Dante, Mere Players

She was perfect, a tangential sojourn from mediocrity.

It had been weeks since my bloody exodus from father’s oppressive parentage, and I found myself in the grip of a desperate need, a hunger: not the hunger that insures one’s meager survival, but the emptiness associated with a powerful loss. In the wake of such nourishing violence, nothing could satiate my sanguinary desires besides more, more, more… It was a phantom limb; I was on the precipice and this woman would be my salvation.

She was pawning various curios in the dilapidated markets of the Dregs. She was beauty beyond the words of the most celebrated poets and lovelier than anything I could ever dream into existence. She was impossible. A normal man could lose himself in her fiery locks, made radiant in the dappled sunlight of the mid-afternoon sun. However, for all her charms, she seemed crippled by an abject sadness. It was in her eyes, those salient pools of emerald bliss, and in the weakness of her smile, a ghost of remembered joy. I was thoroughly intimidated and afraid, but I needed her.

I approached, guarding my eagerness with all the skill of an amateur player upon his first night on the stage. I was a wreck, but I could not allow her to penetrate my nebulous guise if I were to feed freely that night. Luckily, I was halted by a fortuitous triviality, and a plan soon formulated. With a defeated hand, she withdrew a most interesting novelty from her satchel: a simple player’s mask of matte white and void of pronounced features. It was macabre in design, and it reminded me of Sinclair’s theory of Metaphorical Masks, Chapter 2 paragraphs 17 – 25. My sagacious mentor championed ideas of bloodlust and murder; central to these philosophies were personae construction and the optimization of predatory relationships. I needed that mask as much as I needed the woman, and I would have both that night.

I placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, “Excuse me, ma’am. I have been perusing these reputable stands for hours seeking items of unique make. I was just about to retire, when I was struck by that curious mask you have there. Would you be willing to part with it?” I could sense her hesitation, not at the proposition but at the approach, so I shot her a reassuring smile. Ms. Fleischer of the Rock Bottom Tavern would endlessly drone on about my inspiring smile as she served up mugs of her famous bitter ale. Ostensibly, this woman was equally inspired and reciprocated as joyously as her sadness would allow.

“Of course, sir, but this mask is simple and unadorned; it cannot be worth much. To be honest, I only found it this morning outside the playhouse. It mustn’t have been that important.” Her voice rang out like a melancholy dove.

“Worth is subject to the buyer alone. I would be willing to pay as much as 10 gold pieces for that mask.” Her face transformed, a hopeful sunrise emerging from endless night. “Before you answer, we should surrender to more private quarters. There is a quiet spot just around the corner from the market we can discuss our arrangement.”
Her smile retreated quickly. “Sir, I’m married.”

“Congratulations are in order, ma’am. I assure you, I do not endeavor such dalliances; I simply wish to secure our agreement away from more vulgar suitors. However, forgive my boldness, but you are radiant. You must have been spun from the sun!” I laid bare my pouch of coin. “I am merely an eager bidder.” I was fumbling through my undeveloped charms, but she submitted.
She blushed and replied, “Of course, sir. Forgive my haste.”

In the seclusion of the foreboding access, we came to agreeable terms. “Thank you, truly! My husband and I were in dire need, and I did not wish to part with my modest wedding band. My dear, Elan. He has been troubled so.”

“It is I who is thankful, ma’am. You have made this curious collector very happy indeed.” The mask was in my grasp. I could feel the life-force of Sinclair pulsating through my hands in perfect harmony with my quickening heart beat. It was becoming increasingly difficult to hide my intentions. I adorned the mask…astounding! Every breath became a violent gust and every thought a nova of anticipation. “How do I look?”

“Dashing, I suppose. I’ll be off then, sir.” She turned, her gentle frame moving toward the sanctuary of the market. She turned…so did I.

