H. Rad Bethlen

Jump to The Preservation of Captain Haifa Brindisi

The Preservation of Captain Haifa Brindisi book cover

A dark secret lies within each heart awaiting the reveal. When we know what we truly are will we be appalled or will we accept our Fate? Shipwrecked and left for dead by the gods, Captain Haifa Brindisi must search within for the strength to survive. What she finds is a strength she never knew she had and the dark secret behind it.

A man of Rahadoum prays to no gods. He lives by his wits and by the strength of his sword arm. El-Barek is such a man. Now, adrift on a storm-wrecked ship, he must accept death. Given a moment to reflect on his life he can think of nothing but the woman he loved. She disappeared after a brief, passionate intimacy. She took his heart, his joy, his happiness. But she also took something else, something a man from Rahadoum cannot comprehend.

Jump to The Love of El-Barek

What can reduce a dwarf to tears. What can cause a crow to speak? What happens when beauty encounters the beast? In this charming tale set in Oppara, the capital of the once might Taldoran Empire, a trio of thieves learn the answers to these questions. They also learn the true meaning of avarice and are taught the rewards of the long con by a master thief.

Jump to Of Art and Avarice

One must pay a price for knowledge and power. Maret knows this, for she has sinned. She struck a bargain with a demon. The reward--knowledge and power. The price--eternal damnation. Yet, Maret is clever. She seeks a way out--a shabti, a vessel for her sin. She wishes to present this vessel to Pharasma, the Lady of Graves, the final judge, hiding herself from view. Yet to do this requires the help of another, one who's motives are inscrutable. Will it work? Can one trick a god?

Jump to To Trick a God

Desiring to give his familiar a healthy change of environs, and himself a vacation, Remus left his cold, wind-blown tower for that of a fellow apprentice he hadn't seen in years. Much had changed. A wizard's studies can often take him to the brink of sanity--or beyond. Appalled by what his friend had become, Remus fled home, his familiar tucked under his arm. Neither had returned to safety, nor had they fled alone.

Jump to Three Familiars

Worshipping an evil god--or a demon lord--comes with a price. Yet if one is obsequious--if one obeys--there are rewards. A pair of priests convene in a graveyard to form an unholy alliance. They don't realize they've interrupted another priest at worship, a priest whose god is even less charitable than theirs.

Jump to Three Worshippers

Rastagar is a man of faith. His god is Razmir, the living god. Rastagar is also the cruel overseer of the penal mine at the Forgotten Track. There those who speak against or displease Razmir work the rest of their days breaking rock, the whip at their backs. But why? Yes, valuable ores and precious stones are found and collected yet there seems another reason, one unknown to Rastagar, although he begins to question. When a higher ranking Mask arrives from Thronestep, along with two curious companions, Rastagar's suspicion grows. Little does he know that a crisis of faith looms. Little does he know that the last days of the penal mine are at hand. Little does he suspect why this unusual trio have come.

Coming Soon: Crippled, a Pathfinder RPG Story.

The Preservation of Captain Haifa Brindisi

A Pathfinder RPG Story

Being a record of tragedy, found in the wreckage of the sailing ship Dragon's Star; which, having been damaged while at sea and later smashed amongst rocks in the Ironbound Archipelago, was the scene of much suffering.

Let this stand as a testament to the weakness of the body, the capriciousness of the mind, and tell that the soul does suffer both. I am the only survivor of the ship Dragon's Star. I was born and raised in the fishing village of Arsmeril, on the northern coast of Varisia. My father was from Ustalav, having fled the curse of that soil. Nay, he did not suffer any soil, but passed from land to sea, to be seen no more. What I have of him is precious little; although, it can now be said, and you shall come to believe, that he did not leave me bereft of the gifts of his blood.

I was raised by my mother and uncles, simple fisherfolk; hearty, silent, and devout to the gods. I learned by heart The Eight Scrolls and can recite from memory the Hymns to the Wind and the Waves, being often of the necessity to call upon the guidance of Desna and the mercy of Gozreh.

I have many male cousins, but none were so by nature drawn to sea than I, and although I was a girl, my uncles did not keep me back, seeing that salt was in my blood. By the time I could balance enough to walk I had my sea legs. While the other girls of the village dreamt of the Eagle Knights of Andoran, or some suchlike romance, I was longing for open seas and fair winds.

If I had known what my fate would be, that I would not sail at the pleasure of fair winds, not at all, but be put meanly to land by the cruelest winds any sailor has suffered, I would that an Eagle Knight had taken me away and kept me in his castle, a pretty bauble, safe from all knowledge of sea and self.

Know that we suffered from a total want of all that would sustain life. The Dragon's Star had been battered by waves and was leaking profusely. We had endured relentless winds, which had the sinister nature of the fey. Indeed, we worried that some sea spirit was revenging us for an unknown injury.

First, two pair of our foremost main shrouds on the larboard side were taken by the wind. The next morning our two fore main shrouds on the starboard side were carried away. We applied runner and tackle for the security of the mast. The weather was intolerably bad, day and night. By the next morning the wind calmed. We sang hymns and made offerings to Gozreh. Despite this, the next day a sudden wind came and, to our unspeakable horror, tore clean away the forestay and foresheets. Not only this, the foresail was rent in pieces. We had no recourse and tried our best under a balanced reefed mainsail.

The sea was as mountains upon us and it was here that the ship began to leak in earnest, the wood strained beyond its natural constitution. That night the tack of our square sail gave way. The sail was torn to tatters. Our flying jib was blown overboard. Despite all this we made way, our only bit of canvas being our mainsail. Our ship sat low due to the water we'd taken on. We worked the pumps without respite. Gozreh was not finished. After a calm that put us at ease, a gale blew hard from SSE and took apart our mainsail. We were at his mercy.

. . .

The Dragon's Star sailed out of Magnimar. We'd a load destined for Promise, on the island of Hermea; yes, the home of the great gold dragon, Mengkare, or so it's said, none I know of having seen him. We'd made the port once before and little can be known of the city, for a high, red sandstone wall and gates of burnished bronze keep all within secured against intrusion from outside. We were blown NNW and figured ourselves closer to the Mordant Spire or Syranita's Aerie then Promise; although, we had no way of knowing, having no sight of stars, nor sun, nor land.

A great deal of our stores were flooded, despite our efforts to preserve them. Much of the cargo was of no use. We had only some small amount of flour, sugar, dried meat, raisins, wine, but precious little fresh water. We rationed these but my men, against orders, took the wine to excess and the rationing was forgotten. The storms raged and we knew not which way the wind took us. If we passed beyond the Mordant Spire all was lost, for no ships sail those waters.

We had among us a priest of Gozreh, Timmons, who we adorned with the title of Saint. He was an old sailor of many campaigns. He had seen the Eye of Abendego and many other wonders. He'd been shipwrecked twice before, the second time suffering forty-one days on a barren island. He was of great aid to us. Not only was he immune to the hardships of the sea, he could provide food and fresh water by means of divine largesse. We could scarcely believe our misfortune-and his-when a wave took him overboard and carried him out of reach. He disappeared, and with him our hope.

I cautioned the men against wine, for it does little to aid under such circumstances. They refused to drink the water, convinced it was brackish. The wine being more plentiful, they preferred it. What little water there was I retained, it being my only advantage against Fate. The men were constantly warming the wine, for which they maintained a small fire. It got so that the smell of it was noxious to me.

We'd been thirteen days at the mercy of the storm, tossed terribly, half-sunk, and without means, when I retired to my cabin to await the arrival of Trelmarixian, the Horseman of Famine, for he was surely stalking us. By this time I was emaciated with sickness. Despite having hooks in the water there came no fish. I kept within arms-length only this journal, an ink pot and quill, the dirty water, and Saint Timmon's wand. I must tell of this.

Timmons had fashioned a wand out of an oar that he had with him when he'd been forty-one days upon the rock. The oar, his trousers, and his shirt, were all that had come with him from the wreckage of the Ruby Prince. This oar was his means of survival and rescue. He used it to club turtles and crack their shells. He resorted to drinking their blood, there being no fresh water on the island, and gathering their meat by use of sharp-edged stones. He found the highest point and planted his oar, using his shirt as a flag. A ship, the Kantaria, which had been blown off course, saw the shirt-flag and sent a boat to investigate.

Timmons brought his oar from that desperate place and, feeling a certain affection for it, whittled it down to something manageable. This he enchanted with all sorts of useful magics. One of its enchantments was the calling down of a pillar of fire, which proved a deterrent to piracy. This wand was in his quarters when he was taken by the sea. I retrieved it, more to preserve the old man's memory, than to make use of, for I had no learning of magic and knew not how to operate it.

. . .

After a fortnight of hard blowing, the sea calmed. We were adrift. The men came and said they were hungry and having no recourse were going to draw lots to see which among them would sacrifice himself to preserve the rest. They wished my blessing on this demonic pact. Perceiving them in liquor, I begged them to wait out the day, hoping that our deliverance would come presently. They argued my request, saying what had to be done best be done now and why prolong our suffering.

They said they'd eaten all the leather belonging to the pumps, cut their shoes to strips and eaten those, and had even eaten the buttons from their coats. I warned them against the damage such an act would do to their everlasting souls. I beseeched them to pray. They said there was hunger to contend with, damn prayer. They said they cared not if I acquiesced, having come to me out of respect for my former responsibility as Captain, although they contended that circumstances had made all equal.

