Wilcrim Stroivan's page

N Diminutive magical beast
Init +2; Senses Perception +6

DEFENSE
AC 18, touch 16, flat-footed 16 (+2 Dex, +2 natural, +4 size)
hp 8 (3 HD)
Fort +0, Ref +4, Will +5

OFFENSE
Speed 5 ft., fly 40 ft. (good)
Melee bite +7 (1d3-5)
Space 1 ft.; Reach 0 ft.

STATISTICS
Str 1, Dex 15, Con 6, Int 7, Wis 14, Cha 5;
Base Atk +1; CMB +2; CMD 15
Feats Weapon Finesse
Skills Fly +16, Perception +6; Racial Modifiers +4 Perception
SQ deliver touch spells, improved evasion, share spells, empathic link

Wilcrim Tallow’s family had long served the Stroivan bloodline as slaves. Generations of servitude had all but obliterated any hopes of them ever attaining freedom. It came to pass that they fell into the ownership of the sole Stroivan heir, an arrogant youth named Vinicius. There existed something of a rapport between Wilcrim and Vinicius that almost resembled a friendship, but of course, no true friendship could exist between a master and slave. Nonetheless, Wilcrim had been there for him since he was a child. As an adult, he saw the halfling as someone he could turn to for advice. Someone that he could trust.

When his finances fell into dire straits, Vinicius sold every last one of his slaves, with the exception of course, of his dear Wilcrim. The money was enough to keep him afloat for a time, but he knew that if he did not do something soon, his family name would forever fall into ruin. Desperation drove him to turn to the powers of Hell for aid. Already a dabbler of the arcane, he pored over dusty old tomes, studying the binding that would be necessary to achieve his goal. Wilcrim played the part of dutiful research assistant, giving him the opportunity to glean some of that knowledge.

The Stroivans had always been advocates of diabolism, and had gone through great lengths to impress the philosophy upon their slaves. But it was only as Wilcrim peered through the hellish tomes that he came to understand why. The more he learned about Hell, the more he realized why Cheliax had gone through such lengths to emulate it. It was the perfect model of law and order. Without his master’s knowledge, Wilcrim’s mind consumed the basics of binding, conjuration, and naming, skills necessary for calling forth a devil. A year of study was hardly enough to prepare Vinicius for the monumental task of summoning a greater devil, but he was impatient, and above all, desperate.

Much to Vinicius’ delight, the binding ritual was a success. In the basement he had conducted his research in, he had managed to call forth a phistophilus. Strangely, the handsome devil seemed to have expected him. In his hands he already held an infernal contract, promising the noble exactly what he would need to restore his family’s glory. All he had to was sign away his mortal soul. It was everything Vinicius had ever wanted. But out of cowardice, or perhaps even uncharacteristic shrewdness, he refused to surrender his own; so instead, he offered up Wilcrim’s. The devil took one glance at the slave and simply laughed. He firmly rebuffed Wilcrim’s master, demanding something of greater value to Hell. Absolutely livid, the arrogant fool lashed out at the devil. But without the devil’s true name, he had no real power over it. Without any such tether to restrain him, the agent of Hell promptly dropped the facade, tore through the noble’s pitiful binding, and ripped the man into pieces.

Shocked by his master’s betrayal and the brutal death that followed, Wilcrim could only look on in horror as the phistophilus turned its eyes on him. In spite of everything, the halfling feared for his life. In the heat of the moment he opened his mouth and dispensed every piece of flattery he could think of, anything to keep the devil from killing him. But the contract devil merely smiled. After cryptically remarking that the infernal contract had not truly been written for Vinicius, he vanished from sight, leaving only echoing laughter and the scent of brimstone.

Vinicius had never wed, and had thus never produced any heirs. If not legally, Wilcrim was for all intents and purposes a free halfling. The very thought terrified him more than any devil could. Instead of reveling in his newfound freedom he locked himself in the basement and panicked, not out of fear of consequence, but out of a total lack of certainty about his purpose. He had long convinced himself that he was born to serve, that order could only exist so long as there were pawns. His master had not been mistaken in his attempt to sacrifice him. That would all change when Wilcrim met Grugert days later, hanging from the rafters.

At a glance the bat appeared to be a simple animal, but as time went on, Wilcrim noticed that the bat was always watching him with an unnerving gaze, as though it were appraising his very soul. What he did not notice at the time was that there was no possible way for the bat to have gotten into the basement. Under its watchful eye, Wilcrim roused from his stupor and gathered his master’s research materials. An unspoken understanding had formed between the two - there was still work to be done. Refining the knowledge he had gained while researching Hell, the halfling fashioned for himself a new spellbook. Whether to honor or mock his dead master, Wilcrim thereafter adopted his family name. It was not like there was anyone else alive to use it.

When Wilcrim emerged from the basement, he claimed his meager “inheritance” from the Stroivan vault, and then finally left the mansion with Grugert at his side. The bat had helped him come to a strange revelation; he was a born slave, true, but was it not in his best interest to serve a master truly worthy of his devotion? Equipped with his knowledge of the arcane, he went out to find the answer to that question.

As it would turn out, when the end of the world arrived, with it came the rise of the worthiest masters of all.