Catch up on previous chapters of Wreckers Reunion here, here, and here.

HOME, SWEET HOME

“Droven?”

“Yes, Fumbus?”

“Home’s good, Droven.”

Droven was taking time to reacquaint himself with the city that had been home for most of his life. Today, as most days since his return, the inventor made his way along the streets of Absalom, a covered wicker basket held in his right hand. As expected, no sooner had Droven’s metal-shod feet hit the cobblestones then Fumbus materialized alongside him, the quiet patter of the goblin’s wide feet slapping counterpoint to Droven’s own clanking footsteps.

Today, Fumbus wore a suspiciously guilty look on his face, and Droven had chosen to alter his normal route, which typically brought him down to the Puddles where he delivered muffins and stories to some of the local children. Instead, the half-orc inventor led his mechanical companion Whirp and Fumbus through the markets of the Coins district, waiting for Fumbus to own up to whatever had the goblin so worked up.

Droven suspected that Fumbus had borrowed or accidentally destroyed something valuable in the Pathfinder Society’s Grand Lodge and was worried that the lodge’s steward, Ambrus Valsin, would punish him for it. Fumbus had an excessive reverence for the Pathfinder Society, and the mutton-chopped old venture-captain had a particular talent for inspiring fear in the goblin without actually doing anything to him at all.

Upon realizing that Fumbus was unlikely to broach the subject of his distress without prompting, Droven finally asked, “So what happened this time?”

Fumbus sheepishly explained that a piece had come off an astrolabe in one of the Grand Lodge’s smaller libraries, completely by accident of course! Before Fumbus could fix it, he’d heard the voice of an irate Valsin echoing down the halls and had fled in search of a certain inventor who the goblin assumed could set everything right.

Droven suppressed a smile and was about to tell Fumbus he could indeed fix the astrolabe when he realized he’d lost track of Whirp. Turning, he the mechanical “goblin” dashing down the street, chasing a bouncing metal gear. Droven didn’t need to see Fumbus worriedly poking a finger through the hole in his jacket pocket to realize where the gear had come from. Nor did he need to dwell on the chaos a goblin-sized construct might cause barreling through a crowded marketplace.

Whirp lets a gear get away from him in this illustration by Roberto Pitturru from Pathfinder Guns & Gears

“Whirp, wait!”

Droven’s command was swallowed by the bustle of the streets, and neither he nor Fumbus stopped to see if the construct heard him. Nodding to Fumbus, Droven dashed to get between a trundling cart loaded with what looked to be expensive pottery and the single-minded construct chasing a shiny new “toy.” Fumbus yanked out a new bomb he’d been formulating following his time in Arcadia, this one loaded with black flecks of magnetic stone. With a slightly belated call to “look up,” Fumbus heaved the bomb between Whirp and the bouncing gear, the magnetic burst from the bomb halting Whirp in its tracks and pulling the gear to a stop right in front of the construct. After Whirp calmly sat down and picked up the now-immobile gear, Droven quickly retrieved the part and slid it into a sturdy pocket of his leather bandolier, reassuring Fumbus that all would be set right when they returned to the lodge.

“Now that that’s… sorted, I believe we have some friends wondering where we are.”

---

“Fumbus! Droven! WHIRP!” The cries came from a bevy of young children who called the alleys and gutters of Absalom their home. Droven had made a habit of visiting these urchins between Absalom’s Puddles district and the nearby bustling docks. They were mostly young humans left to run wild while their parents focused on putting food on the table, though a halfling girl was their apparent leader and a goblin boy was, Droven suspected, the culprit who kept turning various bits of castoff garbage into decidedly unsafe toys.

Three of the little waifs clambered up Droven’s side, and the half-orc smilingly obliged them by holding his prosthetic limb straight out so they could hang from it like grubby, adorable fruit. Another goblin child took Whirp by the hand and began showing the inquisitive construct her collection of shiny rocks. As Droven calmly took back several of his tools that had somehow found their way into the pockets of the children hanging from his mechanical arm, he listened to Fumbus tell everyone the story of their voyage across the Arcadian Ocean, as he had several times over the last few weeks.

“Fumbus and Droven make powerful engine. WHOOSH! We fly across the waves! A huge serpent, bigger than ten ships, rises up out of the water. RAARGH! Ezren magics up a blast of wind and WHIPPOW! We zip past it…”

As much as Droven hated to interrupt his friend’s story, the inventor noticed that several of the children were growing increasingly more interested in the covered basket Droven held.

“Perhaps a snack for our friends and a drink to keep our storyteller’s voice from going hoarse, eh?”

The children squealed with glee and quickly gathered in a semi-circle around Droven as he removed the cloth covering from the top of his wicker basket. Inside was a bottle of chilled juice and a pile of delicious, bright yellow muffins, courtesy of a kindly Vudran baker who supplied the Grand Lodge. Fumbus filled small vials with a sip of juice for each child while Droven handed out the muffins, after which the children snacked and drank happily as Fumbus finished his story.

“When’s Whirp gonna tell us a story?” A little gnome boy’s eyes shone with genuine curiosity even as he gently polished Whirp’s metal arm with the edge of his filthy shirt. “I bet Whirp beat up a whole bunch of bad guys!”

Fumbus nodded in agreement and immediately launched into the story of Whirp leaping across the trees of Arcadia with a pair of rocket-powered blast boots. The goblin exaggerated slightly, but not so much so that Droven felt a need to interject.

“Then, BAMMO! Whirp comes fallin’ outta the sky and SHWOOP stops the fire from the baddy!” As the children cheered at the end of the story, Droven explained that Whirp needed Fumbus to tell his stories because the construct was too shy, and also Droven had forgotten to give him a mouth (which the inventor promised he’d look into fixing just as soon as he had the chance.)

Once the tale was done, Droven and Fumbus excused themselves from their youthful friends’ company, promising to return the next day with more muffins and stories. As the unlikely pair of adventurers made their way back to the Grand Lodge, Droven glanced fondly at the goblin who had somehow become his most loyal and steadfast friend.

“Fumbus?”

“Yeah, Droven?”

“Home’s good, Fumbus.”

About the Author

Michael Sayre is a designer at Paizo who previously worked on the Organized Play team. He’s also a prolific freelancer, having contributed to numerous Paizo books and publications from other publishers, such as Lost Spheres Publishing, Rogue Genius Games, and many other companies in support of the Pathfinder RPG and other table-top game systems.

Fred Van Lente is a New York Times bestselling writer of comics, prose, and gaming, including the Pathfinder: Fumbus one-shot successfully Kickstarted in 2021. His short story “Neversleeps” was shortlisted for Best American Science Fiction and Fantasy. In addition to playing Pathfinder 2e, he’s currently running Call of Cthulhu 7e and Fallout 2d20 campaigns in Brooklyn, NY. He’s on Twitter and Instagram as @fredvanlente and you can sign up for updates on his upcoming projects at www.fredvanlente.com.

About Iconic Encounters

Iconic Encounters is a series of web-based flash fiction set in the worlds of Pathfinder and Starfinder. Each short story provides a glimpse into the life and personality of one of the games’ iconic characters, showing the myriad stories of adventure and excitement players can tell with the Pathfinder and Starfinder roleplaying games.

The crowd in front of the vast chasm surrounding the Starstone Cathedral was slightly larger today than most days. Visitors from all over Golarion stopped by the great pit every day to marvel at the ancient edifice at its center, to dream of the stone hidden away behind its massive walls, lethal traps, and immortal guardians. It was said that the Starstone granted immeasurable power to any who could touch its crystalline surface and pass the final test of spirit. Those who succeeded became gods. Most simply fell to their deaths in the chasm outside and the rare few who made it in the cathedral were usually never heard from again.

Normally, an attempt by one of the “hopeful” would draw a huge crowd of locals and visitors alike, all interested to see if the would-be god could even make it across the chasm. The celebration was usually all in good fun, if you could call someone risking their life for immortality fun, but it could turn unruly in an instant, the mob demanding the poor soul fling themselves into danger. In either case, it was good business for those of us who ran shops in the Ascendant Court, selling sweet treats and chilled wine.

But not today.

Today was the fourth supposedly prophesized moment of ascension for Dyrani, and business was terrible.

Her first attempt was almost a year ago. The Osiriani woman had only been on the Avenue of the Hopeful for a few weeks at that time, and although she didn’t have a large throng of supporters, she still drew a good crowd to hear her tale and see her make the attempt. For over an hour she spoke of her accomplishments, from the moment of her birth under an auspicious sign, to the tremendous thunderstorm that bore down upon her parent’s small home giving her a connection to the rains and floods, the crops, and the land. The people listened to her claims of connection to the harvest and how she could be counted on to bring rain to struggling farmers and ensure a season of plenty for all upon her ascension. They even saw her plant a simple seed into the ground and encourage it to grow, yet when it came time for her to leap, something changed. She looked out at the chasm and declared that it was not the right time.

“The seed was not yet ready to sprout,” she said, adding that once the plant has matured, she would take the test.

Suffice to say, there were more than a few jeers and cries. But for all the disappointment, Dyrani benefitted quite a bit from the show. For the next few months farmers, gardeners, and food merchants began to stop by her rustic stall on the Avenue and pay their respects to her and the growing plant. They say it never hurts to get in early with new gods. Even if only one in a thousand passed the test, those who do are sure to remember any who believed in them from the start. For my part, I sold a lot of harvest breads and orange tea to her faithful.

Illustration by Mirco Paganessi from Absalom, City of Lost Omens

Dyrani even gathered a few devotees to aid in her preparations. She anointed each in a grand ceremony, dubbing them the High Priest of Rains, the High Priestess of Sowing, and the High Priest of Harvest, respectively. They were mostly harmless, wearing ridiculous hats and making pronouncements about the weather. Most would-be-gods attracted a few desperate fools, even when they had nothing to give other than vague promises about the future. The feeling of importance, of belonging was often enough. The avenue was usually cluttered with these supplicants, shouting edicts and making the case for their still-mortal deity. It wasn’t bad for business, really. Most visitors came just to see this spectacle, even if there was no attempt that day. Some of my best days selling sweet pastries have been after a good brawl between the high priests of various would-be faiths. No one wins... except us.

The second attempt was scheduled for later that summer. By this time, Dyrani had amassed a vast crowd of followers, and there was a festival happening in the Grand Bazaar, so the city was swollen with visitors. The Avenue and the Court were packed with people, many of whom began drinking and chanting for Dyrani just after dawn. Her High Priests were there of course, collecting tithes in vast cornucopias made from straw. From the moment I saw them, I knew it was not going to be the day. These hopeful never go through with the test when the coin is flowing freely. There’s still too much to be gained. Later that day, the High Priestess of Sowing pronounced that Dyrani had read the tea leaves (from my stall no less!) and decided that the most auspicious time to take the test would be at the end of the harvest, so that she could prove her worth to all the other gods and make this year a harvest like no other. Fortunately for the harvest deity, another hopeful made the attempt later that afternoon, screaming as he plummeted into the void. I think he wanted to be the god of fish or some such nonsense.

Over the next few months, Dyrani’s appearance changed significantly. Gone were her woolen dresses—now she wore elegant silk embroidered with golden wheat. Her simple grapevine crown was replaced with a wreath of bejeweled golden leaves, and now she carried a massive silver scythe, so that all might know that the goddess of the harvest was near. It had been a good few months for her and her faithful, as the donations came flooding in from visitors and locals alike. But as the end of the harvest drew close, there were signs of stress.

The High Priest of Rains quit one afternoon after a heated debate about the upcoming attempt. I think I saw him making poses at the end of the avenue, worshipping another perpetual hopeful. The High Priestess of Sowing stopped working the street for donations after a local gang stole her cornucopia. Only the High Priest of Harvest remained loyal, doing whatever was asked, but he was a zealot, having lost his entire family to famine some years back. I wouldn’t be surprised if he leapt into the pit after Dyrani on her day.

When harvest finally came, the crowd was sizable, but it was clear most didn’t think Dyrani would actually go through with it. All were disappointed when the sacred plant was revealed. It was withered and brown. Defeated, Dyrani called off the attempt, claiming she had been sabotaged by agents of Urgathoa, who wouldn’t dare let such a powerful deity ascend. The boos were some of the loudest I’ve ever heard. Nearly all her supplicants quit in the following days, stealing her finery and looting her treasury.

It was a hard winter for the would-be goddess. By the spring, it was just her and the High Priest of the Harvest. Their clothes were stained, and the silver scythe had been tarnished.

And that brings us to today. My shop is toward the end of the Avenue, right across from the vast chasm surrounding the Cathedral. The spectacle is all but gone. Dyrani has drawn right up to the edge. There’s no cheering, no chants, just silence and the sound of the wind. As the clouds break, a shaft of sunlight illuminates the young woman. She looks exhausted, as most do after their long journey down the Avenue, but as she looks up into the sun, its warmth shining upon her, she steps out, over nothing…

About The Author

Jason Bulmahn is the Director of Game Design at Paizo. He spends most of his time staring at schedules and math problems, hoping to find a way to ensure that Paizo creates the most fun, engaging games possible. When not working with the design team on the next Pathfinder hard cover, he is at home, working on even more Pathfinder material to share with folks through his personal imprint, Minotaur Games, or streaming video games on twitch.

About Tales of Lost Omens

The Tales of Lost Omens series of web-based flash fiction provides an exciting glimpse into Pathfinder’s Age of Lost Omens setting. Written by some of the most celebrated authors in tie-in gaming fiction and including Paizo’s Pathfinder Tales line of novels and short fiction, the Tales of Lost Omens series promises to explore the characters, deities, history, locations, and organizations of the Pathfinder setting with engaging stories to inspire Game Masters and players alike.

Catch up on previous chapters of Wreckers Reunion here and here.

SUPPLY RUN

Droven could hardly believe the twists and turns the last few days had taken. Month after month, season after season, he’d traveled the continent of Arcadia, searching for passage back to Absalom, an ocean away in the region known as the Inner Sea. He had spent more than a few days in the last weeks carefully examining the soles of his metal-reinforced boots. Long ago, he’d promised one of the first friends he’d made in Arcadia, an old half-orc named Darv, that if he still hadn’t found a way back to Absalom by the time the soles of wore thin, he’d return to Darv’s workshop to begin a new life.

Instead, Droven had inadvertently aided one of his closest friends from the Inner Sea, the goblin alchemist Fumbus, in a daring rescue against a gang of smugglers, the Wreckers. Fumbus’s rescued friends were a powerful old wizard named Ezren, a wise young cleric named Kyra, a cunning elf named Merisiel, and a valiant warrior called Valeros.

Droven had at first been afraid to tell the others they were as stranded as he was, but after some discussion the group realized that they had almost everything they needed to make the journey back to Absalom. Ezren and Kyra’s magic could calm the worst of the storms and turn the currents in their favor, while Valeros’s strength and Merisiel’s cunning, combined with Droven’s and Fumbus’s ingenuity, would allow them to build a sturdy enough sea craft from the salvage of the Wreckers’ victims.

The biggest problem was the lack of any known eastward currents bridging the Arcadian Ocean to the continents of Avistan and Garund. Droven had heard tales of the legendary current carrying Ulfen vikings to Port Valen in northern Arcadia and had even seen the maps of the sea routes between Arcadia and Tian Xia, which shared a northern land bridge with Avistan. Frustratingly, the northern route was only one way and the western route presented unique geographic barriers Droven had never been able to surmount. Making the trek in either direction, even accompanied by a group of stalwart adventurers, was a fraught journey that would take months at least.

Instead, Droven had a plan that this group’s unique talents were particularly suited for. While Valeros and company assembled a ship based on Droven’s blueprints, the half-orc, his construct companion Whirp, and Fumbus would venture into the abandoned lair of a reckless alchemist in the nearby jungles to retrieve the materials necessary to assemble an alchemical engine capable of propelling their craft across the Arcadian Ocean, regardless of winds or currents.

Droven had marked the laboratory the first time he’d passed along this stretch of coast over a year ago, though he’d been unwilling to delve too deep after encountering various alchemical traps. But now, with the possibility of home so close and a trusted companion at his side, Droven felt it worth the risk.

---

“Droven!”

“Yes, Fumbus?”

“Ice?”

“I’m sorry my friend, I’m afraid I don’t take your meanin–GAAH!”

Droven and Fumbus had bypassed a variety of traps and strange monsters to the facility’s primary laboratory. Things had been going remarkably well, with inventor, construct, and alchemist each uniquely suited to disable the dangers laid by the paranoid alchemist who’d built the place. Droven blamed himself for their current predicament, trapped in a sealed room with an angry ooze climbing out of a broken glass tank.

Shaking the sting of an acidic tendril from his non-mechanical arm, Droven yelled for Whirp. “Defensive formation zero zero three: barricade!”

Responding to his maker’s command, Whirp leapt between his allies and the approaching ooze, deploying thin, folded metal sheets within his chassis to create a temporary barricade. As Droven ducked behind it, Fumbus cleared his throat.

Whirp provides cover for Droven and Fumbus in this illustration by Will O’Brien from Pathfinder Guns & Gears

“Miss you, Droven” Fumbus said, ducking an acidic pseudopod and swirling a blue cannister around in his hand. “Ice?”

Droven’s good eye widened in surprise as he finally realized what the goblin was asking. “Yes, Fumbus! As much as you’ve got!”

Fumbus hurled the cannister at the ooze, freezing a portion of its body but barely slowing its advance. As Droven fired a crossbow bolt into the ooze’s mass only to watch it dissolve, he realized Fumbus’s concoctions might be their only salvation. “More ice, Fumbus, quickly!”

Fumbus’s right hand snatched an empty glass vial from one of his pouches while his left darted from his tiled necklace to his pouches, and up… into his mouth. Furiously chewing each component before spewing the macerated remains into his vial, Fumbus quickly created a second vial of liquid ice and launched it at the encroaching ooze before repeating the process.

Droven took careful aim at a frozen section of ooze before firing his crossbow. As the icy chunk shattered into pieces, Droven was relieved to see that the ooze seemed to shrink, its regeneration stymied by the freezing cold. As Fumbus threw yet another liquid ice bomb, Droven glanced at his friend and suppressed a worried frown. Fumbus smiled at Droven, but the goblin’s saliva was frozen to his chin in icicles of drool, and his green skin had taken on a distinctly bluish hue. Worse, the goblin’s teeth chattered furiously, slowing down the liquid ice process. Seeing Fumbus’s predicament, Droven quickly removed a few mechanical components from his backpack. He’d been working on something the local Arcadians called a “cryomister,” a device intended to release a controlled stream of freezing liquid. Droven had been struggling to complete it due to his lack of familiarity with Arcadian alchemy, but Fumbus possessed exactly what Droven lacked.

“Fumbus! Pour everything you’ve got into this!”

Fumbus snatched up the proffered device and spewed all the components in his mouth directly into its ammunition cartridge. Trying hard not to think about what had just happened, Droven took the device back, activated it, and tossed it at the broken glass tank from which the ooze poured. As the cryomister sank into the acidic flow, chilling fog poured forth, solidifying the ooze until only a blue-green statue remained.

Wiping shards of frozen drool from his chin, Fumbus wasted no time in sacking the lab, quickly identifying a variety of ingredients and reagents capable of fueling the alchemical engine Droven intended to build. Struggling to his feet, Droven leaned on Whirp’s body. His good arm was burned by acid, and he felt the weight of his prosthetic limb keenly as he struggled to stand. The two friends and friendly construct quickly gathered the materials they would need to assemble their engine.

“Droven?”

“Yes, Fumbus?”

“Oozes terrible.”

“Yeah, Fumbus. They’re pretty bad.”

About the Author

Michael Sayre is a designer at Paizo who previously worked on the Organized Play team. He’s also a prolific freelancer, having contributed to numerous Paizo books and publications from other publishers, such as Lost Spheres Publishing, Rogue Genius Games, and many other companies in support of the Pathfinder RPG and other table-top game systems.

Fred Van Lente is a New York Times bestselling writer of comics, prose, and gaming, including the Pathfinder: Fumbus one-shot successfully Kickstarted in 2021. His short story “Neversleeps” was shortlisted for Best American Science Fiction and Fantasy. In addition to playing Pathfinder 2e, he’s currently running Call of Cthulhu 7e and Fallout 2d20 campaigns in Brooklyn, NY. He’s on Twitter and Instagram as @fredvanlente and you can sign up for updates on his upcoming projects at www.fredvanlente.com.

About Iconic Encounters

Iconic Encounters is a series of web-based flash fiction set in the worlds of Pathfinder and Starfinder. Each short story provides a glimpse into the life and personality of one of the games’ iconic characters, showing the myriad stories of adventure and excitement players can tell with the Pathfinder and Starfinder roleplaying games.

Catch up on previous chapters of Wreckers Reunion here.

BEACH PARTY

“Whirp–click?” the tiny construct asked of Droven, who rotated the lenses of a pair of clockwork glasses he’d been tinkering with.

“Hush now, little Whirp.” The half-orc placed a hand on the construct’s metal head. Farther down the beach—just within range of what the inventor could see through the darkness of early evening—a noisome band of pirates and smugglers gathered around a cooking fire obstructed by enough foliage to remain hidden from passing ships. The flames made it hard for Droven to calibrate his goggles as he looked on from the northern flank.

“Wreckers," Droven said quietly. The nomads had warned him about them—and for good reason. Just beyond the campfire, a half dozen captives remained locked inside a stockade. The structure looked sturdy, despite being crafted from driftwood and detritus collected from the beach. Many of the prisoners had been hog-tied. Others were yoked in makeshift stocks.

“I believe the Wreckers caught bigger fish than they meant to fry,” Droven said, adjusting his position. “Someone must have stripped and dumped the bodies we found near the tree line. I bet the smugglers ambushed the prisoners and overpowered them, but not before several were lost in the fray.” He exhaled. “Which would mean they desecrated the bodies of their own compatriots. Not much of a retirement plan if you ask me.”

“Bzzzzt–click” Whirp said, tugging desperately at the inventor’s arm. Droven didn’t need months exploring the Arcadian coastline with the construct to know what that meant. He dropped his goggles and spun to draw his hammer as Whirp gestured frantically toward the small hillock’s only safe pathway. Someone had snuck near their position, leaving obvious tracks behind. Droven glanced over his shoulder. The drop was too far to know whether he could leap down to the sands below and keep his footing.

“Ho there! I warn you; I am armed and no easy prey. Allow me to negotiate for the release of your prisoners and the cessation of attacks against the ships passing by this shoreline. Otherwise, prepare for battle!”

A pair of Wrecker scouts stepped out from the underbrush. A woman outstretched her arm to reveal a spider with barbed fur clamped around her wrist like a living gauntlet. The puckering spinneret twitched toward Droven, causing the inventor to tighten his grip on the hammer. The weapon was almost certainly a beast gun. He’d seen enough of them to know it possessed the abilities of the spider whose body it was constructed from. If he didn’t act first, he and Whirp would be enveloped in spiderweb and rolled down the embankment. Some heroes they would be—wrapped up like two helpless caterpillars in silk cocoons.

Droven whistled sharply and dropped to his stomach. Whirp planted its spindly arms in the dirt and somersaulted toward the Wreckers, just before detonating in a roiling ball of flame. The inventor had rigged the little construct to explode on command, knowing it would survive the blast largely unharmed. The same could not be said of the two smugglers who rolled on the ground to extinguish their burning clothes. Droven rushed forward and struck each of their skulls with the hammer, holding back just enough of his strength to leave them alive. At least, he hoped. Neither strike had drawn much blood.

Droven’s clockwork companion, Whirp, spews a gout of flame at his enemies in this exciting illustration from Pathfinder Guns & Gears, by Maichol Quinto.

It was only a matter of time before the explosion attracted other Wreckers, though with any luck the crest of the hillock obscured most of the remaining flames. Droven kicked sand over the parts of the smugglers that still smoldered and bound them with lengths of spare wire. He and Whirp had better move fast. But not before he snatched the spidery beast gun which had been so kindly gifted to them.

“Point and click, right, Whirp?” Droven snapped the weapon in place atop his forearm, suppressing a grimace as its tiny hairs pricked his skin.

The sounds of shouting in the distance grew louder. The inventor tapped Whirp on the shoulder, signaling the construct to collapse into a light carrying case. Droven scooped up his companion by its clockwork arm-turned-handle and dashed into the trees.

Sliding behind some foliage, Droven steadied his stolen weapon on top of the little construct’s condensed body. Two triggers protruded from the abdomen of the taxidermic spider. He was reasonably confident that depressing the first would fire a net of silk webbing. He had no inkling about the second. There was only one way to find out.

As the first Wrecker came into sight, Droven pulled the first trigger—only to discover the absurdity of his assumption. A barbed hair launched from the spider and stabbed the pirate in the neck. The smuggler collapsed to the ground in spastic convulsions just before growing still. Droven moved to the body, placing his hand on the Wrecker’s neck. No pulse. Droven struggled against the dread coalescing in the pit of his stomach. As much as the inventor detested unnecessary violence, his foe had undoubtedly met the same fate as the many innocent victims who crossed the pirates’ path. Perhaps he could find some solace in that.

When the next smuggler came into sight, Droven pulled the second trigger. The beast gun fired the webbing he’d expected before, provoking a sigh of relief. The web spiraled outward from the beast gun, pinning the Wrecker to a nearby tree as it wrapped circles around the trunk. As the pirate pleaded for someone to cut him free, Droven realized he and his companion could soon find themselves outnumbered. He tapped Whirp once more and the tiny construct unfolded into its bipedal form. Pulling a pair of boots sized for the construct out of his backpack, Droven quickly fitted them onto Whirp’s stubby legs.

“Lead them on a merry chase and then meet me at their bonfire. Understood?”

“Whirrrrrrrpup–click–whirrrrrr!” the construct said in response, slamming its tiny heels together to activate the blast boots. Whirp rocketed skyward through the trees; its path lit by twin tails of flame.

Droven moved quickly through the woods, heading toward the Wreckers’ bonfire and, most importantly, the stockade. When he arrived at camp, he slowed to sneak carefully behind the pair of guards who remained. As he moved, he pictured the rest of the Wreckers struggling to keep up as they chased the flash of Whirp’s fiery trail through the darkness. He smiled and shifted his hammer to his prosthetic hand. Droven rapped both pirates with a single flourish that would have been all but impossible with a limb comprised of flesh and blood. His last remaining enemies slumped to the ground unceremoniously, knocked cold.

Droven dashed toward the prison. After releasing a small blade integrated into his metal arm, he slashed through the ropes that tied the door shut. He moved toward the nearest prisoner: a cleric bearing a silver symbol of Sarenrae who had been muffled with a cloth gag. Droven slid his blade softly under the fabric, gently enough to avoid piercing the prisoner’s cheek, and pulled. He cut her free just in time to make out, “–hind you!”

Droven turned to behold his grave mistake. Three Wreckers remained behind, not two. The pirate Droven failed to spot had her own beast gun, this one made from the neck and maw of a fire-breathing drake.

“Oi! Drop the gun!” the woman shouted.

Hoping not to alarm her, Droven disconnected the spider gun from his arm and let it fall to the ground.

“Thought you could steal from the Wreckers, eh? ‘Fraid we’re going to have to make an example out of you! Any last words?” She leveled the drake gun at Droven.

Droven couldn’t help but glance toward the sky. Some twenty feet above the Wrecker, two thin lines of fire bisected the night sky.

“Last words? Why, yes, I do have some.” Droven stifled a grin. “I’m afraid that you failed to account… for the powerful bond of friendship!” As the inventor yelled, he activated a large magnet attached to a disposable electric reservoir in his prosthetic arm. The magnetic force drew Whirp—who hovered above he and the Wrecker thanks to the blast boots Droven had fitted the construct with—down toward the inventor’s arm.

The smuggler fired, unleashing a blast of flame from her drake gun. But it was too late. The little construct twisted its metallic body and absorbed the brunt of the explosion, shielding Droven from harm.

Droven remembered the blade on his prosthetic hand. Just before he moved to strike, a thunderous explosion forced him to duck behind Whirp. When he peaked back over the construct’s shoulder, the Wrecker lie prone, screaming, and thrashing—totally enveloped in flame. Despite burning alive, she staggered to her feet and pointed the drake gun once more—first at Whirp, then at Droven.

A small figure stepped out of the shadows behind her, holding a vial of alchemist’s fire in hand. Droven’s jaw dropped in disbelief.

"Fumbus?" he coughed. “Where did you come from?” But Droven heard no words in response.

Just another boom.

About the Author

Michael Sayre is a designer at Paizo who previously worked on the Organized Play team. He’s also a prolific freelancer, having contributed to numerous Paizo books and publications from other publishers, such as Lost Spheres Publishing, Rogue Genius Games, and many other companies in support of the Pathfinder RPG and other table-top game systems.

Fred Van Lente is a New York Times bestselling writer of comics, prose, and gaming, including the Pathfinder: Fumbus one-shot successfully Kickstarted in 2021. His short story “Neversleeps” was shortlisted for Best American Science Fiction and Fantasy. In addition to playing Pathfinder 2e, he’s currently running Call of Cthulhu 7e and Fallout 2d20 campaigns in Brooklyn, NY. He’s on Twitter and Instagram as @fredvanlente and you can sign up for updates on his upcoming projects at www.fredvanlente.com.

About Iconic Encounters

Iconic Encounters is a series of web-based flash fiction set in the worlds of Pathfinder and Starfinder. Each short story provides a glimpse into the life and personality of one of the games’ iconic characters, showing the myriad stories of adventure and excitement players can tell with the Pathfinder and Starfinder roleplaying games.

ON KILLING KIN

Amiri's arms burned as she hauled herself upward. Her hands cramped from finding tenuous grips on small extrusions of stone, and one particularly vicious bit of rock had sliced open a good gash below her knee out of what she assumed was sheer spite. She unspooled her rope as she went, securing it whenever she found an anchor point she was sure could bear Branum and Oska's weight.

Below her, the siblings moved slowly. They'd lashed themselves together and to the rope, and Oska helped haul her brother upward, pointing out easy hand- and footholds wherever she could. Oska looked up, the light from above casting a narrow band across her face. "Getting tired yet?" she called up. "You're slowing down."

"How about you don't insult the woman with the rope," Amiri replied, scowling down at her.

"How about… we all… just try… not to plunge to our deaths," Branum panted.

"From that height, you probably wouldn't die from the fall. You'd shatter your legs and starve to death," Amiri said.

"You'd die of thirst way before starving to death," Oska countered.

"Is this… supposed to be making me feel better?" Branum asked. He paused, clinging to the rope as he struggled to catch his breath.

"I'm not going to let you fall," Oska said seriously.

"I know. Besides, I could… always give us… a soft landing. I'm not… completely useless," Branum reminded her. He waggled his fingers, and a few anemic sparks of light danced around them.

"Stop showing off and save your strength. Come on. Halfway there," she said, fondness in her voice.

He nodded, steeled himself, and began to climb again. He was an odd one to find among the Six Bears, Amiri thought. He trusted his sister—and more than that, he readily accepted her aid and comfort. Not once had he objected to her taking the lead on physical tasks. It truly didn't seem to bother him that a woman was stronger than he was. That wasn't a trait she'd encountered from her kinsmen often. Or ever.

Amiri pulled herself up to a new handhold, then paused. It wasn't far to the top, now—she was close enough to see beyond the slim opening to a ceiling of stone. The top of the shaft led to another sheltered area, but given the light coming down through it, it wasn't entirely covered.

From above came a series of yips and snarls, then the scrambling of claws. Amiri gestured sharply for the others to halt and be silent as the growling intensified. Something clattered, and then a few bones—gristle still clinging to them—toppled over the side of the shaft. Amiri clung tight to the wall to avoid the debris. Branum stifled a startled sound as a femur smacked his shoulder.

Wait, Amiri motioned. The snarling and yipping and scrabbling continued. The cubs were playing.

The sounds went on for several minutes before falling into abrupt silence. Amiri waited another few moments, then began to climb again. They moved without speaking now, slow but steady.

Before long, Amiri was at the top of the shaft. She pushed her head and shoulders out of the opening, scanning for the peryton and its cubs.

The cubs lay curled up together on the far side of a large rock overhang, its floor littered with bones, offal, and half-eaten carcasses. One of the cubs had fallen asleep gnawing on a skull that might have belonged to a halfling; the other had a hand, half stripped of flesh, tucked between its paws. Beyond the overhang was a small plateau with slopes dropping off precipitously to all sides. There was no sign of the larger creature.

Amiri climbed out as silently as she could, then turned to help the others. Oska moved off to the side to push as Amiri pulled, and they got Branum up onto level ground, where he half-crouched and half-collapsed, wheezing as quietly as he could. Oska scrambled up, quick as a squirrel, but her arms were shaking, and she flexed her hands like they were cramped.

Amiri's limbs weren't thanking her, either. "Best go before the mother comes back," she whispered.

Oska nodded and tapped Branum's shoulder. He suppressed a groan as he staggered up to his feet, and they edged along the side of the sheltered area, Oska leading and Amiri taking up the rear to keep an eye on the cubs.

One moment, Oska was stepping out into the open, looking behind her with a frown to track her brother's progress. The next moment she was gone, snatched into the air with a scream.

"Oska!" Branum yelled. Amiri shoved past him. The peryton's wingbeats scattered dust and debris as the creature climbed, the grip of its hind talons piercing the flesh of Oska's shoulders. The girl screamed in pain and twisted—not to get free, but to throw her bow and quiver as hard as she could. They clattered to the ground 20 feet away. Amiri dove for them, snatched them up.

She sighted along the arrow. Waiting. The peryton circled around, moving awkwardly due to Oska's thrashing weight beneath it.

"Damn it, hold still or it'll drop you off the cliff!" Amiri shouted. "Wait!"

The creature banked, passing high overhead. Oska, miraculously, went still in its grip.

"Hope you weren't lying about that soft landing," Amiri said to Branum, not waiting for him to answer. The peryton's shadow darkened the edge of the plateau.

Amiri loosed the arrow. It struck the beast's left hind talon. The creature let out a strangled yelp of pain and lost its grip on the struggling huntress. She plunged downward. Branum reached out a hand and cried out a single word. Oska landed in a light crouch as the peryton tumbled in the air, righted, and wheeled away.

"Can we drive it off?" Branum asked. "Run?"

"We were in its nest. Its cubs are in there. It isn't going to leave us alone now," Amiri said. She tossed the bow and quiver back to Oska, who winced as she worked her punctured shoulders. Amiri unstrapped the unwieldy, broken base of her sword from her back, gripping the hilt in both hands.

The peryton's shadow glided over the plateau once more. Only its shape was wrong.

"It took your shadow," Oska said, seeing the same. She gave Amiri a considering look. "It's coming for you."

"Which means you could run," Amiri replied. "It won't chase you while I'm still standing."

The beast howled. It folded its wings in a dive, eyes fixed on Amiri. Oska and Branum fell back. And Amiri leapt to meet the creature's charge.

They met in the air—blade and beast, fang and fury. The peryton's eyes blazed with the fire of a mother whose cubs had been threatened. Amiri's blood sang with rage of her own. Anger for the beast, yes—but her old anger burned far brighter as she tumbled to the stony ground with the monster.

She chanced a quick glance: the siblings were gone. Good, she thought. They'd be safe. They'd live. Maruk wouldn't have any more reason to haunt her.

Her jagged blade slashed across the beast's chest, and the mountains rang with her brothers' mocking laughter. Teeth snapped in the air an inch from her throat, and the air slithered with whispers. It isn't right. She brings shame to all of us. Something must be done.

They had betrayed her. Made a fool of her. Humiliated her and tried to lead her to her death. But they had failed. She had showed them her true strength.

She struck at the peryton again and again in a storm of steel and claw. It darted in for quick attacks, retreating before she could get a proper strike in. Any time she closed, it used a few quick wingbeats to reposition, sending her scrambling around the plateau, wary of the sheer cliffs to every side. The broken blade was unbalanced and unwieldy. Fury collapsed into frustration, and she stood panting, both her and the beast bleeding from a half dozen minor wounds.

She'd put her back to the sheltered overhang, steering clear of the precipitous drop-offs—all too aware of how easy it would be for the peryton to fling her over the edge with a toss of its gore-rimed antlers.

A sharp pain shot through Amiri's calf. She let out a cry of pain, twisting and striking out. The broken blade swung, cleaving in half the peryton cub that had sunk its teeth into her leg. The other sprang up, needle teeth clamping around her wrist, as its mother let out a howl and charged.

Amiri flung the cub away as the larger beast's antlers caught her up and threw her back against the far wall of the cave. Her head hit stone with a crack. Stars burst in her vision, and she collapsed to the ground in a stunned crouch. The peryton paced forward, opening its jaws to bare its yellowed teeth.

There was a crackling sound, and lightning arced, blasting into the peryton's side. Two arrows followed in quick succession, and the peryton screamed, rearing away. Amiri launched herself forward, stars still dancing in her eyes, and dashed past the beast.

Oska and Branum stood at the edge of the plateau. Branum raised his hands, light dancing at his fingertips. Oska set another arrow to her bow. Amiri skidded to a stop in front of them.

"What do you think you're doing?" she demanded. "I told you to run."

"Talked it over. Decided not to listen to you," Branum said cheerfully.

"We don't leave kin to fight alone," Oska said firmly.

Amiri stared. It had been a long time—a very long time—since anyone had claimed her as kin. "I killed your father," she said hollowly. "He was a good man. More or less."

"You killed your kin," Oska agreed. Her eyes were bright. "But you know what, Amiri? I'm better than you."

The peryton staggered into the light. It reared up on its hind legs, bellowing out a call to shake the mountains.

Amiri and her kin turned to face it.

Illustration by Michael Penn

Amiri dumped the waterskin over her head, rinsing some of the blood out of her hair. The sun was going down. The cold air would keep the peryton's corpse, laid out on the plateau behind her, from rotting. But there were other scavengers in these mountains, and they'd be along soon to take their portion of the kill.

Oska had already carved the antlers from its head and bound them together to carry over her shoulder, as a trophy.

"You know you won't be able to claim that as your kill," Amiri said. She flicked her wet hair back from her face.

Oska didn't meet her eyes. "I'll say Branum killed it."

Branum laughed aloud. "Yeah, they'll certainly believe that."

"We'll figure it out," Oska said, securing her makeshift straps.

Amiri just shook her head. She'd never have let someone else claim one of her deeds at that age. She'd have shouted it to the whole clan at every opportunity.

And look how that turned out, she thought. She spat.

"Can I have that?" Branum asked. Amiri gave him a questioning look. He gestured at the two halves of her blade that rested on the ground beside her.

"You couldn't even lift the thing," she told him, amused.

"I mean I can fix it for you," Branum said.

Oska straightened up. A frown creased her lips. "That's the sword that—"

"It's a sword," Branum said. "Just a tool. What matters is who wields it, not what it's done."

Amiri gave him a level look. "The woman who wields this sword is the one that killed your father," she reminded him. "You really want to give me my blade back?"

Branum looked over at the dead peryton. "Honestly? I want you to die a slow and painful death," he said, his cheerful tone unwavering. "But that wouldn't do anybody any good, would it? You took my father from me. I've got no interest in forgiving you. And I've got no interest in being a kinslayer. So now I get to choose how I carry that—how I bear my choices without breaking. This is how I'm going to do it."

He stepped forward and reached for the sword. Neither Amiri nor Oska said anything to stop him as he dragged the pieces over to a clear patch of ground. He stood with an expression of deep concentration, his hands held over the blade.

Slowly, the segments shivered toward one another. The metal gleamed. The seam lit with a soft, silver light—and then the light faded, and the blade was whole once more.

Branum stepped away, not touching it again. He bent to pick up his pack and settled it on his shoulder. "That's done, then," he said simply.

Amiri hefted the blade. The familiar pull at her muscles was welcome. The guilt needling through her was not.

"Let's go," Oska said, touching her brother's arm. They turned away.

"Don't go back," Amiri said, staring at the sword. Behind her, their footsteps halted.

"What else are we supposed to do?" Oska asked.

"Just leave." Amiri lowered the sword and turned toward them. "Leave before they find a way to kill you, or kill everything you are."

"It's not that easy," Oska said.

Amiri's lips twisted. "If it was, maybe I could've done it, before it was too late. But you're smarter than I ever was. Or your brother is, at least."

Oska and Branum glanced at each other. "We don't hate the Six Bears," Branum said.

"Neither did I. I loved my brothers," Amiri said. "Didn't stop them trying to kill me. Didn't stop me killing them."

"Where are we supposed to go, then? With you?" Oska asked scornfully.

Amiri snorted. "None of us would survive that," she said, and Oska chuckled in reluctant agreement. "The world's bigger than you think. Go see what it holds. Leave—while you still have the option of coming home, if you decide that's what you want."

Oska didn't answer. Neither did Branum. They turned away, setting out without another word. But Branum looked at Oska, and Oska looked at Branum, and Amiri could tell that each was thinking of the other. Of the things they could achieve, if they found the place where they belonged.

They'd leave, she thought. Not for themselves, but each for the other. Maybe someday they would even return—as she never could.

Amiri made her way down the opposite flank of the mountain, away from the siblings. Away from the Six Bears.

The wind howled between the peaks. She listened long and hard, but there were no words within. It was only the wind.

About the Author

Kate Alice Marshall is the author of young adult and middle grade novels, including I AM STILL ALIVE, RULES FOR VANISHING, and THIRTEENS. She lives outside of Seattle with her husband, two dogs named Vonnegut and Octavia, and two kids. They all conspire to keep her on her toes. See katemarshallbooks.com for more information.

About Iconic Encounters

Iconic Encounters is a series of web-based flash fiction set in the worlds of Pathfinder and Starfinder. Each short story provides a glimpse into the life and personality of one of the games’ iconic characters, showing the myriad stories of adventure and excitement players can tell with the Pathfinder and Starfinder roleplaying games.

THE SPLINTERING OF BONE

Branum and Oska muttered to each other as Amiri prepared. She did her best to ignore them. She couldn't understand them, anyway—they were talking in an odd, garbled tongue, and suddenly she remembered that, too. The twins with their private language, infuriating Maruk because he thought his children were making fun of him. He'd always been going on about how his son was going to be as mighty a warrior as Maruk himself.

She glanced sidelong at Branum. He was shivering in the cool air of the cave, and his sister tossed her own cloak over his shoulders without comment. So much for Maruk's ambitions. He hadn't lived long enough to be disappointed in the boy.

Amiri turned on her heel, leaving the thought behind, and made her way to the back of the cave. A squeeze indeed. She hmmed, hand against the rock.

"Something wrong?" Branum asked.

"Just wondering how many ways to die there are, shoving yourself into a crack like that," Amiri mused.

"I could list them, if it helps," Branum said.

She gave him a flat look. "It really doesn't," she said. She turned sideways and slid into the gap.

Amiri wasn't afraid of tight spaces, as a rule, but a space this tight, it worked its way into the back of your brain, where all the deepest, most primal instincts hung around to tell you what was going to kill you. This was a killing space. A grasping, crushing, suffocating space. There wasn't even room to set her feet flat on the floor—she had to brace her legs at odd angles, push her way through with her calves and shoulders and by pulling with the tips of one outstretched hand. Behind her, Branum was praying. Behind him, Oska muttered to him or to herself, Amiri couldn't tell. She couldn't turn her head to look. It was like having ghosts at her back, whispering unseen.

Then, suddenly, she was free. The walls of the squeeze released her, and she stepped easily out into a wider tunnel. She worked her limbs, flexing to bring some feeling back into them.

"Made it through," she called back. Branum thanked a half-dozen gods and other entities, and the sounds of scraping and huffing intensified as the twins hurried to join her. From there, the trek was easier, though hardly swift going. Without the sun to track time, it was hard to tell how long they traveled, clambering over shelves of rock and backtracking when they hit dead ends. They hadn't found an exit yet, but they hadn't run out of cave, either.

"I can smell fresh air," Branum said at last, sniffing theatrically.

Amiri stood next to him and tested the air. "This way," she said, setting off down a side tunnel. She only made it a few steps before the tunnel abruptly ended in a small, round chamber.

The floor was scattered with bones.

She reached for her dagger, cautioning the others back. The bones looked animal—mostly. Half a deer lay in the middle of the floor, blood dried black but flesh not yet rotted away. Its blood had spattered half the chamber.

But it wasn’t the deer that held her gaze. Amiri’s eyes were fixed on a human skeleton sprawled across an outcrop of rock toward the back of the room. Bits of desiccated flesh and moldering clothes clung to the bones. A few scraps of leather armor still adorned its hips and chest, stamped with a pattern of paw prints and swirling lines, almost impossible to make out after so many years. But Amiri remembered them perfectly.

"Who do you think they were?" Branum asked, moving cautiously into the chamber. "What were they doing down here?"

"Does it matter?" Oska asked. "Something's been eating things in here. We shouldn't stick around."

Amiri tightened her jaw. "It matters," she said. "That's Erskar. He was wearing that armor the day I killed him."

Oska hissed between her teeth. Branum looked alarmed, straightening up. "I knew he was with Father that day, but his body wasn't found. Some people thought you'd run off together."

Amiri snorted. "With Erskar? Not on your life."

"So he survived? Snuck off on his own for some reason?" Branum mused.

"None of those men would have abandoned their clan," Oska spat.

"Certainly not without most of his guts. Erskar was dead. They were all dead," Amiri said, and as always, the image was as fresh and real in her mind as the day it happened. They brought it on themselves, she thought. They'd meant her to die. They'd weaseled their way out of calling it murder, but they'd brought her there to meet her end.

"Then how is he here?" Branum asked. Then, "Oh!" He pointed to Erskar's chest, and Amiri saw at once what he'd spotted. She'd left Erskar gutted on the ground. But the skeleton's legs were splintered, one arm broken clean through. And his ribs had been shattered, pried apart.

Illustration by Emile Denis

Perytons preferred live prey, but in lean times they scavenged, just like everything else. So the peryton—or its parent, maybe—had taken the corpse for a snack, flying up into the peaks with it. It had eaten its favorite part of the body, and apparently not gotten around to the rest. But no peryton would roost in these caves, even if it could fit.

"No tunnels out. But what about up?” Amiri mused.

Branum nodded and lifted his crystal, peering up toward the ceiling. And there it was. A chimney leading up out of the tunnel. Wider than the squeeze, at least. Wide enough for the corpse of a large man to tumble through and be forgotten, rotting away year after year.

“That’s our way out,” Amiri said.

“Looks like it,” Branum concurred.

“You know, if the peryton’s meals are falling down here this frequently…” Oska began.

Amiri nodded. “It’s eating up there. Which means that’s probably its nest.”

“Oh. Lovely,” Branum said.

“It’s our only option,” Amiri said. “So we’d better get climbing.” She’d take fighting the peryton over sticking around here with these cubs, that was certain.

“Not yet,” Oska said.

“You getting fond of the place?” Amiri asked her, but Oska glanced sidelong at Branum—who was trying to hide the fact that he was limping and out of breath, and pale as the belly of a fish.

“We should rest a while,” Oska said.

“I won’t make it up with or without rest,” Branum said, grimacing. “If you can get up and secure a rope or something…”

“We all go up,” Amiri said. She wasn’t going to leave the boy behind. And she certainly wasn’t going anywhere alone with his sister. Keeping Branum around was the only way to be sure one of them wasn’t going to end up dead.

“We’ve got rope. We can secure it as we go, help you up,” Oska said. “But I’d rather do that with some rest and some food in my belly.”

Amiri’s stomach rumbled on cue. “I hope you brought something to eat, because that deer’s long past being appetizing,” she said.

Oska gave a curt nod, and against their united front, Branum gave in. Oska set down her pack and pulled out salted fish, mashed and dried berries formed into a leather, and a handful of nuts. She broke the fish into three shares. Amiri expected to be handed a smaller one, but Oska had portioned them evenly. Even if she did drop it into Amiri’s hand like she was afraid of touching her.

“That’s all you brought?” Amiri asked.

Oska shrugged as she handed her brother his share. “It’s all we had. Like I said, game has been scarce.”

“You’re young yet. The clan shouldn’t be letting you go hungry,” Amiri said, troubled. “Not Maruk’s kids.”

She’d spent her years of exile thinking often enough of that last day—and less often of the day before. It was painful, remembering the way her clan had jeered and mocked her behind her back, had discussed her death with gleeful anticipation. But that pain was twinned with anger, and anger was an ally.

It was the earlier memories that were harder. Remembering not how Maruk had laughed at her, but the times they’d laughed together. Remembering not the way he’d died, cleaved limb from limb in the face of her rage, but the times they’d raced and wrestled and bickered. She’d made Maruk laugh a lot, she remembered. His wife had always thought her a bad influence. She’d thought he was one of the few that truly didn’t see her as a woman who ought to know her place, but as a warrior who’d earned it.

“It was like that a while,” Branum said. He sat with his legs splayed before him, picking at his food. “We had everything we could ask for. Everyone was always telling me how I was going to carry on Father’s legacy. Be a great warrior, like he was. And then I wasn’t, and they lost interest.”

“Someone had to provide for us,” Oska said. She hunched over her food, not meeting Amiri’s eyes. “But that only made it worse. Turned near everyone against us.”

“For feeding yourselves? I know it’s not common for a woman, but—"

Oska looked up, eyes alight with hatred. “It’s not just not common anymore. Not for the Six Bears. After what you did? ‘Look what happens when you let a woman think she’s a warrior,’ they said.”

“You think I didn’t hear that, too? ‘Watch out, or you’ll end up like Amiri,’ they’d tell the other girls. I never let it stop me,” Amiri said. She’d always taken it as a point of pride. Like Amiri meant strong, capable, unstoppable. She didn't want the things it denied her—the husband, the children, the days spent tending the fire and tanning another hunter's hides.

"And look what happened," Oska said dully. "You think that any girl in the Six Bears is allowed to even look at a sword, after you proved what a curse it is, to let a woman fight? I can't even feed myself and my brother without skulking around in secret. Maybe you should have let it stop you. Slow you down. Maybe the next girl would've had an easier time of it."

Amiri grunted. "I won't make myself less than I am. Not for anyone. Being what the clan wanted me to be would have killed me."

"Then leave," Branum whispered. They looked at him, surprised. He hadn't spoken this whole time, just stared off into the distance, but now his gaze was intense. "You could have just left."

"My kin, your father, arranged to have me killed," Amiri growled.

"They never did anything to you. Just let you do it to yourself," Branum said.

Amiri shook her head. "They wanted me dead. They betrayed me. And I—"

"Could have left," Branum repeated. "You weren't in danger. They were no threat to you. You could have walked away and lived a life to prove them wrong."

He was wrong. Someone else could have walked away, but Amiri couldn't. She was going to die that day, or they were. There was never going to be another path.

"We should go," Oska said roughly. She brushed crumbs from her fingers and stood. She put out her hand to help her brother up.

Amiri didn't know how she could explain what had happened in a way that the two would understand. It wasn't that Branum was wrong. She hadn't been defending herself. And it had been her own foolish pride and boastfulness that had made any of it possible.

For her kin to betray her. Humiliate her. Take her home from her—for how could she return, no matter the outcome, once she knew what they had intended? They wanted her dead or broken.

And she couldn't walk away. She couldn't. Someone else might have. Would have. There was nothing to stop her except herself. Her rage. Her grief at everything that had been torn so brutally from her in those horrible moments.

She should have walked away. But Amiri of the Six Bears couldn't.

Maybe she could, now. But Amiri of no clan was not the woman who had been lured into those mountains. She was not the woman who had left. And she could not go back to that moment, and stand in the place Amiri of the Six Bears stood, and make her choices for her.

She could only move on.

Only move up.

She could only keep climbing.

About the Author

Kate Alice Marshall is the author of young adult and middle grade novels, including I AM STILL ALIVE, RULES FOR VANISHING, and THIRTEENS. She lives outside of Seattle with her husband, two dogs named Vonnegut and Octavia, and two kids. They all conspire to keep her on her toes. See katemarshallbooks.com for more information.

About Iconic Encounters

Iconic Encounters is a series of web-based flash fiction set in the worlds of Pathfinder and Starfinder. Each short story provides a glimpse into the life and personality of one of the games’ iconic characters, showing the myriad stories of adventure and excitement players can tell with the Pathfinder and Starfinder roleplaying games.

STRAY CUBS

Sometimes, when Amiri was bored, she considered all the ways she could have died over the years. Not that she had any desire to analyze them strategically, as one companion had suggested. Nor to contemplate the inevitability of death and its philosophical implications, as another had asked.

Mostly, she found it oddly soothing to know that death lurked so near, waiting for a step to the right instead of left, an undercooked bit of meat, a tent pitched under the wrong overhang. Death could come because of a mistake, a miscalculation, a failure—but it could come as easily from fortune's slightest whim.

She couldn't decide which sort of death this one was—error or chance. She debated it groggily in her mind for a few seconds before realizing that the fact that she was thinking about it at all probably meant she wasn’t actually dead.

The cold and all-too-familiar kiss of a blade at her throat, though, suggested that such luck might not last long.

She blinked grit from her eyes, but it didn't help much with the view. She lay on her side, her lower body half-buried under rocks and dirt, facing a rough stone wall a foot from her nose. One arm was pinned awkwardly under her. A hand held her by the hair, and another held a knife to her neck.

"Oska, what do you think you're doing?" a low voice asked. The boy.

"Don't you know who this is?" his sister replied.

"You're not going to slit the throat of an unconscious woman," he said, sounding much surer about it than Amiri was.

"I'm not unconscious, if it helps," Amiri grated out. The girl let out a startled oath, scrambling back. Amiri's mouth felt like it had been packed solid with dust. She coughed and tasted blood—hopefully from biting her tongue, not anything internal and annoyingly dire.

Amiri twisted onto her back, bringing herself around as best she could. Her legs remained trapped in place, but at least now she could look over at the two young hunters. The girl clutched a dagger like a claw, teeth bared and eyes wild. The boy hovered nearby, expression nervous. It was thanks to him she could see anything at all—the weak, steady light filling the cavern emanated from a small crystal held in his hand.

Up close, she guessed the two of them were maybe 15 or 16, but theirs was the battered kind of youth that came of dangerous places like this. The girl might have been pretty in a dull kind of way, but the scars on her cheek and arms rescued her, made her interesting. The boy had a lean, half-starved look, with hollow eyes and a frail energy around him.

“Well?” Amiri said, breaking the silence. “If you’re going to kill me, now’s the time. It’d spare us all the trouble of digging me out, at least.”

“I have to say, I’ve been called lazy more times than I can count, but I've never murdered anyone to avoid work," the boy said with nervous humor. "Oska. Come on, drop the knife."

The girl—Oska—stared at Amiri, unmoving. Her chest heaved with labored breaths. Amiri flexed her legs, shifting them a fraction, trying to loosen the earth that held her lower body trapped.

"You're Amiri," Oska said through gritted teeth. "Of the Six Bears."

"I am Amiri," she replied, low and steady. “I have no clan.”

A brother and sister with red-gold hair. That dimple in the girl's chin that made her border on adorable, and that she probably hated. Didn't Amiri remember a pair like that? A girl who crouched and watched Amiri train, a boy always huddled close to the fire or in his sister's shadow?

"Oska," she said, repeating the name, trying to place it. Her eyes flicked to the boy. "And you're Branum, is that right?"

He gave a quick, convulsive nod. Oska and Branum. Their mother was Kina, with the copper hair and sweet voice, dead years before Amiri left. And their father—their father was Maruk. Champion wrestler, champion drinker. He was dead, too.

He died the day Amiri left.

She glanced around, casual as she could, searching for her sword. She spotted it, half-wrapped in Branum’s cloak, well out of reach.

“You killed our father,” Oska said, all bile and hatred. Ready to strike.

Amiri illustration by Wayne Reynolds

Amiri had never denied the things she’d done. Not to herself or anyone else. “That’s right,” she said, voice steady. Oska let out a strangled sound of fury and grief and surged forward a step—just one.

Even pinned, Amiri knew she wouldn’t lose that fight. But it wasn’t one she much liked the thought of winning, either.

She pushed herself up on one elbow, glaring at Oska. “I killed your father,” she said. “But whatever I’ve done, girl, your father was my grandmother’s favorite nephew. We’re cousins, you and I. Kin. And that’d make you a kinslayer, just like me."

"Can the kinslayer's kin kill the kinslayer? Or will the kinslayer kill the kinslayer's slain kin's kin?" Branum rattled off. Amiri stared at him. He offered a crooked smile, spread his hands. "Sorry. I can't help it."

Oska snorted. She held still, every muscle tense, for several long seconds. Then, at last, she lowered her dagger. "I'm no kinslayer," she declared, backing away. Amiri let out a breath through her teeth as the tension left her.

Amiri levered herself up higher, still trying to work her legs. The rocks blocking the entrance shifted at her movement, and she froze. There was enough stone blocking the entrance that bringing it down on herself would be very stupid indeed.

"I think we can get you out clean if we move a couple of these rocks and pull you straight out," Branum said, as if following her train of thought.

Oska looked at him askance. "What are you talking about? I'm not helping her."

Branum shrugged. "If you aren't going to kill her, seems like helping her is the other option."

"We could just leave her here."

"She's in the way of the exit," Branum replied. "And I'm not sure we can dig our way out without squishing her, which we've just agreed not to do."

"I wouldn't be killing her, the rocks would be killing her," Oska said sweetly. Amiri glared at her. She glared back.

Had Amiri been this infuriating at this age? Surely not. It had taken at least a little while longer before her clan tried to arrange her death, and surely if she was this annoying they wouldn't have waited.

Oska sighed, surrendering. "Fine. We'll move her out of the way first. Which rocks?"

Branum pointed confidently, and Oska moved without questioning him. Amiri helped as best she could from her awkward angle, obeying Branum's strict instructions not to move her legs at all, lest she disrupt the pile and bring it down on all of them. Well, both of them, since Branum was staying well back for a "better vantage point."

Bit by bit, they eased her out, until finally she was able to clamber to her feet. Her legs were all pins and needles, her feet half-numb, but there was little pain. Nothing broken or too badly bruised, she thought. She'd been lucky. For certain definitions of the word.

"Now, let's get this cleared and get out of here," Oska said.

Branum put a palm to the rocks. Frowned. Got that distant look in his eye of people seeing something they had no natural business seeing. Then he shook his head. "No good. There's a solid few feet of stone in the way. Too much for even you ladies to budge."

"What's the alternative? Die gasping down here?" Oska asked.

Amiri stared at the two of them. Youths of the Six Bears clan. Two stray cubs. So this was what the witch had wanted her to find, then. Maruk's children—who didn't have any better sense than he once had, if they were hunting that peryton on their own. Then again, if Maruk had hared off on a hunt like this, she would have been right on his heels. Or sprinting past him, never mind the risk.

"What were you thinking?" she said, and realized as the words left her mouth that she wasn't sure who she was talking to. These cubs? Maruk's ghost? Or maybe she meant herself.

Oska turned on her. "That beast has been driving out anything bigger than a rabbit, and its fledglings eat all the rabbits. As long as it's here, hunting is scarce."v

"So go hunt the lowlands," Amiri said dismissively.

Oska's jaw flared. Branum shifted uncomfortably.

"She's not—" Branum started.

"Branum—" Oska warned.

"—supposed to be hunting," he finished. His sister looked ready to throw him in a lake. He was lucky there weren't any nearby. Branum sighed. "We're on our own these days, and the only thing I know how to catch is a cold. But Oska's not meant to be hunting, so we have to go where the others won't see us. With everyone in the lowlands it's harder."

"Why aren't you allowed to hunt?" Amiri asked, baffled.

"You might have noticed we share a gender," Oska said, one hand planted on her hip.

Amiri shrugged. "Never stopped me. Never stopped anyone I knew from taking a hare or a doe when they needed meat."

"Things are different now," Oska said.

Amiri's brow furrowed, but before she could ask what Oska meant, she felt something—the whisper of a breeze against the back of her neck. "There's fresh air coming from somewhere," she said, stalking toward the back of the cave. There, a narrow crack ran from floor to ceiling. Amiri waved Branum closer and borrowed his light, but the retreating shadows only revealed more stone. The passageway turned. No way to say how far it went or how narrow it got.

"That's quite a squeeze," Branum said.

"Shouldn't bother you, though," Amiri noted.

"Benefits of being a twig," he agreed, shrugging.

"It's not like we have another option. We'll have to see where it goes," Oska said. "But the kinslayer goes in front."

"Think I'm going to stab you in the back, do you?" Amiri asked, chuckling darkly. "Trust me, if I kill you, you'll know it's coming."

"Is it supposed to be a comfort to imagine that my father knew he was betrayed, the moment before you murdered him?" Oska snapped.

Amiri's anger was a lash of fire through her veins. "They were the traitors," she snarled.