I told them I would never condone such an abhorrent act and while I could do little in opposition I would not give the order nor partake of their sinful feast. They responded that they required not an order and as to eating or not eating, I was free to follow my own inclination. They left but soon returned and said that they'd come together and drawn lots.

Know this, of those left all were human with one half-elf, who had been my steward, his name being Melorca. They said that the lot had fallen upon him. He flung himself at my feet, pleading that I do something, but I was powerless. The men drug him from my cabin. The manner in which they'd previously gone away to converse amongst themselves, and how the lot had fallen, gave me the idea that the half-elf had been sorely treated. Although, in all honesty, it surprised me that they'd even pretended to treat him as equal to themselves.

They dragged him to the steerage and pierced his neck at the base of the skull. This I was told of later. They cut him open and began to extract his entrails, wishing to fry them for dinner. One man, Dorset, was so taken with hunger he cut out Melorca's liver and ate it then and there, despite the fire being at-hand. He paid for his impatience. That night he went raving mad and was thrown overboard by the others, this, despite their wish to preserve the meat of his body. They were fearful of gaining his condition, should they partake of him.

That evening I heard one of the men say to the others, "Even though she would not consent our getting of meat, let us give her some." One of them entered my cabin with a piece of Melorca's flesh, and offered it to me. I raised the wand and said I'd rather burn him to Hell and the ship with him, then resort to such an act, and further dared him to return a second time with such an offering.

Despite their earlier excesses with both wine and stores, the men rationed Melorca's remains with the greatest of care. All this time I ate nothing, only sipping now and again of the water. Knowing that I had condemned them, and knowing too that their hunger should return, I expected some violence to my person. I slept little and kept Timmon's wand in-hand-as a bluff.

A few days after the last of Melorca had been consumed they returned to my cabin. They said they had seen nothing of land nor sail, had caught no fish, had no fresh water, and nothing else which would sustain life. They again asked for my blessing over the choosing of lots. Furthermore, they argued that all this time I had partaken of no sustenance and surely must be too weak to remain stubborn.

I argued against another act of murder. What good had the half-elf's death done them, for they were once more hungry and desperate? They said lots must be drawn. Seeing as I could do nothing to prevent it, and seeing how unfair their earlier selection had been, I tore a sheet from this journal into pieces and wrote everyone's name upon a fragment. These went into a can from which I drew a name.

The man whose name it was, El-Barek, a sailor who had come from far away Rahadoum, a man of great fortitude, beseeched his fellows: "I ask no god to help me, for they've done enough to damn us all. I ask only for five minutes to reflect upon my life." This was granted to him. Afterwards, he walked willingly into the steerage and met the same fate as Melorca.

I had suffered more than I ever thought I could endure. I had found a state well beyond weakness. I could barely keep my eyes open or grip my pen. It has taken every effort to keep up a journal.

I drank the last of the water, closed my eyes, and prepared to die. Some time later, I know not how long, I awoke with a greater thirst than I previously had. There was a rich taste upon my tongue. I found the strength to sit up. Besides me was one of my men, Hoskuld, an Ulfen. He held a wooden bowl in his hands, filled with blood.

"Quiet," he said. "Trelmarixian is close. Protest not, for it is too late. Drink." With this he held the bowl to my lips. I drank. I drank not only that single bowl of El-Barek's blood but many. I slept well for the first time in memory and was so completely restored that I was able to leave my bed and walk amongst my men. Indeed, I was so fully restored that I felt not at all the ill effects of starvation, nor of dehydration. The men gazed at me as if I were a miracle. Even though they had consumed Melorca and were now consuming El-Barek, they had little health, keeping just out of reach of the Horseman.

The sky was clear, the sun especially bright. I found that it pained me to remain under it. I found also the smell of El-Barek's cooking flesh to be revolting. The aroma coming from the pail of his blood, however, was so agreeable that before I was aware of myself I was drawing it out with cupped hands and drinking as a glutton.

This made the men wary. They offered me meat but I declined. I was aware of their judgment and returned to my cabin. I licked and sucked every crevice of my hand's flesh. The taste of blood was intoxicating. I sat on my bunk in a state of unwholesome wellness. It was a pleasure to be out of the sunlight.

Despite all I had drunk, I could not refrain from obsessing over El-Barek's blood. I began to jealously desire it for myself. That evening, as soon as the sun fell below the horizon, I went to the deck and found the pail empty. This aggrieved me more than reason would suggest. I was furious and kicked the men awake to inquire if they'd thrown the blood overboard. No, they said, they drank it. I began to accuse them but caught myself and returned to my cabin.

I was too agitated for sleep. I felt that I'd been wronged by my men. I believed that El-Barek's blood was mine. I was in a near frenzy when I came to myself. Where had such thoughts come from? Was I truly so desiring of human blood that I planned vengeance upon those who had denied me?

It was then that I understood why I had been so completely restored by El-Barek's blood. I understood why my father, who I always thought dishonorable, had not stayed to raise me, but had taken a boat and gone alone upon the water never to return. I understood that it was not the cursed soil of Ustalav that my father fled from, but the curse within himself. My father, although he had once been, was not human, nor was I entirely human, and had never been. They've a term for my kind, a term told in stories to frighten children, a dhampier. The living offspring of a vampire. A live-born undead.

I barricaded myself in my cabin, fearful that the craving for blood was too powerful a lure. I feared not my men, I feared for them. In time my men came to the door, beat upon it, and announced "land ho." I freed myself and went to the deck. Indeed, there was land. We rejoiced. Here might be civilization and with it hope. If not people and their works, may there at least be fresh water and wild nature with all her bounty. We were at the mercy of the wind and waves. We had not even oars, we used prayer instead. As if by miracle, the waves carried us to the island.

Yet, the miracle failed. As we approached we saw that the island was barren rock. Worse than this, we were being carried towards it with haste. There was no shore upon which to make a safe landing, only sharp rocks. We braced for impact.

. . .

The ship was smashed upon the rocks. We made our way onto the island. It was but little larger than the Dragon's Star and completely devoid of life. Nor was there a spring. There were some divots and natural bowls which we cleaned out in the hope that rainfall would fill them with fresh water enough to drink. Each man watched his divot as if water would appear by necessity alone. Would we once again resort to lots? Not I, for I was twice as strong as all my men combined and could overpower them.

No, there would be no lots. There would be no killing of one to preserve the rest. My men were for me. They held my nourishment within. All the blood on that island was mine and would be used to keep me alive until the time when Desna, the goddess of luck and travelers, should vouchsafe my deliverance. If she did not, then the blood of my men would serve only to prolong my misery, nothing more. As to their misery, was I not relieving it?

. . .

The last man was two weeks dead when I accepted the will of the gods. I sucked his blood until it was no more. His body was so drained, so light, being only bones and flesh, it caught the wind and sailed when I kicked it from the rock. I was reduced to my previous state, one of utter weakness. Once more did the Horseman of Famine, that prince of starvation, stalk me. I had done all for naught; sacrificed my soul, my salvation, and secured eternal damnation, for what? A few extra weeks of life upon a barren rock.

. . .

I was in the ship when I heard a voice. The remains of the Dragon's Star had been tossed high enough on the rocks to remain out of the water, and thus had drained. It was the only place of shade and, while certainly not comfortable, it was the only respite afforded me. I was near death and thought myself delirious, when one man inquired of another, "Signs of life?" I turned my head to gaze out of a hole. I saw a man pass by. He was studying the wreckage but had not seen me, sunk in the gloom.

I thought him a delusion and dismissed all thoughts of rescue; which, I had long abandoned in favor of death. Yet the voices continued. I crawled free of the wreckage and saw that a boat rowed close. Five men sat within, fresh, young, well-fed, and shocked to see me. They had come from a ship at anchor, to which they pointed. I saw the King's colors, King Eodred of Korvosa. I was saved.

. . .

I pen these last words with haste. I must leave my record here, in the Dragon's Star. I dare not take it with me, for fear of being found out. Can I digest human food, or must I now, and forever, subsist on human blood? I shall learn while aboard the Belde, for that is the name of the ship.

I will say nothing to my rescuers of what has transpired, or of how I managed to outlive my men. It is enough to know that I leave the truth to rot upon this barren rock as the gods left me. I shall pray no more, but, like El-Barek, whose blood awakened me, I shall exercise my own reason, rely upon my own strength, a strength which has saved me while the gods remained aloof and uncaring. I shall go to Ustalav, to learn what I truly am, or perhaps to distant Geb, where I need not fear.

Haifa Brindisi,

Captain of the Dragon's Star

The Love of El-Barek

A Pathfinder RPG Story

"Let us speak." Said El-Barek. "Or, allow me to speak. Will you listen?"

"Aye," said Hoskuld, an Ulfen, who had, as a young man, rowed free of the ice-choked fjords of the Linnorm Kings to live upon the water ever since. This was the first voyage the two had made together--and would be the last either would make--yet, amongst the crew, it was the Ulfen that El-Barek was most fond of. He had found, despite the superstitious nature of the Ulfen people, being especially pronounced in his shipmate, that they shared something in common. It was an oft spoke refrain that: "A Rahadoumi laughs at death--but it is a shared laugh, not a defiant one." He knew the Ulfen felt the same; albeit, more defiant than shared.

