Wrath of the Righteous

I wonder, have you ever been hunted?  I don't mean simply looked-for in the sense of knowing a the husband of a lonely homestead-wife might possibly have misconstrued signs of visitation to his home that might have been missed in the cleanup stage of an assignation.  Instead, I am referring to being hunted in the truest sense, where one's tormentor approaches ever closer with the sole intent to securing itself a fresh meal and a full belly?  I ask this because recent events have reminded me of one of the more amusing events of my childhood, one that passed while I was ripely six years of age.  While I admit that my recollections of the event are faded with the passage of time, and the waxy blur of youthful misunderstanding, I assure you that there is a vividness to what transpired that will be with me forever, and further share that some of what I tell you now was explained, related, or reminded to me some time after the dust - as eventually unaggitated dust is wont to do - had settled.

    I know that I have mentioned uncle Ezzy, and this story does not involve him, at least not directly.  He was an energetic tinkerer whose hand-crafted magical wonders put those of the entire gnomish people to shame.  Indeed, I believe one of the Fifty Shades of Bleach is likely directly attributable to him.  The man himself was nothing if not responsible, and made great effort to ensure that his crafting laboratory was outside of harm's way, or at the least outside of the reach of a six-year-old (and his sister), mostly by storing it on an entirely different plane of existence from the one upon which said youth (and his sister) toddled.  This might strike you as reasonable precaution, but you would be ignorant of one essential factor without which this story would have been summarized as "one day I ate my breakfast" instead of "one day something tried to turn me into breakfast."  That factor's name was Lee, or more frequently "Lee!!!!", squealed with the delight of a dementedly enthusiastic child, and that name was attached to a miniature dragon, about the size of a spoilt society-girl's purse-dog.  Lee was a furiously devout bodyguard, and I will attest that our little leathery friend saved me from many a tumble down stairs and the like over the years, to say nothing of intervening lethally in no less than three assassination attempts that I am aware of.  Yes, yes, of course assassination attempts against me (and my sister), but they aren't important for purposes of this story, or indeed any.

    The important thing about Lee in this instance though isn't his bravery, about which he could tell you much more than I ever could, but rather his curiosity.  You see, over the years, Lee had set upon himself the goal of (repeatedly) penetrating uncle Ezzy's extraplanar boundary, bypassing his wards and traps, and then simply playing with Ezzy's things.  This was done not out of malice, but more of as a way for Lee expressing his infiltration urges in an otherwise peaceful time.

    Well, thing is, one time, Lee took me with him on one of his jaunts.  I don't pretend to know what he did or how, but I am told after the fact that Lee had managed to get his hands on a magical crystal attuned to Ezzy's workshop, and with this he gained us access.  Well, such wonders had never before met my eyes, I tell you.  The coloured liquids in glass bottles and tubes were like intricate squirming mid-air worms of joy, squirting to and fro delightfully.  The repeated flatulence of boiling component broths were as amusing as that of cabbage-eating royalty (which reminds me of a story for another day).  Clockwork machinery finer than my mother's hair writhed about like stacks of brass ants, but entirely more purposeful.  I stood in rapture, visually stunned into a childish stimulation-coma.  That's when Lee knocked a small broach off of a wooden table, declaring that this small act of vandalism should be sufficient to remind Ezzy who was boss.  Problem is, that broach must've done something to us, because everything in the room zipped away into the vast distance, delivering in its place an adult helping of vertigo and nausea.

    Which is when the foul predator that you've been waiting for to make an appearance in this tale to do exactly that.  Its slitted eyes were the first thing we noticed, glaring green hatred and hunger - and it was the hunger that caused me to fill my britches (an event I am shamefully reminded of but cannot personally recall, and suspect may not have actually happened).  It was a giant, hairy monster, which may strike you as not a terribly detailed description, but please understand that at the time I was both six, and starting to run as quickly as I could from its head full of teeth.

    Lee and I fled from the lab, and moments after bursting through the shimmering portal back to the material plane, we found ourselves not on my family lands, but in an unknown vista of passive grasses and primal trees.  He and I raced as a pair, trying to get some sense of location, or shelter.  He - bless him - stayed one step behind me, his whiskers brushing up on my tail as we sprinted for our lives.  It wasn't long, mere moments, and we could smell it.  The foul monster of Ezzy's lab had made its way onto our trail and was stalking us in the giant grasses.  More than once as we fled, there was a dark, fateful motion in the grass, signaling that our tormentor was near - oh so very near - and toying with us.

    Now, my legs at six weren't as hardy as they are now, but fear for one's life will drive one far, and so it was that Lee and I staggered into a massive cave, sheltered from the sunlight.  Perhaps the creature couldn't see as well as we could in the dark.  It was a stupid, childish hope, but at the time I was at least one of those things, so it wasn't unreasonable.  We sought shelter, sliding along the cavern's walls, seeking somewhere small and confined that we could cower in.  Or, more likely for Lee to make a stand in front of and brag about afterwards, but that thought didn't occur to me then.

    After what felt like hours but I'm told was actually less than five minutes, we failed.  We found ourselves cornered and trapped, and more importantly, the monster from the Abyss also found us that way.  It slinked out of the shadows, barely stirring up tiny clouds of dramatic dust beneath its monstrously clawed limbs.  It sucked its body nearer to the floor like a manta ray over the ocean bottom, and we could see its rear legs brace to launch it at us much as if a pair of arbalests had been attached to it.  Its hunger overwhelmed its amusement, and with a silent pounce, the gigantic hairy monster leapt at us, ready to feed.

    I think I've mentioned that as far as dragons go, Lee was somewhat on the diminutive side.  Well, here he was completely out-classed.  He had no business doing what he did, but I'm told there's just no room in his tiny skull for smart, so it evidently makes sense that he counter-charged the coming mouth.  Maybe the ludicrousness surprised the thing.  I don't know.  What I do know is that Lee managed to leap up onto its on-rushing head, and started to claw its eyes out while I shivered and quaked, utterly paralyzed.  Well, this monster didn't like what Lee was doing to its toothy face, because it started to hiss and shake and thrash about like some sort of gnomish steamwork machine trying to extrude an ice-cube (yes, I'm told by reliable sources that they've tried that).  The monster aborted its attack and started trying to shake Lee from its head, to no great effect.  It started rushing to and fro, and then suddenly sprinted off into the darkness, beyond my sight, carrying Lee the whole time.  I heard dreadful noises of combat from the darkness, banging, screeching, scratching noises that didn't begin to hint at what was happening.  Then all was silent for a very long time.  I called out to Lee, but got no response.

    That's when the adults found me, curled up in the corner of one of the homestead's outbuildings, not fifty feet from my bedroom.  Things look more natural when you're not in a panic, and more importantly when adults are around.  Taking stock, I could see the worried faces of my father, auntie Lofwyr, and uncle Ezzy, who looked... ashen.  He said something nonsensical about "the mouse-for-a-day-amulet-wasn't-for-you", but that didn't mean anything to me.

    They started to take me away, mostly shying away from my questions.  I tried to tell them Lee was with me and they needed to look for him, but they seemed to be trying to make sure I didn't see something.  We'd almost cleared the doors to the outside, were almost in the sunlight again when one of them found him.