With a simple flick of the wrist, my father’s strop razor was in hand. I surged, taking the fine mistress hard to the ground. It accepted her with harsh reprisal. I had her pinned with what I thought was a powerful hold, drew back her head with a handful of her glorious, ardent hair, and was ready to draw the blade across her pale throat. In my zealous strike, I relaxed my guard. With fight-or-flight strength, she lithely turned and caught me on the temple with a sharp blow, cracking the delicate mask of my abhorrent desires. Stunned, my thoughts swam through a thick pall and my vision was momentarily hindered. She continued to struggle, but I was able to regain my placement as the fog cleared. Then, as the first note of panic escaped her lungs, my blade finally met its mark. I pressed her face against the ground as her last shallow breaths bubbled forth. What little light was left in those vibrant eyes was soon extinguished. Her arm twitched, drawing closer to her body as if she was desperately changing the current of her essence. Then nothing.

Sweet relief. It fills me up, a cornucopia of murderous delight. This city is a stage, my playground. Its dregs…mere players in my tome of violence.

Transitions and Observations

Day 41
He woke in a cold sweat. It must have been a bad dream. He wiped his face with one meaty hand and peered over to the soft snoring beside him. A sharp snort as he recalled how she got there.

Bloody wench had crawled into his room the night before to avoid an overly noxious patron. Literally noxious as he smelled like he had taken a bath in the Kell. He had awoke to the commotion from the common room long before she had entered to a lone open red eye that greeted her.

“S-sorry, sir. I expected you to be asleep.” she stammered out as she creeped towards his bed. “May I sleep here.”

He had answered her the same way he answered any of the whores who worked there, he rolled over and grunted his approval. Most of the girls felt obligated to give him thanks. Those were met with a strong backhand and a night on the rug. This particular girl was content with sleeping back to back with him. There was always contact but it wasn’t enough to bother him. He felt a fear within her that spoke of respect and she wouldn’t push their relationship further. He appreciated that and let it slide.

He remembered that the other girls disliked her. The mouther ones liked to talk when he guarded them. He pretended to not listen but in truth he was hanging on their every single word and inflection. They called her the “Princess” because of the matron’s special attention. She was given the best clients and the best rooms. All because she was ‘unspoiled’ as the girls put it. He had no idea what that meant but he intended to find out eventually. Gods be sure he wasn’t going to outright ask them.

“Always at arms length.” He reminded himself in a gruff mumble as he took in the sight of her, barely covered by the sheets on the bed.

He looked away from her and looked down to his hands. No job had ever got him as jumpy as this one had. He had dealt with divine forces before. The Spider Queen’s many priestesses were a constant in his old life in the underdark but this was different. This was so odd. What word could he really use? It was so ‘good.’

He had felt the energies wash over him as he squared off with the cleric. He wasn’t sure if it was his imagination or part of his dream that was fabricated by his overactive mind but he thought he heard a woman’s voice urging the man on. The Spider Queen ruled through fear and tyranny. This ‘Ariel’ seemed encouraging and joyous. It was utterly nauseating to him.

Another thing kept gnawing at the back of his skull.

“You’re one of the few bloody flaming fucking Duergar in this city and I didn’t wear a mask?!” he snarled as he launched a water pitcher on his bedside table at the wall. He expected his bunkmate to wake but she always slept through his outbursts. He liked that about her. Especially considering how many of those there had been since he was freed.

Who could he find to make him something to conceal his heritage? Who at this brothel was hiding something? The answer made his lips curl back in a cruel sneer.

He hopped down from the small bed and headed into the hallway. The second he exited he heard the tumbler fall into the locked position. He looked back, nodded and moved on. Many of the girls were meandering in the corridors that led into the rooms of pleasure. They would move out of his way without even acknowledging him. Most of them knew him by reputation and needed no more than that to be weary of this black creature. He preferred it as such.

There was a hallway that led up behind the bar where the beast of a matron was leaning over the counter, showing off her ‘assets’ to the men waiting for their ‘custom.’ As he meandered through the curtain, the face of a man covered in rogue turned to him and smiled sweetly.

“Well met my cunning pugilist. What can this lovely maiden assist you with?” purred the matron.