The two shipwrecked sailers went below deck. Hoskuld sat upon a barrel that had become wedged amongst what remained of the smashed and ruined cargo. El-Barek stood, feet apart, arms crossed over his chest. Neither felt the bite of the wind, that, having gathered the chill from the plains of Icemark, blew through the gaps in the boards.

Both were emaciated, their features made sharp. The reddish-blonde had drained from Hoskuld's chin whiskers, just as the warm-ochre had drained from El-Barek's flesh. Slow death had turned them gray. They wore far less than they would have liked. Their coats were without buttons and hung open. They were barefoot, having long ago cut their shoes into strips, boiled these in wine, and eaten them. Even the wine was a memory. The boat rose and dropped on the waves. It had lost its sails weeks prior and was more wreckage than ship.

El-Barek had requested a moment to contemplate the meaning of his life, for he was preparing to die. They had drawn lots, the doomed sailors of the Dragon's Star. He was to die so that the others might consume him and live. They had done the same to one prior; a half-elf named Melorca, who, in El-Barek's eyes, had not shown courage when called upon to make the ultimate sacrifice.

El-Barek found it inadequate to reflect alone and in silence. He did not desire a priest, being of Rahadoum, and therefore godless, and besides, the priest had been washed overboard. All he wished was for one who might understand to listen.

"I have no sins to confess." He began. "Nor have I regrets." Hoskuld did not speak, but looked on, his blue eyes sunk deep. El-Barek continued. "I have been in love. It is of that I wish to speak." He paused, not knowing how to begin. He began obtusely. "In my homeland, before the gods were banished, there was a Caliph by the name of Abdelraham. He was great because he brought peace to the land and prosperity to the people. He was a loving father to all. He was cultured and wrote sublime verse. He caused much fine architecture to be erected, many temples; which, after his time, were pulled down.

"I've read his memoirs. In them he says, that although he reigned three decades in peace and prosperity, and had the respect and love of his people, and the respect of the genie-folk; who came to his court from lands of brass, of coral, and from cities built of cloud-stuff; although he had all this, including every want of riches and pleasure, and a harem of which the gods were jealous, he had diligently counted the days of genuine happiness that had come to him, and found them to be fourteen."

Hoskuld snorted. El-Barek couldn't help but smile.

"I myself have had twice as many," El-Barek said. "It seems, now that death is at hand, and I've an entire life to reflect upon, I can think of nothing but those brief, bewildering days of passion."

"Tell of her."

"She was fey-blooded." Said El-Barek. "Had she come from that great and mysterious oasis, the Eternal Oasis? Or had she come down from the Napsune Mountains, a heavenly bird, forced to land? Or had she come from some distant and unknown world, authored before ours, and having been so, is changeable, as was she? She would not say. Although I was madly in love with her, I knew nothing about her."

"Makes it worse," said Hoskuld.

"The words you speak are more true than you know." Said El-Barek. "She had hair the color of the fire's dancing flames and eyes like turquoise stones seen through pure water. Her skin was as golden sand under a white-hot sun. To touch it was pleasure and pain."

"Aye."

"Pain," continued El-Barek, "because one could never touch her enough, or deeply enough, and always there is an end to touching, for one can not subsist on love alone. In her absence there is longing for her, and the desire to touch her again, and no amount of camaraderie, laughter, or good work can fill the void she's left."

Both men reflected upon this.

"A fey-blooded woman is a difficult thing for a man of Rahadoum to contemplate." Said El-Barek. "For the men of Rahadoum, the women, too, are of a pragmatic bent, live by a pragmatic philosophy. We must, we've no aid from gods. The fey-blooded are beyond philosophy. Contemplation can make nothing of them. They are alive. So very alive! What can a man's mind make of such abundance of life in the woman he loves? To dwell on it makes him drunk. Argh!"

Hoskuld smiled, despite his hunger and the weariness in his body.

"She loved to listen," continued El-Barek, "and would stare at me with the wide-eyed wonder of a child as I spilled out every precious memory to her. Her questions were poignant. She drove to the heart of the matter always, to the emotion, to the very essence of experience itself. I felt more alive recounting my days to her than I did in the living of them."

"Ha!"

"I poured myself into her. She proved a bottomless vessel. She loved to feel the warmth of the sand just after the sun sets and the air grows cool. Also, the coolness of the sand just as the sun rises and the air grows warm. These dusk and dawn sands were ours. We made love on them, lying on the pelts of predators.

"I spoke of my childhood, of my father and his many voyages, of my mother and sisters. I spoke of my youth, of my fights and flights of fancy, of the girls I pined for and the wizened scholars who filled my head with man's accumulated truths. I had tried my luck as an adventurer, seen all manner of beasts and dangers. When a Chelaxian summoned a devil from Hell, he put a stop to my lust for fame and fortune, but not adventure. I took to the sea, as my father before me. It was during a rare stay on land that I met her.

"We spent twenty-eight days of pure happiness together at the edge of the Eternal Oasis, where no man or care disturbed us." El-Barek fell silent.

"What happened?" Asked Hoskuld.

"I reached for her one night, the stars above like cold, distant hearts, the logs of the fire aglow but no longer aflame--."

"Gone?"

El-Barek gazed for a long time into his past. "Yes. I searched for her, in that jungle-like wood about the oasis. I searched the dunes. I searched the heavens. There was no sign of her. If it were not for her fragrance on the furs, for the lingering touch of her at my fingertips, if it were not for her breath on mine, I would believe she had never been."

Hoskuld waited, seeing that El-Barek was not yet done.

"Something more was gone." Said El-Barek.

"Yes?"

"A piece of me, of course, my heart, my love, my happiness, these things she'd taken, as the poets say," he flashed his eyes at Hoskuld, "yet, something--more."

Hoskuld studied the other man's face.

"When I came out of the wood and ran into the desert I saw what was missing, no, I did not see what had always been." He looked hard at Hoskuld. "My shadow--gone."

"You mean--what do you mean?"

"I cast no shadow, still, to this day." Said El-Barek.

"But--?"

"You've never noticed. None have. A ship is a poor place for shadow-watching. The sails cast deeper shadows. The ship is always being tossed about. Besides, a sailor's eyes are never on his feet but up in the shrouds or out over the horizon. His feet must take care of themselves."

Hoskuld looked down at El-Barek's feet but the two men were below deck and what little light they had was insufficient for shadow-casting. He rose, grabbed his friend by the arm, and pulled him up onto the deck. He gazed for a long time at the sunlit spot beneath El-Barek.

"One hardly thinks of shadows," said Hoskuld, his voice little above a whisper. "One never looks," he lifted his eyes and met El-Barek's. "She took your shadow?"

"I don't know." Said El-Barek. "I can't comprehend it. When I went below, to think about my life, to pour over my memories in search of meaning, I could remember only her. She left a few scraps behind, yes, unimportant details, of my life prior to her," he held out his hands, "almost nothing remains."

"Not fey-blooded," growled Hoskuld, "a true fey."

"Yes."

"By Torag," said Hoskuld, "what's to protect a man's mind against such magic?"

"My mind?" El-Barek laughed. "I've little concern for my mind. My heart--." He saw the other men approaching. They had hunger and impatience in their eyes.

"It's time." Called one.

"I'm ready," said El-Barek. He turned to Hoskuld. "If I may impose further, friend?"

"Anything."

"The Captain, she condemns us. She prays when she should eat. She waits for deliverance when she should take action." He glanced towards the closed door to her quarters, then back to Hoskuld. "When I'm dead, take my blood to her and make her drink. Tell her it's water, if you must. She will die without." He glanced above, to the heavens. "The gods have forsaken her." He looked at Hoskuld and the others. "All of you. As for me, I don't want their help and wouldn't take it." He turned back to Hoskuld. "Will you do as I ask?" Hoskuld nodded. "Then there is no more need for words."

Of Art and Avarice

A Pathfinder RPG Story

Old Khalden sat crosslegged on a woven mat at the periphery of the small square, one of many in the gilded city of Oppara, capital of Taldor. He was Kelish, with that race's bronze skin and luxurious black hair; although, his was more white than black. He was blind, having been blinded as a punishment for a crime committed in his passionate youth.

None knew the story. Khalden never spoke of it. When asked, a sentimental mood gathered his features into a wistful sadness and a sigh escaped his lips. No doubt--thought those who saw the old beggar's face at such moments--he had traded his sight for love.

It was assumed that Old Khalden was nothing more than a beggar or perhaps an ascetic, for amongst his few visible possessions was a time-worn copy of the Order of Numbers, Abadar's holy book. What use a blind man could make of such a book few could surmise.

Old Khalden was not what he seemed. His begging bowl was never emptied. The coins of silver and copper that filled its shallow depth had done so for years. He seemed to have no need of them. This was because Old Khalden was no beggar at all, but was a member in good standing of the Brotherhood of Silence, one of the most prominent thieves' guilds in the Inner Sea region.

He was retired from active work. He occupied himself with his current duties, that of a overhearer of words spoken, more to make himself feel useful than for any need to impress his betters, for he had already done so. Few could guess that when the blind beggar was not to be found on his mat he was enjoying life's rich bounty, tucked away out of sight in the Brotherhood of Silence's labyrinthine headquarters, one entrance of which, lie not more than a dozen steps from his right hand.

