Honnik the Grimhanded

The son of a cobbler and a bar maid, Honnik’s early life was simple and rather straightforward. While not exactly destitute, Honnik grew accustomed to a meager life on the verge of the slums of Mourn. This likely wouldn’t have changed much for most of Honnik’s life, if his mother hadn’t suddenly disappeared.

Honnik was around 20 when she seemingly vanished. It wasn’t unusual, with her working in a tavern, that her shifts would last well in to early hours of the night, but she’d always be there in the morning. Honnik’s father even went to the tavern to inquire after three days, but they had not seen or heard from her either. While keeping, to Honnik, an appearance of stoicism, his father was clearly marked by grief, and it seemed that luck was turning away. After over a year with no word, Honnik’s father packed some basic tools and supplies, left the workshop with the words “I’m going to find her” passing through his beard, leaving Honnik alone in the small house and workshop that had been his home.

While Honnik did have some basic understanding of cobbling, he lacked the skill and expertise of his father, and soon debt was mounting up. The property was seized and Honnik, now having nothing but his own clothes, quickly fell in with the dregs of Mourn. Being a port-town, there was no shortage of people down on their luck, so gangs quickly formed, especially near the docks where sailors, ripe with coin (and blurred by drink), would stumble around while on shore leave. To Honnik, this was a necessary way of making a living, and though his mind had a sparkle of regret, it was less pressing than having coin for the day’s only meal. Still though Honnik preferred to just pick pockets, rather than the full on muggings that, often, was the case when a sailor turned out to be not drunk enough to be persuaded, but drunk enough to put up a viscous fight.

Eventually events, as they tend to do, spiralled out of control. It was a rainy season, leaving the slums a mess of mud and collapsing, rotting wooden huts. The need of those without a solid home, suddenly became at least twice fold. Many new gangs appeared over night, and the competition for territory or even scraps of bread became even worse. Several violent clashes between the gangs, and on occasion, the city watch, would often leave pools of blood for the townsfolk to see in the morning. For Honnik this was a first. Gangs had clashed before, sure, usually it would be a brawl, some bruises, some loose teeth, but that was all. If the gangs felt a score wasn’t settled, they would just do it again, until one gang would reign over whatever started the feud to begin with. Now, more than simple clubs and nightsticks, daggers and short swords appeared more frequently, and the lustre in the eyes of the other people in the gang, turned from a glint of desperation to now malice.

It did not take long before several bodies were found laying in side alleys, a result of the night before’s clash, the town was becoming dangerous. Appalled by the bloodshed, Honnik decided to step back from the active gang member, instead setting himself up with a wheelbarrow, and acting as a fence. With this role, he would avoid the most of the violence, as the need to move items of illicit nature, was one that several gangs needed, thus the loss of a fence would hit more gangs hard. Not directly protected, but it was understood that a fence was not to be targeted. Sure there would be the occasional “costumer” who wasn’t happy with a price, and might stir up some trouble, but then Honnik could defend his wares well enough himself.

Eking out an existence like that, over the next several years Honnik became more accomplished and started seeking the bigger prices, more valuable items would come by, sometimes still with fresh blood on them. But a fence doesn’t ask questions like “where did you get that?” or “who did this belong to?”, so Honnik just moved the items. It helped that he set up shop near the docks, sea voyage was time consuming, and once a ship was out of port, and thus with items onboard, they wouldn’t easily turn up to the original owner again. Soon he made a comfortable profit, sure there were cases where an item could not be moved, and either had to be held for a period of time, or simply discarded, if it was too hot, but for the most part, Honnik lived a decent life, even getting contracts from the regular townsfolk to acquire, or, as was often the case, reacquire a recently stolen item. This business, Honnik found, was much more profitable and steady, than just serving criminals. Even if it sometimes meant angering the thieves.

An opportunity arose when he was contacted by a finely dressed man, seemingly a wealthy merchant with multiple ships in port at once. The merchant was looking for a specific necklace, presenting a very finely detailed drawing, and the reward? Enough to buy a large house in town, maybe even a small ship. Honnik couldn’t resist taking the deal, and began to contact runners in the town if they had seen the necklace in question. This wasn’t unusual, people would request items before they were even stolen or missing, a sort of thieves’ contract, of course these contracts were usually only given to the more organized groups, not the typical alley slum-gangs. Honnik decided to call upon the favours of one named Zerit, a fairly fresh-faced thief who was adept in both pickpocketing and burglary, if needed. Zerit had some debt to other thieves Honnik knew, and Honnik could easily, with the reward, pay that debt off. Of course, Zerit didn’t exactly need to know the size of the reward. To him, it would be a job just like any other.

Perhaps that is how word got around amongst the gangs that Zerit was taking on work of this nature. Honnik had noticed that several high-profile gang members seemed to be near Zerit, but couldn’t get himself involved. Zerit met with Honnik, having found the necklace on, well around the neck of, one of the wealthiest persons in town, and Zerit had explained that a burglary was out of the question, security was too tight. Instead Zerit would engage some alley-rats (a slang word for low ranking gang members) to assault the person, Zerit would let them take anything else, but acquire the necklace himself. Honnik didn’t like the idea, but if Zerit could ensure that the person would live, then that would be an alright outcome. Honnik knew that hitting the biggest of scores in town, as in the houses or people with most money, would likely lead to raids from the town watch, and not only making business difficult for him, but also very likely to leave bodies in the streets, which Honnik was strongly against.

A day passed with no word from Zerit. Then a young runner came by, gasping for breath, informing Honnik that an assault had gone bad, with several bodies as a result. Honnik had to see for himself, and in the early hours of morning, just before sunset, he came upon a grizzly sight; the alley-rats had clashed with what looked like mercenaries. Two of them laying dead next to one another, a third with a deep thrust-wound in his stomach sitting up against a wall. The alley-rat told of the event; Zerit had spotted the target, and set the three alley-rats to do their thing, keeping himself out of direct line of sight. As soon as the alley-rats cornered the person, they had yelled a command in a different language, and the mercenaries had come around a corner and began to attack the alley-rats. In the fight, the target had slinked away towards Zerit. The alley-rat didn’t see what happened next, but as he was left for dead, he could hear a different clash of weapons from roughly where Zerit had been.