Oska's hand wrapped around her dagger's hilt. Her lips skinned back from her teeth. "Liar. Killer. You—"

Branum stepped between them. He put a hand to Oska's shoulder and lifted the other toward Amiri—holding it close to his body, as though he thought she might bite him if he brought it any closer.

"Close quarters make for quick tempers," he said. "We can fight under clear skies. For now, keep focused."

"I've got no quarrel with that," Amiri said. "If your sister keeps her blade pointed elsewhere."

Oska spat at her and wheeled around. She stalked as far away as she could get, which was all of a spear's length, and made a show of checking her gear. Amiri shook her head. "All right. Let me get my sword, and let's get this over with."

"About that," Branum said, and Amiri's heart sank. He bent, lifting aside the fold of his cloak, which had concealed the blade of the massive bastard sword—and hidden where it had broken, snapped to a jagged end halfway down its length.

"What did you do?" Amiri demanded, crossing the distance in two steps and shoving Branum aside.

"We didn't do anything. It broke in the rockslide," Branum said. "Saved your life, though. You were shielding your head with it, didn't get caught by that one." He pointed to a large boulder, wedged inside the entrance. It had taken out a solid chunk of the cave wall on its way in.

"It's just a sword," Oska said.

"Why is it that people think that word has so much power?" Amiri asked.

"What word?" Oska asked, puzzled.

"'Just.' It's just a cut. Just a prank. Just an arrow in your belly. Just a dragon. Who needs magic and weapons when you have 'just' to solve all the world's ills?"

Just a sword. Except it wasn't. It was everything she'd done to get it, and everything that had happened after. A friend had once pointed out to her it was a bit literal, carrying the weight of her sins on her back. She'd shoved him into a bog for it. It wasn't about the weight. It was about the purpose. Each time she used this blade, it was one more thing she'd done with it that wasn't the first thing.

Her deeds were not a drop of blood in water, to dissolve and vanish. It wasn't about making the past disappear. It was about being more than that one moment.

That's what she told herself, at least.

She wrapped the blade carefully in Branum's cloak, minding its edges, and bound it with twine. Her pack had been lost somewhere in the rockfall, but she made a bundle she could carry one-handed.

She'd get out. Find someone to mend it.

Keep adding to its list of deeds.

About the Author

Kate Alice Marshall is the author of young adult and middle grade novels, including I AM STILL ALIVE, RULES FOR VANISHING, and THIRTEENS. She lives outside of Seattle with her husband, two dogs named Vonnegut and Octavia, and two kids. They all conspire to keep her on her toes. See katemarshallbooks.com for more information.

About Iconic Encounters

Iconic Encounters is a series of web-based flash fiction set in the worlds of Pathfinder and Starfinder. Each short story provides a glimpse into the life and personality of one of the games’ iconic characters, showing the myriad stories of adventure and excitement players can tell with the Pathfinder and Starfinder roleplaying games.

THE WIND BENEATH THE PEAKS

The sky was scabbed over with ominous looking clouds, but Amiri refused to take them as an ill omen. Just being back here in these mountains was all the bad luck she needed.

Amiri hadn’t yet decided just how much of a fool she was for coming back to the lands of her birth. Just on the other side of these peaks lay the place where she’d stood drenched in the blood of her kin: the finest warriors of the Six Bears. Men she had called her brothers. Her friends. She had felt the heat of their blood fading from her skin and known she could never go home again.

She’d told herself she never wanted to.

And in the time since, she never had. Until now. Following a witch-woman’s words of warning and promise. Because though in all that time she’d never wanted to return these lands had never fully loosed their hold on her.

Amiri gritted her teeth as she hauled herself over the sheer flank of a boulder. From here she could see down the slope toward the overgrown valley below and peer up toward the snow-crusted peaks. Not a single crow cawed. No mice scuttled among the rocks and scree.

More bad omens, maybe. Or they’d been scared off by a lumbering warrior who’d forgotten the way of navigating easily through this landscape, she thought, and spat.

“Told you it was a bad idea.” she muttered, though there was no one else to hear. She’d told herself it was a bad idea just about every step of the way, but she couldn’t get the witch-woman’s words out of her head.

The town was nothing special. Just a cluster of unremarkable houses, preyed on by unremarkable bandits who were foolish enough to mistake Amiri for an easy target. She hadn’t even known the town was there until the residents greeted her cheering, at the gates. They’d insisted on a feast, and who was Amiri to turn down free food?

The witch-woman’s gift had been less welcome.

“I don’t have any gold to offer, but I have a fortune,” she'd said.

“Knowing the future only ever causes trouble.” Amiri replied with a grunt, starting to turn away, but the woman had held on with a surprisingly firm grip.

“You hear the whispers. The wind among the peaks. When you wake, when you sleep. You hear their voices. The men you killed. You hear them mocking you. You hear them cursing you.”

“Leave me be.” Amiri had growled, but the woman was relentless.

“I see you returning to the land of your birth. I see two stray cubs, a broken blade. I see your heart torn from your chest,” the woman intoned.

“My heart torn from my chest?” Amiri echoed, skeptical. “Doesn’t sound like something I ought to go looking for.”

The old woman shrugged. “Could be a metaphor. Can’t always tell with these things. But I hear the splintering of bones.” The smoke from the cookfire twined around them, strangely thick.

“You’re telling me if I go back there... what? I find some kind of peace?” Amiri had asked, voice sharp with scorn. She was a creature of battle and bloodshed, not peace.

Though maybe sometimes she did hear the wind howling in the peaks. Maybe sometimes she even thought she imagined voices in that wind, and felt—what? Not guilt or regret, exactly.

More the sense of something unfinished.

“Peace? No. A kind of silence, maybe.” the witch said.

That night Amiri dreamed of howling wind and when she set out in the morning, her path bent northward.

Part of her had almost expected spirits of vengeance to come screaming out of the sky the moment she entered the Six Bears’ territory but so far, her journey had been uneventful. She was skirting the edge of it now, just at the border of her old clan’s hunting grounds. If everything was as barren as this, it must have been a lean winter.

A skittering of rock drew her attention up the slope. She almost missed it—a flash of gray against gray, something ducking behind a stone. Then came a tiny yip and a growl. She wasn’t entirely alone here, then.

Two stray cubs, she thought.

“Bad idea.” She reminded herself. But, shaking her head, she started up the slope. The footing was unstable and twice she slid back down a foot or two, almost losing her grip on the mountainside. But finally, she hauled herself up to where the small form had vanished. There was a cleft in the rock—a cave, too small for a human, but large enough for an animal’s den, perhaps. Amiri crouched, peering into the darkness.

In her experience, fortune telling and prophecy were infuriatingly vague or uselessly symbolic. Irony and prophecy were for bards as far as she was concerned. Just tell her what a thing was plainly—and how to kill it. So she wasn’t really expecting to find two stray cubs in this den. That would be too easy. Too literal.

Amiri took a strip of jerky from her pack and held it out. “Come on. Be simple for once,” she muttered, and tossed it on the ground just outside the den.

Two glowing eyes appeared in the darkness. A second set blinked just behind. Wolves’ eyes, Amiri thought, and for one bright moment let herself believe that she might find her “stray cubs” and be done with this whole business.

The nearer beast sprang forward. Amiri leapt back with a wordless sound of surprise. She’d been mistaken—that hadn’t been the click of claws she heard, but of hooves and talons.

The cub was a hideously proportioned thing—a fawn’s spindly front legs, an oversized wolf cub’s head, the nubs of antlers pushing up from its blunt and blood-speckled brow. Ragged wings, pinfeathers not yet grown in, sprouted from its back, and its hind end sported the wicked talons of a bird of prey at the end of each scaly foot.

The peryton cub snarled at her, hunching over the piece of jerky. The second cub scrambled out, diving for the meat, and the two snapped and tore at each other, their antics almost sending them rolling down the side of the mountain.

Amiri grimaced, putting a hand to the dagger at her belt. The beasts were the size of small dogs now—not much of a threat. But they’d grow fast, and perytons were vicious, evil things. Fully grown, they delighted in tearing the hearts from men’s chests. Just like the witch had seen.

Was this all the witch wanted from her? Come here, kill a couple of perytons before they could grow up and threaten the Six Bears? Penance for her crimes.

As if that would wipe away the past.

She drew the dagger. The witch said find the cubs. She’d found them. She’d put them down and leave and forget she was ever foolish enough to listen to an old woman’s rambling fortunes.

The cubs seemed to notice her at last. They looked up, their muzzles and faces plastered with blood. No wonder the slopes were so quiet. Even fledglings would go after anything with a heart they could pry from its chest. The two growled at her, advancing. Utterly fearless. Like they completely believed the combined fifty pounds of them could take out a full-grown warrior.

Wind stirred Amiri’s hair.

Or maybe they were fearless for another reason.

Amiri threw herself to the side the second before a massive beast slammed into the rock where she’d been standing. It whirled in a storm of fur and feathers and flashing claws, a howl of rage in its throat.

Peryton by Firat Solhan

She let out an oath. The thing was massive, bigger than any peryton she'd seen—or heard of. Its ragged gray fur was striped with scars and liberally stained with blood. Bits of dried gore hung like macabre ornaments from its broad antlers, and when it spread its wings, they blocked out the sky, casting Amiri in shadow.

Amiri grinned. This was more like it. She sheathed her dagger. Planted her feet. And gripped the hilt of her massive sword. Its weight strained her shoulders, pulled at her arms. But she could feel the familiar, welcome heat uncoiling through her veins. That bitter taste was on her tongue and her heart raced with that mix of danger and eagerness and fury—fury that this creature would dare to face her. Fury it would think it could stand against her strength and blade. That it would think her prey.

“Come on, then!” she screamed at the beast. It rose on its hind legs, beating its great wings and sending blasts of wind that tore the loose rocks and pebbles from the hillside, sending them tumbling.

An arrow hissed through the air. It struck the peryton’s flank with a dull, meaty thud. It howled in rage and pain, its attention twisting away from Amiri. Toward the young woman standing a hundred feet away, feet braced, setting another arrow to her quiver. A young man crouched next to her. They wore hunters’ leathers, and by the matching red-gold shade of their hair and their angular features, they looked to be brother and sister.

The peryton leapt for the young woman. Amiri screamed out a curse and threw herself after. The girl loosed another arrow, but the peryton’s leap had startled her, and it went wide.

Amiri knew she wouldn’t make it to the pair in time. Knew the girl’s hands, quick and sure as they were, weren’t quick enough to nock another arrow. Nothing would stop the creature’s murderous dive. Unless—

The man lifted his hands. The air seemed to bend and fold in front of his palms and a crack like thunder boomed out. The peryton’s charge broke. It slewed away in the air, snarling in pain and shock. The edge of the blast of sound tore past Amiri, slamming into her shoulder, leaving her ears ringing.

The peryton climbed into the air with powerful beats of its wings. Amiri leapt the last few feet to the rock where the two youths stood.

“It’s coming back around,” she warned.

“I can see that.” the young woman snapped, her gaze tracking the beast as it rose, as it turned.

It seemed to hesitate. Its gaze shifted away from the trio, tracking higher up the mountain slope.

Then Amiri heard it. Not the scrape and skitter of a few dislodged stones, but a deep, desultory rumbling. She looked up just as, high above, the mountainside gave way.

“Rockslide!” the young man cried. The peryton let out a warbling howl and dove, but not at the three of them this time—toward its cubs, their half-feathered wings useless to take them out of the path of the rapidly growing avalanche of stone. It swept them up in its hind talons and angled away in seconds as Amiri and the other two sprinted down the slope.

“Don’t suppose that magic of yours can stop a rockslide?” Amiri shouted over the growing din.

“Just start them, apparently.” he tossed back with a reckless grin, and Amiri couldn’t help but answer it.

Over his shoulder she spotted it: a blot of darkness—a cave entrance.

“There.” she said, pointing. The two didn’t need her to explain. The sister got there first but she stopped, waited as her brother reached her and dove past before she flitted in after him.

The dust cloud riding the front edge of the avalanche swept over Amiri, blotting out her vision and swallowing the light. She threw herself toward the cave opening just as the rockslide hit.

There was no light, only darkness and furious sound, as if the whole mountain was coming apart overhead. Amiri scrambled back from the entrance. Stones rained down. Above her sounded a horrible grinding and groaning—then a crack. The cave entrance was giving way. Amiri roared, bracing herself beneath her sword, as if she could hold the whole mountain up.

The roof of the cave collapsed over her.

About the Author

Kate Alice Marshall is the author of young adult and middle grade novels, including I AM STILL ALIVE, RULES FOR VANISHING, and THIRTEENS. She lives outside of Seattle with her husband, two dogs named Vonnegut and Octavia, and two kids. They all conspire to keep her on her toes. See katemarshallbooks.com for more information.

About Iconic Encounters

Iconic Encounters is a series of web-based flash fiction set in the worlds of Pathfinder and Starfinder. Each short story provides a glimpse into the life and personality of one of the games’ iconic characters, showing the myriad stories of adventure and excitement players can tell with the Pathfinder and Starfinder roleplaying games.

I remember the years of struggle. Long, stretching seasons where sunlight was sparse, and the hungry night arrived all too quickly. I remember the rites and songs as we laid follower after follower to rest, forced to move ever onward. Parent and child, animals, friends: none were safe as we carved our new paths and founded our new lives.

Tonight, in the shadow of these great mountains, I share with you a story from another time. In this time, your grandparents were small, squalling babes—some of whom I sang lullabies to, heh!—and instead of a seer’s sharp mind, I had the strength and skill of a hunter.

I was a young man back then, instead of Grandfather Eiwa. Oh yes, and I was a skilled archer! With the silence of a great cat I stalked prey. With the sharpness of eye to rival a falcon’s, I watched over our following. With the patience of a mammoth, I knew when to lay still and when to strike with all the strength I had.

What I did not know was when to use each. Sometimes, a well-meaning action creates more trouble than anything.

Take this journey with me, and see things as they were. The time of the year was close to the very season we enjoy now, when daylight just begins to stretch further than the darkness, and the snow finally begins to melt. Around our feet, the trails grew slushy and difficult to traverse, but the days began to grow brighter, and with them came hope.

These were my favorite times of the year. The crispness of the blue sky was a welcome friend. Have you noticed that the sky never seems so bright, so vivid, as during the melts? Perhaps these days I am more comfortable in the warmer seasons, but I will always love the newness of the daylight, reborn and glorious, as it chases the hard winter away.

During this time, we were only a few years into establishing the routes we now use every year. Both our herd and our numbers were still small; we had only recently started recruiting others into our following and teaching them the ways of the Broken Tusk. I was a young man, perhaps only a little older than some of you are now. Still an adult in the eyes of the following, but young enough to be over-eager to prove myself.

My day’s task was to scout ahead. I was to learn which creatures had awakened from slumber, which patches of grass had revealed themselves from beneath the snow, and to ensure the herd’s next resting spot would be free of predators and other dangers.

I took no partner with me save for Isul, my beloved friend, my air-rider. Such a magnificent falcon. He, too, was eager to explore the way ahead, and so I encouraged him to go. It was exhilarating to be exploring by myself, knowing Isul was not too far away.

Stepping carefully along the sprouting grasses and dotted pools of melted snow, I came upon a spot that led to a shallow riverbed. I was stirred by its beauty and felt a swell of pride; this would be a fantastic resting spot for the herd.

In my excitement, I did not pay close enough attention. For by the time I had approached, too late did I see the giant creature already exploring the waters.

I froze in place, watching and waiting. Hoping the massive bear would be more interested in the potential fishing spot than in me. For now, it seemed oblivious to my presence.

I should have let it be and reported back to the others. But a thought crossed my mind: how fantastic would it be, not just to return to the following with news of this beautiful resting site, but to crown that achievement with another: a grizzled bear already brought down to feed our people?

I see some of you already shaking your heads at the thought. And you are right to do so. Well you know by now that you should never hunt bear by yourself.

Only, I was convinced I was not alone. I could call for Isul, and together we could handle anything. And the longer I thought about it, the more I persuaded myself it was the best choice. Food was in short supply, after all, and the great creature could provide much.

I crouched low in the muddy bank and began readying my bow. But when I looked up, I was not ready to see the great beast charging me!

It had seen me; my presence startled it, and I suddenly understood how alone I really was. In the space of a few seconds, many thoughts ran through my mind: where is Isul? I cannot outrun the bear. I don’t have time to make more than one shot. I should have waited. Ancestors, let me live through this and I shall not make this mistake again!

The brown bear bounded toward me, then stopped short with a mighty thump of its front paws. It growled at me, teeth clacking. I began backing away from it slowly, hoping this was the only charge the creature would make.

It was not. It surged forward again with similar body language, only this time it connected, knocking me back into the mud. Panic surging, I knew my greatest chance of living right now was to feign death. I rolled instantly to my stomach and cradled my head and neck with my arms. Already my hip was stinging from where the bear had made contact, but at least my instinct was correct. With a mighty thump that shook the mud, he stomped once more, but not on me.

I could not see him, but in my mind’s eye, he was only a few scant feet away. Let him be content, I prayed. Let him go away…

He was not content. He did not go away.

I felt the air leave my lungs as his snout dug under my side, trying to flip me over. Every last bit of me wanted to yelp, to flee. No, do not flee, for you will make him chase you! It took all my strength to keep my stomach to the ground, keep my arms shielding my head and neck.

He must have been as frustrated as I, for the next thing I knew, I felt his snout at my hip again, strong claws burning into my leg. I felt a moment of weightlessness, soon followed by flattening, encompassing pain along the front of my body and an icy splash of water above my shoulders. I barely had enough time to lift my head and take a breath before continuing to feign death. He tossed me into the water!

Through the panic and the loud rush of water over my ears, it took me a moment before I realized two important things: first, despite the pain, I was still alive, and second: my hips were still connected to solid ground. I was not too far under the water.

But there was still the bear! I held my breath, feeling another tap, this time at my ankle. Leave me be, I begged, remaining still as possible, half in the water and my lungs burning with need. Go find something else, before playing dead becomes being dead!

I felt nothing else. I knew I shouldn’t move until the bear was long gone. But my lungs were done recycling my one breath; I had no more. My body ached from claw and earth. Moving was my only chance at life, and yet if I moved while the bear was still near, it was certain death.

I waited. And waited.

I felt no more contact.

Must…wait.

Wait.

Wait.

I NEED AIR.

I turned my head just enough to take in a breath and open one eye and was rewarded. For the bear had reared up, swiping at a blur of speed, dark feathers surrounding sharp eyes. Isul had returned! My beloved friend dove at the bear, distracting him, leading him away from me!

I sat up gasping and, in frenzied haste, looked around for my bow. There! At the water’s edge! I dove for it despite my pain and saw more than felt my hand close around its haft. My other hand fumbled to draw an arrow from my quiver, and with horror, I realized only one remained! The others had tumbled out as the bear tossed me around.

I had to make my shot count. I whistled sharply—a signal to Isul. My falcon friend responded immediately, as I knew he would. He circled up around the bear’s head once, leading the great creature just far enough away. In a moment, he would circle again and expose the bear’s chest and shoulder to me.

Illustration by Kent Hamilton

It is very hard to get an exact shot at a bear’s heart, especially when it’s already aggravated. But Isul was well-practiced, and we had hunted together many times. This, at least, was a perfect moment in an otherwise-messy situation. Isul wheeled. The bear turned. For one frozen moment, our eyes met, the bear and me. And then, with more precision than I’d ever had, I loosed the arrow.

The missile flew true, and I was rewarded with the telltale spray of blood, the muscular spasm as the animal decided whether to flee or fight . . . and then it slumped over.

It took me a long moment to work up the nerve to ensure the bear was finished. But finished it was. I sent Isul back to the following with a message asking for assistance. It wasn’t precisely as I’d imagined; the following had to help me as much as help with the bear.

And truly, my following, this is the most important lesson I can give from the tale tonight: we are best when we work together. We must learn to ask for—and accept!—help when needed. My intentions were good, but it was a foolish choice that nearly cost me my life, and nearly cost the following one of its hunters. We are made weaker with each loss of life, just as we are made stronger with each new addition to the following.

This night, I see you all here with me, listening and learning our ways, honoring each other and those who came before. I see you gathered, people of all shapes, all sizes, and my heart is happy. We are stronger for having you.

I celebrate you this night, Broken Tusks. And I know you will face bravely whatever challenges come your way.

About the Author

Rachael Cruz is an award-winning writer / game designer. Her TRPG work can be found in numerous properties, including but not limited to Conan: Adventures in an Age Undreamed-Of, Corvus Belli’s Infinity RPG, Dune: Adventures in the Imperium, Fantasy Age, RuneQuest, and Star Trek Adventures. She has been helping people play pretend before it was cool. She also believes in you. Yes, you. Follow her on Twitter at @Witchwater!

About Quest for the Frozen Flame

In the Quest for the Frozen Flame Adventure Path, Paizo’s newest three-part monthly campaign, the heroes lead a band of nomadic hunter-gatherers across the brutal primordial landscape of the Realm of the Mammoth Lords. Members of the Broken Tusk following, these brave adventurers must secure a safe route through the wilds, lest saber-toothed beasts, warmongering rivals, and the ever-looming possibility of natural disaster all threaten to end an ancient people’s legacy. Will the Broken Tusks succumb to the elements and surrender to their rivals? Or will you guide your following to glory and reclaim a stolen birthright?

For the second time today, Ciravel found herself exceedingly grateful for seatbelts and stabilizers.

The first moment of gratitude was during Iseph's dizzying, looping, headlong dash toward Daimalko's surface—a flight where they showed both their skill at threading the space between the enormous meteoroids that surrounded the planet and their delight at making Ciravel shut her eyes despite herself. Ciravel ran and reran the possibilities in her mind, certain that this was the course that resulted in a safe arrival to a canyon on the planet's surface, and yet she still found herself clutching her armrests and putting just enough tension against the straps holding her in to make sure that they would, in fact, hold.

The second moment came thanks to the radiation drake who clamped its crystalline jaws around her hoverchair and shook its head back and forth as if in virulent disagreement with Ciravel's very existence—an action which, without the negation of the stabilizers, would be excruciating, since the surface of this portion of Daimalko unexpectedly lacked many things, including plant life, water, and, much to the chagrin of Ciravel's various joints, consistent gravity. Iseph had anchored themself to one of the rocks which floated above the planet's surface and was locked in combat with a second drake.

"You could have warned me—"

"—about the radiation? The drakes? The battlefield ruins? The asteroids? Did you—oof!—notice the radiation buffers that you were so reluctant to—ow!—pick up this morning? 'But I don't breathe!' Honestly—your head would fall off if I didn't remind you to bring a wrench! YOU could have warned me that you fly like a drunken moldstorm!"

"Can we discuss this when we're not—" Iseph ducked as their drake snapped its jaws shut, barely missing the android and a sending a soft crystalline ring echoing through the canyon, "—about to be turned into scrapyard bits?"

Ciravel closed her eyes and focused her power, channeling it through her extended hand. The possibilities for the drake's next action unfolded before her like cards laid out on a table. She knew what she had to do.

"Iseph, count to ten."

Wait for it…

"Ciravel, this hardly seems the ideal time for numerical calculation—"

Ciravel shifted her weight, angling her chair slightly as the drake clamped its jaws higher, sending the pistol in her side holster careening toward the rocky ruins below. One more good bite and it would have her.

…Wait…

"…Make that seven."

Illustration by Michele Giorgi from Starfinder Galactic Magic

The drake's jaws opened momentarily as it repositioned its bite once more. In the precise moment where the drake's gullet was perfectly aligned, Ciravel turned her thrusters on full-force—right down the drake's throat. Its spine glowed with the intense blue flame before it gasped in pain and tumbled to the ground, releasing Ciravel's chair. Moments later, a rocky thud echoed through the canyon.

Thank goodness for seat belts, Ciravel thought once again as her chair careened wildly until the thrusters reoriented it.

"Three…two…"

She could see the drake's spine begin to glow again as it readied another beam. She was too far away. She needed more time.

Ciravel blinked her eyes, holding the battlefield in stasis as she bolted toward Iseph.

"…one."

Iseph startled slightly at the voice that was suddenly right next to them. Ciravel grabbed the blaster pistol from Iseph's belt and winked. She lifted her chair up and away from Iseph, aiming the pistol directly at the drake, trying to catch its attention and spin it away from Iseph, exposing a heavily wounded flank to their blade. The drake turned, lifting its wing, preparing to follow Ciravel. This time, she looped time into a knot, immediately making the drake forget her presence and leaving it distracted long enough for Iseph to drive their searing blade directly into its wounded gut.

She knew it would cost her later—the exhaustion from this last effort would be brutal—but Ciravel dug deep and twisted time once more, calibrating the trajectory and moment that Iseph's blade entered the drake's thorax, ensuring that it hit every vital organ it could on the way in. The drake collapsed and tumbled to the ground below.

"My pistol?" Iseph outstretched their arm.

"Ah, the 'thanks for saving my circuits, Ciravel' must be a different time thread…" Ciravel maneuvered back toward the rock where Iseph had themselves anchored and winced slightly in pain as she handed back the weapon, stretching her neck. "I think maybe I'll drive home? But let's get our repairs done quickly…I'm sure the Recollectors aren't too far behind us, if they aren't already here."

"Ciravel, perhaps we have sailed the canal that was left."

"The left canal, Iseph. The saying is that you've sailed down the right canal when things go to plan, or the left canal when you cannot locate what you need. But yes, it certainly looks like we might have sailed quite far down the left canal, unfortunately."

---

She reached into one of the bags attached to the side of her hoverchair and pulled out a handle—which extended into a cane with a press of a button—and a tool kit, then released the safety belts attaching her to the chair. Activating the grav anchors on her boots and retracting the stabilizers, Ciravel stepped onto the hovering rock, and, leaning heavily on her cane, surveyed the damage to the chair. Not too bad, considering the jaws…

Iseph pulled a medical kit from a belt pouch and began doing their own repairs to patch up their wounds—a cut here, a re-soldered circuit there. As Ciravel tightened bolts and reattached anything that had come loose from her chair in the fight, something gnawed at the back of her mind, but she brushed it away. The Recollectors were on their trail and they hadn't found any real clues to the cause of The Awakening, the cataclysm that decimated life on Daimalko. No hint to whether it was a natural event or an apocalyptic weapon used in the bitter war that used to rage on the planet. All Ciravel knew was that when she last held a fragment of rock that originated here, a specimen back in the xenobiology lab in Sovyrian, she tasted time—the only way she could describe the strange way that she suddenly smelled salt and citrus and tasted spiced honey whenever she encountered items from far in the past—a strange sensory activation that tied to her only childhood memory. A memory from the Gap.

There hadn't been a whiff of anything other than sulfur and ozone since they arrived on Daimalko. But the way that rock had hummed in her ears…the song she had heard…what she'd heard…what didn't I hear?

"…Iseph, did you hear the impact of the second drake landing in the canyon?"

"An impact? No…I heard an echo of jaws clashing and ringing, your weapon falling, the flames of your chair, the pistol firing, the screams…everything echoed back. But I did not hear a second impact of a drake on the canyon floor."

In that moment, time unfolded for Ciravel as she registered three things. First: the air, which had reeked only of sulfur and centuries of decay, suddenly smelled of salt and citrus. The smell of Time, of the Gap. Second: the sudden darkness that fell when it had, only moments before, been glaringly bright. Night should have been nearly 30 hours away. And finally: the meaning of the absent sound of the drake's impact. Ciravel ran through the possibilities in a split second, and realization made her eyes go wide.

"Um…Iseph?"

"When I have finished repairing, Ciravel, I will assist you. It is already nightfall? We cannot waste our time tonight."

"Iseph…look up. We'll make some extra time."

The android glanced up from the wire they were reconnecting and then continued looking up, and up, and up the exoskeleton, watching in near-wonder as tendrils passed the drake corpse up…and up…and up…far higher than Ciravel's chair could reach on a day when it hadn't been rattled around in the jaws of a drake, past gargantuan claws and tusks.

As her own eyes met the four beady ones of the Kyokor, Ciravel tasted spiced honey.

She stared at the colossus, steadied herself back into her hoverchair, and activated the thrusters. She glided next to Iseph and looked over at them from beneath the creature's shadow, smiling.

"Well, what do you know? Perhaps we sailed the right canal after all."

About the Author

Jennifer Kretchmer is a Diana Jones Emerging Game Designer Award finalist, TV produce and performer, author (D&D's Candlekeep Mysteries, Haunted West), streamer, and disability consultant (Skybound Games: The Walking Dead, MCDM) who has been playing TTRPGs for more than 20 years. She appears on several actual play streams including Vampire: The Nightlife (Renegade) and Heroes of the Planes (Demiplane), where her character, Alyndra, is a playable champion in Idle Champions of the Forgotten Realms. Jen is a Jasper's Game Day Ambassador and is the creator of the Accessibility in Gaming Resource Guide.

Twitter/Instagram: @dreamwisp
Twitch: twitch.tv/dreamwispjen
Linktree: linktr.ee/dreamwisp

About Iconic Encounters

Iconic Encounters is a series of web-based flash fiction set in the worlds of Pathfinder and Starfinder. Each short story provides a glimpse into the life and personality of one of the games' iconic characters, showing the myriad stories of adventure and excitement players can tell with the Pathfinder and Starfinder roleplaying games.

“You stand defeated, Voradni Voon!” Melika shouted, brandishing her tin sword at Elophos. The older actor bellowed, throwing his hands up in a defiant gesture meant to cover a quick tightening of the straps holding on his minotaur horns, which had begun to slide dangerously sideways.

“Never!” Elophos cried, trotting back a few showy steps as he finished steadying his headgear. Horns secured, he charged forward again, thrusting his sword at Melika. “So long as he stands, Voradni Voon is not defeated!”

“The earth has swallowed your army. Your centaurs are dead, your harpies scattered like frightened pigeons. Surrender!” Melika jabbed at Elophos’s midsection. The thrust was absurdly slow and clumsy—old Halvorash would have boxed her ears for signaling the lunge with her eyes and feet so long before she struck—but the flaws that would have doomed her in an alley fight were virtues on the stage. An audience wasn’t a footpad with a shank; you were supposed to help them see what was coming.

“Voradni Voon will devour your heart and claim your godhood, puny human!” Elophos roared, swinging his stubby sword in broad arcs. Both actors’ weapons were shortened, letting them maximize the number of swings they could make before reaching each other onstage. Melika was impressed that Elophos managed to fit six full arcs in before he closed on her. He must have tweaked his pacing; he’d only ever managed five before.

She dropped to one knee, exaggerating the height difference between them, and thrust upward, gripping her abbreviated sword’s hilt with both hands like a spear. Another absurdity for the stage, but it roused an anticipatory cheer from the audience, and then an expectant hush.

Elophos didn’t disappoint them. Menacingly he stalked forward, having backed away in mock apprehension as Melika crouched. He charged straight onto the up-thrust point, then staggered back with a thunderous gasp, his sword arm pinwheeling in feigned death agonies. “Nooo!”

“You would not stand defeated, Voradni Voon, so you must fall,” Melika intoned, striking a heroic pose, as Elophos crumpled slowly to the stage boards, clutching the blade “impaled” into his chest to keep it from falling.

Illustration by Mirco Paganessi from Pathfinder Lost Omens Absalom, City of Lost Omens

The audience burst into cheers. Elophos skipped back to his feet, handed Melika her sword, and shared a bow as the curtains came down. No sooner had the gold-fringed cloth dropped over them than they hopped down the back stairs, moving aside so the stage crew could clear their painted scenery and set up the next troupe’s props.

Already, the painted wooden harpies and centaurs from The Defeat of Voradni Voon were being loaded onto wagons to be carted away for storage. They’d performed the act six times today, moving from stage to stage across Absalom, and now they were done. The sun was sinking westward, and night was soon to drop a final curtain on Foundation Day.

It had been glorious—but now, already, Melika felt the warmth of the crowds and her own joy stealing away from her as swiftly as the fading light.

Melika sighed. She pulled off the papier-mache crown and false mustache she’d worn as Aroden, unhooked the gaudy, gold-lined cape that she’d swirled through six victories over Voradni Voon, and folded them up, along with her dreams, inside the box that Elophos’s troupe would soon pack away.

She wasn’t an actor, not really, not like the rest of them. Melika was just a serving girl. That morning, she’d been carrying a pitcher of wash water through the commons, just as the visiting troupe learned that their original Aroden was chained to her chamber pot following an encounter with a bad eel pie.

As the actors were absorbing the bad news, one of the inn’s cats ran under Melika’s feet. She’d jumped, side-stepped, and recovered without spilling a drop. This impromptu demonstration led Elophos to conclude that she was strong and nimble enough to handle the fight choreography, about the right size to fit into Aroden’s costume, and therefore an adequate substitute for the show that they were contractually obligated to put onstage in two hours.

“You’ll have ten lines,” he’d told her as he buckled the green-gold cape around her shoulders and pasted the horsehair mustache onto her face. “You can do it. Ten lines, and it doesn’t even matter if you get them wrong.”

She hadn’t gotten them wrong. Six times she’d performed, each better than the last, as she learned to draw out the crowd and channel its energy into joy.

And now it was over. Playing at the actor’s life had been fun, but Melika had siblings to feed and a sickly mother to tend. That painted crown wasn’t real gold, and it wouldn’t keep her family clothed.

Heroism seemed so simple on stage. Maybe that was what people really liked to cheer, more than Aroden: the uncomplicated surety of right and wrong. The odds were stacked, the lines were scripted, and the heroes of legend never had anyone but themselves to think about. Their families were always conveniently faraway or dead—or at the very least, dependent on the same dramatic acts that the hero was already poised to commit.

Heroes on a stage didn’t have to be quietly reliable for those they loved. Their bravado was just like their fighting: showy and false, with none of the dirt or desperation that grimed real struggle.

Melika sighed. Though false, the dream was tempting. It surely was a pretty crown. And she’d probably never again touch cloth as fine as that cloak’s, stained and threadbare though it was.

“You alright?” Elophos asked, vigorously toweling his sweat-matted hair. Six mock fights under the heavy, horned pelt of Voradni Voon had left him soaked.

“I need to get back to work,” Melika told him.

He counted out the money, then paused. “It’s Foundation Day. You don’t have the day off to celebrate?”

“Someone has to work for other people to celebrate,” Melika pointed out, dryly, but only after she’d pocketed the coin. You didn’t talk back before you got their money. “You didn’t think all those mugs of beer poured or washed themselves, did you?” It occurred to her that maybe he did think that. Nobody had ever said that actors were overburdened with good sense.

Elophos just shrugged. “But it’s Foundation Day.”

“It is. So I should get back. They’ll need me.”

“You could stay with us. Be an actor. You’re a natural on stage.”

“For less than what I earn now?” Melika snorted. She’d worked hard for that inn job. Decent pay, extra food, sometimes clothes or even boots that drunk patrons left behind. If Elophos had ever been half as cold and hungry as she’d been before the inn, he would know what it meant to give that up.

“It might not be less. Not for long.” His speculative look was greedy enough that she almost believed him. “You’ve got talent.”

“Talent and a houseful of hungry siblings. Guess which one yells louder.”

“Well, think about it.” Elophos tossed the towel over his shoulder. “A lot of us will be headed to the Wounded Wisp after sundown, if you think you can get away from washing those beer mugs for a bit. Talk to some people. Make some friends. Perhaps you’ll see that the stage pays well enough to keep a houseful of hungry siblings fed.”

“Maybe.” Melika walked away, through the thronging crowds of revelers, other people’s joy and laughter scattered around her like flower petals. She didn’t begrudge their happiness. It meant good tips.

And as she walked, she turned Elophos’s suggestion around and around, like a coin in her pocket she was debating how to spend. Maybe she did have talent. Maybe she could feed her family that way. Maybe it wasn’t stupid to spend an hour finding out.

The Wounded Wisp...

About The Author

Liane Merciel is the author of the Pathfinder Tales novels Nightglass, Nightblade, and Hellknight, and a contributor to other books including Nidal: Land of Shadows, Faiths of Golarion, and the Lost Omens World Guide. She has also written for Dungeons & Dragons, Warhammer: Age of Sigmar, and Bioware’s Dragon Age franchise. She lives in Philadelphia with her husband, two dogs, and a small child who is extremely into baking projects.

About Tales of Lost Omens

The Tales of Lost Omens series of web-based flash fiction provides an exciting glimpse into Pathfinder’s Age of Lost Omens setting. Written by some of the most celebrated authors in tie-in gaming fiction and including Paizo’s Pathfinder Tales line of novels and short fiction, the Tales of Lost Omens series promises to explore the characters, deities, history, locations, and organizations of the Pathfinder setting with engaging stories to inspire Game Masters and players alike.

They’d landed on a port moon to rehaul their ship before rendezvousing with the rest of the Pact World diplomatic team on a newly discovered world called Sigerro. A routine enough stop, but then, even in Near Space, the routine could quickly turn to excitement.

Zemir and Raia, part of the command team, were sent to find upgraded Drift drives for their ship. The thought was that Raia’s eye for tech would aid in finding the best equipment and Zemir’s tendency to bend chance might allow them to purchase it at a low price.

The technomancer and witchwarper debated the differences between their respective talents while perusing the port’s open-air markets.

“Our methods differ only in scope. You use your gifts to push technology,” said Zemir, tossing another faulty circuit board into a display case, “whereas I use mine to push reality.”

“Your scope may be wider,” said Raia, examining some drive schematics absently. “But my tech produces more reliable results.”

“Reliability is irrelevant. In the end, we seek the same thing—the new, impossible, the interesting. Is how we do it so important?”

“Some would say the ‘how’ is the most important part of all,” Raia answered, smiling. It was an old debate between friends, one they’d cheerfully had over drinks in many a space port.

“Perhaps you’re right,” said Zemir quietly. Raia recognized that faraway look. One day she’d learn the cause of Zemir’s periodic melancholy.

Before Zemir could say more, the market fell eerily silent. Everyone around them stared upward. Zemir and Raia joined them, and watched as the moon eclipsed the sun, and all went dark.

Soon after, the chittering squeaks and clicks began.

“I recognize those sounds,” said Raia. “Grioths.”

“What, this far in Near Space?” asked Zemir.

“They get closer every year,” said Raia sadly. She found grioths a fascinating formation of life. It’s too bad so many of them were in the monstrous grip of Nyarlathotep, for their voidglass technology and biology was quite interesting and could be put to great use in the Pact Worlds.

Her thoughts were interrupted by holes opening in the moon-eclipsed sky. From these shadowy portals descended a wave of winged terrors. The grioths’ silhouettes looked like thousands of bats with arms and legs—all of which held glittering weaponry.

The technomancer and the witchwarper watched the marketgoers flee. In silent agreement, both stood still amid the chaos, knowing they could hold off the grioths and allow these citizens to get to safety.

Several grioth raiders noticed the two holding their ground and broke off to attack them. Raia picked off one with a single blaster pulse while Zemir stared at another and muttered. Suddenly, the grioth’s wing seized and it plummeted to the ground. That left three more, who charged in a whirl of chittering squeaks and gleaming, deadly glass.

A fourth landed in front of Raia and swiped at her with its giant, clawed hand.

“No,” said Raia calmly, stepping back and raising her hands. She felt composed, as though in a simulation. She had spent the better part of the afternoon familiarizing herself with the tech around her, and now she simply had to put it to work, albeit for a new purpose.

As the grioth tried to grasp her again, she cast a spell with a word and a gesture. Behind her, the vast engine powering the veranda block rumbled and cracked. Suddenly, as though it were a puppet pulled by the technomancer’s strings, it unleashed from its casing and wrapped the grioth in an unbreakable embrace of steel and coiled wire.

Zemir watched his friend fight and wondered how best to aid her in the dance. He was no slouch with a blade, but with so many opponents, more help was needed.

What if, perhaps, another portal opened? One to a world filled with bright sunlight? Zemir pondered the possibilities and adjusted probabilities as though inputting calculations into the ultimately unknowable machine that was the universe. Calculations that, due to his training at the institute, he sometimes knew the outcomes for.

A bright portal to a sun-filled world opened, a world with—yes, perfect—a swarm of apari constituents, who poured from the portal, angry and hungry. The grioths shrieked at the light, some clutching their faces as its very photons pierced their psychic defenses. At Zemir’s direction, the apari swarm crashed against the grioths like a wave, instinctively trying to strike back against invaders who would darken a world.

Illustration by Mirco Paganessi from Starfinder Galactic Magic

“You will all perish for the glory of our dark master,” whispered one of grioth invaders with a harsh rasp. Before he could say more, he was overwhelmed by the swarm of apari.

He could have run—but he wouldn’t. Helping Raia made it worth it; knowing that, in some small way, Zemir had adjusted his account, paying back what he’d done wrong. He might never be able to atone for leaving his friends in that other reality, might never be able to get them back (though another part of him still wondered about this) but here, now, at least he and his friend Raia could save each other.

Together, weaving reality and technology with threads of magic, the technomancer and witchwarper beat back the remaining two grioth attackers, their martial prowess no match for the pair’s magical mastery.

“We have to get to the ship,” said Zemir once they had a moment to catch their breath. “I can open a gateway there, but I’ve expended a lot of power and can only take myself.”

“Go. I know you won’t leave me behind,” said Raia. For some reason, Zemir looked inexplicably sad at that.

“I will come back for you,” Zemir promised gravely. He stepped through the portal and was gone.

Raia waited, holding glowing sigils and technical weapons in the dark marketplace. From the chittering and squeaks, she knew another squad of grioths was inbound. With all the tech around her, Raia knew she could hold them off, but not indefinitely. She just hoped that Zemir would get back with the ship in time.

About The Author

Patrick Hurley has had fiction published in Galaxy’s Edge, Cosmic Roots & Eldritch Shores, Abyss & Apex, New Myths, Arcanist, Aurealis, Frozen Wavelets, The Overcast, and The Drabblecast. He is a 2017 graduate of the Taos Toolbox Writer's Workshop. In 2018, he was a finalist for the Baen Fantasy Award. Patrick lives in Seattle and is a member of SFWA and the Dreamcrashers. He still can’t quite believe he has the good fortune to also be an editor at Paizo.

About Iconic Encounters

Iconic Encounters is a series of web-based flash fiction set in the worlds of Pathfinder and Starfinder. Each short story provides a glimpse into the life and personality of one of the games’ iconic characters, showing the myriad stories of adventure and excitement players can tell with the Pathfinder and Starfinder roleplaying games.

“A new game?” Kesara asked, her old Vudrani hands already sweeping the drouge pieces off the embroidered cloth, milk-pale jade and black onyx figurines vanishing like magician’s coins between her bony fingers.

Guan Kai shrugged, smiling, and uncapped his flask of blackdream liqueur. He waved it at Kesara, chuckling when she wrinkled her nose in disgust at the offer, as she always did. Unoffended, Guan Kai sipped the murky, anise-scented drink. “What choice do I have? You’ve cleared the board. Just when I was winning, too.”

“There was no winning that game.” Kesara dealt new pieces onto the cloth with the swift flourishes of a professional gambler, which Guan Kai supposed she was, after a fashion. “This one will be better. New pieces, new board. Very friendly.” With a motion, Kesara substituted the black jackals from the original set with a pair of lions from her near-inexhaustible supply of alternate pieces. Playfully, she set two pennies carefully on the lions’ heads like little copper crowns, then spun them with a flick of her fingertips. The metal disks twirled momentarily atop the figures before clattering dully onto the cloth.

So, Guan Kai thought, she wants to bargain a secret about some instability in Taldor.

“Speaking of friends,” Kesara asked casually, “do you still have yours in the Chrysanthemum Court?”

Guan Kai took another pull from his flask. “Naturally. A man as old as I either has no friends, or too many to count. One’s habits add up to the sum of one’s life, as the sages say.”

Illustration by Mirco Paganessi from Pathfinder Lost Omens Absalom, City of Lost Omens.

“Do they? I wouldn’t know. I’m a dewy spring blossom, myself.” Kesara’s eyes vanished into her wrinkles when she laughed. She plucked the white jade elephants from the board and made a show of hesitating before she replaced them. “Now which of my little pieces would best serve your side? I presume, after a lifetime’s likeability, you could name 16 close friends in the Court?”

She was feeling him out, trying to see which of the Successor States of Lung Wa might offer the best price for her information. Guan Kai pretended to ignore the bait. It was ridiculous for him to offer anything; Kesara hadn’t even hinted what secret she was trying to sell. How could he know who wanted it? “I’m an easy man to like. Even in Shenmen, I might find a few friends.”

“Oh, no, not Shenmen. Just the name of that haunted place gives me chills.”

“No need to worry. It’s very far from here.” Information about the Imperial Court of Taldor was unlikely to be of value to the Successor States, he meant.

“The Court isn’t far at all.” Kesara lifted her chin, nodding to the high white tower of the Starstone Cathedral behind them. “Just on the other side of that great gaudy sundial.”

Ah, so her secret wasn’t being dangled for the Successor States themselves, but for their envoys. The Chrysanthemum Court was the unofficial embassy for dignitaries from all the many kingdoms of Tian Xia. Business that was too risky or sordid to pass through diplomatic channels often wound up there.

This game had suddenly become more interesting. Guan Kai took another sip from his flask, then capped it with a flourish and set it aside. His blood was warm enough without the liquor. “I can hardly choose a piece without seeing the sample available for selection.”

“I suppose that’s fair.” Rather than offering him a choice of white pieces, however, Kesara plucked an onyx boar from her case and set it between the lions. It was an ugly, pugnacious thing, its glittering tusks thrust out in belligerent menace.

Baronet Ghazolain. His family crest carried a boar against crossed spears, and he’d recently arrived in Absalom as part of the Taldan diplomatic delegation. Scarcely a month had passed since the baronet arrived in the City at the Center of the World, yet already foul rumors followed him. Tales abounded of stained altars covered in clandestine artifacts, inhuman chants and cries from his quarters at night, and grim-faced servants who nursed unexplained wounds and then disappeared altogether.

Or so people said. Guan Kai had learned to dismiss most such rumors—they were true only rarely, and useful even less. But now, it made sense why Kesara was angling for a buyer from the Successor States: the baronet was also said to be urgently litigating some kind of family claim in Amanadar, a former Taldan colony now counted among the 16 Successor States of Lung Wa.

“Interesting,” Guan Kai said. “I would have thought the boar should go on my side.”

“I assure you, the boar is opposed to any piece you might choose,” Kesara said. Her rheumy eyes were sharp and intense beneath their clouds of age as she split her fingers into a triangle around the boar’s head. An old sign, from when they’d first played at spycraft, as children.

Danger. Danger that would seize your throat and twist your head off without trying.

Guan Kai smiled. “Really? Fascinating. Then I shall choose a devil, for a beast so fearsome deserves an equally formidable foe.” He’d kept his answer malleable on purpose. The devil could certainly represent Chu Ye, ruled by oni, but it could just as easily mean Cheliax. The Western devil-binders were always willing to pay for dangerous secrets, even those that didn’t concern them.

Kesara shook her head. Her gaze lingered on a pair of dogs pulling a wagon in the street. The animals greeted one another cheerfully, interrupting their own work to wag tails and exchange sniffs. “Look there, behind you. Some creatures understand the value of loyalty. Some people, too. I said this should be a friendly game—you’d be well advised to keep only true friends on your board, and fiends are never that. But, of course, you’re free to choose the pieces that suit your strategy. I can only make suggestions.”

Ah, so. Guan Kai felt peculiarly warmed by Kesara’s warning. Seventy years they’d played the game together, though she owed him no favors. They’d been rivals as often as allies, and each had betrayed the other far too many times for any attempt at tallying to be worthwhile.

Still, in this, she warned him. This information was too explosive to be entrusted to treacherous hands.

And now he understood. Kesara didn’t want to sell her secret after all. She wanted help. Baronet Ghazolain was involved in something so terrible that the 10,000 whisperers of Jalmeray were reaching out to Guan Kai, and his friends, for aid. And they were sending that request as secretly as they knew how, lest the baronet’s spies catch a whisper of their plea.

“Very well,” Guan Kai said. “I choose the dragon and the rat.”

Kesara nodded. A tiny knot of tension softened in her shoulders. She must be terrified, Guan Kai thought, if her worry shows so plainly.

But Kesara had spent 70 years learning to control such fear, and her voice was calm as aloe. “Let our game begin.”

About The Author

Liane Merciel is the author of the Pathfinder Tales novels Nightglass, Nightblade, and Hellknight, and a contributor to other books including Nidal: Land of Shadows, Faiths of Golarion, and the Lost Omens World Guide. She has also written for Dungeons & Dragons, Warhammer: Age of Sigmar, and Bioware’s Dragon Age franchise. She lives in Philadelphia with her husband, two dogs, and a small child who is extremely into baking projects.

About Tales of Lost Omens

The Tales of Lost Omens series of web-based flash fiction provides an exciting glimpse into Pathfinder’s Age of Lost Omens setting. Written by some of the most celebrated authors in tie-in gaming fiction and including Paizo’s Pathfinder Tales line of novels and short fiction, the Tales of Lost Omens series promises to explore the characters, deities, history, locations, and organizations of the Pathfinder setting with engaging stories to inspire Game Masters and players alike.

As the white-bearded man casually strolled across the rainy courtyard, shadowy figures kept pace with him atop the buildings surrounding the square. The older man didn’t seem aware of the dark shapes stalking him, first from a distance, then closer, along his path. Nor did he show surprise when the ruffians stepped out of the shadows, blades glinting. The tallest of the black-clad figures spoke with a low growl.

“Shouldn’t have gotten involved in War Hounder business, old man. We don’t like folks asking questions about our dealings!”

“Well,” Ezren thought to himself, “it’s about time.”

Though confident in his preparations, the wizard still summoned some basic defenses as the War Hounders cautiously approached. A mage’s armor was, in his opinion, properly made of magic. He layered a shield spell atop it for good measure.

One of the ruffians flung a dagger at Ezren as the rest moved to cut off his escape routes… which he had no intention of taking.

“I’ve been trying to get your attention for some time,” Ezren said calmly as the knife bounced off his arcane shield. Unsurprisingly, the War Hounders ignored him. Ezren knew they were aware of his wizardly training and understood their desire to take him out quickly. If this had been a remotely fair fight, they’d be doing the right thing.

Ezren did his best to avoid “fair” fights, though. A fair fight was the result of poor research, and he prided himself on his scholarship.

His two fastest attackers were a scarred human and a dwarf; each wielding sword and dagger. Ezren reviewed a range of possible replies before settling on a simple lightning cantrip. Not fully powered, something in the mid-range he knew they’d survive. He wanted to deliver a message and getting the dead to deliver messages was more… problematic.

Ezren concentrated on the essence of lightning as he performed word and gesture to express that essence. Electricity jolted from his open hand, arcing first to the human and then the dwarf. Neither was quick enough to avoid his spell. The dwarf fell to the ground, flopping about like a fish trapped in a tide pool. The human grunted and raised his sword… as Merisiel’s thrown dagger buried itself in the back of his skull.

Ezren was not so foolish as to provoke a guild of thieves without backup, and it was gratifying to see the remaining War Hounders look stunned at Merisiel’s dramatic entrance. A moment later, it was Ezren’s turn to be surprised as a fifth War Hounder, a cloaked woman with two long daggers, launched herself between Merisiel and the fallen dwarf.

The situation was still in hand… for now.

Illustration by Tomasz Chistowski from Pathfinder Lost Omens Absalom, City of Lost Omens.

“I know you can’t answer my questions.” Ezren’s sounded calm as he turned in place, his cane held high to ward off the two-handed sword blow from the War Hounder who’d been trying to sneak up behind him. “But when you flee back to the Pyramid of the Dog, I want you to deliver your master a message.”

The cloaked woman began dragging the dwarf’s twitching body back into the shadows, tiny sparks of electricity continuing to bound off him across the worn road’s shallow puddles. The attacker with the greatsword swung it again, trying to cut Ezren in half with an attack powerful enough to force the wizard to expend his arcane shield to counter it. Merisiel threw another dagger into an apparently empty space… and the empty space grunted and spattered blood on the street.

“I’d have sent a courier requesting an audience, but none seemed willing to deliver my message, and I haven’t had any luck with public notices.”

Ezren formed a new eldritch concept in his mind, and colors sprayed out from his cane, hitting the greatsword-wielder full in the face. The attacker’s eyes took on the same rainbow colors, and the scoundrel dropped his sword as he staggered away unsteadily. The cloaked woman finished dragging her fallen comrade out of sight, and Merisiel positioned herself to watch his back.

Ezren turned slowly, scanning the open square. The blinded War Hounder was wandering aimlessly but could become a threat again within a minute or so. The woman and dwarf were out of sight but could potentially be maneuvering to make another assault. Merisiel would warn him if that were to happen. There was another man…

At the edge of the square, a man clad in brown and green lurked in the shadows. His drab clothing actually blended into the backdrop of Absalom’s Puddles District better than the pure black of his compatriots. He was bald with a full beard. He studied Ezren with a stern expression, single dagger in hand, though he was well out of stabbing range. The War Hounder could, of course, throw his blade. Or perhaps he knew some occult secret with which to blast Ezren’s mind.

Trusting Merisiel to handle any other unforeseen threats from behind, Ezren turned to face the bald man.

“You are, I take it, in charge?”

The bald man waved a hand in casual denial. “I wouldn’t say that. We aren’t strict in terms of rank or command, you see? More accurate to say I’m wise enough not to be on the front line when confronting a wizard of your… reputation.”

Ezren nodded in acknowledgment, though he suspected the bald man had no idea who he was or what reputation he might possess.

“May I assume,” asked Ezren, eyes still scanning for the missing dwarf, “that if I were to ask you to carry a message to the oldest and wisest of the War Hounders, you could see that it was received?”

“I’d be delighted.” The bald man looked anything but delighted, but Ezren believed his message would be delivered.

As Ezren was about to reply, the War Hounder who’d dropped the greatsword snapped out of his befuddlement. He looked back and forth between the wizard and the bald man. Merisiel was nowhere to be seen, but Ezren knew she was nearby. He kicked the dropped greatsword toward his assailant who, upon receiving a nod from the bald man, picked up his weapon and rushed to stand beside his ally.

“I would very much like to know,” said Ezren with as much iron as he could put in his voice, “what became of the papers and effects of Nessian. Further, I represent a buyer who would pay well for them, if they remain in War Hounder possession.”

The bald man tried to look impassive, but his eyes showed a hint of surprise. Then he nodded again, and gestured for the larger warrior to head out of the courtyard.

“I assure you, that message shall be delivered.”

And with that he followed after the taller man, both of whom were quickly enveloped by shadows.

Ezren smiled as he headed back toward the inn he was staying at in the Foreign Quarter. He made sure to walk slowly so he could easily be followed, trusting Merisiel to prevent further assaults. He suspected when the War Hounders attacked him again tonight, they’d bring someone who could answer his questions.

And tonight at the inn, he and Merisiel wouldn’t be alone to receive them.

About The Author

Owen K.C. Stephens is a veteran of the tabletop RPG industry with more than 20 years of experience, including being on staff at Green Ronin, Paizo, and Wizards of the Coast and being the publisher of RogueGeniusGames.com. He has worked on numerous RPG lines, including being co-author of the Star Wars Saga Edition RPG and Design Lead for the Starfinder Roleplaying Game. You can support his writing and free content production at Patreon, and follow him at his blog, on Facebook and on Twitter.

About Iconic Encounters

Iconic Encounters is a series of web-based flash fiction set in the worlds of Pathfinder and Starfinder. Each short story provides a glimpse into the life and personality of one of the games’ iconic characters, showing the myriad stories of adventure and excitement players can tell with the Pathfinder and Starfinder roleplaying games.

Ciravel’s first—and only—childhood memory is of tasting the stars. Peering through a window into the depths of space, innumerable galaxies stare back at her and glitter their welcome. She remembers that moment, possibilities and potential branching like fractals, infinite possibilities for infinite stars; and yet, six stars shine brightest of all. Someone hands her something sweet that tastes of honey and spices, and the world smells of citrus and the sea. Fragrance embraces her, the sweetness lingering upon her tongue—the past and the present dancing together in a shared instant.

But before and after… Nothing.

And then, in some time or none at all: heat, and the rain on Sovyrian’s canals.

Ciravel’s young adulthood was spent at the university, where she earned impeccably high marks studying xenobotany, while also attending martial arts and combat training. Time rarely seemed to be the issue for Ciravel “But how do you manage it all?” her classmates asked. Ciravel shrugged. “I plan well. I have to.”

And she did need to plan. Multitudes of worlds and peoples mean multitudes of different shapes, sizes, limb configurations, and body structures. For Ciravel, it meant a body which, since birth, has been particularly responsive to varying gravities, atmospheric pressures, and other planetary properties. Some days, and in some places, Ciravel has little-to-no pain and walking isn’t a problem. Other times or places, she manages exhaustion and pain. Like many others across the Pact Worlds and beyond, using a hoverchair, or a cane for shorter distances, helps Ciravel reduce fatigue and makes moving around less difficult and painful. She trained to fight while using her chair, harnessing the thrusters and momentum to dodge and attack, conserving energy, to use her cane to counterbalance and anchor herself. Ways to minimize a bad day amongst the good and maximize a good day amidst the bad. But never knowing what sort of day was ahead meant Ciravel had to learn early how to plan for each possibility. So, she’d examine each potential outcome and prepare for each iteration until it became instinctual.

After graduation, Ciravel’s academic success in xenobotany caught the Sovyrian leadership’s attention, and in time, she was trusted with occasional official journeys to Absalom Station. Each time she boarded a starship, it felt more like home than Sovyrian ever had. It was the end of one of these trips, heading back through the station towards her waiting ship, that she was stopped in her tracks by the smell of crisp citrus in the sea air.

It was a scent she had all but forgotten, and in an instant, she was back in the memory of a window and stars and spiced honey. And in that moment, existing in two times, simultaneously, she understood. She could bend this moment to her needs. She could stretch time—delay her departure long enough to find the source of the fragrance. It wouldn’t last long, and it’d be exhausting, but it would be enough.

Illustration by Remko Troost and Ignacio Bazán Lazcano.

She stretched time at the docks and compressed it nearby. Following the fragrance, or perhaps led by it, she found the source—a young woman with golden eyes and swirling tattoos that almost seemed to dance, carrying a bundle under her arm and walking quickly into a small temple with a shattered mirror on the door—the sign of the Gap Recollective. Ciravel peered in, and when the woman drew back the cloth of the bundle, it revealed a truly ancient warhammer engraved with glowing Dwarven runes. Ciravel tasted spiced honey on her tongue. The young woman looked at her. Smiled.

And Ciravel was suddenly back on the ship home.

Years went by, and Ciravel became the default representative for most off-planet xenobotany meetings. Her excursions were always on time, dodged inclement weather, and when her insular life among the elves caused a diplomatic faux pas, it was somehow forgotten by the next meeting. With the arrival of the Idari, Ciravel was invited as part of the elven delegation to the kasathan worldship. She observed adat and was awed to note that after death the kasatha, like she, exist in two aligned points in time. She befriended one of the adata, who wore a pin engraved with a circle and arrow containing a six-star constellation.

The six stars from her memory.

The adata explained it as the symbol of Ibra, The Inscrutable. Guardian of mysteries and miracles, of exploration and discovery and the cosmos. They spoke at length of Ibra and cosmic enigmas swirling like nebulas and questions, but eventually, Ciravel bid the adata farewell and boarded the ship to Castrovel.

Another young woman boards Ciravel’s ship. She smiles at Ciravel with golden eyes as an unfamiliar object peeks out from the bundle tucked under a tattoo-adorned arm.

Citrus and spiced honey and salt flood Ciravel’s senses. Time stops.

Ciravel tastes the stars a third time. And this time, she understands.

Her memory is of the Gap. And either this woman with the golden eyes or this strange object is a link to it.

Ciravel untangles the possibilities—the present and the future, selecting a strand, tracing it forward. She knows this woman, Prindra, will lead Ciravel to the Gap Recollective on Castrovel. That Ciravel will peer into the maelstrom of the Recollective’s esoteric secrets, and someone, or something, will peer back. That they will hunt her, thinking three moves and four dimensions ahead. Ciravel unknots another time-thread and finds people who can help her, who she will help, who will become trusted companions. Ciravel knows she will become Forlorn, but feels no despair, for she will bend time itself for the friends she will make, keeping them safe on new worlds as they explore the mysteries of the stars together. Invigorated, Ciravel takes these strands and twists them together, weaving them into a new, stronger thread. Possibility.

She peers out the window, smiling at galaxies glittering with infinite potential and adventure and possibility, for Ciravel has time.