It was night in the gilded city. Few were out-of-doors. The free-standing stalls in the square were covered. Only Desna's glowing orb and an assortment of night-roving birds kept the blind beggar company. Not for long, however. Old Khalden turned an ear to the hidden entrance. The door slid open. To his ear the grating sound was an offense. His hand slipped under the leather cover of the Order of Numbers. He fingered the enchanted dagger held within, sheathed, as it were, by the cut-out pages of Abadar's holy script.

"Pissed off Tilly, again" grumbled a youthful male. "Two nights in a row with you. I'll make a present to her of those raspberry tarts Mara bakes. Then--." A ruffle of fabric silenced the youth. Old Khalden replaced his palm on Abadar's holy book and resumed his feigned sublime indifference to worldly affairs.

"Why's he still awake?" Whispered Eshkol. "What company I keep; one blind, the other stupid." He moved opposite the hidden entrance, away from Old Khalden, whose true identity he did not know, the two never having crossed paths in the poorly lit hallways behind the secret entrance. Eshkol found a shadow and squatted on his haunches. His companion, Owen, another young apprentice of the Brotherhood, followed, managed to fit himself into the same shadow, and also squatted. "Dawn can't come soon enough," complained Eshkol. "These watches are pointless. Who's going to sneak in here, anyway?"

"Guards?" Asked Owen.

"They don't sneak, fool."

"They--."

"Besides, the only guards that matter are bought off. Do you think the Brotherhood is stupid? You have a lot to--."

"I hear a troubling sound." Said Old Khalden, speaking seemingly to himself, but loud enough to be heard by the youths. "It is the voice of ignorance. But how can that be?"

"Shut up, old loon." Called Eshkol. Even though he had no fear of the blind beggar he lowered his voice. He elbowed Owen, who lost his balance and fell into the moonlight. He rose, squeezed himself once more into the shadow and squatted. He took no offense at his companion's actions. "You really are useless." Said Eshkol. "If they didn't need someone to move around their trunks of loot without emptying them you'd be sitting over there," he pointed to Old Khalden. "How could you fail the first test? The first test!"

"They weren't mine."

"That's the entire--. Ugh." Eshkol lowered his head into his hands. "They left the gold out to test you." He said, looking at Owen. "If you don't seize every opportunity to take gold when its right in front of your eyes then how will the Brotherhood know your heart's filled with greed?"

"But," said Owen. "We shouldn't steal from each other, should we?"

"What did Tilly tell you?" Asked Eshkol. Tilly was the unfortunate thief who had been placed in charge of the two youth's instruction. "There's no such crime as theft. Remember? There's only the crime of being caught."

"Right." Said Owen. "No such crime as--."

"Shut up."

For a few minutes the two young thieves squatted in silence.

"Who's that?" Asked Owen, motioning with his head. Eshkol, who had been contemplating how best to rise quickly through the ranks of the Brotherhood of Silence, grabbed his dagger. Owen had a cudgel, owing to his greater strength. Neither youth noticed that Old Khalden's hand was now beneath the cover of Abadar's holy book.

"Who? Where?"

"There?" Motioned Owen. Eshkol looked then looked to his companion.

"Are you--?" Eshkol looked back at the "person" Owen had indicated. "That's a statue, are you--?" Neither boy noticed that Old Khalden's hand was resting on the book's cover once more.

"A statue?" Asked Owen. He narrowed his eyes. "Wasn't there last night."

"No," said Eshkol, "it wasn't. They put it up today. Haven't you noticed them out here working? They spent an entire week clearing--. Ugh." He once more placed his head in his hands.

"She's beautiful." Said Owen. "Who is she?"

Eshkol looked at Owen, then to the statue. He was about to insult his fellow apprentice again, but the otherworldly presence of the statue gave him pause. The moonlight seemed to animate it. The statue was so expertly crafted that it possessed none of the still-life quality that hobbles the effectiveness of lesser works. Indeed, it appeared so lifelike that Owen could hardly be faulted for mistaking it for a living person.

"How should I--?" Began Eshkol.

"Come, young ruffians," said Old Khalden. "You make more noise than a murder of crows." He waved the two youths to him. "In order to silence your ignorant chatter I will tell you what you want to know. Come."

Owen turned to Eshkol.

"Eh, why not?" Said Eshkol.

"We'll get in trouble." Said Owen, although when Eshkol rose, he did too.

"We can still see the entrance." Whispered Eshkol. "Come on, I'm bored to death."

The pair rose, crossed the square, pausing to gaze at the statue, then arrived at Old Khalden's mat. They studied the blind beggar, looked at each other, then sat, mimicking Khalden's pose, legs folded beneath them.

"All week, I'm listening to the workmen." Began Old Khalden. "This morning, when she," he waved his hand towards the statue, whose eyes seemed to have settled on the two youths and their blind instructor, "was placed, a bard came and told her story. Shall I tell you?"

"That's why we're sitting here, old fool." Said Eshkol.

Khalden smiled. He patted the cover of the Order of Numbers, thinking of its true contents. He remembered how he was in his youth and thought the young thief across from him rather tame. "When the workmen placed the statue," said Old Khalden, "a dwarven man stood in the shadow that you yourselves occupied only moments ago. He was weeping."

"How could you know--?" Began Eshkol.

Khalden tapped his right ear.

"A dwarf cannot weep quietly," he said, "when they succumb to such emotions, it is with the power of a mountain stream." He organized the telling in his mind. "She was a princess." He said. "One of the many daughters of the previous satrap of Qadira, our old enemy, yes? Now we have peace." He smiled. "And to adhere a man to peace, his heart is secured with love. Or so the bard said." He turned his head towards the statue. He could not see it, but could imagine it. "She was the daughter of man but had something of the djinn about her, that being the genie-folk who flutter upon the wind, lighter than a bird, yet more terrible than a desert twister--should one anger them."

"Old fool, what's this?"

"Go," said Khalden, without anger, "gaze upon her likeness, if you wish to test my telling." The two young thieves rose and went to the statue. They studied it in earnest. The princess, they still did not know her name, was thin to the point of delicateness. Carved into her flesh were swirls and lines meant to represent the straight gusting and whimsical curling of the winds. She had none of the genie-folk's inhuman appearance, being entirely recognizable in form, and of exceptional beauty. The youths returned and sat. Old Khalden continued.

"She was promised to Stavian's Uncle--."

"The Grand Prince?" Asked Owen.

"Yes. This Uncle, Hendrik by name, is a most disagreeable man, ugly within and without. He managed to make it to his fiftieth year without once turning the head of a maiden." This made the two youths giggle. "So when he sought a wife one had to be found from amongst the former enemy, a retribution, I suppose.

"The match was entirely inappropriate, of course." Continued Khalden. "This princess was shy but watchful. She was like a timid cat, one who is frightened by any sound, yet who is so desiring of petting, she lingers, at war with her own fright. While her betrothed was a man of large appetites, wont to take in-hand immediately any object of his desire. Only the spite of the Grand Prince kept them apart.

"You see, Grand Prince Stavian did not know just how beautiful his Uncle's bride was until he saw her. He postponed the wedding and housed her in the palace. This was so he could gaze upon her. Even though he couldn't or wouldn't marry her, he could still enjoy the sight of her. He is an exceedingly lecherous man.

"The Princess, her name was Fatima, did you know? Ah, well, so it was. She was used to the beauty of her homeland. The city of Katheer, from whence she hails, is home to more wonders than a man could find on his own, even given ten lifetimes in which to search. Even though we cling to our past glory and see its ghost everywhere, to an outsider, especially a Qadirian, our capital must look like so much tarnish on a golden crown that once shown brightly.

"Her only pleasure was the palace gardens. She used to make many sketches of what she saw there. In her search for arresting views she discovered many of the statues that are hidden within, lost to poorly kept shrubbery. How many sketches of these did she make? How many a likeness in pencil or charcoal before she thought to ask about their creator?

"She learned that the sculptor was still alive. Not only that, he lives here in the capital. I have already mentioned him. He is the dwarf, Ottmar, of whom all of Oppara used to speak. He fell out of favor due to his gruff manner, still, he was given a modest pension. He kept himself busy with an epic work to which he'd devoted nearly a decade of research, planning, and modeling. This was a monumental statue depicting one of the Ten Warriors of the Old Mage Jatembe, who brought light and wisdom to a people lost in darkness, so said the bard. Of these ancient things I know little.

"This statue was of the warrior Mataabō, whose steed was a giant lizard that walked on its two powerful hind legs, a type of creature not seen anymore, the size of which would prove preposterous, were we to see it now. Only the gods know if they once truly existed. Well, Ottmar is a perfectionist. He did not wish to imagine his lizard, but to work from life. He sent to the Mwangi Expanse, you've heard of it? No? It's a vast and wild jungle, against which the sharp blade of civilization has made no cut since Jatembe's time.

"A suitable specimen was brought back along with two natives from the expanse who had some understanding of the creature. Mind you, it was no colossal beast." Here Old Khalden laughed. "It must have stood no taller than either of you and a sight narrower, I surmise. It was half bird, for it was feathered about its head and neck. Yet it had the carnivore's dangerous bite and it possessed claws like reaping scythes. It ate meat, which its handlers were quick to give it, lest it leap upon them.