    Evidently it was alright, because they lost their unhappy-adult-shell attitude.  We found him alright.  He was striking a pose over a the body of a terribly abused dead cat.  He just craned his long reptilian neck up and looked Ezzy in the eye and said something I recall as "noice try, but oim still convinced the moice ah fakin' bein' bad at foitin."

    That was the last time we snuck in the lab but hardly the last time we got into things we shouldn't've.

                  It is an old observation that a child inherits equally from both parents, in demeanor, appearance, interest, and wisdom.  Certainly in my case the admittedly obscure equestrian adage that “the foal of legendary lineage is birthed running” has proved true.  At various times I have been told my eyes may well have been stolen from my mother, and that my reportedly “strong” nose is a peak from the same mountain range as my father’s.  Similarly, it has been noted that I am possessed of both my sire’s dry wit and the Duchess’s inconsistent dedication to following rules.  Or is the other way around?

                  Regardless, I have my parents to thank for having provided me the tools to survive what the untitled are invariably surprised to learn is the hardest part of being noble.  I speak of… relationships.  Yes, yes, I realize how saying that supports the popular view that those of us with titles are spoiled, soft, and undeserving.  I won’t argue that point as it has some merit, and in the case of some of my peers more than merely some.  Still, I would ask that you hear me out, for here is a situation not immediately visible from its outside.

                  My father told me when I was about nine, that it was “of utmost importance that I conduct myself with dignity and respect at all times, bar none” with regard to the female children of his peers.  He repeatedly made emphasis upon this point, that of all of the esoteric rules of comportment, this one was ultimate.  I was made to understand that while an unfortunate misuse of a terrapin fork outside of soup consumption might be considered forgotten after an appropriately vivid thrashing was administered, rudeness, crassness, or any of a number of other nesses in the presence of noble girls could never be.  Interestingly, I learned from my sister that a similar but entirely more complicated pair of codes-of-conduct applied to her and other female titled, one each towards male and female peers.  Only male-to-male interaction amongst nobles is straightforward (or so one would think).

                  Similarly my mother gave me dire advice, yet hers was of a more practical and comprehensible nature.  She informed me that most of the girls I would meet over the impending years would be “gold-digging harpies” or “wanton harlots” (which didn’t sound all that bad to me, mind you), seeking to bleed the family dry of money, influence, and reputation.  I was warned that they would most likely claim to birth me a host of strong, healthy sons and beautiful graceful daughters who would in truth owe their hale or slender frames to local cobblers, smiths, or artisans, and that I should under no circumstance trust any of them, excepting the rarest impossible gems, such as my mother.

                  It is possible that once again I have imperfectly recalled which parent offered me which specific wisdom, but the point remains that I was made to understand that relationships between nobles are a complicated, treacherous game that nobody leaves intact.  So let us recall then, some of the memorable individual encounters of love that shall linger in my mind until the day I die.

                  One of the earliest attempts at match-testing involved the daughter of a man known to aunt Lofwyr, whose name shall remain beyond the scope of this story.  Indeed, the name of the young lady involved is also one that calls for delicacy and discretion, since the world is as of yet unaware that she exists, let alone who her father is.  So, for purposes of protecting the innocent, we shall simply call her Princess Abrogail Thrune the Third, and consider our subterfuge complete.  Now, let it be said that at age nine, being provided a play-friend who was a girl (understand that my sister isn’t a girl… she’s… my sister!) was an aberrant state of affairs.  That the girl in question was three years my younger would normally have made the situation absurd as well, however the instructions of my parents were clear.  Be civil.  Get along.  Or else.

                  Our first play-date was a disaster of epic proportion.  I’m sure that to everyone but me, a session of Serving Tea To Guests couldn’t possibly be anything dire.  Suffice it to say, leaving us unobserved was a mistake.  Things started innocently enough.  There were five seats at the table.  Mine, one for the Princess, and three that were occupied by dolls that arrived along with said royal, in addition to the appropriately-sized play table (and chairs), tea set, cutlery, table dressing, linens, and a teak chest containing a more varied selection of teas than my parents stocked.  I gritted my teeth and made a point of memorizing the names of our guests: Mr. Perkins, Ketarexisnemistarins (!), and Sibyl.  The Princess told me little of the first two, but the third she went on at great energetic length regarding, and I was left with the impression that the doll was somehow personally responsible for most of the ills in the world.  Once introductions were made, so too was the table, and fortunately this was territory I was familiar with, so I was able to avoid any exceptional gaffes.

                  When one has seen to the table, and seen to seating one’s visitors, one must next turn to the actual tea when it comes time to play Serving Tea To Guests, or so I was told.  Honestly, I didn’t need to be told this, but I had been coached that noble women feel empowered when educating their mentally-stunted male titled peers, so I pretended I was unaware of the logical progression this game would inevitably take.  An excruciating half-hour passed like a kidney-stone, while the Princess named several dozen different teas from her teak chest, and explained their geographic and botanical origins, as well as any associated trivia such as suspected medicinal/poisonous uses.  She was six, and I was mentally chanting “kill me now”, which in retrospect was perhaps unwise.

                  You see, once the five of us had arrived at consensus as to which leaf blend we should partake of (note: my preference was unanimously out-voted by the Princess and her three guests), it became time to actually brew the damned stuff.  It transpired that the Princess had – excuse me, expected to have but did not actually have – amongst her many, many things, some sort of magical heating disc which could transmute our mundane water into boiling water.  This disc turning out to be absent was somewhat… vexatious I understood from the simple fact that the Princess became abruptly vexed, and I struggled to remain dignified amongst the armory of sharp language that then ensued.  Yet, as quickly as the storm of anger and frustration had blown into our party, so too did it rapidly disperse, its fury spent.  The Princess simply choked off a string of exotic language and cocked her head to one side.  I was reassured as she informed me to be and I was nothing if not pliable.  She had a plan that would “fix everything, as always”, and all I had to do was hold her hand, and that of one of her dolls – excuse me, that of one of our guests, and recite some poetry she had learned.

                  I am credited with having not broken composure in the sight of female nobility when we promptly summoned a small red devil who (at the Princess’s behest) boiled the tea water, scratched offensive sigils into the table top (not at the Princess’s behest, it should be noted), and set fire to the East wing of my home (it is unclear to me whose behest did or did not play into this).  I am credited with little else, but I will always be proud that I remembered my lessons at that moment and offered the Princess my elbow, saying “my dear lady, it occurs to me at this time that there is perhaps a leafy plant growing amongst our garden that might be of some insignificant benefit as an addition to your tea collection, and I would be delighted to escort you there.”  Wordy, yes, and I was coughing rather badly towards the end, but all in all I believe well-done, and not a thing that the untitled will ever understand a boy of nine would need to know.

                  Perhaps let us close this story here, and leave other ladies for other nights.  Achem.

                  It seems to me fitting to take a moment to linger upon one of the most epic individuals in my life, and share her with you as if by proxy.  Recent events have reminded me just how uniquely special my mother is, and I will therefore take this time to pay tribute to her.  You see, the recent arrival of my longtime companion Pervenche is – to me – not a mere coincidence, but it is the result of distant machination undertaken by a caring yet worried mother.  Certainly, my winged friend Perv claims to have flown thousands of miles for the purposes of completing the latest gambit in a game we have played since our mutual youths, and I do believe this to be true, but I find myself wondering… who reminded her whose turn it was to tag, after a six year hiatus?