“It ain’ teh maiden’s advice I be needin’. I be needin’ to speak wit yer husband.”

The smile melted from the face into a cruel sneer that was born from years of abuse. Asking for the matron’s husband was a clever way to address that they needed to speak to her other person. She spat at the floor near his feet and bid him to wait in her office.

He sad on the hard bench in her cramped office and waited patiently, taking a drag from the giant hookah that decorated the center. It was always lit and kept ready for its mistress.

As the matron entered, she ripped the wig off ‘her’ head and tossed it onto a wooden head on the right side of her desk.

“What the fuck do you want, little man?” he growled at him in a voice that was anything but feminine.

“A mask. Ah need teh look like an average chalkie Dwarf.”

The heavy eyebrow lifted as the matron grinned. “This is going to be interesting indeed.”

Day 40 – A New Crew
As he reached the sewer he began to clear off the blood and chalk. Avar had mentioned Dante had disappeared with the head. While he was enraged by the probability of failure, he had other concerns to take care of first. The events of the last few hours began to rush through his head as he began to catalog the information.

N’Alen. No blood? The cleric’s intense hatred towards him? There is something going on there. The punches he delivered at the beginning of the encounter definitely felt off. He didn’t see much of what N’Alen actually did during the fight, but he assumed he would see more of it as time went on with this crew.

Dante. There was a gleam in that man’s eye. He killed with a quick efficiency that was told of a talent. His killing blows on the soldiers spoke of a gruesome enjoyment for carving a body to pieces. He would have to watch that one closely. He would also avoid meeting him in a dark alley. Ever.

Avar. He wasn’t sure what the man was doing, but he had a feeling that his bravado is what caused his blade to meet its mark so easily. He had become the de facto leader which suited Dhent just fine.

As soon as he was cleaned and calmed, he emerged from the sewers with his hood drawn up. He needed to disarm and law low for a while. That many guards having seem him and been allowed to live? He wasn’t exactly one of MANY of his kin in this city. If there was a rumor of a murderous Duergar, he would be singled out immediately. He needed a plan.

He made his way through the back door of his common haunt, the Gilded Queen, and hunkered down until it was time to meet back up with his crew. He had a feeling the violence wasn’t over yet. If Dante had escaped with their mark, he wouldn’t be breathing much longer for sure.

He let his eyes close as he relaxed with his back resting on the door to his tiny chamber. There’s always something.

Day 27 – Respite at Last
These chalkie louts are a joke. They all gather together in safe houses to sleep, trusting each other to watch their backs. Problem is, they’re all fuckin’ crooks. Not a single bloody one is worth the skin he’s made from. I couldn’t begin to give them to satisfaction of slitting my throat in my sleep.

So I wandered for a bit. Inns cost me gold. Alleys weren’t safe. Abandoned warehouses had rats and urchin children who eyed my purse. I needed somewhere that no one would expect me to be.

I was wandering back to the makeshift hole I was sleeping in when I saw a chalkie fuck pulling on the sleeve of a wench outside a fluff house. I had just come back from a mission where I didn’t get to hurt anyone, so I broke his leg in three places with a swift kick. He crumbled down and the wench dove into the door of the house. Seconds later the matron emerged with a cudgel and whacked the stricken chalkie in the temple.

Impressed, I helped her toss him bodily into the alleyway. This matron wasn’t exactly… motherly as you would expect the proprietor of a Fluff House to be. I only say that because ‘she’ was a bloody man wearing the trappings of a chalkie noble. I’m not one to judge so I let it go. She offered me a night with one of her girls, but by now I was so bloody exhausted I just asked her for a room. She was dumfounded, but obliged.

In the morning, I awoke with a start, pointing a dagger at the throat of a half naked ebony serving girl bringing me breakfast. The sound brought the matron in laughing, ushering the poor wench out of the room.

“I expected you to enjoy that one, she’s your ‘type’ after all.”

“Ain’t got ah type.”

“Is that so? What if I told you that you could stay here from time to time if you do some work for me?”

“Ahm listenin’.”