"Ottmar was making a careful study of this bird-lizard. About this time Princess Fatima learned of her favorite sculptor's identity. She sent him a request, desiring to see him. Even though Ottmar's pension was on the line, the request was ignored. He is one of those singleminded artist who cannot take even a modest break from his work. If Fatima was not so timid, that is, if she possessed more of what we'd call the typical attitude of royalty, she would have had Ottmar drug from his studio and thrown down before her. As it was, she sent beseeching letters and plenty of gifts, thinking to earn the dwarf's good grace.

"However, Ottmar remained obsessed with his work. Now, if you recall, Fatima was like a cat that may or may not conquer its fear and approach. She did overcome her timidity and one day, quite without warning, appeared in Ottmar's studio. You might imagine he'd be put out but the exact opposite happened. Here was this delicate, timid creature, blown in like a blossom, a treat to his eye and so completely unlike him in demeanor that the dwarven artist fell in love. Not romantic love, mind you, but the love an artist has for something beautiful and pure.

"Ottmar now had to make amends for his rude behavior. He gave Fatima the royal treatment, as it were, showing her his meagre studio and his even more meagre quarters. Even though his tools were old they were made by dwarven hands and thus were of the highest quality. Finally, after so much fumbling through social niceties, the two were accustom to one another. A genuine friendship formed. Many visits followed. In time, when Ottmar was truly comfortable with Fatima, he showed her Mataabō on his feathered steed.

"Would you believe Fatima laughed? Not at the workmanship, which was sublime, but that such a creature existed at all, or ever had. Here, a daughter of the genie-folk, and she doubted the existence of this giant bipedal lizard. Well, if Ottmar wasn't so enchanted with our princess he would have put her out on her rump. Thankfully, he had a better solution. He showed her the lizard from the Mwangi Expanse.

"Now, mind you, this lizard was no household pet. Ottmar had never so much as touched a brightly colored feather on its head. Not even the handlers, born and raised around such a fantastic creature, dare approach it. This glorified chicken scared them all to death. Not Fatima, the very first thing she did was approach it, hand extended. Thankfully, Ottmar drew her back. The lizard, suffering such an affront as it never had, emitted such a threatening hiss, that everyone present fled to safer quarters.

"Grand Prince Stavian could not delay forever. His Uncle wasn't getting any younger. The wedding date was set. You might feel sorry for our princess but fear not, such marriages are more for show than for anything else. Still, her fate was uncertain. What kind of husband would Uncle Hendrik make? The question didn't worry Fatima. She was too involved with her dwarven sculptor, whose platonic love was enthusiastically reciprocated.

"Ottmar decided that his great work would make the perfect wedding present for Fatima. He double his efforts, working from dawn until the wee hours of the night in order to finish the statue in time. His aging body could not endure the work. He fell ill and exhausted and was confined to bed. The wedding date approached but the great statue of Mataabō was not yet complete. What do to? There was no way it could be completed in time without compromising its quality. This Ottmar would not do.

"He decided on a placeholder. He no longer needed the feathered lizard. That part of the statue had been completed. He made a gift of the lizard and of its handlers to the princess. These handlers were pleased, as their pay increased and their living quarters were vastly superior. The lizard too was pleased, for it could now roam the garden outside of the princess's quarters, instead of the sunless yard behind Ottmar's studio.

"These handlers found Fatima and the other personages of the palace a most difficult group. While Ottmar respected the lizard's dangerous qualities, the nobility felt immune to any harm. They had never known anything truly wild. The handlers attempted to communicate the danger involved but were ignored. There were many close calls.

"Now, there was something known to these handlers that was unknown to Ottmar or Fatima. These wise Mwangi tried to express their understanding but somehow they fell short of their goal. What they knew but could not communicate was this; the lizard was young, an adolescent. It was also female. It was rapidly approaching its first season. The females of this particular species are unusually aggressive during their season. They are motivated to go in hunt of a mate. The poor males of this species are practically assaulted. This aggressiveness is most pronounced in the first year, tapering off as the female ages.

"These wise Mwangi attempted to convince the princess to do one of two things before the first season came; have the lizard killed, or have the lizard returned to the expanse. By this time Fatima was quite taken with this death-dealing chicken. She spent hour after hour observing and sketching it. She could not comprehend the warning given by the lizard's handlers. When they grew more insistent she grew offended. In her naivety she had them dismissed. They went to Ottmar but found him so ill, exhausted, and listless as to be almost insensible. These poor Mwangi had no recourse but to pray to the gods, take their gold, and return home.

"Just about the time Ottmar was returning to health the lizard was coming into her first season. The princess was asleep one night when she heard a most disturbing sound. It was a mournful wailing, a mixture of a scream and a funeral dirge. Although the sound woke her and she heard it still, she thought she was dreaming, for the sound belonged more rightly to the realm of nightmares.

"She followed this sound into her private garden and there found the feathered-lizard curled up in the moonlight, moaning most pitifully. The lizard turned its plaintive eyes on the princess. The pain and anguish of the beast's gaze wounded the princess's sensitive heart. She had no idea of the danger she was in, for the mournful sound was one side of a coin whose other side was rage. The princess, desiring to console the lizard, approached, knelt, and reached out." Here Old Khalden stopped. He could hear the pounding hearts before him and the strain of lungs whose air was held tight.

"Afterwards, the lizard was put to death. The princess--buried in her private garden. A day of mourning was called. Her funeral train stretched across Oppara. This was some time ago, mind you. Perhaps you are too young to remember it? As it so happened, for at times the gods can be cruel, Ottmar had labored with renewed vigor and was near to completing the statue of Mataabō. When he heard of Fatima's death he struck deeply the face of that ancient hero, dropped his chisel and hammer, and once more fell ill, this time of heartbreak.

"Well," said Old Khalden, "this is but one half of our story. For you wished to know of this statue's origins. You have heard of the life and death of Fatima, yes, but there is more to hear about Ottmar. The night grows long and the air cold. I hear my bed calling. Do not yet buy raspberry tarts for your teacher but stay in her ill-favor so that we may speak tomorrow night." With this Old Khalden surprised the two youths by passing through the hidden entrance, the Order of Numbers tucked under his arm.

. . .

"Ah," said Old Khalden, the blind beggar-thief, when the two young apprentices returned to his mat. This time he was prepared for them. A wicker basket was at his left hand. The Order of Numbers at his right. He brought the basket around and motioned for the boys to partake of its contents. "Mara was most please to sell all of her tarts before they'd even cooled." He held up a finger. "Do leave a few for your poor instructor. How she labors!" The two boys laughed. He had also a bottle of goat's milk. He set this next to the basket. He knew that boys of any temperament can be pacified and pleased by such things as pastries and milk. It was in this way he found a most agreeable audience.

"Now we must speak of Ottmar, whose fate is perhaps worse than Fatima's. How? Who knows what charity the gods give to those innocent, young princesses who come before them? As for those who've grown cynical by time's many injuries--?" He shrugged his shoulders. "Should they expect Heaven after this? Eh? But these are matters for philosophers and priests.

"When we left Ottmar he was bed-ridden, ill of heart. He dismissed his assistants and barred the door of his studio. He could not bare to see Mataabō's feathered lizard, nor the gash that marred that noble warrior's face, for this very wound mirrored the one that cut through Ottmar's soul. You see, he blamed himself for Fatima's death. To mourn is to wrestle with the hard truths of time.

"With Fatima's death his pension was ended. Uncle Hendrik blamed the sculptor too. He even called for the dwarf's execution. Grand Prince Stavian, despite all his evil instincts, hates the sight of blood. Exile? requested Uncle Hendrik. Eh, let it go, said the Grand Prince. And so the world forgot about Ottmar. Both studio and home fell into neglect and disrepair. Animals found their way in, pushing their heads through holes and making nests within Mataabō's crevices and within arms-reach of the once lauded artist.

"What does soul-sickness do to a man? It's misery. Artists, too, are perhaps more vulnerable to such corrosive states. Is it any wonder that Ottmar began to lose his hold on reality? He began to speak to the rats and crows. He gave them his bread, he subsisting on crumbs. Isolation does strange things to a man, believe me. One gets to talking to beasts as if they'd answer. In time, one believes they do!

"One crow in particular adopted Ottmar. Crows, as you know, are intelligent. They have poor manners, yes, but they are smart enough to recognize a good thing when it comes along."

"They know their mark." Said Eshkol.

"Yes." Agreed Khalden. "This crow figured out that if it stood on the headboard or on Ottmar himself, as he lie under the covers, it got first choice of whatever food was available. Soon this crow chased off its competition. The rats were pecked and squawked at until they went in search of a more peaceful abode. The other crows were harder to dislodge, but, as this enterprising crow grew fat, it was able to oust all others through sheer muscle.

"So, after a season or two we find Ottmar and his crow living like wizard and familiar. Perhaps the following is only the bard's fancy, or perhaps it is truth, who can say? But, this crow, having grown fond of its benevolent provider, or perhaps scheming for more food, realized that an active dwarf is better than an inactive one. This crow began to work on Ottmar. How? It found its way into his studio, no doubt through some hole in the roof. It managed to carry tool after tool from the studio into the house, and drop them noisily on the floor by Ottmar's bed.

"Can you imagine it? What must have Ottmar thought when confronted by the rude persistence of this remarkable bird? Tool after tool, even those whose weight you would think prevented such transport, made their way from studio shelf to Ottmar's bedside. 'What, damn you?' I can imagine the consternated dwarf demand. This crow, and here we begin to mistrust our bard, even in a world such as this, answered.