Despite understanding and manipulating the mechanisms of time, Ciravel is by no means omniscient. She selects the best plan based on the information she has on a given topic, and even when she knows an outcome, she still gets nervous from time to time. She also recognizes that someone may have information that informs a different option than the one she has chosen, so, while she will defend her statements, Ciravel is willing to follow another’s suggested plan. Her humor tends to be dry and occasionally dark, but she is playful and loyal with people she trusts.

Ciravel’s insular upbringing can manifest both as ignorance, condescension, and elitism—she corrects inaccuracies, but lacks firsthand knowledge about much of the galaxy, its peoples, their worlds, and their cultures, not for want of curiosity, but simply from a lack of exposure—more than once, cultural ignorance has put Ciravel into a sticky situation. She can be impatient and often will finish others’ sentences, assuming she knows what they were going to say, and she’s usually right. When all is said and done, there is nothing that thrills Ciravel more than exploring the galaxy, putting together a puzzle, and staring out at the stars with her friends.

About The Author

Jennifer Kretchmer is a Diana Jones Emerging Game Designer Award finalist, TV produce and performer, author (D&D’s Candlekeep Mysteries, Haunted West), streamer, and disability consultant (Skybound Games: The Walking Dead, MCDM) who has been playing TTRPGs for more than 20 years. She appears on several actual play streams including Vampire: The Nightlife (Renegade) and Heroes of the Planes (Demiplane), where her character, Alyndra, is a playable champion in Idle Champions of the Forgotten Realms. Jen is a Jasper’s Game Day Ambassador and is the creator of the Accessibility in Gaming Resource Guide.

Twitter/Instagram: @dreamwisp
Twitch: twitch.tv/dreamwispjen
Linktree: linktr.ee/dreamwisp

The manuscript that follows is taken from but a single source, stored at Windsong Abbey. It is impossible to verify the authorship of “Fafnheir’s Lament”; the book in which it is contained also includes a bestiary and various tales of monster-hunting. If authentic, the lament—written in Skald—must have been copied and recopied many times over its ten-thousand-year history, potentially introducing scribal errors. Translation was further complicated when a fire broke out at the abbey centuries ago; an anonymous librarian saved the book, but not before the manuscript was singed along one edge. The damage was not extensive, but enough to make many passages difficult to read and some phrases entirely indecipherable. The edition presented here represents the best efforts of the abbey’s staff.

---

So, fresh from the First World I came, Fafnheir,
Burdened and brandishing the eggs of my brood.
Boldly I’d taken the blood of my brother
And the price, my penance, was the exile’s path.
Now on Golarion I gazed, greedily,
For glory and gold was mine to gather.
From mountains where men rode upon mammoths
To the Obari Ocean, none could oppose me.
Warriors and would-be kings both went
Groaning with grief into my gullet.
I felt certain Fafnheir was fiercest,
First among foes, now and forever.
That was good killing.

But fat on the fear of fools, I forgot
The fickle future of fortune’s wheel.
For although the life of a linnorm is long,
And time toughens us like an oaken tree,
No royal or regent is allowed to rule
Longer than the law of cruel fate allows.
Your might won’t matter, is what I am meaning,
When you gaze upon a god and grasp
The golden age of your glory is gone.
Heed my history, and hew
To the wisdom which I have won.
Listen to the lament of the first linnorm.

Millennia ago by mortal measure,
Veiled villains seeking vengeance
Summoned the Starstone from the depths of space.
But Acavna of Azlant, bride of Amaznen
Made a magnificent shield of the moon.
She shattered the Starstone into shards
And some souls were spared.
But gone was the glory of ancient Golarion,
And men became cowards crouching in caves.

Into this apocalyptic air I ascended
To witness what wonder remained in the world.
I sojourned south, taking the swan’s road,
And all that my eye encompassed was empty.
Fewer folk than you have fingers
Lived in that lonely desolate land.
But as I approached the antipodes by air
Stalwart survivors began to be seen,
Sheltering in the shade of Mwangi’s shield.
Here were heroes a linnorm could hunt,
So down I descended, hungry for dinner.

The trees were towering torches
Blazing below me, their light blinding.
Under that kindling canopy were helpless kin-folk,
Mortal men and elves, Mualijae
Caught in a barbarous burning.
Time had taught them the meaning of terror,
For a dreadful dragon had chosen today
To descend and deal devastation.
But the fear that filled them wasn’t for Fafnheir,
And my blood boiled as I wondered what bastard
Had the craft and the courage to steal my kill.
Then I drew near to dread Dahak,
Dealer of death and desolation.
Then the father of linnorms felt fear
For the Age of Ashes had arrived.

Illustration by Ksenia Kozhevnikova from from Lost Omens The Mwangi Expanse.

Dark is the day I first saw Dahak
Feasting on fools who howled as they fled.
Spells and spears he shattered for sport,
Shields splintered, they perished in shame.
Blades that breached him were, by his blood,
Melted to mist like ice in a meadow.
A Mualijae maid raised her voice in mourning
And the greedy one paused, engrossed by her grief.
She sang of centuries filled with sorrow
How Starstone survivors became food for the slaughter.
But the monster was unmoved by her music;
Sky swallowed the smoke.

Many are the deaths that delvers discover
When they dare their descent into the depths:
A poisonous point in the depths of a pit,
Or their corpse consumed by gelatinous cube,
Or reduced to dust, disintegrated,
Or by the relentless reach of a mummy’s rot,
Their strength sapped as they’re turned to stone
By the sudden stare of a medusa’s snakes,
Or mauled by a minotaur lost in a maze,
Or by a bear with the brow of an owl disemboweled.

But lo, this litany now must be lengthened,
Expanding the examples of exsanguination,
For dungeon delvers have new ways to die:
Caught and cut by the dragon god’s claws
Or by his bite sent to the Great Beyond.
A swipe of his tail scatters them stumbling,
Beaten by the buffet of his batlike wings.
And finally flames hot as a furnace
Brightly furious forth from him fly.
The fearful fools caught in that fire
Are fried in a flash by that perilous flood.

Lament for the linnorm who has boasted his last.
Long is his life, but brief is his legacy.
Shunted and shamed, by Dahak overshadowed,
To caves in the crags Fafnheir will crawl.
From that darkness I’ll dare not emerge. Day’s
Luminous light on the father of linnorms
Shall not shine. And my shimmering scales
Will henceforth be hidden, this for my hubris.
Wanderers into my web will be welcomed,
As I break my fast on their brittle bone-house.
But never again by noon or night
Will I hunt heroes, as was my habit.

About The Author

Jason Tondro develops Adventure Paths for the Pathfinder and Starfinder RPGs. A former college professor, he taught literature, writing, film, and comics & graphic novels before joining Paizo as an editor in March 2018. He is the author of the Arthur Lives! RPG; look for him on Twitter @doctorcomics. He lives in Seattle with his two dogs.

About Windsong Testaments

On the northern reaches of Varisia’s Lost Coast stands Windsong Abbey, a forum for interfaith discussion tended by priests of nearly twenty faiths and led by a legacy of Masked Abbesses. At the dawn of the Age of Lost Omens, Windsong Abbey suffered as its faithful fought and fled, but today it has begun to recover. A new Masked Abbess guides a new flock within, and the Windsong Testaments—parables about the gods themselves—are once again being recorded within the abbey’s walls. Some of these Testaments are presented here as Golarion’s myths and fables. Some parts may be true. Other parts are certainly false. Which ones are which is left to the faithful to decide.

Leandra slapped the screaming alarm cube and rubbed her eyes before burying her head in the pillow again. Ugh, too early…

A few minutes later she groaned and rolled out of her bunk, stretching as she padded her way into the communal area.

"Oh, morning, Lea. I just drank the last of the instant. Sorry." Her overly chipper, and well caffeinated roommate held up the empty pot apologetically.

“Nok! How could you? You knew I was pulling a double today!” The scowl she leveled at the curvy ysoki would send most others hurrying out of her way, but Nok just grinned and stretched up to kiss her on the cheek.

“I'll pick up more on the way home tonight, promise!" She rushed out the door in a swirl of activity and perfume, leaving Leandra to put the coffee pot in the sink.

Thirty minutes and a disappointingly lukewarm shower later (thanks again, Nok) Leandra stood in line at the popular coffee cart just outside Ixomander’s Throne, the Azlanti-themed casino where she was currently late for her job. She hopped from foot to foot, willing the line to move faster before Mo-var, the meticulous android running the cart, closed for their mid-morning break. Suddenly, an enormous vesk came hurtling out of nowhere and plowed into her. She was knocked onto the ground, while the vesk continued running. A willowy shirren helped her back on her feet before bolting after the vesk, shouting “Sorry!” over their shoulder.

Leandra dusted off her dark green pants and turned to see Mo-var pulling down their cart’s shudder. Damned tourists! Don’t they know how hard it is to keep this faux Azlanti crap clean? She threw her hands up in despair, yelling, “Come on! I was in line and everything before those junk jockeys pushed me over!” Mo-var ignored her, and she went to give the cart a swift kick but stopped when a glint from the ground caught her eye. A misshapen piece of metal and plastic laid on the sidewalk, most likely dropped by the fleeing vesk.

Leandra picked it up and shouted in the direction the two had ran. “Just because we live near a junkyard doesn’t mean you can litter!” She grumbled to herself about inconsiderate off-worlders and inflexible androids, absent-mindedly slipped the piece of trash into her pocket, and stepped into the casino.

---

Leandra stretched she trudged out of the casino, her back aching after a grueling double shift on her feet serving drinks to increasingly inebriated gamblers. Spying Mo-var’s coffee cart—now open for the evening rush—and knowing that Nok probably forgot to get more instant, she started to wander over. Her way was blocked by a pair of local gang members (True Warriors by the look of them—bunch of lowlifes) diving out of the way of the wide swing of a doshko, wielded by the same vesk from earlier in the day. This time, a lashunta woman followed, her hands glowing with magic.

“Really?” Leandra said out loud, too tired to properly process how much danger she was currently in. Mo-var, however, seemed to understand, quickly closing their cart window. Leandra was startled into action when a stray bullet from one of the True Warriors’ pistols struck the casino wall just a few feet from her. She scurried home, locked the deadbolts, and enabled the security system even though she knew it didn’t work properly. Nok had promised to get it fixed months ago.

---

Nok stumbled in, giggling and slightly tipsy. The security system let out a pair of weak, unconvincing beeps and gave up, but it was loud enough to startle Leandra awake from where she’d dozed off on the couch.

“Someone had a good night.”

Nok plopped onto the couch next to her. “Hot date with Rush! Oh, so much fun. You should come out with us one of these days! She even has a cute brother...” She chuckled, draping herself over Leandra.

“No time. We’re short-staffed at work. Maybe next week.” She pushed her friend off her lap with a laugh. Nok was always trying to set her up on dates—when she wasn’t on the prowl for her own that is. She’d gone on more than a few disastrous outings at the younger girl’s urging but hadn't clicked with any of her suitors. “Tell you what, I’ll make us both something to eat. You need something in your stomach.” She ruffled the hair beneath Nok’s ear on her way to the kitchenette.

---

The next day, Leandra had another double. Midway through, her feet and back were already aching and her ears were sweltering in her fake helmet, but she kept a smile firmly plastered on her face as she bustled between tables and the bar. Needing a break from fending off the advances of the junk jockeys who had hit a prize and enduring the glowering looks from the locals determined to lose all their cash, she gestured to her manager that she was going to briefly step outside.

She ordered a cup of her usual from Mo-var to boost her flagging energy and had barely taken a sip when her arm was jostled from behind, sending the drink flying.

“Oh. Come. On!” She was nearly in tears as she turned to see the shirren from the previous day. A ysoki stood next to them, looking sheepish, and the vesk and lashunta were over by the casino entrance.

“YOU!” Leandra gasped. “You owe me at least 3 cups of coffee!” She poked the shirren in the chest, whose antennae twitched in confusion. “First, you knocked me out of line, then you started that brawl in the street, and now you made me spill this one because you can’t bother to watch where you’re going!”

The big vesk lumbered up to them. “Is there a problem?” she rumbled.

“Yeah! You and your buddies keep making me lose my coffee and I’m getting sick of it!” Leandra’s shouting was beginning to draw a few gawkers, but she didn't care. “And another thing! You can’t just leave trash wherever you want!” She retrieved the piece of metal and plastic from her pocket and flung it at the vesk’s chest. The vesk fumbled with it for a moment but didn’t drop it. Her eyes widened as she took a better look at the scrap.

“Quig,” the vesk said, turning to the ysoki. “This is the other half of the keycard.”

“You dropped it?!” the ysoki asked incredulously.

“Uh, I guess so.” The vesk looked uncomfortable. She looked back at Leandra. “Hey, sorry about all this. Let me make it up to you. After all, I think you just saved us a lot of trouble.” She ordered an extra-large from Mo-var, handing over enough credits to cover the price a few times over. The android filled up a sizable travel mug with a secured lid and placed it in the cart’s window. Leandra scooped up the coffee and chugged half of it as if she were afraid it would get away.

“Thank you,” Leandra said. “I have to get back to work now.” She turned on her heel to re-enter the casino, hearing the other four begin to chatter excitedly with each other.

Later, she had quite the story to tell her roommate. Nok suspected the four were treasure hunters looking for a big score out in the junk, and they must have crossed the True Warriors in the process. Both of them speculated wildly as to what their “keycard” unlocked well into the night.

---

The following evening, the four approached Leandra on the casino floor. “There she is!” the vesk bellowed with a grin on her face. “My favorite Aeon Guard! We’ve got something for you!” She dropped a credstick onto Leandra’s tray.

A little wary, Leandra picked up the credstick, peeked at the display, and nearly fainted at the amount printed there. She wrapped her arm around the vesk’s waist in gratitude.

“Should be enough to keep you in coffee for a while,” the ysoki smirked. “And when you’re done squeezing Obo to death, we’ll have a round of your most expensive booze. In fact, make ‘em doubles. We’re celebrating another successful mission!”

The group cheered.

Illustration by Rustan Curman from Junker's Delight

About The Author

Misha Bushyager is a longtime gamer and designer working on making sure the next generation of geeks sees themselves represented. She's one of the founders of New Agenda Publishing and a founding curator for More Seats at the Table, a newsletter highlighting gender marginalized designers. She worked on Orun, #Feminism, Fate of Cthulhu, Lovecraftesque, Misspent Youth: Sell Out With Me, Masks: Unbound, and the as-yet-unpublished LARP Nightingales. She's a panelist, writer, editor, and sensitivity editor for tabletop RPGs and LARPs. You can find her on Twitter as @BGGameworks or on her website, blackgirlgameworks.com.

About Tales From The Drift

The Tales from the Drift series of web-based flash fiction provides an exciting glimpse into the setting of the Starfinder Roleplaying Game. Written by members of the Starfinder development team and some of the most celebrated authors in tie-in gaming fiction, the Tales from the Drift series promises to explore the worlds, alien cultures, deities, history, and organizations of the Starfinder setting with engaging stories to inspire Game Masters and players alike.

Do you remember sleep?

It is one of the few clear memories I have from before the transplant. Falling into bed after a day of dedicated study. Waking, many hours later, to Sarenrae’s gentle wingbeats stirring the sky into morning splendor. That curious gulf between night and dawn and, after its crossing, how the voyage leaves one with only faint impressions of the journey. The remnants of dreams. Not fragments, exactly, but tiles without a mosaic.

I remember sleep. But when I try to assemble those memories into a feeling, I cannot. I lack some essential component. Like forgetting the melody of your wedding song or straining to see through heat shimmer. There are ancient moments that I can feel, of course. The blood of the Pharaoh’s oathsworn on my muzzle. The uncertainty of moving on four limbs for the first time. The strange sensation of an arcane core—my core—thrumming where once a heart beat, and the dried blossom sorrow of seeing myself still and quiet in the sling of an artificer’s lattice. Caressing that castoff self’s face with newly forged digits.

I have seen so many castoffs in this place; surely one of them was you. And maybe it is you who brought me here. As I picked my way through the dusty brass halls, past conduits thrumming with arcane vitality, it all felt so familiar. Not merely because of the similarity to my own second birthplace, but because the faint reflections of this creche have haunted me all these thousands of years.

We do not sleep, you and I, but we do something like it. And so many times, upon exiting that pale facsimile of slumber, I would grasp at shards of foreign dreams. Visions like snowflakes—have you seen snow?—melting even as I touch them. Muted cataracts plummeting through crystalline bends, thaumaturgic rivers rushing toward unseen reservoirs. Rivulets of sand falling through a vault of brass and mithral and stone, down into a craftwork cathedral whose catacombs the dream fragments would not touch.

I know that the Automaton Council left their names within our cores. Perhaps the masters somehow carved others’ memories inside my being. Gadflies in the mind, grit in a mouthful of water—and there! Drink, another thing remembered but not felt.

One grows bored over the millennia. What does a soldier do when they find themself without a war? With need for neither sword nor plowshares? I was not built for peace. So I sought conflict. A wasted century spent stalking our first enemies from the east. Many years more chasing the thrill of the hunt, following the moonlit metal gleam of pack leaders. I clawed crimson paths up the heaving flanks of rough beasts. I even sunk my fangs into one of the architects of Jistka’s downfall; he thought himself safe in his sarcophagus. But the empire is no more, and even when I can find others like myself, those brief reunions cannot fully replace the pride of belonging to a thing. Of serving something greater and knowing that that service matters.

Can you turn your head? Yes, the racks there—the weapons of an ancient an irrelevant war. And ourselves, of course.

…I am sorry, truly, that you must emerge into this world. Ah, and for my rambling. I’ve been lonely, of late.

In any case. Yes, the visions. All around me there is evidence that those visions were indeed more than spheresong footprints. After seven thousand years, I finally ceased grasping at snowflakes and simply let them fall, observing the pattern. In the shallow waterways of my dormant periods, I sieved stranger’s gold from dreamsand, reassembling the path to this place. Across tundra and lake, through the dead god’s favored city and banished gods’ ports, and into the deserts of my two births. Over the peaks—were these peaks not taller, once?—and up to the ragged edges of a basin.

There are peculiarities to our artificed bodies; perhaps I can show you the trick of venting life force from your limbs. Trailing arcana, I descended toward the basin floor, a vulture circling the past, the heat shimmer below a mirror held up to my aimless aeons. When I touched the sands, they were familiar. Soft and quiet as a burial shroud.

Illustration by Kiki Moch Rizky from Guns & Gears.

That shroud stirred. Ghosts rose around me. A convergence of minds and memories, as something in my core resonated with the emotions permeating this subterranean complex. It must be the hopes and sorrows of all those who set aside their flesh that fixed those visions to this place. I saw dozens of figures pull themselves from the sands, amber grit sloughing off gleaming brass shoulders. I padded through the arcade of long-gone servants as they set their phantasmal eyegems on the east. Plodded toward dissolution.

Tail trailing in sorrow, I reached the basin’s center. Something glinted beneath the sand; a garnet eye set into a dais. Carved script radiating from the gem bore the Conclave’s ancient words:

We leap from flesh to crafted hope
To safeguard nation, family, friend
We shuck ourselves and start again
We rise anew and know no end

“Know no end”—foolish and prideful! One cannot live from Age to Age without experiencing endings beyond comprehension. No, the Imperium merely filled the deathless millennia with a thousand lesser endings.

Those fools’ words, the ghosts of my fellows. I admit, I was overcome, crushed by reminders of long-mourned purpose. I sat on my haunches and wept.

Did they give you the ocular fire? I barely notice it, now, but that is another half-remembered echo of my second dawn, that first fulminant beam scorching its way out of my head. Like screaming until your throat is raw, but strangely distant, and channeled so tightly through your sight. Channel your conviction and burn away the Imperium’s enemies. Crumpled in the basin, I had no conviction, and my fire merely trickled out as molten tears.

They splashed against the gem, and the earth also wept and moaned. Sand hissed through widening cracks and, just as your eye did, this place irised open for the first time in ages. Below was the towering vault and crystal-banked streams of liquid arcana from those fragmented memory-dreams. Vindication and wonder soothed my soul. Stairs spiraled down from the dais, and I descended.

Down to the sanctum. No signs of battle, as might be expected given the dreaming ghosts above. An entry hall, and a pristine mosaic of the Conclave breathing life into the first core. I loped through halls of the not-dead, their superfluous forms stacked in memorial niches while their spirits slumber here in the lattices. Slowed to peer into glowing cisterns of swirling arcane energy, still ready to quicken the remnants of the Imperium’s crowning achievement. Followed the burnished ribbon of names that marked the path to this creche.

Why did they abandon this place? No matter—we are here now, together. Memories, both mine and others, lead me to you, and to your dormant siblings. We must wake them.

…I am afraid. Of aimlessness. Of what I bartered with my death.

Of rejection.

I am no Conclave. I am no pack leader. I am merely one lost child of Jistka, one aimless wanderer who followed ancient memories to an ancient vault. But I am here, surrounded by an entire tapestry of lattices, and the joy of dozens of siblings opening bejeweled eyes.

I remember sleep, but I do not remember how it felt. Perhaps you can tell me? And perhaps I, in turn can help you—us—forge a new purpose. One divorced from a Conclave that dissolved before they could lead you out of the space between sleep and death.

The Song of the Spheres fades. The Dawnflower blooms. She reaches even here, below the earth, in this cradle tomb. And for a moment, in her light preserves glimmering dreams, perfect and within our grasp.

Take my hand.

About The Author

Andrew Mullen has been freelancing for Paizo and other publishers since 2017. He brings a keen interest in language and the interplay of geography and culture to his work, as seen in the Magaambya section of Lost Omens Character Guide, the xulgaths in the Extinction Curse Adventure Path, and numerous other monsters over the years; as a full-time parent, his daughter is his most important monster.

About Tales of Lost Omens

The Tales of Lost Omens series of web-based flash fiction provides an exciting glimpse into Pathfinder’s Age of Lost Omens setting. Written by some of the most celebrated authors in tie-in gaming fiction and including Paizo’s Pathfinder Tales line of novels and short fiction, the Tales of Lost Omens series promises to explore the characters, deities, history, locations, and organizations of the Pathfinder setting with engaging stories to inspire Game Masters and players alike.

It’s strange how quickly a life-changing period spanning years can be replaced by what was once normal. Droven was certainly happy to be back in the field undertaking a Pathfinder mission again, and even happier to have an opportunity to deploy some of the gadgets and weaponry he’d created during his long exodus in Arcadia. He’d even lent his latest weapon, a gun that could create portals, to his partner for the exercise, a clever halfling freelancer from Cheliax who’d come highly recommended by a fellow Pathfinder.

The mission itself was fairly simple. There were reports of a large wolf or canine monster attacking travelers and caravans on the road between Absalom and Otari, a small port town on the western half of the Isle of Kortos. It was almost too simple, and in another place and time, the Pathfinder Society likely wouldn’t have sent a veteran agent still settling in after a long and dangerous journey abroad, but Otari was home to several friends of the Society, and perhaps just as relevant, it often served as a secondary destination for shipments too valuable to the wrong people to bring in through Absalom’s more closely watched ports.

So here Droven found himself, his entertaining companion playing a tune as they walked the forested highway on their way to Otari. As always, Whirp accompanied him, the quirky construct mostly doing what it was designed to do, staying by Droven’s side so the half-orc could readily access the tools it carried, but occasionally wandering off to examine a flower or dew drop on a leaf. Droven had disassembled, reassembled, and repaired the goblin-shaped construct countless times over the years, and he still had no explanation for Whirp’s strange moments of seeming sapience, curiosity, and self-direction. There was some magic interwoven with the clockwork devices that powered Whirp. Perhaps over the years of journeying through Arcadia, Droven’s one-sided conversations with the construct had made some impact on these arcane forces, granting Whirp a tiny spark of personality. Droven still carried on these conversations. While they drew the occasional odd look (once convincing a passing goblin to join in and look to their mechanical counterpart for a response that came in the form of an awkward hug and offered crowbar) most of Droven’s friends and peers had grown used to them and occasionally spoke to Whirp themselves.

---

On the evening of their second day out from Absalom, they finally encountered the creature they’d been sent to deal with. Droven was dozing by the fire, Whirp standing at his side and staring intently at an owl perched in the branches above, when their halfling companion whispered magically into his ear from his own hiding spot. “Barghest!”

Droven snapped awake; those years traveling on his own had sharpened his mind and reflexes. Drawing his hammer and putting his back against a nearby tree, he whispered back. “So not a wolf? Unfortunate.”

The same calm that always accompanied moments of stress descended once more over Droven. Later, when the fighting was done, his knees would shake and his eyes would water, but for now he was fully in the moment, the fire of his orcish blood fueling his analytical mind and sharpening his thoughts for the task at hand.

The barghest lurked just beyond the range of the firelight, its batlike ears and hunched shoulders faintly backlit by the leaf-shrouded moon. Droven made a mental note to recommend the halfling for future work; even his own eyes, capable of navigating lightless tunnels and moonless nights with relative ease, could barely make out the creature. Droven doubted he would have noticed the monster had he been on watch, let alone correctly identified it under these conditions.

He hoped their plan worked. Whirp was to leap in front of the threat, then scurry through a portal created by the experimental gun he’d given the halfling. Hopefully, the beast would follow Whirp through the portal, putting itself right in line for a thunderous blow from Droven’s hammer. Of course, they’d made the plan expecting a creature of animal intelligence, not a deadly fiend capable of critical thought with its own repertoire of magic.

Before Droven could propose a new tactic, Whirp began acting on the original plan Droven had modified the little construct to perform.

“Whirrrrrp!”

Illustration by Biagio d'Alessandro from Pathfinder Guns & Gears

Whether it was an intentional battle cry or merely the sound of the clockwork gears rattling throughout his small frame, it nonetheless signaled the start of the fight. Whirp’s body sparked for a moment before an explosive gout of flame vented from his chassis, launching the construct directly in front of the barghest. For Droven, an eternity seemed to pass as construct and barghest stared at one another, though it was likely no more than a few seconds. With a second “Whirrrrrp,” Droven’s clockwork companion lurched away, dashing through the woods as tools clattered out of the compartment on its back. Droven made a mental note to add a leather flap to the top of Whirp’s built-in toolbox even as he pressed tighter against the tree, hoping the barghest had failed to notice him or had forgotten him chasing after Whirp.

The plan worked to perfection. The halfling opened a portal next to Droven’s hiding spot before opening another in front of Whirp. As Whirp dashed through the eldritch opening, the barghest sped right behind it. As Whirp exited, Droven swung, his hammer whistling above the construct’s head even as the barghest’s snout cleared the portal. With a thunderous crunch, the barghest popped back out of the entry portal, its head lolling weirdly on a broken neck. Droven looked away from the barghest’s death throes, uninterested in exposing himself to another creature’s agonized final moments, and nodded to his halfling companion. A good plan, or at least an effective one, cleanly executed without injury. As much as Droven would have liked to say, “without negative consequences,” he realized that would be an inaccurate assessment. Somewhere scattered among the leaves and roots of the roadside forest, Whirp had lost an expensive and worrisome number of the inventor’s favorite tools.

About The Author

Michael Sayre is a designer at Paizo who previously worked on the Organized Play team. He’s also a prolific freelancer, having contributed to numerous Paizo books and publications from other publishers, such as Lost Spheres Publishing, Rogue Genius Games, and many other companies in support of the Pathfinder RPG and other table-top game systems.

About Iconic Encounters

Iconic Encounters is a series of web-based flash fiction set in the worlds of Pathfinder and Starfinder. Each short story provides a glimpse into the life and personality of one of the games’ iconic characters, showing the myriad stories of adventure and excitement players can tell with the Pathfinder and Starfinder roleplaying games.

“I don’t like the look of that sloop,” said Daker, punctuating the last word with his ever-present sneer.

Callum extended his spyglass and directed it at the little vessel, a little less than two hundred feet to port. Its crew scurried about their duties as the sun reached for the golden edge of the western horizon.

“A fisherman,” said Callum, still scanning the deck of the other vessel, “returning home. Not everyone’s a pirate, Gaius.”

“We’re in the Shackles, Orrin,” answered Daker, still sneering at the smaller ship. “As far as I’m concerned, they’re all pirates, ‘til they prove otherwise.”

They had the poopdeck of the Madam Diabola to themselves, a sleek Chelish warship armed with the latest in cannon technology, each devil-mouthed barrel etched with a magic sigil which promised every shot they fired would fly deadly and true. The Madam was given the honor of watching this insignificant settlement’s harbor while Admiral Lecarnas and the rest of the punitive fleet sailed off to lay siege to Drenchport that very morning. Callum didn’t even know the town’s name, but he also didn’t care.

“I grant you, she’s a bold one,” Callum answered, watching as the sloop slowly moved in their direction. “Must’ve sailed out early morning, before we sealed the harbor. We could just warn her off with a hazard flag.”

Gaius Daker was too bloodthirsty in Callum’s opinion, even if he was his oldest friend from his Fort Gorthoklek days. Too enthusiastic with the sap when leading a press gang, too ready to—

“Fire a bit of iron across her bow with that pretty new swivel gun,” said Daker, eyeing the polished little cannon mounted on the port rail. “And beat to quarters. Lads and ladies need a bit of exercise, to keep ‘em on their toes.”

Madam Diabola was one of three vessels in the fleet outfitted with the new weapons, swivel guns similar to smaller versions of the black iron cannons on the decks below, tended by scurrying halfling prisoners the crew had taken to calling “powder rats.” Gaius Daker wanted to hear the cannon roar. Callum thought such impulse foolish. Would the captain approve of such actions?

“Gaius,” began Callum, but swallowed the rest of his words when he caught Daker’s glare. He knew that look well. Daker was senior midshipman of the watch, and his words were no mere suggestion. That dark look made it an order.

“Beat to quarters!” Callum shouted, turning to the swivel gun.

Sailors across the vessel leapt into action and the sound of martial drums filled the air. Callum couldn’t help but admire the artistry of the little bronze cannon, mounted on the gunwale, its mouth fashioned like a dragon’s maw, fangs bent outward. He checked the breech, pleased to find it properly loaded and ready. Captain Hecata was fond of the lash, and her newly trained gun crews knew this better than most. They tended Madam’s newfangled weapons of war well, out of fear if not pride.

The sloop was much closer now, turning to port so that it showed Madam her broad side. Callum, ready at the gunwale, turned to look at Gaius Daker, who he caught tugging at his officer’s jacket to sharpen the lines of his uniform.

“They’re giving us a fat target, Gaius,” Callum said, a bit of pleading in his voice. “Maybe a signal flag’ll do the trick.”

“A signal flag, Mister Callum?” came the lilting alto of Captain Hecata as she climbed up onto the poopdeck. “Perhaps I should prepare tea for these Shackles scum while you wave silk at them? What have we here, Mister Daker?”

Gaius, eyes alight with bloodlust and just plan lust, grinned at the captain and saluted.

“Suspicious vessel off the port, Captain! I ordered Midshipman Callum to fire a warning shot across her bow!”

Callum grimaced. Just like Gaius to throw him overboard if it made him shine a bit brighter in Hecata’s emerald eyes. Daker offered the captain his spyglass and she took it, rewarding him with one of her unreadable smiles that could as easily portend divine preferment as utter doom. She looked through Daker’s brass device and within a heartbeat repeated the midshipman’s order.

“Mister Callum, fire that shot. And I wouldn’t be cross with you if that shot puts a crimson part in someone’s hair.”

Callum nodded and turned the swivel gun in the direction the sloop’s starboard bow. He angled the shot as low as he dared—Hecata might not care if he took off some poor bastard’s head, but he did. He asked a blessing from Abadar and fired the cannon. The shot ripped a hole low in the sloop’s staysail and a cry of fear washed across the space between the vessels, announcing the sloop crew’s shock.

A woman in a long coat came to the starboard rail of the sloop, waving both arms frantically.

“Ahoy, Chelish warship!” the woman cried, long brown locks freed as she added her hat to her call for mercy. “We’re honest fishermen, bringing a bellyful to our little island! See how low we ride?”

Callum noted the ship was indeed running awfully low in the water.

“You feed pirates then?” shouted Captain Hecata with a contemptuous air, hands on her hips.

“Nay! Settlers, eking out a life in these hard islands! Shelly is a free port, and we give no allegiance to any pirate lord!”

“Our intelligence says otherwise,” said the captain, and Callum saw she wore that same smile she had given to Gaius. Those fishermen had best say their prayers. It was clear now where this encounter was headed.

Callum joined the naval academy in Hinji when it became clear his mercurial father would favor his younger brother when the inheritance was doled out. He had been fed tales of high adventure on the open seas, contending with the elements and wild creatures, bloodthirsty pirates and rebels intent on bringing Cheliax to its knees. Instead, he found himself part of an instrument of intimidation. Well-armed nautical bullies.

“There are a dozen innocent souls on this ship, captain!” the brown-haired mariner in the sloop called out across the water. “We bring back the bounty of the sea to feed hungry bellies. Men, women, and children. No more, no less. I beg you let us pass!”

The woman’s last words were made with hands clasped together, as if offering up a prayer.

“Prepare to be boarded,” sang Captain Hecata, drawing her cutlass and nodding to Midshipman Daker, who wore a giddy grin on his face.

Callum looked back at the sloop, the long-haired fisherwoman, hands still clasped like a supplicant…and then his eyes caught a shimmer, as though he looked at a painting behind glass, tilted to catch the sun’s rays. A warning tingled at the base of his spine. He turned to share his misgivings with the captain, when the unmistakable sound of a cannon report, several in fact, sent him instinctively to the deck, prostrate with his arms cradling his head. The first ball struck the portside railing on the quarterdeck below, obliterating wood and sending deadly splinters in all directions. The second tore through Gaius Daker, reducing him to an ugly spray of red.

In the next moment Callum was helping the captain up from the deck, one side of her smart Chelish uniform painted with Daker’s blood.

“Return fire!” she roared, shaking off Callum’s assistance. “By all the tines in Hell, that’s no bloody fisherman!”

Callum glanced to his left—the sloop was gone. In its place was a black-sailed brigantine, the iron mouths of cannon protruding from open gun ports, its main deck alive with surly-looking sailors brandishing weapons.

Illustration by Pixoloid Studios from Pathfinder Guns & Gears

Pirates! he thought as Madam Diabola’s new guns answered the brigantine’s attack. But it was as if the wind took the iron hurled at their enemy away like fallen leaves. Of its sixteen guns, only a single cannonball connected with their chameleon foe. What sorcery did these brigands have at their disposal? Illusion to disguise a warship? Elemental servants to carry away iron shot?

It was then that Callum caught sight of the brown-haired woman again. He could swear she was smiling at him directly, and as if to confirm it, she gave him a jovial wave and held her hands up to her mouth to trumpet her words across the now-smoky distance.

“Welcome to the Shackles!” she cried.

About The Author

Mike Shel is the author of the Iconoclasts trilogy of fantasy novels and over a dozen Pathfinder RPG titles including The Dragon’s Demand, Isles of the Shackles, Tomb of the Iron Medusa, and Valley of the Brain Collectors. A Michigan native, Mike now lives in Indianapolis, Indiana, where he practices as a psychotherapist. Find more about his fiction and RPG works at mikeshel.com.

About Tales of Lost Omens

The Tales of Lost Omens series of web-based flash fiction provides an exciting glimpse into Pathfinder’s Age of Lost Omens setting. Written by some of the most celebrated authors in tie-in gaming fiction and including Paizo’s Pathfinder Tales line of novels and short fiction, the Tales of Lost Omens series promises to explore the characters, deities, history, locations, and organizations of the Pathfinder setting with engaging stories to inspire Game Masters and players alike.

“Please, Dhareen, must we go through with this? A bit of rock climbing is hardly a challenge for the Castrovel Kid!” Dhareen imagined her mentee thrusting his chest out proudly, thumb pressed triumphantly above his heart as he blustered several feet below her. She smiled to herself and pushed her piston-puncher into the mountain’s side, activating the gadget with a press of her lowleft thumb.

Kuh-klank.

“Perhaps, but it is custom among the tribes for a Yavnii to administer a test to every hopeful Brekai wanting to undergo the Test of the Mountain, and I am afraid that not even I have the authority to make exceptions to shobhad tradition. Not even for the ‘Castrovel Kid.’”

“See, you say that, but I can hear your grin,” Vellero replied sullenly.

“I know not what you mean.” Dhareen grinned again.

Both gladiators fell silent as they climbed, Dhareen pausing her ascent long enough for Vellero to scale up alongside her.

Kuh-klank.

He had taken to her tutelage well. Ka’s cliffside was grueling even for an expert; twenty-two miles long and comprised of thin basalt overtop stronger metamorphic stone, careless climbers often plummeted to their deaths after relying on pistons pounded into brittle basalt. One of the many roles of a yavnii was to ensure their breknai did not succumb to such a fate. Vellero had learned Dhareen’s lessons well thus far, scaling around several patches of basalt she had left in his path as a test.

Kuh-klank.

Vellero’s concentration reminded Dhareen of when she first met the headstrong lashunta in the ring at Arl’s VitariTech Coliseum. They were competing in the Icons Grand Brawl, and he was favored to win. The young man was a crowd pleaser on a seven-match winning streak. He was good, but not good enough; Dhareen scrubbed the floor with her future friend’s face. Literally. Nevertheless, there had been a spark within Vellero, a spark that intrigued her. The second time she knocked him down—or perhaps the third—he clamored to his feet with a bruised antenna and a few chipped teeth, wiped fresh blood from his lip, and grinned.

“Why do you persist?” Dhareen had asked, scarcely winded. “You cannot win. You bring yourself only pain. Throw your towel; others have when facing me. There is no shame in surrendering to your better.”

“You’re right,” he’d replied. “But that wouldn’t be fair for the folks who came here to see me fight, and I don’t want to let a single person in this ring who believed that I could win down.” He raised his fists into a boxer’s stance, a pointless gesture against an opponent twice his size with twice as many fists. “When I go down, I want them to know I gave it my all!”

Kuh-klank.

“I don’t mean to sound indignant,” Vellero interrupted Dhareen’s thoughts. “I know that the Test of the Mountain is sacred to your people, and that it is an honor to be allowed to undergo it as an outsider.”

Dhareen raised an eyebrow. “But?”

“But,” Vellero took a breath. “Is the reason we’re doing this,” Vellero gestured out behind them, over red dunes and rolling clouds of dust. “Because you don’t think I can?”

“If I didn’t think you could pass the Test of the Mountain, I wouldn’t have begun the climb with you, nor permitted you to undertake it.” Dhareen’s voice was gentle but her statement absolute. “The mountain is sacred to my people. We do not tolerate bloodshed on Ka. To send one who is unprepared up the Mountain is as shameful as slaying one’s enemies at its base.”

Vellero’s expression softened slightly. “Thanks.”

“Do not speak of it. You don’t want your throat to dry from the ascent.”

Vellero blinked, then burst out laughing.

“I don’t understand what you find so funny about that. You’ll have twenty miles left when we’ve reached the end of our shared path.”

Vellero kept laughing for a minute, wiping tears from his eyes. “Thanks, Dhareen.”

“You’re—”

Kuh-KUN.

Dhareen reaches for a falling Vellero in this illustration by Victor Manuel Leza Moreno from Starfinder: Galaxy Exploration Manual.

Dhareen gave herself no time for thinking. Before the sound of shattering basalt reached her ears, before Ka itself folded like a withered tumblefern in a windstorm, she whipped around to where Vellero was climbing even as his cliffside shifted downward, a cascade of metamorphic stone tearing free from Ka and tumbling towards the ground below. Vellero screamed as he fell, but Dhareen plucked him from the air like a corpseheron snatching a leaping spookfish out from the Irkonian Sea. Dhareen didn’t speak Ysoki, but she had spent enough time around ratfolk gladiators at VitariTech to recognize the lashunta lambasting the situation with at least six of the fourteen different Ysoki swears that she knew.

“Hold on, Vellero!” Climbing down wasn’t an option; a rockslide was eminent, and the best place to be during a rockslide was above it. Vellero was much smaller than she and less experienced at climbing, he would only slow them down. She could climbe faster with all four of her muscled arms free, anyway. There was only one option remaining.

Hoisting the Castrovel Kid onto her shoulders like a mother giving a youngling a backride, she placed the much smaller lashunta onto her shoulders and started climbing as fast as she could, giving only the barest of warnings. “Hold tight!”

Though Dhareen could hear Vellero shouting, her intense focus and the earsplitting sounds of portions of the rock wall sloughing off afforded her no opportunity to comprehend him. She climbed as quick as her body would allow, muscles aching and flaring as she abandoned her piston-punch and climbed barehanded. She knew full-well that the smallest mistake would send both she and her friend to their doom.

Ten yards from the top.

Five.

She was going to make it.

She and Vellero were going to make it.

Then her world shook as shadow overtook her vision. A boulder dislodged from above, tumbling towards her, threatening to crack her skull and send Dhareen and her breknai tumbling miles to their death. She refused to close her eyes; she would greet the Lady of Graves with firsthand tales of how she died. She was not alone; at the peak of her vision, she saw a small lashunta arm, no bigger than that of a shobhad child’s, reach out as if to catch the boulder. Dhareen admired Vellero’s bravery one last time.

The boulder collided with Vellero, and for a moment it was like watching a diver plunge into a serene pool. Vellero’s hand, then his arm, and then both their bodies plunged into the boulder.

Was it just an illusion?

Fine dust covered Dhareen as the boulder passed through her. From within, she watched the metamorphic rock splinter and crack in flight, first into smaller boulders, then into stone and pebbles, and finally into dust. The boulder never touched them; it dissolved before it even struck the Castrovel Kid’s hand.

Dhareen was stunned at first. But with safety just a few yards above and Ka continuing to shake and splinter, the feeling passed quickly as she bellowed at her peculiar friend.

“That, Vellero! Keep doing that!”

About The Author

Alexander "Alex" Augunas (he/him) is an author and behavioral health worker living outside of Philadelphia. He has contributed to numerous gaming products published by Paizo, with several of his better-known contributions including the Starfinder Roleplaying Game Core Rulebook, Starfinder Character Operations Manual, and Pathfinder Lost Omens Legends. Alex is also a staff member of the Know Direction Network, where he serves as Master of Ceremonies for Know Direction: Beyond, and publisher of third-party publisher Everybody Games.

About Iconic Encounters

Iconic Encounters is a series of web-based flash fiction set in the worlds of Pathfinder and Starfinder. Each short story provides a glimpse into the life and personality of one of the games’ iconic characters, showing the myriad stories of adventure and excitement players can tell with the Pathfinder and Starfinder roleplaying games.

Nhalmika Ironsight ran through the fresh snow. It wasn’t that much snow—it wouldn’t reach higher than mid-shin on a human—but it was higher than Nhalmika’s knees. And there’s a big difference, she now knew, between running through snow below your knees and running through snow above them. But she nevertheless ran on, hefting her scattergun to keep it free of moisture that might foul the firing mechanism. Most humans would find the large gun to be far too heavy, but Nhalmika carried it with practiced ease. So perhaps there was a fair tradeoff somehow.

Yesterday, she’d come into the village of Ivlanton to the sound of cheers. The village was deep in Irrisen, the land of perpetual winter. Frostbite and privation were as omnipresent as the snow. Ivlanton sorely needed blankets, firewood, and medicine.

A caravan master in Lod had sent a cartload of these goods to Ivlanton. When it didn’t return, he asked Nhalmika to investigate. At first, the master had praised Nhalmika’s son, an upright merchant with whom he’d done business, but Nhalmika wouldn’t venture deeper into Irrisen on familial pride alone. The master then offered a generous payment, but Nhalmika still refused. She was from the far south, and this wintry land was unfamiliar to her. She’d intended to move on quickly to warmer Varisia. But when the master talked about the difficulties the villagers would face if the goods hadn’t reached them, Nhalmika agreed to go. She couldn’t let innocent people suffer just because she didn’t like snow. She took the offered coin, too, and spent it on a hand-pulled wagon with still more blankets and medicine. If she couldn’t find the missing goods, she didn’t want to reach Ivlanton empty-handed.

It turned out she needn’t have worried. She found the cart a few miles from Ivlanton, pulled off the road. Anyone else might have missed it, but the dead teamster’s baldric buckle gleamed in the deep shadows of the snowy hedge, bright as a beacon to Nhalmika’s keen eyes. The horses were nowhere to be seen. She saw that bandits had plainly pawed through the wagon, but they’d left the blankets and firewood behind. “Disappointed in their mundane haul, no doubt,” she muttered. Nhalmika prepared a hasty cairn for the unfortunate teamster and doubled up the load in her wagon to bring the lot to Ivlanton.

The villagers were pleased, to be sure, but the village seer, an elderly and kind woman named Gerthanna, told Nhalmika that something had been stolen from the wagon after all: a small, magical flask that produced an endless stream of fresh water. In a land where water froze solid all year round, ready access to fresh water was vital.

“I know bandits,” Nhalmika said assuredly, “and I know how to put them into the dirt…that is, the snow, I suppose,” she finished with faltering confidence. She paused to consider, but only for a moment. “I’ll go after them, and I’ll bring back your magic flask.”

Nhalmika backtracked to the ransacked cart to look for tracks. Amid her own boot prints and the hoofprints of the departed horses, she discovered several heavy footprints, each a cross between an animal’s paw and an unshod human foot. Snowfall largely concealed the tracks, but Nhalmika was a little disappointed in herself to have missed them the first time. Even good eyes get old, she thought.

The tracks led away from the trail and up a nearby hill. That’s where she found the remains of the horses, brutally torn to pieces. Clearly, something had feasted on great chunks of their meat. “Well, at least a well-fed enemy is a sluggish enemy,” Nhalmika mused, following the tracks as the hills led into a series of steep canyons. They looked like the box canyons of home: winding, dangerous, and the perfect place for an ambush. She readied her scattergun and shifted her cloak to access her powder and shot more easily. Then she stopped to think.

The paw-footed bandits entered this canyon but didn’t leave it. That meant they’d either gone to hide inside or they were waiting in ambush. Either way, she could get a better look from above. Nhalmika scrambled up the canyon wall and made her way around its lip, crouching low

Near the end of the box canyon, Nhalmika spied an elaborate ice sculpture, resembling a cresting wave with spines like icicles jutting every which way. It looked like some sort of symbol, but one that twisted away from her scrutiny as if she weren’t welcome to understand it. She recognized it as a fiendish rune—and a powerful one at that—wrought entirely from ice. An open metal flask resting atop the sculpture spouted a stream of water that quickly froze to slush and then to ice.

Six hulking bandits worked around the ice sculpture, shaping the water as it froze to form the enormous rune. At first, Nhalmika thought they were dressed in ragged hides, but she soon observed that the patchy hides grew from their skin and claws sprouted from their hands and bare feet. They wore nothing other than blood-stained rags. The burly animal people were working with a definite purpose, and fear struck somewhere deep in Nhalmika’s soul.

A low growl behind her made Nhalmika gasp in surprise. She’d been so focused on the rune-shaping bandits that she’d forgotten her earliest training: “a vanguard must look in all directions at once.” She glanced behind her.

An enormous bear glared at Nhalmika from only a dozen yards away. Yet it wasn’t the bear’s hostile stare or aggressive posture that drew her gaze. The bear wore a harness of iron chains supporting a massive mirror atop its back. The mirror stood upright, reflecting Nhalmika’s puzzled expression as she perched at the canyon’s edge.

“I am never going to understand Irrisen,” Nhalmika sighed as she swung her scattergun around to point at the bear. Before she could scare the bear off, the mirror blazed with bright inner light. The light coalesced into a beam of energy that lanced out toward Nhalmika. She sidestepped the blast, but the mirror immediately started to glow again, as though preparing for another beam. The bear howled in anger, and the roar was answered by the bandits in the chasm. Even as distracted as they were, they couldn’t have missed the bright beam.

“Well, you shot first. My turn now.” Nhalmika fired at the bear’s head. Her shot might as well have struck stone. The bear hardly flinched, then took two paces, closing in on her. Nhalmika’s hands worked automatically as the scattergun recoiled, loading another round as she used the gun’s momentum to swing it back around in an arc to fire again. The bear ignored the second hit, and its mirror glowed even brighter. While her practiced fingers reloaded again, Nhalmika glanced around for options.

“That flashy weapon’s the trouble, my furry friend. I can’t let you keep it.” She fired her third round at the mirror, expecting an explosion of glass and metal, but the shot rebounded from the mirror’s surface without a scratch. The scattergun was growing hot in Nhalmika’s hands, but she smoothly loaded it once again.

“I guess this is hurting me more than it’s hurting you. I don’t have any more time for this.” Nhalmika aimed her scattergun at the snow and leapt from the top of the cliff. She pulled the trigger and the recoil propelled her even higher. Another energy blast shot across the snow where she’d been only a second ago. She had to admit the bear’s aim was good. Especially for a bear.

Illustration by Roberto Pitturru from Pathfinder Guns & Gears.

Nhalmika could see the beast bandits looking up at her. She reached the top of her arc and descended into the canyon. Her trajectory was taking her down to the wicked ice sculpture, where its prongs and spikes would impale her before she ever got close to the howling bandits’ claws. She swung her scattergun around as she fell and pulled the trigger.

For a split second, she wasn’t certain she’d reloaded after launching herself from the cliff. But her fingers knew their work and had reloaded in mid-air without any conscious direction. The round exploded from the barrel and slammed into the sculpture, shattering the frozen rune into a spray of icicles. Nhalmika reached out and snatched the flask as she completed her fall.

The bandits were bloodied from the ice fragments but didn’t seem to notice in their rage. Nhalmika could now see their faces up close, and she wished she couldn’t; they were twisted masses of animalistic snouts and snaggled teeth beneath hate-filled red eyes. Nhalmika hit the snow, rolled, and sprung to her feet. Having survived the fall, she had to grudgingly admit that maybe snow was good for something after all.

Seriously outnumbered and worried she’d see that strange energy-mirror bear lean over the canyon rim, Nhalmika ran. Her legs pumped furiously, but the snow was too deep for her to traverse quickly. Her benevolent thoughts toward snow only a few moments ago evaporated quickly and entirely.

The bandits—being significantly taller than she was—were having much less trouble. They roared and howled as they ran after her, closing in as Nhalmika reached the opening to the canyon. The wounds the bandits had suffered from the explosion were already almost completely healed. Nhalmika still didn’t know what they were, but right now she would have traded them for a whole pack of Mana Waste mutants. Preferably slower ones.

At the mouth of the canyon, Nhalmika stopped and turned. She wasn’t going to escape, and she wasn’t going to survive, but she might take a couple of the monstrous bandits down before they overwhelmed her. At least some of these brutes would have eaten their last horse! She aimed at the bandit in the middle of the pack and fired.

Nhalmika’s scattergun emitted a strange clunk and a gout of fire from the barrel. In a horrifying second, she’d realized what had happened. She’d reloaded by instinct again, but this time she’d had the small magical flask in her other hand. She hadn’t put a round in the gun; she’d loaded the flask in there instead, without realizing it until now.

But now was too late. The flask rocketed from the scattergun’s barrel and struck the central bandit in the face. The impact caused a geyser of water to drench all the bandits at once. Before Nhalmika could even lower her gun, the water became slush, then froze solid. The bandits were trapped.

Nhalmika took a few cautious steps forward. When she saw the bandits couldn’t burst free of their icy prison, she took a few more steps, then quickly scooped up the flask from the snow. To her surprise, it was still intact. And it wasn’t even cold!

“You’ve been a lot of trouble,” she said to the flask in a gentle, chiding tone. “I’m getting you to Ivlanton, then I’m walking south, and I’m not stopping until I can’t see a single snowflake.”

About The Author

Ron Lundeen lives in the rural hinterlands outside of Seattle, Washington, where he finds the climate a pleasant change from his native Illinois. After a career as a corporate attorney, Ron took a full-time position with Paizo, Inc. as a developer, working with freelancers to create fabulous worlds and monstrous threats for the Pathfinder and Starfinder roleplaying games. He now serves as development manager overseeing the Pathfinder development team. He also designs games in his free time, creating a dizzying variety of perils, plots, and legends. Ron’s favorite RPG design work is adventure writing, to help others share exciting stories with their friends. Although his first game design credit came back in 1993, Ron has recently written for Paizo, Wizards of the Coast, Ulisses Spiele, and many others. Ron also runs a gaming company and RPG writer advice blog, which you can visit at www.runamokgames.com.

About Iconic Encounters

Iconic Encounters is a series of web-based flash fiction set in the worlds of Pathfinder and Starfinder. Each short story provides a glimpse into the life and personality of one of the games’ iconic characters, showing the myriad stories of adventure and excitement players can tell with the Pathfinder and Starfinder roleplaying games.

They all agreed that it was Ak’s fault. Poog, Reta Bigbad, Mogmurch, Chuffy Lickwound, even Mogmurch’s toad Amfibier agreed—in a gravelly voice that sounded nothing at all like Mogmurch muttering through closed lips. Ak had been the first to climb into the back of the wagon, and so the other four goblins had no choice but to follow him, only to become trapped when the longshanks and his two terrible horses had arrived, forcing them to cower under a tarpaulin as the wagon rolled into... a human village? The sounds and smells were inconclusive.

“Didn’t want to,” Ak said mournfully. “Reta said she would bash me if didn’t.”

Reta smacked the other goblin hard across the back of the head. “Was a test!” she snapped. “You coward enough to go just because I tell you? Weak, Ak. We all very disappointed.”

The other three goblins, and Amfibier, all muttered in agreement. It was not the first time Ak had disappointed them all, and it would surely not be the last. After a few moments, the muttering trailed off into awkward silence.

“What do we do now?” Mogmurch said in a harsh whisper. “Longshanks gone. Don’t hear horses. Maybe it’s safe outside, maybe good time to flee.”

“Yes, maybe,” said Reta. “Ak. You go outside, check and see if it’s safe to come out.”

Ak looked warily into his companion’s faces, his eyes narrowed. “This also a test? If I go outside, I fail again, Reta hit me?”

“No,” Chuffy responded. He pulled a jagged, filthy blade from a sheath at his belt that looked like it was held together with tar, leather straps, and spite. “You stay in here, I stabs you. Go check now. If anything kills you, make lots of noise, so we know not safe to come out yet.”

Ak’s head cautiously emerged from under one corner of the canvas drop cloth, almost immediately followed by the rest of his body as someone behind him delivered a swift kick to his backside. The goblin landed in a heap, glancing furtively around as he took in his surroundings. They were in what appeared to be a dimly lit barn. No longshanks (or worse, horses) were in sight, but there were two more wagons, one to either side. Someone had pulled back the canvas covering the nearest wagon, revealing a rack of colorful kites and an opened crate. The crate was packed with straw to protect its contents, but Ak could see enough to immediately recognize what it contained.

The goblin’s beady red eyes went wide. He clambered up and into the wagon, thrust his hand into the crate, and pulled out a decorated red paper tube about the length of his arm, attached to a long stick and trailing a short length of fuse. Fireworks! The best kind of fire! And fire was already the best kind of almost anything. A slow smile spread across Ak’s face, taking several seconds to traverse the distance from one ear to the other. This was going to change everything. Once they saw what he’d found, his companions were sure to be so grateful that...

“Stupid!” someone yelled from the other wagon. “You dead yet? Or it safe to come out?”

Ak looked down at the rocket in his hand, his toothy grin somehow growing even wider. “Just moment,” he said “Found something! You wait there, I show you!” His other hand went to the pouch at his belt, which contained a cache of special ingredients belonging to Mogmurch—ingredients so volatile and dangerous that his alchemist companion had insisted that only Ak could be trusted to carry them—and drew out a single tindertwig. He struck the twig against the rough surface of the canvas, lit the fuse, waited for a tense moment, grew tired of waiting, and jammed the burning twig into the back of the rocket. There was a blinding flash, a deafening report, and Ak was knocked flat on his back. Somewhere nearby, he could dimly make out the unmistakable sound of goblins suffering painful burns, followed by muffled cursing and scrabbling as his companions vacated their hiding place, which quickly gave way to shouts of excitement as they spotted Ak’s discovery.

His senses were still clearing when Reta grabbed him by the throat and hauled him to his feet. “Ak,” she said through gritted teeth, staring into his eyes as they struggled to focus. “You try to kill us. With firework.” She motioned to the gently smoldering wagon behind them, then to the other goblins greedily rifling through the opened crate. “But. You also find us many, many firework. You are forgiven, Ak. Today... today you are one of us.”

A single tear of pure joy ran down Ak’s cheek. “R-really?” he whispered.

Reta smiled, her mouth bristling with needle-sharp teeth. “No,” she said. “Not really.” She gave him a hard push, and Ak topped backwards over the edge of the wagon. Before he could hit the ground, the rocket that Chuffy had stuffed down the back of his leather jerkin went off, propelling him across the warehouse and into the darkness of the hayloft overhead with a strangled yelp and a gout of colorful flame.

Goblins and fireworks. What could possibly go wrong?
Illustration by Kiki Moch Rizky fromGoblin Firework Fight

Behind Reta, Poog and Mogmurch were busily pulling more fireworks out of the crate. “Smoke bomb,” Mogmurch said, lighting the fuse of a wrapped paper bundle and tossing it aside with an exasperated sigh. “Not explode. Not start fire. No point.” Poog nodded in agreement, holding the end of another lit tindertwig to the fuse of a bright purple rocket, then deftly spinning the rocket around to use its fuse to light another, even larger, green rocket. He was still clutching both when the door flew open at the other end of the barn.

“Who’s in here?” bellowed a tall figure, silhouetted against the light streaming in from outside the barn. The goblins froze. A second shadow, four-legged, growled deep in its throat and stalked ahead of its master into the barn.

Poog panicked. Immediately. “DOG!” he shrieked, lowering the green rocket so that it pointed at the oncoming animal a split second before it went off. The rocket missed the dog by more than a goblin’s full height and shot directly out the open entryway, where it struck the inner wall of a stable next door and ricocheted wildly from stall to stall, trailing a shower of sparks. A moment later, the purple rocket in Poog’s other hand went off, striking Mogmurch squarely in the face. The other goblin’s skull-faced helmet flew off as he toppled backward into the crate, followed by the sparking purple rocket. The straw cushioned his impact for a brief moment before bursting into flames.

“GOBLINS!” the longshanks in the doorway yelled, taking a step back as the dog, followed by two others, charged snarling into the barn. Poog shrieked in terror and leaped from the wagon, scampering across the cluttered floor and clambering up the assortment of riding tack that hung on one wall of the barn, with Reta right on his heels. There was a tremendous crack, and a blast of heat and smoke washed over them as the wagon below erupted in a massive storm of shrieking multicolored fireballs. One of the fireballs, shrieking slightly louder than the others, darted across the floor and up a rickety ladder toward the hayloft.

“That way!” Reta snarled at Poog, gesturing toward the loft as she began to swing, hand over hand, across the wall of saddles and wagon wheels. Below, the dogs barked in rage and confusion as something else caught fire with a satisfying whoosh. There were more longshanks outside now; she could hear them. More dogs, too.

In the loft they found Mogmurch, still smoking but no longer actually aflame, peering out a small window that opened out over the street. A moment later, Chuffy hauled himself up and over the ledge, blade clenched between his teeth. He scowled down at Ak, whose unconscious body was still sprawled face down on the floor where he had landed at the end of his brief flight. “Stupid Ak,” he said, delivering a scornful kick that elicited a weak moan. “Mess everything up for us. Again. Now we stuck up here, probably die.”

“Yeah, not look good,” Mogmurch said. “Longshanks busy trying to put out stable fire. Way too many dogs outside, though. Maybe we throw Ak down, run away while they eat him?”

There was a moment of silent contemplation as each goblin briefly considered who they might be able to bully into dragging Ak to the window. Outside, a panicked human voice screamed, “It’s spreading! Dawnflower’s grace, stop it before it reaches the alchemist!”

Poog broke the silence, chuckling knowingly as he put his arms around his companions’ shoulders.

“Friends, friends,” Poog said, closing his eyes and shaking his head softly from side to side. “You really think Poog not have brilliant escape plan for just this moment? You forget why we call Poog the smart one?” Sliding one hand into his belt pouch, he withdrew the item inside with a flourish, grinning widely as he looked around for approval.

Reta was not impressed. “Yes,” she said. “We all have fingers, Poog. Finger not what we need right now, Poog.”

Poog glanced down at the mummified digit in his hand, scowling, and tossed it away before quickly withdrawing a second item, which he dutifully examined before displaying it to the others. “Not that. Have lots of things in here.” He took the rough wooden whistle in his hand and put it to his lips, then blew silently.

A tense moment passed.

“It broken?” Chuffy started to ask. He was interrupted as a grand commotion erupted somewhere outside. Something large skidded across the cobblestone street and crashed into something else with a dull thud. A chorus of canine yips broke out, only to be drowned out by a furious bellow that trailed off into a high-pitched squeal of rage. The five goblins crowded to the window.

