, you’ll reach a more lush land, a land where you can find Crimson Gulch. I’ll be waiting.

You have no idea how high the stakes are and we are forever grateful for your assistance, eldritch knight. We will find a way to reward you when the time comes, but now you must make haste.

Yours sincerely,

Hadriel, First Descendant of the Seraphim”

He reads the last part again, memorizing his route, and starts walking. The winds are pushing him forwards and the mountain path looks passable enough for him to be swift.

“Too bad there aren’t any horses back in Mercury Creek”, he sighs as he sees the outstretched land before him, “but that would be taking the fun out of the challenge.”

Prologue: A Gathering of Heroes - Part 2

With Mercury Creek behind him, Oslando begins his journey by foot through the nearby mountains. The rough terrain and loose boulders are a challenge, but he has never liked it any other way, and as an additional level of difficulty, a storm is coming up. The sky turns unnaturally dark for this time of day as a pitch black cloud blocks out the sunlight directly above him.
A deep, rumbling thunder echoes throughout the mountains and silences all other sounds nature is making. As he looks up, keeping his blond hair out of his face, everything becomes quiet again.
“This doesn’t look good”, he mumbles, triggering the darkness above to throw down a blue lightning bolt at the earth. The big rock in front of him, visibly rich with copper and iron, crackles as the electricity completely blackens the stone and it temporarily takes away the half-elf’s eyesight.

Back between the trees he knows so well, he sits in front of one of his favourite ones. He has loosened the chain of his belt, moving the wooden burial mask between his fingertips. It’s a simple looking object, nothing too special about it. The details painted red and yellow upon the chestnut face look integrant, as if this mask has recently been made.
He caresses some of his other trinkets: a dark claw of his most recent avian victim, a strange metal bell without its clapper, a small leather bag with bones inside of it, a dragon-like toy soldier and a crystalline monocle with the glass missing.
“Patience and food may be something I’ll ran out of one day”, he says to himself with a smirk, “but luck won’t ever be one of them.”
Momentarily, he couldn’t be more wrong as lightning strikes down and sets the tree across him ablaze with a faint blue fire.

“Well, this looks rather sinister”, Dargothoth says to himself as he soars through the cold sky.
In front of him, a darkness comes his way. The black cloud spreads fast, like ink dropped in a flask of water, lashing out with thin tendrils as everything turns more grim by the second. He dives down towards the earth, trying to have some ground beneath his feet before the storm can strike him down, but he acts too late.
During his descent, before he can hear the discharge of lightning, a blue light travels downwards, taking the sivak down with it. Although the electricity didn’t really hurt him and he didn’t crash too hard onto the barren desert below, his wings took the biggest hit during the fall.
“Blood, shits and ashes!”, he roars as her rolls onto his stomach. “What ooze-sucking half-blood…” The cleric stops halfway during his swearing as he sees what was struck down with him during the lightning strike.
“Oh, Nerull’s boney backside.”

“Show me what you got!” The girl claps her hands rapidly as Mero extends his arm and reaches for a flower a couple feet away from him. A thin, white and blue beam extends towards it and turns the purple colours of the lavender pale and the stem stiffens.
“I like what you got”, she shouts excited, making little jumps of joy in the air. Merodius smiles. He can’t remember the last time he was actually making friends.
“Can you do the lighting thing now? Please, please, please?” He makes some flapping movements with his glove covered hands to diminish some of the high pitched enthusiasm.
“I can’t just throw lightning bolts around. Someone might get hurt.” She shakes her hand and points towards the sky.
“Shoot it to the clouds, shoot it to the clouds!” Without hesitation he unleashes dozens of small purple sparks upwards, crackling its way through the humidity of the swampy area. As the lightning dissolves in the air, the sky answers with a powerful roar and a thick beam of blue energy shoots down into the bog in front of them. The girl goes back inside, running and screaming at the top of her lungs.
“I didn’t do that”, he utters with a nervous voice. “I really didn’t. Did I?”

She jumps off the edge of her ship and lands deep in the yellow sand of the undiscovered island.
“I love the sea, but non-rocking ground beneath your feet is always a pleasure.” Without looking at her crew behind her, she immediately starts walking landinwards, ready to explore.
“It really seems to be uninhabited, mateys”, she shouts in the hope they can hear her. She picks up the pace and reaches an oasis shortly after, a true beautiful sight for sore eyes. Bright coloured butterflies flutter around her and the sweet smell of exotic flowers mixes with the pure, fresh air she breathes in.
“I claim this land”, she says as she jumps onto a rock covered with moss at the edge of the clear water, “and I shall call it The Siren’s Nipple!”
She has merely finished her sentence as a loud beam of energy strikes down from the heavens, vaporizing the water, pushing her of the rock and onto her back.
“Okay, okay, sorry! I won’t call it that. You can name it!”

Right in front of all five of them, in the center of the spot struck by the mysterious lightning, stands a man, radiating with a dark blue light. His naked body looks like it was made by the stars from above.
It could be an illusion, but it would almost seem that his body is an astral space on its own, as if tiny celestial bodies move around inside him. His long, silvery hair is braided and gently kisses the ground this unknown being is standing on.
They feel his eyes fixed upon them, even though they are hidden behind a pale, ragged piece of cloth. His wings are bloody and seem to be broken due to the weight of the heavy chains pulling them down. They radiate with a magical power of their own, different than the astral energy the man has, and they prevent him from flying away. Although he is one of the most beautiful creatures they have ever seen, it is painful to look at him. He suffers.
He walks towards them, pulling the heavy balls on chains behind him, and stretches his trembling arms. He holds a silver envelope with a dark red wax seal with a dramatically written “H” on it. They all take the letter from him and read their name on the front of it.
“Please”, he utters has he represses his painful moans, “don’t let him down.”
He falls on his back, staring at the dark cloud above him watery eyes.
“It is done, masters”, he sobs almost unhearable and he closes his eyes for the last time as he spontaneously combusts in an all-consuming fire.