"It scolded its protector and provider. 'Enough is enough,' it said. 'Back to work with you!'" Said Old Khalden. "Can you imagine it? Eh, there are stranger things. Even dwarves must acknowledge that the occasional crow will talk. 'But what?' Asked Ottmar of his supernatural advisor. 'Fatima!' Answered the crow.

"You see, this crow had been paying attention--listening to Ottmar's lamentations. While man confuses himself with his vast intellect, beasts get right to the issue. The only cure for Ottmar's soul-sickness, knew this wily old crow, was forgiveness. How could Ottmar forgive himself? As a dwarf he must look to stone and to his hands. As a sculptor--well, the answer is obvious.

"Ottmar could hardly grasp what this impertinent crow demanded of him. It was too much for his pained heart. Have you ever tried to keep a crow from a bit of carrion? Kick or scream or throw rocks, they hop about or maybe take flight, but return they will. Before long Ottmar couldn't turn back his blanket, so heavy was it with tools. Nor could he occupy himself with sobbing or painful introspection without getting a motivating peck. What the crow lacked in subtlety it more than made up for in obnoxious persistence. In time Ottmar found himself prying loose the boards over his studio door.

"I'm too crude a man to know how that first vision of Mataabō and his lizard mount must have struck Ottmar. If I know the dwarven character, even that of an artist, once a dwarf takes a tool in-hand, sentimentality is banished. So began the statue you see behind you. This great hero and his lizard mount had one last service to man, for locked within that stone was Fatima, a likeness that belies belief, or so I hear said.

"Ottmar worked as a man possessed. All the while the crow watched. Chunks of stone were split away, falling with a crash. Mataabō must have known his fate, for he surrendered without protest. In the heart of his lizard mount was the stone that would provide a delicate yet enduring beauty. Fatima," Khalden smiled, "Fatima was there. Ottmar revealed her.

"The statue seemed to carve itself. It's like that sometimes, I imagine. Ottmar stood back one day, hammer and chisel in-hand, and stopped. He knew the statue was done, needing only to be polished. He set aside his tools and wept, not tears of sadness, no, tears of joy. He had created a masterpiece. It was as if Fatima was standing before him. His moment of glory was interrupted, however, for the crow was hopping about and making such a racket as to shatter even a dwarf's pleased tranquility.

"'What, damn you?' Asked Ottmar. 'Jewels!' Cried the crow. 'Jewels!' Ottmar looked at the statue and searched his memory. He turned to the crow. 'She never wore jewelry, you--.' But the cry of 'jewels, jewels', continued without cease. Ottmar thought. Yes, he realized, at the wedding, and everyday thereafter, she would have had fantastic jewels. He had never seen them. He gazed for a long time at his squawking companion. He turned to the statue. How, he asked himself, could he add jewels he'd never seen?

"The crow read his mind. 'Stavian,' it said, 'Stavian.'" Here Khalden paused. He had spoken at length and was thirsty. He felt for the bottle of milk. Owen understood what the blind beggar wished, took his hand, and placed within it the bottle.

"We've saved the rest for you," he said.

"A tart, too," said Eshkol.

"Kind boys," said Khalden. He held out the bottle with one hand, wiping his chin with the other. Owen took the bottle. Khalden did not yet eat the sweet treat, but continued his tale.

"Ottmar went to the castle. He requested an audience with the Grand Prince. It took some time for the prince to recall the name Ottmar. When he did he was curious. He assumed the dwarf wished to resume his pension. People were always beseeching him for gold. He was surprised when Ottmar enquired not about money, but about Fatima's jewels. After some confusion and a great deal of attention to security, they were produced.

"Ottmar was escorted into a dining room. One wall of this room was comprised of windows opening to a lovely garden of fruit trees. Word had gotten around that Fatima's jewels were being retrieved from the royal treasury. The maids, who normally stayed out of sight, determined that those windows must be washed on that day. Two maids stood within the dining room, one outside. They opened the windows and gossiped while they cleaned. Each had her head turned in order to catch a glance at the jewels. The swift breeze of the Inner Sea carried the scent of the fruit blossoms into the room.

At one end of the long table, set out on rich velvet, were the princess's wedding jewels. A guard stood beside the table. A man, associated with the royal treasury, was standing behind the table. Ottmar began to take measurements and sketch out the details of each piece.

"As Ottmar examined the pieces, the treasury-man rattled off the history of each. The twin, lime-green stones, with their milky swirls, set in platinum earrings were from Kyonin. They had come from the tomb of an elven queen. The bracelet had been found in an excavation in Sargava. The stones, which resembled frozen flames, could not be identified and were considered unique. The necklace, and here the treasury-man spoke with marked pride--the maids ceased cleaning all together and listened with rapt attention--was not only an emerald of perfect color and clarity, it possessed an enchantment by none other than Nex himself, or so it was determined, such things are damnably hard to verify. What was the enchantment? None knew. No amount of divination could reveal it. The magic of that immortal wizard was far too advanced to give up its secrets, especially to the ignoramuses who probed and prodded like children. How to activate the enchantment? Ask Nex.

"Each piece," continued Khalden, "was befitting the princess that Ottmar had come to love. He finished his sketches and was half out of the door, the treasury-man donning his silk gloves, the guard looking forward to his lunch-feast, the maids deciding that the windows were sparkling, when there came a sudden flapping sound; wings at close quarters. Ottmar ducked and scrambled through the open door. The guard reached for his sword. The treasury-man reached for the jewels. He was rewarded with a blood-drawing peck on his forearm.

"The crow who had demanded, 'Jewels! Jewels!', materialized. This mysterious bird had been waiting to pounce. You see, it had been present the entire time, having waddled into the room on Ottmar's heels. It had stood in the corner, seen by none, for all attention went to the jewels. When Ottmar finished, this thief, yes, for this bird is as we are, avaricious to the core, leapt upon the table. It grabbed the Nex-enchanted necklace, turned its gaze this way and that, rocked a bit like crows do, then launched and flapped over the heads of the screaming maids. The last sight of that necklace, whose value was inestimable, was its jump through an open window, carried in the glossy black claws of the crow.

"Ottmar was seized at once, drug to the dungeon, and interrogated. His story was told to the Grand Prince, who, would you believe, laughed until tears came. He had the guard and the treasury-man thrown into the dungeon. Ottmar, he released, on one condition: the statue of Fatima was to be gifted to the crown, to make up for that priceless artifact which had flown away. His sense of justice, or was it irony, was most unique.

"Now we have arrived at the end of our tale, my young friends. The statue, which even the daft Grand Prince acknowledges as a work of sublime beauty and unequaled craftsmanship, was far too remarkable to remain out of public sight. So," Khalden motioned to the statue, "there stands Fatima. As for Ottmar--."

But Old Khalden's words were interrupted by a sharp click, nails on stone. He turned his ear to the source. Eshkol and Owen turned to look behind them. There appeared to be no source of the odd sound. Then, as the boys watched, a crow materialized from the deeper darkness, standing atop Fatima. It held in its black beak a delicate necklace, a platinum chain with a flawless emerald. It lowered its head and slipped the necklace around Fatima's slender neck.

"What is it, boys?" Whispered Old Khalden.

"The crow." Whispered Eshkol.

"What's it doing?" Asked Khalden.

"It's got the necklace!" Cried Owen.

The crow, which was no ordinary bird, but was some sort of wicked fey or the results of an ancient wizard's troublesome meddling, which, was more commonly called a "witchcrow," turned its black eyes to the seated group of fellow thieves. More intelligence shown within those dark orbs than any natural crow, or indeed, most men, possessed. It extended its wings and fluttered down to the base of the statue. It turned its gaze upwards and seemed to regard the effect the necklace had when paired with Ottmar's masterpiece.

"Owen," whispered Khalden, "club that wicked thing. Eshkol, grab the necklace before it's too late."

As Khalden spoke these words, the witchcrow began to hop and dance. It spat out such unnerving sounds that the two young thieves were slow to act. Old Khalden, more experienced, and therefore less easily dissuaded, threw back the cover of the Order of Numbers and plucked out his enchanted dagger. He rose and began to creep towards the racket. When he stepped between Eshkol and Owen they were awoken from their stupor and took to their feet. The witchcrow continued its bizarre dance.

Just as Khalden was within striking distance the witchcrow stopped, turned towards him, and gave a shrill squawk of such menacing pitch that the blind beggar and his two compatriots were stopped. The witchcrow took flight, landed on Fatima's head, bent, plucked the necklace free, then rose up to its full height. It gave the trio the evil eye, nodded its head three times in rapid succession, and disappeared from sight. Only Old Khalden could hear the flapping of its wings as it passed over them.

The trio stood for some time in silence. Eshkol and Owen looked at one another. Old Khalden had his ear turned skyward, a wry smile on his face. Once he was certain the witchcrow was gone and the evening's excitement was through he yawned, stretched, and made his way back to his mat. He crouched, felt for the Order of Numbers, found it, and stood.

"Well, boys," he said, replacing his dagger within the holy book and shutting the cover. "A finer ending could not have been had. A master thief that was!" He laughed, turned, and headed towards the secret entrance to the Brotherhood of Silence's headquarters. He paused, turned, and smiled at the two boys. "Leave my raspberry tart out for the birds. One never knows," he said, his voice echoing from the shadows. "One never knows."

