The Redemption of Prisoner 945, Brutavious, and Baaracko

Ferl the gaoler staggered into my tavern stinking of the dungeons, ripe enough that even the Blacksmith playing pegs near the door caught a whiff through his greasy mustache. Ferl left the door open to the cold night winds cutting through the streets of The Capital, earning a scowl from the Blacksmith that died against the gaoler’s back. It was nice to have some fresh air to move the smell of him around, but I gave a tilt of my head to the Smith, who kicked the door shut with a grumble.

When Ferl was on the other side of the oaken slab—shaped by my own hands, thank you—I had to step back to keep my eyes from burning. The smell was unlike anything I’d experienced. If I hadn’t known every face in my tavern that night, I would have sworn on the Codex there was a daemon present. Ferl stared at something between us only he could see, the eyes of a haunted man. Continue reading The Redemption of Prisoner 945, Brutavious, and Baaracko

Dr. Beebo and Loofy

The chiprel named Beebo had barely survived the battle between Maliken and the Sins. His time tethered to that seething brute Wrath by the power of the Grimoire seemed like a fever dream in which he became a different animal, unable to control his behavior.

But it was worth it. It let him feel the power of the book. He had followed that feeling of power to the dark storage room, risking capture or worse from the inhabitants of Hell’s Keep, and found the tome on the floor next to an empty sandstone sarcophagus. He strapped the Grimoire to his back and peeked into the corridor just as Maliken stormed around the far corner. Beebo scurried beneath a pile of monk’s robes stained with crusted blood. Continue reading Dr. Beebo and Loofy