Hurrying towards the location, Honnik turned a corner of the alley, an in the dim he saw two more bodies, this time quite far apart. The first was the target, they were wearing fine clothes that themselves could fetch a decent price, Honnik thought, and laying on their stomach. A pool of blood near their head mixed itself with the mud and grime. Honnik heaved the target on to their back, a rough cut in their throat told of their demise, there was no sight of the necklace, Honnik searched the target’s pockets, everything, but to no avail. Honnik looked at the other body, it was, even in the darkness, not likely a mercenary. Dashing over, Honnik failed to notice the location of Zerit’s corpse; just in the opening of the alley into one of the main streets. The necklace was all that mattered now. Zerit looked as though he had been at war, several cuts and wounds to his face and chest had him hard to recognize. Honnik began to look in the mud and blood around the thief first, nothing, then turning to the body, the leather armour sliced up in several places. Honnik began to remove the armour, peeling, pulling, tearing, as sun shone it’s first couple of rays down through the streets. Finally, between Zerit’s blood-soaked clothing and his armour, the necklace. Honnik’s sigh of relief would have been audible, had it not been for the street-sweeper passing the alley in just that moment, seeing Honnik’s bloody hands raise an item from a corpse. the watch was called, while Honnik fled back to his shop.

He had to turn the necklace in and fast, a quick change of clothes and washing of his hands, and he was off to the docks. There he found no merchant, none of his ships, none of is crew. Dock workers said the merchant had sailed out during the night, seemingly in a hurry. Honnik went home, his mind finally snapping and realising his plight; not only was he now a suspect for murder, he also held a very hot piece of direct evidence. He laid low for several months, having only minimal interaction with the thieves and gangs, learning that he had been given the nickname “The Grimhanded”. Honnik could count on the thieves, whom he had (and to some degree was still) been serving well as a fence. Now though, the thieves that came by didn’t ever complain about prices, and where he before was seen as a savvy business man, he was now shunned or even feared. One thing is a thief, but a murderer do not get the same treatment amongst the organized thieves. There was also the matter of the murder itself. Honnik was still the main suspect.

One day a relative of the target arrived in town, and a bounty was put on Honnik for the murder. The bounty itself would bring bounty hunters, but it was large enough that the writing on the wall was clear to Honnik; even thieves would go for such a prize, regardless of them shaking up the unspoken, and unwritten, laws of thieves. Honnik had seen this event coming, and had been preparing. His shop was almost empty of items, a quick shave and some simple clothing done, he took his fortune with him, boarded the first ship he could find, and set out to change himself drastically. While on the ship he reminisced that his life had taken a turn for the better, this was a chance, a chance to change, a chance to make something more, something better of his life. And thus, when he made land, far, far away from the crumbling, rotting, streets of Mourn, he sold his possessions, to acquire a set of armour and a hefty battle-axe. He was not a mercenary, but he would lend his service to those in need of armed help. Payment was not important, the clink of coin meant nothing. For years he would practice in use of weapons and shields,

This was not, he mused to himself, repentance. The past was the past, and he couldn’t see a way to change it. Rather, being pragmatic, this would be a chance to stand for others, to avoid them slipping down the same path that he once did. There was much beauty to be found in the world, and if standing up for those unable to do, and stopping the unjust, then that was enough. Honnik realized, for the first time in his life, that now he was happy.

Sigmund’s Journal

This was written as an addendum to Dakota Irish’s short module called The King of The Fair.

Entry #1

My parents are leaving for the capital, and the old apothecary is now in my care, I shall do my best to uphold my parents’ work for the town, even if there are still recipes I’m unsure about. Hopefully I can pick up some new recipes from tradesfolk soon enough. I’ll start by taking stock, so I know what I’ll be needing to run the shop smoothly.

Entry #5

These Apple Tree Mushrooms are interesting, while the taste is somewhat bitter on it’s own, it does seem to actually act as a kind of fruity sweetener for the more regular potions. So far it doesn’t seem to hold any remedial effects in the potions, but that might come down to the type of mixing. I shall stride to research this further, whenever I have an excess amount of supplies.

Entry #17

I have received a letter from my mother this day, my father has passed and is being buried in the capital. She says that he spoke of some historical research that he was partaking in relation to Ballydorey and it’s Puck Fair. Supposedly there’s a darker reason to why the town have remained untouched by bandits and raiders for so long. Mother didn’t know where father’s notes were left, she would search through his items in their new home, but urged me to look through some of the older books on the shelves. Thankfully summer is fairly calm when it comes to the need for an apothecary.

Entry #29

I have spoken to some of the village elders, but have mostly been met by ignorance, or even hostility. The old man McCleary told me to stop poking into things, that I had no understanding of, clearly the message was to not research something that wasn’t a problem. Others were more forthcoming, telling me what little they know. The Puck Fair have, or so it seems, always been named that. One suggested it was named after a long-dead king or ruler named Puckard the Bright. I have my doubts to this, as, if knowledge serves me right, Puckard’s rule was several hundred miles from here. I suppose it could have been started by travellers, but I find it unlikely.

Entry #33

Finally a breakthrough! I found my father’s notes, tugged in between a book about calcinator maintenance, and the “Living Ingredients III: Frogs & Snakes”. I’ve had no need to look there, as the calcinator was one of the first books I memorized, and there haven’t been any snakes seen in these parts for the better part of several centuries. Father’s idea seemed to stem in a pact of some sort, with a creature not of this realm. I shall have to seek guidance on such matters. I work more in plants, herbs, and roots than in magic and the tethers between this plane and others. Maybe the Cleric will be able to give me some pointers.

Entry #34

I’ve managed to narrow the likely suspects down, it seems very unlikely that this is the work or contract of a fiend, and I think a celestial would not need to bind good-hearted, faithful citizens. It is most likely a Fey creature, bound to serve the town somehow. I doubt many creatures would accept being bound in service for as long as this one though.

I have spoken with Brighid, who listened intently to my theory. She said that the crypts of the temple holding the dead of the town for generations, get… “lively”, the dead stirs, particular around harvest and the Puck Fair. That can’t be a coincidence. I’ll gather knowledge on the fey creatures, perhaps if I can more precisely determine the specific creature, I can help save the town from a doom of the undead.