Prologue: A Gathering of Heroes - Part 1

It was this very day that a mysterious blue messenger would inspire five seemingly random strangers to fulfill an ancient angelic prophecy. An extraordinary bunch they are.
A man torn from his family’s love, searching for any means to be the best version of himself every day.
An eager monster hunter, easily lured into danger, smiling and joking at the problems he faces.
A vain priest in disguise, impatiently waiting to grab any form of power coming his way.
A trapped soul of a sorcerer, looking for the right answers without knowing what the real questions are.
And a bounty hunting, living-day-by-day pirate, singing her way through life without listening to the voices around her.
How this lot could ever be the heroes of legends foretold is a mystery for even those reading the sacred texts, not knowing if they will succeed at their quest, subdue to the pressure, stay sane just long enough or even survive the dangers ahead. This is their story. Well, at least for the time they stay alive.

With a smile on his face he shakes the scaled hand of the sarrukh leader.
“Thank you, Oslando. We weren’t at the right place with our set of mind to solve this problem on our own. We owe you a great debt.”
He nods kindly. “My pleasure. It warms my heart to know everyone has the best intentions here to create a home for every citizen of Mercury Creek.”
He discretely looks at Dareill Copperbeard, who is avoiding his gaze, looking at the ground in a sulking manner.
“I’ll be on my way then. I’ll return within a couple moons to see how you are doing. Just to be sure. You never know what might happen.”
The naga leader visibly agrees with him and slithers towards him. “Please, Oslando, take one of my pearls as a token of our appreciation. I insist.” Her tongue vibrates fast as the pronounces her “s”. She leans in towards him, lowering her head so the half-elf can take one of her necklaces.
“Thank you, lady Shazikeen, but I wasn’t doing this for a reward.” She shakes her head and proceeds with making gestures towards Oslando.
“It will protect you on other journeys.”
He thanks her with the same smile on his face and turns away, walking away from Mercury Creek, onwards to a new place to explore.

“Here you go”, Bruq says with a stoic tone and throws the decapitated bird head on the table. The halfling, together with his entourage, flinches, leaning back on his chair to evade the partially dried blood splashing out of the monster’s neck.
“Get that disgusting thing of my dining table, bounty hunter.” Davon Cinderoak stands up, checking if his tunic has remained stainless.
“I did what you asked. Now I want my reward. The one you promised, not the pieces of silver and gold.”
Although the hirer tries to not show any emotions, his friends chuckle loudly. “What idiot refuses money?” They burst into a laughter, mocking him by saying “tree hugger” and “goat fucker” as they’re holding back their tears.
Bruq looks down at them and spits at the floor, silencing them with his disrespectful behavior. “Give me my payment.” With a discontent expression he reaches into his bag and takes out a small wooden mask.
“Is that a halfling burial mask?”, one of the shocked members of his crew asks, resulting in a sour nod made by Davon. “Why would you want one of those as your reward?”
The satyr snatches the small ornamental visage and pricks a hole through one of the painted eyes with his glaive. “I think it will bring me luck”, he explains and hangs the mask on the chain of his belt.
“You know it’s a children’s burial mask, right? How much luck could it possess with a task so gruesome as covering a dead infant’s face?” Bruq raises his shoulders heedlessly.
“Seems to me that all the misfortune it could get in one life has already happened. Hopefully, the child’s luck remains in the mask, since it was unused in life.” With confused an awestruck faces they all remain silent.
“Well, pleasure doing business with you. Stay out of my forest and don’t look me up. We’re done.”

Dargothoth was right. Jonathan got his haute cuisine flavour from his loving mother. Too bad she didn’t have that much meat on her bones.
As he walks out of the Candalain residence, fully disguised as his alter ego, Alexander Dorgomonos, he is welcomed by a lot of the citizens of Farrenwell. He smiles at with the most warm facade he can produce on his face, but his kindness is not returned.
“How can I help you, children?” His question is met with knives and clubs appearing from behind their backs.
“We went to check upon you and Gerard after you took him with you to church. We wanted to check if he didn’t harm you.” They take a few steps towards the cleric, slowly and ominously. “But instead we found him or rather what was left of him.”
The priest stops smiling and starts grinning diabolically. “It took you long enough to realize.” His robes shred as his dark wings spread, revealing the scales that are his skin. He reveals his true face as he stares at their haunted expressions, resulting in a grin that shows his razor sharp teeth.
“You should fear me, vermin. You should fear for your miserable lives. No one is safe from the will of Nerull, the Reaper, the Bringer of Darkness. All shall be his slaves or die in the process.”
Although they are horrified by the sight of this draconic monster, they shall not let anyone die again by the hands of this demon. Their battle cries - or something that’s supposed to resemble those - fill the air as they charge his way. With a dissatisfied look on his face he claps his wings and takes off, flying towards new minds to infest.