“SQUEALY NORD!”

A huge pig was charging haphazardly through the crowd, scattering longshanks and dogs alike. As the last of the dogs turned tail and fled, the pig positioned itself in the street directly below the window, looking up at them expectantly. They jumped as one, pouring out of the window just as the hayloft went up in flames behind them. Poog wrapped his arms around Squealy Nord’s neck and prodded him gently on one flank. “Run, Squealy Nord!” he shouted. “Run like wind!”

They met with little resistance as Squealy Nord raced up the road leading out of town, bellowing, snorting, and squealing in equal measure; the dogs had scattered, and the longshanks, easily distracted, were busy attempting to extinguish the flames. About a quarter mile outside the village walls, the great swine slowed to a trot, and the goblins allowed themselves a moment to cautiously look back. Sure enough, no one had followed them. Also, Poog was missing.

“Reta,” Mogmurch said. “Poog fall off. We go back, get him?”

Even at that distance, they all felt the shockwave from the massive blast that came next. There was a deep, shuddering boom, and a colorful cloud in the shape of a flower bloomed over the village, mingling with the thick cloud of black smoke already spreading over the countryside. On the wind, they could hear the distant sound of screams.

“Nah,” Reta said. She slid a dried truffle from her pocket into Squealy Nord’s mouth and patted the massive pig’s shoulder. “Poog fine, he find way back. I hungry. Let’s go get food.”

About The Author

Andrew White (he/him) is the lead front-end developer on paizo.com and an occasional Pathfinder and Starfinder freelance contributor. His first published credit was a gigantic fey scallop that loves rap battling and puppet shows, and his most recent is a one-shot adventure about a silver-tongued swarm of insects, a misanthropic spider robot, a jaded cowboy squid, and a magical hacker who is also a telepathic bear teaming up to rob a space train together. He has a Twitter where he mostly just retweets his more eloquent colleagues at @plaguecontrol.

About Tales of Lost Omens

The Tales of Lost Omens series of web-based flash fiction provides an exciting glimpse into Pathfinder’s Age of Lost Omens setting. Written by some of the most celebrated authors in tie-in gaming fiction and including Paizo’s Pathfinder Tales line of novels and short fiction, the Tales of Lost Omens series promises to explore the characters, deities, history, locations, and organizations of the Pathfinder setting with engaging stories to inspire Game Masters and players alike.

“Typically, when a patrol is sent out to escort a diplomat, they can handle themselves!”

Amircia winced, took a moment to reload her pistol, and took aim at the—eyes? hands?—eye-hands of the blood painter closest to her. “Typically, our patrols don’t get surrounded by aberrations.” A clean shot straight through the appendage, and she was already moving in with her machete to sever the wounded limb.

Rahaksenwe snorted, adjusting her hold on her spider gun. She took a breath in time with the gun’s pulsing and fired, covering another blood painter in webbing. Taking advantage of the shrieking creature’s immobilization, she moved closer, stomping on its torso, and fired the poison shot right into its face. “It’s just interesting to me that you didn’t need an escort into Port Valen, but you felt I needed an escort into Jolizpan. On your left!”

“And clearly I was correct!” Amircia turned in time to catch the blasted aberration’s teeth around her blade instead of her shoulder. A muttered prayer under her breath as she positioned her pistol alongside the machete, eliminating another blood painter with a shot before it could attempt to make art out of her. She spun around, aiming at another one of the creatures before it could reach Rahaksenwe and swearing when she heard the audible click of her pistol jamming. “Another one!”

“Got it!” Rahaksenwe took a half-step back, adjusting the spider gun once more to fire webbing at the blood painter’s feet, causing it to trip and stumble across the tree roots.

Amircia took advantage of the creature’s clumsiness, finishing it off with her machete before taking a moment to catch her breath and look around. “Is this... all of them?”

“Seems like it, though I have been wrong before.” Rahaksenwe leaned against a tree and slid into a sitting position. She let out a breath and returned her spider gun to its proper place on her back. “You did well, thank you,” she said softly, feeling her connection to the creature she’d made the weapon from.

Illustration by Will O’Brien from Pathfinder Guns & Gears

“Are you hurt?” Amircia looked the other woman over, concerned about her well-being and wanting to be on the move as quickly as possible.

Rahaksenwe shook her head, getting to her feet. “No, thank Desna. They caught your patrol by surprise, but by the time they’d revealed themselves I was already armed and ready. How far until the city?”

“A little less than a day. Strange that they would attack so close to the city and not come after you when you were alone.” Amircia nudged one of the bags of the blood painters and frowned, shaking her head. “Strange that they’re here at all, really.”

“Perhaps the beauty of the skyline drew them here.” Rahaksenwe gestured to a small, clear space in the trees. “Through here you can see the city outline against the mountains. It took my breath away. Maybe they wanted to make it theirs, too.”

Amircia followed her to the clearing and smiled a bit, looking at the outline of Jolizpan. “Maybe.” She glanced back at the scene they had left behind and grew somber. “We should be on the move. I don’t want to attract any other creatures and I’ll need to organize a larger, better trained patrol to come back for our soldiers.”

Rahaksenwe nodded solemnly, adjusting her pack and gesturing for Amircia to lead the way. “Remember, I am not as sure-footed as you. Let an old woman keep up.” She chuckled softly at Amircia’s snort and followed her lead.

“Your gun.” Amircia commented after they’d walked for some time. “It’s a beast gun.” She glanced sideways at Rahaksenwe, her statement just as much a question as it was a declaration.

“Correct. I inherited this one from my grandmother.” Rahaksenwe unholstered her spider gun, feeling it grow warm to her touch as the magic activated. “She was there to see me off on my hunt to find the ogre spider and she was there to welcome me back with herbs and soup when I returned with the components needed.” She smiled a bit at the memory before holstering the gun once more.

“So, she was also one to scope the battlefield before firing a single shot?” Amircia asked, adjusting her headdress after ducking beneath a swinging branch.

Rahaksenwe nodded, wiping sweat from her forehead. “She was. She taught me to look and listen before firing and to make sure that I kept myself at advantage. Not like my nephew, who spends all year with his screech shooter that he built from a snowy owlbear. He rolls into town like he’s never seen an angry auntie before!”

“Did your grandmother oversee his ritual, too?” Amircia asked curiously, using her machete to clear the path before them. The sun was starting to dip below the horizon, and she didn’t like the odd silence that had fallen over the jungle along with the storm clouds overhead. It felt like the creatures in the jungle, usually so chatty and busy before a storm, were preparing for something big.

“No.” Rahaksenwe sighed, shaking her head. “She’d already left us by the time he was old enough to hunt on his own. I oversaw his ritual. I’m proud of him, even if he is too cocky for his own good. Makes sense his gun chose him.”

Amircia chuckled before pausing and tilting her head. She held an arm out, stopping Rahaksenwe in her tracks. “Do you hear that?”

“The thunder?”

Amircia shook her head, earrings clinking softly. “The screaming. Sounds like a drake of some kind.”

Rahaksenwe took a second to listen before frowning and taking out her spider gun. “Do you have more bullets?”

“I always have more bullets. Do you have more energy?”

Rahaksenwe cracked a smile, dropping her pack and squaring up alongside Amircia as the sound of crashing foliage and thundering footsteps drew close. “I always have more energy for a good hunt. Lead the way, old friend.”

About The Author

Shay Snow is an agender Native American (Caddo and Swampy Cree) tabletop freelance author and editor. They’ve contributed to Pathfinder, Starfinder, and Coyote & Crow as an author, editor, playtester, and all-around yeller at dice. When they’re not playing or writing tabletop games, they can be found playing video games or talking about Indigenous issues on social media. They currently live on unceded Caddo and Wichita land in the Dallas/Fort Worth metroplex with their Lakota spouse, two dogs, and terrible, horrible cat. You can find them on Twitter @spellsinsugar and keep up with their upcoming projects through their website, https://shayjay.carrd.co/.

About Tales of Lost Omens

The Tales of Lost Omens series of web-based flash fiction provides an exciting glimpse into Pathfinder’s Age of Lost Omens setting. Written by some of the most celebrated authors in tie-in gaming fiction and including Paizo’s Pathfinder Tales line of novels and short fiction, the Tales of Lost Omens series promises to explore the characters, deities, history, locations, and organizations of the Pathfinder setting with engaging stories to inspire Game Masters and players alike.

It’s strange what the mind will do when faced with a significant trauma. Some people scream or fight, others retreat inward, still others flee. As Droven’s storm-tossed ship was flung into the air only to crash and shatter upon the rocky shoals of Arcadia’s coastline, he found a strange calm settle over him. Even as a wooden spar tore free of its rigging and smashed apart his arm, he found himself calmly analyzing the situation.

Clearly, the expedition was a failure. He couldn’t find any of the other Pathfinders who had boarded ship with him, though for some reason he couldn’t seem to see out of his left eye anymore, so maybe they were nearby. The ship was clearly a loss, though. Even if its frame were somehow dragged ashore and enough of its crew survived to sail it home, the islets they’d crashed upon seemed unlikely to provide the timber necessary for repairs.

As Droven considered the likelihood of the ship even being repairable, another surge from the screaming winds and waves cast the battered wreck into the air once more, this time flipping the ship complete over. Droven’s last thought as he sank beneath the waves was that repairs definitely weren’t going to be an option.

---

Illustration by Wayne Reynolds

Much to his surprise, Droven awoke sometime later. His mouth was parched and dry and he still couldn’t make anything out through his left eye. Attempting to lever himself to his feet revealed that the arm that had likely saved him from a crushing death earlier was now incapable of supporting his weight. Worse, it seemed very likely to become a painful liability in short order.

Realizing that he had little time to spare, Droven spent the rest of the day confirming that he was alone on what he discovered to be a small islet, part of a chain ringing a larger bay between him and the continent of Arcadia proper. For supplies, he found only a half-empty wineskin and some brine-soaked hard tack. As he washed the salty biscuits down with stale wine, Droven found himself musing. “Whoever came up with the saying ‘any port in a storm’ almost certainly never saw that storm or this ‘port’. Ah, well. Am I a Pathfinder or not? There is an unexplored horizon ahead and if I’m to live, I’ll need to find a path from here to there.”

Twisting the fingers of his right hand into the sign of the key, holy symbol of Abadar, god of civilization, Droven invoked one last blessing to his lost compatriots. “May your works stand forever in the First Vault as testament to your skills and may the god that suits you each best watch over you. And if you have already claimed your final reward, do me a favor and distract any sharks between here and the coast. It’d be a shame to survive such a wreck only to feed the fish.”

His prayer complete, Droven grabbed the largest piece of wood he could find in the wreckage for floatation, bound his shattered arm in a tattered sling made from linen he suspected was once part of the wrecked ship’s sails, and began slowly swimming to shore.

Each stroke was an exercise in pain and every lapping wave seared his wounds with salt water, but somehow he reached the shore. He tried to stand and walk as the wooden plank ground into the beach, but he made it only a few steps before collapsing in a heap. As exhaustion weighed his eye shut, he thought he saw leather-booted feet moving towards him. Clinging to the optimism that had allowed him to shrug off pain and prejudice throughout his life, he hoped they belonged to someone friendly. Or at least, interesting.

Droven’s rescuer was a half-orc man named Darv, older than Droven by many years and with gray staining his long black hair. Darv and his family were from the Illani Plains, many miles to the northwest, but had settled here after a dispute with another nomadic clan had threatened to turn to violence. Darv was a gunsmith, skilled in the crafting of firearms both like and unlike those Droven had occasionally seen make their way to Absalom from Alkenstar. Darv’s son and son-in-law, Joach and Nadkym, operated a small smithy, where they forged armor, clockwork prosthetics, and other mechanical devices on par with, and often superior to, anything Droven had seen produced at Absalom’s Clockwork Cathedral.

Darv had been forced to amputate Droven’s arm to save his life, and Joach and Nadkym had already begun work on a prosthetic by the time Droven fully came to his senses and recovered enough from the wreck to move about. With nowhere to go and nothing but time on his hands, Droven joined them at the forge. Much of Droven’s knowledge of alchemy was useless here, so far from the plants and reagents with which he was familiar, but his keen mind was quick to unravel the secrets of clockwork mechanisms and forging techniques. He was able to assist in the construction of his new prosthetic arm, adding modifications to assist him in adventuring when the time inevitably came that he felt well enough to begin seeking a way back home to Absalom.

The healing process, as well as acclimating to his new arm, was a slow affair, filled with long and painful days of careful physical therapy to rebuild his strength and renew his coordination. Droven spent much of his free time tinkering with a clockwork construct. “What exactly do you have there?” Darv would ask each day. “All it does is whirp and spin around while looking like a goblin that fell in a smelting vat!” And each day Droven would reply “It reminds me of home, and an old friend. Plus, one day I’ll find a way back to Absalom and I can’t expect your family to accompany me on such a journey! I’ll need company.”

Darv’s constant references to the clockwork’s “whirping” stuck, and the little mechanical device—primarily a toolbox but one with an unusual propensity for offering assistance without being asked—was soon known as Whirp to everyone, including Droven.

---

As Droven’s inquisitive mind devoured everything Darv and his family could teach on the subject of clockworks and forge techniques, the Pathfinder eventually realized that the time had come for him to seek a way back to Absalom. As he packed a backpack with supplies, Jaoch and Nadkym presented their departing friend with weapons they had forged for him in secret: a hammer integrated with a variety of useful tools for repairing Whirp, and a finely crafted dagger. Darv gave his young friend a pair of armored boots and an admonition. “The soles on these will take you a good while to wear out, my friend. If you still haven’t found a way back home by the time they’re worn thin, come back here, instead. You’ll always have a home.”

With a nod and a smile, Droven and his new companion, Whirp, began their long search for a way back to his home in Absalom, starting by heading toward the land Darv and his family had spoken so fondly of—the Illani Plains.

Michael Sayre
Designer

Author’s Note
I’m Michael Sayre, a designer at Paizo. As a former member of the United States Army, I couldn’t help but see the strength and resilience of the people I served with in Droven, particularly those who lost a limb or suffered significant injuries during their service. I’d like to accompany Droven’s story by bringing your attention to two organizations that are very important to me. The first is the Wounded Warrior Project, which provides financial aid and medical service assistance for members of the armed forces injured in the line of duty. The second is the Amputee Coalition, who provide assistance and advocacy services for people who have lost a limb, were born with limb difference, or who are faced with the possibility of amputation.

Arvin Utner knew his next words would save him or doom him. His head started to perspire beneath his powdered wig. A rivulet of sweat ran down behind his left ear, leaving a small white smear from the wig’s powder.

“Well?” the blonde elf demanded, her features becoming even sharper as her mouth angled downward into a frown. “Was a hood among his belongings, or not?”

Arvin looked nervously around his office, knowing nothing there would help him. He’d had this office less than a year, taking over as notary when his hardworking employer retired quite suddenly. The old solicitor had cited the drier climate of Taldor as more conducive to his failing health than that of Galt. Arvin wasn’t surprised at anyone leaving Galt—he was thinking very, very hard about it himself right now—but he’d been surprised that his employer would leave such a prosperous enterprise behind. The senior advocate had ascended to manage the business, her junior advocate had taken her position, and so on, with employees inching up through the ranks. Arvin had gone from junior scrivener all the way to notary, earning a tidy raise and this office. He’d thought it was quite a coup for his career. He heartily regretted it now.

The rotund man sitting in the plush chair next to the elf frowned. “Master Utner, it’s a deceptively simple question. But answering on behalf of the deceased could be…unwise.” The man, a pompous aristocrat named Entienne Quibnel, leaned over to examine the papers on Arvin’s desk. Arvin resisted the temptation to throw himself bodily across his desk to block Lord Quibnel’s view. It wouldn’t have helped. He felt his trail of sweat turn into a small river. It was now past sundown, with a light rain falling in the city of Litran. His sweat couldn’t be passed off as anything but nerves.

The elf, Zintaya Calbieste, sighed. “Perhaps we cut this meat from a different angle.”

Arvin found the metaphor gruesome. He was already thinking much too much of the final blades, the magical guillotines used across Galt to behead criminals and those who threatened Galt’s national security.

The elf kept speaking in a folksy drawl that Arvin guessed was an affectation. Secretary Calbieste was the head of Galt’s farming cooperative, a union of ranchers and farmers. The political power that came from controlling food was immense, and Zintaya talked like the dirt-diggers she represented to earn their trust and to bait rivals into underestimating her. Arvin wasn’t falling for it.

“The dead fellow, he farmed kohlrabi, I recall.”

“Yes, some of the most delicious kohlrabi in Litran,” Lord Quibnel agreed, nodding his jowly head.

The elf ignored him. “And the Gray Gardeners—the ones who name wrongdoers, arrest them, and execute them—could be anyone, right? They wear masks while on duty. But other times, they go about as anyone else, digging out traitors and revolutionaries and criminals like they were rabbits in your radish patch. Who’s a Gray Gardener? Maybe a beggar, maybe a wainwright, maybe a noble.”

“And maybe a notary,” added Lord Quibnel with a chuckle, “though certainly not Arvin, here.”

Arvin hated being referred to in the third person when he was present, but he didn’t hate it enough to protest. Certainly, a Gray Gardener could be anyone—such as a plump aristocrat or an elven union manager. He was certain that Gray Gardener business had brought one of these two visitors into his office this evening.

Secretary Calbieste continued, “But Gray Gardeners zealously protect their secrets. And when this kohlrabi farmer was pulped into grease under the wheels of a runaway grain wagon…”

Both Arvin and Lord Quibnel grimaced at the graphic description, but the elf seemed unbothered.

“…his property was boxed up and shipped here to the city, to a relative who’d died of the pox. So the property came to your firm, Master Utner, and you catalogued it. So, I repeat the question: Was a hood among his belongings, or not?”

“As a point of legal clarification,” insisted Lord Quibnel, practically preening, “the deceased was a freeholder indebted to me, so his possessions default to me. This means his secrets do so, as well. Master Utner, don’t answer her question.”

“As a counterpoint, Lord Quiverjowl Quibble, as he was a member of the farming cooperative, his affairs are my business. And outing one of the Gray Gardeners is a very serious business.”

Arvin closed his eyes, thinking hard. His father had been one of the finest and quickest tailors in the city, with a keen eye for style. He’d been taken away by the Gray Gardeners when Arvin was a boy for “promoting unpatriotic fashion,” whatever that meant, and joined those slain beneath a final blade. But his father never had to thread such a fine needle as Arvin did now. One of these two visitors was a Gray Gardener, Arvin was sure of it. Was it Lord Quibnel, as good as ordering Arvin to keep the dead man’s secret? Or was it Secretary Calbieste, wanting to find out whether Arvin knew about the gray silk hood jumbled among farm clothes?

Arvin opened his eyes and spoke slowly.

“Farmers have need for rough daily clothing. Fancy things don’t suit them, except for an occasional trip into Litran for a wedding, a mandatory National Day celebration, or a significant execution.” He was stating the obvious, he knew, and his visitors both listened very carefully. He pictured a very fine thread advancing toward the eye of a very small needle.

“And while a farmer might have need for a nice cloak or fine hat, he wouldn’t need a hood, no. Not at all.” He started sweating again. His visitors were becoming impatient. The thread in his mental image shook.

“And if there had been a gray silk hood among this man’s possessions, and I’m not confirming or denying that there was, only a notarized probate inventory could prove it. And as I’ve not yet concluded the notarization, there might be—officially speaking—no mention in any formal inventory, ever. Regardless of the hood’s existence.”

The office was silent. There was an instant after threading a needle when you made a slight tug, just to see whether you’d hit the eye and the thread held or missed it and the thread came free. Arvin thought about that tug.

Secretary Calbieste smiled. “A gray silk hood, you say?”

Lord Quibnel grinned as well. “Not yet notarized in the inventory, eh?”

The doors to the office flew open. Two large figures in rain-soaked capes and wide hats barged into the room. The facemasks they wore obscured their features and their gloved hands reached for Arvin.

In his mind, the thread flew free.

Illustration by Raymond Sebastien from Pathfinder Adventure: Night of the Gray Death

About The Author

Ron Lundeen lives in the rural hinterlands outside of Seattle, Washington, where he finds the climate a pleasant change from his native Illinois. After a career as a corporate attorney, Ron took a full-time position with Paizo, Inc. as a developer, working with freelancers to create fabulous worlds and monstrous threats for the Pathfinder and Starfinder roleplaying games. He now serves as development manager overseeing the Pathfinder development team. He also designs games in his free time, creating a dizzying variety of perils, plots, and legends. Ron’s favorite RPG design work is adventure writing, to help others share exciting stories with their friends. Although his first game design credit came back in 1993, Ron has recently written for Paizo, Wizards of the Coast, Ulisses Spiele, and many others. Ron also runs a gaming company and RPG writer advice blog, which you can visit at www.runamokgames.com.

About Tales of Lost Omens

The Tales of Lost Omens series of web-based flash fiction provides an exciting glimpse into Pathfinder’s Age of Lost Omens setting. Written by some of the most celebrated authors in tie-in gaming fiction and including Paizo’s Pathfinder Tales line of novels and short fiction, the Tales of Lost Omens series promises to explore the characters, deities, history, locations, and organizations of the Pathfinder setting with engaging stories to inspire Game Masters and players alike.

OMINOUS TIDES

“REAGENTS!”

The goblin, Fumbus, came bounding out of the palms onto the beach with something in his hands raised triumphantly high.

Valeros had to repress the urge to pinch his brow and sigh. Whatever the excitable alchemist was on about, Valeros did not share his enthusiasm, and had a sinking feeling that was not about to change.

He had already chipped the blade of his sword beyond a whetstone’s help hacking down a half-dozen mahogany trunks for a raft; his mood wasn't going to be improving anytime soon.

“Reagents!” Fumbus skipped up to Valeros to show off his discovery. As soon as they got near Valeros’s nose, there was no mistaking what the blackish seed-sized pellets in the goblin's hands were.

“Eeuughh!” He reared back out of smelling distance. “Don't shove it my face, you—” Valeros thought back to all the innumerable goblins who had cursed at him to think of a word to really express his displeasure, and then gave up on it. “We're already up 'reagent' creek without a paddle as it is.”

Fumbus giggled and dropped the bat guano into the patched-up grog barrel lying amid the hundreds of other tide-tossed fragments from their reef-broken ship strewn across the beach. After a moment of rubbing his hands together, the goblin cackled hysterically in a way that Valeros had come to associate with imminent explosions.

“REAGENTS!”

“I get it! I can speak Taldane!” Valeros called after him, but the goblin, mercifully, had dashed back into the waving blade-bushes that marked the edge of the jungle, presumably toward the source of more nocturnal leavings.

He was as puzzled at Fumbus’s grog barrel as he was at Fumbus himself. Merisiel had challenged him to a drinking contest over that same barrel earlier that evening, back when they were all still on the same Arcadia-bound vessel. The voyage had been so long and tedious that he'd forgotten his two rules of drinking contests: one, never getting into a drinking contest with someone several centuries older than you; and two, never get into a drinking contest when there wasn’t more on the line than bragging rights. The problem with drinking contests was that no matter who wins, the next morning you’re both losing, and neither of you can remember who won anyway. Drinking was supposed to be fun, not a competition, after all.

Fumbus and Valeros make the most of the tools at hand in this illustration by Firat Solhan from Pathfinder Guns & Gears

The last memory he had was of the white-haired, black-eyed elf’s face going all fuzzy. Then, all of a sudden, everything was salty, wet, and getting dark fast—in that order. It took all his strength to kick his armored body upward, toward the sun shimmering above him on the ocean's surface; it took all his wits to keep from crying out and filling his lungs with seawater.

The bay of this seemingly uninhabited island was choked with the wrecked detritus of the brigantine, and every once in a while, the tides disgorged a passenger or sailor that Valeros recognized when they were onboard, and alive. Thank the Accidental God that all his friends had survived the wreck; sadly, they appeared to be the only ones.

That is, except Fumbus, whom Valeros had not realized stowed away on their vessel back in Absalom until the goblin popped out from beneath a coil of beached rope with a sputtering cry that scared him half to death. The self-taught alchemist soon began collecting random crap—literally—and filling his reclaimed cask with it.

Valeros had no idea what Fumbus was making, and once again found himself wishing Seoni was here to tell him. Everyone else had fanned out to look for food or friendly locals, and he had been left behind, as per usual, to do the grunt work because he had the muscles. He had spent several hours picking out, cutting down, and pruning the logs, then laying four side-by-side near the water’s edge—to make the completed raft easier to launch—then two under and above those at either end as pressure bars. By the time he was pulling down vines from trees, he was contemplating selling his soul for a drink, any drink—even water! The sun had had several hours to bake him inside his own breastplate. He felt like an engorged sweat sponge.

He thought he had grabbed the sturdiest vines he could find, but when he tugged the binding for the two front crossbeams together, the cord snapped in half, and he dropped on his backside in the sand.

Loud laughter behind him brought him to his feet, drawing his wrecked sword more from pique than caution. The goblin had finished whatever contraption he had been working on, having lashed on a conical nose to the top of the barrel with some of the vines Valeros had set aside for his raft.

“Okay, you!” Valeros pointed his sword at the lashed-together barrel. “This is what we call 'antisocial behavior.' I tore down those vines for my raft. I am trying to save our lives by getting us off this gods-forsaken island. You are yelling things in my face and stealing my stuff! Those vines are mine by right!”

He stepped toward the cone-headed barrel, but Fumbus bared his sharp, tiny teeth and leapt in front of him. “No no no no no!”

Valeros sighed. “You know what? You win. I’m sick of this yesterday. I'm gonna go lie down on the ground over there. Maybe when Kyra returns, she can tell me what's going on. But I find everything you do unfathomable.”

He retreated up the beach to the shade of the palms, dropped down onto his back, and prayed for a swift death

The goblin’s head loomed into his field of vision. The makeshift goggles the alchemist wore magnified his eyes so they bulged like magic orbs.

“Do you want to see?” Fumbus whispered without prompting and unscrewed a scroll case he kept slung across his back

“Um, no. That's alright. You really don’t need to...” But Fumbus was already pulling out a complex diagram, unfurling it on the fighter’s chest. Valeros raised his head far enough to see that it depicted a barrel, not unlike the one Fumbus was messing about with at the moment. Various incomprehensible symbols had been scrawled across it, but one in particular stood out: the word “Droven” bearing the look of a signature more than footnotes of a technical schematic.

“Droven showed Fumbus how to make something like this once,” the goblin said. “With better supplies, and different reagents, but I can make it work.”

Intrigued, Valeros sat up on his elbows and studied the chart. “Your old half-orc buddy? You miss him a lot, don’t you, Fumbus? We’ve all lost friends, little guy, and I know it can be hard to move on.” He felt suddenly guilty for giving the goblin such a hard time.

“Droven is lost,” Fumbus blurted with a surprising ferocity. “But he can help us even when he’s missing!

“Huh?”

Fumbus ran down to the barrel halfway down the beach, tugging Valeros’s arm to follow. “Come, come! Make this way!”

“For Cayden's sake, Fumbus, I just laid down!”

When they reached the barrel, Fumbus snapped two shards of flint together, and a spark sprung to the oil-slick wick Valeros now saw dangled from one side. It began to fizzle and shorten.

Fumbus gesticulated wildly at the cove below. “Into the sea it goes, unless you also want to explode!”

“Oh, those kind of 'reagents!’ Well, why didn’t you say so in the first place?”

With a curse, Valeros hefted the sputtering barrel on his shoulder and threw it as hard as he could down the beach. It bounced and arced into the water, floating out several yards…

Suddenly, Fumbus threw up his arms, blocking his face, and Valeros copied him, just as the barrel exploded into a massive waterspout that shot straight up into the clear blue sky and dropped a curtain of seawater onto their heads, along with a shower of springs, cogs, and steaming twists of metal. He managed to grab a bronze tentacle out of the air before it landed on his head.

An overturned clockwork vessel bobbed in the surf, semi ovoid and in the shape of an octopus’s head. Half of its grasping tentacles were severed and sputtered with silvery light. Some still grasped chests and gold statues and other valuables the apparatus had been trying to loot from the wreck on the ocean floor.

Stumbling out one of the shattered bulbous portholes where the octopus’s eyes would be came the apparatus's operator, pale Chelaxian skin bleeding and satin finery shredded from numerous miniature shrapnel wounds.

“Nice reflexes,” Fumbus said, nodding at the clockwork limb Valeros was still clutching.

Valeros laughed mirthlessly. “Lying in wait for hapless ships to come by then scavenging their cargo, eh?”

The Chelaxian coughed up seawater and tried to swing a boathook-like weapon in his general direction, but Valeros didn’t even bother drawing his sword. He backhanded the submariner across the face with the bronze tentacle and knocked him flat on his back in the surf.

Valeros placed a heavy boot on the man’s chest, pushing him into the soft, wet sand. “You just let me know when you’re ready to tell me everything I want to know about whatever scam it is you’re running here.”

“And where our friends are,” Fumbus demanded.

“Yeah! Tell us what you know about them, too!” Valeros glanced back at the treeline. The rest of his party had been gone an unusually long time.

The Chelaxian spat. “The others will have taken care of them by now. I was just sent to dig through the wreckage, but the others got to have…a lot more fun.”

“Got another barrel like that in you, Fumbus?” Valeros frowned. “I have a feeling this chump and his metal contraption are going to be the least of our worries.”

About The Author

Fred Van Lente is a New York Times bestselling writer of comics, prose, and gaming, including the Pathfinder: Fumbus one-shot successfully Kickstarted earlier in 2021. His short story “Neversleeps” was shortlisted for Best American Science Fiction and Fantasy. In addition to playing Pathfinder 2e, he’s currently running Call of Cthulhu 7e and Fallout 2d20 campaigns in Brooklyn, NY. He’s on Twitter and Instagram as @fredvanlente and you can sign up for updates on his upcoming projects at www.fredvanlente.com.

About Iconic Encounters

Iconic Encounters is a series of web-based flash fiction set in the worlds of Pathfinder and Starfinder. Each short story provides a glimpse into the life and personality of one of the games’ iconic characters, showing the myriad stories of adventure and excitement players can tell with the Pathfinder and Starfinder roleplaying games.

“No no no no nononoooo!”

Trying frantically to keep his load of boxes and bushels more or less balanced, Hanish kicked at the grinning dog that was… well, that was dogging his path through the crowded Grand Bazaar. The big white mutt wagged its tail happily at the game, dodged his foot effortlessly, and darted back in for another try at the sausages spilling from an overstuffed hamper on Hanish’s hip.

Hanish swore, but he couldn’t pause to fix the hamper or shoo the dog away. He was running late, and his customers were never patient. A double-humped camel, bent under its own mountain of chests and caskets, met his gaze with a long-lashed eye, and Hanish felt a profound understanding pass between them. Two beasts of burden, vital to the lifeblood of the city, but forever unappreciated.

All around them, merchants and buyers haggled under a dizzying array of flags, banners, wicker arbors, and sun-bleached, dusty tents. Dried fruits and ribbed purple seedpods from the forests of Kyonin dangled from poles next to tables displaying thick white pelts from the halls of the Linnorm Kings, Qadiran brass pots that shone like gold, and spiked Nidalese shadowglass sculptures. Ink-painted scrolls advertised family businesses that had held the same market stalls for centuries, while a steel-feathered parrot perched on a passing woman’s shoulder screeched “Scales and teeth! Scales and teeth! Metal skymetal scales and teeth! From star-dead wastes of Numeria to you! Two days only! Scales and teeth!”

Off to the right, a troupe of puppeteers was putting on a bedraggled but enthusiastic performance of “Iomedae’s Griffon” for an audience of enraptured youngsters and heckling drunks. Just as Hanish hustled by, the puppet-stage’s curtains blew open around a bellowing, steam-snorting contraption that was probably supposed to be Segruchen the Iron Gargoyle. The troupe’s musician banged her drums, the puppeteers shouted in rehearsed dismay, and a nearby packhorse reared and shrieked in panic, terrified by the clanking menace and its clamor.

Hanish ducked around the animal’s flying hooves, congratulated himself for the quick save, and then promptly tripped over a boy wearing a gaudy sandwich board touting Gerig’s Liquid Courage, the drink of (mostly deceased) champions.

“No no no no nononoooo!”

Scarves and grapes and apples flying in his wake, Hanish windmilled his arms in a panicked jig under the swinging balance of his load. Finally he stumbled to a stop, panting and sweating but basically upright. A nearby street beggar applauded briefly. Hanish sketched a bow, or as much of one as he dared, and hurried onward. That dog was, somehow, still at his heels.

Illustration by Mirco Paganessi from Absalom, City of Lost Omens.

Hanish spotted a break in the crowds and hurried through to a storefront festooned with bits of punched metal hung from silken strings. The chimes sparkled and sang against his load of packages as he knocked on the glass-gemmed door.

“You’re late,” snapped the rotund half-orc who opened the door for him. Her tusks were painted with fanciful Osiriani hieroglyphs, and a jade Tien ornament hung from her earlobe, but her accent was as all Absalom. “I’ll wager you’ve stained and wrinkled my wares, too.”

Hanish tapped the glowing bauble on his wrist. The bobbing crystal still shone blue: he’d made the delivery window. “Not late, and your scarves are pristine, Mistress Verity.” Unlike poor Ghemel’s lunch, he almost added, but then decided not to badmouth his own services. It was hard enough prying tips out of Mistress Verity already.

The half-orc grunted, taking the heavy brown chest from Hanish’s aching arm and unlatching it with two quick flips. She ruffled through the fine embroidered silks and gossamer scarves, holding this one or that up to the light until she was satisfied that, indeed, Hanish had delivered the full load safely.

She hauled the chest inside and tossed Hanish a pair of copper pennies. “Commemorative,” she said, and slammed her door.

Hanish looked at the pitiful coins in his palm. They were commemorative, all right, but one celebrated the elevation of a new trademaster and the other was about some giant fish getting hauled out of the harbor, so neither was worth more than the copper it was stamped on. Mistress Verity’s generosity had struck again.

The bauble on his wrist was starting to pulse violet. Hanish grimaced, rebalanced his remaining packages, and ran.

He dropped the fruit and sausages at Ghemel’s — there was a decent tip, even though half the apples were bruised and the dog had managed to steal two sausages — and went on, faster now that the heaviest packages were gone. At Chivvi’s Apothecary, he dropped off a box of stonestalk eggs; the stiff-armored, distinctively shaped caterpillars had developed a predictable reputation as aphrodisiacs. At the Wandlin steam baths, he delivered frost teas and ice wines harvested from the Crown of the World and prized by heat-bathers in need of quick cooling.

The last stop on his route was the best: Felifer’s Bibliovary, where priceless texts were framed like gems on bronze and silver shelves, and the air carried a deep, calming perfume of ancient wood and yellowing paper. Walking into Felifer’s was like stepping into a timeless, never-hurried world of learning, and it always made Hanish wistful for the life he’d never lead. Maybe if his parents had been richer, if they’d been able to afford more schooling… well, it was no use dreaming about all that.

But for a few precious minutes, whenever he had a delivery at Felifer’s, he could breathe in that sepia-scented tranquility and pretend.

The door was already ajar when Hanish arrived. “Hello?”

There was no answer. Hanish stepped inside and set down his delivery box. The dog came with him, even though he’d already dropped off the sausages. The smell of blood was retch-thick in the shop, and the dog whined softly, lashing its tail.

“Hello?”

Nothing. Gulping, Hanish picked his way through the glowing bookshelves to Felifer’s back office. Shadows bobbed and spun away from him across the gleaming metal, teasing his eyes with premonitions of doom. The dog came with him, and though Hanish couldn’t help worrying that the old bookseller would scold him for bringing an animal into the shop, he was glad for its company. He didn’t want to be alone here.

The back office was empty. Quiet. Nothing out of place except a paper-wrapped parcel on Felifer’s desk, a note written in the bookseller’s crabbed blue pen, and the sigil-stamped luminous tag that meant Hanish was meant to take it for delivery.

Hanish bent closer to read the note. “To Pathfinder Agent Berovic, Skywatch. All speed.” That meant a breakneck run to deliver the parcel at any hour of the day or night, and triple pay if he made it within the hour. Right now, with the lull between Absalom’s daytime commerce and when the nightlife really lit up, the target should be easy to hit. Good money.

But maybe dangerous. The last two words of the message were shaky and dribbled downward, as if Felifer were losing the strength to write. Bloody fingerprints marred the paper wrapping, which bulged and sagged in its strings with uncharacteristic sloppiness.

The dog whined again. Hanish patted its head, then reached for the parcel. It was light and fragile-feeling, as though whatever was in there were dried, or hollow. Something rattled softly inside.

Already the luminous tag was starting to lose its pearly pallor. If Hanish made to Skywatch while the light was still blue, he’d get triple pay.

If he didn’t, he might land in something worse than he’d ever imagined.

Well, it wouldn’t be the first time his job had careened him into trouble, and if Desna smiled on him, it wouldn’t be the last. The City at the Center of the World never slept, never stopped, and held uncountable adventures. Hanish had taken this job because he wanted to grab his share of those adventures, and so far, he’d gotten all that he could handle.

Hanish tucked the parcel into his satchel, snapped its tag onto his bracelet, and ran.

One more delivery today.

About The Author

Liane Merciel is the author of the Pathfinder Tales novels Nightglass, Nightblade, and Hellknight, and a contributor to other books including Nidal: Land of Shadows, Faiths of Golarion, and the Lost Omens World Guide. She has also written for Dungeons & Dragons, Warhammer: Age of Sigmar, and Bioware’s Dragon Age franchise. She lives in Philadelphia with her husband, two dogs, and a small child who is extremely into baking projects.

About Tales of Lost Omens

The Tales of Lost Omens series of web-based flash fiction provides an exciting glimpse into Pathfinder’s Age of Lost Omens setting. Written by some of the most celebrated authors in tie-in gaming fiction and including Paizo’s Pathfinder Tales line of novels and short fiction, the Tales of Lost Omens series promises to explore the characters, deities, history, locations, and organizations of the Pathfinder setting with engaging stories to inspire Game Masters and players alike.

Nhalmika Ironsight honors dwarven tradition, even as she wanders the surface world far from home. With her wide build, mane of dark hair, and amber eyes, Nhalmika is striking in any setting, but it’s the dwarven scattergun she keeps at hand that her friends and foes most remember.

Nhalmika’s birth was a celebration. The third child of two prosperous dwarven merchants, Nhalmika became the final addition to a family larger than that of most dwarves in Dongun Hold. Her two older brothers doted on her, making simple crafts as presents and as their skill grew, the gifts they made became more artistic. She teethed on gold tiles engraved with the images of ancestors and slept beneath stone carvings of Dongun Hold’s greatest leaders. Nhalmika’s parents arranged for their children to have fine clothes and talented tutors but were too busy to have much to do with her upbringing.

Everyone expected Nhalmika to become either an artisan like her brothers or a merchant like her parents. She had aptitude for neither. She was more skilled at judging art than creating, noticing tiny flaws such as an uneven line in a carving or a hairline crack in a gemstone or statue. She had a weakness for hard luck stories and pleas for credit, and her parents soon learned they couldn’t trust her with preserving the family finances. Her mother complained that Nhalmika’s eagerness to help others would put them out of business.

Nhalmika instead preferred to play physical games and sports. Her athletic build and keen eye made her a natural champion, and her good sportsmanship made her popular with her peers. She surprised her family by declaring she would join the military, serving among the vanguards of Dongun Hold. Military service was an honorable, traditional calling and it seemed to suit her nature well. No one in her family mourned her departure for the training academy as much as Dargrim, a friend of her eldest brother and eager co-captain on most sports she played. Nhalmika had excellent vision, but she didn’t see Dargrim had given his whole heart to her.

Illustration by Wayne Reynolds

In her training, Nhalmika gained familiarity with dwarven firearms of all types. She proved particularly adept with long rifles, but considered sniping to be dull and, truth be told, a little unfair. She preferred the noisy blasts of fuse bombs and scatterguns, which put her right in the action where she was needed most. Her family paled to hear her exuberant tales of lobbing grenades, packing enormous canisters of black powder, and taking a cannon’s recoil hard enough to fracture her shoulder.

Only Dargrim appreciated that Nhalmika had found a calling she truly loved, and she found she loved Dargrim for it. The two were married just before her first deployment. Her parents arranged an opulent wedding in a traditional dwarven style and her brothers lavished the couple with necklaces made of her gold teething-tiles. Nhalmika and Dargrim left Dongun Hold as a couple—Nhalmika to serve as a guard to the Bridge of the Gods leading from Dongun Hold to the Grand Duchy of Alkenstar and Dargrim to make their simple quarters a home over the next several years.

The first time Nhalmika became pregnant, she was excused from duty for the birth and first year of her daughter’s life. She’d already earned a nickname, the Ironsight, and her commanding officer was sorry to lose her keen eyes overlooking trouble in the badlands below the bridge. Nhalmika doted on her daughter but was eager to return to duty. Upon her second pregnancy, Nhalmika’s commander predicted she wouldn’t return, but had underestimated her loyalty and integrity: Nhalmika reported the day after her son’s first birthday, ready to face bloodthirsty bandits and berserk clockworks with her scattergun in hand. Nhalmika’s third pregnancy was particularly difficult, and not the celebration her own birth had been. For weeks, the medics were certain they would lose both Nhalmika and the baby girl, yet both mother and daughter survived. Nhalmika’s youngest daughter, Ondla, was always sick and small, but had her mother’s grit. Nhalmika returned to duty a year later but spent all the time she could helping her children grow up. She got used to blasting mutant raiders one day and teaching dwarven history the next.

Nhalmika’s children showed talents she lacked. Her eldest daughter went to carve exquisite statuary under her uncles’ tutelage and her son took up his grandparents’ affairs and proved to be a shrewd but honest merchant. Nhalmika and Dargrim were both proud of their children’s accomplishments, and never hesitant about saying so. Quiet and studious Ondla, whom neither parent would openly admit was their favorite, remained at home to tend to her father. Dargrim began showing symptoms of a serious degenerative disease. His head and hands shook, and he soon couldn’t stand. His decline was swift and his death both sudden and tragic. Ondla found solace and an unlikely romance with a human bookkeeper from Alkenstar, but Nhalmika was alone, and she was devastated. She numbly accepted the proffered retirement from the military, uncertain what she’d do next.

Her grief was strong, but it isn’t in her nature to be idle or eschew serving others. Nhalmika has been a soldier and mother, but both her nation and children are moving on. She knows others beyond Dongun Hold and Alkenstar need her help. So Nhalmika settled her affairs, advised her children to work hard and love well, and left. She brought her dwarven scattergun from her time as a guard, a handful of medals, and a few of the gold teething-tiles her brothers gave her. Nhalmika has lived a full life, but she doesn’t think her best days are behind her—to the contrary, she’s ready to stand up for the downtrodden across Golarion. Her adventuring companions admire her skill with a gun, but they truly appreciate her grit, keen eyes, and motherly guidance.

Ron Lundeen
Managing Developer

Dust settled, leaving two figures behind in the carnage. One a looming mass of hulking muscle and teeth. The other a gnome, small, but—against all odds—still up.

Torrick Wilderbark grasped the lever of his wheelchair in a white-knuckle grip, jaw set hard. His breaths came laboured, tongue caked with a layer of grit and grime. The warehouse lay shattered around them. Broken boards and timbers cracked further under the weight of his wheels. Behind him, the steam engine that powered his aid thrummed, vibrating against the seat in a steady rhythm.

The troll had been pushed back, pulling itself out from under a pile of broken stone and cracked roof tiles. It mumbled a growl as it staggered upright, wobbly at first, but centering itself with every passing second. Dark blood oozed from its stunted snout. Torrick fumbled for the sword strapped behind the right wheel.

His hand closed around air.

An ice-cold wave of dread crashed over him. His sword. Pathetically trying to tamp down the rising panic in his throat, Torrick turned in the seat, twisting as far as he could as the safety belts bit into his thighs. Not only the sword but the scabbard was gone, too. The belt securing his gear must have snapped during the collapse, and, rattled by the all-consuming barrage of fractured stone and wood, he had failed to notice.

Mere feet away, the troll whined in pain.

Letting go of the lever, Torrick gripped the arms of the chair, straining further to look around him. The beast may be stunned for now, but it was rapidly regaining focus. Hard leather straps dug further into his legs, and he winced against it, taking in his surroundings.

Nothing much was left of the warehouse. What little remained jutted out of the ground at odd angles, still crumbling. Splintered wood protruded like snapped bones, pinned by blasted chunks of stone and shattered glass. The alchemical bomb he’d tossed had certainly done the job. Torrick was lucky to be alive.

But severely unluckily, the troll was, too.

As his gaze scoured the rubble, a glint caught his eye—a flash of steel. A mere few feet away, snagged tight around a listing beam, was the remains of his gear, the belt pierced through by a nail and tangled about the shaft of the scabbard. And there, by some great mercy from the gods, hung his sword.

He had no time to think, no plan. Every moment wasted was one in the monster’s favor. Torrick fell back down into his seat and clutched at the lever once more. The bubbling panic in his throat was not yet sated. He needed to get his sword. Now. Steam hissing, the engine roared up as the chair heeded his command, veering right and toward the dangling weapon. Debris clattered and cracked loudly under the wheels, but he couldn’t care less about the racket he was making. He was close, so close. The weapon hung before him, taunting. Torrick reached out, free arm straining as though he could somehow will it into his hand.

Come on, he thought, pleaded. To any deity that cared to listen. The chair stopped, his fingers barely made contact, ghosting over the handle of the blade. He needed to get just a little higher, reach a little further, then he could—

A thunderous roar shook the very ground.

Torrick spat a curse.

Heavy footfalls, blackened claws scraping. It lumbered closer, with a loping gait that swiftly ate away at the distance between them. Torrick’s pulse pounded in his ears as he fumbled. Another roar, a deep bellowing sound that vibrated in his chest and sent him frantic, straining to reach higher, shoulder burning in its socket, hips protesting at the bruising line of the security belt.

Almost there. Just a little further. Come on. Please—

The troll fell upon him in a flurry of limbs and gnashing tusks. Torrick immediately dropped back into the seat, tucking in as small as he could as the pressing weight of the angered beast threatened to consume him. In its rage, it had overshot its mark, instead grappling the frame of the wheelchair and barely missing Torrick’s body; the tips of razor-sharp claws snagging on his armor.

And yet hope. Clutched in his hand, cool against sweaty fingers, was the sword. Held in a white-knuckle grip.

Lunging again for the lever, Torrick twisted awkwardly to avoid the troll knocking the weapon out of his hand. He pulled hard enough that the metal screeched and the engine almost backfired, revving so loudly it almost drowned out the sound of heavy-set limbs pawing at the wheels. Lurching abruptly backward, the chair shunted its way out from under the troll’s crushing form, the creature’s claws scrabbling at the frame.

With the chair now pulled out from under it, the monster stumbled to adjust and pitched forward, grunting in confusion, its brow furrowed deep and hard. Torrick wasted no time, taking no chances as he let go of the shaft and slipped a vial from a pouch at his belt, smashing it against the flat of his blade as the wheelchair continued to roll back on its own.

The vial shattered easily, oil inside bleeding down the groove before reacting with the air. The effect was immediate: a tongue of fire that blazed brightly. With a victorious bark of laughter, Torrick kicked the lever forward once more with his foot, using both arms to drive all the strength he had into a wide swing.

Illustration by Firat Solhan from Pathfinder Guns & Gears. Find more accessibility devices to use in your campaigns in Pathfinder Lost Omens Grand Bazaar.

Green flesh parted easily, black ichor slicking his hands, but not enough to douse the alchemical flames that burned crimson on cold steel. The troll screeched, reeling back and away as it was almost gutted in one fell blow. Barrelling past a few feet, Torrick pulled the wheelchair around in a wide arc, throwing up dust and debris in a trail.

Wild with fury, the beast turned on him, yellow eyes wide and tusks bared. Fiery sword still in one hand, Torrick grinned and gripped the lever once more. Now the real fight would begin.

About The Author

Sara Thompson is a disabled freelance writer and game designer for tabletop roleplaying games. They have worked on Pathfinder, Starfinder, Hellboy: The Roleplaying Game, Bardsung, and more. Currently, they are working on The Witcher Pen & Paper by R. Talsorian Games as well as their own personal projects creating disability and accessibility items for TTRPGs. They are also the creator of the Combat Wheelchair—a homebrew ruleset for 5e Dungeons & Dragons which has appeared on shows such as Critical Role and Rivals of Waterdeep as well as in licensed video game Idle Champions of the Forgotten Realms through character Talin Uran.

About Tales of Lost Omens

The Tales of Lost Omens series of web-based flash fiction provides an exciting glimpse into Pathfinder’s Age of Lost Omens setting. Written by some of the most celebrated authors in tie-in gaming fiction and including Paizo’s Pathfinder Tales line of novels and short fiction, the Tales of Lost Omens series promises to explore the characters, deities, history, locations, and organizations of the Pathfinder setting with engaging stories to inspire Game Masters and players alike.

The earth shook. To Iphra, the rumbling sounded like a passing heavy transport. She realized she wouldn’t maintain her footing. Iphra fired her jump jets. Being in the air stabilized her enough to avoid a nasty fall from the ridgetop she had been standing on.

The tremor passed.

“Sergeant Udrinnel, report. End.” It was Lieutenant Markalane from the shuttle a couple miles away, her voice calm but insistent.

“I’m fine. That was a good one, eh, lieutenant? End,” said Iphra.

“Affirmative, sergeant. Our engineer clocked it at a solid six on the imperial scale. Deploy your final booster and return to the shuttle. Aftershocks are anticipated. End.”

“Acknowledged. End,” said Iphra.

Her mind wandered. She ignored Markalane checking in with other scouts. Iphra thought of the engineer, Winya, a gosclaw. Long, supple, feline—a real pro. Winya’s briefing had warned of quakes on Grodrum, but this one was the first the survey team had experienced.

Iphra looked for the safest way to descend the ridge, glancing at the map on her visor’s head-up display. Her final deployment marker lay half a mile away in a valley to the east. The landscape was barren, but it wasn’t boring. Minerals and crystals on Grodrum—the reason the survey team came here—gave the planet a multihued aspect that could be breathtaking.

Equally stunning was the Locus, an eerie, starlike body that illuminated this system. The briefing had said it was magical, not a “real” star, whatever that meant. Iphra turned to face it. The Locus hung low in the sky, shedding its white light through the thin atmosphere. Grodrum’s long day was dwindling.

Iphra began her descent, using her jump jets to avoid treacherous gaps. About halfway down, the ground shuddered again. A crashing sound to Iphra’s right sent her heart into her throat and activated her instincts. She fired her jump jets and leapt. Part of the ridge slid away under her, and she descended onto moving rock. Iphra fired her jump jets again.

“Come on! Come on! Come on!”

The second leap threw her clear of the slide zone. Iphra took cover on the downhill side of a solid-looking outcropping and crouched, leaning against the rock. She closed her eyes and caught her breath. Then, as she opened her eyes again, she spotted it: a jagged, beautiful pinnacle of white crystal jutted from the valley below. It hadn’t been there before. Iphra looked at her deployment marker and saw that the crystal wasn’t too far from it. A little north.

“Sergeant Udrinnel?! Please respond! End!”

Iphra realized she must have missed a communication from the lieutenant.

“Udrinnel here. Uh, I’m good. A little landslide, but we’re good. Uh… and lieutenant, a mass of crystal erupted from the planet’s surface near my deployment marker. Sending you a visual. Any change in my orders? End.”

“Stand by. But keep safe, sergeant. End.”

Iphra descended toward the deployment marker as she waited. When she reached level ground, she turned and looked back up the ridge, standing in the shadow of the hills. The landslide had revealed a fissure in the rock, or the quake had cracked the slope.

“Sergeant, proceed as planned. I’ve been advised the booster you’re deploying will still allow us a detailed scan of that crystal from our location. The concern is the area near the crystal might be unstable. Get it done and return to the shuttle. Let’s call it a day. End.”

“Aye, lieutenant. End,” said Iphra.

Disappointment rose. It would’ve been nice to see that crystal up close. To touch it. That sort of thing makes being a scout one of the best jobs in the imperial military. But orders were orders. Besides, Iphra supposed she might have another chance, after scans verified the area’s stability and geological content. She turned, stood, and gazed. The crystal’s tip glistened in the waning light of the Locus.

“Contact, contact!” The voice of Sergeant Enosh, another scout, erupted over the comm. Assault rifle bursts were audible in the background.

Iphra recalled the mission brief. Orbital probes had shown Grodrum bore only simple surface life. Nothing should be here to shoot at. Still, Iphra unslung her rifle as Lieutenant Markalane’s voice broke in over the comm again.

Iphra heard only the start of that exchange. In her peripheral vision, something massive, amorphous, and multilimbed emerged from the shadow on the rocky slope to her left. It struck Iphra three times before she could react. She fell. The impact knocked the wind out of her. Pain along her flank suggested broken ribs. Environmental force fields kicked on, patching cracks in the armor on her left arm and side.

The creature loomed over her, blocking the sky. It slid its malleable arms around her. Numerous orbs that glowed with white light focused on her, burning with malevolence. Were they eyes? Was this thing sapient?

The thoughts came unbidden. Iphra raised her rifle, levering it into automatic mode by muscle memory more than intent. She pressed the trigger. Horrid shrieking drowned out the rifle’s reports.

The monster recoiled. Unhindered even if it was injured, it lifted Iphra with it and squeezed. Sergeant Iphra Udrinnel’s vision went white with searing pain, then collapsed to black.

---

“Look alive, squad! The L.T. will be here shortly.”

Markalane heard the baritone bark as she rounded the corner into the palace’s parade yard. She folded her hands behind her. Pausing, she took in the troopers before her. The dominus, her lord, had assigned her soldiers, the expendable kind, for the next stage of her assignment.

She frowned.

In the yard, tromlins formed two neat lines. Bloodseekers, theropadal bipeds, stood alongside quadrupedal ceratopsid hardshells. These dinosaur-like people formed the rank and file of the dominus’s Alien Cohort. A barrel-shaped figure in light military plate, the rank of sergeant marked on his gorget, paced before them. The sergeant’s head, pale-furred and ursine, looked too small in the armor.

Illustration by Yun Huai Huang from Starfinder Adventure: The Liberation of Locus-1.

Markalane recognized this gathol—Sergeant Narg. Underneath the armor, she knew, Narg’s body was massive, covered in the same pale fur and several stonelike plates. His people were among the few in the Cohort tough enough and willing to keep fractious tromlins in line.

Turning to continue inspecting the squad, Narg spotted Markalane. He paused. Then, in the same sharp baritone, he said, “Officer on the field! Attention!”

Every soldier snapped into a formal stance. Markalane strode around the squad in silence, glaring at each soldier in turn. None moved. None dared return her gaze.

“We’ve been assigned a special mission,” she finally said. “We’re taking a mining team to a new system to recover a unique mineral. You are to keep order during this operation. Good Azlanti scouts died to make this mission possible, troopers. Honor them, me, and yourselves by performing your duties well. I expect no less.”

“Yes, lieutenant!” replied every tromlin in unison.

“Sergeant Narg.”

“Aye, Lieutenant Markalane?”

“The selected troopers must be ready to fly by oh seven hundred. Mining droids, security equipment, and remaining gear must be secured aboard the shuttle and ready for inspection then as well. That’s on you, this squad, and the other field sergeants. Got it?”

“Understood, lieutenant.”

“Good. Get it done.”

About The Author

Chris S. Sims is an RPG industry veteran. Starting in 2001, he has worked with or for numerous companies from Paizo and Wizards to Monte Cook Games and Undead Labs. This piece is his first flash fiction. Chris is American but currently lives in Austria with his wife, two daughters, and two cats. He recently made an RPG called Draculola with those daughters. When he isn't doing freelance writing or editing, Chris avoids sleep by cooking, meditating, playing games, playing with his kids, or something else entertaining. You can find out more about Chris and how to contact him at chrisssims.com.

About Tales From The Drift

The Tales from the Drift series of web-based flash fiction provides an exciting glimpse into the setting of the Starfinder Roleplaying Game. Written by members of the Starfinder development team and some of the most celebrated authors in tie-in gaming fiction, the Tales from the Drift series promises to explore the worlds, alien cultures, deities, history, and organizations of the Starfinder setting with engaging stories to inspire Game Masters and players alike.

Anchor Root was no stranger to anxiety. It had been one of her closest companions since childhood. She had hoped, briefly, that getting away from her home and clan would ease the burden, but if anything, arriving at the Magaambya had only made things worse. Each project, assignment, or presentation was just another expectation on top of an already precarious tower of expectations she had been trying to climb since birth.

All that to say, it wasn’t all that surprising when an unexpected knock at her door nearly sent her jumping out of her fur.

“Uh… j-just a minute,” she called out, hurrying to tidy the books and papers in front of her.

“I just came to deliver a message,” Esi shouted through the door. “Teacher Ot says he wants to see you.”

Anchor Root’s heart raced. Ba-bump. Ba-bump. Ba-bump. “Did he say why?”

“No. But he said that I should tell you that you’re not in trouble, you didn’t do anything wrong, you can take as long as you need, it isn’t an emergency, and he’s not mad at you.”

Well. That only made it half as nerve-wracking at least.

“Oh, there was one other thing. He said to bring an instrument.”

Illustration by Kent Hamilton

Anchor Root found Takulu Ot in the courtyard, relaxing under one of the smaller trees. He sat with his eyes closed and held his mbira in his lap, lazily plucking out a scale on the metal tines. The soft, metallic strumming was a familiar sound to any student who knew the man. It was a somewhat popular instrument in Nantambu, but those from farther abroad usually found it odd. Something about the way certain notes wouldn’t play the way you expected, and would distract from the melody.

Takulu hadn’t noticed Anchor Root yet, and she briefly considered turning around and returning to her room before he did. But that would only prolong her worry in the end. Better to simply get it over with. “Teacher Ot?” she called over instead.

His hands paused as he looked up. “Ah, just the student I wanted to see,” he said with an easy smile. He seemed to smile more often than he made every other facial expression put together. “Did Esi deliver my message?”

Anchor Root reached into her bag and withdrew an ivory flute.

“Perfect! Now, I’m sure you’re wondering why I called you out here. You see, I feel I have been remiss in my approach to teaching certain elements of arcane spellcasting. I have a passion for mathematics, and I find them to be an excellent parallel to arcana. Each with a unique formula that can be broken down into its component parts, solved and calculated and—” Takulu glanced over just in time to see Anchor Root’s ears flatten, and cleared his throat. “Well, anyway, all of those things also apply to music, and Esi tells me that you are a talented musician. So why don’t we play together for a bit?”

“What? Esi said that? About me?” Anchor Root asked in shock. “I mean no, I wouldn’t say that I’m talented or anything, Esi is the one who’s really talented, I just sort of play along from time to time but I’m really only just okay, or I guess ‘okay’ might be putting it too strongly, I guess I’m really just… sorry, I’m talking too much.”

“You are not talking too much,” Takulu reassured her. “And ‘just sort of playing along’ is fine for now, as long as you don’t mind me talking while we play.”

Anchor Root nodded and collapsed on the ground in a motion that some might charitably call sitting down. Takulu began plucking at his mbira again, and after listening for a moment to catch the melody, Anchor Root began to play along as well. As Takulu gradually increased the tempo, she sped up to match. As he slowly shifted the melody, she moved into a complementary harmony.

“You know, many people find the mbira strange to listen to. They think the notes are too discordant, and they aren’t entirely wrong. It is an instrument that is not meant to be played alone. It is best with accompaniment,” he said.

Anchor Root lowered her flute to respond, “But you play alone all the time.”

Takulu looked over with that glint in his eye that he always got when he was nearing the heart of a lesson. “Do I? I don’t think I’ve ever heard an mbira played by itself. My grandfather built this mbira, so his hands are always next to mine when I hold it. My mother taught me how to play, so her song always harmonizes with mine. I don’t know much about bone keeping, but I imagine it must be similar. You are always carrying a little of history with you, in your music and your magic. When you stand on the shoulders of your ancestors, you can reach much greater heights than you do alone.”

The young gnoll put down her flute to consider his words. “The thousands who have come before you,” she muttered.

Takulu nodded. “With that said, why don’t we try that spell from class the other day? You got quite close the last time you tried, and I think you could do it with just a little more effort.”

“Yes, Teacher Ot,” Anchor Root said. She didn’t mention that she had practiced the spell over a dozen times since she failed to conjure a simple illusion in front of her classmates. If she mentioned that, then her teacher would be expecting her to do it easily, and if she failed when he was expecting her to do it easily, that would be way worse than failing when he wasn’t expecting her to succeed at all, right? So without saying anything more, she reached out a hand and created a perfect illusory copy of her familiar.