Entry #36

The Puck Fair is in a month, and the “King of the Fair” is essential. I have found the creature to likely be a Púca, a shapeshifter of a malicious nature. It seems the yearly sacrifice of the goat, rebinds the Púca to the town’s service, but surely this contract would weaken over time. The thing is, I don’t know where Púca is physically bound, somewhere in town surely, but where? Perhaps Brighid knows, she maintains the crypts and have lived for a while already.

Entry #37

I have constructed cages meant for fey creatures, as well as a brass lantern. If I have configured the lantern correctly, it should be able to serve as homunculi for the shapeshifter, if destroyed in this prison, the Púca SHOULD be destroyed for good. Otherwise it might just seek another host. I just hope my efforts aren’t too little, too late.

Solanacea, High Elf Rogue in Emon (Tal’Dorei)

Growing up on the estate in Southgate Farms, Solanacea had a fairly sheltered childhood. Most of her nearby age-mates were sons and daughters of farmers, and thus less likely to be free to play. Not that her parents, Dauces & Preasica, would allow for much mingling with the, to them, lower classes of society anyway. Solanacea was taught to behave, and more importantly, to be silent unless spoken to.

The estate and its lands had a view of Greyskull Keep, the fortress formerly belonging to the heroes of Vox Machina, which her parents never failed to mention to guests. Naturally, the people that her parents DID mingle with, were either of similar (perceived) importance or of a higher standing in Emon as a whole. With at least one ball or social call a month, sometimes lasting for several days, Solanacea spent several days left to her own devices, save for the servants, whom she was cordially friendly with, whenever her parents were not around.

During one of such stints, she would dress in the darkest clothes available, and sneak out of the hours of darkness had settled over Southgate, surely there would be some other noble estate, where someone of her own age-like state of mind would reside, and maybe they could talk. She, admittedly, had not thought the next steps fully through, as the nightly venture had been the main focus of her planning. Observing the routes of the night watchmen and their dogs, noting down the faces of the moon, and even the usual bedtimes and sleeping patterns of the more important members of the estate’s staff.

Moving closer to the city walls of inner Emon, she finally saw a house that looked both sufficiently large, as well as sufficiently dark and silent. Even though she hadn’t had previous stints of running away, her parents had her room door closed and shut with a lock and key. And in the late hours of her years, she had practiced with hair pins, combs, writing quills, and other utensils to jimmy the lock open. As such, the kitchen entry way to this estate was not much hassle to open. She carefully snuck up to the private chambers, finding them unlocked and unoccupied, she began searching through for signs of someone like herself. If her stint was succesful, she had planned on revisiting some other time, in hopes of getting in contact with said youth.

The estate that she had chosen however, was one of a pair of heirless nobles, no children, young or adult, was present here. Instead a secondary bedroom had been turned into a study, with books, ledgers, list of purchases and other records. A locked drawer in a desk intrigued her, yielding it’s contents with some work of the lock. It was a love-letter from another noble, clearly one of the estate’s inhabitants was having an affair. Memorizing the contents of the letter, she decided to head home for the night, as the sun would soon set, and her parents might come home, come morning.

Perhaps it was the adrenaline of her nightly stint that was still in her, but she decided to tell her parents about the letter, she caught herself thinking she was in trouble, but the smirks on her parents faces, told of a different outcome. Instead of a stern talking, her parents now become overly sweet, but very much still controlling. Her father took her on shopping trips for clothing in the city, specifically pointing out which noble lived where. At first she didn’t understand exactly why this sudden change of personality in her parents came to be, but it was better than being a show-piece at home. It was first much, much later that she realized the truth of the matter; her parents was using her in order to blackmail other nobles, and she could do nothing about it.

The thought of the scale of her deed made her stomach cramp up, she was an accomplice, and every time, the arrogant smirks of her parents would haunt her in her trances. She had the means to run, it would be easy in fact, but where would she go? She knew basically no-one in the city, and certainly not outside of it either. Her parents had severed connections to both their families, and she had never once been able to assert why, except for one time when her mother had hummed a tune of tribute, dedicated to someone named “Riskel Daxio”, but Solanacea was not familiar with the name.

Finally, after having revisited one of her previous break-ins, Solanacea saw the effects of the blackmail. The estate was cold, despite the long nights of winter approaching with steadfast gales, there was no joy in this building, but the tension and anxiety was palpable, she even saw a member of staff, sleep-deprived and paranoid. The realization made her almost reveal herself, as a sickening dry-heave forced its way out from her throat; she was the cause of this. She couldn’t take it anymore, how many households had been destroyed because of secrets she had uncovered? How many lives ruined? It was unbearable. She would return home only once more, to collect all the gear that her parents had bought for her, prober tools and armor. And that would be that, never to return. If possible.

A new life was waiting somewhere else in the city, hopefully, far, far way from the manacles of her family.

Darya Ithmuth Oreff, Tiefling Bard

Darya’s illustrious career had steadily been increasing in popularity, gaining her fame for a powerful stage presence and talented song performances. Although her first rise to fame was with an all Elven group (she doesn’t speak Elvish), it was clear that her drive and passion would lead her to something bigger. She joined another troupe, after being persuaded by another famous bard, Ricardo Whiteless, this group, with the gimmick of wearing very colourful clothes, was touring village to village, with throngs of people listening to them, and to Darya’s singing.

While in between playing gigs and writing on new songs, Darya took sometime off for herself, not going fully anonymous, but also not actively performing for the sake of searching for new inspiration among the people that she was playing for, listening to and helping with their issues where possible. While on this ramble, she stumbled upon another group of bards, who were struggling with their own material, and Darya agreed to help them out, believing that her stage presence and charisma could improve their already good lineup. This groups’ gig was to only play once a week, wearing all dark clothes when performing. This had started rumours that they were doing illicit things on all the other days, but this aura of mysticism also caused more interest in their performances, which Darya’s contribution very much was a big part of.

Eventually growing tired of the accusations of theft and occultism that stuck to the troupe’s odd behaviour, Darya left them on good terms, feeling restrained and locked in her professional capabilities. Thus striking out on her own again, she had to start mostly small. While travelling, she came upon the small township of Reevenmor, living in the oppressive shadow of a tyrannical magister. Seeing an opportunity, Darya began writing songs and poems about, thinly veiled, the leader of the resistance. This eventually sparked a storm on the magister’s tower, and the town was freed again.