                  My father was an “adventurer” before becoming ennobled and landed.  My aunt still is, and probably remain so for years after she eventually passes due to old age, purely out of stubbornness.  Their friends are, or were mostly adventurers.  It’s all sword-swinging, spell-slinging, mayhem-embracing world-saving do-goodery ‘round my family circles.

That’s the most trivial way in which my mother defies the norm amongst our clan; she hasn’t to my knowledge spent one night sleeping in a tavern on her way to fight a wyvern.  Not once has she spent an afternoon in a town, carrying a bag of looted gently-used weapons and armor from vendor to vendor trying to sell them for more than half they are worth.  (Indeed, I suspect she might succeed where we never do.)  She doesn’t carry any potion bottles on her person, and – so I am told – she doesn’t carry a greataxe while making use of the privy.  She has never even been chased through a sewer-maze beneath a long-lost necropolis embedded in the side of a volcano.  Really, who hasn’t?!?

Despite that, one would never consider applying the word “normal” to my mother.  Simply being married to the Duke for so many years sets her into a category of patience that is bordering on divinely-inspired.  Understand, I love my father, but I have literally witnessed him frustrate a solar (I suspect you are aware they are an especially potent breed of angels, but for the benefit of any less-educated listeners who may be eavesdropping at the moment, I highlight that fact) into tears, while performing a service for it, precisely as requested.  Some would say that he is a difficult man, but it’s my mother that realizes there’s a better word for him, one she uses frequently: impossible.  And yet she not only remains, but excels, and most often dominates.

My name is an excellent example of that dominance.  My father is something of a traditionalist.  There are perfectly good reasons why convention amongst his family demands a certain structure be adhered to when naming a child.  His given name is Loftis.  My aunt’s name is Lofwyr.  My sister is Brenlofwen while I am Lofdynn.  Without digressing into discussion of why this is done, the pattern should be evident.  I am told that while my mother humoured my father once, in the case of my sister’s name, she used the intervening years between children to plan and plot.  When I was born, instead of launching an argument with the Duke, she apparently surrendered, offering as compromise, that I be given a middle name.  My father, being blind to all things mother, accepted this, satisfied that tradition would reign supreme.  It was only after I was actually born that he learned that if a mother uses a nickname or reductive nominative with her newborn, staff, friends, and family will all follow suit and what the child’s papers say becomes irrelevant.  And so I am known as Riario in all matters not legal, formal, or father.

There are simple folk such as you or I, who merely do things.  We spend our days operating on a level of almost animal intelligence.  If we see a band of ogres razing a farmhouse, we flex our muscles so our sword swings, and make the ogres stop.  If we see an artifact of great evil fall from the sky into a settlement of innocents, we cast a few spells to isolate, neutralize, and remove that artifact.  Usually we follow up to undo the damage that has been done.  All the while bards struggle to rhyme our exploits, and sing praise.  Still, this is little different from a fox which sees its hunger as a problem to be remedied and sneaks into a chicken coop.  What we do is… straightforward work.

My mother is a mother, which alone implies an exceptional quality of person, but beyond that, she is an enabler.  Certainly, it is father who negotiates a peaceful resolution when two of his vassals have an argument over livestock ownership.  (This is a common-enough issue amongst the titled at our level that there is a term for it: “two serfs, one goat”.)  Still, it is mother that sees to it that the Duke’s socks match while he negoatiates that peace.  Yes, yes, my apologies for the pun... I am unfit for civilized discourse I know.

The Duchess explained it to me thus: a leader must be respected to hold true authority, and to be taken seriously, that leader must first demonstrate that they in turn can take things seriously.  In the case of the sock situation, it is her view that people notice carelessness of personal grooming, and suspect that very carelessness might reasonably be expected to leak into more important dealings than footwear.  It is this sort of thing, having the wisdom to see there is more to adjudicating a livestock dispute than merely evaluating the merits of the respective claims, that is her specialty.  Every day, without fail there are dozens of events, decisions, and issues that take place in a household that it transpires are critical to its effectiveness.  Yet most of us straightforward “banish the evil cultist to an extraplanar prison until he repents” type people simply don’t see these matters.

My mother knows all.  Sees all.  Understands all.  And she cares about all.

So, my story this week is simply to say that I love my mother and if that doesn’t seem as epic a use of story-time as my prior tales, I don’t know how to fix you.  Though I’m sure she would.

I find myself in a rare moment of introspection, realizing that it is possible that some of what I have told could leave the impression that my life has been one exceptionally lengthy string of unlikely successes.  It wouldn’t be appropriate to deny that an unfair distribution of karma has been in effect, gracing me with access to riches, influence, and comfort, as well as – more importantly – allies, wisdom, and opportunity.  Nonetheless, some of the most powerful formative experiences are those wherein we do not reach the goals we strive for.  The losses, failures, and shames influence who we are and where we are every bit as much as does lunch with the avatar of a deity.  Sorry, what?  No, that would be a story for another night as it would clash with tonight’s rather badly.

Have you ever met a child?  They are much like people, except smaller and more energetic.  Basically, take a typical fey – say a pixie – and apply some sort of decade-long temporal acceleration effect and you’ve got all the important traits to represent a standard-issue child.  Let me share with you one of the great mysteries of the cosmos.  Children all over the world, who have never met one another, who have had no communication with one another, without fail pass through a phase during which they know what they will be “when they grow up”.  How it is that two children separated by a continental land-mass, sharing no language or cultural background can be counted upon to exhibit this phase – without being taught – is baffling.  My personal theory is that children share one giant hive-mind which they lose access to once they reach their teens, and it is the trauma of this loss that transforms them into their next stage, wherein they become assholes (this is a clinical term devoid of offense, I assure you) for a half-decade before finally becoming fully developed people.

Understand this all also happened to me.  I – naturally – don’t remember the hive-mind part, but I certainly recall passing through a protracted asshole stage.  That isn’t important, but what is important is that I too suffered the premonition phase.  While my contemporaries were proudly declaring “I’m going to be a wih-zurd” to anyone who would listen in between chewing on furniture or drooling on relatives, or whatever other age-appropriate behaviour they were exhibiting, I… did not.  Oh no.  Anyone could learn how to cast a fireball… all you need to do is stop picking your nose and eating dirt long enough to study some books, then wiggle your fingers and poof.  Literally.  No, my calling was different, and I made that very clear to my bemused and tolerant parents.  “I”, I declared “intend to take the robes and the sword, to become a warrior-priest adherent of the Inheritor, Iomedae.”  I am told that this declaration sounded to all who heard it more like “wanna wack baddies like Yomaday”, but my family’s recollection of pivotal events is notoriously suspect.

Having delivered my declaration clearly and unequivocally, I proceeded to take critical steps towards my goal.  I insisted that I only be dressed in white, with yellow trim.  My sister informs me that I was – for a time – misled into believing that orange trim was Iomedae’s actual favorite and that the church was simply ill-informed, but then, she has always enjoyed teasing me, so this too may be untrue.  Or true, given who might’ve been doing the misleading.  Regardless, I proudly carried with me a wooden “longsword” (actually a practice-dagger), from which I was inseparable.  Bath-day I’m told was particularly amusing as evidently my divine weapon sometimes also did double-duty as a pirate ship in my mind’s world of fantasy.