“Men are not made for magic”, Merodius says. His mask lies face up on one of the sticky tables spread throughout the inn he is visiting.
“Humans should be engineers! It’s unnatural to learn magic through studying. You should be born with it or live without it.” His attempt at small talk fails due to the serious topics he talks about.
“How can you speak of unnatural, while you are an animated being? You don’t bleed and breathe like we do, do you now?”
He shakes his head, creating a brushing sound of the straws rubbing against each other inside his body.
“I was created - somehow - that’s true, but I was born with magic. I am a sorcerer and not a wizard. Big difference. I can create lightning, because I am born with the ability to do so. I didn’t read books and practiced writing symbols for hours and hours to know how to summon a spark.”
He closes his fingertips and then quickly opens them, resulting in swirling, light purple chains of lightning between them.
“See?” Two of the spectators clap, while others are not so fond of it.
“I’d rather have no magic inside my inn, stranger.” The static energy disappears as he bows his head towards the innkeeper.
“I will follow your rules.” The man behind the bar shakes his head and continues cleaning his glasses again.
“Can you show us other things you can do?” A young human girl eagerly looks at him, not scared, but fascinated. “But he said…”
“Then let’s go outside! He can’t be the boss of you on the outside, right?” He puts his mask back on and smiles. “Let’s go!”

“Land ahoy, capt’n!” As fast as the bullet of a gunslinger, Lyssa storms out of her cabin towards the front of The Shy Maiden.
“And fine land it is, first mate DeRood! It was about time to restock on good food. I grow weary of the scraps we have left.” He walks up to her and lays down his hand on her naked shoulder.
“And we only had two crates of wine left.”
She gasps exaggerated and presses her hand with spread fingers against her chest.
“We would have lasted little more than a day! Bless whatever deity rules the sea and wind for guiding us to land. Wouldn’t want to sing a song about the lack of alcohol on my ship. Would be a sad one for a change.”
Vincent shakes his head vigorously, having a flashback about the last time Lyssa Kaklamanis sang a sorrowful song.
“No, we most certainly do not need another one of those. Penley threw himself of the ship, because he thought you commanded him to kill himself.” With a nervous laugh she scratches the back of her head.
“Yeah, no, let’s not go on that tour again.” She looks back at the land they’re nearing. It looks untouched, full with tropical trees and without stone buildings. An environment where nature is running its course.
“Prepare to lower the anchor”, she yells at her crew. “We’re about to claim a new land, boys.”

And that’s when, at five different places, right in front of five random strangers, the lightning struck.

D&D Terminology Explained

As I wrote in the introductory post of The Demonomania, many mechanics that take place “behind the scenes” are based on the fifth edition of Dungeons & Dragons. Maybe not everyone who reads this blog is familiar with all the different skills and elements of combat, so I want to explain most of them briefly down below.
I will not write a very elaborate report with all the dice outcomes, hit points increases and decreases, and number of feet moved, because that’s not a story; that’s a battle report.
First: the most important element is the twenty-sided die (also called d20). Together with the bonus on a skill, it determines the success of your action. A rolled 20, called natural 20 or critical hit, guarantees the best success possible on attack roll, not for skills checks (read on to learn more). In contrary, a rolled 1, called natural 1 or critical fail / miss, makes any attempt to attack fail, sometimes (or mostly) creating a disadvantage for the one who rolled the die. Everything in between can be a success or a fail, based on if the outcome surpasses the number to beat (also called a DC, meaning Difficulty Class).

Outside of combat, which is basically most of the time, skill checks can be made to gain information or make some kind of action. These actions gain a certain bonus, depending on how high the corresponding ability is. These six abilities are strength, dexterity, constitution, intelligence, wisdom and charisma. Every hero in this story has its own strengths and weaknesses, all written down in the character sheets that drive them behind the scenes.

Strength determines your physical power. How easily can you push a boulder or how difficult is it for you to break free when someone holds you down? Roll a strength check and you’ll know it. Another strength-based check is athletics. It determines how well one can jump, climb or swim.

Dexterity says something about how quick and nimble you are, your agility and reflexes. How easy can you pick a lock and how well can you tie up someone? The dexterity-based checks are acrobatics, sleight of hand and stealth. Acrobatics checks determine how well you stay on your feet when slipping on ice or maintain your balance when on a rocking ship. Sleight of hand is an ability to see how well you - for example - can pickpocket an unobservant citizen. A successful roll on stealth conceals you from enemies and sneak past someone.

Constitution has no specific skills, but determines your vitality and stamina. A constitution check can made rolled to see how well you can handle your alcohol, how long you can hold your breath underwater, how long can you go without sleep and how long you survive without rattions.

Intelligence measures your ability to reason, your mental sharpness and a lot of magical properties. Want to make a logical deduction, recall something or educate? Roll intelligence. There are five different intelligence skills: arcana, history, investigation, nature and religion. Arcana helps you to recall information about magic, spells and all kinds of wondrous symbols and sigils. History informs you about the local folklore and legends, recognize well-known historical buildings and know about former wars and civilizations. Investigation helps you to find clues, hidden objects and covers all kind of forms of deduction. Nature skills measure your knowledge about plants, animals, weather and terrain. Religion checks are made when you want to know about rituals, deities, cults and holy buildings.

Wisdom reflects empathy, the ability to notice things around you, read someone’s body language and aid someone. Wisdom consists out of five skills: animal handling, insight, medicine, perception and survival. If you want to mount an animal or calm down a beast, you roll a check for animal handling. Your roll on insight decides if you can find out what someone’s true intentions are; are they speaking the truth or are they lying? Check the tone of their voice or spot a change in mannerisms and you may find out. Medicine helps you stabilize a dying ally, determine what kind of symptoms someone is experiencing, what kind of disease it is and where or how to find a cure. Perception is an often used skill as it gives you your sensory information. It’s used to follow foot tracks, identify natural hazards and interpret signs of nearby creatures.