Pah-We, The Kobold Sorcerer

Upon hatching, it was clear that Pah-We was different than most his egg-siblings, causing small sparks of harmless magic to flicker around him and the objects he came into contact with. Naturally, having some clear aptitude with magic, Pah-We was handed over to the care and tutorship of the tribe’s shaman. This tutelage did not last long, as Pah-We’s magic became more potent, seemingly with age, it also began to cause damage to items, including covering a carved head of The Great Black Mother in ice-crystals. Had this been almost any other artifact, perhaps this wouldn’t have been so bad, but The Great Black Mother was the Ancient Black Dragon, that the Keeka Draj saw as their matron. Despite the Dragon itself having been slain several decades ago by adventurers.

At the age of 7, just barely mature by Kobold standards, he was promptly exiled from the tribe, without any possessions to his name. The first year or so he spent scavenging, surviving on a mixture of plants, berries and fish, in the nearby forests close to his clan’s home. While his understanding of his abilities, in terms of magic, became clearer, he had no way to focus the magic, making the effects vary wildly, thus making them less useful for anything but predator deterrence.

One day, while exploring the far parts of the forest, Pah-We came upon a group of travelers, who were making camp. Curious as he was, he approached the camp (honestly drawn by the smell of a roast). This was his first ever interaction with any sentient race beyond the wildlife in the forest and his clan, at first the merchants and their guards were cautious, bordering on hostile, as groups of Kobolds (from Pah-We’s tribe) had been attacking caravans along the nearby road. Seeing that Pah-We was alone, and thus not really a threat. Instead, by request of on of the merchants, a man named Lawrence Bostrom, they took Pah-We in as curiosity.

One of Lawrence’s first acts was to construct a mechanical orb, made mostly from brass, telling Pah-We to attempt to focus his magic abilities through the orb. This orb was what Pah-We had needed to focus his magic, suddenly gaining a medium of control to channel his magic. This gave him a huge boost to his self-confidence.

The caravan of merchants arrived a some days early for the Feat Festival, having time to set up their stalls and getting a feel for the vibes in town. While Pah-We went out in town to attempt to scheme money, food, or anything of value, meeting with little success, before coming upon an elderly Half-Elven lady named Sylphira. Sylphira had tried, but seemed unable to get children of her own, and though Pah-We was mischievous, he had enough charm (and the size). And Pah-We spent the next couple of days acting as Sylphira’s newly adopted child. Pah-We grew fond of her, even handing back, unseen, some candlesticks that he had otherwise acquired from the house. And then it was time for the festival.

Adventure in Veteris, The Journal of Cerin Athis, Part 1

The frost was causing my hands to tremble, and I couldn’t feel my toes, despite making sure that my boots had no holes in them. I guess it was the insufferable waiting, sitting in that cart and just… waiting, not doing anything. I knew it would be cold, but I had never imagined it to be this cold. Still, better than bleak, crushingly uncomfortable Shadowfell, but I’d almost prefer a Moon Elf prison cell to… whatever this is meant to be. It’s not entirely clear to me, what the Moon Elves wants to get out of this, but if it earns my freedom anew, then I am not going to complain in the slightest. At least I’m not alone in this; another capture of the Moon Elves has been given the same offer. I have yet to ask this Tiefling what they could have done to earn the ire of my distant cousins, but I feel, unless it comes up, maybe that’s a topic best left unspoken, as they haven’t asked me the reason either. I’d probably tell a lie or something ridiculous, if nothing else, to inform them that I was unwilling to talk about it. My Tiefling compatriot looks capable, a bit more the outdoorsy type, though it seems clear to me, that they too would rather be almost anywhere else at this moment.

Our task was laid out simply enough, and from what I could tell, there was no catch-22 or any other unsaid meaning. Not like “just acquire a golden hand mirror from a noble-woman” and not being informed that the lady had bodyguards enough to resemble a small band of mercenaries. No, all that we would need to do, was to rescue a Gnome Wizard, preferably alive, from a clan of Goblins hiding out in a cave. I’ve had dealings with a few Goblins, though they were individuals moving in the same… circles, as I used to, but no experience dealing with the cultural difference that a supposedly tight-knit group would impose. Fortunately, it seemed Peach, my Tiefling travel-buddy, had some knowledge prior to this task.

Honestly, a cave doesn’t feel like the worst place right now, at least it’s sheltered from the chilly winds, even if it’s no city back-alley. Though the assault on my senses that would follow, certainly made me rethink that statement rather quickly. The stench was horrid, and it almost felt as if my eyes were burning, but things would only get worse. Through the smells of upheaved food and questionable beverages, there was a more pervasive odor. The Goblins had recently been feasting, perhaps a succesful raid or some sort of Goblin-significant holiday? We were likely about to find out. I did appreciate that the cave at least was silent, I am not familiar with Goblin taste in music, but I don’t imagine it to be a pleasant sound. No guards were posted outside, or just inside the cave, but from the sounds and smells, we would surely face them soon enough.

Both Peach and I were able to move in quite far in, without being detected by the Goblins, who seemed to be sleeping a night of heavy partying off. Those that did wake up, were no match and were quickly dispatched, without alerting any one else. Coming across a larger group, sitting at campfire, I caused a distraction at the far end of the cave, clearing the way deeper into the cave, no Gnomes or Wizards spotted thus far. Nor the remains of either, I’d say, though there was an abundance of various bones, I had not felt the need to examine any of them closer. We had enough to do in keeping ourselves from ending up among them.

The scent of Goblin excrement was much fouler, and more intense, as the cave descended downward, it also got a lot more narrow. Now, I don’t mind a narrow, dark space, but I’m less enthusiastic when there’s potentially a Goblin just waiting around the next bend. Apart from a few incidents, of a most unpleasant nature, we managed to sneak and trick our way past the Goblins, and came across a talking chest. Yes, I couldn’t believe it either at first, I thought for sure it was some kind of trick. I, like many an shady tavern-goer, had heard the tales of Mimics; creatures able to perfectly mimic the appearance of everyday items, only to lunge and attack, for the sake of eating a hapless victim. It did claim to be friendly, and I didn’t feel any kind of threatening aura coming from it. That said, when the chest sprouted tentacle-like features and began to shuffle towards us, I did keep a tight grip on my rapier. Chester, as the Mimic was called, only really wanted to get out of the cave, a sentiment I could follow, and asked if we knew a way out. At the time we didn’t, so we agreed to clear a way out, and to come back for Chester.