She laid it out for my straight, assuming my grasp on common was passing at best. I like it that way. She said if I helped keep the girls safe, she would allow me to stay there from time to time or hide from the chalkie authorities. Only deal was, I had to keep it quiet and quick. Those being my specialties, I agreed.

“You sure you don’t want a nice bed warmer from time to time?”

“Ain’t wurth teh trubble.”

And that was that.

Day 6 – Adjustments
How many chalkies do I need to punch before they learn to mind their business? I’ve NEVER in my years heard so many people jaw off for so long about nothing at all. The boss thinks its funny how short my fuse is, but it’s getting tiresome. Luckily its working and everyone leaves me be.

“Ah, yeah, that’s Dhent. Watch out for that bastard. He’s got a mean right hook.”

“Aye, his bloody left hook isn’t anything to laugh about either, mate.”

“Feck off about ‘is meat ‘ooks, watch out for ‘is blasted fangs! McCormik lost ‘is ear!”

As my notoriety grows, more of the nosey chalkies leave me alone. I like it that way. Mind you, the people who matter are definitely watching me more closely. The people with the coin and the information.

“He’s quick, he’s clean, where the hell did he come from?”

“I heard he came from the Underdark, those blood dark elves used him up something fierce.”

Let them talk. The more they talk, the more I earn.

Otyugh

We encountered the Otyugh in the a forgotten passageway in a stronghold of the orcs. It was hiding underneath a pile of refuse which is common for this type of monster. They feed off mainly trash and that is most likely what it was doing underneath their hideout disposing of their refuse. Standing on 3 legs it has a wide mouth, 2 feeder tentacles and one that it also uses for vision. It was rather easily dispatched and it smelled horrible.

A sample of its blood is kept by Magus.

Why is my book gloating at me?

Aldur sat on the leaf littered ground cross legged with an open leather bound tome next to him and scrolls around him in various states of completion. His inkwell was open and a rather plain looking quill was is in it. He was blowing dry some ink on the scroll he held in his hands.

“So let me get this straight, you want me to send my men into a dragons den? Just walk in and take its treasure? Is that it?” Jared’s voice came from the air around him.
“Dragons?” Aldur’s curiousity was piqued. Obviously he had read about them and seen small hatchlings twice but that was about it. To go into a den of one would be truly an opportunity to see what he had only heard and read about.

“70/30” He heard a higher pitched voice say in reference to the split of treasure.

“Don’t take that Jared, we’re worth more than that. Heck I want more than that.” Aldur whispers to no one except Rascal who seems to be enjoying sunning himself.

He moves the scribing implements from his lap and stands up stretching his back and legs.

“Now listen here you lil shit” Jared’s voice again floats on the air.

“That’s how you negotiate” Aldur responds before walking over to Rascal scratching him with his foot, “put him in his place.” Aldur was slowly learning more and more about Jared. Through their runs in the training yard, the beatings at the hand of Jared were pointing out some of his weaknesses in combat and the obvious lack of formal combat training. That was starting to bother him more and more, sometimes in combat he was feeling less then useful and that was starting to eat at him. Back in the keep that they rescued the children, Aldur and Rascal held their own and contributed. In the forest just recently he didn’t feel like he was pulling his own weight and definitely not more then so.

“Better get back to making more scrolls so I can cast more spells I suppose” as he sits back down under a tree again and picks up another scroll and his quill. He could now hear Thaydon’s voice in the air speaking to Jared “must have been in the room invisible listening in…always invisible.” He couldn’t tell if Thaydon actually hated him or not. It was a possibility the rogue just tolerated him and actually enjoyed his continual chatter and maybe it educated and mellowed out the killer…or he just hated him and wanted to cut him with that whip blade of his. “Mental note…” he wrote down in his book he kept his findings in which he desperately wish Thaydon would stop calling a diary, “don’t piss off the assassin unless I plan on being a bird for a few years.”