Charisma determines your confidence, your leadership, your charm. If you want to influence others in any other way or find out the local gossip, charisma is the ability to use, consisting out of four different skills: deception, intimidation, performance and persuasion. If you hide the truth, verbally or nonverbally, you must roll for deception to prevent someone to catch you on your lie. Intimidation helps you achieve a goal by making threats, use violence or torture someone for information. If you want to pull off a good act, song, dance or storytelling, you must roll for performance. Persuasion is used to make your cause plausible and convince someone of your good intent or innocence.

Sometimes a character finds himself in a situation where he or she needs to resist or overcome an obstacle. This is when, sometimes, a saving throw needs to be made. Resist a spell, overcome a spreading poison running through your veins or try to evade a just sprung trap quickly; you need a save.

During an encounter with someone or something that poses a threat, combat is not an unusual outcome. Obviously, when one is facing an enemy, one attacks and, basically, attacks can hit or miss. Most of the time, this is determined to see if the d20 used to see if an attack hits surpasses the armor class (AC) of the target. Two examples: if you roll a 19 and the enemy has an AC of 13, you may roll for damage, because the attack hits. If you roll a 7 and the enemy has an AC of 11, you miss.

Hopefully this information helps to help understand what some terms and numbers mean when you come across them. The result of the die roll will be part of the story, so you always know what happens. Making most of the parts of the story depending on dice outcomes, every scene can be a surprise for me as well. Hopefully you’re just as excited as I am as the this long and epic quest begins with the prologue: A Gathering of Heroes.

And for me a Pirate's Life

The wind blows hard, trying to tear the ropes that hold the foxed sail. It fills the air with the salty smell of the sea she loves so dearly and waves her white long hairs in an enchanting manner. She stands at the nose of the ship, one boot pressed against the edge of The Shy Maiden.
Her eyes are the bane of every sailor, capturing them with a warm and tempting greenness and drowning them in a turbulent blue, but her eyes are not her strongest weapon, nor are her sun kissed skin and hourglass curves. Her voice, the smoothness that rolls of her tongue and the echoing words of her songs make men forget everything until one sole thought remains: desire for her.

The sight of the never-ending dancing water calms her as it takes her away from her previous life, away from Port Lorain, a small city for ships to moor and to give comfort to sailors in various ways.
For years, the only times she saw these men of the sea was when they visited the Wailing Wench. It was described to visitors as a house of pleasures and revitalization, but she knew it for what it was: a dirty, shady brothel where single and married sailors alike came to fondle with the young girls. Lyssa Kaklamanis was one of these underaged women.

She was around fifteen years of age when she got stuck in Port Lorain. Homeless and without food, a shady dwarven pirate named Steve Waterrock took her in. He was given the nickname Stretchy Steve, because he played the accordion in the lobby of his whorehouse.
Another reason for this nickname came from the fact that he used to torture defaulters on the rack, stretching every limb beyond the capacity of their ligaments. Their screams of pain were silenced in a cellar as the screams of pleasure and the moans of hungering desire drowned the agonizing sounds entirely.
After a couple of months, she got her first client. Uncle Waterrock said she had to pay rent, but he wouldn’t let her go outside to find a job. Too proud for her own good she sang in the lobby, luring every man into her chamber, while the clothes of the other harlots stayed on and remained unsoiled.
It was only when she reached the age of twenty-two years the old dwarf became too drunk for his own good. As he was chasing her to get some of the good stuff he made her sell for the last six years, she ran out the Wailing Wench and into ten pirates. They looked at her in awe, being the most beautiful thing they ever laid eyes on, and came to her aid when they noticed her tears.
“Hand her over, fellas, and nobody gets hurt. Hell, you’ll even get a free ride with her and you can return to your ship unharmed and satisfied.”
Something snapped inside her and her tears stopped flowing. An eerie calmness fell over her face as she let out a short sigh and began to sing. With a flawless pitch a song of words that can’t be understood but only felt, filled the air and the minds of the men guarding her, taking control of them and putting them up to the task she commanded them: “Kill him.”

“Is everything well, capt’n?”
She is pulled back from drifting away, back into reality as her first mate Vincent DeRood stares at her. His short brown beard is almost as greasy and curly as his hair, both hiding multiple scars on his face from his days as a marine officer. He smiles at her, revealing his surprisingly white teeth, and hands her a flask.
“Red wine?”, she aks and takes it.
He grins. “Is there another kind of drink in the world?” They both laugh and she tips the flask until it’s empty.
“Not that I know of, I’m afraid. Be sure to tell me if you find something better, although I doubt you will.”

As the night falls and a small fire pit glows with a weak red light, laughter fills the air, while roasted fish and wine fill their bellies.
“Sing us a song, capt’n”, says one of her crew members and all others agree with a joyous applause. She walks into her cabin and removes her trusty cutlass from her hip, trading it for her favorite instrument. She holds up an old, red and black accordion, with yellowed keys and some dried stains of wine and blood on the ragged bellows.
The appearance of the item that once belonged to her captor ignites an enthusiastic roar. They all run to get their own instruments and look at her with bated breath as she bursts into song.

They joined her in one of their favorite songs she wrote, but fall silent as she sings the last four verses alone, as she always does. They can’t look away from her and with open mouths and wide eyes they would almost forget to fill their lungs with air. They sway with their bodies in a unified rhythm, as if magic controls their every movement.

“Yes, I know of hidden treasures old,
all scattered ‘cross the sea.
We’ll sell em, pawn em all for gold
to buy red wine for me.

Take up and take all
and count back at the ship
Coins and gems and jewels
will make it worth the trip.

Now raise your flasks for me,
your goddess of tits and wine.
To answer all my hexing songs
and make your bodies mine.

So, leave your jobs and houses,
your children and your wife.
It’s now a life at sea for you
and for me a pirate’s life!”