A clear, crisp breeze gave us a faint hope, that we’d soon be out of the Goblin cave. It seemed that parts of this cave wasn’t claimed by Goblins, as swathes of unusually large rats. Not an uncommon sight for someone who’ve spent a good decade or so, in the more seedy alleys of towns, but the amount was rather concerning. We decided to avoid them, as we still had a Gnome to find and, potentially, free. Thankfully, we didn’t need to seek much further as we ventured back into the Goblin territory; up ahead, in a secluded alcove, guarded by a couple of Goblins and a Hobgoblin, a Gnome was tied to a board. He was looking malnourished, beaten, and generally weak, but I didn’t see any major wounds presents. So there was a chance that the Gnome was still alive. After dispatching the foes, with the Hobgoblin attempting, and failing, acrobatics, making himself an easy opponent.

The Gnome was in fact alive, we gave him some water and made sure that he was well enough to walk, though either me or Peach would have been able to lug him over a shoulder, if needed. We were finally heading out, earning the Gnome his freedom, Chester it’s (?) freedom, and, just as importantly, our own freedom. With the prison collars off, we would finally be able to move freely again. Free to move as far away from any Moon Elf as possible. Once collared is quite enough, I assure you. I wonder what adventures and riches the days ahead will bring.

Borador’s Request

Clan mothers, clan fathers, honoured Elder Council, esteemed Thane of Clan Goldhand.

On my mission to finding the Tiefling Letari, for the matter of clearing the debt, to which I shall adhere from mentioning any further, as to avoid further the grief among us all, I have acquired a partly owned steading in the city of Waterdeep. I, alongside the folks of which I have made acquaintances of mine, and whom I trust, have signed the deed to a manse, known as the Trollskull Manor, in the city’s North Ward. The manse is in a rather poor state, in its interior in particular, needing a complete renewing of all furniture, several floorboards removed and replaced, and perhaps a change needed of the windows. The outer walls are, however in a decent state, and the manse isn’t about to collapse in the coming future decades.

Of the three stories, as well as an expandable basement, I find the ground floor and entry to be of most interest. Here once was a modest tavern, which I believe a capable person could once more turn into a venture, that our clan vault could see trade and wealth coming from in the future. A consul to the Clan could secure greater trade agreements with nobility and some of the many traders of the city. With the tavern restored, and maybe with supply of our finer meads and ales, I feel assured that these factors could help smoothing out a trade agreement in the Clan’s favour. This is the secondary cause for my formal request.

My first and foremost reason is that I find myself in an unfortunate shortage of coin, my mission is not compromised because of this, yet, but a shortage of funds will be quite the detriment to my mission going forward. If I may be so bold as to acquiring a larger sum, I could hire artisans (of which the city has plenty of in high regard) to start the refurbishment of the establishment.

As a report on my mission, I have not yet located the whereabouts of the Tiefling Letari, but I’m quite certain that she is in the city, somewhere. I am working towards establishing a chain of contacts among the city’s more influential nobles and merchants, should the need arise, I should be able to call upon them to activate their contacts. Apart from the Cleric Ulawa, none of my travel companions know exactly what my mission is yet, as to avoid knowledge of the plight of our Clan becoming too widespread.

I remain, in Trust, in Strength, in Stone
Borador the Diviner

Factions on magic

Magic is, through many fantasy realms and stories, quite an important factor. Sometimes its use is barely noticed, being so common that you kind of expect it. Sometimes, magic is shunned for whatever reason, and hardly ever witnessed. Either way you look at it, magic is divisive, and expanding upon this, can make magic appear more nuanced in your stories.

In this writing, I will put forth and generally describe some generic factions, that you can be inspired by, when writing your own world. In this I’ll also give examples of who could typically be a part of this faction. I will also make some pointers on how a society where each faction is a majority, can appear. Finally I will put the factions up in a larger “how does this faction work with that faction” analysis. Note that these are being written with a system like Dungeons and Dragons 5E in mind, but can easily be tweaked into other systems and formats.

Unless specifically mentioned, “magic” refers more commonly to “Arcane magic”. This is the type of magic that wizards, sorcerers, warlocks, and bards are capable of, and is often considered as more “raw”. The difference between this type of magic, and that of priests (for example), often called “Divine magic”, can also be seen as Arcane magic is more taught, like a skill, whereto Divine magic is gifted from nature or divine beings.

The Puritans

The Puritan Faction considers magic as a “dangerous skill”, and thus it should only be used by those with extensive training. For some Puritans, this even includes magic used by healers. The Puritans dislike open use of magic, unless it is necessary for the moment, arguing for the safety of the common folk and livestock. The Puritans do not mind magical academies, just as long these schools teach with responsibility. Naturally, any time there is a magical mishap, Puritans will be reinforced in their belief, and neutral folk might be more inclined to agree with their cause.

Puritans will regard magical items and artefacts, with the same level of distrust as magic users, preferring instead that these items be kept safe from falling into the wrong hands, and only used in utmost emergencies, by expert individuals, of course. These items should never be available to the public, and the knowledge of their very existence should not be handed out easily, if at all. It is important to note that Puritans aren’t opposed to the idea of magic, or to it’s use, they merely want it performed by people that can be trusted with it, and that trust takes time to build.

In societies with a strong Puritan presence, you might find that talk of magic is frowned upon. While typically not fully outlawed, it is preferred that magic is kept within well-sheltered academies. If a society, like a village, is not large enough to encompass such a facility, you’d find that the civilians will estrange you and distance themselves. Local law enforcement might inform you that it’s best, for your safety of course, to keep such things out of public ear-shot. You will usually always find some that lean towards Puritanism in any, even smaller, settlement. Unless they, as individuals or through a backing of their social peers, sit in a position of authority, they will typically not break other standard laws to change things. At most, they’ll only grumble in conversation about it.

In places with magical academies, Puritans are likely less grouchy about the talk of magic, seeing as there is a place for such talk, though they would prefer that you didn’t talk of magic use in the tavern or at the market square. The academies themselves would typically not hold many members, as few would have the patience to earn the seniority needed to be accepted by the broader society, and even then, most Puritans would rather not want to deal with magic users. Practices on the verge of magic, like alchemy and tinkering are also viewed with suspicion, though related areas like herbalism and engineering are generally accepted. It is likely that a Puritan society, over time will come to be more favorable of magic.