He got back to the scrolls he was preparing for what sounded like a potentially long journey. He appreciated Jared letting him set up a clairvoyance so that he could listen to the meeting and still take care of business. He couldn’t just sit there invisible like Thaydon. He had talked to Magus about maybe working on some scrolls together to see if there was some sort of precedent for two individuals combining power into one scroll, but there was some merit into looking at some of his texts to see how to handle that. He had mentioned that to Fithten too but he just tried to not offend Aldur, but he could sense that Fithten felt that below him and his god. To each their own he thought.

He had forgotten to write something down! He suddenly remembered while on the way back home from Holmfirth that he had forgotten to write down about their meeting with Throm’s Blade Bearer. He quickly snatched up his great book and flipped towards the end quill in hand and stopped after reading the last few lines.

“…the Blade Bearer’s chain protruded from Ash’s chest and hung there like…”, he didn’t remember writing that. He quickly flipped through the last couple pages and scanned them “by focusing on Ash and the Eldritch power he commands I can also produce similar types of flame in my own hands, need to mention this to Ash so that…”

“What in the?” he thought to himself. He didn’t write any of that. He closed the book and looked at it with a puzzled, concern look. Even more concerning was that he could almost sense the book gloating at him?!

“Well, time for you to be put somewhere safe again” as he closed the book, wrapped the leather thong around it and then slid it into its locked wooden case that he kept it in. He stopped, and slid the book out part way and looked at the book questioningly while he murmured the words for detecting other’s thoughts. Yup, the book was definitely gloating at him. Thaydon was right. He was weird.

Garwan’s Curiosities

A sign bearing the image of a unicorn horn, an hourglass, and the words “Garwan’s Curiosities” hangs above a short wooden door on a cramped back-street of . The entrance is recessed down and back two stairs from street level and tucked between two wide windows, each providing a view of bizarre items. To the left: a shrunken head, candy wrapped in colorful leaves, playing cards, and smoking accessories and a to the right: a floor-to-ceiling shelving unit of potions of all shapes, sizes, colors, and viscosity.

As Amondor pushes open the door, the stale air of the room hits his nose and a mechanical bird leaves its perch above the inside of the door. It chirps and squawks as it takes a couple laps back into the store, announcing a customer. The mecha-bird swoops low over a young dwarf who makes a futile swipe at the creature while shouting “Poxed bastard!”

“Zark! Leave that be and get back to work,” a gravely voice carries from the back of the store. Zark adjusts his black leather vest in a huff and makes sure his belt of silver-hilted daggers is set just right before he continues pushing a floating disc filled high with plated armor towards a back room. He attempts a smile at Amondor, but it comes across more as a sneer.

From around a stack of embroidered cloth bolts, a white-bearded dwarf catches sight of Amondor. “Ahh, Master Celebrendal. So great to see you, I have found the, err, item you requested.” Zark’s ears visibly perk and his head turns at the mention.

As Amondor carefully weaves between precarious piles of most certainly expensive items, the morning sunlight dances through the potions in the window casting colored shadows across the wall.

“You have very specific and exquisite taste, Master Celebrendal. I had to call in more than one favor to get my hands on this little gem…” his had rests on a long, thin wooden case atop a counter. Inlaid gold leaf weaves a long, looping design in the cover and the corners are worn with age.

“Garwan, I assure you that you will be paid directly in proportion to the value of the item but not a coin more. My pockets are not a mine ripe for plunder.”

Garwan let’s out a sound of exasperation somewhere between and a “harumph” and a trumpeting of his lips as his stubby fingers fumble with the clasps of the wooden case. They spring open silently and the lid rises of its own accord, revealing a chamber much deeper than the height of the box. Inside, a longbow rests atop a stone base. At first, the bow appears to be nothing more than a fine wooden bow; but closer inspection reveals a surface free from imperfections and a slightly golden hue.

“The Bow of Hankin, origins unknown.” Amondor leans in for a closer look.

The case slams shut and Garwan leans on it from his stool perch behind the counter.

Without breaking eye contact with Garwan, Amondor unshoulders his bow and leans it against the counter. Next to the case he piles 3 heavy sacks, ringing of coins, and some magical nick-nacks. “This should be enough to buy a ship, man it with a crew, and sail it off the edge of the world should you desire it.”