Still, I knew what I needed, and while the early years were full of silly childish obsession and lip-service without understanding, the calling did not ebb for me.  My friends all discarded their wizard phases, passed through their summoner phases (what kid doesn’t want an extraplanar dinosaur best-friend?), coerced their parents to buy them musical bard instruments, and finally settled on “King of everything” (or, as appropriate, “Queen of everything”).  For me, that didn’t happen.  Not – I admit – that I actually studied the copies of The Acts that were gifted to me.  While the illustrations were riveting, the text itself I found somewhat… disinteresting and frankly missing the point.  It wasn’t particularly interesting what she had done, and where, and when, and with whom, and without whom, and for what reason, and yada yada Aroden this, that, or the other.  You see, I still knew my fate.

I have to tell you that I honestly believed that I did not need to put any effort into this future of mine.  Despite the advice of pretty much everyone, I felt that when the time was right, I would simply take up the sword and start cleansing the world of evil in her name.  She would bless me with heavenly magics, and I would cure death with my touch.  All around me there would be shining light, and nobody would ever need to fear, or cry, or suffer, or hurt.  Babies would all be born with the proper number of heads, crops would never fail, and cruel twisted monster races would fade into history as my arm delivered her wrathful justice upon all that deserved it.  I would simply wake up one day and feel her inside me, telling me how to be all that she needed me to be.

Did.  Not.  Happen.

As part of the process of assembling an actual life out of the shambles that I’d made of mine during the asshole phase, I began to recognize that I was perhaps not simply entitled to act as the Inheritor’s fist on Golarion without putting in some effort.  Older and wiser, my desire, my burning need to serve her was undiminished.  It was simply time to work out the details of the inevitable, and to formalize the relationship.  I had no question in my mind that I had work to do.  That evil still walked our world was unacceptable, and it was beyond the appropriate moment to end it all.  So I dropped in at the Seventh Church in Absalom and volunteered.

Imagine my surprise when – after perhaps a half-hour interview – I was told in simple yet kind words that my service was not accepted.  Imagine the usual.  Denial?  Certainly.  Anger?  Absolutely.  Bargaining?  Sadly, yes.  Depression?  Most likely ongoing.  Acceptance?  Not yet.  Perhaps not ever.

Understand that I was informed that there is simply some quality about me that Iomedae does not condone.  “It’s you, not me.”  It doesn’t matter how badly I wish to do her work, how badly I wish to feel her blessing course through my veins, how badly I wish to give myself to her service.  The answer is an unequivocal – and I’m told permanent – no.  A god does not want me.  The only god that matters – as far as I’m concerned – does not want me.  I am simply inadequate, undesired, unwanted.

I suspect my subsequent choices in life have been coloured by this rejection.  I suspect they always will be.  The Inheritor may not want me, but my yearning is eternal.

I confess that so far I have told you a number of stories which speak more of the things that have happened to – and around – me.  So many words that have not conveyed much about their speaker beyond “is a Mommy’s boy” – of which fact I thank you for the continual reminding, Smith.  It seems that tonight it might be a good item for me to share some of the less-than-adorable truths that apply to me.  If you will indulge me, I would take this moment to sweep aside the curtains and illuminate the stage of my life properly for the first time.

There was a time not nearly enough years ago for comfort, when I was something of a scoundrel.  This isn’t a matter of public record – I was never caught in my more epic acts of mischief – but neither is it the sort of thing that those closest to me are unaware of.  Indeed, for a time my parents went to the expense of hiring a pair of “specialists” to follow and observe me, to ensure that I did not cross any lines from beyond which there is no return.  I am lightly ashamed to admit that I was successfully tailed for months by a pyromaniac goblin Queen and her companion, without my knowledge.  I have been told I am less than observant.

Apologies, what?  No, the pyromaniac goblin Queen is not the mother of the Princess with the exploding tea set, as much sense as that might have made.

Now, it bears stating that at no point have I considered the suffering of others to be entertaining.  Pain, hurt, and harm are now - and have always been - unamusing pastimes in my mind.  That said, humiliation, frustration, and irritation are definitely qualities I have enjoyed sharing with suitable targets in the past.  It started small – unsealed water bladders under tutors’ seat-pillows to soak their pantaloons, for instance.  And really, that self-important ponce was more than overdue for comeuppance regardless of my current enlightened viewpoint.  How can a teacher of history be so fooled not once, not twice, but six weeks in a row and expect his lessons to be taken seriously by his charges?  Having my ass tanned was entirely worth the joy of seeing his soaked as if he’d pissed himself, repeatedly.  Heh.

I am told that the problem at its heart was one of “lack of respect”.  Supposedly for anyone, or so I was told.  Well, as it happens I was not entirely convinced that those doing the telling were in any way qualified to speak on the topic of my respect, or lack thereof.  In hindsight I have come to recognize there is a certain undeniable accuracy in their observation, and have made my (extensive) apologies (and peace) with Mother, Father, Aun’loffy, Izzy, Ezzy, Uncurl, and those others to whom I was unconscionably rude.  Not so much Bren (to newcomers, I speak of my dear sister, of whom I am in no way jealous because Mother obviously loves me more), but really she had no need for an apology from me since she could (and did) instead extract sibling-rivalry-fueled revenge.  Not to beat too far off the path of the story I working my way through, but this would be an opportune moment to mention that the Duke has in recent years sold off most of the best family livestock.  Be reassured that this has almost certainly been done without intent to suggest that need for dear Bren’s dowry is in any way… unlikely.  Also heh.

Anyway, while the earliest signs of my malfeasance were simply exaggerated teasing, things certainly escalated in my teens.  I believe the Duchess at one point threatened to hold me a “sociopathic sixteen” party, but I certainly did not let her scorn bother me.  One of the hobbies that I and the “bad crowd” that I had fallen in with discovered and excelled at was the art of “ironic relocation”.  Where any street urchin or noble could merely steal things to increase their estate, there was no artistry or attraction in theft for personal gain.  Our game was one of theft for the purpose of social commentary.  We were sophisticated.  A campaign of day and night appropriate was undertaken, wherein my daring peers and I would snake our way into unlikely and forbidden areas, then make off with precious and “important” items, only to later place them in another area where they were inevitably discovered and determined to be “inappropriate”.

Friends, you may be somewhat shocked and distressed to learn that I am in possession of the very hand that gripped the ever-lubricated sacred dildo of Calistria and caused it to be found stuck by copious (and artistically applied) sovereign glue to one of the final blade guillotines in Isarn.  Yes, Isarn in Galt, and yes, when I refer to the final blades, I refer to the preferred means of government-sanctioned execution in that esteemed nation.  And also yes, Pervenche, I will remind everyone your branch of the family is from Galt, and no, I won’t forget my promise to tell everyone you helped in that caper.  Dear listeners, Pervenche helped with the relocation of the sacred dildo onto the chopping block, making the political statement every bit as much hers as ours.  Not, admittedly, that any of us were able to explain afterward precisely what the statement was, but given it alluded to genital mutilation, I am sure at the time it was quite serious, if subtle enough that we have forgotten it with time.

From this event, there was a trend towards increasing recklessness, risk, and disrespect, yet none was sufficient cause for actual intervention.  My family were beside themselves with worry (and in one case literally so, thanks to mirror image [how that happened I have never quite understood given it can only be cast upon one’s self]) over the massive threat to the good standing and reputation of the family.  Or that I might disgrace myself, make an enemy, and get killed while nobody had raise dead prepared, but as I was fond of saying at the time, “whatever”.  From this playful tweaking the noses of the rich, powerful, and/or devout, we made a horribly unwise, irresponsible and shortsighted if short-lived escalation towards doing something meaningful.