The Puritan view of magic stems from a general conservatism, and may be rooted in common superstition. As such, any one who aren’t likely to interact with people who use magic, can be a Puritan. But Puritanism can also stem from a point of experience, like a grand wizard having seen one too many apprentices blowing themselves up, due to mishandled spellcasting, thus arguing for caution with their younger peers.

Puritans are not seen as extremist by most, rather as cautious and perhaps ill-informed (by those more favorable towards magic), or as vague and cowardly (by those who oppose magic more vehemently), and can usually, albeit begrudgingly, be brought to a discussion about ongoing crises involving the use of magic.

The Fanatics

Fanatics take a hard stance on magic, and will not accept it in their societies. Not even if an individual is exceptionally trained and would benefit the society with their abilities. Magic is bad (for whatever reason), and if you’re trying to inquire into it, you’re most likely bad as well. Magic items should either be destroyed (preferably), or hidden so well away, that they are forgotten about entirely.

Coming across Fanatical groups can be dangerous, depending on how well they are lead. A well-lead Fanatic group might warn those around them, to avoid further tension, whereto a poorly lead group might just attack on sight, even without knowing if there’s magic involved or not.

It is, most likely, very rare for Fanatics to be a majority in almost any kind of society, regardless of its size. This is largely due to how intertwined magic and fantasy realms are with one another. But Fanatics can still hold a large presence in larger societies. In such cases, Fanatics are usually grouped up in smaller vigilante-like groups, striking out against areas or persons with connection to magic. In more mild cases, this is as simple as tagging a steading with graffiti, or breaking windows with rocks with threatening messages tied to them. However, if a Fanatic group is devoted enough or bold enough, they might even go as far as arson or assassination attempts, sending a clear message to the broader public, even if one of their own has to suffer jail-time or execution for their act.

Fanatic cells can exists down to the single individual, again, their activities depends on the boldness of these cells. Odds are that a very active Fanatic cell isn’t likely to last very long, as their extreme views tend to set them on edge with the rest of a regulated society. It is possible for a group of Fanatics to be exiled for their views, which could lead to them settling somewhere new, where they could flourish and establish their laws fitting their views.

An interesting thing about the Fanatics, is that they come in two main variants. The Generalist Fanatic wants all magic, regardless of it’s source or intention, gone, whereto the Religious Fanatics wants all magic, that isn’t related to their faith, gone. The latter option can even have sub-divisions too. Some, Religious Fanatical, groups might accept all kinds of faith-based magic, just as long as the faith is “good”, whereto others take the more divisive stand, that ALL magic, apart from that of their own faith, is bad.

Fanatics can come from any walk of life, and is usually caused by listening to sermons or teachings by another Fanatic member. These spoke-persons are typically well-known to the broader society, and, while most people keep a safe distance, travelers and merchants might not have this knowledge, thus being able to spread the message. Combine this political spark with someone already not fond of magic, and you might have created a Fanatic.

The Fanatic is an extremist when it comes to magic, and their volatile nature makes them hard to ally with, even for factions that seek to restrain or limit the use of magic. Even the Religious Fanatic will find that fellow acolytes and worshippers, who share their religion, are unlikely to want anything to do with the Fanatic.

The Feudalists

The Feudalist Faction is similar to the Puritans in many ways, but see magic more as a “tool of power”, and thus should only be used by those in power, i.e. the nobility and ruling classes. In the more extreme cases, magic should be reserved only for the, singular, ruler of the land, and anyone else practicing magic, is essentially looking to coup, and can thus be tried for treason and conspiracy.

A Feudalist is typically a part of this nobility themselves, seeking to benefit from this outlook, as magic can also be a source of income, especially when it comes to magical items. If a noble has little or no understanding of magic, they can, per the Feudalist views, sanction the people in their employ to hold and use this magic “for them”. A sanctioned spellcaster is similar to a court wizard in that regard, though they aren’t expected to teach their skills on to the employer. If a noble challenges another noble to a duel, sanctioned spellcasters could be forced to take that fight, instead of the noble. This, according to the Feudalists, is acceptable, as it is the noble that holds power.

Feudalists do not care for wizarding schools, unless these are funded by a noble family, for the sake of seeking employ with said family, once fully trained. In that sense, sanctioned spellcasters become a status symbol just as much as ornate artworks and expensive manors. The schools themselves also take any earning, from services or entry fees, to the founding family.

For a Feudalist noble to get his views through, other nobles or perhaps someone higher up, would have to share the Feudalist mindset. This makes it very hard for smaller Feudalist groups to persist, and in places where the Feudalists do hold power, it tends to be a rather oppressive rule, as the lust for power is corrupting, causing paranoia in the noble, fearing that the peasants and citizens will rise up, unseat them, and take their riches. A singular Feudalist might hold on to these values, but if the larger society doesn’t agree, the smart noble would just keep their head and opinions down.

These nobles would prefer the more regular mercenary (or hired bandits), over adventurers, who might just get the idea of taking the noble’s magical items for themselves. If wandering merchants come within the vicinity of the Feudalist noble, said merchant would likely be asked (or dragged) to a meeting with the noble, just so that no magical items or trinket should happen to fall into the hands of those deemed unworthy.

Feudalists might commonly agree amongst each other to the eye of the public, but personal grudges, old family feuds, or just plain, old jealousy, means that they’d often more than happily undercut each other, if not outright have each other killed, to attempt to acquire ever more wealth and power for themselves. It does not take much magic used poorly, to turn a regular noble, into a Lich.

The Libertarians

Libertarians care little about magic, neither for nor against it, and would consider outlawing it as more of a bureaucratic hassle, than a meaningful law for the society. In this light, Libertarians see no reason to want to limit the use of magic, or who can learn it. The individual is free to make their own choice on the matter, or not, if they never make their mind up.

While many Libertarians would probably argue, as a thing they technically should be for, that if you’re capable of burning your neighbour’s house down with a fireball, then it’s essentially up to you (or your neighbour taking the first move) to whether or not you’re actually going to do it, most Libertarians set the boundaries for their lax law system, at personal health and property. This is likely to avoid societies degrading into total anarchy and chaos. Though with that said, if a Libertarian has secured their home, values, and personal safety, they might be considerably more in favour of a more limitless Libertarianism, where you can do to others as you wish and vice versa.