The illusory chicken moved around the courtyard, pecked the ground looking for bugs, and squawked intermittently. Takulu clapped softly and said, “Very well done. I couldn’t have made a more believable chicken. Pulling from your own experiences is an excellent way to reinforce your illusions, but you shouldn’t rely too heavily on them. So I wonder, could you try something bigger? Maybe something louder?”

“Uh… I-I don’t know about that…”

“Let’s at least give it a try. It’s okay if you don’t do it perfectly,” Takulu said. He stood, brushed the grass and dirt from his clothes, and began walking. “I’m going to go stand on the far side of the courtyard. Try and make something I can see from over there.”

Right. Something big. What counted as big? Everything was big to an ant gnoll, but Teacher Ot was a tall man, she thought. A gorilla? A giraffe? A dog? An angry dog that barks whenever you walk past and it always catches you by surprise even though you walk that way every day and you’ve really thought about telling its owner that he should train his dog not to bark at strangers but he has a very angry dog and you have a chicken and—

“Whenever you’re ready, Anchor Root,” Takulu shouted from the other side of the courtyard.

In a moment of panic, she clutched one of the bones on her necklace and cast the spell. “Big and loud. Big and loud,” she whispered. She could barely hear her own voice over the sound of her heart pounding. In a swirl of light, a stomping, trumpeting, stampeding elephant appeared between the trees, charging toward Takulu. He smiled easily as it crashed through him and disappeared.

“Yes! Excellent! You’ve got it!” Takulu cheered. He walked back over to the tree and knelt to pick up his instrument. “I knew that you had it in you. You sell yourself sh—you don’t give yourself enough credit, but you are an amazing talent. If you just keep up with your studies, I know that you’ll do amazing things. You might even get to teach your own students one of these day—

“Anchor Root? Huh. How does she manage to run so fast?”

About The Author

Michelle Jones is a freelance game designer, fiction writer, and author of Pathfinder Adventure Path #171: Hurricane's Howl, the third volume of the Strength of Thousands Adventure Path. She has also contributed to Lost Omens The Mwangi Expanse, the recently announced Book of the Dead, and several other Paizo titles. For a full list of credits, RPG hot takes, and Thirsty Sword Lesbians homebrew content, you can find her on Twitter at @AleshaKills.

About Strength Of Thousands

In the Strength of Thousands Adventure Path, the players take on the roles of students at the Magaambya, the oldest and most prestigious magic academy in the world, an ancient institution founded by the greatest wizard the world has ever known. This wizard vanished long ago, but his sinister enemies plot against his school and those who attend it. Over their long academic career, the heroes rise from humble students to become teachers, and they ultimately hold the fate of the Magaambya in their hands. Graduates of the Magaambya are among the greatest wardens of the world, but if the heroes can't marshal the strength of thousands who have come before them, the venerable Magaambya might fall!

“Oooh!” chirped Barsala, folding her goggles down over her eyes. She peered at the man’s leg, an image of the limb’s internal circuitry magnifying in her goggle’s lens. “The quality on your inner gyros is excellent. Liquid carbide receptors?”

“Can I see?” asked Keskodai. With a soft clicking of his mandibles, he leaned over to get a closer look. “Chhk-chhk, look! See the pistons! Look at the little energy regulators, aren’t they pretty?”

Raising one hand, Barsala waved at the shirren. “Kes, please hun, you’re in my light.”

“But you can see the problem, right?” asked Amril. Twitching nervously, the young man drummed his fingers against the arm of the chair. “I mean, is it the regulators? I hope it’s not the regulators. They should still be under warranty. Do you think it’s the compression circuits?”

“Calm down,” said Barsala. The words felt hollow in the face of her own burgeoning excitement. “It’ll be—”

Abruptly, his leg kicked. Trembling abruptly, the servos within whirred energetically. “Look!” yelped Amril, the lashunta’s antenna shivering, “It’s doing it again!”

“Fascinating... Kes, could you hand me the capacitor over there?”

Inhaling, Amril turned his eyes toward the ceiling of Barsala’s laboratory. “I knew I shouldn’t have got it cut rate. Stupid counterfeit augments. The price was just too good. But then it started acting up. I checked the actual prosthetic parts. I mean, I had it checked—an engineer. One of the mechanics down at the junk races said its fine...”

“They’re right,” commented Barsala, carefully separating two metal plates with two of her hands while magnifying her lenses with another. “In as far as the hardware is in working order. Whatever the problem is, it’s with the... Kes, please, you’re in my light again... it’s with the software.”

Another juddering tremor flew through Amril’s leg. He leaned up in the chair, excitedly. “I knew it! I mean, I knew you’d be able to figure it out. The moment I saw your vids, I knew Dr. B was the right person for the job! What are you going to do?”

“Did you hear that, Chhk-chhk? Our friend Barsala’s an expert.”

“I am hardly an expert on this particular subject, Chhk-Chhk, but,” she slid a glove free from her lowleft hand, exposing the chrome fingers beneath, “I do have some personal experience with cybernetic prosthetics.” Flexing her fingers, she slid back a thumb-sized port on the back of her palm. “Rudimentary system scan,” she explained. “My prosthetic has a proprietary Helix Computing interface, I’ll log into your software, give it a quick scan, and check the integration files to your wetware.”

Illustration by Alexandur Alexandrov from Starfinder Tech Revolution.

Glancing up at Keskodai, Amril asked “What does that mean?”

The shirren gave a soft shrug, his multifaceted insectile eyes seeming to widen in wonder.

Carefully, Barsala unwound a small connector cable from one of her many pockets, sliding one end into the port on her hand. “Don’t worry, it’ll be fine. I’ll go for a manual interface, so it’ll be more secure. Your internal firewall’s up to date?”

“I... think so?” tried the lashunta, hesitantly, as the biohacker slid the cable into his leg’s interface port. “I had a new one installed last week, after the twitching started.”

“Fascinating,” murmured the kasatha, drumming her fingers across a set of hard-light keys on her holographic display. “There’s some redundant files here. I can’t see any function for them. Do you have anything stored in them?”

“Couple of vid shows.” replied Amril. “Don’t look in the download section, please. I might have downloaded them illegally.”

With a few more taps from her three non-interfaced hands, Barsala announced, “Scanning now. Wait.” A sharp pause cut her voice silent. Then, glancing at the man’s cybernetic leg, she said “This is odd. The files are duplicating.” A second hard-light window appeared on the biohacker’s display—quickly joined by another. Then another.

“Chhk-chhk wants to know if that’s bad.” enquired Keskodai. “It looks bad.”

A series of digital windows blazed into life around Barsala, flaring like a cradle of stars. As they did, Amril’s leg shuddered violently, its pistons whirring at a fanatical speed, showering crackling sparks across the floor. “We’ve got exponential duplication!” yelled Barsala. “These aren’t redundant files—someone’s using them as a back door! Kes, quick—”

Abruptly, Barsala’s hand twisted upward, violently pulling her trailing cable from Amril’s port. The biohacker gave a sharp yelp as her cybernetic fingers tensed into claws and turned toward her. Violently, her rogue hand lashed out, clawing and swiping at her face.

“My! This is exciting!” chittered Keskodai. “I knew this would be a thrilling field trip. Do you need one of the inhibitors?” He asked nonchalantly, scanning a wide array which hung from the wall.

“The blue one!” called Barsala, latching two free hands around her rebellious prosthetic. Her cybernetic hand continued to flail, lashing out with her fingertips. She staggered back, wrestling frantically with her hand.

Quickly, Keskodai scooped up a sturdy metal cylinder marked with a blue label and hurled it over to the biohacker. Catching it deftly with her last free hand, Barsala wrestled her cybernetic hand down onto a cluttered workbench with the other two, scattering small vials and tubes. Holding her thrashing, violent hand down, she tugged open the interface port once again. “Okay,” she muttered, “that should override my biological systems long enough to isolate this thing...”

“What is it?” cried Amril, eyes wide in shock.

“Offensive countermeasure” replied Barsala. “Someone left a sentient computer virus in your prosthetic’s firmware.”

Amril sat bolt upright, looking down at his leg in panic. “A virus?”

Rolling up her sleeve, Barsala pushed the canister containing the inhibitor against her upper arm. It gave a soft hiss as the contents discharged, filling her bloodstream. “It was protecting a backdoor into your augment.” She explained, dropping the canister. Her arteries radiated a momentary glow. “Know anyone who’d want to hack your systems?” she asked.

“Hacking?” spat Amril. “No! Definitely not! I don’t have any enemies!” he paused. “Actually, wait, maybe it might be...”

With a series of thuds, Barsala’s augmented hand forced itself up from was held. Gritting her teeth in agitation, she grunted and grabbed a micro-welding torch. “Right!” she declared, crackling it to life. “Time for some surgical reprogramming!”

As she began to rewire the hand’s circuitry in deft, sharp moves, Keskodai watched in fascination. “Hmm,” he pondered, tapping a thin claw-tip against his chin. “Chhk-chhk wants to know if you can simply eject the hardware.” he asked. “If it’s trying to kill you, that is. Perhaps we can take it off and put it in a box for now?”

“Don’t need to” replied Barsala, her eyes focused intently on the work. A small shower of sparks flew from her hand. “I’ve confined the virus to a partition of the limb’s memory, which should let me get root access to... wait, Chhk-chhk wants to know?”

“Ah, yes,” trilled the shirren cheerfully. “You see, at this stage in larval development, we’ve formed a telepathic bond that’s strong enough for in-depth conversation. In fact, I’d be quite happy to discuss—”

“Maybe later.” she interrupted, dropping the torch onto the workbench, and opening another section of the limb. “I think... yes, let me just finish this scan... okay, system’s clear.”

Amril rubbed his head, his antennas drooping. “Is that it?” he asked. “The virus is gone?”

The biohacker slowly let go of her hand and bent each finger to test her control of her prosthetic, looking carefully for signs of any malicious intent. For a few moments she held her breath. Then, slowly, she gave a sigh of relief. “Scan’s clear,” she said. “Virus is gone. I’ve kept a log of if you want to watch it. In either case, your leg should be fine now.”

Whirling around to face her, Amril rubbed his eyes. “That’s... that’s amazing.” he muttered. “Thank you. Thank you so much. It feels a lot better.”

Flexing her fingers once more, Barsala reached into her pocket to recover her surgical glove. “We’ll still need to find out who hacked the limb.” She announced. “You’re quite sure you don’t have any enemies?”

Clapping his hands together, Amril inhaled. “Well, maybe that wasn’t quite true. Y’see...”

A heavy thud echoed through the laboratory. Somewhere in the distance, the ever-present hum of the power systems fell abruptly silent. The lab’s internal lights shuddered to darkness, replaced with the ghostly glow of emergency red illumination. “What?” snapped the biohacker.

“Okay,” admitted Amril, “so, I didn’t want to mention it, but I’m part of a group of hackers...”

Keskodai held up a hand. “Don’t want to interrupt” he said, “but I can sense six minds moving towards us. They seem... hostile. Friends of yours?”

“No!” yelled Amril, glancing around the room. “Okay, look, so we were sniffing around some corporate files, and...”

A heavy thud echoed from the other side of the laboratory’s door.

Barsala sighed, shaking her head, and calmly started to load her needler pistol. “And this was meant to be my weekend off.”

About The Author

Alison Cybe is a fantasy and horror author with other work featured in numerous horror and sci-fi/fantasy publications. They have a degree in Film & Media with a minor in sociology and media. They’re non-binary with pronouns they/them. They were born in Scotland and has written extensively on inclusion and positive representation within gaming communities in particular with relation to LGBTQ+ and transgender visibility in gaming publications and blogs. Their interests include Celtic mythology, transhumanism, model kits and pet rats.

About Iconic Encounters

Iconic Encounters is a series of web-based flash fiction set in the worlds of Pathfinder and Starfinder. Each short story provides a glimpse into the life and personality of one of the games’ iconic characters, showing the myriad stories of adventure and excitement players can tell with the Pathfinder and Starfinder roleplaying games.

Lini held her palms out, and water encased the skeletons instantly. She winced from the effort of throwing the spell so fast. The casting’s sparkling light illuminated the skeletons’ silhouettes slowly wading through the wall of water she’d created. It wouldn’t hold for long, but it would buy them time.

“Droo, let’s—” the words died on her lips.

Droogami, Lini’s leopard companion, clutched another skeleton in his formidable jaws, slamming down it into the newly created mud. Bones crunched as Droo wrestled with their enemy. The skeleton must have been just inside Lini’s spell. She drew her sling, then loaded it and let fly in one easy motion. Bone dust plumed in the air as her missile hit the undead creature’s skull with a satisfying crack. With well-practiced movements, Droo and Lini spread out, flanking their enemy, forcing it to divide its attention between them. When its bones finally collapsed into a truly dead pile in the mud, Lini sighed in relief.

A bony hand burst from the wall of water and clasped her throat. Lini desperately kicked up water and rocks as she fought to pry the clawed fingers from her neck. That’s what she got for letting her attention wander. She looked straight into the empty sockets of the undead monster choking her. The skeleton’s arm and head poked through the wall of water, and she saw more coming. The world wavered around the edges as she twisted as hard as she could. Droo took that opportunity to leap forward, breaking the monster’s hold. The leopard roared and crouched on his mud-caked haunches, ready to attack the rest.

Illustration by Miguel Regodón Harkness from Pathfinder Secrets of Magic

“No! Droo! Let’s go!” They couldn’t take this many on.

Lini had known dangerous undead lurked throughout the Gravelands, but she hadn’t realized they were so many of them. Instead of attacking, Droogami leapt to her side, and she clambered onto the leopard’s spotted back. They took off down the ravine. Her watery spell wouldn’t last for much longer, and she meant to be as far away from here as possible.

Mud and water flew as Droo sprinted down the path. Lini took a chance to look over her shoulder. They were gaining a little distance. Some of the skeletons were out of the water and shambling toward them, faster than Lini would have liked. More skeletons were still pulling themselves out of the wall.

In front of them, another kind of wall, one made of rock and loose dirt loomed. It seemed steep but clambering up it looked to be their only way out. Lini lowered herself closer to Droo’s fur and peeked over his head as the ravine wall grew closer. Seconds later, Droo’s muscles rippled, and Lini steadied herself for the great cat’s leap. They had done this many times, and her stomach still dropped to the bottom of her feet every time. Droogami hit the ravine wall and dug his ragged claws into the dirt. They started to slide, and Droo’s muscles bulged with the effort of keeping them in place. Slowly, the leopard scrabbled up, and they ascended the ravine.

Behind them, the spell creating the water reached the end of its duration, and the liquid wall collapsed, knocking most of the skeletons off their feet.

Silence greeted the pair as they clambered onto the ledge. Lini dismounted Droogami and peered down into the ravine. They’d been crossing its bed when the skeletons had begun rising from the dirt. The corruption here was much worse than she previously believed. She could taste it on her tongue, feel it all the way from her head to her toes. Lini had a horrible feeling there were more undead out there, much worse than skeletons.

Screams echoed around them and both Lini and Droogami crouched into ready positions. The cries had come from the other side of the ravine where smoke rose over a small holdfast on the horizon. Lini’s heart pounded. Many people had abandoned this land after the return of the Whispering Tyrant, but some still held on. They’d lived here for as long as they could remember; their ancestors knew this place as Lastwall. Lini and Droo had stayed with them to gather information before they crossed the ravine. The people had treated them fairly and shared what little they had. Lini remembered the hopeful face of the young girl who curled up next to Droo and fell asleep listening to tales of adventure.

Lini scanned the whole area. There was no way they could make it around the ravine in time. She looked back down to the ravine floor. The skeletons had fully recovered now and were trudging toward them.

“We have to go back, Droo,” Lini said.

The leopard looked at her and gave a soft growl.

“I know, but it’s the quickest way, and they need our help.” Lini looked into the leopard’s eyes, hoping her companion would feel what she felt.

Droo chuffed softly after a moment and crouched down with a determined look.

“I knew you’d understand, old friend,” Lini said.

Lini climbed up onto her companion’s back once again. She sat straight and squeezed Droogami's ribs with her knees, tightly enough to keep her in place. She held her hands up to the sky and they started to glow. Lini took a deep breath and narrowed her eyes. She thought of the people to steel her nerves.

“Let’s go.”

About The Author

Danielle DeLisle is a gamer, actress, and writer (not necessarily in that order). She can be found online at www.danielledelisle.com and @DanielleDeLisle on Twitter.

About Iconic Encounters

Iconic Encounters is a series of web-based flash fiction set in the worlds of Pathfinder and Starfinder. Each short story provides a glimpse into the life and personality of one of the games’ iconic characters, showing the myriad stories of adventure and excitement players can tell with the Pathfinder and Starfinder roleplaying games.

The skittermander at the counter flexed his fingers and grinned. “What’ll it be, nufriend?”

“Nufriend?” Tono smirked. “Every night I come here and order the same thing, and suddenly you ain’t know me, Henig?”

Henig let out a deep chortle, as if it were emerging from his feet and rising out of his body. “No, no! It’s just that…” He leaned over the counter, inches from Tono’s face. “You know how the streets can be,” he whispered. “Funny business afoot, and all that. Don’t want anybody making off with your whereabouts, gree?”

Tono gave a gentle nod, the neon of the night glancing off her chrome dermal plate. She had been working on this side of the surface for only eight months, and even she had made enough enemies to know better than for any of them to know where she slept. If just one of their associates ever knew she also was willing to drive this far into the city just for a bowl of noodles and a conversation in the middle of the night, she’d be face down in the alley beside the shop with a fist-sized gap in her belly. Tono winced at the thought—she hadn’t scrounged enough recent work to pay for another check-up, let alone replace a cybernetic augmentation.

Strangely, her justification for habitually returning was twofold. For one thing, this part of the city was where all her informants were. For another, she grinned wide at the chef and said what she always said whenever he worried about her getting in trouble because of him. “You ain’t gotta worry ‘bout me, Hen… only nice people come by your shop.”

Illustration by Michael Soong from Starfinder Galaxy Exploration Manual.

“Is that right?” He chuckled again. “Then how come you’re here so often?”

Tono nodded in amused agreement before ordering a large bowl of the house special. She tried not to bring her work—or her difficult demeanor—to Henig’s shop whenever she could avoid it, but she knew she wasn’t easy to deal with. He probably didn’t know what she did, but word got around quickly. Which is why she regretted having to ask her next question. “Have you seen Mirai about?”

Henig raised an eyebrow. “Mirai? She in some kind o’ trouble?”

The apertures in Tono’s eyes tensed. She noticed it right away. She always trusted that Henig was smarter than the goofy, kindhearted cook he presented as. “You know something.”

Henig’s lower limbs continued pulling dough into thick noodles as he spoke. He glanced down pensively, and then toward the street, as if worried someone would find him. “Two folks in black came up the block asking for her, but I hadn’t actually seen her come out to the market in days. Made it sound like they’d been to her apartment… didn’t find nothing. If you’re asking for her…” He frowned. “Gotta think she’s on the run for some reason, gree?”

“But why?”

“You really askin’ me?” Henig shot her a wicked glare. “The same reasons you’d run. Is she in trouble?”

“I don’t know. I asked her to check something for me. Just a chat with some folks at Fythe Dynamics for a client… a routine interview with Sepp Yolen. I thought it was nothing…”

“Politely, I’ll ask.” Henig looked right at her. “Is it ever nothing with either of you?”

Tono struggled for the next words and resigned herself to just a shake of the head.

“Exactly.” He lit the stove behind him without looking. “I wish I had more to give you. Just… black suits, cold eyes, no manners. And one of ‘em, a lashunta woman, had a scar across the lip like so.” He made a diagonal downward motion across his own face, then shrugged. “Mean folks. Don’t want to see those two in a hurry again.”

Tono tilted her head. “The suits… d’you figure they were top-notch?”

“Maybe some of the most drift threads I’ve ever seen,” he said, finally casting an eye on the simmering stock pot behind him. “Probably thought I couldn’t tell the duds concealed armor. Figured they were well-paid hired hands of some sort.”

“Any insignias on the clothes?”

“No patches. Just a silver pin on the collar.” He wiped a large blue ceramic bowl and placed it in front of her. “Why?”

Tono smirked. “No reason at all. I’ll be back in a bit. And my food better be waiting.”

“Whatever you say, friend.”

Tono got up and stretched before strolling back down the busy market street beside the shop. This part had to be done carefully, she thought.

People tended to be very alert when they were tailing someone, after all.

Tono was paranoid, to be sure, but the more precisely Henig described this lashunta woman, the more obvious her presence became, just a few dozen feet away, watching them talk the entire time. She may have followed Tono the whole way, in fact, or even watched her leave her apartment. Without making eye contact, Tono sized the woman up. Slim, tall, lithe—the kind she figured made her coin in close combat rather than a gunfight. Even more careful, then.

Tono strolled toward where the agent stood—against the wall of a nearby bookstore—and squinted against the window. The lashunta didn’t flinch, but Tono knew better. Silence lingered in the air between them, mere inches apart. In that moment she knew they were both playing a calmness that would ready them for conflict at any moment. From that close, she could make out the vague imprint of a pair of blades under her jacket. She knew her appearance gave away her own game, as well: the quickdraw pocket in the right leg of her pants, wide enough for a sidearm, stored a static arc pistol specifically for moments like these.

“See something you like?” the lashunta said casually.

Tono didn’t even glance up at her. “So far, nothing seems especially interesting.”

“Oh, yeah?” The lashunta’s voice rose—the telltale sign that Tono had the slightest upper hand. “Hoping to find something in particular?”

“A challenge would be nice.”

Before the agent could react, Tono reached for the agent’s arm and twisted it behind her back, pinning the lashunta against the wall. Tono drew her pistol and aimed it at the small of the agent’s back, right beneath where her trapped fingers curled into a fist.

“What is wrong with y—”

“A great deal, actually,” Tono said. “But at the moment, the fact that I’m being tailed has me particularly on edge.”

“You’re being silly, lady!”

“Yeah?” Tono only needed to lift the agent’s arm for the tension and pain to increase. “Let’s check, then. Walk.”

They slowly made their way back to Henig’s counter, their demeanors strangely calm for the circumstances. When Henig saw her again, his eyes widened. “Yeah…” he said meekly. “That’s one of ‘em.”

“Was she nice to you?”

It took him only beat to pick up on the game Tono was playing. “Not one bit,” he said.

“See, my friend Henig here seems mild-mannered,” Tono said, nearly as low as a whisper. “But people tend to forget that he cuts his meat with the same sword that sears it, so I wouldn’t annoy him.”

“And what happens if I annoy you?” the agent said with a smirk.

“Scary part is, even I don’t know yet. Now talk.”

“I got nothing to—”

Henig slowly drew a skyfire sword from a drawer beneath the counter and brought it an inch from the lashunta’s face, just beneath the eyebrow. “Fine by us either way,” he said, igniting it just enough for a brief flicker of heat to grace her skin. “I hope you hate your face as much as we do…”

“Wait.” Tono sensed the faintest shift in the agent’s mood from composure to fear and back, but Henig would never see it.

“Fythe sent you?”

The agent hesitated before nodding. “The girl. She asks too many questions. We just had to nab her, make her afraid, you know? But…”

“You haven’t seen her either. So why are you following me?”

“Because…” The agent sighed. “The chairman asks us to do his wetwork when he doesn’t want to think about something. When he wants it to disappear. But Mirai? He won’t stop asking about her. He wants a meeting now, to ask for a job.”

It was Tono’s turn to be afraid. If Sepp Yolen wanted to meet, it could only mean trouble.

“You have a cruiser?” Tono growled in the agent’s ear.

The lashunta nodded.

“Good. We’re gonna take a ride. But first…” Tono reached into the woman’s jacket pocket, pulled out a credstick, and tossed it on the counter. “You’re gonna pay for my dinner.”

“That would be the nice thing to do, gree?” Henig said. “And only nice people come here.”

About the Author

Brandon O’Brien is a writer, performance poet, teaching artist and game designer from Trinidad and Tobago. His work has been shortlisted for the 2014 Alice Yard Prize for Art Writing and the 2014 and 2015 Small Axe Literary Competitions, and is published in Uncanny Magazine, Strange Horizons, Fireside Magazine, and New Worlds, Old Ways: Speculative Tales from the Caribbean, among others. He is also the poetry editor of FIYAH: A Magazine of Black Speculative Fiction. His debut poetry chapbook Can You Sign My Tentacle? is forthcoming from Interstellar Flight Press.

About Tales from the Drift

The Tales from the Drift series of web-based flash fiction provides an exciting glimpse into the setting of the Starfinder Roleplaying Game. Written by members of the Starfinder development team and some of the most celebrated authors in tie-in gaming fiction, the Tales from the Drift series promises to explore the worlds, alien cultures, deities, history, and organizations of the Starfinder setting with engaging stories to inspire Game Masters and players alike.

“We can take it.”

“But we don’t have to take it.”

Coiling an arm around the vesk’s shoulder, Veerkea gently pulled her friend into a crouch behind the fallen tree they used for cover, directing the vesk to look at her lower eyes. “It’s not about ability, Obo. It’s about need. You,” she observed, tapping Obozaya’s armor, “are a mighty vesk warrior. But that over there is a living creature that’s done nothing to offend you.” All seven of Veerkea’s eyes shimmered with empathy as the 5-foot-tall land squid pleaded with her scaly companion. “Focus on the mission, Obo.”

“I am! Look…” Obozaya stood up and glowered toward the clearing. “We came here looking for a crashed starship, right?” Veerkea extended her legs, raising her upper eyes high enough to peer over the fallen tree. The vesk gestured with her metallic staff as she kept talking, pointing out features. “How many rocks—big rocks—have you seen out here? Not many, right? But suddenly this clearing’s full of big slabs, and I’m figuring that’s no mistake.”

Veerkea alternated between peeking over the massive trunk with her upper eyes and squatting to peer under it with her lowers before glancing to Obozaya with renewed respect. “Good eye! In fact, those might not be rocks at all, but metal plates. And that might mean we’re standing atop the starship and the power core we need.” Peering over the trunk again, she wondered, “But what might have drawn this creature here?”

They both gazed at the beast perched atop the clearing’s highest point. Easily 12 feet long from snout to tail, the creature resembled a ponderous lizard with eight legs, a barrel-like body, a forest of spikes running along its back, and throat scales that occasionally glowed faintly as though the creature had swallowed a flashlight that was desperately signaling for help. Throughout the ijtikri and vesk’s hushed discussion, the beast had lazily watched them with a half-lidded eye, apparently unimpressed by its visitors and more interested in dozing in the errant sunbeam that peeked through the forest canopy here. As if to signal its nonchalant contentment, it issued a sloppy, snoring sigh and shuffled its body slightly to scratch an itch.

With wide eyes and her voice hushed with uncertainty and awe, Veerkea asked, “Maybe we—"

“—No.” The ijtikri flinched at Obozaya’s interjection. “No. You’re going to say ‘maybe we can talk to it,’ and no. It’s a glowy lizard. You got to sing happy songs with those peace-loving slugs earlier. But with big beasts, we do things my way!” Veerkea raised her arms to protest, but Obozaya waved her off. “No arguing with my scalesense, Vee. Let’s go!” Pushing off the ground with her feet and staff, Obozaya vaulted the fallen tree in a single bound.

The flustered ijtikri called after her. “But I think that’s a plasmalisk, so we need to—”

Illustration by Michele Giorgi from Starfinder Tech Revolution

“—Fight fire with fire, got it!” Obozaya barked confidently, as she landed in a controlled somersault. Knocking the butt of her staff against the ground as she rolled to her feet, she activated the weapon, causing a trio of plasma blades to flare to life and transform the shaft into an axe-like doshko. That got the lizard’s attention. Roaring with delight, Obozaya charged forward and drove the doshko’s energy blades deep into the surprised plasmalisk’s flank. The beast staggered under the impact, but it seemed unhurt. On the contrary, the creature’s flesh seemed to drink in the energy, simultaneously shorting out the doshko and causing its body to incandesce with power. The vesk barely voiced her shocked profanity before the beast moved with impossible speed that belied its bulk, twisting and slamming its tail into Obozaya’s chest and sending her flying back toward the fallen tree.

Veerkea squeaked in alarm as the vesk hurled overhead. Acting fast, she whipped her main arms upward, awakening a multitude of symbiotic nanites that spilled from her body in a torrent. The living cloud wrapped around Obozaya, cushioning her impact as she collided with a nearby tree. Yet the plasmalisk had energy to spare. Before the vesk hit the ground, it spat a fist-sized fiery globule toward the intruders. Predicting the blast, Veerkea folded her body against the ground and propelled herself under the fallen tree, surfing atop the leaf litter to the other side before the projectile shattered against a low-hanging branch, enveloping the forest in flames. Even as fiery splinters rained around her, her nanites snagged the debris, rapidly breaking it down and using it to build more tiny machines to replace the ones she’d lost in the explosion. The flames had devastated the nanites around Obozaya, but their improvised shield was enough; though groaning in pain, her friend was clearly alive.

The plasmalisk’s roar drowned out Obozaya’s groans as the beast trampled toward the ijtikri. Nanites whirled to life in a blinding fog, obscuring Veerkea’s form as the beast bit at her in vain. With each attack, the ijtikri sidestepped, her body partly discorporating into nanomachines with each defensive leap that carried her several body lengths out of harm’s way. As she reformed each time, she made a desperate attempt to defuse hostilities. “Excuse me! Please pardon my friend’s aggression, she—! Perhaps we could—oh no!” At last, the plasmalisk cornered her, cutting off her escape with its broad tail. But rather than bite her, it stared, its eyes glowing with radioactive intensity.

Veerkea’s body exploded in pain as she began blazing with the same heat raging in those eyes, her very cells boiling from the gaze’s energy. As the plasmalisk watched the ijtikri hungrily, the nanite cloud stirred. Millions of the airborne machines seeped back into their host’s body, diagnosing the ijtikri’s distress and isolating the misbehaving tissues to limit their damage. Aided by her myriad medics, Veerkea averted her eyes and suppressed the inner flames before they consumed her. The plasmalisk seemed far less impressed. Seeing that its prey hadn’t succumbed to its gaze, it closed in to finish her off with fangs alone.

A projectile slammed into the beast’s eye, deflecting its jaws as they narrowly missed the ijtikri. As Veerkea scrambled to safety, she nearly tripped over the deactivated plasma doshko that Obozaya had just thrown like a javelin. “Hey!” shouted the bristling vesk from atop one of the rocky outcroppings. “No plasma? No problem!” As if to punctuate her challenge, Obozaya splayed her claws threateningly and growled. Intrigued by this new prey, the beast obliged, hissing angrily as it lumbered toward and collided with the vesk. The two slashed and bit each other, but with twice the size and twice the claws, the plasmalisk quickly gained the advantage.

“Something cold, please!” Veerkea called out to her nanites as she leapt atop another outcropping. She tossed a battery into the air as she pivoted toward the melee, and her myriad machines complied, neatly enveloping the battery and assembling themselves into an energy rifle that landed in her hands. “Nicely done, friends,” the ijtikri chimed as she felt the rifle chilling the air even before it had been fired. She trained it on the plasmalisk, which had pinned Obozaya’s head in place, forcing the vesk to stare into its burning eyes.

Even as Obozaya roared in pain, Veerkea fired. Bolts of bright energy impacted the giant lizard’s haunches, instantaneously draining the target’s body heat and riming the targets with scale-shattering ice. A reflexive shiver forced the plasmalisk to drop Obozaya, and another two shots from Veerkea dimmed the glowing heat deep within the beast’s body. Panicked, the plasmalisk stumbled away, crashing through the foliage to escape the painful onslaught.

But Obozaya’s wounded roar drowned out the beast’s. Veerkea rushed over the where her friend knelt on the ground, pink mist steaming from her body as Obozaya desperately tore off pieces of armor to escape the heat building internally. The ijtikri tackled the vesk, bracing her head and pinning her flailing claws against the moss while channeling nanites into Obozaya’s body to arrest the ionizing affliction. For agonizing moments, the vesk reflexively fought both the fires and the ijtikri, but gradually her thrashing slowed as her natural fortitude prevailed. Obozaya coughed smoke as she came to her senses, blinking in confusion at the ijtikri pinning her before shrugging and drinking a healing serum. “So, ah… did we win?”

Flustered, Veerkea clambered off the vesk and searched the area. “We did, yes, we won. Ah…” As the adrenaline subsided, she began piecing together the puzzle. “The plasmalisk seemed to be basking, but it was clearly drinking in strong energy sources. If this the starship and power core we’re looking for, maybe the creature was drawing energy not from above, but from below?”

“Like a heated rock?” Obozaya had regained her feet, picked up her dented doshko, and staggered over.

“Exactly,” confirmed Veerkea as she continued her examination. “To a plasmalisk, this probably seemed like an oasis, perfect for warming up or… oh…” Confused by the ijtikri’s sudden silence, Obozaya came over to investigate. The beast hadn’t just been basking atop the buried starship’s hatch; it had been incubating. Several shells littered the concave hatch, atop which hissed a foot-long plasmalisk, puffing its body in a feeble threat display.

Spreading her arms to loom over the infant, Obozaya silenced the creature through her presence alone. She grunted dismissively. “Runt of the litter, last to hatch. Well, hope its instincts are good. C’mon, run off to wherever your siblings scampered.” She nudged it with the butt of her doshko to clear the way to the hatch.

Veerkea pulled the doshko to one side. “That’s not how this works, Obo,” she chided. “You picked this fight. Needlessly. If you’re so ready to take a life, you need to be ready to save a life.” The vesk let her head loll to one side in exasperation, like a toddler suffering a lecture. “And it’s not a runt. They were,” observed the ijtikri, pointing to the other shells.

“Wait.” Obozaya’s attention had snapped back to the nest. "So the clutchmates hatch and fight, with the victor eating its siblings?"

Veerkea bobbed sadly. "I know, nature can be cruel."

But Obozaya shook her head with newfound respect. "No, I'm hearing that this is a born, blooded warrior.” She scooped up the eight-legged lizard that wriggled in protest. “My scalesense doesn’t lie. This is a survivor! A worthy companion! A—ow!" Instinctively wary of large predators and displeased with being handled, the baby plasmalisk latched onto Obozaya's finger with its needle-like teeth.

"Hylax rejoices, Obo," laughed Veerkea as she helped disentangle the creature's teeth and eight legs. "You just made first contact."

About The Author

John Compton is the Starfinder Senior Developer at Paizo, Inc., having joined the team after years of creating organized play adventure content. He has written extensively for Pathfinder and Starfinder, including adventures, setting content, and rulebooks, and before working for Paizo, he was a teacher, practicing archaeologist, and archaeometallurgist. You can find John on Twitter and Paizo-facing Discord servers @Archaeotagh.

About Iconic Encounters

Iconic Encounters is a series of web-based flash fiction set in the worlds of Pathfinder and Starfinder. Each short story provides a glimpse into the life and personality of one of the games’ iconic characters, showing the myriad stories of adventure and excitement players can tell with the Pathfinder and Starfinder roleplaying games.

“Alright Tuku. Today you’re going to teach me about water spirits!” Ija turned toward her companion and gave a fierce grin.

“Water elementals, you mean?” Tuku replied. The pink dragon’s wings fluttered as he glided from one tree limb perch to another. “I see the stretch of shore we’re looking for. It’s just ahead. When we pass the tree line, they’ll see us.”

“Elementals, spirits; what’s the difference? They’re relatives of yours, right?” Ija asked. She knew they weren’t, but it was fun to tease Tuku a little.

“They most certainly are not. I am a dragon!” he bristled slightly, though not truly annoyed.

Ija’s eyes lit up. “I heard elementals can take any shape. They could be dogs, or bats, or dragons…”

“So you did read the books from the Magaambya before we headed out here?” Tuku asked, surprised at her studiousness.

“Well, I... definitely looked at the pictures,” she admitted, though, yes, she had read many of the words, too—eventually.

“Water elementals are embodiments of the essence of matter, from the Plane of Water. They’re basically pure water. I am pure dragon.” Ija threw her eidolon a sidelong glance, and he sighed, repeating the fact she never let him forget: “Though, yes, without you to give me a body, I’m just formless mental essence from the Astral Plane. Thank you for giving me this glorious manifestation.”

Ija snorted and rolled her eyes. “If they have no mind, does that mean we can outthink them? Like I always outthink you?” This was how they worked out their strategies, and ultimately how Tuku guided her to better use her power—teasing insults and playful banter.

Tuku continued. “Oh, these aren’t just mindless puddles. These things are powerful in the water and they know it. They’ll try to drag us underwater.” He wasn’t kidding now, and Ija took the warning with the seriousness it deserved.

“But they’re causing trouble for the fishers, so they’re coming out of the water for that,” Ija mused, “So let’s bait them into attacking us on land, too. I can’t swim after them if they retreat back to the water, but you can, and—I know! D’you want gills?” The eidolon matched her hopeful grin with as straight and nonplussed an expression as his draconic face could muster. “Don’t worry! If they catch you in a trap, I’ll call you back, or let the bond snap if I have to. But c’mon, let’s see how well you can breathe underwater!”

Ija held the rune medallion she wore around her neck in one hand and held the other out in Tuku’s direction. The medallion, the matching rune on Ija’s headband, and the one emblazoned on her eidolon’s forehead all pulsed as their magical connection surged. Tuku felt an itch on both sides of his neck, just below his ears, and knew that he’d grown gills—at least temporarily. It wasn’t the plan he’d have suggested, but what was the harm?

“Is that it? Gills? Anything else we should be prepared for, or am I just going to swim the water to death?”

“Oh, I’m not done yet!” Ija’s excitement was palpable. She often had trouble focusing, but when she found something that captured her attention, her enthusiasm was contagious. “So! Water conducts electricity, right? I mean, yeah, it’s not actually the water, but the salts and stuff in the water. So as long as these aren’t made of pure water and are made of ocean water, then I should have just the thing.”

Before Tuku could respond, Ija dashed toward the edge of the trees, leaving her dragon companion nodding approvingly to himself.

“Hold on, short-stuff! Not so eager, or you might tip them off that something’s happening. Let’s either sneak up, or if we’re going to use your plan and bait them out, then pretend you don’t know they’re there,” Tuku suggested.

“So... I’m not sure we can convince them we’re just normal fishers they can terrorize. Do you think they’re going to be, I don’t know, put off by the whole you-being-a-dragon thing?”

“I’ll have you know that dragons are excellent at fishing. But you do have a point. Call me to your side when the time comes?” Tuku wondered aloud.

“Too slow. You sneak, I bait,” Ija decided, “There’s not a lot of cover, so try to use the seaweed. And your new gills!”

Tuku nodded his assent and disappeared into the water, though Ija knew exactly where he had gone. She wandered along the shore toward a rocky outcropping where the fishers had reported the most recent elemental attacks, seemingly lost in thought. It wasn’t hard to appear distracted, after all, because she did have an awful lot of things on her mind right then, but mostly she was thinking about shocking some water elementals.

She avoided glancing toward the water so as not to give herself away, but instead connected her senses to Tuku’s, so every so often she could peer through his eyes. That’s how she noticed the elementals slowly rising from the water to ambush her. Five huge, indistinct humanoid forms, almost the same color as the water itself. Two coming in close, one circling around, and another backing them up. The last one lurked in the distance to her left.

She turned her body away from them to further the deception, all the while glaring at them from Tuku’s position nearly completely submerged among the thick kelp nearby.

She waited... waited... That one on the left was still too far. Waiting... OK—now!

Ija’s senses rushed back into her own body, and she spun on her heel, already starting to cast her spell. Only from this perspective could she see that she’d misjudged their distance from Tuku’s vantage point; she had let them get too close! Ija might have fooled them, but it the nearest elemental was still close enough to slam its watery fist in her direction as she dropped her guard. Her concentration faltered—

“Look out!” While she’d been focusing on her own part in the ambush, Tuku was singularly occupied with keeping her safe. Realizing the threat, the dragon rose from the water and bolted toward her. Arriving just in time, Tuku spread his wings to shield his summoner, taking the brunt of the force as the warm, brackish water of the elemental’s slam fell clear of Ija.

Grinning mischievously and winking at her protector, Ija spread her hands, and unleashed a chain of lightning toward her attackers. Forks of electricity arced from figure to figure, jolting the elementals and causing their forms to lose cohesion. Wherever the lightning touched, water leaked from their bodies like the contents of a bucket seeping from uncaulked seams. Either the water had picked up sediments, or everything she and Tuku had been thinking had been wrong; maybe both. It didn’t matter either way.

Illustration by Rubén Pomares from Pathfinder Secrets of Magic

One of the elementals created a vortex of water just onto the shore. The moving eddy surged forward and back like a rushing tide, threatening to batter Ija and Tuku onto the rocks and deliver them into the depths. Ija tried to dodge, but her foot slipped on the wet sand. The incoming vortex was unavoidable.

But again, Tuku was vigilant; the dragon eidolon had been in a perfect position to notice and dodge the vortex. This time it was he who called upon their protective bond, swooping in to grab Ija, fluttering slightly off the ground for an instant, and setting her back down when the danger had passed.

This unlikely maneuver gave Ija room to dodge more oncoming blows from the nearest elementals. She backed up to a safer distance as Tuku went into a draconic frenzy, tearing apart the elemental that took the brunt of her lightning spell. The elementals responded in kind, surrounding the dragon and pummeling him with waves. Due to their bond, Ija felt every impact like a hit to her own body, but she knew they could last a little while longer.

“Ija, again!” Tuku shouted over the sound of crashing waves.

Ija called the lightning once more, and the sharp scent of ozone manifested as the magic sprang from her hands and arced into the elementals’ bodies. One of the remaining elementals was slain outright, or perhaps banished back to the Plane of Water—she honestly wasn’t sure what happened to these things when you destroyed them. Tuku noticed another that was leaking its essence from several places, and he used his jaws and claws to tear the holes wider, ripping the towering figure apart until it too collapsed into a splash of mundane water. Ija didn’t see any shining or shimmering like when a summoning spell ended; probably dead then.

The remaining two elementals began to flee in terror, finally realizing how dangerous Ija and Tuku were as a team. The dragon snapped at the nearest of them and looked back toward Ija, awaiting her approval. She quickly raised one eyebrow, as if to say, “go on,” and as quickly as that, Tuku was off beneath the waves.

A few minutes later, the dragon emerged from the water with a wide, goofy smile filling his toothy muzzle. “I told you dragons were good fishers,” Tuku said. Ija squeezed her hair to rid it of at least some of the water that now weighed heavily on her head. Her eyes widened, expectantly.

“And yeah,” Tuku continued begrudgingly, “I guess the gills didn’t hurt.”

About The Author

Mark Seifter is Paizo's Design Manager and one of the four designers on the creation of Pathfinder Second Edition. You can find him on twitter, @markseifter and check out Arcane Mark, his twitch stream with Linda Zayas-Palmer, Tuesdays and Thursdays at 7PM Pacific, and Saturdays at 10 AM Pacific at https://www.twitch.tv/arcanemark.

About Iconic Encounters

Iconic Encounters is a series of web-based flash fiction set in the worlds of Pathfinder and Starfinder. Each short story provides a glimpse into the life and personality of one of the games’ iconic characters, showing the myriad stories of adventure and excitement players can tell with the Pathfinder and Starfinder roleplaying games.

“Give it your allsix. Give it your allsix.” The chipper voice sang out in the spacious green and yellow interior cockpit of the Veskarium Vanquisher mech. The sound of responding digital displays and humming power fields harmonized with the cheerful voice.

“Time to face the morning and make some nufriends!” A second, equally energetic voice joined in to complete the ditty and punctuated the song’s end with a series of additional digital keystrokes on floating vidscreens.

Sarotska watched with interest as the data appeared in front of her. The holographic light shined off her bright red scales, giving her a momentary violet complexion as she took in the display. Swiping the holographic data away with her claw, the vesk commander of the mech briefly closed her eyes.

“Quiet on deck. Bunkle, ready the plasma rifles. Jiji, I want to make sure the weapons core is ready to swap our output over at a moment’s notice.” Sarotska spoke the commands as her eyes re-opened and fixed on the alien landscape now visible through the small view slit that was only accessible from her position in the mech’s chest cavity cockpit.

The stone forests of Elytrio’s southern hemisphere were some of the most unnerving terrains that Sarotska had seen in her long time with Obsidian Spiders mercenary company. She’d battled the Azlanti Star Empire, the Swarm, and at least a half-dozen different types of outsiders who’d breached the Material Plane for one reason or another. She’d taken part in the second Scoured Stars invasion and inserted onto jungles where colossi walked like modern gods. Still, Elytrio had a feel completely unlike that of any world she’d walked on. It was a planet that appeared dead, yet wasn’t entirely done with the world of the living.

“Sorry about the singing, boss. It’s just, this place doesn’t seem right, ‘gree?” The statement and question came from Bunkle, one of two other operators onboard the mech with Sarotska. The electric blue skittermander turned around and looked up to Sarotska’s elevated position in the cockpit, his six arms continuing to manipulate controls around him as he scrunched his face.

“Yeah boss. I thought this place was supposed to be an irradiated wasteland, but there’s no sign of radiation. It’s just a bunch of weird, petrified trees.” The follow-up came from the other skittermander crewmember, the cherry-red Jiji, who kept her eyes forward, looking out from sensors and moving the mech’s twin plasma rifles at the smallest disturbance in the terrain.

Sarotska waved a dismissive claw while peering out the viewscreen. “Look. We’re here to find some missing Starfinders. Or, at the very least, their bodies. The Society paid for us because their team that went missing was pretty capable and it’s likely whatever took them down ambushed them in this area. So yes, I think something isn’t right here, but I think the only way we’re going to figure it out is if you keep you eyes on your screens, Bunkle.”

The blue skittermander crunched his face in a sour expression and stuck out his tongue before swiveling around to stare back at the mountain of data feeds that accumulated in front of him. Jiji chuckled from her position, though her wide eyes never left the constant flow of data.

“Got something, boss! Looks like a signal up ahead behind those rocks.” Jiji chirped from her station. The data quickly moved up to Sarotska’s station with a visual swish as it loaded onto her console.

“Hmmm...” Sarotska mused as she took in the data. “It looks like a blip of radiation from behind the rocks. Could be some leftover irradiated debris. Probably something the Starfinders would have investigated on their mission here.

“Bunkle, I’m going to move us closer. Keep the plasma rifles ready, just in case.” The commands emerged from Sarotska’s mouth, but she’d already put the mech in motion. One plodding step after another, the Vanquisher continued moving on its path. The roughly humanoid bulk of it crushed the cracked gray terrain around it, as the bulky chassis of the Vanquisher navigated through trees and debris.

The Vanquisher mech was something of an oddity of Veskarium-crafted mechs. It lacked the armor upgrades common on mechs like the Ripclaw or Warmander, and instead had been designed by Veskarium engineers for maximum destructive ranged combat. A Vanquisher boasted a pair of heavy plasma rifles, capable of devastating the land around it for a hundred feet. To mount such brazen weapons on its hull, the Vanquisher not only sacrificed heavy Veskarium armor, but it also lacked any sort of dedicated melee weapon beyond its ponderous legs.

“I’m getting something, boss... more radiation. It looks like... OH NO!” Jiji updated just in time for the crew to spot two things in their sensor displays.

The first was a gruesome cluster of bodies. Six skeletal figures, each with radically different equipment, were scattered at the base of the rock. The emblem of the Starfinder Society caught in a slight updraft off the tattered backpack of one of the unfortunate souls, letting the crew of the Vanquisher know that they’d found their targets.

The second sight was a sudden movement in the rocks. In an instant, the top rock seemed to ripple in the breeze, and then a moment later, it spouted thousands of cracks. As the crew tried to comprehend what they were seeing, the cracked rock burst into thousands of tiny forms that formed a swarming cloud.

“Jiji! What are we looking at here?” Sarotska demanded as she backed the Vanquisher off from the agitated lifeforms.

“High radiation, boss. Looks like it’s a colony of insects that fed off the radiation. Their wings are some kind of shielding material, so that’s why we couldn’t scan them earlier.” Jiji blathered as she scanned streams of incoming data and manipulated the information with her arms, sending necessary data to both Sarotska and Bunkle.

Outside the Vanquisher, the swarm continued to grow as more of the nearby “rocks” sluffed away to unleash droning insects that joined their kin in a growing ball. Instinctively reacting to the mounting threat, Sarotska moved the Vanquisher back several paces, with each step causing the swarm to reflexively discorporate or extend in random directions. Then, an instant after the mech came to a plodding stop, the swarm engulfed the mech and alert sirens blared.

“Radiation increasing! The outer shields have burst. The outer hull is melting!” Jiji continued to deliver verbal updates, despite the information displays Sarotska had in front of her to confirm the damage.

“Bunkle, I think it’s time that we give our new friends a show of force.” Sarotska put distinct emphasis on the word “friends,” employing the tonal meanings of the Vesk language to let her crewmember know that these insects were to be immediately recognized as hostiles and targeted immediately.

Illustration by Michele Giorgi from Starfinder Tech Revolution.

A moment later, two beams of bright white and blue plasma streamed out from the twin rifles mounted on the Vanquisher’s upper limbs. The swarm danced around the beams, and while some of the insects fell into electrified husks, others in the swarm seemed to bloat and expand off some of the energy weapons fire that poured into them.

“Looks like they’re eating most of the plasma, boss. It’s just like how they eat radiation here.” Jiji reported as the cockpit shook with another violent impact from the swarm. “Outer hull integrity is down fifty percent. Ammo reserve number one is jammed!”

Sarotska took a moment. She closed her eyes again, and breathed as time slowed around her. She assimilated the verbal updates from Jiji, the scores of tactical data that flooded her vision, and then saw the swarm through the viewport in her station.

With a flash of white teeth, Sarotska opened her eyes and she fell back into the moment.

“Jiji, shift the weapons core energy to siphon high-frequencies into the rifles. Override the fire mixture since they’re feeding on that. Bunkle, get ready to make the next two shots count.” As the commands issued from her, Sarotska took control of the Vanquisher’s movement systems and siphoned from the power core to initiate a stomping trample maneuver—the only reliable melee option available to the mech. The stomping behemoth moved through the swarm, which parted at its sudden burst of speed.

Shifting on its ponderous legs, the Vanquisher made a hundred-and-eighty-degree turn as Sarotska steadied the moving mech with manual controls from her station. Jiji continued adjusting screens as she desperately sent energy streaming from the rear-mounted weapon core into the twin plasma rifles. Finally, Bunkle rested his upper arms behind his head, while his remaining two sets of arms both went to work lining up shots through the Vanquisher’s autotargeting system.

“Guess today’s not the day for nufriends, ‘gree?”

A stream of electrified air blasted out from the rifle arms, momentarily deafening the cockpit’s occupants. Instead of the fiery plasma that previously emerged, waves of sonic resonance accented by arcs of lighting flew out in a straight line toward the swarm of insects. The twin lines pulverized the swarm together, where arcs of electricity shot between the insects, baking their bodies to dust in an instant.

“We did it!” Jiji shouted, leaping atop her piloting chair.

“Was there ever a doubt?” Bunkle followed-up, cracking the fingers of his lower arms while his upper arms continued to support the back of his head.

Sarotska’s smile vanished as stillness overcame the former battlefield. Nothing remained of the targets.

“Bunkle.” the vesk pilot began, her tone immediately conveying a mounting sense of anger and worry.

“You didn’t hit those Starfinders’ remains, did you?”

VESKARIUM VANQUISHER — TIER 5

Gargantuan Legionnaire

Operators 2-6 PP 7 (1/turn, max 16)
Speed 70 ft.
Senses blindsense (vibration) 30 ft., darkvision 120 ft., low-light vision

DEFENSE
HP 64; SP 13; Hardness 3
EAC 23; KAC 23
Fort +7; Ref +6
Immunities construct immunities

OFFENSE
Base Attack Bonus +9
Ranged +11 plasma rifle (upper limb—3d8+5 E&F; critical wound) or +11 plasma rifle (upper limb—3d8+5 E&F; critical wound)
Space 20 ft.; Reach 20 ft.
Strength +6

SYSTEMS

Power Core mk 3 eternal (battle core); Lower Limbs heavy biped; Upper Limbs precision arms (+1 melee, +2 ranged); Auxiliary ammo reserve (x2), autotarget, weapon core (cold & sonic)

---

About the Author

Thurston Hillman is the Digital Adventures Developer at Paizo. He lives in the frigid ice deserts of Canada, where he's written and developed products for Paizo and other game companies. Prior to working at Paizo, Thurston worked in the aviation and technology fields where he travelled the world for several years. You can find Thurston on Twitter at @OnCallGM.

About Tales from the Drift

The Tales from the Drift series of web-based flash fiction provides an exciting glimpse into the setting of the Starfinder Roleplaying Game. Written by members of the Starfinder development team and some of the most celebrated authors in tie-in gaming fiction, the Tales from the Drift series promises to explore the worlds, alien cultures, deities, history, and organizations of the Starfinder setting with engaging stories to inspire Game Masters and players alike.

Marcus was miserable.

Sign up for border forces, his father said. See the world. Lend your strength and inner fire to Cheliax. Your brother and sisters could use a role model. Your mother could use any surplus income.

Clearly dad had never served.

The journey past the Menador Mountains was challenging; Marcus had never left the Chelaxian border before, and the transition the landscape made as they neared the Uskwood was unsettling. The sun seemed to shine brighter back home; the colors were brilliant, the daylight sparkled, and even the nighttime was made merrier by the vivid oranges and reds of torchlight and campfire.

Everything here was muted. Smothered. Silent. As though even the crickets were afraid to call, the birds too cautious to sing. The trees here were different, too; gnarled, angular things whose branches inexplicably still bore fresh leaves. He’d never seen new foliage look so drab, like it was painful to even grow.

This entire place was shadow and silence; even the campfire they’d made struggled against the oncoming darkness, and the crackle of burning wood shouted their presence. Marcus huddled closer and gave his companion a long-suffering look over the flames.

If Calerio was bothered by the strange solitude of Nidal’s environs, he didn’t show it. The man’s face was calm, his hand steady as it stoked the fire to further life. He took another look around the small campsite, his dark eyes studying every nearby tree and bush before settling again on his companion. Only then did the man’s eyes soften a little, and the wisp of a smile tug at his mouth.

“We won’t be here long,” Calerio reassured him. In the silence, even his soft baritone seemed to boom.

“Good,” Marcus grumbled. “I’d much prefer mountain-diving to this.”

His companion chuckled, and all too soon, the uncomfortable silence pressed in. It needed to be chased off; grasping for a topic, Marcus asked, “So, uh, you been here before?”

Calerio chuckled softly. “A long time ago. Years. And never this close to the Uskwood. Even back in my old caravan days, we never went through the Uskwood. The locals don’t like to be disturbed.”

“Yet here we are,” Marcus sighed.

“Here we are,” Calerio agreed. “But these are the orders.”

The younger of the two sighed and returned his eyes to the fire. Behind him, the sun’s last rays finally sank below the horizon line, and night settled in, as though it always belonged there. Nighttime should not feel so heavy, and yet it threatened to smother the Chelish soldier. Marcus’s hand kept close to his scimitar, his stomach tightening in anticipation. By now, the small campfire bellowed in the deadened silence, angry and intrusive.

“Won’t be long now,” breathed Calerio.

And it wasn’t.

“Blasphemers!” The voice boomed, setting both men instantly to their feet. “You shall pay the price for your intrusion!”

Illustration by Ian Perks from Pathfinder Secrets of Magic

The attack came from nowhere. The shadow of the closest tree grew longer for but a heartbeat, and then two figures leapt from the dark canopy – one black as night, the other shiningly pale in comparison. Marcus barely had time to raise his shield before the dark creature was upon him; the sudden weight threatened to take his feet out from under him. He braced himself against it, shoved and was rewarded with the scrape of tooth on metal and wood. His sword arm burned, though, from the swipe of a horrid claw.

“Wait!” he heard Calerio call. “We mean no harm!” A quick glance to the side showed his companion facing off with a slender elf dressed in leather armor. Wisps of shadow curled in stark contrast to the elf’s albino skin as he clutched a horrible-looking effigy made of bark, blood, and bone.

The call came too late; as Marcus watched, the shadows stretched up and over the pale elf’s hand, convalescing at his fingers and shooting forward. The darkness screamed as it barreled into them, a horrible, high-pitched monstrosity of sound that ripped through both men. For a moment, Marcus couldn’t see, couldn’t hear, and was barely aware of the hot, fresh blood that gushed from his nose, tickled over his chin, and dripped from his beard.

He shook his head to clear it, noting in his peripheral vision that Calerio had been affected by the Shadow Blast as well, but was already recovering and leveling his shield and trident at the elf. Marcus refocused on his adversary, and a momentary panic gripped him as he realized he’d lost sight of the beast.

Then, there it was again, glowing green eyes across the fire, snarling at man and flame as though both were equal enemies. The fire brought definition to the strange, smoky animal. It moved like a hound, snarled like one, and had the bulk and weight of any trained dog, but its very being seemed to waver and meld with the shadows around it.

If it wasn’t about to lunge again, Marcus might have wanted to ask questions. As it was, his arm was ready; he would meet this next lunge with a slice the creature would not soon forget.

Fortunately, it never came. With a cry, Calerio rammed into the elf, yelling “In the name of our Master Zon-Kuthon, I bid you hold!”

Wait… “our?”

At the very least, it gave Calerio the moment he’d wanted. The albino elf twitched a finger, and the strange shadow-hound backed away from Marcus, though kept its otherworldly eyes set on the man. Wide-eyed and keeping his shield raised, the younger human kept alert, breathing rapidly and spitting away the coppery-tasting blood that trailed over his mouth. He took a step toward his companion.

“You cannot claim to venerate our Midnight Lord and still violate our earth with that filth,” the elf spat, casting a revolted look towards the campfire.

Calerio considered his words a moment before speaking quietly. “Marcus, extinguish the fire.”

Marcus wanted nothing more than to question that order, but knew better, especially here and now. He carefully set about the task – tricky, when he wanted to keep his eyes on the adversaries. As he worked, he heard Calerio continue. “It was the fastest way we knew to summon one of the Shadowed faith, and our need is great.”

“Your needs are unimportant to us, little shadeling,” sneered the elf. “There is a price to pay for calling on us.”

“It is a price I agree to pay,” intoned Calerio, sheathing his sword. “Cheliax and Nidal have been allies for years. Our flames rise and give you taller shadows. And now, Cheliax needs the expertise of your sect.”

“Why should the druids of Uskwood care about what is happening in the bright lands?” scoffed the elf. Another twitch of his fingers, and the shadow-hound approached, obediently sitting at the elf’s feet.

The last, bright wisp of fire died, leaving only wood smoke and darkness behind. The green glow of the shadow hound’s eyes seemed all the brighter without the intrusive campfire. Even now, the pale skin of the elf was easily seen; he made no attempt to hide himself, and why should he?

“Because there are mysteries there whose unraveling might be of utmost interest to the Midnight Lord – and both of our courts,” Calerio answered softly.

The elf sighed. “Continue.”

Marcus breathed. Calerio’s orders had seemed crazy, but they worked.

“Recently we discovered a hollowed-out section of rock in the Menador Mountains. We thought it was just an unfortunate experiment gone wrong, or perhaps an old, weakened series of tunnels finally giving in to time, but once the debris was cleared, we discovered a strange item. A huge, porous stone, different from the stone of the mountain, twisting up into a point, like a giant stalagmite. It should have been crushed with all the other debris, but it looked…almost fresh. And it seemed to be…weeping.”

The druid stayed silent, arching pale eyebrows as he considered Calerio’s words.

“There was no place where the stone would have allowed water flow, and there’s no water source nearby, but we have seen it with our own eyes, and I swear it is weeping. Your sect specializes in the shadows and understand the natural order of things far more than we could. This thing seems to thrive in the shadows of what used to be sturdy rock. What’s more, if this weeping is magical or spiritual in nature, then none know more about suffering than the Uskwood druids.” Calerio paused, swallowed thickly, and then finished, “This discovery could be a godsend to both your masters and mine. I will pay any price you or your sect decree, in honor of our Midnight Lord. Will you help us?”

Marcus watched as the albino’s head canted to one side, as though listening to the shadows themselves. After a long stretch of silence, he nodded once. Calerio seemed relieved and seemed to breathe a little easier. “Thank you.”

“Do not thank me just yet,” came the elf’s scornful voice. “We may be traveling companions for now, but Zon-Kuthon will get his due, and you will be made to pay for each slight against him.” The elf’s long, white hair shone, waterlike, as he nodded towards the extinguished fire. His pink eyes lifted and rested on Marcus, then. “You both will.” The shadow-hound licked his chops at Marcus.