It’s hard to recognize a well-meant tragic mistake while one is in the process of making it, especially if one is less than observant.  So it was that a plan was hatched to perform an “ironic relocation” that might have the potential to do more than twist faces.  While the inevitable mixture of grins and grimaces were the coin that we lived to be paid in, we began to hunger for a more epic reward appropriate to a more epic result.  We wanted to make a change.  It crossed someone’s mind that if messing with the temples of Good (or at least Neutral) gods was amusing, surely interfering with the operation of secret conclaves of Evil cultists would be helpful.  So it was that the plan was incubated, hatched, regurgitated into the mouth of, taught to fly, and launched from the nest.

A temple of Zon-Kuthon was chosen as our target.  Surely you are familiar with the image of the Kuthites… they are hardly possible to mistake.  Basically take dear Bene here and paint her face with a sneer and you’ve pretty much got a typical acolyte of the Dark Prince.  What?  You are listening?  Who know?  Well, it seemed a sensible and reasonable act to sneak a small team into a “secret” torture-chamber/temple of a Kuthite cult and appropriate something rather nasty, powerful, and transportable.  I am comfortable irreverently referencing the Calistridong by proper name or any other mocking moniker but this thing… is undeserving of remembrance.  The depredations of man are without limit when it comes to inflicting pain upon one another, and I will not glorify it by describing the thing we stole.  Suffice it to say that steal it we did.

The plan was executed without flaw, unlike Festiche Gerargeau of Woodsedge, who was literally able to thank divine phallic intervention for delaying his in Litran long enough for fresh evidence to earn him a massively rare last-minute reprieve.  You are welcome, Festiche, wherever you are.  We planted the thing we liberated from the followers of Zon-Kuthon where it could do no harm; a nearby temple of Irori was chosen as its new resting place.  To be fair, that place looked and smelled much more like a gymnasium than a place of worship, but our research assured us that if we hid the nasty item there, it would be defended.

Unfortunately, it was indeed defended.  It needed to be, because somehow the Kuthites were able to determine where their horrid crime of an object was resting.  Divination wasn’t something we had truly thought about.  The cultists descended upon the… oh let’s just go ahead and call the gymnasium what it was and be done with it… gymnasium in the middle of a moonless night nearly a week after we hid our target.  We were not there to witness what transpired, but news spread.

The Kuthites stormed the gymnasium and caught most of the Iroran monks asleep as they had no expectation of trouble.  Still, they rallied and fought back against the well-prepared raiding party, never knowing why.  Professional bards have earned their night’s room and board singing of the bloody battle that took place that night.  The battle that left every one of the Iroran defenders dead and shattered.  The battle that ended only when the town guard arrived, running off the few Kuthites that remained able to run.  The battle that led to a week-long investigation, the discovery of a hidden something evil, and its relocation to somewhere we don’t know about, or if truth be told care about.

Yes, we deprived an evil cult their sadistic tool of corruption.  Yet equally yes we killed nearly a dozen innocent worshippers of Irori, each of whom died without knowing why they were fighting.  We made a mistake that cost lives.  Good lives.  Deserving lives.

Perhaps under other circumstances our mistake wouldn’t have given me the perspective I needed to recognize… oh my… a very large number of wise truths that I will not waste your time by reciting tonight.  Sometimes the things you do not know or think of are the things that matter the most.  Indeed, I am sure that under most other circumstances the Iroran massacre would have presented but a temporary setback in our crusade to fix the world one prank at a time.

That time though, the circumstance that mattered was that I had ascended to be the ringleader of our little gang of troublemakers.  It was my idea, my plan, and my orders that put all of it into motion.  Like Calistria’s lubricant, the blood was on my hands.

I am a different man today.  What we did – what I had us do – was done without thought, but with good intent.  I regret that day.  But without that day I wouldn’t know how to behave like a civilized man this day.

Rue the past, but hold its lessons close to you heart for they will guide your path in the future.

Lady Arueshalae, if it pleases you, I ask you to kindly set aside a period of time late in the evening of the upcoming Redemption Day celebration, during which I shall request your accompaniment on a trip of minimal mystery, moderate significance, and extensive distance.

-

Thank you for accepting my invitation.  Tonight, if you are willing, I would take you to not one but two places that are of some importance, at least to me.  It seems to me that time is due for me to be somewhat more… forthcoming than usual with you, and that since we are both gamblers at heart, let us throw the dice and see if this time together is perhaps of benefit to us both.

Before we go, I’d like to share with you something minor, yet at the same time major.  Regarding my name, it is with a small shame that I admit I have been somewhat evasive and misleading, to you, and to all those at Drezen you have met.  I have led you all to believe that the latter portion of my name is the preferred mode of address, with “Lofdynn” being a nominative only held onto by my stubborn father.  In truth, while I am almost exclusively referred to in public as “Riario”, that part of my name is actually the insignificant portion.  You see, names have power, and the true name of a person holds power over that person.  It was long ago decided to allow it to be assumed that I identify by the name “Riario”, as preparation for the event that some day I might be the target of some malicious magical attack dependent on that identity.  I would be pleased if you would understand that – between us – I do not identify by that name.  It is not who I am.  When and if we speak via your telepathy, you are welcome to use my correct name, but please, share this with no one.

That revelation aside, if you would take my hand, I will now take you – hopefully in one attempt – to prison.  Yes, prison.  Trust me?  Excellent.

<<Harrowstone Prison, Ravengro, Ustalav>>

                  Wonderful, this is exactly the place, got it in one.  Yes, I know, it’s more than a bit dingy.  Truth is, it’s a lot worse than that, but rest assured we will not be staying long, mostly because the place is rather nastily haunted.  Scads of creepy undead, hungry for the souls of the living, damned for eternity and trapped in this place by their wickedness.  This place really, really is nasty and we definitely should not be here.  Delicious, is it not?

                  Yes, the walls are covered in soot, but it’s for a very good reason; this prison suffered a rather tragic fire over fifty years ago, but I’ll tell you about that shortly.  I have brought you here for two reasons, both of which are of a personal nature.  One is easy to explain, one less so.

                  Firstly, I brought you here specifically to take you away once again afterward.  It is a symbolic act, but I feel that it is an important one.  You see, people build prisons to separate the very wicked from society, to punish them for their wrongs.  This is done with the intent to educate and reform the prisoners.  If a sentence in a place like this is horrid enough, the expectation is that should a prisoner survive their sentence, they will have no strong desire to repeat it, thereby changing their very nature, encouraging them to act more acceptably.  In truth, there is no evidence that this technique actually works, but it certainly does keep unpleasant people away from those they might prey upon, which is something.

                  Pardon me, we need to relocate somewhat… the residents appear to have noticed us.

                  Now, bluntly put, Arueshalae, you have confessed to me that you have committed acts of violence and crime that were they undertaken by a human, or an elf, would result in a life-long one-way trip to a place like this one at best.  If an orc or a goblin had the same blood on its hands that you do, they would never make it as far as a prison, but would instead be put down like a rabid dog.  Your case, due to your blood, is beyond that even.  And yet…

                  And yet I have not convened court on you.  I have instead sheltered you within my current household, offering you welcome and friendship.  I know – from your own words – that you are having trouble understanding what motivates me, and I confess I am uncomfortable with that, and so we are here.  Simply, prisons exist to reform.  Death sentences exist to eliminate.  Both exist to prevent further crime.  It is my belief that there is no need for either prison or death in your case, because reformation has already taken place.  There you have it.  Punishment would be… idiotic, harming the person you have become, not the one you were.