Please note: Due to the length of this novella only an exerpt is posted here. To read the rest please download one of the files linked to above. This novella is also included in The Pathfinder Collection: Stories from the Inner Sea (.pdf) or The Pathfinder Collection: Stories from the Inner Sea (ePub)

To Trick a God

A Pathfinder RPG Novella

I have not heard your pleas in a long time, Maret.

"I need you."

Need?

"Devinti is dead. The young are clever, cruel, and desperate."

The children of the revolution turn on their parents?

"Yes."

You fear them?

"Yes."

Destroy them.

"They are endless."

Doubt? From you?

"One must consider failure."

Meaning?

"What will become of me after death? I have sinned."

How does one escape the repercussions of one's actions?

"I'm asking you."

. . .

He stood behind Maret. He never faced her. Not even preternatural speed, lent to her by magic, could move her fast enough to catch sight of him. He had always been and would always remain a mystery.

"Can he do it?" She asked.

I can think of no other.

"Will he?"

From behind--silence.

"The price?"

From behind--laughter.

"Take me to him."

. . .

The valley was a cornucopia of verdant life. There was barely room enough to pass--the flora pressed. The air was dense with fragrance. Countless birds fluttered from branch to branch, disappearing into pockets of sun-edged shadow. A copper-colored fox passed by Maret and her companion, brushing against them. He stopped to sniff Maret's bare ankle before ducking under a cluster of drooping dock leaves.

"Here?" Asked Maret, incredulous.

A cave.

Maret folded back the leaves and branches. She slipped her bare toes beneath delicate flowers, her sandals tucked under her left arm. She was afraid to snap a twig, crush a blossom. She was afraid even of scuffing moss from a stone. Who knew what might anger him? With agonizing care she crossed the valley floor. As she approached the base of the cliff she saw the shadowed hollow. It was tall and narrow, like a black-bladed dagger thrust up from the earth, lodging itself in the stone. She paused.

Butterflies danced before her, flitting through the air. She watched them--annoyed. When they passed she intoned a spell. It was a simple cantrip, one that alerted her to the presence of magic auras. Her senses exploded. It was all magic. She clenched her eyes shut and ended the spell. After a minute of dazed and wobbling uncertainty her senses regained their courage and function. She heard chuckling behind her and ignored it.

She slipped sideways into the narrow cave. It curled into the stone. She was forced to shimmy herself along, smashing her breasts, scrapping her knees, wedging herself deeper and deeper until she could go no further. 'At least he's not behind me,' she mused. She glanced to her side. If the demon with whom she had long ago struck a bargain had followed, she would finally lay eyes on him. There was only darkness. She began a minor spell. The humid darkness of the cave was dispelled as the flickering light came into existence.

Maret would have leapt in surprise, were she not held immobile by the stone. She was face-to-face with another. As she calmed and took in more visual information she discerned that what she had taken to be another fully realized presence was nothing but a face carved in the stone, a partial face at that. A small section of the cave wall had been pressed back into a concave shape. Rising out of this bowl was the broad forehead, heavy eyebrows, high-arched nose, and square cheeks of an aristocratic face. It was as if a clay-worker had come into the cave, pressed her thumbs into the stone, and left her work uncompleted.

The eyes opened and stared with stony indifference.

"I--." Began Maret.

Emotion overcame the face: profound sadness. The "skin" around the eyes crinkled. The muscles that directed the cheeks pulled them taunt. If stone could weep it would have. The emotion reversed, returning to normal. A moment later came irritation. The brow furrowed, the eyes narrowed. The anger was subdued but present. The effects of the emotions were so complete they nearly silenced Maret. She was, however, a woman not easily silenced.

"--need a shabti."

The face lifted, grinding, moving against itself, until a pair of broad, sculptural lips came into view.

"A vessel?" Asked the face of stone. The trio of syllables came ponderously, echoing in the small space.

"Yes."

"To contain?" Again the trio reverberated.

"Sin." Said Maret.

"Sin?" Asked the face of stone.

"Can you make such a thing?"

The mouth curled downwards. The face sank, the lower half disappearing beneath the thumb-pressed stone. The eyes closed.

"I fear death." Admitted Maret.

He made no response.

"I fear," she searched, "judgment."

The face emerged fully. The eyes opened.

"I've lived more than two centuries." Began Maret. She appeared in her mid-twenties--part of the bargain. "I've made a pact with a demon. I've slaughtered hundreds, thwarted the fates of thousands, subjected entire peoples to tyranny." The face remained blank from emotion. "What awaits me?" Maret studied the face in the stone, the face of stone. It fluctuated between the lifeless chill of sculpture and the animated warmth of life. The features did not move. It was merely energy, consciousness, that seemed to come and go. Even when this consciousness came, was present, there came no response to Maret's plea. She made another.

"Will I be judged?"

Something affected the eyes. Again, not material, but energy. The word "judged" brought forth a heightened consciousness. Despite this, the stone did not speak.

"I want a shabti to take my place," said Maret, "to be judged, to be punished."

"You want to trick a god?" Asked the face of stone.

"Can it be done?" Asked Maret.

The face grew contemplative. Silenced reigned for some time. "She judges every soul that passes beneath her never-blinking gaze." Said the face of stone. "Each soul is naked before her."

"It can't be done." Said Maret, defeated. The full weight of her sin bore down upon her.

"A man beholds a river." Said the face in the stone, his deep voice resonating in the small space. "He cups his hand, he drinks. The river is in this man, wherever he goes." The face did not elaborate.

Maret, baffled by the metaphor, asked, "Meaning?"

"What is a soul?" Asked the stone face.

"I don't--."

"If a soul be a river, can the soul be drawn from? If drawn from, what becomes of that which is taken away?"

Maret could not answer.

"There is but one soul, one river--divided--to which all drops return. First," the face fell silent, studying Maret with hard eyes, "these drops must be--purified--before they return home. This is what you fear."

"Yes." Admitted Maret.

"It follows," continued the face of stone, "that to be purified in advance is what you wish."

"The shabti?"

"To gather the water which you have fouled, to separate it from the clean. To subject it to--purification." The stone eyes regarded Maret. "This can be done."

"Yes!" Maret was giddy. The silence of the stone face dampened her premature celebration. She studied it. "The price?" She could only whisper the question.

"All water returns to the river." Said the sculpted face. "Yet not all water takes the same path home."

Maret grew nervous.

"I can draw the brackish from the fresh. For this, I will have a handful to raise to my lips."

Three Familiars

A Pathfinder RPG Story

"Magic?" Asked Brunhilda, a dwarf, and therefore suspicious of the arcane. She knelt over the rigid body of Remus, found the closeness uncomfortable, stood and stepped to her deputy. He was a young man, until recently a shepherd, named Elgin. His patience and his powers of observation had recommended him to Brunhilda, the Sheriff of Hausswolffen, of which Elgin was natural born, she having come down from Battlewall.

Remus had once been a tutor to White Estrid, the King of Halgrim (the title of King was applied no matter the gender) and therefore an inquiry was being made, whereas the superstitious locals might have otherwise boarded up the tower and called its environs haunted, never to be trespassed.

"A letter." Said Elgin. "He must have been writing it when he died. See?" He pointed to the smudged ink in the lower right-hand corner, which had transferred itself to the wizard’s cheek, indicating a sudden loss of consciousness. Brunhilda turned, as the wizard was crumpled on the carpet, having slid out of his chair, presumably upon dying.

"The papers bear tracks." Said Elgin.

Brunhilda examined what appeared to be paw prints. "An animal’s."

"You think he was killed by an animal?"

"Doubtful," she said. "Eh, it’s small, judging from the size. Most likely a pet. It must have jumped up on the desk while he was writing." Her thoughts returned to Remus. "Perhaps it was something in the paper. Something he unknowingly triggered, a trap." She said. "Wizards make the craftiest assassins."

"Murder?"

Brunhilda looked down at Remus. "He’s not so old. Doesn’t look ill." She glanced at her deputy. "There’s no marks on him." She looked around the study. "No signs of struggle." She began to pace. "I’m not the right person for this. Damn the riddle that is magic." She said, slamming a fist into an open palm.

"Sven Seven-Eyes is on the way." Elgin said.

"Three days, if Gozreh wills it." Said Brunhilda, looking down at Remus.

Elgin had nothing to add.

"Let’s look at this letter." She said. "If you’re certain it isn’t trapped."

"Trapped?"

"With runes, or—. How should I know?"

Elgin looked over the pages. "Seems to be plain writing, Sheriff."

"Let’s hope."

. . .

"What can I say to you, my friend?" Began the letter. "I left in haste, without farewell, and with doubt in my heart as to the continuation of our friendship. With the application of that universal salve—time—and with it, logic regaining rule over emotion, I’ve come to doubt my own perceptions. To make sense of my actions I shall speak of events of which you are unawares and with which, I hope, you shall find cause for forgiveness.

"As you well know it was on account of Agatha, my faithful familiar. She had somehow fallen ill. Cats are wont to catch a bug now and again. I thought perhaps it was the persistent draft in this old tower. If only I could give Agatha a change of scenery.

"What other reason did I need to travel south? It had been years, had it not? Each of us lost in our research, me sorting through the intricacies of enchantment, and you, my once fellow apprentice, familiarizing yourself with those ever-varied denizens of the outer planes. Besides, this tower is too isolated. It was a gift, you know, from my patron and protector, the King. The sea is my neighbor and the winds blow without cease, putting a dreadful cold into these gray stones.