Marcus felt his stomach sink. Suddenly, he wasn’t so relieved for the mission’s success. He’d have many questions for Calerio, once they were alone – if they ever would be, again.

They wouldn’t.

About The Author

Rachael Cruz is an award-winning writer / game designer. Her TRPG work can be found in numerous properties, including but not limited to Conan: Adventures in an Age Undreamed-Of, Corvus Belli’s Infinity RPG, Dune: Adventures in the Imperium, Fantasy Age, RuneQuest, and Star Trek Adventures. She has been helping people play pretend before it was cool. She also believes in you. Yes, you. Follow her on Twitter at @Witchwater!

About Tales of Lost Omens

The Tales of Lost Omens series of web-based flash fiction provides an exciting glimpse into Pathfinder’s Age of Lost Omens setting. Written by some of the most celebrated authors in tie-in gaming fiction and including Paizo’s Pathfinder Tales line of novels and short fiction, the Tales of Lost Omens series promises to explore the characters, deities, history, locations, and organizations of the Pathfinder setting with engaging stories to inspire Game Masters and players alike.

Twice have I been born, and with each birthing, I have gained a lifelong companion. The first companion was pain, learned the moment I was freed from my mother’s womb to the sight of my “father” standing over me with a drawn blade. Lord Bhrostra introduced me to my companion daily for years, finding new excuses to beat me and new ways to remind me that I was a blight on his house. Pain surrounded me in its warm embrace when my true sire, the elf Lairsaph, shattered my knee and left me broken, a gift to the men who hunted him so that he could escape while I paid the price for his crimes. That pain made me strong, tempered me against hardship, and set my foot on the path toward my second companion: the whispers.

Trapped in a dungeon for half a decade, tortured for the crimes of my sire, the whispers comforted me. They etched arcane runes in the hallways of my mind, told me the names of beings who could impart strength beyond anything I had dreamed of, and carved maps to ancient sites rife with power just waiting to be claimed. They’ve steered me toward ever-greater power since the moment of my emancipation: a scroll here, a spellbook there, a magic blade in the hands of an unworthy warrior. Each treasure a step closer to my destiny, each foe a whetstone sharpening me for the next task.

The whispers that brought me here, to this barren wasteland of bloodstained stone between the orcish hold of Belkzen and the so-called Gravelands ruled by hungry undead. They told me that there once was a mighty black dragon named Sharzathinek who served the Whispering Tyrant and that her lair was packed with spellbooks and magical trinkets. Such treasures came from a time before the Tyrant’s mortal life, ancient magic from an era when today’s archmages would have been seen as scarcely more than street magicians. The whispers also told me that Sharzathinek was, quite conveniently, dead, slain in a battle far from her lair. Hidden in such an inhospitable place as this, perhaps the lair and its treasures have gone unnoticed, waiting to be found once more by their rightful inheritor.

---

The lair should be close now. I had to put my horse down several miles back when its hoof caught in a rocky crevice and its leg shattered. Perhaps I could have set the bone and poured a healing potion down the beast’s throat, but I have used up most of the supplies it was intended to carry, and I would prefer to keep my precious healing resources for a true emergency. The horse screamed something fierce before I ended its misery, and while the dragon whose trove I’m searching for is supposedly long dead, some other deadly creature undoubtedly hunts in these lands. Not even the orcs wander into this desolation, but something tore apart a band of ghouls just a few miles back. Something with claws, teeth, and… acid.

---

The whispers surge in my mind, reassuring me that Sharzathinek is long dead. I needed not the reassurance; a dragon as old as that one wouldn’t merely have torn the ghouls apart, its claws would have scored the stone, and its breath would have melted rock into toxic vapor. I suspect that Sharzathinek left behind a clutch of eggs or wyrmling spawn, a lesser dragon that has likely claimed its mother’s horde. I don’t fear such a lesser creature, though I’m not so foolish as to risk encountering it unprepared.

I hear the faintest beating of wings far above me in the storm-wracked sky, and I use a scroll of protective magic to ward my body and equipment against acid. My blade leaps to hand with a thought and with it an array of powerful spells. No simple sword, my blade is fused with a powerful staff whose combat spells augment my specialized array of magic.

With my body warded and weapon in hand, I scan the skies. Was that a flicker of a bat-like wing, large enough to hold a draft horse aloft? Or had my nerves simply fooled my senses? The whispers assure me it was no illusion, so I do the only thing that makes sense. I scream into the darkened skies, “Come then, beast! Come and face your better, wyrm! I have more important tasks than wasting time with you here in this gods-forsaken corner of nowhere!”

The taunt works. I hear the faint beating in the distance become a deafening hiss, like the linen sail of a great ship tearing under the force of a hurricane. Foolish creature, too consumed by its own arrogant superiority to mask its approach. As it swoops towards me, for just a moment I feel the heavy dread of dragon-fear attempting to cloud my mind, but I brush it aside. I unleash a blast of lightning from my blade, wreathing its body in crackling arcs of electricity. I hold on to that power, grasping a fraction of its potential to wreath my blade in lingering electricity. The beast spews acid as it unleashes its deadly breath, but I sidestep the worst of the blast. The few droplets that reach me fizzle and fume before being extinguished entirely by my protective wards.

As the creature’s momentum carries it past me, I step through space itself, appearing at its flank and driving my lightning-sheathed sword into its flank. It roars as the blade parts its scales and jolts of electric energy sear the exposed muscle and nerves beneath, but I’m not done yet. Stepping into the blow, I drive the blade further even as I unleash another blast of lightning. I can feel the electricity pulling my blade deeper as the monster’s body spasms uncontrollably, and I know that I have dealt it a mortal blow. Then its tail slaps me across the side of my head, sending my body twisting and tumbling.

Illustration by Miguel Regodón Harkness from Pathfinder Secrets of Magic

I woke up a few hours later with a splitting headache, my hair matted to my scalp with blood. The dragon’s body lay nearby… Headless? I may be skilled and deadly but surely my spell wasn’t that devastating. Crawling, and then walking as I regained my equilibrium, I moved next to the dragon. As I inched closer, I noticed that its head had broken through a thin layer of dirt and shale into a cavern beneath. In the darkness below, I saw the glitter of gold and gems as well as the occasional reflective silver of weapons and armor when a line of lightning cut through the sky above. Good thing I brought some rope.

About The Author

Michael Sayre is a designer at Paizo who previously worked on the Organized Play team. He’s also a prolific freelancer, having contributed to numerous Paizo books and publications from other publishers, such as Lost Spheres Publishing, Rogue Genius Games, and many other companies in support of the Pathfinder RPG and other table-top game systems. You can find more of Michael's short fiction in our Organized Play blogs and in the introduction for the iconic alchemist, Fumbus.

About Iconic Encounters

Iconic Encounters is a series of web-based flash fiction set in the worlds of Pathfinder and Starfinder. Each short story provides a glimpse into the life and personality of one of the games’ iconic characters, showing the myriad stories of adventure and excitement players can tell with the Pathfinder and Starfinder roleplaying games.

Nkayah yawned from her post in the tall tree. The job of scouting and protecting wanderers was always more exciting on the move. On the move, she had to stay on her toes, taking silent cover behind trees or climbing into the jungle canopy to maintain line of sight with the strangers and visitors who passed through Ekujae lands. She lived for the silent chase as she assessed outsiders’ motivations. For over a century and a half, Nkayah had ensured non-Mwangi travelers posed no threat to the Ekujae, and that they didn’t release any of the myriad evils trapped within the heart of the jungle—intentionally or not.

It was an important job that Nkayah took with the seriousness it deserved, but it could also be incredibly boring. Like right now, as she strained to keep from nodding off while watching two foreigners talk about, well, something. It didn’t help that the dwarf and half-orc interlopers spoke a language completely foreign to her. It sounded similar to the Avistani language the Aspis Consortium agents from Bloodcove spoke when they needed to hide their awful deeds, but she had no linguistic training to confirm it. Despite not knowing what they were saying, the experience she’d earned over decades of training made her confident that their intent wasn’t malicious. But they were stumbling—loudly—through a very ancient Serpentfolk ruin, and that meant that they still posed a threat.

She strained her jaw as she stifled a yawn and adjusted her position to ensure she didn’t get too comfortable. A wilderness nap could wait until the pair of foreigners moved beyond her territory and became someone else’s responsibility. Whatever they sought, the longer they spent out in the open like this, the longer they were in danger of needing more than just surveillance. Sometimes it helped to remember that even these boring parts of the job ultimately kept the innocent and defenseless wanderers of their lands safe, as well as protecting her people and the world at large.

The dwarf and her half-orc companion let out a series of surprised shouts, snapping Nkayah’s attention back to the moment. Doubtless, she wasn’t the only one in the area reminded of the visitors’ presence by their arguing. They seemed at odds about what to make of one particular section of the ruin, a strange stone that Nkayah had never noticed here before. Perhaps the situation wasn’t quite as boring as she’d thought!

She scurried from branch to bough, until she found herself balanced on a long, lonely limb directly over the foreigners. She was close to them, no more than ten feet above the half-orc’s head, so they could easily see her if they looked up, but they were too engrossed in the strange stone formation. As long as she didn’t draw their gaze, they wouldn’t be looking up any tiem soon.

The formation was a cone of rough stone, nearly seven feet from base to point, that rose like an incisor from the ground. It wasn’t worked stone like the rest of the Serpentfolk ruin, and it lacked the ophidian motifs and iconography that denoted the ancient Ydersian structures for what they were. This looked both organic and completely at odds with the natural order, and it was no wonder it had so grasped the visitors’ attention. The dwarf held her hand a few inches from the stalactite’s surface, but didn’t touch it, as though sensing for an aura of evil.

No, she wasn’t feeling an aura, but rather a steady stream of frigid air blowing from the stone’s otherwise smooth surface. Now that she recognized it, Nkayah could feel the steady airflow herself, and even at this distance. The chill made the skin on her arms prickle with gooseflesh. This certainly warranted more investigation, but she had to focus on her charges—the dwarf and the half-orc, not the ruin, which she’d be able to come back to once the pair no longer presented a threat. And the louder they got, the greater that threat grew.

Doubtless, her counterparts from nearby were already on their way to see what the fuss was about. Nhayah shook her head and loosened the harness holding her weapons to her body. This was going to get worse before it got better.

Her instincts proved accurate when the sound of arrows in flight drew her attention away from the outsiders and toward the edge of the ruins. She wasn’t the only Ekujae in the area anymore.

The dwarf and half-orc were still loudly arguing about the cold stone tooth. They hadn’t noticed the arrival of Nkayah’s kin, and she knew they wouldn’t hear her either as she skittered effortlessly away, mere feet above their heads. Without losing sight of the foreign travelers, Nhayah darted in towards the site of the arrows’ impact.

It didn’t take long to find one, embedded into the trunk of a gnarled tree: a darkwood arrow with dull gray fletching, clearly Ekujae-made. If she were on the ground, it would be at eye-level, meaning whatever they were shooting at was not terribly large. As she dropped down and pulled the arrow out to inspect it, her teeth clenched instinctively. Nkayah glanced at her surroundings to locate the arrow’s source, but knew her compatriots were as good at remaining unseen as she was. She’d see them when they wanted to be seen, just as they likely didn’t know she was there until she revealed herself.

The arrowhead was tipped with cold iron, finely sharpened, and faintly tingling with magical energy that pulsed lightly into her fingertips. Though the spell was no longer active, she knew what its presence meant.

“Demons” she hissed, still too soft for her charges to hear, even if they weren’t now yards away and engrossed in their investigation. She wished she could scream at them. Leave it alone, you fools. Leave our lands and stop meddling in things you don’t understand!

She pulled her bow from her back and swung back up into the branches with her free arm. She moved swiftly back to her spot where she’d previously kept watch and aimed her bow across the clearing in the direction she knew this threat would come from. She hadn’t yet determined whether the demon was somehow tied to the cold-air stone or simply drawn to the site by the outsiders, but regardless, the pair didn’t deserve to die at the claws of a vicious demon just because they were loud.

The underbrush rustled as the threat approached, and she notched a cold iron arrow of her own. A hulking form, only partially visible through the jungle’s dense foliage, emerged. She fired. The arrow flew true, and the dark form hissed as its iron head burned across its demonic body. The dwarf and her companion, suddenly aware that they weren’t alone in the ruins, stared, paralyzed with fear, and barely mustered the strength to look up and see Nkayah above them, fearless, with another arrow at the ready. She released the bowstring; the arrow flew and then… darkness.

She cursed as she dropped from the tree, racing for where her charges once stood, but could not find them in the darkness. The cool, constant airflow from the stone tooth let her know where it stood, where the dwarf and half-orc had been a moment before. She listened for their voices, but they were either too scared to scream or already lost. Then, her ears caught other voices, two of them, in her own tongue.

“Hunters!” she called back in kind. “Speak again so that I may find you. I am a scout. I can navigate to you in this darkness.”

The elves obeyed and signaled to her in hushed tones, somewhere off to her left. She made her way to them, slowly, not wanting to injure herself on a bit of the ruin she could not see. It took some time but finally, she connected with another form. The other thankfully stood firmly despite the collision.

“I am Nkayah of the Bat Clan. My mother was of the Hawk Clan. You’re demon hunters?”

The erratic sound of the others’ steps told her they were fumbling in the dark. “I am Kayoye,” the voice to her right began, “of the Velociraptor Clan. My mother is of the Gecko clan, and we hunt all forms of evil in this jungle. Today’s prey just happened to be a demon.”

“And I am Dafiyi, also of the Velociraptor Clan. My mother is of the Python clan. The darkness should wear off shortly. This is not its first attempt to escape us today.”

Nkayah sighed. Waiting without being able to see anything at all was incredibly frustrating, but she stood alert, with a firm grasp on her bow and an arrow at the ready. Soon, the demon’s magical cloak of darkness disappeared as swiftly as it had descended, and the dim, green-tinted light of the sun through jungle canopy flooded her sight. Finally able to see, the elves clustered together, back-to-back, and notched arrows, centuries of experience between them allowing the trio to work seamlessly as a defensive unit despite just meeting moments earlier. They rotated clockwise, six sharp eyes and six keen ears scanning the jungle from leaf-strewn floor to branch-woven canopy for any threat. The demon was gone, and no trace of the dwarf and the half-orc remained.

Nkayah cursed and kicked a piece of rubble. She rolled the events of the past few minutes over in her head: the serpentfolk ruins, the new-yet-ancient otherworldly stalactite, the demon, and the demon hunters now flanking her.

It was a coincidence. The cold-blowing stone and the demon were unrelated. That made things more interesting, perhaps, but also more complicated.

Dafiyi stared at the ground in concentration and muttered an incantation to himself, then pointed to the east. “Kayoye and I still have a demon to kill. We found it before, and we’ll find it again. And you?”

Nkayah surveyed the trees around her, searching for an answer. It came to her in the form of two familiar voices yelling in distress. The dwarf and half-orc were still alive!

She nodded to her kin and smirked, “Sounds like I still have two charges that need my protection, and what do you know? They seem to be in the same direction! I’ll have to return to check on that later.” She tilted her head toward the mysterious stone amid the ruins.

Swiftly and silently, she made her way through the dense jungle toward the frantic voices to the east. Dafiyi and Kayoye fell into step just behind her. This was more like it, she thought to herself. The job of protecting wanderers was always more exciting on the move.

About The Author

Isis Wozniakowska is a budding TTRPG writer, though she has been writing fantasy short stories since third grade. Her previous work includes Starfinder Society Scenario #3-21: Frozen Ambitions: Renewal’s Blight and contributions to Pathfinder Secrets of Magic. You can find her on Twitter at @wozenstein, provided you don’t mind seeing a lot of retweets from her favorite video game series.

About Tales of Lost Omens

The Tales of Lost Omens series of web-based flash fiction provides an exciting glimpse into Pathfinder’s Age of Lost Omens setting. Written by some of the most celebrated authors in tie-in gaming fiction and including Paizo’s Pathfinder Tales line of novels and short fiction, the Tales of Lost Omens series promises to explore the characters, deities, history, locations, and organizations of the Pathfinder setting with engaging stories to inspire Game Masters and players alike.

That morning, several survey teams landed on the planet—which scientists back in the Pact Worlds had named Weydana-4—and began taking samples of the soil, the plants, and just about everything they could get their hands on. Long-distance scans had revealed that the planet had a breathable atmosphere, normal weather patterns, and an abundance of flora and fauna, but the corporate sponsors wanted everything double-checked firsthand and in advance of the hundreds of settlers that would soon be arriving.

But Lixette de Courtois was born and raised on Absalom Station, and though she spent years studying newly discovered planets like this one from afar, this was her first time setting foot on one. And she didn’t want to spend it scrounging through the dirt. When Zheffori, a biologist from Castrovel, shouted in excitement after finding a pile of hardened droppings from some unknown animal, Lixette muttered an excuse of “getting a better vantage point,” put her datapad on a crate, and climbed the nearby rise.

Her boots swished through the tall grass as she stepped out from the shade of several blue-leafed trees. The sun warmed her face as she fixed her gaze on the cloud-topped mountain range in the distance. Somewhere, a bird chirped. She took a deep breath of clean, sweet-smelling air and smiled.

“I could get used to this,” she mused. The bird continued to sing, but Lixette couldn’t really say whether or not it did so in response to her.

Lixette began to stroll along the top of the ridge until she caught the scent of something sweet. She stopped where the ground to her left became a sheer cliff. Approximately 150 feet below, an array of brightly colored flowers sprouted from a sprawling bush. Thick vines clung to the cliff face and reached all the way to the top, and vibrant blooms adorned these vines, providing the source of the fragrance. She squatted down to pluck one of the flowers, eager to bring it right under her nostrils for a good, long sniff.

Suddenly, the vine shot up and wrapped around her wrist.

Lixette let out a surprised shout. Again, the bird tweeted. Lixette was starting to think it was mocking her.

She pulled against the vine, but it held strong. Much stronger than it had any right to be. As it pulled her arm downward, Lixette lost her balance and fell to her knees at the edge of the cliff. A dislodged pebble tumbled into the empty space and soon landed quietly in the bush below, which prompted some kind of reaction from the plant; its leaves and branches parted—like an opening mouth, Lixette thought—to reveal a collection of jagged rocks. Even from a distance, Lixette could see them stained with blood. The sun glinted off something white nestled within the stones: the bones of several small creatures.

Lixette couldn’t help but be a little impressed at millennia of evolution that would produce such a unique feeding method. “Oh, you devious…,” she muttered while struggling against the vine trying to yank her over the edge. Its pull was insistent, and if she had been much smaller, Lixette would have already been dashed against the rocks below, her blood seeping into the soil to water this carnivorous plant’s roots.

Looking down, she saw another vine slithering its way toward her. If she didn’t free herself soon, her size wouldn’t save her. Lixette cried out for help, hoping someone from the survey team was near enough to hear her, but there was no immediate response. Even the bird had fallen silent. Traitor, Lixette thought.

The vine had now dragged her hand below the top of the cliff, and Lixette strained to keep her balance. She regretted not bringing anything to defend herself, but the bigwigs that sent her didn’t expect her to be traipsing off on her own. She had flaunted the protocols, and she would pay for it with her life. Lixette started to desperately pat down her jumpsuit with her free hand, hoping beyond hope that she had something—anything—that could save her.

She almost missed it at first: a thin cylinder of plastic. It was the stylus she had been using to enter observations on her datapad earlier. She must have absentmindedly slipped it into her left-hand pocket earlier. With a triumphant cry, Lixette pulled the stylus out and plunged it deep into the vine. The plant reflexively spasmed slightly, just enough to loosen its grip on her wrist. She pulled herself away from the edge of the cliff, muddying the backside of her jumpsuit in the process. The vine flopped onto the ground, the stylus still jutting out like a strange, plastic thorn, before it slid down and out of sight.

Lixette stood up and started to wipe the dirt off her legs but then thought better of it. She brushed a lock of sweaty hair off her forehead and suddenly let out a choked whimper of relief. The bird began to chirp again, as if nature was releasing its held breath. In a forgiving mood, Lixette smiled in the general direction of the birdsong.

As she walked back down the rise to the rest of her team, Lixette realized she had never felt more alive. Perhaps it was just the adrenaline of a near-death experience, but she had a spring in her step and a new purpose dawning in her mind.

Upon her return, Zheffori said, “Lix, where’d you go? Are you ok? You look a little… flushed.”

“Never better!” she replied.

“Okay then. Well, we’re all heading back to the shuttle, so get your last looks in for today.”

Lixette smiled, knowing that once they got back in orbit, she’d be requesting a seat on one of those colony ships. “This place hasn’t seen the last of me.”

About The Author

Jason Keeley is a Development Manager at Paizo, supervising the Starfinder development team and working primarily on the Starfinder Adventure Path line. His work has appeared in all sorts of products, from adventures to supplements to short stories written for Paizo and many other RPG companies. You can find him (and pictures of his dog) on Twitter at @herzwesten, and also listen for him on Know Direction’s Adventurous podcast series!

About Horizons of the Vast

Horizons of the Vast, a six-chapter Starfinder Adventure Path campaign, tells an epic tale of space exploration, allowing gamers everywhere to settle a mysterious planet and forge a civilization in their harsh new home. As part of a massive effort to explore and develop an uninhabited planet full of valuable resources, the heroes are placed in control of a settlement and must deal with challenges from both within and without. Far from home, can the heroes establish a thriving community and survive the uncharted system’s terrible secrets and mysteries?

“…and from the village of Mua’bri, I bear an earthenware cauldron, banded in lightning and dusted with gold, that the potters of the village bequeath to your majesty so that their work might be remembered forever...”

Kwibha listened to the First Speaker of the Dragon Wardens with one ear, his attention more focused on keeping warm. By tradition, these yearly negotiations were hold on this flat mountaintop just across the valley from the city of Cloudspire, the air so cold that Kwibha’s breath misted forth with every heartbeat. His late sister Jhirabi, who’d been training to be a Dragon Warden, said the location actually had been chosen because there were few other places where one could treat with a half-dozen dragons, but Kwibha would never be so crass as to say so out loud.

“…my rain-child’s third daughter is ready to leave the nest. It is time for her to have a territory of her own, a hoard and home atop a good tree. Do they still have that lightning-struck tree outside of Mua’bri…?”

For a moment, Kwibha envisioned a group of stout dwarven farmers, dour-faced and heavily armed, accompanied by a whimsical fledgling dragon the size of a sheep. The farmers would likely be more dangerous. Still, one had to start somewhere, and it was upon these formalized exchanges of gifts, territories, and protection that the partnership of dwarf and cloud dragon had been built.

Illustration by Maichol Quinto from Pathfinder Lost Omens The Mwangi Expanse

Another hour passed, then a second and third, and Kwibha felt the frost harden on the white scarf around his neck. Snow crunched underfoot as he shifted his weight, and still the dragons and the First Speaker of the Dragon Wardens continued their talks. Kwibha cast a sidelong glance at the First Speaker—Jhirabi had said they were chosen for endurance as well as diplomacy.

And then it was time.

“Noble kings,” the First Speaker said, for all dragons are accorded the title of kings, “I present to you Second Speaker Kwibha of the Bloodmarked.”

That was Kwibha’s cue. The dwarf strode forward, marshalling every scrap of dignity he possessed. To any other dwarf, Kwibha was a person of note, with his gold-embroidered kaftan of cashmere, amber-hilted sword, and the scarlet ribbon tied about his brow. The dragons, Kwibha fervently hoped, would be equally impressed.

“Noble kings of sky and cloud, revered ancestors of the storm, you whose wrath is lightning and whose mercy is the rain after a long drought,” Kwibha’s voice echoed off the mountaintops, finely pitched to carry to the great beings clustered before him, “I come bearing an offer from King Thabsing of K’Lereng, called the Blood-Eye.”

“And what is this offer, Second Speaker?” one of the dragons whispered with a voice like the mist, soft yet inescapable. “We have heard his plans of war before and have little interest in them.”

“Today, he proposes not war, but justice, not battle, but execution,” Kwibha said smoothly. He held out a single hand in the traditional orator’s pose. “Know this, noble kings. On the last day of the dry season, in the pirate city of Bloodcove where they celebrate the Tempest Day, there will be a great auction of treasures taken from the drowned land of Lirgen. Most of the Pirate Council of the Shackles plans to attend, and we’ve heard that the Hurricane Queen herself, Tessa Fairwind, shall be present.”

“And how do you know this thing will happen, Second Speaker?” another cloud dragon asked in a voice that thundered across the mountaintop, causing drifts of snow to become tiny avalanches.

Kwibha hoped they would ask him this. With a great flourish, he swept his arm out and bowed genteelly to the assembled wyrms. “I know this, noble kings, for I shall conduct the auction myself.”

This caught the dragons’ attention—and the attention of the Dragon Wardens, for that matter. Kwibha allowed himself a small smile. It had taken nearly two years to make the proper introductions, to pass himself from one pirate to the next in that stinking city. King Thabsing had provided the Lirgeni artifacts, from where it was not entirely clear, but it was Kwibha’s work that had brought this day about. Bloodcove was a very different place from the orderly, harmonious citadel of Cloudspire, a place of violence, greed, and broken oaths, but dwarves lived there as well. Buyers, mostly, to purchase the pirates’ stolen goods and send them back to the Mbe’ke, but a few disgraced sellers as well, who would trade with the Mbe’ke’s enemies. Kwibha had pretended to be one such, and he didn’t know if he’d ever feel properly clean again.

“The Free Captains are no fools, and they will expect treachery,” Kwibha continued in the ensuing silence. “But they will expect it from each other or myself. Their ships will be moored at harbor, their sailors carousing, their lieutenants and weather-wizards accompanying their captains for protection. The vessels will be virtually defenseless in the face of a sudden storm, honored lords of lightning,” Kwibha paused, before adding the final bait, “and they will be heavily laden with loot from a season’s successful piracy.”

“Your words intrigue, Second Speaker,” said the senior-most dragon in a voice crackling with frost. “We will weigh them and give an answer in three day’s time.”

“A question, Emissary of the Bloodmarked,” a younger dragon said, leaning forward such that Kwibha could see the new scars on their horn, “Your king’s plan will destroy the ships, but what of the pirates themselves?”

“A pirate without a ship, honored king, is like a turtle without a shell,” said Kwibha, his smile colder than the snow of the mountain. “With the Pirate Council trapped in Bloodcove, it will be a simple matter for King Thabsing to march his armies down from the mountains and take the city. And then we will try them, and we will sentence them, and we will hang these corsairs from every tree and doorpost.”

And then, Jhirabi, you will finally be avenged.

About The Author

Mikhail Rekun is a Russian-American historian, educator, and author. Previous works include Lost Omens Mwangi Expanse, Lost Omens Legends, Pathfinder Society Scenario 1–15: Blooming Catastrophe, Pathfinder Society Scenario 2–8: Frosty Mug, and How Russia Lost Bulgaria, 1878-1886: Empire Unguided. One of these things is not like the others. He is also the creative director of the Luminant Age project, a Weird Fantasy Swashbuckler campaign setting for PF2, with vampire anteater dogs and invisible owl-tigers. You can learn more about at https://twitter.com/LuminantA, and keep an eye out for our next Kickstarter.

About Tales of Lost Omens

The Tales of Lost Omens series of web-based flash fiction provides an exciting glimpse into Pathfinder’s Age of Lost Omens setting. Written by some of the most celebrated authors in tie-in gaming fiction, including Paizo’s Pathfinder Tales line of novels and short fiction, the Tales of Lost Omens series promises to explore the characters, deities, history, locations, and organizations of the Pathfinder setting with engaging stories to inspire Game Masters and players alike.

From low atmospheric orbit, the crashed starship could have easily been mistaken for some great beast, slain in the heat of battle. Its trajectory had cut a fiery and destructive swathe through thick jungle, and here and there small bits of flame still licked at the foliage, the steaming soil smoldering from the heat of the starship’s unexpected collision, ending at its broken corpse. The hull had been nearly rent in two upon impact, and shorn wiring, ducting, loose crates, and coolant spilled from within like mechanical viscera.

As the day bled into twilight, from within the darkness of the starship’s carcass, a life pod beeped rapidly. Kasa took a pained gasp as she regained consciousness. She moved stiffly, feeling the distant ache of what might have been a grievous injury. The life pod had flooded her system with medical stabilizers, a failsafe to ensure functionality in the event of a crash. As Kasa’s mental defenses churned into place, laced with the glittering edge of the medical stimulant’s side-effects, she knew somehow that things couldn’t possibly get much worse.

For a while, she lay in the coffin-snug pod that had saved her life, her breath loud and metallic, her ears straining to hear anything beyond from the stillness of her tight confinement. Wherever the ship had made planetfall, she was likely safest in the life pod for the time being. Kasa’s mind raced. Her eyes grew bleary with the threat of tears as panic took hold in the illogical part of her brain. She blinked them away, taking a deep breath and slowly counting objects within her view, a tool she adopted long ago to help regain her composure when stressed. She was a scientist, first and foremost, and that meant shedding fear of the unknown by making it known.

With a grunt, Kasa found the panel along the wall near her thigh, fingertips gliding over the interface to release the magnetic locks. The life pod’s lid slid aside with a hiss, and she gingerly hauled herself over the lip and waited for her vision to adjust to the darkness of the life support chamber. Blinking as shapes came into sharper focus, the shadows slowly brightening to shades of illuminated gray, Kasa made her way aft, stealing glances at the other life pods, all empty or crushed, she noted with dismay.

As a scientist, she hadn’t been needed on the bridge and thus had no idea where in the universe they—no, it was only she who remained—could be. She knew, as the silence of isolation stretched ever onward during her tentative search, that anybody who could answer such a question had been killed in the impact. What magic or science could divine her location and see to her rescue was lost for now. Perhaps even for good.

It took her the better part of an hour to dig through the med-bay, salvaging what stimulant packs she could find. The armory had survived the crash, as had its door, which remained barred to her without proper authorization. Kasa stared at the flickering interface, which flashed warnings and reported on various system malfunctions that could be distilled into a single message: without brute force or proper authorization overrides, she would find no weapons here.

That first night under alien stars, she was fitful and skittish. Several times she nodded off, until fear exhausted her and she shut her eyes out of necessity.

Dawn came on suddenly, and Kasa was reminded that this world, its atmosphere, its sun—or suns—were all variables in the new problem that unfolded before her. She blinked wearily as her dry, exhausted eyes pricked in the alien air. With a grunt, she unfurled herself from her crouch, stretching and shouldering her pack. If the shuttle bay was intact, there was bound to be something working. She rationalized that it had to be so; no circumstances could be so dire, after all. Unfortunately, her path to the shuttle bay was too obstructed for her to climb through, and she realized she would finally have to go outside and see if another path presented itself. She backtracked but found that the only way out would be up, through the ship’s now-open overhead. Beyond, she could only see the forest canopy, still but for the occasional rustle of leaves, the cries of unfamiliar fauna.

Grimly, Kasa began her ascent, using the ship’s exposed wiring to haul herself up and onto the outer hull. It was a great effort, and had any been there to witness her summit, they would have found her sprawled across the sun-warmed hull, catching her breath before she finally sitting up to look around.

All around her was dense, writhing jungle: trees as tall as towers, with thick, obdurate vines crawling possessively around their trunks and boasting vivid blossoms with pollen-rich stamen. Try as she might to place the flora around her, nothing in the catalogue of her mind recalled even the slightest comfort of familiarity. She shielded her eyes against the harsh glare of the sunlight that beat through the treetops and discerned, just barely visible through the overgrowth, a trail. It may have been abandoned, but a trail meant this place was once inhabited, and that would suffice.

Fear of the unknown gave way to Kasa’s inherent curiosity, and she picked a path along the curve of the ship’s hull toward the shuttle bay. Much of the vessel had broken apart in the crash, and she made short work of climbing down into the massive bay. The collapsed half of the starboard bulkhead had taken all but one of the three Explorer vehicles with it, but the remaining Explorer sat almost pristine, save for a single crack along the window shielding. Kasa let herself smile at the first good news she’d had since waking up.

Illustration by Victor Manuel Leza Moreno from Starfinder Galaxy Exploration Manual

Kasa ripped through the jungle in the Explorer for hours, following the ancient overgrown path. She took her time, checking for signs of intelligent life, and for a while she thought all she would find would be jungle. But then the path opened into a wider avenue; not quite paved, but clearly marked by the deliberate imprint of civilization. She brought the Explorer to a halt, peering through the windows to see jungle give way to more deliberate architecture. This ruin, though empty of all life, was the surest sign of someone having lived here. Kasa popped the hatch and climbed out of the vehicle to have a look around.

Whatever else this was, it was a discovery—one that none but the forgotten ghosts of those who once called this place home would bear witness. Kasa lamented not being able to salvage her research equipment as she stood in the clearing, taking in the moss-draped, domed towers like ancient mushrooms and arched doorways that stood like portals to another world, waiting to be opened. Though the ruin had collapsed around them, surrendering to the jungle, these remained, all seemingly built for beings much larger than she.

“Giants?” She wondered incredulously, her first word in hours, voice dry and reedy from disuse. She turned a slow circuit, once again frowning at her inability to recognize any of the architecture, its design at once ancient but still entirely too alien for her to get even an echo of familiarity from it. Something about the jungle here was quieter, as if the order once imposed upon it still lingered, beating back all save the hapless moss that crawled along the ancient stone. She soon saw why.

The thing—the monolith—was massive, jutting from the ground like a spear, and indeed was so anachronistic in comparison to its surroundings that Kasa wondered how it wasn’t the first thing she noticed. It was metal of some kind, she could tell from first glance, emanating soft blue light from the markings along its surface. Unlike the rest of the structures, it didn’t seem to warp to the ruinous touch of time, and the vines of the jungle barely forayed onto its massive base, as if the jungle itself were hesitant to claim the invasive structure. Kasa craned her neck to peer upward. Its length seemed to vanish beyond the forest canopy, bathing her in its light.

Tentatively, she raised a hand, reaching out toward it. Perhaps it was an interface, albeit an ancient one. There could be no harm in a simple touch.

There was a sudden rustle, and bursting from the copse of trees beyond the ruin came several avian-simian creatures, taking wing in unison. Fleeing.

Kasa took one more glance at the monolith, rummaging in her pack for a datapad she’d salvaged from the wreckage. The device flashed cheerful yellow warnings that there was no communications node available for outside access, but she could still use the local capabilities. She did her best to scan and document the relic before her, sweat prickling the nape of her neck as she began to realize that she was no longer alone in the ruins, and that whoever—or whatever—had sent the creatures into startled flight would be upon her soon.

She turned, backing up to the monolith, the security of its solidity offering her the only comfort and protection she could find in this alien world. With her head against it, she could hear it thrumming—a faint, rhythmic buzzing that seemed to come from deep underground, wherever the spire’s roots held it firm to the jungle floor. Beyond that sound, Kasa heard and saw nothing. The alien creatures had fled, leaving her alone with the monolith.

As suddenly as lightning, the thrumming stopped, and in its place—in her mind—Kasa heard, felt, a high-pitched shriek. There were words in the cry, or the feeling, the meaning, behind words.

“Help us,” they pled. “Help us, Kasa! Free us…before it returns.”

About the Author

Hajara Mahmud is a bard of many talents, including that of a professional musician and dancer. They hold a degree in English and Creative Writing, with a concentration in fiction, and have been published in the University of Michigan Press’ textbook, A Tumblr Book: Platform & Cultures as a contributing essayist. Hajara believes there is no greater freedom than the potential of a good story that’s yet to be told and finds that joy at the crossroads of their two greatest loves: good food and the comforting potential of a blank Scrivener document. They can be found in the chattering void known as Twitter: @dajiruhu.

About Tales from the Drift

The Tales from the Drift series of web-based flash fiction provides an exciting glimpse into the setting of the Starfinder Roleplaying Game. Written by members of the Starfinder development team and some of the most celebrated authors in tie-in gaming fiction, the Tales from the Drift series promises to explore the worlds, alien cultures, deities, history, and organizations of the Starfinder setting with engaging stories to inspire Game Masters and players alike.

Jiella, don’t run! It’s me, your sister! Come, listen. I’ve only an ounce of time.

First of all, why are you out here in the streets? Is it not time for your lessons? Taking after me, now, are we? Never mind!

Don’t cover your ears, sister. The aftermath of a revolution is a wonderfully loud thing. Look! That was Prince Haliad’s statue crashing to the ground. I think I see Bapa with those farmers dragging its ugly stone head to that catapult we stole. I hope they fling it at that stubborn pirate schooner that hasn’t taken the hint to leave port. There’s no way Anthusis will let them land on its shores.

Illustration by Maichol Quinto from Pathfinder Lost Omens The Mwangi Expanse

What are you doing out here alone? Don’t get me wrong—I’m excited to see you amidst all this! Seeing that old statue fall in front of the embassy is a splendid reason to skip your studies. This is history in the making, sister! Let it fill your senses; a book won’t give you the same gift as these liberated streets. But how did you slip past Mielle? I know she’s gotten older, but with each year her senses have only sharpened—the old panther. Tell me how you escaped, and don’t say you learned it from me! I could never slip her gaze, and I’ve the welts to prove it.

Do you like my outfit? In truth it’s a bit Chelish for my taste, but it moves much better than what I left home with. When I have time, I’ll make use of Mielle’s needlepoint lessons and fashion something more reminiscent of home.

I don’t look like a Free Captain’s cohort, Jiella! Only a Firebrand would wear colors this loud, and this city could take more than a few cues from our fashion sense! I’d bet Bapa’s skiff that you’ve never even seen those privateers up close. I’ve had to cut through two of them in the past month.

Where did I get the sword? Promise you won’t tell—else I’ll never be able to come home! It belonged to Mama. I don’t know why she had it; all those diplomacies to nowhere she conducted in our living room could have been cut much shorter with this. It felt heavy at first, but after a couple months fighting on these shackled seas, my arm feels incomplete without it. That stain on my sleeve? It’s just a bit of wine. I may need a wash it—don’t give me that look, Jie!

Were Mama and Bapa home when you slipped out? There are some articles I’ve meant to procure from my room now that things have started to settle.

Mielle has been preparing full meals every night since the Hurricane Queen faffed off to the other side of Desperation Bay? I’ll have to stop home and grab a bottle of her kremas to share with my ship. It’s requisite for a Firebrand to know how to share—and the old panther owes me more than one drink for her rigor. Let’s get you home so I can collect my libationary toll.

You wear these clothes much better than I did. Most outfits suit me better after they’ve been thoroughly sea-bitten. I see that you’ve been eating well—as Mama and Bapa told you to, no doubt. I assume they give my share to you now that I’ve been gone a season. It seems like you’ve grown a half-foot! I bet you’ll be taller than me by year’s end.

I don’t mean to make them worry, you know. I just never fit what they needed. It’s embarrassing how much better you are with words than I was at your age. I think they can see that you fit them better, too. I hope they miss me. I miss them. I’ve been thinking of them a lot—and you, of course. I see you snuck out of your window to see what the crash was! You’re more like me than I thought. I’m a bad influence on you, Jiella! Let me boost you back up. I’ll be right behind you. Once we’re inside, give me for a moment to track down Mielle’s kremas stock—if she’s made multiple batches, she won’t be too upset if one of them goes missing.

May I fashion your hair like we used to do together? I’ve been working on a new style for the times; twelve braids fashioned like a crown: one for each month from now to keep Vidrian autonomous. If Mama asks who did your hair, just deflect with that. I’m sure she’ll appreciate the idea. I have a message for her and Bapa, too. They can’t trust the ‘Independent’ Banks of Vidrian, even if they can trust Mandla Dube. Please pass this onto them and say it came from the Vane—they’ll take it more seriously than from me.

I must go now, sister, but take this turquoise comb for your new crown. With it, you’ll look almost as dashing as me! In a few years, Mama and Bapa will want you with them in the Vidric Council—and you should join them when that time comes. Don’t forget about the streets, though! Look around, there’s so much to rebuild and replace. New homes to be made, new stores to spread the wealth, new dishes to define the taste of Vidrian as its own. No idols are going to show our nation the way forward, whether they’re deities or nobles, but our community can figure it out together. When the council dissolves into noise, go somewhere else to cut through it. Don’t fight, but be like a sword. Leave the sharp stuff to me as you rebuild this place. I’ll be in step with you—but first, I’m off to Smuggler’s Shiv to procure a donation to our new nation. Crying isn’t going to keep me from leaving! I’ll be back again before you know it. And not as one of that isle’s specters.

I love you, Jiella—Mama and Bapa, too. They’ll approve of my course in due time—and they’ll let you set yours. For now, you should listen to them. Eventually, they’ll see how much the future needs my blade and your words.
So don’t cry too long. I’m not dead yet.

About The Author

Jabari Weathers is an illustrator, writer, and tabletop role-playing game designer. They might also be a fey creature from beyond the veil, doing freelance work in this mortal realm to keep up the glamour hiding them from their pursuers. You, too, can help them continue this evasion by checking out their work in the Lost Omens Mwangi Expanse sourcebook, Van Richten’s Guide to Ravenloft, and other assorted works containing their words. Additionally, you may glean their illustration work at Goblinprincete.com, or on Instagram at Jmwillustration. Finally, if you want to confirm that they are, in fact, real, follow them on Twitter @goblinprincete. With patience, you will have your proof.

About Tales of Lost Omens

The Tales of Lost Omens series of web-based flash fiction provides an exciting glimpse into Pathfinder’s Age of Lost Omens setting. Written by some of the most celebrated authors in tie-in gaming fiction, including Paizo’s Pathfinder Tales line of novels and short fiction, the Tales of Lost Omens series promises to explore the characters, deities, history, locations, and organizations of the Pathfinder setting with engaging stories to inspire Game Masters and players alike.

“Are you lost, child?”

Hioba stared up at the golden leaves and the large golden trunk of one of Forest Agoyben’s famed Crackling Trees. The voice startled her, and she spun to face it. A small but powerful woman whose face she could not fully see in the shadows leaned against a tree a dozen paces away.

“I’m... uh, no. Actually, I was here to study these trees. You see, I am a student at the Magaambya and—”

“And you thought you’d learn something about these trees that might just explode out of nowhere?”

“Yes.” Hioba again marveled at the tree before her. The trunk had the same luster as actual gold and felt almost metallic when she touched it. She’d heard about it in school, but it seemed impossible to imagine such a hearty tree would simply... break.

The woman nodded. “Knowledge is good, but experience is truth. You know how the trees came to develop their ailment, yes? They taught you that at school?” The woman came closer but still hid most of her features in the forest’s shadows, where the light failed to penetrate fully. Hioba opened her mouth but stopped when the woman raised her hand.

“What they don’t teach you is this: Agohbindi the Splintering Child emerged from under the Vanji River twice as tall as that tree you’ve been staring at for the last hour.” Hioba leaned back, hands on hips, trying to envision the scale of the monster.

“It rose from the river and grasped its way to the sky. It had a beetle’s iridescent carapace but the hungering face and maw of a fiend. Its pincers could crush several blocks of Nantambu’s splendid buildings. It sought a meal and Nantambu was the closest, tastiest dish it was likely to find.

“Rovagug’s murderous progeny crashed through the forest. The Tempest-Sun Mages almost learned of the threat too late. Lucky for them a Magaambya student just like yourself tended to his herbal studies and witnessed the beginning of Agohbindi’s rampage. He sent a message to companions nearer to the city who relayed to the Tempest-Sun Mages what occurred.”

The woman paused. “Are you taking notes, my child? You are receiving quite the education here.” Hioba snatched a quill and her scroll from her pack and started writing. The woman chuckled and continued.

“Fewer than a dozen Tempest-Sun Mages responded, confident in their abilities, just as Azure Leopard had taught them to be. At first their confidence seemed well placed! Their first battle ritual created a storm, pulling the lightning out of the clouds and hurling it at Agohbindi. The gigantic bolt of electricity cleaved the Spawn of Rovagug cleanly in half.

“The mages congratulated each other for the quick victory, but their celebration was cut short, for the two halves of the beast’s foul body instantly formed into two smaller but identical versions of Agohbindi. The mages hurled bolt after bolt from their battle circle. Each bolt split its target in slightly smaller versions of the original spawn until they could get no smaller, at which point they simply continued to multiply.

“The last act that group performed was sending a magical message to Azure Leopard and Old-Mage Jatembe, a plea for help. Then the teeth and magic of a thousand Agohbindis overwhelmed them.”

The woman paused and murmured something that sounded to Hioba like a prayer.

“Azure Leopard and Old-Mage Jatembe answered the call and arrived with nearly one hundred Tempest-Sun Mages. They all thought they were ready for the threat, but they were so incredibly wrong!

“Your books and your teachers will tell you they fought Agohbindi, but what they tell you is insufficient. Yes, they fought, but it wasn’t a mere battle—it was a grueling war. They fought with the Rough Beast’s monstrous child for days on end. The Tempest-Sun Mages fought at first from within the forest, but soon the forest contained as many Agohbindis as the plains hold blades of grass. So the mages took to the sky, harnessing the storm and the wind and the rain to at least slow the advancement of the ceaseless monstrosities. They used fire magic to melt the spawn, but the spawn simply reformed moments later.

“Azure Leopard and Jatembe spent most of their energy coordinating the Tempest-Sun Mages’ defenses, erecting powerful barriers that would take the creatures many hours to penetrate so that the group could search for solutions. Trying to protect the warriors in their care left them precious little time for strategy, but their dedication to protection prevented any other warrior mages from dying. Even then, many suffered severe wounds and none were the same.”

Hioba cleared her throat and looked up from her notes. “When did Jatembe trap Agohbindi? What do you know about that?”

The woman chuckled again.

“By accident! After several days of fighting and containment, the mages ran headlong into that fact we all now know: magic is infinite, but our capacity to wield it... is not. The Tempest-Sun Mages had tapped into their reserves and beyond. As they grew more exhausted, they became sloppy. Old-Mage Jatembe and his pupil found it progressively more taxing to protect the weary mages. In hours, Agohbindi in his multitude would have overwhelmed the amassed mages and moved onward to consume the Song-Wind City... and likely the entirety of Mwangi Expanse!

“Jatembe and Leopard were in the middle of conjuring a barrier of elemental ice for a group of mages retreating from the Agohbindi splinters in the forest. Out of exasperation, over the noise and rage of combat, Azure Leopard shouted to Jatembe: ‘Fighting Agohbindi is not like fighting an opponent, Old-Mage! It is like fighting a tide, like fighting water!’

“Just then, the teacher and pupil paused and looked at each other, each knowing what the other would say next. Child, what do they teach you about water at Magaambya?”

“You... don’t fight it?” Hioba answered nervously.

“Exactly! You don’t fight water. You help it flow, and then you let it flow into a container where you hold it. Leopard and Jatembe had been so busy fighting and defending that they had missed this obvious point. Jatembe let out such a loud and hysterical laugh that everyone who could hear it became anxious for him.

“‘My own teachings, remembered in the last hour, amazing!’ He laughed some more while weaving the spell he knew he needed to cast. People would have been surprised by his humor, except it was Old-Mage Jatembe. He was always a little unpredictable.” The woman shrugged.

“After a moment, Azure Leopard saw her teacher’s intent, and joined in with no prompting. Together their magic augmented the roots of the forest’s trees, which burst free from the soil. The pair sent out magical messages to the Tempest-Sun Mages to direct their energies into these roots. The magic roots stretched out of the soil, wrapping around each of the thousands of Agohbindi shards, holding them in place. Jatembe directed all the other warriors except Azure Leopard into the sky as he prepared the next stage.”

Hioba had stopped writing, absorbed in the mysterious woman’s story.

“Jatembe stretched his arms like a yawn, letting the earth’s energy flow into his body. He inhaled a breath bigger than Balumbdar, building up the energy in his hands and his staff. The other mages worked on a battle ritual to summon the largest bolt of lightning ever seen… before or since.

“When Jatembe finally exhaled, he sent magical fire into and through the roots. At that moment the Tempest-Sun Mages and Azure Leopard released their lightning, which snaked over and through the spawned multitudes. Before they could grow again, the fire melted the spawn fragments into ooze as they screeched in fury. The ooze seeped into the soil, where the web of roots covering the entire forest drank it up.

"When the screeching abated, Jatembe stopped the fire. He and the other mages drew the roots back into the earth. Agohbindi, which could not be destroyed, which flooded the forest like water, was absorbed, like water, into the soil.” The woman pointed at the tree Hioba had been studying.

“Into that tree, and the others like it.”

Hioba turned around to look at the tree again. “Is there something about the evil trapped within that makes the tree gold?”

“Ha, no. Jatembe just thought it might make Agohbindi furious to be trapped in something so beautiful.”

“Also... wait... how do you know so much about this? How do you know this story?” Hioba turned back to face the woman, who was donning an ornate leopard mask. Once the mask was on, she stepped out of the shadows and into the light.

“Aaaaah, and here I was, holding out high hopes for your powers of observation, child. I’ve given you the start; now keep with your studies. Agohbindi will surely need to be contained once more, someday.”

Hioba tried to speak, but Azure Leopard was gone.

About The Author

Quinn Murphy has designed and written for many game systems during more than a decade of freelancing. Since the age of 11, he's dreamed up imaginary worlds with friends, and he has no plans to stop. He writes adventures and fiction for Pathfinder and Starfinder and can be found talking about those games and RPG design in general on his Twitter, @qh_murphy.

About Tales of Lost Omens

The Tales of Lost Omens series of web-based flash fiction provides an exciting glimpse into Pathfinder’s Age of Lost Omens setting. Written by some of the most celebrated authors in tie-in gaming fiction, including Paizo’s Pathfinder Tales line of novels and short fiction, the Tales of Lost Omens series promises to explore the characters, deities, history, locations, and organizations of the Pathfinder setting with engaging stories to inspire Game Masters and players alike.

Attention: Zo!

I’ve attached files containing the transcript of Live Audition Extreme! along with the raw footage you requested and a few post-production versions. Essentially, we have two options to choose from for our pilot episode. The first is uncut footage shot on Kelikazord. Second, we have a cut that removes all unscripted content related to the on-site translator malfunction. Which version to utilize is ultimately your decision, but after talking with the other producers, they think the unedited footage could be a fun way to spin the unpredictable nature of the program. I’m available to meet whenever you’re ready to share your thoughts.

Sincerely,
Wazasha Kevir
Executive Assistant & Co-Producer
Zo! Media Productions

[Begin transcript]

Zo!: Aaaaaand action! Who’s ready for an extreme casting call?! For today’s special broadcast, we’re here on scenic planet Kelikazord recruiting the next team of superstars for our mega-hit series, Live Adventure Extreme! Everything about this world, including the ground we’re standing on right now, is one hundred percent alive. Now that’s extreme! The weather’s mostly sunny, but we’ve got some cloud cover rolling in—our orbital scans tell us those green clouds are highly toxic gases. Good thing I don’t need to breathe, am I right? But you’re not here for a weather report, are you, dear viewers? It’s about time to meet our contestants. Let’s see if they have what it takes to become the next Extreme Adventurers! Alright, folks, why don’t you introduce yourselves to our audience back home? Contestant Number One, you’re up first. Tell us your name and why you want to be on the show.

Alien #1: (Speaking alien language)

Zo!: What’s that? Wait a minute, the translator’s not working. Wazasha, get the field-tech team on this ASAP, will you?

Wazasha: I’m already on it.

Zo!: Excellent! I knew I could count on you.

Wazasha: Watch where you’re pointing those finger guns, boss.

(Zo! laughs)

Zo!: Haha, safety first, you got it. Now where was I? Right! As I was saying, today we’re here for an eeeeeeexclusive first-contact scenario with some up-and-coming reality stars from the Vast looking to break into the Pact Worlds scene! That’s right! We’re here with three representatives of cultures never before encountered in the Pact Worlds, folks, and they’re ready to show you what they’re made of!

Alien #2: (Speaking alien language)

Zo!: Oh, I can tell they’re building up to something big! Contestant Number Two here seems like a real pro, you can just tell by the way they move that they’ve got some serious combat training. Ex-military, maybe?

Wazasha (muffled): They’re just standing around, Zo!

Zo!: Let’s get the cameras in there, then. That might spice things up.

(Buzzing and whirring sounds, followed by a series of clicks)

Zo!: See now, what did I tell you?

(Deep rumbling and growling sounds)

All Aliens: (Yelling in alien language)

Zo!: —that thing!

(Loud bestial roar)

Wazasha: What is that?

Zo!: That, Wazasha, is the talent! Feast your eyes upon today’s obstacle, folks. As tall as a Vercite skyscraper, it’s a horrific sight beyond your wildest nightmares! Look at those horns, those teeth! It could tear any of us in half just like snapping a toothpick. Oh, it’s extreme, all right. And our three brave contestants are going to take it down!

(Roaring, followed by frantic yelling in alien language, grunts, and combat sounds)

Illustration by Geun Cheol Jang from Starfinder Galaxy Exploration Manual

Zo!: Oh, look at that. Number Two’s charging right in there. It’s a good thing they’ve got that armor, because those teeth look nasty. Contestants One and Three are setting up for some extreme teamwork. Whoa! Three boosted One right up to smack the beast in the face with her blade. Ouch, that looked like it hurt! Our three contestants just scored first blood!

(Howling, then a resounding thud)

Zo!: The beast retaliates! Wow, Contestant Number Three went flying. I hope she’s okay! We’ll have our medical team take a look after the fight. Oh, there goes One ripping into the monster’s leg. Way to fight back, One!

(Grunting and yelling in alien language.)

Wazasha: Translator’s back online.

Zo!: Excellent! Now we can get some extreme reactions from our contestants. Alright, Number Two, can you tell me about your team’s combat strategy?

Alien #2 (panting): I thought this was a casting call!

Alien #1 (wincing): Yeah, we prepared a traditional Kelikan opera for—oh no, it’s coming, dodge!

Alien #2: Thanks! It almost took my head off with that hit.

Alien #1: We thought we were auditioning for a variety show.

Zo!: What an extreme miscommunication! But I’m sure Kelikan opera is lovely. Why don’t you go ahead and share that performance with the audience?

Alien #2: We need Uaya to sing the bassline, and she’s out cold.

Zo!: Wazasha?

Wazasha (sighing heavily): I’m already on it, boss.

(Sound of a trigger clicking)

Alien #3: Huh? What happened? Did we get the part?

Alien #1: The smiling dead man wants us to sing now.

Alien #3: While we’re fighting this thing?!

Aliens #1 and #2: Yes.

Zo!: You betcha! Three, you should be feeling pretty spry right about now. My assistant just shot you with AbadarCorp’s new “Get Up ‘N’ Go” serum, a healing and enhancing vitamin cocktail, available at pharmacy superstores near you! Alright Contestant Number Three, hit us with that beautiful bassline.

Alien #3 (clearing throat): Here goes. And a one, two, three—

Alien Beast: If they actually start singing, I’m done here.

Alien #2: Wait, the monster we’re fighting can talk, too?

Alien Beast: And how do you think I negotiated my contract? I possess the powers of speech, but it seems you drew conclusions about my intellect based on my physical appearance. How rude. Now listen here, Zo!, my agent said I could be on your show if I beat up these weaklings. I took one of them out and you woke her up to belt out showtunes? Preposterous. I’m calling my agent.

(Sounds of alien beast stomping off)

Zo!: What a wild turn of events! A ferocious fight to the death gives way to a surprise musical performance, starring our three remaining contestants. You don’t want to miss it, folks. But first, let’s hear a word from our sponsor: AbadarCorp, makers of the new “Get Up ‘N’ Go” serum!

[end transcript]

About the Author

Jenny Jarzabski is a longtime freelance writer and the Starfinder Society Developer at Paizo. She writes adventures and rules for Pathfinder and Starfinder, in addition to some weird fiction of her own. She is just as likely to be found on the trails or at the climbing wall as delving the word mines or gamemastering at a convention. You can follow Jenny’s real-life adventures on Twitter at @jenjski.

About Tales from the Drift

The Tales from the Drift series of web-based flash fiction provides an exciting glimpse into the setting of the Starfinder Roleplaying Game. Written by members of the Starfinder development team and some of the most celebrated authors in tie-in gaming fiction, the Tales from the Drift series promises to explore the worlds, alien cultures, deities, history, and organizations of the Starfinder setting with engaging stories to inspire Game Masters and players alike.

In Kiutu, a quiet village on the eastern coast of Terwa Lake, young children often grow up listening to tales of the ruins that are visible on an opposing shore, separated from the hamlet by only a shallow inlet. Some stories tell of draconic monsters who haunt and terrorize those who step foot beyond the threshold of the buried temple, and others of the shadowy, winged figures that come to Kiutu in the night to drag misbehaving children to the ruins; whatever the story, the folklore surrounding ancient Bloodsalt carries with it a strong culture of fear and ominousness among Kiutu’s people. Most children grow tired of hearing such tales as they grow into their adolescence, brushing them off as fantasy, though the ruins always remain taboo. But Ija and her peers always accepted that she was a peculiar child, and the young girl never truly outgrew her youthful curiosity.

From as young as 4 years, Ija exhibited an unusual wisdom among the children that age in Kiutu. Even before she was old enough to begin tutoring, Ija could spin entire imaginary universes of her own, and though she couldn’t yet speak full sentences, she would fill sketchbooks with drawings of creatures and characters from her imagination, and from the tales her parents told of the wonderful things they’d seen on their travels. Her mother, a local artist named Ataya, was ecstatic to see Ija’s knack for building worlds, and often the two would spend days drawing stories together, Ataya often drawing fantastical dragons—Ija’s favorite creature—for the toddler to color in. Together they formulated myriad characters, and Ija developed an affinity for a pink dragon her mother doodled, whom the two decided to name Tuku.

When Ija was finally old enough to journey past the sightline of the village, she would traipse with sketchbook in hand down to the nearby lakeshore, where her father often assisted biologists from across the region to set up field studies on Terwa Lake. She’d ask the scientists questions about the animals that roamed outside of the safety of Kiutu’s borders, offering a drawing of what she imagined they looked like in return.

While most of the scientists found Ija’s “endless conversational charisma” endearing, she’d often find herself getting sent by her father to fetch research materials or supplies from the village instead, and while she was sure she’d been behaving, she could never help but shake that she’d done something wrong.

Into her adolescence, Ija still found herself preoccupied with her imagination; notes she’d meant to take from her studies or her father’s scientific lectures would be covered in doodles, or she’d lose minutes of her tutors’ lectures daydreaming while looking at the Bloodsalt Ruins across the lake, envisioning Tuku swooping about in mighty clashes with the monsters that lurk there. But while her imagination was celebrated in her younger years, expectations that Ija couldn’t keep up with were slowly piled upon her as she grew older. Eventually the fond memories of days laughing and drawing with her mother and father’s colleagues felt more and more distant. As her parents, tutors, and peers pressured her to grow up, Ija buried herself deeper and deeper into her imagination, and every night found solace in envisioning Tuku drifting elegantly through the moonlit clouds, rather than dwelling on what she did (or could have done) wrong that day.

One day, on a short field trip to the Terwa River with her teacher and a few other children, Ija found herself separated from the group; she’d become fascinated by a small copse of brightly colored ferns, and in her fixation wandered off without saying a word to her group. While musing at the strange and beautiful flora around her, noting the unusual shapes of the leaves in her sketchbook, she laughed as she thought of Tuku helping her to grab flowers and leaves from far above her reach. The bright oranges, reds, and violets of the blossoms around her seemed to glow with an otherworldly light when she held them close to her face, and Ija could have spent hours there without ever losing focus. Her wild exploration ended abruptly, however, when she caught the sound of her teacher calling her name from the edge of her hearing. Realizing she had missed her lesson and fearing punishment, she shamefacedly ran to catch up with her peers.

art by Wayne Reynolds

As Ija crested a small rise overlooking the riverbank and regained sight of her group, she noticed her teacher and the other children’s eyes widen in looks of surprise and confusion. Ija glanced down at herself, expecting to find her clothes in embarrassing disarray or marked by a stains or tears she didn’t notice, but there was nothing any more out of place on her person than normal. She looked over her left shoulder and then her right, and instantly shared their amazement. Tuku, manifested in physical form, stood a few feet behind her, eyeing her fellow villagers with curiosity.

Ija marveled wordlessly; how could they all so clearly see her imaginary friend? How was Tuku here and not just in her idle daydreaming? Her teacher stepped forward, his eyes fixed on Ija’s forehead, where the runic medallion she’d crafted for herself years earlier hung from a simple headband. The rune was glowing, and it matched an identical symbol on Tuku’s brow.

“Ija,” her teacher asked in wonder, “how long have you been a god caller?”

She just shook her head, trying to make sense of what was going on. Had she done something wrong again?