                  My, those look ghastly… time to move again.

                  Now, that dreary bit of seriousness done with, I would like to explain the larger reason why I have brought you to a prison.  You see, someone was incarcerated within these walls when they burned, and that someone was rather important to my family.  There was a demon held herein, unknown to most.  My family hasn’t been able to piece together many of the details as most of those who knew anything of the matter were murdered long before we came to asking questions.  Suffice it to say that we’ve tried, and the trail proved cold.

                  This demon wasn’t much like you at all.  It was – I am told – significantly taller than you, had more arms, and had a halitosis problem that literally caused its spittle to dissolve things.  Long story short, there was a prison break here, which went very, very awry, and during the fire that killed so many, ruining the place, this demon was somehow let free.  Not very long after that, it found its way to where my father, aunt, and grandfather made home, proceeded to slay the latter, and very nearly did so to father and auntie.

                  Ah, one last move and then we can leave.

                  Here.  This is the cell where it was held.  This is the place it should have been, instead of killing my grandfather.  These are the walls that should have been restraining it from coming so close to murdering my father, and thereby ensuring that I never could have been born.  This is the room that failed us, and is why I never got to meet someone so important to my family.  This is a sad place.  I wanted to take you to a sad place so you could see me sad.  And so I am.

                  Your hand again please.

<<Anonymous farm, unspecified>>

                  I would like to take a small moment to gloat, for not only have I brought us to the vicinity I had intended, but my aim was so true that I have managed to land us on the very tree branch I planned.  Thank you, thank you, praise and adoration appreciated.  Please, you are making me blush.  No, you need not stop just yet.  Heh.

                  So, seriously, I really meant to land us in this tree.  I have spent rather a lot of time, right here, where we are now, just watching the fields.  This is my tree, and my place.  When I was only a little boy, this was my secret castle, my fiefdom.  It did not matter that everyone else knew about it, and that they would send for me here, to bring me to mealtime.  It was still a secret, for in my mind it was more than they could ever see.  Hours of daydreaming, imagining what it would be like to be a King, or an Emperor, or a Jarl.  Leader of men and loved my all, that was me, imagine that.  In my mind, tales unfolded of daring acts of bravery and self-worth.  Here, I was at the heart of a great empire that stood only because I was special, and kind, and good, and… because I had crushed the enemies of civilization.  There were rather a lot of those stories in my head.  Crush, crush.  Heroically cleaving the unworthy and unclean in twain.  Not that I knew what “twain” meant at the time, but the point remains.

This is the tree where I served her, in my mind.  Today I find myself leading men and doing the work I only imagined back then, and while I do it the way I can, while in my head I am serving her cause, it somehow does not live up to the dreams and hopes of this tree.  This is the tree where everything was perfect, instead of merely almost everything.  This tree is a happy place.  I wanted to take you to a happy place so you could see me happy.

Your hand one last time, if you would, friend.

And so I am.

Much like any other destination, nobility is one that – surprisingly – can be arrived at from along a number of paths.  The most obvious is that of birthright, or inheritance, and while that is the path that applies to my titles, the story is somewhat more unconventional – and interesting – if you turn back the pages beyond its start and try to read what came before.  You see, my father, the Duke of Portello did not acquire that title as a hand-me-down from some unfortunately deceased ancestor.  In fact as far as I have been able to learn he was lowborn, though I am not entirely convinced of this fact.  The truth is that the titles, land, and responsibilities that my family has had placed in their hands are the product of a practical joke, the practicality of which has turned out to be remarkable.

                  As I understand the circumstances, my aunt, brother to my father, found herself in possession of a rather valuable artifact of some considerable historical import.  This object was imbued with a set of qualities that made it highly imprudent to allow the thing to be made available to most of those who could afford it.  In short, the thing was a very powerful evil item and so it was that my aunt and her companions found themselves selling it to the Pathfinders, who were willing and – supposedly – able to ensure that it would not be used.  Her contact within the Society evidently had some inexplicable trouble making payment in the usual coin: coin.  Instead he offered to reward my aunt with a duchy that had recently been made available due to the – stories diverge at this point – sudden death, removal, resignation, desertion, or vanishing of its ruler.  Some intimation was made that the local populace was somewhat perturbed and untrusting of the aristocracy, and that the appointment of a common yet capable person would quell some alluded-to uprising.

                  I am unsure if my aunt actually forged my father’s signature, or if it was simply possible for her to place his name on the writ, and I am equally unsure if those stamping it into law simply did not care what name it held.  The end result was that on one bright morning (which my memory tells me fell upon my father’s birthday), Aunt Lofwyr arrived at our modest home with a glint in her eye, a scroll in her hand, and a bounce in her step.  I was physically present when she announced that she had acquired a gift for her dear brother, yet my ears were covered by my mother’s hands for most of his reaction to the news that he had been titled.

                  The point I wish to make is that for a number of years, our lives were normal, and we had no need or cause to fear or worry, because we were not in any way visible targets for the envy, anger, or hatred of anyone of means.  And then – suddenly – we were.

                  There is an exceptional violation implicit in the act of hiring a contract-killing.  It is entirely different from a bar-fight or combat on the battlefield, or even an attack from a marauding monster or highwayman.  Those are all life-or-death struggles wherein the opponent is visible, identifiable, understandable, and can be dealt with in any of a number of permanent means.  Options available include bribery, magical compulsion, overwhelming force, negotiation, or evasion.  One way or another, if one finds one’s self in the unfortunate circumstance that their life is at risk in these ways, there are options.            Assassination is a matter of completely different nature.

                  Interestingly, the first killer who came for my family was not a jealous peasant, or an angered supplicant unhappy with a ruling my father had made.  Nor were they someone he had insulted, or a person who had been eyeing our lands.  In fact the first attempt on our lives was made on religious grounds.  It transpired that my aunt – yes, the same one – had inflicted some minor indignity upon Orcus, the Demon Prince (in person, no less), thereby earning his eternal (give or take) ire.  While the precise nature of this insult is unknown to me, Aun’loffy has deigned to inform me that it stemmed from her “royally kicking his pathetic evil ass”, so I suppose an attempt to murder her loved-ones is unsurprising.  Just so you understand the circumstances.

                  That time was a surprise, and it was through a confluence of luck and skill that the would-be killer was thwarted.  The second time was somewhat expected, yet luck still played a major factor in enabling me to be present here tonight, relating the story.  After that, we became wise, and invested in our protection, yet it turns out that the capacity of demigods to pay people to cause our deaths was impressive.  Over time our funds were depleted, but more importantly, so was our quality of life.  We were worried entirely too much of the time.  None of us could travel without guards, meaning alone-time was impossible.  Trust was a matter of luxury that was ill-afforded, meaning that we were suspecting betrayal from nearly any avenue.  This was a very dark time for us, living in fear.

                  It was only marginally better than dying in fear, after a few months.  Each of us had at some point been home to the morbid thought of surrendering to the relentless waves of murderers.  The amateurs were endurable, but the professionals which seemed drawn from endless pools of evil slowly whittled down our will to live a life of constant expectation of imminent death.