"I set out and you greeted me, if not with the cordiality I had hoped for, then with excitement about your work; which, amongst our kind, is contagious. I must admit, some of your recent ‘breakthroughs’ alarmed me. Do you not remember what that curmudgeon, Valstaf, said about the Abyss, staring in and what not? Well, it isn’t my place to lecture.

"The climate along Lake Encarthan was a welcome change. Even Agatha perked up. Of course, the mice in your tower stepped lively to give her a bit more exercise than she’s accustom to. (My own mice are languid.) As you know, I planned to spend the winter there. I lasted but a fortnight. What must you have thought when you found your guest quarters empty?

"Did you think that I took offense at how little time we had spent in conversation or in shared magical exploration? No, my friend, I well know how a caster’s mind works. Time is of the least concern, lest it be time wasted, then we balk. Socializing is not far behind. I was to occupy myself with that tome you have on the crafting of ioun stones. (Shall I yet have that pleasure?)

"As you know Agatha took to you with great curiosity, following you everywhere, butting against your calves when you stopped. I swear she lost a few pounds in her relentless shadowing of you. She even, on occasion, slept in your chambers, or perhaps stayed up to watch you work. I am so used to her lying just behind my knees at night that her absence struck me as a phantom limb. Her behavior was unusual but I took it to be a bit of the animating spirit of youth, brought on, I surmise, by the cat-and-mouse game.

"What was the cause of my rude departure? There’s nothing for it but to relate matters as they happened. As I mentioned, Agatha had taken up spying on you. On this particular night she was not in bed with me. Later, I was awoken by her meowing. I brought up a light and saw her in the doorway. She must have come to check on me. Finding me whole and in the expected place she dashed off. I dispelled my light and returned to sleep.

"Before I had quite come under Desna’s influence I was awoken again by Agatha, this time climbing into bed. She was less talkative than usual, which I took to be exhaustion, and—again out of character—she wanted under the covers. I obliged her and succumbed at once to slumber. I awoke, as men of our age do, in the middle of the night, and felt for Agatha. She was no longer in bed. Also, her spot was cold. She must not have stayed long.

"I was a bit worried. I called for her but she didn’t come. One knows how tied we wizards are to our familiars. I concentrated and began to sense that something was amiss. I went in search of her, calling out her name. I came to your study door, found it closed, yet saw light beneath. I knocked, but you must not have heard. I admit that I knelt and attempted to spy through the keyhole, but saw nothing. I admit also to getting down on my hands and knees and calling Agatha’s name through the gap.

"She came rushing to the door, meowing, and attempting to stick her nose beneath. When that failed she reached under, not in that playful-predatory way cats do, but as a drowning man might reach for the aid of one in a raft. I touched her paw to let her know I was present. I spoke soothingly to her, but alas, I could hear in the troubled warble of her meows that she was scared out of her wits.

"I do not believe you have a familiar, so you may not know that one’s attachment becomes such that man can understand beast, vice versa. I asked Agatha what had so shocked her. She was, at first, unable to organize her admittedly simple thoughts. After being somewhat calmed by my voice she was able to communicate her impressions. It was obvious that she had no comprehension of what she had witnessed, save for the animal’s instinctive understanding of danger. This troubled me. I caught a bit of the panic that gripped her.

"I rose and banged on your door. No response. I pulled the handle to no effect. I remembered a scroll of knocking amongst my processions and went to get it. I returned and read it, a transgression against you, but Agatha’s plaintive cries spurred me to such rash behavior. Much to my surprise the door did not budge. That is quite unusual and quite worrisome.

"Were you in trouble? Had one of your summons gone awry? Had you stared too long into the Abyss and were suffering the consequences? There was one last recourse available. Those with long ties to their familiars are able to scry upon them. I set myself outside of your door, concentrated, and focused my mind’s eye upon my frightened familiar.

"I was able to see her and around her the flagstones of your study floor, beyond that, all was fog. I concentrated with greater effort and the fog was partially dispelled. Only the edge of your carpet revealed itself. I spoke to Agatha, encouraging her to find you. She refused, something she had never done, being courageous, or, perhaps, by default, curious. I commanded her and she reluctantly turned and went off in search of you. My vision, centered on her, and still clouded, added little information.

"Agatha halted and began to meow. She would go no further, despite my command, and despite the risk of raising my ire. She then began to hiss, arch her back, and raise her fur against something I could not see. She had not made it far from the door. I heard your approach. I saw your form appear at the edge of the fog. I then heard you speaking to Agatha. Despite your attempts to soothe her she remained agitated. Knowing you were close to the door I broke off my scrying, rose, and knocked.

"You opened the door, after a suspiciously long delay. There you stood, Agatha in your arms. I was surprised to see this, given her previous state of alarm. You were not, however, surprised to see me. I informed you of my search for Agatha, at which time you placed her in my arms. We said goodnight and I returned to my quarters. I could detect nothing of your work, though I looked eagerly over your shoulder.

"Agatha was dazed and exhausted. The two of us went to bed, but, I admit, neither of us slept. I could not feel her mind. Nor could I encourage her to voice her thoughts. She remained distant and silent, staring into the darkness through half-opened eyes.

"There is a spell, rare and difficult to cast, but known to me, in which one can ‘read’ the memories of one’s familiar. It can be a dangerous spell in that it is easy to become trapped in an animal’s thoughts, for they are so repetitive and of such a simple, immediate nature that to remember the self and return to the self can sometimes elude the caster.

"Despite the risk, I cast this spell and investigated not only that one night’s events but all of Agatha’s memories as they related to you. They were patchy and confused, but here I no longer speak of events unknown to you, for you know well what Agatha witnessed.

"While I may have moral qualms about making contact with that realm beyond knowing, I hesitate to condemn you. We all explore, in our own way, those mysteries that grip our imaginations. Still, whatever knowledge you seek by questioning the Qlippoth—for what else could such an indescribably monstrosity be—and what sense you are able to make of their answers, can it be worth the risk?

"Perhaps I behaved rashly or perhaps seeing Agatha in that state affected me, but I decided that the healing balm of a change of place had become instead a harm and, I worried, a disease of the mind, for the Qlippoth can derange a mind as easily as they can illuminate one (indeed, they may think those two disparate activities one and the same).

"I left that morning without confronting you.

"Agatha remained in her shocked state for days afterwards. I admit, I blamed you, and held a grudge. Now that we are home and she has her obliging mice at hand, or rather paw, I hope she shall come around. I take her current fatigue and listlessness to be the repercussions of stress and travel. I have faith she will fully recover.

"As I said, I have given the entire episode some thought and I must apologize. I—.

"It’s as far as he got, eh?" Said Brunhilda. She looked to Elgin. "What’s a—?" She glanced again at the letter, and being unable—or afraid—to pronounce the name, pointed at it.

Elgin made an attempt. "Qlip-poth?" He shrugged his shoulders. "Maybe Sven will know."

Brunhilda looked around the study. "No Agatha."

"Cats hide." Said Elgin.

"Cats do hide." Said Brunhilda. "We had better find her. Maybe Sven knows that spell Remus spoke of."

"Her memories?" Asked Elgin.

"Aye."

. . .

"No," said Sven Seven Eyes, three days later (Gozreh had willed it).

"Damn," said Brunhilda. "Would’ve been useful."

Sven’s laughter caused her to arch her brows.

"If it’s in one of his spell books, I’ll know it soon enough." He pulled back the tattered edge of his robe, revealing an ermine, that is, a white-furred weasel. "What a treat to read your thoughts," he said to his own familiar. The ermine looked up at him as if daring his master to attempt it. Sven turned to Brunhilda. "Where’s the cat?"

"Must still be in the tower. We never did find her."

"And his spell books?" Asked Sven.

"In his library."

"Well, let us find this frightened cat." He said. He looked to his familiar. "A new friend for you. Do restrain your play. She’s been through a lot."

. . .

Brunhilda unlocked the tower. The trio entered, Sven leading the way. "Rather drafty in here." He observed. "Sure he didn’t die of exposure?"

"Wasn’t this bad before." Said Elgin.

The trio arrived (four, if you count the ermine, as all wizards would) outside of the study. A pronounced wind whistled through the partially open door. Sven pushed it open. "A shame," he said, stepping to the center of the room. He knelt and looked over Agatha. Brunhilda and Elgin peered over his shoulders.

Agatha lay in the exact spot where her master had died (his body having been removed), stretched out on her side. Her front paws were black with ink. Her stomach hung open, her viscera spilled out onto the carpet. An orange slime mingled with her blood. Her eyes were open and if it were possible to judge a cat’s final thoughts by the cast of its death-stilled face, Agatha’s was that of relief.

The trail of slime crossed the carpet to a shattered window, through which a swirl of snow blew. Halfway between Agatha and the window was a second pile of viscera. Sven rose, walked to it, and knelt. "A cast-off skin." He turned and glanced at Agatha. "A second cast-off skin." He picked it up and examined it. "Like that of a squid, albeit with tiny bat’s wings." He set it down, rose, and walked to the window, peering out. He turned to Brunhilda and Elgin, "We’ll need a different spell." He looked at Agatha. "Speak with the dead."