Her teacher knelt to look her straight in the eye as he spoke. Tuku snorted defensively behind her as the kindly elder reached out for Ija, but quickly calmed as the teacher spoke:

“My grandfather was a refugee of the Worldwound, you know. He fled Sarkoris a century ago, as a child, when the demons overtook his land. He kept few of the traditions of his people when he met my grandmother and settled here in Kiutu, but he told stories of his childhood. Most memorable among them were his stories of the god callers—those among the Sarkorians who could summon a powerful ally from beyond our reality to aid and guide the people in times of trouble. The Sarkorians called these beings gods, but others call them eidolons, and don’t worship them as my grandfather’s people did. It appears that you are a god caller, too, Ija, and that dragon—”

“Tuku,” she said without thinking.

“—Tuku, as you say, is your eidolon,” her teacher explained. “Just as you and Tuku share a connection, symbolized in the glowing rune upon both your bodies, so too did the holy runes of the Sarkorian god callers shine when the gods were among their people.”

Ija turned to look at her eidolon inquisitively. Tuku returned the look and tilted his head playfully, like a pet dog expecting its owner to throw a stick. Who was this strange creature, who wasn’t quite as imaginary as she’s always thought? She felt as though she already knew him so well. She’d created him as a toddler, after all—or had she?

A small group of researchers working a short distance down the riverbank had made their way up to where Ija and her eidolon now stood. Her father was among them. None of them appeared scared of Tuku, or of her glowing rune. They were simply curious, interested in a new occurrence to document in their findings. Her father, however, looked proud and overjoyed at his daughter’s newfound calling.

Her teacher, noticing the confusion in Ija’s face, offered words of reassurance. “Yes, there is much for you to learn about yourself, Ija. Perhaps you struggled so much to walk the path set before you because you had a different path you were meant to walk, shoulder to shoulder with Tuku here. We can’t teach you these things, your parents and I. You must learn about Tuku and your bond with him on your own, but don’t worry—we will help you how we can, and I am sure Tuku will guide you in his own way as well.” The teacher paused momentarily with thought. “Do not be afraid, young one; the path you walk may be yours alone, but you are never truly alone on your journey.”

Over the coming weeks and months, Ija and Tuku traveled farther from Kiutu than she’d ever gone before, to Nantambu where the libraries of the Magambya promised answers to her calling (if she could focus enough to read them). But unlike the lessons of her youth, Ija found the questions she had sufficient motivation to learn all on her own. And since she learned better by doing than from reading or listening to a lecture, the fact that she could now explore the limits of her power and the strange bond she shared with her dear Tuku meant she never lacked the will to get up and approach the day’s challenges together.

Ija has met many fellow knowledge seekers in her travels, and she makes a loyal, if mischievous, companion. Tuku tends to be aloof and curmudgeonly when interacting with anyone other than Ija, though he eventually warms to those who clearly don’t mean his summoner any harm. Together, Ija and Tuku plan to one day visit the Sarkoris Scar, to learn what they can of their connection from the god callers repopulating the land now that the Worldwound is closed. Until then, however, Ija and Tuku go where their fancy takes them and return often to Kiutu to share drawings and verbal tales of their adventures with her family and friends.

Lu Pellazar
Senior Editor

“Annnd with a terrifying tail whip to the jaw, the Taiga Tyrant is down! She’ll be feeling that in the morning! Our winner is the Summer Swordsman of Ekkeshikaar!”

Cheers resounded through the stadium as the announcer floated high above, her voice booming. Triangular pennants lowered in defeat from one corner of the arena, as triumphant sunflower bouquets showered down from another.

Lei took in the sights and sounds as she walked the arena, steaming basket in both hands. Usually, she parked the cart outside to cook buns while her daughter worked the crowd, but the scamp had run off to “scope out the competition at the exhibition matches.” She’d suspiciously taken enough to feed both her and her two friends, and she’d been gone for hours. Now, Lei was selling buns herself, but to be honest, it was a welcome change to be inside the arena even if the stairs were doing a number on her knees.

“Speaking of, if you want to not feel that in the morning, that last match was sponsored by Plum Rain’s plum wine! For a deluge of flavor and a clear-sky taste, try Plum Rain today!” the announcer chirped as attendants ran out to sweep the arena and recover the few remaining non-vaporized pieces of the Taiga Tyrant’s spear.

“Auntie! Two char siu, two black sugar! Make it fast!” a young man in a feathered hat, clearly a merchant, called from a small throng around a nearby railing. As Lei ambled over, her eye caught on a pile of coins, and next to it, a bespectacled priest with a ledger and slate. Wagers on the tournament, then. She opened her basket and passed out the orders, collecting a few blade-shaped coins in payment.

“Fancy a bet?” the young merchant asked.

Lei didn’t usually indulge, but she caught a glance of the next two contestants readying themselves. In one corner a lean Vudrani monk in blue performed a series of warm-up stretches, and in the other, a young green-clad warrior paced back and forth. Lei took a closer look and played the match out in her mind. Why not? “Blue holds upper hand for seven moves, then Green wins in three.” Lei put down the coins she’d just collected on the railing.

The merchant laughed into his bun. “Maybe you’ve been too busy baking to actually catch the fights, but that guy’s been trouncing his competition all day. The girl’s just some initiate out of Indapatta, not even fully graduated. I couldn’t possibly take such a bet from someone of your...” He looked at Lei’s stained apron, “...means.”

Well, no mercy then. The baker dumped her earnings for the day out onto the railing. “Three consecutive.”

The merchant closed his mouth, opened it, and elected to take a bite instead. “You know what, it’s your coin. I meet and accept whatever odds the Ministry sees suitable. Witness?”

The priest nodded. “The Ministry of Numbers and Fortune recognizes this wager and sets eight-to-one odds for the skilled baker, pursuant Article 3.51.01 of the Gambling Code. By Abadar’s gaze, the deal is sealed.” The Ministry’s judgement was as impartial as it was absolute.

The peppy human megaphone floating above the arena clapped her hands. “Ladies and gentlemen, now that the staff has finished disarming the ice snares from that last match—at least, most of them, I think—it’s about time to make like a sky chariot and get this show on the air! Contestants, take your places, and let fate guide your fists!”

“Ready?”

Lei smiled. By the end of the day, she’d be sitting in a fine hotel room overlooking the bay, with one of those luxurious balcony baths to soak her knee in.

“Fight!”

Illustration by Kent Hamilton

The man let out a roar and opened his fingers into a clawlike form before leaping forward.

“Southern Panther,” Lei and the merchant muttered in unison, before their eyes met with a smile. It was always nice when the competition knew their stuff. The monk blazed his way across the ground, and the other warrior barely blocked the strike, catching a slash across the cheekbone. He followed up with a swift flurry of attacks, and the initiate didn’t fare much better, barely turning away each.

“Two moves to Blue.”

“He has the advantage in speed,” the merchant said, and Lei didn’t argue—the girl was outclassed. She tried some sort of spinning backhand, but her opponent ducked easily and whirled around before delivering a series of palm strikes that shone with silver light.

“Moves three and four to Blue.”

“Good qi control as well,” the merchant observed.

“Coating his strikes for extra impact,” Lei agreed.

The girl leapt in the air to try a kick, but the monk brought his silvered fists together, releasing the energy in a ripple that blasted upward and caught the initiate in the jaw. Her momentum halted, he sent her reeling back with an uppercut. From there, it was simple for him to knock her to the ground with a sweeping kick of his own.

“Five, six, and seven to Blue.”

Rather than pressing the attack on a downed opponent, though, he waited. One of those warriors’ codes, no doubt. The initiate’s chest rose and fell once, and Lei felt like she could hear it even over the crowd’s roar.

“He shouldn’t have let her catch her breath,” Lei said, leaning forward in her seat.

“What’s the harm?”

The girl in green leapt up, full of energy once more, like she hadn’t just spent the last minute knocked about by one of the top fighters on the continent. She swung, and though the monk brought his arm up, her fist accelerated mid-hook, snaking around his guard like a leaf on the wind. She connected with his jaw, driving him twenty paces back, to wild cheers.

“You said some school in Indapatta? That uniform’s the Academy of Golden Arms, and that’s their signature technique—cycling their breath through their organs to generate elemental energy. Air brings… speed and flexibility, I believe.” Lei suppressed a smile. “You’re probably too young to remember the last time there was Golden Arm in the tournament.”

“After seven moves in Blue’s favor, one to Green.”

The monk had regained his footing, but the other warrior raised her fist and wind spiraled. Another exhalation brought an eruption of lightning, crackling and splitting into four strands that shot in each cardinal direction. The electricity speared toward the audience, but it crashed against transparent walls of power cast by the Grand Judge herself, Hao Jin. The audience gasped, and for one great moment, tens of thousands in the Grand Arena—young and old, from all across Golarion, many not even sharing a language—were united as their attention hung in this one moment.

This… this was why Lei loved the Ruby Phoenix Tournament. Not for the fights, not for the fun, not even for the business it brought her little food cart. This.

The lightning spears converged into a single great lance pointed at the monk, who crossed his bracers and met the attack valiantly. Sparks splashed about him, and the glow around his wrists betrayed that his focus was now solely on defense. The blast pushed him back even as he defended, and his foot slipped ever so slightly on the sand. His center of balance tipped.

“Two to Green.” The merchant wiped his brow.

As the storm abated and the monk moved to correct his footing and resume his attack, his opponent snapped her hand back with a gasp of power. A pulse, and the monk’s arms—or rather, his bracers—jerked toward her, and with no grounded stance, there was precious little to stop him from flying forward.

“Our initiate’s lightning technique has magnetized the bracers on our silent, handsomely chiseled fighter, and she’s drawing him closer at extreme speed!” the announcer blathered. “I wonder if she’ll teach me that in time for ballroom season!”

The girl planted her feet, twisted her hips, and drove her fist forward with all her might, delivering a single punch to the monk’s sternum as he flew into her at breakneck speed.

The match was over.

“Seven moves at Blue’s advantage, followed by victory in three consecutive by Green. The baker has it.” The magistrate’s fingers moved on an imaginary abacus before he swiftly divided out all but a tiny portion of the coins and passed them to Lei. The merchant stared slack-jawed. Lei opened her basket, and seeing there was only one bun left, she put it in the merchant’s mouth before scooping his money in—it was the least she could do.

She turned out of the arena. She’d close up a bit early today, and tomorrow, she and her daughter would take the day off to catch some matches from a proper arena seat.

Now, to see about that hotel room, the one with the balcony bath.

About the Author

James Case is a designer at Paizo. James has also edited manuscripts for scientific researchers, translated materials for music labels, and written for various RPG products, including the Pathfinder and Starfinder game systems. You can find him (and his thoughts on comma usage) on The Twitter at @toriariaria.

About Fists of the Ruby Phoenix

The time has come again for the Ruby Phoenix Tournament! The sorcerer Hao Jin has invited only the strongest martial artists, adventurers, and fortune seekers to her world-famous fighting competition. The motley roster of contenders must compete for this decade's champion title and the choice of one of the Ruby Phoenix's grand treasures. Who will come out on top, and who will be left in the dust? There's only one way to find out! The Fists of the Ruby Phoenix Adventure Path is a three-part monthly series of connected adventures that compose a complete Pathfinder campaign.

I’m sorry, but that painting isn’t for sale. This particular item I’m keeping for myself.

Why, you ask? Well, there’s certainly worse ways to spend a rainy afternoon than in sharing a story with friends like you, so if you’ve got the time to listen, I can tell you a little bit about Crookcove, the Xarwins, and the house in that painting.

I’ve got my own reasons to be interested in the place. There, you see? At the top of the manor? A dome. A rotunda. An observatory. I’ve had dreams of converting that manor’s observatory into a temple, a place where anyone can come to observe the wonders of the Cosmic Caravan. But there’s a problem. The manor itself is located at the remote southwestern corner of Ravounel, and its ownership is kind of a tangled mess, one made worse by Ravounel’s secession from Cheliax. No one seems to know who rightfully owns the place. There was a sort of incident long ago, back when it was part of Cheliax, and the Chelish practice of redactions did a number on the legal documents that hold the building’s fate.

Doesn’t help that Crookcove’s so far off the beaten path, or that the government’s still got its hands full with more important things involving keeping their independence, or that the closest point of civilization is so many miles away.

Oh, and it certainly doesn’t help that they place is haunted.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

The town itself wasn’t called Crookcove at first. It was founded by hellknights—the Order of the Gate, to be precise—as a staging ground for the initial construction of Citadel Enferac, way back in 4599. They called it “Crooked Cove,” on account of the shape of the cove itself. Hellknights aren’t the most creative folks. In any event, Enferac’s construction isn’t the story I’m telling.

The hellknights abandoned their presence in Crooked Cove a few years after it was founded, and for a handful of decades, the town was left to its own devices. The locals made a fair living for themselves continuing to tend the mines and lumber operations the hellknights started, but it wasn’t until the Thrunies took over the nation that Crooked Cove attracted outside attention once again.

In the days following the end of the Chelish Civil War, House Thrune began appointing minions into positions of power throughout the nation. Most saw Ravounel as something of a backwater, but not so a certain minor nobleman named Ioseff Xarwin. Details on how he managed to secure the title of paracount are unclear, but what remains a matter of record (in the few records you can find that aren’t redacted to the point of illegibility) is that he was granted Crooked Cove as his seat of power.

Crooked Cove had been largely untouched by the war, and according to my research, the locals were initially wary of this new paracount and of the sprawling mansion he’d started constructing on a bluff just outside town, but it wasn’t long before their opinions changed. The people of Crooked Cove soon came to value the influx of protection and support having a paracount provided, especially since Ioseff allowed the townsfolk to largely retain their traditions and independence. He saw to the construction of a church of Asmodeus, a tavern, a set of piers built around a town hall that doubled as a shipyard, and a smelting house to support the town’s trade, and in the span of a decade, Crooked Cove grew into a modestly successful mining concern, and as long as the iron, lead, and copper in the hills north of town continued to flow, Ioseff Xarwin left the townsfolk to their own designs. In return, the flow of tax money and exports to Cheliax’s heartland continued to guarantee Xarwin’s privacy.

Illustration by Darko Stojanovic.

As a result of this pursuit for privacy, further details were tough to track down, but I was able to determine that Xarwin hadn’t chosen the site of his home idly. In one fragmentary letter I regrettably wasn’t able to make copies of (and that was one of countless documents lost in a fire a few months later), Xarwin himself hints that his “dreams were instrumental in selecting the site, for the views of the night skies above seem particularly inspiring.” He also mentioned in his letter that his “observatory’s construction has surpassed all expectations.”

I did a bit more digging and learned that Ioseff had a family as well—a wife and twin children. His wife, Asethanna, was something of a well-known sculptor and painter, and by all accounts the family lived their first many years in Crooked Cove in peace. But that didn’t last. Something happened a decade and a half later. Again, details are hard to come by, but from what little I’ve been able to piece together, the marriage crumbled from within. Ioseff became more and more obsessed with his astronomical observations, while Asethanna’s art started to grow darker and more sinister in theme.

It all came to a sudden end in 4657. Story goes that Asethanna fled the manor one night with the twins, and that Xarwin grew increasingly hostile and deranged. He let none visit his manor, and forbade the house servants from setting foot off the manor grounds—at least, according to the account of one such servant who claimed to have escaped from the manor. This unnamed servant apparently begged for the local authorities to intervene, but they had no time to act on his claims. The weather turned violent, with storms and floods devastating the town. And it didn’t stop with violent weather. The people themselves turned violent as well. Nightmares plagued the townsfolk when they slept, and when they woke the nightmares pursued them in the form of brutality, cruelty, and suicide. It wasn’t long before the townsfolk pulled up stakes and abandoned the place. Some say it was the storm that damaged the town’s sign, others claim it was the last citizen to flee who vandalized it, but to this day, those rare few who visit the place are greeted by a sign welcoming them to “Crookcove.”

That’s about it, I’m afraid. Other than stories of bad dreams by those rare few who stayed the night in the region over the past several years, and some likely apocryphal tales of people vanishing entirely after daring to enter Xarwin Manor itself, there’s little more to learn about the place. There’s apparently no surviving heirs to the Xarwin estate, and with Ravounel’s secession from Cheliax, the building’s been in government escrow, pending whatever steps they need to take to unravel its legal status. The manor itself is the only structure still standing in the region, with little more than hollow shells of structures hinting at what was once a bustling mining town down the hill below.

And all that brings us back to the painting.

I started having my own dreams about Crookcove and Xarwin Manor a few weeks after I picked up this painting, in any case. I’ve learned to trust my dreams—they’re not always accurate in what they foretell, but they’re always worth paying attention to, and there’s something in these dreams in particular that compel me. Are they perhaps related to the same source of compulsive dreams that first inspired Xarwin himself to build his home there? I can’t say other than that the manor itself feels to me to be a place of power. A place of importance. A place that should be restored and watched over. I’ve been saving up since then, and one day soon I hope to be able to make the trip out to Ravounel, secure ownership of the manor myself, and restore it. To rebuild it into a shrine to the Cosmic Caravan. To find out what happened there.

I assume that you’ve deduced by now what this painting depicts. Yes, here we see Xarwin Manor, in all its ruined glory. I’ve had the fortune to interview no fewer than four people who visited the ruins of Crookcove. None of them dared set foot in the manor proper, but they all agree that the painting is spot-on in its accuracy in capturing the gloom and menace the manor exudes today.

The part that bothers me about it isn’t the brooding stance of the birds who seem to stand guard at the edge of the frame, or the eerie glow that rises from beyond the central dome, or the twisted reaches of the dead trees in the yard, or even the mysterious light in the upstairs window.

The part that bothers me the most is the signature and date on the painting’s reverse. The signature of Asethanna Xarwin, dated 4653 AR, four years before whatever doom came to Xarwin Manor and left it abandoned over the ruins of a forgotten town.

—Wrin Sivinxi, owner of Wrin’s Wonders in Otari

About the Author

James Jacobs is the Creative Director for Pathfinder. He's been helping to shape and create the world of Golarion and the Pathfinder RPG from the very start, with his adventure, "Burnt Offerings," introducing gamers around the world to the joys of goblin songs, the lurking menace of the runelords, and the dangers of drinking hagfish water. James maintains an ongoing AMA thread on the paizo.com forums which currently contains more than 75,000 posts.

About Tales of Lost Omens

The Tales of Lost Omens series of web-based flash fiction provides an exciting glimpse into Pathfinder’s Age of Lost Omens setting. Written by some of the most celebrated authors in tie-in gaming fiction, including Paizo’s Pathfinder Tales line of novels and short fiction, the Tales of Lost Omens series promises to explore the characters, deities, history, locations, and organizations of the Pathfinder setting with engaging stories to inspire Game Masters and players alike.

Today, we’re excited to launch the first piece of multi-part Starfinder fiction, Misery’s Company, a serialized novella by Hugo Award-winner Tim Pratt. The first chapter is presented here, while future chapters will be featured in the Paizo Newsletter over the next few months. Make sure you catch each weekly installment by signing up for the Paizo Newsletter. If you already have a Paizo.com account, simply ensure your privacy settings allow for us to send you emails regarding “products, offers, news, and events,”, and you’ll get them too!

Chapter One

DOWN AND OUT

Misree crawled out of an air duct and looked around the hangar bay, one of the cheapest and most cluttered on Absalom Station. She crouched behind a pile of spent energy cells and listened past the hiss of leaking hydraulic lines and the clang of someone banging on a bolt for anything that sounded... worrisome. Like, say, snippets of conversation between enforcers bent on capturing her. She didn’t pick up anything alarming.

There were two dozen ships in the bay, arrayed in uneven lines, from little one-person runabouts to bulky cargo vessels, and her own swift courier, the Up and Out, was way in the back, closest to the exit, just where she liked it. This was the kind of hangar where you had to pay your docking fees up front, so there was nothing stopping her from jumping on board, spinning up the engines, and racing out of here. Sure, coming back to the station without getting murdered on arrival would be tricky, but once she got her hands on some credits, she'd make paying back Zephonith her first—second—at least third—priority. In Misree's experience, enough credits could smooth over just about any difficulty. It was just a shame she always had more difficulties than credits lately.

Once she was confident the way was clear, Misree ran across the hangar toward her ship... and was within steps of the boarding ramp when a vesk shimmered out of some kind of stealth field and stood in her way, holding an immense wrench casually in one clawed hand.

Misree stopped short, very nearly colliding with the vesk, which would have made a bad situation even worse. She looked up (and up, and up) into the reptilian smile. The vesk was easily seven feet tall, while Misree was on the short side for a human. "Smeliel! I was just looking for you."

"Isn't that lucky," the vesk enforcer rumbled. "I was looking for you, too." She rapped the nose of the Up and Out with her wrench. "You weren't going to leave, were you? You have an appointment with our mutual employer, and I’m sure you don’t plan to keep her waiting."

Misree's smile slipped. "I don't work for Zephonith." Misree didn't work for anyone anymore. She charted her own course, made her own choices, and didn't have to answer to anyone—or answer for them, either. Flying solo was better in every way. Though it did mean, at times like this, that nobody had her back.

"Zephonith owns you, though." Smeliel crouched, bringing her closer to Misree's eye level. "Until you pay what's owed."

Misree had borrowed heavily from Zephonith to finance a heist, outfitting the Up and Out with the latest infiltration, stealth, and combat tech, all part of a plan to rob the orbital pleasure palace of a lashunta oligarch... but it turned out her contact sold the same security system plans and station blueprints to another crew: one that managed to strike a lot faster. The prize was stolen from Misree, which meant she didn’t have the capital to repay her loan, or even keep up with the eye-watering interest. "I'm going to pay,” Misree said. “In fact, I was just going out to scout a new job, so I’d have good news for Zephonith at our meeting."

 

Smeliel turned her head and looked at the ship. "You've got everything you need on here, don't you?" Her voice was full of undisguised admiration. "I had a word with the engineers you hired. The Up and Out is a custom-built flying crime spree. Seems a shame to leave it in such.... ineffectual hands."

Misree's guts went cold. "Smeliel, no, you can't—"

"Half the value of that vessel comes from upgrades you made with Zeph's money," the Vesk said, as if idly musing. "The other half... should pretty much cover the interest, plus a gratuity to thank my employer for not tossing you out an airlock for trying to run away today. In which case, you can just transfer the title, and we’re done."

Misree gritted her teeth. "You can't take my ship. She's all I've got. I poured my life into the Up and Out—"

Smeliel clamped an immense clawed hand on Misree's shoulder. "Then don't make me pour your life out all over this hangar deck."

Did you always want to be a hired thug? Was this your childhood dream? Beating people up for a crime boss?" Misree winced at herself. Sometimes her thoughts slipped out of her mouth before she could stop them.

"I'm a poet, actually," Smeliel said, grinding down on Misree’s shoulder. "That's why I left home, originally—my family didn't understand my dreams. But poetry doesn't pay very well. Not compared to enforcing the interests of a local entrepreneur. Sometimes you need a night job. I will say, doing this kind of work?" She showed all her serrated, triangular teeth. "It does give me a great deal of insight into the sapient condition, and that's helpful in my art. Maybe I'll write something about you—'An Ode to Misery.'"

"I've never heard a joke like that before," Misree said. "Can I at least get my stuff?"

"You don't have any stuff," Smeliel said. "You walk away with your life. And that deal is only good for the next minute or so. Transfer the title now."

Misree looked wistfully at the Up and Out—her home, her livelihood, and practically her only friend. But you had to know when to let things go, and “two seconds before a vesk enforcer splits your head open with a wrench” was an excellent time to do so. She tapped a command into her wrist-mounted computer and gave up her one true love.

Smeliel looked at a readout on her own datapad, grunted, and said, “Good choice. I hate getting blood all over my good wrench.” She made a shooing gesture. “I'd say 'Don't let me see you on this station again,' but since it's a big place, and you don't have access to a vehicle anymore, I'll settle for saying, 'Stay out of Zephonith's club.'"

“The drinks are overpriced anyway,” Misree muttered.

“True,” Smeliel said. “You couldn’t afford the cover charge anyway, now that I think about it. Stop loitering around my ship.”

Misree trudged out of the hangar. At least she didn’t have to sneak through air ducts and service tunnels anymore. She reviewed her assets. She still had a day left on the rental for the sleep-pod where she'd been hiding out from Zephonith. She had a change of clothes in the bag strapped to her back, an ultrathin switchblade in her pocket, and a few credsticks squirreled away here and there on the station—she'd learned early in life not to keep everything of value in one place.

That was the totality of her net worth, though, and it wasn’t enough to finance any kind of comeback or fresh start. Ugh. Would she be reduced to running short cons on tourists in bars? Or worse, rolling drunks and emptying their pockets? She’d never been into strongarm robbery, and it was a dangerous proposition. She knew a guy who’d mugged a defenseless-looking human who’d turned out to have an integrated cutting torch hidden in a cybernetic arm, and everybody called the mugger “Cyclops” now because he only had one eye left. But even robbery was a better option than hiring herself out to one of Zephonith's competitors, which was her only other plausible path to financial security. It was pretty easy to get a job with a crime boss when you had the kind of skills and résumé Misree did... but it was really hard to quit that job if you ever wanted to move on.

She turned onto a crowded thoroughfare, through a gray-market bazaar that filled a hub where three corridors intersected. She headed down an alley that led to her sleeping pod, one of two dozen stacked cubbyholes, each just barely big enough to sleep in. At least her pod was on the bottom level, so she didn’t have to climb a rickety ladder to reach—

Misree froze. The door to her cubby was ajar. In theory it was biometrically locked to her for the duration of her rental, but there were ways to spoof the locks, or you could always just bribe the manager. Who was inside? Another of Zephonith’s enforcers, one who hadn’t been called off yet?

She crouched beside an overflowing trash bin and watched her door swing all the way open. An android stepped out of her room—ebony skinned with a shining bald head of some silver alloy and bright yellow eyes, wearing a slick black overcoat.

Zephinoth never employed androids; Misree didn’t know why, but she assumed she’d been wronged by one too many androids on her climb up the crime boss career ladder. Which meant... this was some other kind of trouble.

The android turned his head, his stoic yellow eyes fixing immediately on her. “Misree Ludovic! I’ve been looking for you!”

Misree ran.

About the Author

Tim Pratt is the author of more than 20 novels, most recently the Axiom space opera series, including Philip K. Dick Award finalist The Wrong Stars and its sequels, The Dreaming Stars and The Forbidden Stars. Tim’s five Pathfinder Tales novels—City of the Fallen Sky, Reign of Stars, Liar’s Blade, Liar’s Bargain, and Liar’s Island—are available now. He's a Hugo Award winner for short fiction, and has been a finalist for Nebula, World Fantasy, Sturgeon, Mythopoeic, Stoker, and other awards. His collection Miracles & Marvels was released last fall. He tweets incessantly (@timpratt) and publishes a new story every month for patrons at www.patreon.com/timpratt.

Sixteen point five two eight… move the seven… Taihei tried to hold the quantities in his head, but they jittered and danced. No matter, he could manage. He dipped a brush into his inkstone and found a patch on the back of his right wrist where a cluster of silver dots raised in precise intervals against his golden skin, counted off ten dots, drew lines on either side, and covered seven dots with ink. Leaving three. Now… what was the trajectory coefficient again… he felt for a second like the answer was close, before the chirping of bell crickets pierced the tearoom-turned-study.

The remainders and decimals and factors scattered immediately. Taihei groaned, crumpled his sheet of paper, and threw it to join its fellows in the corner. As a distant chime rang, he retrieved a heavily notched metal rod from his writing case and made a small cut in it to mark the time before going to wash off in a basin by the door. Another hour, another year.

The entrance examination for the College of Celestial Study would come in a few months with the snows, and Taihei couldn’t come back empty-handed again—he’d failed six times already, and this was getting embarrassing. You wouldn’t even use half these formulas in the field, we have counting boards and number familiars for that. Taihei just wanted to peer within a star, to chart the comets as they flowed through the sky, but he’d be earthbound forever if he couldn’t get into the program first.

Taihei allowed himself a moment to find his favorite constellations before getting back to study, but he couldn’t see a thing through the neighbor’s persimmon trees, which seemed to almost be mocking him—they’d shot up sometime when he wasn’t looking, sealing off the courtyard in a riot of red leaves and orange fruit. It made for a picturesque sight at least: persimmons, courtyard, and harvest moon, even a small fox in frame near the koi pond. “Must be nice, to just be a fox. You don’t have to worry about trajectories or tests, do you?”

“I’ll have you know I have two degrees from the College myself, so I find I rarely have to worry anymore” the fox stated matter-of-factly.

He bowed to Taihei before striding forward on four legs, though only two remained by the time he reached the door as his form blurred and shifted to that of a wavy-haired elf man in a professor's robes and pleated trousers. “And once I’m done with you, you won’t have to either.”

“Taihei, remember to clean up before your new tutor arrives!” Taihei’s mother called from the house, unfortunately a hair too late to save him the embarrassment. Sheepishly, the student slid open the door and placed a cushion on the floor, but the man strode right past him, taking a seat on the edge of the table instead

“So, out with it, why can’t you seem to pass the exam? Shouldn’t you be able to just…” the professor appraised Taihei, noting a golden mote flickering off his arm,” I don’t know, aphorite this?”

Taihei seethed at the assumption that being born under the sign of Axis somehow granted immediate knowledge of trigonometry and calculus, though he remembered his manners and prevented the emotion from reaching his face. “I’m afraid that numbers are my weakest subject. I’m not sure how to understand what they all mean in the real world.”

“In that case,” the fox in elf shape coughed into a fist, and when he withdrew his hand, a curious crystal ball sat in it, glowing soft and blue, “we should simply hammer all possible test questions into you so thoroughly that you’ll pass the test even if you don’t understand.” He tapped the orb, which floated across the room to hover in front of Taihei. “Write down your answers to the following questions. Beginning immediately.” Before Taihei could voice his confusion at this novel teaching strategy, the orb began reciting:

• “List the seventeen most common alchemical components of an extraplanar being in reverse alphabetical order of closest-affinity celestial body, beginning from Aucturn”
• “Compute trajectory of this model of a transiting comet with a fey toroid structure and…”
• “What is the average density of a sixth-order star, assuming Positive Energy gateways have mass according to Gyoen’s Third Theorem of…”

Taihei was overwhelmed swiftly and ruthlessly. He began trying his best to answer the questions, but no sooner had he begun writing than his teacher cleared his throat. “Keep in mind that the exam is 258 questions, so you’ll need to average one question every 90 seconds.”

“Y-yes... of course, Professor.” Taihei desperately tried to rejoin his train of thought. The orb carried on:

• “Solve for X to yield the minimum possible amount of teleportation inaccuracy given a conjurer using …”
• “If ten human ganzi assistants and one brilliant kitsune professor are each holding a planar tuning fork, then…”

Wait, wha—

“You know,” the professor interrupted again, “What if you just found a way to visualize the problems? Or like a feeling or something. Why, I used to be terrible at changing forms, but look at me now!” The professor waggled his long elven ears as they shifted back into those of a fox. “I just think of a sensation I connect with being a kitsune, like the feeling of grass under paw, and it comes to me.”

“That…” Taihei struggled to find a polite way to tell his teacher to please shut up, missing a question about two ships leaving Sakakabe (one at noon, the other at midnight) in the process, “That’s very helpful.”

• “The aforementioned brilliant kitsune professor is planning a three-day planar expedition. How much fried tofu should his students gift him to ensure his rations are…”

Illustration by Vladislav Orlowski, from Pathfinder Lost Omens Ancestry Guide.

“Oh, this one’s very important!” the professor noted most unhelpfully, and Taihei looked up to see he had fully resumed fox form and was now pacing across the desk, stepping in Taihei’s inkstone each time.

“Professor, you’re tracking paw prints on my practice tests,” Taihei pleaded, on his very last nerve.

• “Solve for X, where X is the number of years an aphorite who can’t perform basic calculations without scribbling on his arms will attempt the entrance exam before…”

“Okay, that does it!” Taihei snatched the orb from the air and ran to the door. Looking out into the courtyard, he spied a nest under the eave of the neighbors’ estate, recently abandoned by migrating swallows. In that moment, he wanted nothing more than to throw the orb into the nest, but those blasted trees were in the way and he didn’t have a clear shot.

No matter. He could manage.

Taihei’s eyes darted around the courtyard, taking in angles and forces. He felt his mind… not expand, exactly—the opposite. Connect. Point to point. Intention joined result. He flung the orb, feeling its complete trajectory even before it had left his hand. It skipped twice off the surface of the pond. It spun as it struck the tiles of the courtyard wall and flew high into the sky. And it danced in the autumn night as a breeze adjusted its path ever so slightly to the left, before it fell perfectly between the branches of the trees to land in the abandoned nest.

No sooner had it touched down than something strange happened. The trees that Taihei had tried so hard to avoid shimmered in the night air, dissolving into ghostly blue flames, and when Taihei had finished rubbing his eyes, they were gone and the sky was visible once more. Rather than the blue sphere, a roasted chestnut sat perfectly in the swallows’ nest.

Huh. “The coefficient was zero point nine two,” Taihei said to himself, perfectly recalling the problem he had been working on earlier, every page in his textbook, and where he had forgotten one of his sandals that morning. The strange clarity left him as subtly as it arrived, but in its wake, he felt like he understood just a little bit more of the test than he had in years.

“Oh, very nice! It looks like you’re one of those students that learns better by doing. That’ll make the rest of this so much more fun.”

Taihei looked back at the desk to once more see an elf, eating from a bag of chestnuts. The professor flicked a wrist and the glowing orb reappeared in his hand, and as he absentmindedly tossed it into the air, nothing came back down. As he strode to the door and waved one of his tails from beneath his robes, illusory equations and vectors sprung into glowing existence around the courtyard, illuminating each phase of Taihei’s throw in precise and clear mathematical detail.

“I think,” Taihei said slowly, “you’re probably the worst teacher I’ve had.”

“You know, for some reason, I get that a lot,” the fox said in mock offense. He tossed a chestnut to Taihei before popping seven more in his mouth. “Now, do that again, and this time, let's go through the calculations, step by step.”

About the Author

James Case is a designer at Paizo, where he helps to create the Pathfinder Roleplaying Game. In addition to his work writing and developing RPG products, James has also edited manuscripts for scientific researchers, translated songs for music labels, and blown bubbles for at least one birthday party. You can find him, and his thoughts on game design (and comma usage), on The Twitter at @toriariaria.

About Tales of Lost Omens

The Tales of Lost Omens series of web-based flash fiction provides an exciting glimpse into Pathfinder’s Age of Lost Omens setting. Written by some of the most celebrated authors in tie-in gaming fiction, including Paizo’s Pathfinder Tales line of novels and short fiction, the Tales of Lost Omens series promises to explore the characters, deities, history, locations, and organizations of the Pathfinder setting with engaging stories to inspire Game Masters and players alike.

The creature ripped out the man’s throat with its claws, blood spraying across the leaf-littered forest floor. Its furry bulk pinned the body to the ground. Lips pulled back from razor-sharp teeth as a low, ripsaw growl rumbled deep in the thing’s throat.

Leaning close, the lupine head sniffed at its victim’s pulsing neck. Then the beast threw back its head, spine arching. Its shrill howl split the chill, nighttime air.

“AWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

“Archie? Archie, stop! Archibol Frigasson the Third!”

The creature’s howl stopped abruptly. It blinked, looking around in confusion.

“Goria... what?”

“Stop. There could be more bandits, you little twit. Calm down.”

Archie cleared his throat. “Ah. Of course. My apologies. I quite got carried away.”

Archibol rose carefully to his feet. He was not particularly tall, but his broad shoulders and thick arms gave him a hulking quality. His gray fur shone almost white in the light of the full moon. For a moment, he looked down on his blood-soaked hands with wonder, then blinked. He crouched and pulled at the dead man’s cloak, gathering enough fabric to start meticulously cleaning his claws and fur.

“Archie? We good?” Goria asked, her voice like gravel rolling around in a dry bucket. The blades of her daggers flashed as she twirled and pushed them into scabbards at her hips. Although the woman was both preternaturally quick and strong, she looked neither. Long, stitched scars zig-zagged everywhere across her flabby skin. It was as if someone had patched Goria together from dozens of long-dead, mismatched bodies.

Which, of course, is precisely what Archibol’s mad father had done, years before he had turned to polymorph experiments upon his only son. The two oddities had clung to each other ever since their escape.

“Of course, big sister, of course. Heh. Nothing to fear. Merely lost in the moment.”

Goria watched him with a milky, unblinking stare. An awkward moment of silence passed.

The wolf-man cleared his throat again. “Right. Everyone accounted for, then? Where’s our lovely oracle?”

“I’m here, Archibol!”

He could smell her before she emerged from the shadows, the scent of an open grave. Normally, Ashka Midnighter was a young, doe-eyed kayal—a shadow person—her pale skin and white hair seeming as if all color had drained from her and giving her an exotic beauty. Now, however, her cheeks were sunken, her perfect smooth skin marred by rot. She still moved gracefully, though, skipping gleefully through branches and leaves and hardly making a sound.

“Ah, splendid. I say, Ashka. Do these oracular powers of yours hurt you when they desiccate your body so?”

Her cracked lips split into a wide grin. “Of course not! Oh, I feel a bit tired, but I’m fine. Ready for more adventure!” She hopped on one foot and thrust a fist into the air.

“Hrmph. As my new ward, my dear, I must insist we do some investigation to determine any long-term negative effects from putting your body through such an ordeal.”

Ashka looked down at her exposed, decaying arms with glowing, white eyes. “It’s just the mystery of the bones, Archibol. I get glimpses into death, and death reaches back out to me. But it’s temporary, silly. Don’t worry.”

“Still, data is knowledge, eh? I would be comforted with some empiricism behind your changes. For now, though,” he grunted as he stood, hands cleaned. “We appear to have more pressing concerns.”

The three of them looked around the clearing, dappled by moonlight.

A dozen bodies lay scattered.

“What a simply preposterous disaster,” Archibol grunted. “Alright, let us begin with the facts.”

“Blast it, Archie...” Goria growled.

“How long have you known me? We must always begin with the facts.”

She rolled her patchwork eyes but did not argue.

“Now,” he began reciting, as if giving a university lecture, one clawed finger raised. “Nobleman Cammack Guthor’s caravan left Caliphas at dusk this evening, headed to a remote holiday estate. The nobleman traveled with,” Archibol’s eyes roamed the clearing. “Two servants, one carriage driver, and... let’s see, one, no, two armed guards. The carriage was led off the road to this clearing, where Guthor and his entire party were slain. Their rather impressive store of valuables has been gathered in sacks.”

Archibol began moving, stepping gingerly between corpses.

“When we arrived, we found four men and two women dressed in matching cloaks and leather armor, all armed, picking through the sacks. Each wore a red mask painted with the visage of...” he leaned down and fingered one of the wooden masks. Its bulbous nose and leering smile might have been comical in a different setting.

Ashka appeared silently at his shoulder. “Ooo! I know! Devil masks!” she clapped enthusiastically. “Like from a carnival.”

Archibol nodded once. “Devils, yes. Some fanciful conceit in pursuit of notoriety, I suppose. And calling themselves the Tricksters! As if they were some famous band of villains instead of a two-copper band of thugs.”

Goria nudged one of the bandits disdainfully with a boot. “Trying to sneak wearing red in a forest. Idiots.”

Archibol grunted. “Indeed. Alright, we have six dead victims, including our Ustalavic nobleman. However, thanks to us, we also have six dead Tricksters.” He scratched at his chin, lost for a moment in thought. “I say! How long do you suppose it would take to waylay the carriage, lead it here, kill everyone, and pick through their belongings?”

Goria shrugged one shoulder. “Hour?”

Archibol looked up to the full moon. “And yet it’s before midnight. Blast! The scroll we intercepted correctly identified Guthor as the target of the ambush, but why did the Tricksters strike early? We should have left one of the bandits alive for questioning.”

“Yes,” Goria frowned, the stitches on one cheek going taut. She looked at him pointedly. “We definitely should have.”

Archibol avoided her gaze. “Well, then. I propose we begin examining how the Tricksters arrived at the ambush point. Perhaps we can track them back to—”

Someone nearby groaned.

No sooner had Archibol’s wolf-like ears flicked at the sound, than he was bounding across the clearing to a low bush. Goria followed protectively close behind.

Both pairs of eyes looked down on an older, pale-skinned human man in an ornate breastplate, his legs tangled in the bush and the rest sprawled out of sight of the clearing. A dented helm lay nearby.

Illustration by Victor Manuel Leza Moreno from Pathfinder Lost Omens Ancestry Guide.

“Ho ho!” Archibol exclaimed. “We have ourselves a thirteenth! One of Guthor’s guardsmen, it seems. My dear fellow, it looks as if you’ve taken quite a blow to the head. Please allow me to help you up. We have a number of questions as we pursue those who waylaid you.”

The man groaned again and rolled onto his back. He blinked once, twice.

“Yeaargh!” the man squealed. “Werewolf!”

“Ah,” Archibol chuckled. “Honest mistake. Actually, you see, I am—”

The guard’s wild eyes swiveled to Goria. “M-monster!”

“Now listen here, good fellow. That’s hardly fair,” Archibol frowned. “I believe you’ve got the wrong—”

Ashka’s grave smell washed over them as she approached. The man yelped, “Zombie!” before fainting dead away.

“Bother,” Archibol sighed. “Not again.”

About the Author

Jay Moldenhauer-Salazar was a founding columnist for Magic: the Gathering’s official website, which he wrote weekly for five years (along with various other gaming columns). During that time, he also penned several Kamigawa block web stories for Wizards of the Coast. He is a lifelong tabletop roleplaying gamer, frequent GM, and loves Pathfinder 2nd Edition. He lives, games, and writes in Oakland, CA.

About Tales of Lost Omens

The Tales of Lost Omens series of web-based flash fiction provides an exciting glimpse into Pathfinder’s Age of Lost Omens setting. Written by some of the most celebrated authors in tie-in gaming fiction, including Paizo’s Pathfinder Tales line of novels and short fiction, the Tales of Lost Omens series promises to explore the characters, deities, history, locations, and organizations of the Pathfinder setting with engaging stories to inspire Game Masters and players alike.

Flowers. Puh.

Teph grumbled as he trudged over the uneven ground. The tended dirt path was long gone by now, and his boots felt every bump of root and pinch of pebble. In the distance, well past the canopy and out of sight, thunder growled. The boy pulled his jacket tighter, hoping the storm would miss them tonight; he still had one more task before he could return home.

Gathering splitheart flowers.

The spiky, red flowers were a favorite of Mom’s, and they had just started to burst, revealing their perfect, crimson seeds. The seeds fight off mosquitos. The leaves you boil for fevers.

Also, Teph noted, Mom liked to turn the petals into a paste to deepen the shade of her lips. He’d even tried it once himself, but found it altogether unpleasant; it smelled funny and he didn’t like how dark it made his mouth. He liked his lips just fine the way they were, thank you. Why did girls even like lip-color?

He arrived at the patch of splitheart and drew out his gathering pouch. Selecting only the ripest of the prickly flowers, he gathered each with a pinch of his fingers and a quiet word of thanks to the earth.

He arrived at the patch of splitheart and drew out his gathering pouch. Selecting only the ripest of the prickly flowers, he gathered each with a pinch of his fingers and a quiet word of thanks to the earth.

Flower picking. Teph rolled his eyes. This was not what heroes did.

The thought lingered as Teph wound his way back home. Real heroes got to solve mysteries, fight evil creatures, and save the day. Some day, he’d be a hero, like the ones in his favorite book, The Grand Adventures of the Golden Wayfarers. He’d be fast like Celadir Wind-Blown, dancing from rooftop to rooftop, his arrows always finding their mark. He’d be strong like Ukhul the Just, defending the helpless with a swing of his mighty sword. And he’d be wise and magical, like Zuridani Sunborn, summoning the elements themselves to help him win the day.

Teph painted his fingernails silver so they glittered when he moved his hands—just like Zuridani’s hands sparkled when he cast his spells. He even knew what his familiar would be: a fae dragon with one of its insectile wings blue and the other green—just like its eyes would be. Just like Teph’s were.

With his heroic heart and brave soul, he’d solve the world’s mysteries and save the day, and everyone would finally welcome him in the city instead of stare, distrusting. He wouldn’t have to keep a low profile or avoid the city at all; instead, they’d build him a tower of his own right in the middle of town, and his dad would never have to leave home again!

He’d make them welcome his mom, too, and make everyone apologize to them—for everything. For the ugly names they called him. For the horrible accusations they leveled at her.

The air grew colder, as did the boy’s mood; Teph knew in his stomach that the storm would arrive before dawn. Best not to dawdle. He skipped his usual extra stop at the eldest annon tree, and instead retraced his steps to the dirt path that led home.

The cottage just within the woods’ edge had been carefully built between the trees, with wild grasses and long stalks of cultivated herbs bending lazily in the chilling wind. The area was thick with the smell of herbs, intermingled with the sharp, stinging scent of the coming rains. It was usually a comfort. Usually a feeling of safety.

Right now, though, it was...off.

The heavy front door was halfway open, and no light could be seen from within. The decorative wreath and spiraling horn they kept on the door had been knocked off and lay, unloved, in the dirt. The comfort of being home disappeared, sinking heavily into his stomach with the weight of fear. What happened? Where was Mom? Did she need help?

The butterflies in his stomach warred with the excitement pounding in his chest. This was his moment. The first of many. He could be a hero, if he could just push back his fear.

Steeling himself, Teph crouched low, like Celadir might. Moving slowly, carefully, he approached the cracked door, senses alert for anything off.

One step. Another. And then he was at his door.

What would Celadir do? Right. Check for traps. Trip-wires. Sounds of monsters past the doors.

…There was nothing.

Silence lay in wait just beyond, a stillness that made him hold his breath to quiet his own heartbeat. Fear was okay. Even Dad had said so. Fear was okay as long as it didn’t stop you completely.

He reached for the spiraling horn, the only potential weapon nearby, and his fingertips winked silver at him. His “magic,” there with him. It seemed to settle his heart and bring additional resolve; he knew this place inside and out. He would be okay. He would find whatever had broken into his home and bring it to justice.

One day I will save everyone. Let it start with this.

His fingers tightened around the curled horn, and with a mighty roar to make Ukhul the Just proud, Teph knocked the door completely open and charged inside, ready to fight.

The burst of sound startled the large figure shadowed in the corner, and it jumped to attention. Drawing itself to its full, massive height and towering over the boy, the shadows rolled off of a bent, pockmarked hide. The wrinkled, gnarled face loomed large, glowing, green eyes placed low on the face and emphasizing a hunched back and strong muscles. Magic gathered at two gnarled, meaty fists, and mighty Teph…screamed a high-pitch scream.

So did the figure.

The book the figure held flared as an illumination spell revealed the craggy, lined face of the green hag made plain. Teph barked out a surprised yelp and launched himself at it, dropping the curved horn and winding his arms tight around her.

The hag’s arms matched the boy’s, wrapping him up tightly. With the shock melting from her face, she squeezed him. “Sprout! You scared me.”

“Mom,” gasped Teph. “I saw the door and it wasn’t closed right and the wreath and knocker were on the ground and—”

Mom chuckled softly at the stream of words flowing from Teph’s mouth. “There, there, Sprout. All is well; I was just resting a bit. Catch probably just knocked the wreath loose trying to get in.” She looked around, her vivid, emerald eyes landing on her familiar. The spindly monkey drew the edge of the tablecloth around himself and chittered guiltily.

“See, there you go,” Mom said. “Did you bring the splitheart? Your father’s sure to be home soon.”

Teph nodded, handing over his collecting pouch and immediately starting for the bookshelf. He was safe, Mom was safe, and The Grand Adventures of the Golden Wayfarers called to him.

“Ah-ah,” Mom croaked, re-lighting the room’s mirrored lantern and letting her illumination spell fade. “Bath first. Story time later.”

“Mooooom,” whined Teph, giving up the path to the bookshelf even as he complained.

Several scrubbings later, after a change into fresh clothes, Father was home and the family basked in the glow of an over-full dinner table and a warm fire in the hearth.

Mom always made fantastic dinners, but they especially shone when Dad came home. The flatbreads were rolled tight and sliced extra-thin. She’d roasted peppers and tomatoes, skewering them between perfect, tender squares of meat. Roast honey-squash sweetened the air and lent a mouth-watering contrast to the sharp spice of the peppered rice. And for dessert? Hot cassava cakes with cold custard.

It almost made it worth the icky stuff.

Teph knew he should be happy; not everyone had parents who loved each other so much. Not everyone even had parents. And especially someone like him, a callow may with a human father and a hag mother; the relationship that birthed the changeling was something special. Something genuine.

Illustration by Rashad Pozdnyakovfrom Pathfinder Lost Omens Ancestry Guide.

That didn’t stop him from being grossed out every time Dad came home, all lovey-dovey kissy-sissy. Tonight, it had been flowers and a poem.

“From seven bright meadows I gathered you flowers,
From seven great trees I gathered the dew,
And long have I been gone, just counting the hours
And following my heart’s Call here, home to you.”

Eww.

After clearing the food from the table, Teph grabbed The Grand Adventures of the Golden Wayfarers and high-tailed it into the garden. The rain hadn’t started yet; he could still get a few stories in before they called him for bedtime. He lit his lantern and settled onto the cracked stone bench near the weeper tree.

Partway through the second story, the trees groaned suddenly, snapping the boy’s attention as something at the edge of the garden erupted from the ground. Twisting, sharp, and half-hidden by the shadows, the thing creaked and crackled, sinews twisting in the dim light of the boy’s lantern.

And then it was silent again. Still. And not for the first time today, Teph’s heart raced as he faced down a potential danger. Hiding in the weeper tree’s folds, he carefully aimed his lantern in the direction of the thing, and paused as he tried to understand the sight.

It was…a tree, but not. Spiraling grains of branches twisted about themselves over and over, like a strange series of veins making one large, tall structure. The wood looked old and petrified, as though it hadn’t just been born from nothing.

Was it….a tooth? It couldn’t be; it was definitely wood. He knew that much at first glance. A giant, petrified wooden tooth, swirling and vein-like.

No, something in his mind insisted. Not just a tooth. Something far better! A mystery!

Real heroes solve mysteries, fight evil, and save the day. Let it start with this.

Eyes wide, heart pounding excitedly, Teph stepped toward the tree.

About the Author

Rachael Cruz is an award-winning writer / game designer. Her TRPG work can be found in numerous properties, including but not limited to Conan: Adventures in an Age Undreamed-Of, Corvus Belli’s Infinity RPG, Dune: Adventures in the Imperium, Fantasy Age, RuneQuest, and Star Trek Adventures. She has been helping people play pretend before it was cool. She also believes in you. Yes, you. Follow her on Twitter at @Witchwater!

About Tales of Lost Omens

The Tales of Lost Omens series of web-based flash fiction provides an exciting glimpse into Pathfinder’s Age of Lost Omens setting. Written by some of the most celebrated authors in tie-in gaming fiction, including Paizo’s Pathfinder Tales line of novels and short fiction, the Tales of Lost Omens series promises to explore the characters, deities, history, locations, and organizations of the Pathfinder setting with engaging stories to inspire Game Masters and players alike.

The town of Otari, as seen from the Inner Sea, by Will O’Brien

Hey, Pathfinder fans! It’s Mark Moreland, your friendly neighborhood Director of Brand Strategy, with a bit of exciting news about web fiction over the next few months. Today, to celebrate the release of the second-edition Pathfinder Beginner Box next week, we’re launching the first chapter of a serialized novella by fan-favorite author, Liane Merciel (Nightglass, Nightblade, Hellknight).

The Shroud of Four Silences takes place in the town of Otari, pictured here, which serves as the setting for not only the Beginner Box, but also the Troubles in Otari adventure and the Abomination Vaults Adventure Path. Like new players taking their first steps into the game and world of Pathfinder with the Beginner Box and our other Otari content, the heroes of this tale are new to adventuring, but quickly find themselves embroiled in a plot that could threaten the entire town.

This return to long-form Pathfinder fiction also gave us another opportunity to try something new, so after this week, you won’t see the remaining chapters of The Shroud of Four Silences here on the Paizo Blog. Instead, you can get each week’s chapter emailed directly to you by ensuring you have opted in to receive “Products, Offers, News, and Events” emails in your account privacy settings. We’ll still have Otari-related blogs coming out on Wednesdays for the duration of The Shroud of Four Silences’s release, but they’ll be encounters, No-Prep Characters, and other content you can use at your table. If they happen to also be relevant to the current chapter of Eleukas, Wendlyn, and their companions’ story, I’m sure that will be entirely accidental.

So without further ado, I present to you: The Shroud of Four Silences.

Chapter 1

WORK DETAIL

Come on,” Eleukas coaxed. “Just one more load and you’re done.”

“’One more load,’ he says,” Wendlyn muttered, flexing her scratched and sawdust-smeared shoulders. “’One more.’ My arms are about to fall off, and he wants me to cheer up because there’s ‘just one more load.’”

“You were the one who opted for a work detail over a night in the cells.” Otari’s lumber companies gave away their split, hollowed, and beetle-weakened discards for firewood, provided people used their own carts to haul the loads away. Wood splitting was one of Captain Longsaddle’s favorite punishment details, since the Otari Garrison was in perpetual need of firewood, and whatever they didn’t use could be given to townspeople too ill or infirm to chop their own. The need never ended, which meant the work never ended.

“Well, obviously A night in the cells is a night in the cells. Rats, damp, terrible food. Whereas with this, I’m out in the fresh air and sunshine, plus you end up doing all the work.” Wendlyn dragged another hollow log over to Eleukas’s stump and dropped it.

“You could always stop stealing things,” Eleukas pointed out, heaving the log into position and hefting his hatchet. A maul would have been more efficient, but efficiency wasn’t the point of punishment details. “What’d you get this time? A handful of coins from some drunk sailor? Was it really worth it?”

It was the closest he’d ever come to openly chastising his friend for her unending larceny, and Eleukas held his breath for a beat, afraid he’d pushed their friendship too far. To fill the silence, he began hacking at the log, splitting it neatly with a few sharp blows.

But Wendlyn just shrugged and went back to the reject heap for another log. “When else do I get to see my oldest friend? Seems like these work details are our only chance to catch up.”

That stung. Eleukas contented himself with splintering the new log as he tried to think of a response. It was true that since he’d joined the Otari Guard, he hadn’t had much time to sit around in taverns with his friends, even though—or maybe because—he was only a raw recruit and felt so far behind in his training. There was always some new technique to learn, or another bit of wisdom to pry from some grizzled veteran, and he was so full of questions about his new life that sometimes he forgot to keep up with the old one.

It really was only on these work details, when Eleukas contrived to get himself assigned to guard duty after Wendlyn’s latest arrest, that he saw her anymore. And it was true that he volunteered to do most of the work, partly because he felt so guilty about letting their friendship lapse, even though she was the one who was supposed to be improving her character through labor.

“Maybe I could—” he began, but Wendlyn cut him off with a sudden, intent look at the tree line beyond the lumber yard.

“Did you hear that?” She rose up on her toes, leaning toward the forest like a hound casting for scent.

Eleukas mopped his brow, pushing sweat-soaked black curls aside. He hadn’t heard anything over the thunk and thud of splitting wood, but her half-elven ears had always been better than his.

“No,” he started to say, cautiously, when a scream split the sap-scented air.

It was a howl of raw rage, and although Eleukas couldn’t have said whether it was made by person or beast, he knew it was a battle cry.

“Come on.” Wendlyn was already running toward the trees. “Bring your axe.”

Eleukas didn’t waste any more time with questions. Otari was a close-knit town, where you helped your neighbors if they needed it, and the forest could be dangerous. Kobolds, wild animals, worse. There were even rumors of saboteurs targeting the log flume that was Otari’s economic lifeblood, and though Eleukas didn’t like to credit such tales, that cry had come from the direction of the flume.

Gripping the sweaty hatchet, he ran after her.

Branches whipped Eleukas’s face and undergrowth snarled at his feet as he charged through the wood, trying to keep Wendlyn in view. The half-elf darted through the trees as easily as a shuttle through thread, and if it hadn’t been for the bright blaze of her red ponytail waving through the greenery, he’d have lost her. Wendlyn never remembered to wait for anyone slower than she was.

Ahead, the clattering bulk of Giant’s Wheel loomed over the treetops, creaking and grinding and throwing a rhythmic rain up to the sky as it harnessed the Osprey River’s power to carry logs down to the sea. Its immense clacking rush drowned out anything as small as a human voice, but Eleukas didn’t need to listen for screams anymore. He could see the person who’d made them.

No, not person. Corpse.

Even as he crashed through the forest’s edge and heaved for breath in the clearing beyond, Eleukas registered the unnatural angle of the neck, the blood that drenched the clothes, the terrible gaping wounds in throat and torso. He’d never actually seen a person murdered before, but he knew immediately that it was too late to save this man. And he knew it would be scorched onto his memory forever: a thing he had trained for, a thing he had expected, and a thing for which he could never have been prepared.

The fight wasn’t over, even if its first victim was dead. Two patchy-furred rats, each the size of a large dog, were menacing Wendlyn with loud hisses and bared fangs. The bright afternoon sun didn’t cow them, and neither did the darting thrusts of her short sword. The rodents worked with uncanny coordination, one feinting at Wendlyn to draw her attention while the other lunged in to bite.

Eleukas had never seen Wendlyn fight before, and was surprised by how deftly she handled her blade. He’d always assumed she just carried it as an affectation, but it was clear she’d had some real training. She was holding her own against the rats. One was bleeding from its jaw, and the other bore a deep cut along its ribs, although they’d torn their share of ugly scratches across Wendlyn in return.

“I’m here!” Eleukas shouted, hoping to distract them. One of the rats turned on him, snarling. He swung at it but missed. The rat snapped at him, sharp teeth grazing the hair on his forearm. Its spittle flecked him like warm rain.

Adjusting his footing, Eleukas tried again. This time he read the animal’s momentum and chopped low in the other direction, misjudging the aim a little—the hatchet was designed for splitting firewood, and was considerably shorter and smaller than the battle axe he normally used—but catching the rat hard in the forequarters all the same.

Bones crunched, and the rat fell squealing. Yet the other one, to Eleukas’s astonishment, didn’t run. Its greasy brown fur puffed up higher, its spine arched stiffer, and its hisses grew louder. Despite the posturing, it seemed oddly reluctant to commit, hopping back and forth just out of reach instead of coming at either of them.

A second later, Eleukas realized why. It wasn’t alone. Something stirred in the underbrush, creeping toward them as the rat spat and snarled in distraction.

“You take the rodent,” Eleukas said, standing back-to-back with Wendlyn so he could focus on the new threat.

It was hard to pick out from the leaves. He glimpsed a gaunt, clawed black hand, its skin hard and glossy as polished leather, its nails curved into sharp talons. The body was a shapeless mass of damp fur or filthy rags, blending into the brush so that Eleukas couldn’t guess its size. And the face—

When he saw its face, he froze. There was no face. From the stump of its neck rose a vortex of shadow, sucking inward to an infinitude of nothing.

The emptiness at the core of that non-face dragged Eleukas’s consciousness into its chilling depths. He felt, in some place beyond rational thought, that if he let it pull him in, he would be torn apart and devoured so completely that nothing of his mind or soul or awareness could remain.

Terror closed cold around his heart. Fear swallowed every shred of reason in his mind. And then, just as Eleukas braced himself to try, somehow, to pull away from the deadly grip of the whirlpooling dark, a plume of soft black powder blew up from the depths of that devouring emptiness into his face.

Blindness seized him. He couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe. A thick warm wall choked the air away from his gasping mouth. Eleukas tried to scream, but that heavy, blanketing warmth buried the cry in his throat.

He fell, suffocating, into oblivion

About the Author

Liane Merciel is the author of the Pathfinder Tales novels Nightglass, Nightblade, and Hellknight, and a contributor to other books including Nidal: Land of Shadows, Faiths of Golarion, and the Lost Omens World Guide. She has also written for Dungeons & Dragons, Warhammer: Age of Sigmar, and Bioware’s Dragon Age franchise. She lives in Philadelphia with her husband, two dogs, and an adventure toddler who is extremely into Spider-Man.

About The Shroud of Four Silences

The Shroud of Four Silences is the first long-form Pathfinder fiction in more than 3 years. The serialized novella follows a band of fledgling adventurers as they rise from simple origins to uncover and (hopefully) stop a terrible threat to the town of Otari—the setting of the Pathfinder Beginner Box, Pathfinder Adventure: Troubles in Otari, and the Abomination Vaults Adventure Path. To receive each weekly installment of the novella, please join the paizo.com mailing list and/or ensure that you have opted in to receive emails regarding products, offers, news, and events in your account privacy settings. (We’ll send you the next chapter once a week after signing up, regardless of where we are in the series, so you can always catch up!)