                  Fortunately my aunt did something about the matter and the attempts were definitively stopped.  The contract was retracted and the Demon Price of the Undead evidently made it known that our line was officially off-limits.  How exactly she blackmailed Orcus… no, that fails to express the degree my ignorance.  How even approximately she blackmailed Orcus into leaving us alone remains one of the many secrets that my aunt has elected to not share with me, though I believe my sister may have been involved in the process.  If ever you find yourself asking the question “are you in any way jealous of your sister”, you need look no further than this event for your answer.

                  Living with the knowledge that someone has placed a price on your head is a horrible thing.  It is an attack upon your safety which is difficult – but not impossible – to counter or combat, because you never know who, when, or how an attempt is going to be made.  It is a condition that blinds you to your enemies’ whereabouts, and deafens you to their footfalls.

The only real way to deal with the situation is to stay alive and sane long enough to find its cause and apply enough pressure to break out from its oppression.  I have faced this evil before, and it is one of my least favorites.

"Knock.  Knock."

"No, no, you are supposed to ask 'who is there?', not simply say 'come in'.  It is a traditional opening to a classic series of jokes.  You see, you ask 'who is there', and I say 'owlbear', and you ask 'owlbear who?' and I answer 'no, owlbears growl' and we both laugh.  Or possibly not."

"Yes, well, this tradition is in place to help 'break the ice', which is not an insinuation that a circumstance is frigid, but rather that at the start of a conversation there is sometimes something of an obstacle which is transparent yet undeniably in the way, yet both parties can see through it and could resolve the circumstance with the application of only a modicum of force.  Which is how an ice-breaker works, you see.  It is something of a declaration saying 'I seek not confrontation, but peaceful discourse, to address the elephant in the room.'"

"Hmm.  No, none of the citadel staff have placed an elephant within your chamber.  Again, this is a metaphor, alluding to the absurd idea that a massive creature is present that all involved are studiously disregarding.  Addressing the elephant in the room means to stop beating around the bush."

"Okay, now I recognize you are pulling my leg and know perfectly well what beating around the bush means, and, for that matter, pulling one's leg.  Well done.  Funny.  Funnier than the owlbear joke, truth be told."

"You are welcome.  So, I was thinking… sometimes people who have been apart for a time will exchange summaries of the interesting events of the day to one another as means of 'catching up'.  It often goes something like this: {starts doing accents}"

                  'How was your day?'

                  'Oh, fine, I picked up the wheat at the granary so I can make that bread you like.'

                  'Wonderful.  I like the bread I like.'

                  'I am glad.  How was your day?'

                  'Mine was fine too.  I lead the plough through the fields for the last twelve hours, which was surprisingly reminiscent of yesterday.'

                  'Good to hear it.'

"So I thought it might be interesting to imagine us, you and I, having a similar conversation, just for comparison's sake: {different accents}"

                  'How was your day, Lofdynn?'

                  'Oh, fine.  I was out working on sealing up the rift to an eternal plane packed with creatures spawned to do little more than torture, maim, and kill us all.  As usual.'

                  'That sounds like yesterday.  Anything interesting happen?'

                  'Well, I died for a little while.  We also found a bunch of glaives.  They were Large.  That was new.'

                  'Hmm.  Those are heavy.  How did the being dead thing work out?'

                  'Well, a friend of mine kissed me back to life while the rest of my friends used our only magical resurrection to bring back a chubby pimp friend of mine.  Kind of miffed they chose him, I admit.'

                  'Friends are funny that way.  You never can tell what they are into.'

                  'Pretty much.  But regardless, we managed to get the glaives back to town so I will likely sell them off tomorrow and buy a mansion or something.  My father has not bought me any recently so I think it may be on me now.  How was your day?'

                  'Not as exciting as yours.  I went out hunting with my friends and as usual they did not share the bounty.  They found Large glaives and kept them all.'

                  'That is unfortunate.  Some people are terribly greedy.'

                  'Agreed.  Also, one of them (friends, not Large glaives) made me vanish for a while.'

                  'Did I miss something?  Is that new?  I thought the one with all the piercings did that from time to time.'

                  'No, it wasn't like that.  Not invisibility.  The scrawny one who thinks he's King Of Everything or something made me stop existing.'

                  'By the impressively hefty testicles of Iomedae, that is barbaric.  Are you certain he is your friend?'

                  'You need not get so defensive.  You know The Great Dreamer takes good care of me.  I started existing again.  It was not hard.'

                  'You have always been good at existing.  I should not have worried the story would end otherwise.'

                  'As it happens, the story did not end when I started existing again.'

                  'Really?  You know I will be sadly disappointed if you tell me the story ended with them making you carry the Large glaives back home.  That isn't much of a story, it is just expected.'

                  'Posh.  Truth be told there was very little glaive-carrying as we just magically moved ourselves back here in an eyeblink.  No, the end of the story was that he died.'

                  'Well done though I am unsure that revenge is a flattering look on you.'

                  'No, it was not me, it was a giant elf-boy slipped in a bathtub and crushed him.'

                  'What is it about elves?  Do they not know you never bend over to pick up the soap?  Nothing good ever comes of it.'

                  'At least they bathe, unlike dwarves.'

                  'True enough.  Did they make you carry the scrawny betrayer back home?  Magically or not?'

                  'No, I went over to take a look at the mess and slipped in the bathwater myself.  My lips accidentally brushed his and he came back to life.  I think he might like me.'

                  'Why ever would he?'

                  'Well, shooting arrows past his head for the last two months has not dissuaded him, so I think he is rather stubborn.  It is most likely the scent I wear.  He is quite shallow.'

                  'Understandable.  That dried-leather musk you favor is rather potent.  He probably came back to life for one more huff.  What are you going to do about him?'

                  'It seemed excessively cruel to put him in his place so soon after he died, so I pretty much just ignored him for the rest of the day.'

                  'Fiend!'

                  'Well, yes.'

                  'So is that how the story finally ends?'

                  'Pretty much.  He spend the rest of the afternoon detonating aberrations and flinging horses magically across Avistan, most likely to impress me.'

                  'The fool.  Is that seriously the best he can come up with to turn your eye?  That will never work.'

                  'I don't think he's heard of knock-knock jokes, so probably yes.'

"Achem.  My apologies.  I seem to have become carried away with mocking myself.  Yes, yes, and you.  But yes you do sound like that.  Heh."

"So."

"Circumstances are complicated and I do not pretend to know how to sort them.  I am steward to a settlement of people who fear yours.  My daily job involves dying.  Literally.  The odds of us winning this war are not terribly high, truth has it.  Still, if we win, I hope to return here, and settle down.  I would like to bring comfort and prosperity and happiness to the people who live hereabouts.  That is how I see my future of choice, if I get to have one.  When and if that happens, rest assured you have a place.  When and if we win, when and if we purge our enemies from this land, you are welcome here.  The people will learn that."

"Though um, you need not necessarily return to this room in particular, if it pleases you to do otherwise."

So ‘ello and welcome to de party.  Everyone can hear me in de back, yes?  No?  Okay, maybe I yell like de Loud Lady ‘erself and can you hear me now?  Good.  I know some of you are tinking, ‘ow come is Pervenche tell de story tonight.  I want reassure you… it don’t matter.  I tell de story tonight and you like it.  I promise.  And dey tell me dat Harold is no supposed to lie, so I am making great effort always tell de truth.