As such, Libertarians tend to be of noble steading, not necessarily with use of magic themselves. You might also find thieves in favour of this idea, if everything’s allowed, then you can be sure that your items of value, might not be yours for very long. This is part of the reason why Libertarians are generally not a majority anywhere, though a single noble, residing over a smaller town, might follow through on Libertarian standards of living for the rest of their peers. Libertarianism often clashes with, in particular, Puritanism and Feudalism, who seeks more to control who can use magic. But it’s apathetic baseline does not appeal to the more pro-magic groups either.

The Cautious Magi

The Cautious Magi seek a broader acceptance of magic, and sees magic as a gift to everyone who wants it. Although that doesn’t inheritly sound very cautious, the Magi (as they are more commonly known) do attempt to only consider “less evil”, mainly from the School of Necromancy, spells as being actual gifts. The more notorious members of the Magi wishes to ban any use of Necromancy out right, as Necromancy is perhaps the easiest School of magic to point a finger at, To most members of the Cautious Magi, however, the debate is not that black and white, especially not when it comes to entire schools.

Rather, and perhaps more nuanced, the Magi wishes to hold discussions about the uses, and possible intent, of each spell. The Magi fully admits that magic, like any weapon, can be used for ill, as well as for good. One might hurl a spell of fire against a group of raiding marauders in order to save a settlement, just as one could hurl said fire against civilians. As such, the Magi are, for the most part, also willing to work alongside Necromancers, if it will benefit society in the longer run.

The Cautious Magi’s idea of avoiding Necromancers (or hedge wizards and the like) from sprouting, is by positively reinforcing the use of “non-evil” magic. The nuances and the intent behind a spell can be quite subtle, but the Magi sees them as very important when it comes to determine if a caster is considered as bad or not. This also means that, unless they are talking with one another or with someone of similar values and understanding of magic, they are unlikely to even mention spells that they, through lenghty discussions, have deemed as “bad”. The Magi thus go out of their way to hide, or destroy, anything that might lean into a specific spell, be it an artefact or a text. Under the tuteledge of arch wizards, apprentices will spend hours, days, and even weeks, going through books and scrolls, editing, catalogueing, and determining if this work should be destroyed, or just kept out of reach.

While the Magi does not wish anyone to know of the actual spell of Raise Dead, they would not destroy or edit a text, in which raising of the dead was mentioned, though they would wipe any mentions of specific ritual components, or phrases chanted during. The Magi, while focusing more on the “learned” magic, typically wizards, they do revere those with a natural inclanation towards use of magic. Obviously, they are less than keen, if this natural ability coms from a potentially shadowy contract with some semi-deity.

To the Magi, anyone who wants to learn more about magic, and learn how to use it, is more than welcome, regardless of the social caste, work, or race, though they will not force magic onto those that want no part of it. On this point they clash with Puritans the most, seeing as the Puritans want a more strict control on magic, though Puritans can, usually, appreciate that the Magi at least have the decency to not just consider all magic as good.

The Anthropoedians

Anthropoedic views are fairly rare in almost any societies, at least in any sizeable form. This is due to the almost revolutionary mindset that magic should belong to the people, not to the ruling class, or to a few well-read hermits in their closed-off towers. Now this view alone can work, if there is a peaceful agreement by the ruling classes and the established magic users. But as that is usually not the case, Anthropoedian views are often followed by a genuine want for revolution and revolt.

Given the Anthropoedians are looking to ultimately seize control over who’s using magic, they can’t really be seen as getting along with Feudalists or Magi, however, with the right amount of, potential, propaganda, the Fanatics could be pulled into action for the side of the Anthropoedians.

Naturally, most fantasy societies, kingdos, empires, or towns, are unlikely to just accept these demands straight away, but this can make the foundation for a story (or just a location), where magic is being used in an attempt to unseat the rulers, who, obviously, would likely use magic to fight back.

Broken Man

I am the broken man.

Behind the colourful mask, the one with the fake smile.

I am the broken man.

The blank stares that looks at nothing.

i am the broken man.

Too many feelings, too many thoughts, not enough time.

I am the broken man.

Pulled into a pit of despair, the descend from hope is steep.

I am the broken man.

Hands reach out, but only grasp into empty air.

I am the broken man.

There is no blame, there is no progress.

I am the broken man.

Silent cries that never reach their ears.

I am the broken man.

The clock doesn’t tick, it’s hands lost to total entropy.

I am the broken man.

The stars are cold and distant, the flame is dim and frozen.

I am the broken man.

Before the void closes in, a final glimpse back.

Tears the blur the sad and downturned eyes, a farewell without any words.

I am broken.

Redwoods at Nightfall, part 3

Carlos seemed more pushy than usual, I guess that was due to the rain. The LS River was able to handle large amounts of waters, but the body was currently placed on the flat part closest to the water. It would take much more to actually wash the corpse away, but if the body was placed in water for a while, the time of death could be harder to set down precisely.

“Alright, let’s get back to the station and talk to the kids who found the body.” Jim made a hurried dash to the Washington, and waited patiently for me to unlock the car. As we got in, the two tents had been taken down, Carlos had always been efficient, and one of his assistants was now scrubbing the concrete. With the rain like today a corpse wouldn’t leave much of a mark, but even in an enclosed area like the LS River, homicide and forensics had always had the ordeal to “leave as little trace of corpses as possible”, city hall doesn’t want blemishes on their city, though they aren’t exactly keen on removing grafiti and such. In itself, I understood, if someone discovered a pool of blood, they could panic and start to spread rumours. This task had been partly suspended in certain districts, like Davis and Rancho, due to increased gang activity.

“What do we know about the kids, sir?” Jim asked me, and I shrugged. “Not much at the moment, they dialed 9-1-1 and told that they were racing dirt bikes on the bank of the river. Apparently they initially thought the corpse was just a pile of garbage.” Jim nodded, and scribbled some notes down for himself, he was still scribbling when he spoke again, “So… are we pressing charges for trespassing on them?” I shook my head slightly, as the Washington rolled up to the gate. “It’s not up to me or you, talk to the Bulldog if you want to know. We’re homicide, so unless there’s reason to believe that they are suspects in this particular case, it’s an all administrative decision.”