Dreams of a Puppet

This is not the first time he left a home, but it is the first time to walk away instead of running. The first time he tumbled time and time again, all throughout the snow-covered landscape that activated his first powers.
As a being made of almost nothing but magic, Merodius has learned he possesses multiple powers that can bend the elements to his will. As he laid down in the snow the first time, he didn’t feel like getting up. The snow stopped falling and the flakes were kept in place, floating ever so still in the air, as if his very own presence manipulated the freezing white on a level beyond normal vision would allow. His straw body didn’t soak with melting snow as he has no real body temperature. It did spark a freezing energy somewhere in his soul. He quickly made a snow angel before crawling through the cold landscape, hiding from anyone who might chase him. He could lay for days if he wanted to. The cold didn’t bother him anyway.

Biologically, he is of infant age, just days old, but he could walk and talk like any normal adult can, only slightly clumsier. He looked like a kid from afar and a puppet from up close and that gave him the element of surprise. He was animated, a magical soul somehow possessing a near four feet tall scarecrow. His naked skin of dried straw and cloth and leather patches was covered with a ragged cloak, his head topped with a pointy witch-like hat and his face hidden behind a poorly detailed mask resembling a small human being.
One could say he looks like a halfling, but you would startle him by speaking of this fact. It were the halflings who created him for some reason, as some of them were in need of powerful magic wielders they could control, he believes.
Merodius Darvantigo was a failed prototype in their opinion, as the soul chose to claim this marionette-like body instead of the bigger metal ones they created. They treated him as a failure, instilling fear in his non-existing, non-beating heart, causing him to run away.

An elderly elf found him the first time he ran. He observed the animated little one manipulating the whirling snow around him as a true master. Curious of what other powers he had in store, he picked him up and took him in, giving him proper clothes and testing his abilities.
The old elf found a use for him as a heat conditioner, as the little puppet found a way to create warmth by waving his hands and to light fires by snapping his fingers. “You are a promising sorcerer”, he would tell him, petting his head with good intent. “Thank you, master”, Merodius chuckled, blushing if he would able to.

“Yes, Mero is a great servant. Anyone could find a proper use for him. He doesn’t need much care as he doesn’t eat and drink and needs little rest. Give him a go?”
The puppet would just stand beside the elf at one of the many markets they visited, selling magical potions to the ill and writing scrolls for those who wanted to learn magic. But no one ever took the time to look past the white eyes glowing blue behind the mask, as no one thought much of Merodius. It was a failed experiment in their opinion, but none of them bothered to tell him that.
“You promised me this would be enough, elf!” A bald, tanned man with multiple facial tattoos stands very close to his master, pressing a treating finger on his boney chest.
“Give me what I want or else…” A purple glow jumps between the fingers of his other hand, releasing crackling sparks into the air.
“Lower your hands, wizard”, Mero hisses sternly as he raises his own hands, the straw hidden inside the white gloves.
“How dare you to speak to me in such a way, to speak to me at all!” He redirects his anger to the smaller, less intimidating spellcaster. He looks down at him with a look that screams belittlement and disgust.
“You are nothing, slave. I am talking to your owner and I wish not to hear another word from you.” Merodius looks at the elf, but he stares at the dusty ground before his feet.
“Master?” The old man shifts his gaze.
“I said not another word!” The wizard raises his arm and the purple sparks start to grow.
“Merodius, put him to sleep!” And without thinking, Mero claps his hands once, creating small golden grains of sand around them. He waves his hands into the wizard’s direction, throwing the shiny particles in his eyes. Slowly, he lowers his arm and then he loses all tone in his body, collapsing into the ground.
“Well done, boy.”

“I have some questions. May I, master?”
The elf looks tired and weak, laying in bed with his eyes almost entirely closed and breathing heavily with a dry, open mouth.
“What is it?” He can hear the effort it costs him to utter these few words and prioritizes his thoughts.
“As I was in the repair shop the other day, the children asked me what I am. I didn’t know what to answer. What should I tell them the next time?” Silence controls the room for a short period of time. He can see the time ticking away on his exhausted face.
“You are who you choose to be, Mero, but that isn’t the answer you’re looking for, is it? You are a sorcerer. Your body is artificially constructed, but your mind and soul are those of a sorcerer. I think you died and someone brought you back from the realm of the dead. Those are the halflings you told me about.”
He coughs and the blood stains the white sheet covering his shivering body.
“You must be have been someone important, some special to a mighty sorcerer. It’s not unthinkable for you to be one of Children of Iavolof, a powerful and ancient spellcaster who is said to be one of the very founders of magic in our world. He disappeared a long, very long time ago, but if someone would know who you are, it would be him.”
His eyes roll upwards for a split second as he bursts into coughing.
“What does he look like, master? Tell me, please. Is he a human with pale skin, grey eyes and long black hair?” His trembling hand blocks the second load of blood spatters.
“That is a very specific question, Mero. What makes you say these things?”
He looks at him, eyelids twitching with tiredom and head shaking with the last bit of power his neck has to carry it.
“I keep dreaming about someone who looks like that, screaming at me like a banshee. I don’t understand what it means, master.”
He chuckles. “So, you really are one of his children”, he speaks softly with a frugal grin on his face. “Who would have thought… A puppet with dreams…”
He looks in Mero’s eyes and he looks back. His vision becomes blurred and his glare shifts, staring into the infinity beyond this life.

So now he leaves a home for the second time, but this time he will be free. No more masters, no more scribing scrolls and putting away books. He will find out who he is and where he can find this great sorcerer his former master spoke about. No stupid halfling or magic abusing wizards will be safe standing in his way. He snaps his fingers and a confident expression appears on his mask with greedy eyes, looking at the horizon, searching for the way to learn one of the best kept secrets of his life: who am I?