<<Big grin>>

                  Today I tell de story to you of what happen to de Labyrinth of Ivory.  Dis place you maybe know already was ‘ome to de Baphomet.  Was not very nice guy, you ask me.  Send ‘is daughter go fight for ‘im, then act all surprise and sad she lose fight.  But worse, instead of maybe help ‘er, ‘e blow ‘er up from inside like giant meat-balloon and make go POP!

See?  Is loud story.  Lady Iomedae like loud stories.

                  Well, yesterday ‘e do even worse.  Am not sure what, but is time ‘e get smack upside head by Smith sword.  De funny demon say ‘ow about you surrender to de Baphomet before kill ‘im, and it seem like funny idea, so is decided, we do.  I fly into portable ‘ole of dragon surprise and next thing we spring trap from inside prison.  Smith do some renovation, take down broken doors dat go in circles, and we walk forever.  Legs very tired from hold on to shoulder.

                  Later we find smart demon who understand shoulder is nice place, and talk to old man.  Maybe old man was lover of Baphomet daughter because ‘e make we promise kill ‘im.  That make old man happy, so next we watch priestess of Iomedae sleep.  I share big secret with you: wax-berries snore like choking wyvern.  Sound like SNOOOOORT!  SNOOOORRRT!  SNNNNNOORT!  Is so loud, nobody else sleep, whole night.

                  In morning, we walk so much I start think maybe Smith not know where we going.  After while, we find room with ball of twine for maybe Smith get a cat.  Baphomet yell from far away, something like I AM TOO STUPID TO SURRENDER SO COME KILL ME.  Baphomet yell so loud that Mayor Smear-a is light on fire.  She look like is very painful, so Smith ‘it ‘er and I bite ‘er and Smith ‘it ‘er and Riario something ‘er and Smith ‘it ‘er and elf guy cast spell at ‘er and I bite ‘er and Smith ‘it ‘er and we keep doing over and over until fire goes out.  Then is ‘er turn, so she die.

                  Next we go find angel so Smith can put stomach back in ‘im so ‘e can eat.  While Smith is push very, very hard, angel fight back.  Is maybe on diet.  Then Baphomet come and cast spell makes pretty magic glow on Riario and Smith go away.  Someone ask “’ey, who turn out de lights?”, so I tell dem, is Baphomet.  Is unforgivable, so Smith and me, we play game of wall-ball with big demon until ‘e fall down dead.  Honest, is such short game Baphomet forget to say bad-guy things before ‘e dies.  Is sad.  We make so strong game of wall-ball roof start falling, so we leave.

                  Listen good, dis de good part.  We come back ‘ere to de Citadel Drizzle and everybody forget manners, don’t say “HI PERVENCHE!”, just stand like statue.  Don’t worry, I forgive some day.  Since nobody want to throw party, Iomedae invite to ‘er ‘ouse and we go dere to play.  She say some things, then make my wings gold and make change my name.  So is maybe good nobody say “HI PERVENCHE!”.

                  After, Riario take me back to Abyss to show off new wings.  Is sad because de demons are not so impressed, so we make little change as joke.  Now maze is hard bone like before for evil demons, but is soft chewy marshmallow for good people so no can get lost anymore.  Is nice place.

Story is over.

Everyone who like story shout “IS NICE STORY, HAROLD!”  Maybe Iomedae bless you if she can hear you.

Well-met, Nurah.  I am pleased that you were able to meet me here and will be more pleased should you accept an embrace.  Nay, not an embrace but call it rather a ‘hug’, for that is what I offer you in truth.  You look well.  The tour-guide business seems to be treating you well.  I am glad that Queens Anevia and Irabeth saw fit to hire you to show the curious around Reedeemed Sarkoris.  Nobody else knows better the tricks of how best present the country.  Please, sit and we shall have the barkeep send us out a splendid lunch over which we might share tales, for I have news.

Arueshalae said an interesting thing to me while we were making picnic on The Rasping Rifts.  This reminds me, many thanks to you for providing the inspiration leading me to replacing the infinite writhing vermin native to that Abyssal layer.  It is a much more popular place now, and I hear that people have begun to refer to it affectionately as the Elemental Plane of Kittens.  Honestly, it was an easy thing to rehabilitate the place… there is so much evil hidden in the little puss’ hearts that bringing them forth was as nothing.

Anyway, yes, a thing was said to me by my dearest and only wife.  She said – and I quote – “I want a baby.”

I of course did the sensible thing any supportive husband would do and offered that I would be most-pleased to provide for her if only she would point out which baby had caught her eye.  My darling wife refrained from resorting to projectile weapons, I must credit her.  Instead she merely expanded upon her declaration, saying simply – and again I quote – “I want to have a baby.”

Well, yes, of course I offered to support her newfound exotic culinary experimentation, and suggested that a cream of carrot might compliment a roast of baby admirably.  More importantly, after my heart’s embodiment had provided me with a half-dozen other feigned misunderstandings, I offered in seriousness the question of “is that even possible?”

Did you know, Nurah, that I am Marquess of Girolamo, Steward of Drezen, Protector of Redeemed Sarkoris, Honorary Fist of Queen Galfrey, Master and Messiah of The Claimed Abyssal Layers, Riario-Lofdynn?  Yes, people do say “messiah”, but I admit they usually burst out laughing thereafter.  Well, I was at that time so-informed of my full identity by my loving wife.  She made a reasonable point that on a daily basis I am known to perform literal miracles, so I was able to see the point that to a degree the question of the possibility of our conceiving and her delivering a child was perhaps… silly.

That is where matters became complicated, mostly of my doing.  You see, I asked her a question she was ill-prepared for.  I merely asked her, “what sort of child do you wish to have?”  At this point, most parents-to-be would be mostly communicating in punctuated grunts, but we required more nuance.  Arueshalae, bless her hearts, feigned ignorance to buy thinking time and told me that her preference was to have a “normal” child.  I adore it when she sets me up an opportunity to appear cleverer than I am, so understand this was her idea of my idea of foreplay.

I must tell you, I believe there is likely no sentence in any language more splendid than “and how many tails would you prefer our child to have?”  After that climax of linguistic delight, conversation understandably descended to the more pedestrian levels of “would it please you if he, she, or they were immortal?” and “will breathing fire be advantageous to our unborn, or might it prove socially problematic?”

It turns out that after making decisions such as the choice to create permanent gateways from Drezen to The Marshmallow Mazes and The Elemental Plane of Kittens, it can be exceedingly difficult to manage simple, human situations.  By not granting our offspring extraordinary immunities and abilities, would we not be condemning them to be disadvantaged, vulnerable, and lesser than they could be?  By meddling in their makeup, would we not be denying them the freedoms and choices that come from being immersed in the unknown?

What did we decide?  Well, firstly I can tell you that we decided to arrange things so that my death is not involved in transfer of control over the Claimed Abyssal Layers.  That done – and no, I will not share the details of how such things work now – we made some lesser preparations to make our family less of an enticing target.

Then, I honestly do not know what we decided.  I believe it involved memory modification, a bottle of wine, some scented candles, and some privacy, but beyond that all I truly know is that shortly I shall be acquiring a new title, the pinnacle of my achievements… “Daddy”.