Garwan relinquishes his grip on the wooden case and peeks into one of the sacks. Finding it to his liking, he nods to the elf. “Pleasure doing business, keep Garwan’s in mind the next time you’re in nee–” Garwan is cut short with a cringe as a loud crash is heard from the back room. Through the open doorway a wooden shield rolls and a couple fish come flopping in search of a larger puddle.

As Amondor lets himself out the front door, he can hear Garwan laying into the younger dwarf for his carelessness. Amondor smiles.

Cleanup of the Den

The fire in the upper rooms of the keep have been extinguished just in time for the clerics to ignite funeral pyres downwind of the keep. The ashes of good men and dead orcs alike slowly waft upward, toward whatever the hereafter provides. The land will need a good, hard rain to wash the stench away. Even miles from the keep, the animals are driven away by the smell. Perhaps they have more sense than I, abandoning this place.

While the men tear down the charred roof and begin hewing new wood for repairs, I have set about using my own skills to track the orc army and ensure they are not preparing for another immediate strike. My stride is long and their trail clear through the forest. These orcs were driven hard and fast. I have followed their markings for ten miles with no signs of their pace slowing. There is some comfort in the thought that we have time to prepare and tend to other threats. Starvation, chief on my list.

I head back to the keep, by an indirect route. Identifying natural landmarks and learning the lay of the land. In the woods I have set snares to catch small game, should they return. In a clearing, a deer and I locked eyes. With a start he ran, I in pursuit. Gracefully he cleared fallen trees and low branches, weaving a convoluted path through land he knew well. At the next clearing, my arrow caught him between the shoulder blades. I hold his head, thanking him for his sacrifice, and end his struggle. Flora and Fauna be praised, the men will eat well tonight.

History of Magus of Lollen’del

Janus was a bastard. Figuratively as well as literally. A mixture of high and grey elf blood. The product of a torrid love affair. His parents were rivals in the courts of Lollen’del. His father, Bala’drin Galo’ron, was the High Mage of the king while his mother, Lana Sylfarian, was the high priestess of Loriana the Fair. Publicly they loathed each other. Their political stances as well as courtly interests conflicted at every single turn. Yet, behind closed doors their passion was a fire hotter than the fires of the seven hells.

When Lana became pregnant, she played it off as a pilgrimage to commune with the goddess. Many years later, she returned to Lollen’del and presented the prodigy to his father. Janus was talented in every aspect of spellcasting. He juggled the powers of the arcane and the divine with ease and almost apathy. Proud yet ashamed, Bala’drin enrolled Janus in the academy of magery under a false name of some far away elvish lord.

Janus, insulted by the secrecy, found absolutely no interest in his studies purely out of spite. It also didn’t help that the classes went too slow for him. One day while skipping classes in a secluded vale in the depths of the forest, Janus found himself in the company of the oldest elf he’d ever seen. The old man looks as if he was carved from the lightest birch tree with hair as green as the grass. The man’s power had a pressure that made his ears pop when he walked towards him.

“Are you scared, youngling?”

“More intrigued than scared.”

“That is a dangerous sentiment, but your thirst for knowledge is great indeed.”

The Arcane Hierophant was named Silvanus and was the Speaker for the Circle that operated out of Lollen’del. The Circle’s existence was only knowledge to the ruling council. Janus had never heard of the Arcane Hierophant order and spent almost every waking hour in Silvanus’ presence. He promptly quit the academy and took lessons from the ancient elf himself and progressed faster than anyone would have guessed. His parents disapproved, yet they also understood that there was no other way to utilize both torrents of power their son possessed. They both knew that he would surpass them both.

Upon reaching the day of his adulthood, Silvanus sent him into the world to learn and grow like the sapling he was. Silvanus had heard word of a mercenary company doing small jobs for the elvish court in Lollen’del, and sent Janus off with instructions to join them for the time being. With sturdy gear, a few wands, and dreams of greatness, Magus of Lollen’del headed off into the world.