The Smallest Coffins are the Heaviest

“So fear not, people of Farrenwell, children of He Whose Eyes Are Our Light. I know these days, these weeks, weighed heavy on all our hearts. The deaths of Amilly, Jonathan and Gilbert are tragic ones, but all are part of a plan greater than we can grasp.” The kind grey eyes, encoated with a thin layer of tears, look down from the podium and into the crowd, meeting the same sorrow staring back at him.
He sighs and lets his head hang forward, his short, thin, blonde hair casting a shadow upon his face. “I feel your pain, children, I swear. If I could change this unfortunate course of fate I would, but…”
“But you can’t!”
He looks up and faces the burning glare of a childless father, owner of a family torn apart. “You, Alexander Dorgomonos, priest of nothing but shallow words, can’t do anything. You and your god should protect us, protect the children! He should have brought them back to us, to me! But all you do is stand there and speak and lie to us about the will of some deity you try to jam down our throats. No more!”
Alexander raises his right hand and points his silver sceptre at the furious father, spewing grief and discord in his direction like an angered dragon breathing fire. The rod, decorated with subtle draconic figurines holding a clear, blue sapphire at the tip, beckons him to hold his temper, but the command is ignored.
“I will not be silenced by you, priest. You have to answer for this heinous plan your so called god has rained down upon us as a festering plague. No more deaths, no more children gone.” His voice breaks and more tears start to rush down his face, mixing the grey dirt with the see through sorrow.
“Mister Candalain, I understand the loss of Jonathan is…” Again, the heartbroken man, veins visibly pulsating in his neck and on his bald head, protests loudly. “You understand nothing, Alexander. Nothing you feel or think can even grasp the pain I’m going through!”
The priest, slightly irritated by the stupidity of this man, knows he can’t reason with him like this and concedes.
“You are right, mister Candalain, I can’t.”
He steps down to get on his level and the people make way for him, averting their line of sight, staring to their own feet. “Please, come with me to the church. I know I can’t do anything for you, but we may find a way to protect all other children, together. I can’t take away the agony you feel, mister Candalain, but you can prevent it from spreading. Walk with me, please.”

In silence he walks besides him, approaching the massive wooden door of the sanctuary for so many troubled souls. He didn’t anticipate that the villagers would become so upset and unwieldy so soon after his arrival. He thought he waited long enough not to raise suspicion about the disappearance of those pesky children. There was time in between the murders to mourn. Filthy, lowlife humans and elves. He despises them.
“This way, please.”
He sternly walks towards the stairs behind the altar, descending into the cold earth and into the catacombs. He doesn’t look back to see if the father of the dead child is still following him, as the disguise he is trying to hold up starts fading.
“I don’t know what you are planning that will help me, priest, but must it be in this dreadful place?” The man tries to ignore the skulls that decorate the walls of the long and eerie corridors, as chills claw their way up his spine.
“There is something you need to see”, Alexander speaks ominously, trying to ignore the hunger that is growing inside him. “It’s about your boy. I have him here.”
They have stopped in a small chamber, where three small stone caskets are put beside each other. The middle one reads “Jonathan Candalain”, although the poorly chiselled capital letters make it almost unreadable.
“You haven’t seen him since he has been found, have you?” The priests slowly takes a few steps back as the crying man makes his way towards his lost offspring. As he starts pushing the heavy lit towards the side, Alexander takes of his robe and lays down his sceptre, the sapphire glowing red from the inside. The father screams with a soul shredding roar as he sees what is left of his son. Nothing but an almost indistinguishable goo and broken bones are scattered throughout his final resting place.

“I believe your people have a certain saying: the smallest coffins are the heaviest. Not that this one can be very heavy, there’s almost nothing of him left!”
He chuckles as he infuriates the father. He turns around with anger on his face, so intense a demon would fear him, but immediately after looking at the priest, he turns pale and is struck with a repulsive awe.
“Who are you, foul beast!? What have you done with my child?”
An eight foot, grey scaled draconian creature walks towards him, spreading his grisly wings in an intimidating fashion.
“I am Dargothoth, maggot, priest of the great and mighty Nerull!” The man stumbles backwards, trying to escape this fearsome monster walking towards him. The priest widens his grin, revealing the teeth that let to the end of so many young lives.
“Your child, just like the other ones, was just a mere appetizer. Famine is unknown to us sivak, but we can long for taste just as the vermin running this city.”
His thick, dark purple tongue moves as a venomous snake in his malign mouth, as it hisses words of despair into the mind of Jonathan’s father.
“What are you going to do to me?” His voice is broken, fit for a man who has nothing left to live for. No resistance is left in him. Dargothoth has won.
“Just seasoning the flesh”, he laughs diabolically, staring with his cobalt blue eyes into what is left of his shivering soul. “Fear gives a little kick to the meal.” He dips a black nail into the remains of Jonathan and loudly consumes the smudge of blood that befouls his claw.
“Your boy was quite tasteful, more than I am used to with children his age.” In the blink of an eye he grabs the maddened man and pulls him towards him. “Let’s see if he gets his peculiar taste from you!”

He picks his teeth, removing and swallowing the last piece of skin. With a self loathing smile he puts on his pious robe and takes up his sceptre again. He looks at his reflection in the sapphire, checking if no blood made it to his transformation back into Alexander again. With a disdainful expression he looks down at the remains of mister Candalain, sucked dry to the bone.

“I think your boy gets his rich taste from his mother’s side of the family.” With echoing laughter he walks away from the catacombs, wanting to finish his meal with a last dish: dessert.