The different parts of the force had always it out for one another, with traffic being lowest of the low. It didn’t make things any better that if there was even a hint of a case belonging to another part, they could essentially just snatch the case away, demand that the current officers shared everything. Then, months later, they’d get the case back, only to find that they would get nothing new from the other department. This wasn’t just collegiate bullying, it came down to spending, as city hall had made some significant changes a couple of years back. Essentially the state would pay per case solved. Naturally, traffic department more or less got the axe, other than speeding and car crashes, they barely had any people in the streets anymore. Their payment were funneled through P&E for the city, over a weekend, it meant that more than three-hundred men and women were told to find different jobs. Not even the Chief, a personal friend of the mayor, and the governor’s cousin’s husband, could stand and defend that idea, but had acknowledge that “this was the new reality, we all have to do ours for the sake of the city.”

Here in homicide, things had always been complex; if there was a married couple or there were kids in the relationship, it was domestic (unless it was fatal, then we got the case AFTER domestic had looked). It was even worse with non-gang related murders, if they happened in or near the gang-heavy districts, we could be pretty sure that they’d send a senior officer to look through what we could find, and from that deduce whether or not it was a case for the gang department. The mayor had been adamant about taking the fight to the gangs, so the gang department of the force all got reinforced cars, buildings, and all got new computers, and lots of other hardware that was brand new.

The rain was still falling without end, as Jim and I shut the doors to the Washington inside the Mission Row parking garage. “Alright Jim, we’re likely going to have the two of them separated, I want you to take one of them. The guys should run the kids through our systems, to see if they are past offenders of something. Use it as leverage, if there is any. Any questions?” I could see that he had taken a decent amount of notes already. It took him a while before he looked up to nod, “Hmm… Well, just one sir; should I mention about how we think he died?” I shook my head slowly, “No… for the time being, it’s better to refer it as an accident, if it’s brought up at all. I reckon they will be more focused on clearing their own name.”

As we got to the interrogation rooms, an officer stood awaiting with two clipboards. He looked new to me, well-ironed uniform, shiny buttons and badge, and his back stiff and straight as a board. From how Jim was following me, with his coat slouched over his arm, I think it was clear to him that I was more than just another cop. “These are the witnesses for the 10-67 in the river?” The greenhorn saluted, but held the clipboards close, “Sir, yes sir, here’s their files.” I grabbed them both, instantly handing one over to Jim. I didn’t look at it at first, instead I took the time to study the new cop. His demeanor was more fitting that of soldier, possibly a reject. “At ease son, this isn’t the army. You can call me Inspector Bates, and what’s your name?” He seemed to automatically click into a more relaxed pose at the order, “Marvin Petterson, sir.” The army habit was still there, those things don’t disappear easily. “Alright Marvin, you’re fairly green on the force, right? Where did you serve before?” Marvin seemed surprised that I could tell that much, despite it being fairly obvious, a junior detective would likely have noticed it, “Fort Zancudo, sir, Ordnance and Munitions Services, sir.” I nodded, it wasn’t unusual that we’d get rejects or lay-offs from Zancudo or the other way around, there was a mutual understanding that, as long as it wasn’t Merryweather, we’d both give a bit of leeway in terms of letting people in. “Good good, now Marvin, you’re going to monitor me and detective Richards as we interview these young kids, obviously interject if we overstep our duties, or intervene if any of them get overly hostile. Other than that, I’d like you to look for any changes in their posing and facial expression. Alright, we all set?” I said the last part a little louder to Jim, who was sifting through the one clipboard.

The kid in the interview room sat with a bored expression on his face, he had time to settle down and be less panicked about being picked up by cops. I had a cup of coffee in the one hand, the clipboard and a can of e-cola in the other, as I entered, the kid seemed to regain interest. “So what, you pigs are going to let me go or what? You can’t just keep me here, I’ve got rights, you know.” I just shook my head slightly, insults and all that, that’s just part of the job, sliding the can towards him, “Hey hey, calm down okay? I just want to know what you and your friend saw.” He still seemed very defensive; this was going to be one of those days, wasn’t it? He crossed his arms, “I’m not telling no pig anything.” I sighed, okay, that was the attitude, no need to play nice anymore then. Slamming my fist down next to the clipboard, I made it bounce into the air a bit, my sudden change of behaviour caught him by surprise, “Listen here, we’re not not the anti-gang unit, this is murder, and I quite frankly don’t give a shit about what colour cap you’re wearing, or the type of shoes you’re using. I got a dead body, and you and your friend was the first ones to find him, so you tell me what you saw, or I’ll throw you into a holding cell for withholding information, are we clear?” Using his slight pausing to get my point across, I took a deliberate sip of my coffee, to let the message sink in. I noticed over the top of the cup, that he seemed to fidget with his hands on the table. An audible sigh came from him, it seemed reason had won out over his anti-authoritarian beliefs, “Alright alright man, shit… I’ll tell you.” I changed my pose to a more open one, giving him a nod to continue. “We were down racing these new Manches, then it started raining like crazy, you know? So we decided to head on home, then PJ almost hit the body. At first we were like, aww shit that was close, but then we saw the blood and like totally freaked. I was like, yo P, we gotta get outta here, but PJ was all it’s a white dude, it ain’t no ganger. So then we called 9-1-1 from PJs phone and waited under the bridge, it was freaky man, like why’s a white dude gotta jump from a bridge like that?” I nodded slowly while listening, taking a slurp of coffee from time to time while he told his story. It sounded true, he didn’t appear to be lying, at least not from what I could tell. “Okay, just a few more questions, and we’re done here. First off, you said that you two used your friend’s phone, why not yours?” He looked to regain some vigor, but it was still a mumbling voice that I couldn’t quite hear, “I’m sorry, come again.” “I’m grounded, okay? My old man got my phone tracked, so if I run with it, he knows.” I had heard of parents going to relatively extreme measures to keep track of their kids, in the case of a kidnapping, it would be smart, but kind of intrusive otherwise. “Okay, last question. The bikes, these Maibatsu Manches, they aren’t registered anywhere, who do they belong to?” The kid looked it pained him, but finally gave in, “It’s my dad and PJ’s uncle that got them, PJ’s uncle stripped them down and was getting new markers. Shit man, I just wanted to test them out, I didn’t want no body right up my grill.”

With that, I finished up the questioning, it would be some time before we could release those kids, as we’d need to confirm as many things as possible, before letting potential suspects slip through our grasps.