And the rest.. is history..

Awakening the Beast
The voices howl in his head, yet he denied them.

He made the decision to make sure his slender frame would be protected. He needed to be quick and nimble. He needed to live. The training he received from monks in a monastery outside of the forest conflicted with the natural ways, but his Arcane abilities also conflicted so a little more modification to his abilities wouldn’t hurt, right?

Wrong.

The dreams started the closer he got to achieving the abilities of his druidic path. His body would twist and deform. Claws and feathers were the most common. He assumed it was because of his bond with Taka, but soon it drifted in the form of bears and wolves from his homeland forests.

What in the hells is happening to me?

There was a particular dream where he was between several different forms when a rabbit hopped towards him. His canine eyes look up to the rabbit and inside of his mind he felt flashes of hunger and need for the hunt, but another voice spoke into his mind.

“Come.”

And the rabbit hopped off. After blinking a few times, he realized he had also assumed the form of a rabbit and began to awkwardly follow. It was slow going, but the rabbit was very patient with his lack of ability.

Seeing the forest from this form was an entirely different experience. Eventually the rabbit became a fox and his own form matched it as well.

They continued this dance of form jumping several times before reaching a cave in the side of the mountain they were skirting. The further into the cave they went, the darker it became. Eventually they reached a cavern with a soft green glowing light coming from the moss on the cave walls. His eyes seemed to become his own again and he saw that the one he had followed had finally taken shape.

She was beautiful. Every feature of her naked body a testament to the beauty of nature and the variations of every single race and creature. Her amber eyes were fixed on him as she stepped close. A hand reached out for his face and cupped it as she drew him into her embrace. Every single cell of his body rejoiced in her touch and he began to close his eyes and listen to her heartbeat.

“Loriena can no longer have you, you are mine. The minute you met with my servant Silvanus I knew that you would find me here…”

He could only breathe her in and nod slowly. Realization had come to him that he was in the embrace of the primal side of his nature, Fauna, but he let the logical side of his brain stay muddled in the pleasure of being in the embrace of his goddess.

“You have suppressed me, my child, but the unnatural ways of man cannot fight my influence for long. You felt the freedom of slipping out of your skin and now you will not be able to resist it. You cannot resist being a part of me.”

He realized she had pulled his face close to hers, their foreheads touching. A wolfish grin on her face, she kisses him.

With a flash and a jolt of pain that races through his entire body, he wakes sitting with his back to a tree. He is covered in sweat and his lips burned where he barely remembered her kissing him.

“What is this? What is this feeling?”

The beasts within him have awakened again and no amount of discipline would suppress them again. He blinks a few times, his eyes flickering between a cat’s and his own, and he gets back up to watch the sunrise.

The Arcane Hierophant
It happened around the time Taka was given to the earth. He had to summon another to take his place, as was the way, but something was nagging at him in the back of his head. The arcane side of him, its influence so long ignored, was aching to be utilized. He never felt the need for a familiar with Taka around, but with his friend gone he felt the emptiness twice as heavy and unbearable as before.

He recalled the stories his master had told him about when it was time to become part of the order. He said something similar about not only harnessing both arcane and divine power but also about merging the capabilities of his animal companion with that of a familiar. His master didn’t have his Dire Bear with him much, saying that it was time for him to rest after all the years they spent together.

The realization hit him at that moment, “Had it happened? Is it time to step into the role I’ve been trained for?” He didn’t feel any different, but when he closed his eyes and let his mind wrap itself around the magics he was capable of he noticed it.

His view had broadened. More of the spectrum was visible. He had been awakened.

A feral grin spread onto his features as he headed into the woods behind the Den. It was dark and dangerous, but he knew the Goddesses walked with him and had no fear. He felt like he could manage a more powerful creature this time around, but he wanted to gauge what was possible. The ritual required quite a bit of preparation as well as a full day worth of meditation, but his excitement helped him through it all.