Shadow of the Forest

“Should be an easy job”, he tells him with a confident tone in his deep voice. His white eyes stare cockily into those of the man who is hiring him, as if he wants to challenge the scrawny halfling instead of the monster he must chase.
“I hope it is. I don’t want to deal with this creature anymore. Nor with you, actually. It’s a shady business you run in these woods.” As the halfling stares around nervously to see if he has been followed, Bruq uses his glaive to stand up from the lush grass. He stretches his back and neck, creating loud snaps as air escapes from his joints.
“There is nothing shady about what I do”, he says, curling his stereotype dark brown goatee between his fingertips, “nor is there anything shady about MY woods.” The emphasis with which he speaks noticeably frightens the man who is less than half of his size.
Without trying to show emotions, the halfling known as Davon Cinderoak tosses a small sack into his direction. Unimpressed, he lightly taps with one of his grey and smeared hooves on the pouch, creating a scraping sound of metal against metal. “This isn’t even remotely enough, let alone what I asked for.”
He leans forward and the light that shines through the branches throws a long shadow onto the ground. If one were the see only the contours of his shade, they would mistake him for a demon instead of a satyr. If his kind personality doesn't do the trick, his black curling horns will be intimidating enough to get what he desires.
“You’ll get what you want when I get what I want. They say you are the best. Let’s see about that.” With a powerful bash he kicks against the tree behind and an apple falls down. In this split second as the red fruit starts its descent to the halfling’s head, Bruq impales it with spear-like weapon just before it hits Davon. A drop juice splatters on his with pimples covered nose.
“They are right”, he smiles with a self-satisfied grin. “I really am the best.”

Although the halfling got on his nerves, he would have taken the job anyway, even without the right payment. His talents were for hire - as long as he didn’t have to hunt down children - but for some creatures, he would just go after them for a simple reason: for sport and spite.
Abominations, creatures formed as nature did not intent, are a no-go in his home and he had spilled enough of their dark ichorous blood to turn the rivers black if he wanted to. And now, another one of these malformed monsters has found its way into his home, leaving grizzly footprints and crushing the delicate flowers in its horrendous path.
Ever since one of them left three thick scars from a claw attack on his chest, it has always been a pleasure to return the favour in a more extreme manner. “Tastes like fear”, he mutters to himself as the blood of a partially devoured deer spreads a sour and metallic taste on the tip of his tongue. “And still so fresh.”
He squints his eyes, looking for tracks to find his prey. The whiteness around his pupils muddles with a grey glow until nothing but blackness remains. “Found you.”

High from the trees Bruq looks down, studying every little detail of the next victim of his sharpened glaive. Although he is proficient with many a weapon, nothing feels as right as the dark brown stick with the long and curved blade on top. The singing the metal makes as it slides through the air is pure music to his ears, soothing for his soul, but that isn't the most satisfying part of the hunt. The killing is.
The misshapen creature down below walks right into his carefully placed trap. His body is covered with thick, purple feathers and at the end of his black legs he has sharp, knife-like claws. Its dark orange beak is crooked and from his tiny teeth, blood is dripping, as he gulps down the flesh of its most recent victim.
Bruq can smell the sour aroma the beast is spreading, making his eyes water. He wipes away the welling tears, blinks a few times and jumps down.

As this glaive cuts its way through the dark pink meat of the avian monster, it crows with fury and turns around, staring with his red eyes into the black ones of its hunter. Bruq smiles as he prepares his next deadly swing, absolutely convinced this is going to be one of the most easiest kills he has ever been paid for.
And this results in a very common, pesky problem the satyr has experienced his entire life. He was subjected to it when he was a young child and tried to jump from one tree to another. He had to deal with it when he chose to use his polearm for the first time. He lives with the scars of many previous events, all consequences of the same causality: being too cocky.
Although he is able to strike the ostrich-like abomination again, this time in its neck, his enemy can strike him as well. It belches into his face, releasing a corrosive gas that can eat its way through everything.
Bruq turns away his face, but the acid cloud still manages to strike his right side, maiming his flesh and consuming the dark brown fur of his neck. As he screams and takes out his flask to clean his face, the bird runs away, tumbling and swinging uncoordinated from left to right.
He pours the cooling water down his face and some of the stinging droplets stream down his forehead and into his right eye. He covers it with his free hand, trying to resist scratching due to the hellish itching, and throws his glaive as hard and precise as he can at his mutilator. The blade sings a short song of death and loss, striking the foul beast in its back.

He pulls out his weapon and kicks the bird onto its back. With one foot he pushes its face sideways into the earth, preventing another acidic attack. He places the sharp tip on his breast and the animal holds its breath, as if it knows its fate is sealed.
“Your kind is not welcome in my home.” Blood flows as the weapon cuts into its skin. “I’m the ghost of the woods, the shadow of the forest and the blood running through the trees. And there is no place for you here.”
He stares down with one black eye and one pink, damaged eye, surrounded by naked, mutilated flesh, and the blade stops its heart. He sighs in relief and straightens his back. “Now, where is that bloody halfling with my fucking bounty?”

Bringer of Peace

It isn’t the first time he saw two different races fight about something not worth fighting about. Oslando had seen it first hand with the two sides of the family. Although his elven mother and human father loved each other, the other members of both sides of the family weren’t too excited about their affection. The only thing they all despised more was the spawn created from their carnal desires known as “half-elf”. He was too young to remember the exact moment his parents became infected with the same negativity towards him, but he does remember the moment he decided to get away from it all. It led him to many different places, places where he discovered a lot about himself, places like Mercury Creek.

Mercury Creek was a prosperous city for two reasons: precious metals and shiny trinkets. Because the port city lies at the foot of mountains filled with hidden riches, the dwarves started mining them centuries ago. Their effort made Mercury Creek one of the most visited trading posts of the world and even gave the city its name. The dwarves call it Donnarwurn, what roughly translates to “metal water”. When they started mining in the center of the city, they hit a mercury vein, creating a hundred feet wide pool of the silvery and toxic liquid.
Many alchemists and witches came to Mercury Creek to fill their flasks with this precious metal, but not everyone was as pleased with this chain of events. A clear example of this are the nagas and sarrukh. The scaled, serpentlike merfolk grants safe passage to any traveler by sea if they are willing to share a token of appreciation. The few of their kind who live on land are merchants, selling pearls and precious shells as talismans with protective powers. They may tolerate the low prices and sale stunts of the dwarves, but they are in a constant fight with them over the pool of mercury. The metal has made the ground barren, killing almost every tree that once made the city look like a lush paradise for everyone.
Throughout the years, the mercury spread below the earth, crawling slowly towards the beach and, since several days, leaking into the water, polluting the home of the nagas and sarrukh. One of their tribe leaders, Sel’Karek, was filled with absolute wrath when one of the younger sarrukh of their family died due to eating a poisoned fish.
“Bring me your leader”, he shouted at the town square, pointing his golden spear at the passing dwarves. “Now!”
I took mere minutes for everyone to rally up, merfolk facing dwarves, all shouting at each other, threatening to kill them, maim their children or destroy their houses. It’s the same story all over again. Oslando doesn’t have any remarkable features, but a half-elf in a crowd of dwarves and scaled beings stands out quite obviously. His white eyes, partially hidden behind his long blond hair, spot the leaders immediately. He has been here long enough to have studied these people, both dwarves and merfolk alike.
Near Sel’Karek, the light blue scaled sarrukh, stands the local naga baroness, a serpentine woman with dark green and blue skin, called Shazikeen of the Pearly Waters. A couple of yards away from them, at the front of the other shouting crowd, stand the three dwarven heads of the mining families: Ferhilda Goldenbone of the family who mines the precious gems and metals, Dareill Copperbeard of the family who mines all other metals and Garren Silvervein of the family who settled first in Mercury Creek, creating the metallic pond of the city.
“Go back to your waters, lizards”, one of the dwarves shouts. As the leaders draw their weapons and walks towards each other, Oslando walks towards them as well. “I think we can settle this more peacefully. Come with me, please.”
They look at him as if he just said one the most outrageous, idiotic things one could ever say. “And why would we do that, half-elf? Don’t think we haven’t noticed your presence in our midst. We know you’ve been lingering here.”
He shakes his head. “Dear master dwarf, I don’t linger nor did I wish to remain hidden from the leaders of this glorious city. I am here as a negotiator.”

“You really think this would work?” The snake-like leader looks at him without blinking his yellow eyes. The other ones look at the schematic map of the city Oslando has drawn out on a rather large piece of parchment.
“I don't see why it couldn’t work. If you place these plates deep enough, you can prevent the quicksilver from spreading towards the sea. If you build the metal basin land inwards and create a coated tunnel towards the pond, the pressure towards the sea will decrease and the poisoning will stop.”
He looks at them with a satisfied expression. “But this will cost an enormous amount of money and materials and hours to realize!” Dareill Copperbeard shakes his head as he speaks, making the brown bushiness that covers his mouth tremble. “I would rather have the merfolk would just move to another beach. They can’t die if they are not here.”
A violent hissing of the naga sounds as disagreement. “We won’t die, but all other lifeforms of the sea will!”
The dwarf looks at her and shrugs. “So what? That shouldn’t be a problem to any of us. You wouldn’t notice, because you’re not here. No problem there, ey?”
Oslando taps on the map. “No, master dwarf, we wouldn’t notice, but what will the merchants who moor at your docks say as the water turns vile and the fishes start floating at the surface, spreading a rotting odor? Will your city stay as thriving as it is now or will people stay away?”

Silence fills the room as everyone leaves to tell the people what the new plan for Mercury Creek will be. Happy to be a keeper of peace once again, Oslando rolls up the map and puts it in his backpack.
“You couldn’t stay away, could you? You couldn’t just let this slide? Do you know how much work this creates and how money this costs me?”
As the half-elf turns around, he sees a heavy breathing Dareill, holding a sledgehammer in his rugged hands. “If this is the best for everyone, creating peace, saving lives and keeping your economy stable, how is this a bad investment?” Aware of the threat, Oslando readies himself to take action.
“Why are you here, master Copperbeard? And why do you need a hammer for this conversation?” The dwarf slams it on the ground, raising dust as the shockwave runs through the floor. “Because breaking your bones may put my mind at ease. You are going to pay for this plan you put in the minds of the others. It’s up to you to decide if you are paying with gold or blood.”
He strikes the ground again. “Walk away, dwarf. I’ve been helpful and patient, but I draw the line right here.” Dareill laughs and points his hammer. “Wrong answer, half-elf.”
Before he storms towards him, Oslando takes a knife from his belt and throws it towards him in a straight line. Startled by the swift action, the dwarf just stands there looking at the sharp metal coming for his eye. Just a couple of inches before impact, the knife disappears and reappears in Oslando’s hand.
“I will recall the next one after it passes your skull. Go and help your people. You’re worth more to them alive.”
Confused by the knife trick that almost cost him his life he just stands there, staring blankly at the negotiator. “Don’t make me change my mind”, he says and holds up the knife. Without questioning, Dareill turns around and leaves hasty. Oslando laughs and shakes his head. “Dwarves…”