Once it was all ready he disrobed and sat within the center of the circle he had drawn into the clearing. He felt the plants reach up from the ground to commune with him. He felt the worms and squirrels and the deer shudder with the powers he was communing with. A fox came up and curled into his lap and slept while he meditated.

He pictured the animal he meant to bond with in his mind. He had touched with sky with Taka, but now it was time to know the earth beneath paws and know battle with fangs. He was not ready to go the path of the ursus like his master, but instead the path of the lupus. He needed speed and cunning rather than stubbornness and strength. The time would come when he required it, but a bear of such power required much more of his energy than he was willing to give up at this time.

Inside his mind he howled in longing. Seconds later he heard a howl in return. He could smell her approaching and when he opened his eyes she sat on her haunches before him. Her head tilted to the side in thought. Her fur was black as charcoal with white markings on her chest and paws. The most remarkable thing about her were the eyes. They blazed yellow with intelligence and cunning.

He was used to feeling Taka’s emotions but with the wolf there was something more. She whined and he knew what she was saying to him. His eyes narrowed and he attempted to speak to her in the common tongue but she snorted in reply, not getting the meaning of his words. He let instinct take over and make a grunting noise at her and she barked back excitedly, making it clear she understood what he had said.

This went on throughout the night and into the next day until he emerged from the woods with his new companion at his side.

Her name was Nymeria.

The Reality of the World
He never had issue with putting down creatures of nature before this whole incident. It was all part of nature.

Then he saw the bodies. After the “wolves” began to attack the small village of Holmfirth, the locals began to kill every single wolf and fox that came within a mile of their village. They would skin them and let the corpses pile up right outside the village.

This wasn’t nature. This was humanity’s ignorance pushing itself onto nature. Humans were deplorable creatures to begin with, but this was an atrocity.

He vowed at that moment that he would never harm another animal unless the need was dire. He swore to the Goddess that he would make the best effort in his power to defend those who could not defend themselves against the more “advanced” races of the realms.

Saying it and following it through were two entirely different things. When the demonic dire beasts attacked, he tried as hard as he could to resist harming them. Once his comrades began to fall around him, though, he had reached the limit of his strength and let loose a bolt of electricity at the dire bear. Its magical resistance allowed it to shrug off the bolt and Magus’s resolve was shattered then and there.

He lost his cool. He lost his composure. He snapped.

After trying to revive his friends and protect them and Nymeria to the best of his abilities, the madman who deformed and tortured the once magnificent dire creatures showed himself. He could only see red and his vision began to tunnel. He only saw the man called Edward talking. He saw him smiling and laughing. How could such a monster be allowed to do whatever he liked? Before he could stop himself, he had summoned a sphere of pure electricity and launched it at the evil warlock.

After the spell left his hands he saw there was someone else with Edward. Another Black Wolf. Ash.

While Ash wasn’t exactly dependable or favored in his eyes, he had never willfully harmed someone who hadn’t wished him harm in return. When the sphere hit Ash he was rocked badly and let out a scream. Trying to redeem himself somehow, he manipulated the magics to form mighty jaws of force to attack Edward. His brain would not process how the man named Edward wasn’t even being harmed by the force unleashed upon him, Magus only wanted to destroy him.

When Edward faded, it was all over and that had been nothing he could do. The animals were still deformed and dead. Ash had still been hit with his spell. He didn’t even get the revenge he craved so deeply.

He had failed in so many ways he could not even comprehend it all. He let himself go. Wandering into the forest, he fell to his knees at the edge of a pool of water fed by a small waterfall. After slipping off his clothes he swam out under the torrent from above, hoping that somehow the Goddesses would wash away the stench his betrayals had caused.

He fell back into himself, letting go of all emotional attachments to ease his mind. The Arcane Hierophant was not supposed to let emotion get in the way. He was supposed to be logical and neutral in all things. He only needed the love of one, two aspects of one goddess, the rest did not matter.

A bit of darkness in his soul blossomed that day, but he pushed it back. Good or evil, both are the crutches of the weak. Logic was all that mattered now.