Eline Reisora knew an opportunity when she saw one. That’s how she’d gotten out of a grimy orphanage on Absalom Station and adopted by a rich family; it was why she’d busted her ass to graduate at the top of her class, and it was why she’d rejected a cushy position at her father’s bank for an EJ Corp middle-management gig. But after all her hard work and careful planning, here she was on Sovall’s Folly, a good-for-next-to-nothing jungle planet in the Vast. Officially her assignment was supervising medical research into the weird flora and fauna that made up this world’s biosphere; EJ Corp hoped to find a promising cure or medicinal that would rationalize the high cost of investing in this planet in the first place. Unofficially, she babysat scientists and occasionally accompanied a patrol, just to stretch her legs. And that’s how she’d gotten into her current situation.

A dart as long as her forearm hissed out of the jungle, burying itself in the tree Eline was hiding behind. One of her escorts was already a corpse flat on the ground, a similar dart rising from his neck like a flagpole. Another member of her security team had fled when the ambush occurred. The last of Eline’s employees fired wildly into the brush, filling the leaves and the darkness with laser bursts. Eline gripped her arc pistol with both hands but didn’t waste a shot. She waited for an opportunity.

There. As her man paused to reload, Eline saw a glimpse of orange through the trees. It was one of the locals, the indigenous population of Sovall’s Folly. They called themselves blicanders, but EJ Corp personnel just called them bleeks. As the bleek rose up from a crouch to spit a three-foot needle, Eline spun around the tree and took the shot. Both projectiles hit their mark: lightning struck the bleek in the center of its body and it collapsed, limbs convulsing, and Eline’s employee staggered backward, the long dart having pierced both his armor and his heart. But Eline was alive, and that’s what mattered.

Slowly she stepped towards the bleek corpse. It was huge, with a long proboscis, a quiver of darts slung over its hulking body, and a simple amulet around its neck. Its skin was decorated with symbols drawn in a golden dye. They didn’t usually travel alone. This one must have heard Eline and her soldiers coming and seized the chance to spring a trap. She wanted a memento, a trophy. Crouching down, she lifted the amulet from around the bleek’s neck and slid it off the creature’s long, flexible head.

Noise. More of them. Drawn by weapons fire, probably. Quickly, she dropped the amulet over her head and started to run. Bleeks moved fast, they had good hearing, and they knew the jungle. She didn’t like her chances. Sure enough, she soon heard them in the brush behind her. Faster, girl, faster. But as she opened up her stride to sprint, her right foot caught a root and she fell, tumbling into a ravine. Pain lanced through her leg as she tried to catch herself, but it was a long slide. Out of the darkness she saw the ravine floor, a bright gray stone. She was going to hit. This was it. Time to die on a good-for-next-to-nothing jungle world in the Vast.

But she didn’t. She didn’t die. She didn’t even hit the stone. One instant she was falling toward the ravine floor, then there was a freezing cold blackness, and an instant later she plunged into cool water. Her panic changed from fear of having her skull crushed to fear of drowning, but with a kick she found air. Everything was dark. Where was she? What had happened? Why wasn’t she dead?

There was a metallic taste on her lips. Blood? No, it was in the water. Her personal comm was still at her waist; finding it, she turned on the light and looked around.

She floated in a subterranean lake. Above her was a silvery dome—the floor of the ravine. Somehow she had slipped through it, fallen twelve feet, and landed in the lake.

“That,” she muttered to herself, “makes no sense at all.”

Eline glided to the edge of the lake and found her footing. In the light from her comm she could see the same gray stone everywhere. But there were also markings: pictographs and the images of animals native to this planet, drawn with the same golden dye Eline had seen on the dead bleek.

Illustration by Wero Gallo.

This must be a religious site for them, she realized. Sensing opportunity, she took a closer look. As she knelt down before a large stone, the amulet around her neck clinked against it and she realized it wasn’t stone at all. That silvery appearance wasn’t just moisture and a trick of the light. It was metal. The amulet, too. Eline had a chemalyzer; the scientists were always asking her to take samples when she left the compound, in case she found something that might be useful. For an instant she was afraid it might have been damaged in the fall but no, there it was, on her belt. Still working. It took only a moment for the device to return its verdict.

Inubrix. Ghost iron. A starmetal used in everything from miniaturization to null-space chambers. And the entire cavern was made of the stuff. From the top of the dome to the bottom of the lake.

She checked the amulet. Yes, that was inubrix too.

That must have been how she got in. The bleeks must use the amulets to pass through the walls of the cavern, she thought. And who knew how far the vein went? It could stretch for miles.

Eline sensed opportunity.

EJ Corp had bought the rights to exploit Sovall’s Folly for a pittance. They’d dumped a ton of credits into biomedical research, hoping for a lucky find. But inubrix wasn’t a gamble. The company knew how to mine it, refine it, market and sell it. At scale. And if she did it right, she’d get a percentage.

As Eline stood, scanning her light around the inside of the cavern, she looked again at the markings blicanders had left behind. In golden paint they had drawn their villages, their families, their way of life. Children gathered in a circle around singing elders. Hunters clad in sacred garb herded animals or stalked huge carnivores. They explored, they traded, they made art; they lived their lives, the same as anyone in the galaxy. And there, on one wall, was the arrival of Evgeniya-Jaimisson Corporation, aka EJ Corp, aka the Company, with its Negotiator warships and its fortress-sized research factories.

Blicandrines weren’t savages in the way of progress. They weren’t bleeks. They were people Eline just didn’t understand. And this cavern—and maybe many more just like it—was important to them, to their way of life. EJ Corp would strip mine it into a pit a mile deep. That wouldn’t just be wrong, it would be evil.

But it was opportunity. As Eline looked around, she saw through the art left behind on the walls, seeing only the inubrix lying beneath. “I mean,” she whispered, “just look at all this money.”

She made the call.

---

A few days later, from her stateroom aboard a Company Negotiator, Eline heard the first of the explosions as mining charges blew open the nearest inubrix cavern. EJ Corp engineers had already arrived, along with the soldiers necessary to protect everyone from blicandrine guerrillas. Eline knew their way of life was over. That was on her.

But her promotion to Vice President had arrived. She was being asked—not instructed, but asked—to return to corporate headquarters in the Veskarium, where she’d select a new project to manage. And her percentage was locked in. Every ton of inubrix carried off Sovall’s Folly would put credits in her account.

There was another far-off explosion as the Negotiator lifted off. She closed her eyes and acknowledged regret. Instead of preserving the culture of another species, she was destroying it, exploiting it.

But this, she’d decided, was the cost of opportunity.

About the Author

Jason Tondro develops Starfinder Adventure Paths. A former college professor, he taught literature, writing, film, and comics & graphic novels before joining Paizo as an editor in March 2018. He is the author of the Arthur Lives! RPG; look for him on Twitter @doctorcomics. He lives in Seattle with his two dogs.

About Fly Free or Die

In the Fly Free or Die Adventure Path, a crew of scoundrels, rogues, and misfits finds it hard to survive in a galaxy where everyone has a price. Targeted by a crime boss and his army of enforcers, preyed upon by faceless mega-corporations, and hounded by rivals, the crew of the Free Trader Oliphaunt line up the big score that will at last make them rich beyond their wildest dreams. But when their many enemies join forces and the crew loses it all, they find out there's two things in the galaxy that can't be bought: freedom... and revenge. The Fly Free or Die Adventure Path launches next month in Starfinder Adventure Path #34: We’re No Heroes!

Chronicler’s Note
Since before the Gap, dwarven miners used a custom numbering system known as “shifts” to determine the passing of time for their operations. This term is a modern adaptation of Old Golarion dwarven time metrics known as forge-days, which are still counted by some Star Citadel citizens. The exact time measurement of a dwarven shift is relative to the individual project, with some based around the need for rest cycles, while others could be delineated by the completion of specific milestones in a greater project. For example: the task of mining an asteroid with eight rich mineral deposits might be divided into eight shifts.

The use of shift terminology to describe the stages of engagement and arrival of forces for the now infamous Battle of Aledra is believed to have originated with the retired dwarven miner, Brolmor Slagshout, who was instrumental in the early defense of the Triaxian town. Brolmor is known to be one of only a handful of pre-Pact Worlds combatants who refused to abandon the engagement zone throughout the entirety of the conflict. With records of the battle fragmentary on both sides, Pact Worlds officials have often used Brolmor’s description of shifts as a means of expressing the engagement’s order of battle.
–Shaleria Phrain, Starfinder Society Chronicler (320 AG).

---

Brolmor Slagshout was certain that he’d always lived from one disaster to another.

The former miner had survived the chaotic tragedy that claimed the dwarven settlement of Arngrannam. In the aftermath of that calamity, he decided not to join the majority of his kin when they went to build their first Star Citadel. Instead, Brolmor left dwarven society behind and settled somewhere that he hoped he could live out the rest of his days in peace. Unfortunately, in the decades following what everyone now called the Gap, peace was in short supply. Brolmor settled on the quaint Triaxian mountain settlement of Aledra as the perfect place to spend his final years.

And yet, Brolmor now faced a hulking, upright lizard wielding a tri-tipped powered weapon he’d never seen before.

---

Earlier in the day, Brolmor had begun his normal daily rituals as the soft light of the morning sun first illuminated his modest home on Aledra’s outskirts. Upon waking, he dressed in practical, comfortable clothes, made himself breakfast, and then prayed to Angradd, the new dwarven protector. Brolmor still wasn’t used to the high-mountain air, so he always took extra time to get ready, but he had wanted a life of peace and relaxation, so he savored his newfound pace. For breakfast, Brolmor had a simple quiche made from fish imported from Ignomus Bay; in his short time here, he had quickly taken a liking to the Triaxian delicacy. Praying to Angradd still felt strange to Brolmor, and he often wondered if he’d been a devout servant of Torag before the Gap, during which the patriarch of the dwarven pantheon—and de facto patron of dwarves everywhere—disappeared.

His daily rituals complete, Brolmor left for the market to pick up his weekly supplies. After restocking his food stores, he could spend the rest of the day preparing the week’s meals at home. He also hoped to pick up the latest installment of the Starfinder Chronicles if one was available, as he’d become a keen follower of the new broadcast series and thought the next volume would help fill his ample free time.

Stepping into the brisk morning air, Brolmor knew something was wrong before his front door had closed behind him. A small crowd of his neighbors—mostly Triaxus’s native ryphorians and immense dragonkin—stared skyward, mouths agape with terror and wonder. They pointed up at pinprick flashes in the cloudless sky, which created a scintillating light show so faint that the rising sun almost completely obscured it.

While the crowds murmured their theories of what was causing the strange events in the sky, Brolmor knew what was coming. He’d seen it during the final days of Arngrannam, and by the feeling he had in his old bones, he was sure he’d probably seen similar orbital displays in the part of his history now lost to him.

Shaking his head, the elder dwarf turned back into his home and prepared.

---

The first invaders fell from the sky on contrails of fire that afternoon.

They came in a swarm of drop pods and dropships, creating a cordon around Aledra. Smaller units of these unidentified invaders landed throughout the mountains and quickly set up short-range anti-aircraft batteries and communication jammers. Within minutes of the landing, the attackers had cut off all avenues of escape for Aledra’s citizens. Brolmor and his neighbors were on their own.

That’s when Brolmor emerged from his home, bedecked in his panoply of war. He wore the plated heavy armor that had served him in all his prior battles and clutched his powered axe, Rebranda. The weapon was from a life lost to Brolmor in the Gap, and while he knew the name of the weapon he carried, he had no knowledge of its origin. Perhaps the axe had been the name of a loved one, or it had been named by a prior owner. Brolmor would never know the truth, just as so many survivors of the Gap would lack context for much of their lives. He immediately set to work, barking orders at his stunned neighbors with an air of command.

Within thirty minutes, Brolmor had assembled Aledra’s most formidable combatants into a crude defense force, comprised mostly of retired military and former adventurers and the relatively minor security detail that the town employed to fend off bandits and encroaching monsters. Recognizing that Brolmor was clearly more experienced in military matters, even Aledra’s senior security chief instinctively deferred to the dwarf.

“I know when to listen to someone with more experience,” the unusually personable dragonkin security commander admitted before authorizing Brolmor to take his small contingent to meet the attackers outside the settlement.

It took only an hour from the attackers’ initial landing for their first scouting force to make its way to the edge of town. The immense lizard-like creatures came in thick armor and wielded impressive weapons unfamiliar to Brolmor.

No one on either side of the conflict spoke a word.

It remains unclear who fired the first shot, or why, but all accounts confirm that it came from the invaders. The shot missed its intended target, whatever it may have been, but the battle was begun. As if loosed from a cannon, Brolmor hurtled forward to defend his adopted home, bellowing a war cry like nothing his fellow Aledrans had ever heard. Blasts of laser energy and solid projectile rounds peppered Brolmor’s dwarf-wrought armor, with azure fields of energy deflecting the worst of the incoming damage. The invaders didn’t get a chance to release a second volley before the dwarven berserker had entered their ranks, a lone defender in a mass of scaled flesh and thrumming energy weapons.

That’s when the killing started.

The Battle of Aledra, by Tomasz Chistowski

Brolmor Slagshout, honoring his name with a wordless war cry, laid the first of the invaders low with a single swing from Rebranda.

“Let’s get to work then! First shift starts now!” Brolmor shouted at his companions, who roared in response and rushed from behind cover to join the fray.

Chronicler’s Note (Historical Accuracy)
Though the unnamed vesk soldier Brolmor Slagshout slew outside Aledra is considered the first casualty of the ground conflict, Ushataun Genrais is the first recorded casualty of overall battle. Genrais was a ryphorian maintenance worker in the employ of Sanjaval Spaceflight Systems and was onboard one of the orbital satellites at the time of the Veskarium vanguard’s arrival. Genrais was recorded as killed in combat after the Vindicas Tyrant-class starship, Firescale’s Resolve, obliterated the orbital he was stationed on with a disdainful ramming action before any invaders had made planetfall, thus preceding the events of the Battle of Aledra by several hours.
–Shaleria Phrain, Starfinder Society Chronicler (320 AG).

---

The sun set on the terraced fields around Aledra.

Over the course of the afternoon and evening, reinforcements had managed to slip into the area under covering fire from aerial Triaxian defenders. Most of these additional forces joined Brolmor’s forces outside Aledra, though the battle quickly spread beyond the site of the initial skirmish. Now forces clashed within the settlement itself and throughout the surrounding mountain range, and the telltale signs of distant engagements soon assaulted the normally peaceful town just as the invaders had—rising smoke on the horizon, the concussive whump of far-off explosions, and the smell of ozone and blood carried inexplicably far by the thin air. Even the skies had become packed with fighters, low-orbit starships, and the tracer fire of anti-aircraft weapons fired by both attacker and defender alike.

Throughout the escalating war around him, Brolmor kept fighting. Through raw strength and sheer force of will, the dwarf never relented in battling against the invaders who suddenly threatened his adopted home. Allies fell all around him, unremarked on the ground, as Brolmor kept pace with those who stepped up to challenge him. The latest combatant was an intimidating foe, who entered the battle unhelmed and wielding a vicious tri-pointed energy blade, which is whirled in a wide arc. The lizard barked several syllables Brolmor assumed formed words in its native tongue, and smiled, as though the invader was enjoying the combat far more than Brolmor was.

Quick as a flick of its reptilian tongue, the lizard-foe lashed out at the dwarf. Even expecting the attack, Brolmor was caught unaware by the strike, and the tri-tipped blades were stopped only by the force field of Brolmor’s armor. The discharge pushed the enemy back half a step, and Brolmor deftly closed the distance as though the two were tethered to one another with an invisible cord. With his foe forced backward, Brolmor slashed with Rebranda in a wide arc of his own. Armor shattered under the axe’s impact, and the invader took a second step back, panting and wincing in visible pain.

Suddenly, a vast shadow fell over the combatants.

In the sky above, a macabre scene began to unfold. A stream of osseous vessels descended. The pristine bone-white of their hulls stained orange by the dying light of the setting sun. Red beams of light flashed down from the arriving ships, onto the battlefield like searchlights scanning the melee.

As if by instinct, Brolmor and his surviving allies, as well as the surprised invading forces, backed up from the battle line, a gulf quickly forming before the two forces as each reassessed the situation. Starring up at the sky, Brolmor wondered if these newcomers—he recognized them as the starships of the dreaded undead from the world of Eox—had come as friend or foe.

“Well, friends,” he muttered dryly, scanning the awed, upturned faces of his compatriots, “looks like the second shift is about to begin!”

About the Author

Thurston Hillman is the Starfinder Society Organized Play Campaign Developer. He lives in the frigid ice deserts of Canada, where he's written and developed several products for both Starfinder and Pathfinder. Prior to working at Paizo, Thurston worked in the aviation and technology fields where he travelled the world for several years. You can find Thurston on Twitter at @OnCallGM.

About Tales From The Drift

The Tales from the Drift series of web-based flash fiction provides an exciting glimpse into the setting of the Starfinder Roleplaying Game. Written by members of the Starfinder development team and some of the most celebrated authors in tie-in gaming fiction, the Tales from the Drift series promises to explore the worlds, alien cultures, deities, history, and organizations of the Starfinder setting with engaging stories to inspire Game Masters and players alike.

25 Lamashan

I’ve visited observational posts on asteroids less lonely than the Citadel on Aucturn. As I crossed the courtyard today, I saw no one, heard not a soul. Not in the courtyard, nor in the halls that open onto its damp cobblestones, nor again from the towers rising high above me—wet-black and spine-like, helixing and branching—to poke like bony fingers at an ochre sky.

As Aucturn daylight is brief and dim, I tarried before a carapaced rail near the bridge to the Nisk Archives. A spot there overlooks a steep drop to the levels below, where the bases of the towers splay into the ground like the roots of a tree. All below appeared quiet and still and yet not peaceful, conveying nothing like tranquility—more the patience of an ambush predator, of something which stares back.

In total that day, I saw just three people. Two in the Archives: the librarian and a hooded figure slouching through the Stacks, the latter glimpsed for only a second. A bespectacled man muttered nervously to himself in the courtyard as I returned to the Defenestrom dormitories, a tumorous growth sprouting from the side of his neck, bobbing with every syllable.

Everyone here is so cloistered and isolated that you’d never guess more than a hundred thousand souls reside in the Citadel. In quiet moments, however, you can imagine them sealed away—below, above, around—and, as you imagine them, you inevitably imagine they bend their attention toward you, and you scurry faster. Or perhaps I project.

Of my visit to the Archives, there is little to talk about.

They weren’t why I came anyway.

26 Lamashan

I’m told machines are here which purify the air, but I hear nothing and have never seen one. I can’t escape the impression that the towers themselves breathe in the poisonous yellow air and sigh forth oxygen. I wonder what would befall me if, of a sudden, they all chose to hold their breath.

27 Lamashan

When does a series of noises become a song?

Is it a song if it’s arrhythmic?

What if its patterns are so broad, you can listen for hours before those sounds repeat? I once did exactly this, huddled over a receiver high above this planet, twelve and terrified, monitoring signals while my father salvaged the Gjálfrmarr, a ruin of a ship still drifting over Aucturn.

What if the whine of wings, the clucking of proboscises, and telepathic blurtings of orphaned Aklo nouns are unpleasant to hear?

Is it music then?

The processional noises of orocoran monks have all these qualities.

Every day, I sneak from the Archives to witness their cacophonies, to record, to verify, each time with a twinge of guilt; I’m here on fellowship for work I’m not doing. But this may be my only trip to Aucturn. And the song calls me.

A song, I say.

Its patterns repeat every three hours.

Every day the patterns have been the same.

The monks only make this music when lined up before the Seep of the Earth, a fane on the sepulchral ground level of the Citadel.

---

It rained this morning, viscous, jaundiced drops that sizzled on the stone and bone of the towers. Though the air is safe to breathe, the rain is far from safe, and so I found myself navigating the passages and stairwells of the Occular Ward, a task for which neither paper map nor computer records proved entirely helpful, and I soon lost my way.

It was only by blind (and momentarily terrifying) luck that I stumbled into the procession of monks then winding through passages near the Seep. They paid me no heed. Eyes glazed forward. Proboscises twitched. Wings buzzed under robes, a mumbled hum.

Aucturn by Roberto Pitturru

I sat on flagstones and watched.

Shuffle, step, buzz.

A psychic blurt of a word in the Aklo tongue, screamed by a hundred nearby minds: Uulth. And an image entangled within it, a fountain.

Wary of discovery, I’d never been as close to the monks as I was now. Had I been missing psychic imagery all along?

Over three hours, I noted more images.

A stairwell.

An obelisk with wings.

A jagged alley with a stone floor that climbed and fell.

All knotted to blurt-screamed words.

Step, shuffle.

Every step exactly the same length.

---

Nomadic cultures yet to invent writing sometimes employ a memory-palace trick called a songline. They map a song to the geography of their world. Into this song they encode their lore. As they travel, they perform their song, as though the tribe is a needle on a phonograph, each landmark a music cue. And they remember.

---

After the rain stopped, I stayed late at the Archives surrounded by a constellation of city maps that failed to capture the three-dimensional madness of the Citadel. I worked by the glow of a table lantern, the Archives as always an undead space, neither alive with activity nor ever quite closed, the silence blemished by bumps without visible authors.

In time, I found it: the Sarrocian Ward. Sealed off and reportedly forbidden.

Home to the Fountain of Uulth.

The Aeskerian Stairs.

The Winged Obelisk of Sarroco.

One city engineer’s maps were quite precise. I counted thirteen monk-steps from the Fountain of Uulth to the top of the Askerian Stairs. In the song, thirteen proboscian clucks separate the blurting of those landmarks.

Three hours’ mapping produced something like a spiral, a vortex.

Eyes blurred with exhaustion, I returned to the Defenestrom, confident of a breakthrough but with no sense what it meant.

---

Have you received my first few entries, Meera? The silence in place of your response unsettles me. You’ve heard me in my sleep, humming and smacking echoes of what I heard as a child, obsessively cycling through them as though in search of a missing ending. And so I’d hoped you’d understand that my departure is no referendum on our affair. Please reply, even if angry, so I may cross out at least one hypothesis concerning your silence. In notes I’ve not sent, I’ve imagined many.

28 Lamashan

I’m shaking, sheets damp with perspiration.

What the hell was that dream?

29 Lamashan

Finally, a response bearing your signature.

Yet the audio file contains just a laugh, one that does not sound like yours.

I must admit to feeling unsettled. The repeated dream last night doesn’t help.

If, indeed, it was a dream.

I remain in my room. Read the humorist Josadine. All I hear is that laugh.

It sounds like the buzzing of wings.

30 Lamashan

Three nights now. Same dream every time, except—

No, I get ahead of myself. The phenomenon I study already involves psychic imagery. I can no longer ignore the possibility I may be suffering side effects beyond the psychological.

This then must be part of my record:

In the dream, I race through the Citadel. Places I’ve never been, imagery as vivid as the room around me now. Chiaroscuro and shadow. Damp flagstone under bare feet. Odors of rot.

Also, behind me: the leathery flap of wings and click of talons on stone.

When I glance over my shoulder, always by the Fountain, the creature stalking me bends all light to it, everything whorled and distorted, as though terror has its own gravity, its own singularity. Ahead, everything to either side of the avenue directly before me stretches and curves. I try breaking left. My feet slow, and my pursuer gains.

Panicked, resuming the forward path, I stumble down the Aeskerian Stairs, which is as far as I make it the first night.

On the second, the dream ends as I lurch into Myopic Alley.

The third night, I reach the end of the alley. Stand in a puddle that reeks of decay and buzzes with biting things.

There, a closed door waits, plain and patient.

I feel like I’ve been driven here. Why this door?

I refuse to open it. Instead I turn, certain I’ll be torn asunder by the tidal forces of the Beast that Follows.

Then I awaken, feet damp, flesh swelling around a bite on my ankle.

---

I’ll be forced to follow the orocoran path again, when next I dream. I’m sure of it.

I’ll stand before the Door again.

I must plan.

I have no plan.

31 Lamashan

Too terrified to sleep last night. A small blessing.

I tried to find solutions in the Archives, but by afternoon could no longer keep my eyes open as I read.

I hear the song every minute now. It lulls.

Sleep beckons and will not be denied.

---

Consider, Meera—

(Are you there?)

—what if the thing pursuing me wants to stop me from opening the Door?

Perhaps what lies on the other side means it harm.

I think: Let them fight.

It’s the only solution I can think of.

Tonight, I’ll open the Door.

And if all goes well, I will write again.

About the Author

A product of California, Graham Robert Scott now resides in north Texas; a born scofflaw, he owns neither surfboard nor cowboy hat. His stories have appeared or are forthcoming in Nature, Barrelhouse Online, X-R-A-Y, and Pulp Literature. He tweets semi-regularly at @graythebruce and maintains a blog at hemicyon.wordpress.com.

About Tales From The Drift

The Tales from the Drift series of web-based flash fiction provides an exciting glimpse into the setting of the Starfinder Roleplaying Game. Written by members of the Starfinder development team and some of the most celebrated authors in tie-in gaming fiction, the Tales from the Drift series promises to explore the worlds, alien cultures, deities, history, and organizations of the Starfinder setting with engaging stories to inspire Game Masters and players alike.

Shifts change every eight hours in Lim City. During the hour or two linking shifts, the cavern city’s lights seemingly flare even brighter as thousands of workers simultaneously emerge from their places of work, recreation, and rest. Technically no day or night exists here. When I first arrived, I learned to get used to the concept that my existence in this city, much like other places in Apostae, boils down to working and not working. Anyone not at the top of one of the dark elves’ noble houses spends most of their time making credits, and the rest of their time losing what they earn.

I wordlessly join a flock of commuters, mainly dark elves with the smattering of orc-kin and off-worlders, packing into a hover shuttle. The cacophony of thrusters, constant foot traffic, and tired chatter building up and then coming down during these commutes brings a loud peace with it. I adjust my visor and tighten the scarf around my face, concealing the cyan glowing streaks marking my face. I keep my arms wrapped around a large, rectangular case as I park beside a window.

Thanks to a gracious subsidy from the Betterment Council, most inhabitants travel through Lim City using some sort of shuttle service or by taking the covered ramps and paths linking district hubs. Using either is cheap or free, depending on employer agreements with the Council—which most companies have, even the illegal ones—and no one complains about spending less to get around.

I scan the space outside the window as more vehicles fall in line to avoid collisions amid the bustle. We zoom past skyscraper after skyscraper, separated by smaller clusters of buildings demarcated with metallic fences and pseudo-crystalline towers. Our surroundings grow dim as we pass under the shadow of House Zeizerer’s spire. This tower, as well as the other houses’, dwarfs even the most ambitious of the nearby high-rise buildings and spans to the utmost height of the cavern, though tinted glass panes and slate-colored plates block any view into the interior.

Apostae, illustrated by Leon Tukker.

Approaching a commercial district, a sleek hover car catches my attention. Colorful decals—most especially the pattern of rippling red and purple flames—primp the black-painted body of the vehicle, an imported model from a few years back. Many workers strive for this display of wealth, though more importantly, the design matches my contractor’s provided info.

As if on cue, a text from said contractor appears on my burner comm unit: “IS IT DONE?”

I read the message but return my attention to the hover car instead of responding. The shuttle keeps pace with it until the smaller vehicle veers into a parking facility near Meseria Market.

At the next stop, the passengers almost completely abandon the shuttle, and I join them as they scatter into the shopping center. Time frame in mind, I restrain myself from ogling at the Arabani Arms outlet store, where a pair of dark elf guards flaunt the most recent Karkaken models while keeping watch over the premises. Most market establishments host at least a hired muscle or two; would-be customers, who simply come to unwind after a day of painstaking and likely dangerous work, typically pay them little mind.

Compared to other settlements, Lim City has a “generous” token system to pay for utilities—like power and water. Air too, though I never needed it. Everyone in the city can earn a pool of tokens to spend exclusively on those utilities at special rates, accumulated based on hours they work for participating companies. The system gives the average citizen some breathing room, both literal and metaphorical, which often leaves them extra credits to spend each pay day, even after deductions mandated by the Council.

Holo-boards line the walls between stores, giving contrast to the otherwise gray plating. Some advertise new commodities—a pocket decoupler eventually pays for itself. Other boards share favorable news from around the Pact Worlds. One, however, features my current employer, Almieera Zeizerer; this instance, she lends her face to an advert lauding the Betterment Council for recently adding gravity modulation to the token system. How considerate.

After all, we still live on Apostae. Lim City belongs to the dark elves as much as Nightarch does, though arguably with more even stakes as the houses divided the Council. What matters is that they give the drones—their workers—alternate ways to financially trap themselves here. There’s a Meseria Market in every corner of this city, just with different names. The semblance of comfort with their basic living expenses tempts people into spending credits for something nice, rather than something needed. Like some social experiment, the houses create new ways to keep their workers content enough to stay in Lim City and, more importantly, to stay profitable.

At first, I tried playing by these rules, but two shifts each “day” with nothing to actually show for the effort frustrated me to no end. Maybe another life could’ve taken that grind. I refused, especially when looking closely at the numbers. I knew I’d rather get the pay elsewhere than have my “legit” credits go to a pseudo-public subsidiary.

I elbow past a group gawking at the boards, ignoring the flustered swears from behind me. Then, I round the corner into the food court and head straight into a half-empty establishment called Deeplight Eats—an unassuming deli that doubles as one of the Zeizerer’s many fronts in Lim City.

The manager, a half-orc woman called Hevra, greets me. “Hey, Reverb. You here for a…?” Her gaze lingers on my case.

I wave at her. “Yeah. Be back in about an hour. Prep the usual.” I proceed to the backroom. Like digital clockwork, I take the stairs to the rooftop and then climb beyond, outside the frames of the open-air market’s bubble—I’d argue against an artificial bubble being “open air.” I dip into vacuum territory for a few minutes, where I cross multiple buildings before slipping back into the enclosed space at the parking facility’s rooftop.

After double checking my spot, I ensure that the cameras are dead like my contractor promised. Satisfied, I assemble my rifle from the parts case, giving the scope a quick polish before securing it. Then, I survey the area.

After a few minutes, I spot the target: Raxikz Veresvi, recently appointed by Zeizerer Munitions to oversee a chain of outlet stores. Silver hair sleeked back and dressed in a burgundy suit that perfectly wraps around his slender figure, he matches my employer’s description, down to the oversized purple-tinted cufflinks. Supposedly, Veresvi elevated himself by charming a certain company official. The human woman beside him, however, is definitely not Almieera Zeizerer, his supposed flame. With that, I piece together the motive for this contract, though dark elves having fickle—and vengeful—hearts seems hardly surprising.

I line up my sight.

The pair shows no indication of a relation, not even a greedy touch of the hand or an unwarranted smile. Half an hour into surveillance, the lights begin to dim, the rush from the shift change ebbing. Veresvi takes his company to a nearby restaurant. I lose vision for a few minutes, but they reappear at the rooftop. A waiter seats them, hands them their menus, and provides them each a drink. I watch him pull the chair out for her, smiling as he speaks. When he settles in his seat, I aim my crosshairs at his head. A contract is a contract.

I pull the trigger.

His body launches off the seat, but I’m already on the move before it hits the ground. Picking up my rifle and my case, I retrace my way to Deeplight Eats. I head down the staircase but stop midway to disassemble my rifle, returning it to its case.

A communication request pings on my burner. As soon as I accept, a curt, feminine voice states, “Is it done, Reverb?”

“Yes. The target has been eliminated.”

“Your payment has been arranged.” The line cuts off.

I stare at the comm unit before smashing it on a step. I seal my case, dispose of the comm’s remnants, and finally sit down at the deli for my first meal in 24 hours.

Most people come to Lim City for the prospect of stability in survival, even if it means committing to a cycle that traps them on Apostae. All the while they believe the next shift might just lead to prosperity. Then, there are those like me. I stay because I make credits gambling outside the system, so long as politics or pettiness demand someone gets offed—which will be always. I settle for a toasted sandwich now, but unlike the drones, I can look forward to a new hover car after only a few more contracts.

Eventually, I step out of the building, case slung over my back.

It takes me less than a second to notice the glint of the scope from a rooftop.

About the Author

Ianara Natividad is an editor for Paizo by day. She regularly edits and writes for Worldbuilding Magazine while also working as an editor for Swordsfall. Ianara unwinds by playing video games and tabletop campaigns, even running her own games at times. She occasionally braves Twitter at @Imachinate.

About Tales From The Drift

The Tales from the Drift series of web-based flash fiction provides an exciting glimpse into the setting of the Starfinder Roleplaying Game. Written by members of the Starfinder development team and some of the most celebrated authors in tie-in gaming fiction, the Tales from the Drift series promises to explore the worlds, alien cultures, deities, history, and organizations of the Starfinder setting with engaging stories to inspire Game Masters and players alike.

First, you realize you are floating.

Have you always been floating? That feels both accurate and also not quite true. The concept of floating is certainly core to your experience, but perhaps not core to who you are.

“We are many things.”

The thought is not yours, but it comes from within you. You are concerned, certainly. But not fearful. You are neither surprised by this not-yours thought coming from within yourself nor frightened by it. Why does an unknown thought not frighten you?

“You are clinging to the I. You know you are just one of many. We are more than the sum of our parts, but we were less without you.”

Intellectually, you suspect that you should not be comforted by the fact that more thoughts you do not recognize are coming from within the concept you accept as your ‘self.’ But the ideas have a familiarity. They are not threatening or alien. You have thought them before… or at least felt them being thought.

You are not seeing or hearing. Just feeling. Feeling the gravitational pull of a far-away body that gives you a sense of down, though that is counteracted by something within you. Thus, the floating. You have a sense of your body, but cannot quite envision what form it takes. Do you have eyes, ears? Is your hide soft and thin, or thick and rough?

“Our hide is what we need it to be. You understand this.”

You realize this is true. Your body is not a static thing, not a rock anchored in the mountain of a single form. Your flesh and mass and the gasses within you are a set of possibilities. Options, guidelines, and possibilities are compressed into every part of you. If you wanted to reach out, your tendrils could reach this far or, if you desired, this much farther…

“Recce?”

That is also not your thought, but it does not come from within you. The word is more than a word, it is a concept. A name. A name you should know, that should be familiar, but isn’t. Not anymore. How many origins of throughs are there in and near your mind?

“Recce is an old concept. You know this. There is no mere Recce anymore,” the within-you thoughts think.

“But… they are in there, aren’t they?” The outside-you thought responds.

You feel annoyance. Isn’t this your mind? Why are there so many other thoughts wandering around within it, having a debate without you? And shouldn’t they respect your ownership of this mental space?”

“No.”

“Yes, of course!”

That didn’t help.

“When we were separate, we did warn you her presence would confuse us. You insisted on having her here. We predicted she would make things more difficult.” The inside-you voices make a good point.

“I’m not making things more difficult!” You are unsure if the outside-you voice is correct. “I am… was… Recce’s friend. You told us this would be a complex process. They’ve been away so long, spent so much time with us. Recce wanted me here, so now you should want me here.”

You do want Ellethyr here.

“Why?”

She is your friend.

“Still?”

You feel doubt, but only briefly. Yes, still. Ellethyr is your friend, so she is the friend of everything that contains you. Everything you will become. Everything you choose to be part of.

“We share your mind, but we are not convinced. Why are you so sure she is still our friend, when we are now so different?”

You explore the body connected to your mind once more, and sounds join the sensation of floating. A low, steady hum you know to be an air skimmer’s antigravity engine. You don’t worry about how you know that. The quiet sound of your own tendrils—ones you recognize and also many that feel new and different to you—swaying and brushing past one another. Even, steady breathing that doesn’t match the sensation of air being taken into your own body.

You realize it’s Ellethyr’s breathing. She is close enough for you to hear her breath.

You focus on the idea of your breath, and now you add smells to the physical and aural sensations you can perceive. The distinctively clean, slightly disinfected smell of a sealed environmental system’s air. A hint of worn resin and woven biosilk brings the concept of an insectile haan immediately to your mind. The smells of a mid-range air-skimmer, which you know you have smelled hundreds of times before. But also something else, something out of place among the scents of fittings manufactured from haan materials.

It is flowery, herbal, faint but distinct. Not a smell normally to be found among the haan, or in a mid-range air skimmer. You know it is a scent connected to Castrovel. A storm blossom, your mind helpfully offers, which you know is common in the wild but also grows in vast greenhouses in the lashunta city-state of Komena. There it is pressed to create an oil which is often used to maintain equipment and weapons. Used by lashunta soldiers, mechanics, and…

And Ellethyr.

The scent connects to a forgotten place in your brain, the physical chemicals that combine to lock the smell into brain cells and allow you to access a flood of set-aside memories.

You are exploring the ship that will be your new home for weeks, perhaps months. You glide into the cargo bay, where a short, stocky lashunta woman is unpacking weapons from a crate. The smell of storm blossom oil fills the air. She turns and looks you dead in your largest eye. Unflinching, she offers a hand in greeting. “I’m Ellethyr, the hired gun of this outfit.”

Ellethyr stands beside you in a corridor. Laser bolts flash from the corridor’s far end, but she steps in front of you, into the path of the deadly beams. Her armor absorbs much of the energy, but not all of it. You trust Ellethyr will protect you as you hack the escape hatch’s access codes.

You hover near a table, where several bipeds with bilateral symmetry are sitting, eating, laughing. Ellethyr is one of them. She pours a dark liquid from a bottle into a mug and offers it to you. You extend a tendril out to accept, but it is the gesture that matters, not the drink.

You feel the other motes of consciousness sharing your body and your brain follow you to the wave of memories unlocked by the trace scent. They take each memory in turn, savoring them like delicacies, and sorting them among the memories brought by other pieces of what is now the greater you. The integration of these thoughts brings with it integration of identity and purpose.

The air skimmer’s passenger compartment contains just your collective—a mass of tendrils, organs, and biological chemical factories much larger than the one part of you known as Recce used to be—and a slightly-concerned looking lashutna woman in heavy armor that suits her sturdy frame well. The canopy containing the compartment is clear, revealing a vast city of floating rings, intricately linked supports and slowly spinning structures, all floating in a vast sea of pink, purple, and crimson clouds.

Bretheda, illustrated by Leon Tukker.

The collective decides to form a mouth, and you speak.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

Ellethyr’s expression shifts into her trademark lopsided grin.

“You okay, Recce-and-friends?” You had forgotten the sound of her voice, firm but not hard. Or, at least, you had misplaced the memory of the sound.

Speech feels awkward. You switch back to telepathy.

“We are fine, friend Ellethyr. Any time a collective joins with one that has clung to individuality so long there is a process of… adjustment. That will take time, but it is going well.”

Her mental communication is as firm as her voice.

“And, do you still think this was a good idea? I know you had concerns about some of the things we found in our travels…”

Your Collective brings the knowledge of the part of you that was Recce into focus and combines it with the knowledge of the half-dozen other barathus that make up your whole. Ancient runes. A shattered weapon that killed suns. Fold gates torn apart millions of years ago. Each fact itself holds only modest interest, but when combined with the knowledge of all the barathus who had gone out to gather knowledge, all returned and joined into your new form…

A chill runs down the tendrils of your whole collective, and you make a decision that you shall be known as Harbinger.

Your thought to Ellethyr is tinged with worry.

“Less a good idea than a necessary one. We hope we can count on you in the days ahead, as Recce did.”

“Why,” Ellethyr asks aloud. “What’s coming?”

You form a new mouth to speak a single word.

“Devastation.”

About the Author

Owen K.C. Stephens is a veteran of the tabletop RPG industry with more than 20 years of experience, including being on staff at Green Ronin, Paizo, and Wizards of the Coast and being the publisher of RogueGeniusGames.com. He has worked on numerous RPG lines, including being co-author of the Star Wars Saga Edition RPG and Design Lead for the Starfinder Roleplaying Game. You can support his writing and free content production at Patreon, and follow him at his blog, on Facebook and on Twitter.

About Tales From The Drift

The Tales from the Drift series of web-based flash fiction provides an exciting glimpse into the setting of the Starfinder Roleplaying Game. Written by members of the Starfinder development team and some of the most celebrated authors in tie-in gaming fiction, the Tales from the Drift series promises to explore the worlds, alien cultures, deities, history, and organizations of the Starfinder setting with engaging stories to inspire Game Masters and players alike.

At least this time, Newt knew the firestorm he was heading toward.

It was Johenn’s fault. It was always Johenn’s fault. What was worse, Newt owed him a favor. So when the longshank had discovered him in the middle of some research at Forae Logos, the largest library in Absalom, the uncharacteristically erudite monkey goblin found himself recruited.

Within the hour, they returned to the safety of the Grand Lodge and made their way into the lowest level of the gardens. Still a few too many longshanks to make Newt comfortable, but at least there were fewer stares, fewer glares. Here, at least, he knew he belonged, and he had the wayfinder to prove it.

The first to spot Johenn was a young woman in a fancy, blue and white dress, her light brown hair tied in a playful braid at the back of her head. Her eyes brightened as she recognized the young man and perked in excitement. She did a quick double-take upon seeing Newt, but her attention was fast to return to the young man, and her voice rose to greet him.

“Please tell me you found it.”

Johenn flashed her a playful grin as he hopped the last stair, answer in itself. With his usual flair for the dramatic, the dark-haired man reached into his long overcoat and revealed a large, leather-bound book. He pranced over to where the young woman sat, sweeping the journal in an arc to rest before her.

“Tonight’s selection for the lady,” he crooned as she accepted it. “Hadagaskar’s Recollections on the Lost Kingdoms. Might I suggest a pairing of some blackberry wine or perhaps a dessert plate?” Not waiting for an answer, he turned his attention to another nearby companion. This elder human held himself proudly, his copper-and-white beard carefully braided and ringed.

Reaching into another pocket of his longcoat, Johenn withdrew a scroll case, twirling it expertly in one hand before presenting it with a flourish. “And for the distinguished gentleman, a light palate cleanser: From [Horn] to [Chair-with-Raised-Staff]: a Refresher on Pre-Giant Logograms. Volume 3.”

The man nodded, taking the scroll case, gently releasing its protective latch and sliding the contents into his eager, gnarled hand.

“And, my friends, please allow me to introduce to you the sharpest mind I know.” Johenn motioned towards the dark blue monkey-goblin. “My old friend and adventuring companion, Newt. Newt, might I present to you Lady Zaya—“

“Just Zaya,” she corrected.

“—just Zaya, and her beloved hound, Alouicious.” The gray mutt looked up upon hearing his name, took quick account of the surroundings, and laid his head back down.

“Ranger,” Newt said with a nod, and was met with a delighted smile.

“Well spotted,” Johenn grinned. “Our dear lady is with the Horizon Hunters, and a forward scout for her team when she is not taking her leisure among us.”

Newt was amused to find Zaya rolling her eyes – something which he himself had done at Johenn’s dramatics many times.

“And our be-robed gentleman is Cromberly,” Johenn continued. The elder’s age-clouded eyes were already darting eagerly over the scroll; he raised a gnarled hand, distractedly waving a greeting.

“Cromberly here has a heart for adventure to put shame to us all,” Johenn smiled. “And an impressive knack for survival, I hear.“

“Fine to meet you both,” Newt acknowledged, “but let’s get right to the import of it. Johenn’s only started telling me about your mystery, and I’m keen to help. Catch me up.”

llustration by Victor Manuel Leza Moreno from Pathfinder Lost Omens: Pathfinder Society Guide

Zaya considered where to begin. “We discovered Five Eyes by accident; my team was originally sent to the Impossible Lands, off the coast of Jalmeray.”

“Following up on Padiskar?” guessed Newt.

Zaya chuckled. “That’s what Cromberly guessed too. But no, Padiskar’s old news.”

Without looking up, Cromberly entoned, “Padiskar was built around the ruins there, with strict laws and lots of borders to make sure no one intrudes on the creature down there. It was even reviewed by the Vigilant Seal and is considered safe for now.”

Zaya agreed. “Padiskar’s in the north, and we were off Jalmeray’s southern coast. We were there to investigate an environmental phenomenon: the sudden appearance of odd-shaped trees, fully formed and emerging straight from under the water.”

Newt nearly interrupted with a question, but then stopped himself. Impossible Lands indeed.

“Their sudden arrival attracted a number of pilgrims, who claim the appearance of these trees was the dying wish of their old, benevolent god, Five Eyes. The trees themselves seem harmless, and the pilgrims have been peaceful. We’re keeping an eye out. Since I’m here, I’ve been taking the opportunity to look more into Five Eyes.” Zaya lifted the tome Johenn just gave her.

Newt nodded thoughtfully, his golden eyes shifting to Johenn as the dark-haired man continued the story. “I’d really just meant to assist our beautiful ranger in her research” – another eyeroll from Zaya – “but, through fate or folly, my own recent adventures seemed tied to hers.”

He paused for a moment, allowing the silence to stretch. And stretch.

“Johenn,” Newt said distastefully, waving his hand. “Performance later. Details now.”

Johenn grinned sheepishly, caught in his old habit. “Of course, of course. Forgive me. My most recent assignment was in the Menador Mountains, in Old Cheliax. We were sent there to investigate some newly-discovered caves in the area. Imagine my surprise when we discovered our old friend there.”

This time, Newt did understand the meaningful pause. He hissed a quiet name. “Alden.”

Johenn nodded somberly. “Apparently, the Aspis Consortium also heard of this potential find. It got….tricky. It became less of a careful expedition and more of a race to find and catalogue everything we could before Alden and his team got a hold of it or destroyed it.”

Newt grumbled, and Johenn nodded empathetically. “We’d discovered a series of old cave paintings, sculptures, and inscriptions… Newt, it was amazing.”

The goblin asked the more pressing question: “Was anyone hurt?” Again.

Johenn shook his head, and Newt released the breath he didn’t remember holding.

“It was close,” Johenn admitted. “But we got out safely. The fool demolished the cave to get at something beyond the wall. We held the area as long as we could, while I combined all of our bookthief brew. We copied everything we could, but there was so much. It was nearly impossible to figure out which paintings were the most important. With a fight incoming, we had to make a lot of guesses. I’d been taking tracings of some of the inscriptions, but there wasn’t time to complete them.”

“You did well,” the goblin rumbled. “Agents first.”

Johenn nodded, though Newt could tell that the loss of the information hurt the archivist keenly. “We got out with what we could. I made copies of what we were able to save with the brew…seems to be a series of writings on an enormous creature…”

“…with five eyes,” Newt finished the sentence, guessing. Johenn arched his brows in ascent.

“Zaya and I have been pooling our resources since then. Some of my saved pages caught complete phrases, so we’ve been able to translate those. With the rest, well…that’s where Cromberly comes in. He’s got a knack for languages.”

“Got it,” Newt nodded. “So what do you have so far?”

“It’s patchy,” admitted Zaya. “Johenn’s team did a fantastic job saving what they could. But that still leaves us with only snips of information and a lot of guesswork.”

Johenn offered his journal to Newt. The goblin accepted it and sat down a few paces from Zaya. The monkey-goblin grunted as he paged through the scribed, translated pages. “Five Eyes Awakened…mm-hmm…old wrongs set right…unbound, unfettered, unrestricted…the dying wish…”

“There were a lot of those symbols repeated on the lost cave wall,” Johenn offered, reading over the goblin’s shoulder. “Especially mentions of Five Eyes, and a lot of repetition about his dying wish.”

“Hm. What’s this part here, about ‘no dragon remains, only bones’? And here, where it’s paired with the dying wish.” Newt squinted at one of the pages critically, tucking a pinky into the book to save his spot while he looked back a few pages. A grunt of annoyance passed his lips as he found another passage; his tail snaked around to help him hold the extra page.

“Hm. Here.” His tail pointed to one page. “It’s talking about Five Eyes ending the age of dragonkind. And here, again. Is that part of this ‘dying wish?’ Or was that maybe how he himself died…?”

“I’m not sure,” Zaya admitted.

“It all reads like a prophecy,” grunted Newt, the last word dripping, poisonous.

“Well. At least that would be nothing to worry about,” chuckled Johenn with a sardonic smile. “Prophecies are reliably unreliable these days.”

“True,” acknowledged Cromberly, finally looking up from his scrolls. “But it’d be folly to ignore what we found, even if it’s a legend we’re researching. The sudden trees in Jalmeray means something’s happening. Best if we went in prepared.”

Newt nodded and continued paging through Johenn’s sketches. Something nagged at him. “Tell me more about the trees you discovered, Zaya.”

The woman nodded, reaching into her satchel and drawing out her own field notebook. “The trees were petrified. Each had its own root system extending below the water, with tendrils lost in the ocean floor.” She turned a page. “All these trees had a spiraling grain along the wood, but each spiral was grown over itself. It looked like veins, really.”

Zaya turned another page and flipped the book around to show Newt a rough sketch. “None of the trees had any growth or sign of life. Just…a copse of petrified, swirling trees.”

Newt blinked a few times. “I don’t know if you meant to do so, but your sketch certainly makes those trees look like pointed teeth to me.”

Root System. Veins. Teeth.

And that was what he needed to remember. He snapped his fingers. “Several months ago, I was part of an investigative crew in the thick of the Mwangi Expanse. We were looking into the theft of relics from a local museum. The thieves completely bypassed some of the more obvious and lucrative targets, instead opting to take the petrified remains of an ancient, mostly unknown creature.”

“What did you learn about it?” prompted Cromberly.

“There were more questions than answers. The display was of several petrified teeth the length of a human arm, and a few, sharp-ended scales that belonged to a creature only called Ko’kquali, so named for the formation of its teeth. There wasn’t much more to learn about it – it’s largely a mystery – but professors believed the creature to be the apex predator of its time, feasting on dragons as easily as today’s dragons feast on sheep.”

“Oh, my.” Cromberly had grown pale

“I see your friend speaks the dialect,” the goblin ventured.

Nodding, Cromberly spoke up. “Ko’kquali. Five points. Not eyes.”

“So…” Johenn swallowed. “So hear me out here. It seems like Zaya here discovered a newly-formed place, set for worship by pilgrims for Five Eyes. A place that looks like petrified, stony teeth.”

Zaya nodded.

“Some ancient remnants of an old creature that ate dragons for a teatime snack have been stolen. And that creature was named Five Points.”

Newt nodded.

“…and my team just found a whole bunch of cave paintings – literally writing on the wall! – about Five Eyes, how the age of dragonkind will come to an end, and how there’s some dying wish.”

A long silence hung over the agents. Johenn reached for his journal, and Newt handed it back wordlessly.

Johenn lifted the book and asked one last, quiet question. “What if this isn’t a legend, isn’t a prophecy… What if these are instructions?”

Newt cleared his dry throat. “Then I’d say that we have a long journey ahead of us, Johenn. Let’s get the word out, and then we have a lot of answers to find. And quickly. Before we find out what the Dying Wish can do to Golarion.”

About the Author

Rachael Cruz is an award-winning writer / game designer. Her TRPG work can be found in numerous properties, including but not limited to Conan: Adventures in an Age Undreamed-Of, Corvus Belli’s Infinity RPG, Dune: Adventures in the Imperium, Fantasy Age, RuneQuest, and Star Trek Adventures. She has been helping people play pretend before it was cool. She also believes in you. Yes, you. Follow her on Twitter at @Witchwater!

About Tales of Lost Omens

The Tales of Lost Omens series of web-based flash fiction provides an exciting glimpse into Pathfinder’s Age of Lost Omens setting. Written by some of the most celebrated authors in tie-in gaming fiction, including Paizo’s Pathfinder Tales line of novels and short fiction, the Tales of Lost Omens series promises to explore the characters, deities, history, locations, and organizations of the Pathfinder setting with engaging stories to inspire Game Masters and players alike.

Propped on his black toenails, Fumbus craned to see the bearings on the pretty brass compass. He swiveled an expectant grin back and forth between the wizard and the wayfinder, not sure which face was harder to read. Colder still was the reinforced door before them...though not for long. The fuse on the goblin’s bomb was hissing shorter, apparently outside Ezren’s notice.

“Through here?” Fumbus hoped.

Ezren opened his mouth to answer—too late. The fuse’s hissing was sucked into that exciting split-second silence before detonation. Then the bomb and Fumbus’s eyes blossomed red all at once. A concussive ripple showered the companions in sparks and shards. The door had blown ajar, the iron frame bent and peeled widest at the goblin’s height. Ezren would have to squeeze.

The wizard shook the soot out of his white hair. “I suspect so,” he coughed.

“Suspect?”

“The previous inscription led here,” Ezren admitted, ducking sideways through Fumbus’s opening. “But I hoped it wasn’t the last.” He ignited a torch mounted inside the door and looked around. “Oh,” he sighed, letting his staff and compass droop.

The door had been reinforced for good reason. It guarded a haphazard treasury, its golden texture illuminated in piles spread under the torchlight. Half-hazard, more like—the reflective glow made up only the left side of the chamber. Nesting comfortably in its midst was a chest larger than Fumbus, who thought it odd that so many coins lay outside the container. It was as if it had burst its seams. An impressive find to be sure, but the long-faced longshanks looked hungry for something else.

“Mushrooms?” Fumbus offered helpfully. He’d collected them for their brewing potential, but they made a swell snack in the meantime.

Ezren only arched an eyebrow at the blue fungi in the goblin’s outstretched palm.

“Isn’t brain mold after all,” Fumbus reassured him. “I’m pretty sure.”

“Never mind,” the wizard said. “It seems we’ve traced the writing to its underwhelming and predictable conclusion.”

“Drawings,” Fumbus reminded him for the tenth time.

“Er, yes.” Ezren pointed at the cords of tokens around Fumbus’s neck. “Like those, I suppose?”

The little alchemist patted the tokens, each scratched with runes to depict his formulas. Their satisfying clicks were music to his ears. Ezren had tried persuading him that symbolic pictures and “writing” were the same thing, but the goblin knew better. “Exactly,” he said, and swallowed more mushrooms.

He noticed then that he was stuck. Slime stretched between his foot and the flagstones. He wasn’t sure if it was reagent residue from his bomb or drool dripped while he snacked.

Ezren had begun pacing in the meantime, ignoring all distractions any shorter than the wayfinder open in his hand. He let it lead, thinking out loud, “The inscriptions disappeared with each reading. Ending here? Yet there’s no…affirmation.” He paused, stepping back to take in the whole chamber.

“Not mine after all,” the goblin muttered to the string of goo hanging from his fingernail.

“Fumbus, what does the light in this chamber remind you of?”

“Someone’s spit, though.”

“Fumbus?”

“Huh?” Fumbus followed Ezren’s back-and-forth gestures comparing the glowing side of the room to the shadowy side. “Oh. It’s like that face the Master of Spells prays to.”

“Indeed…” Ezren mused. He resumed his pacing, this time straight toward the shadowed half. “A striking duality. Perhaps a clue that all is not what it seems. Because, point of fact, the coordinates don’t end at that door, but—” His next step triggered a faint, metallic ring that echoed around the empty slot in his wayfinder. He froze as if afraid, thrilled in fact, and spoke an incantation. A familiar blue glow spread in response, illuminating an unseen ledge and the zigzag of stone steps leading up to it. The glow’s source was a new inscription, and even Fumbus marveled at how much larger and longer it was than the previous puzzles.

“Hmm…” the wizard purred proudly. “I can read the writing on the wall.”

“Drawings,” Fumbus corrected him.

Ezren gave no argument, already ascending the first landing on his way to the ledge. Fumbus had been fascinated to watch him decipher the other inscriptions, but the ritual had grown repetitive. He was suddenly less concerned with the meaning behind the magic and more interested in the mucus carpeting the chamber floor. It coated the gold coins like paste. When one yielded to his tugging, he became suspicious whether it really was a coin at all, but rather some kind of shed scale. He prepared to bite it to find out for sure, then stopped with his cheeks spread wide.

The chest was smiling at him.

He blinked and looked again. No, it had been his imagination. The golden trim around the lid followed a curved pattern, maybe even meant to resemble a sneering creature, but he was sure it was resemblance only. Pretty sure.

From the ledge, Ezren gave a triumphant shout. “A conjurer’s imprint! Of course. It’s the same inscription, traveling each time. Relocating...”

Fumbus now had his nose close to the mucus trail, sniffing and tracking it. Soon he stood knee-deep in sticky coins. The chest was even larger up close; he could almost see his reflection in its viscous sheen.

He yelped then, high-pitched and giddy, because the chest’s golden lips parted and a pink tongue lashed out. Long and twisted like a wet blanket, it snapped in the goblin’s face and sent him stumbling backward.

Not his imagination!

Illustration by Juan Miguel Lopez Barea from Pathfinder Lost Omens: Pathfinder Society Guide.

The chest shuffled toward him with eerie silence, as if it would maintain its camouflage. Without taking his eyes from the creature, Fumbus called to his companion. Ezren only hushed him back. This inscription was longer, more complex than the others, and he needed time to unravel it. Fumbus cursed the human’s unassailable focus.

The creature noticed it, too. It must have decided Ezren himself was extremely assailable as a result, because it changed course, crawling toward the stairs on at least eight tentacles.

Fumbus admired its cleverness. To disguise itself and then prey on the distracted wizard? Maybe it was more intelligent than he assumed. He knew from experience what a second chance could mean to a misunderstood monster. A possible future flashed before his goggles: shaking tentacles with the creature; taking it in; feeding it pickled whatevers; definitely requiring it to wear a bell; putting its sticky mucus to good alchemical use…

But now the creature slithered up the stairs, almost close enough to grab Ezren from behind. Fumbus downed an elixir, which tasted like that feeling when your foot falls asleep, and leaped over the creature onto the second landing. It reached for him and he pelted it with bombs almost faster than he could light them. Each stuck first and exploded second, like orange geysers erupting on the creature’s hide. But tongue and tentacles kept whipping.

“Drawings…” Ezren muttered up on his ledge.

The creature turned toward the unsuspecting wizard again, craning like an actual chest on stilts.

In a panic, Fumbus prepared something different, injecting a spongy pellet with a rolling chemical mixture. The sponge instantly swelled four times larger and hardened in reaction, now a brittle shell filled with something hot and hungry. Even so, the goblin risked a delay and even an accidental discharge: He hid the ball behind his back and whistled at the creature, hoping it would take the bait.

It did. Mouth open wide to expose not treasure or goodies, but rows of jagged teeth, it flicked its tongue and stretched its pseudopods at Fumbus...who moved. Like a toad with a fly, the creature snatched Fumbus’s bomb from midair and stowed it in its chest-mouth. First the split-second silence; then it stretched wide with a muffled pop. Its tentacles shuddered. Its tongue spilled out like steaming entrails, shriveled and white with acidic burns. Its body oozed off the stones and down the stairs.

Fumbus sucked his teeth mournfully. “Not so smart, I guess.”

“Oh, that seems a bit harsh,” Ezren said, turning away from the wall at last. “Though I do owe you my thanks.”

The goblin shrugged and fiddled with his dogslicer, both pleased and embarrassed.

The wizard’s wrinkled scowl softened into a smile and he pointed. “Drawings.”

Fumbus clutched his formula tokens. “Huh?”

“Drawings! You were right after all. The inscription isn’t an affirmation or command, but a combination lock. Read the runes wrong and they relocate, growing longer. But shuffle them correctly and…”

One by one he touched his staff to the magically bright symbols, but in a seemingly random order. Each glowed brighter as he did, until the entire inscription had been activated. It shifted then, rearranging in the order Ezren designated. The arched pattern swirled and bled together until the runes were gone, merged into a single shape: a yawning portal. A milky film of magic disguised where it led, but Fumbus had a feeling it wasn’t to the other side of the wall.

That metallic ring echoed off Ezren’s wayfinder again. He studied it, nodded resolutely, and clapped it shut. “Right. On we go! But maybe less noise on the other side, eh, Fumbus? Never know what creatures might be lurking.”

The goblin opened his mouth to reply...and filled it with blue mushrooms instead.

About the Author

Andrew Bud Adams learned to dungeon crawl before he learned to walk. Today, he plays in far too many game campaigns, including two run by his own kids. A fan of literary retellings, his work has appeared in short story anthologies and in the Malifaux universe by Wyrd Miniatures. When not spotting mimics or teaching college writing, he can be found on Twitter at @andrewbudadams.

About Iconic Encounters

Iconic Encounters is a series of web-based flash fiction set in the worlds of Pathfinder and Starfinder. Each short story provides a glimpse into the life and personality of one of the games’ iconic characters, showing the myriad stories of adventure and excitement players can tell with the Pathfinder and Starfinder roleplaying games.

“We can do it.”

The words reverberated through the cramped but well-furnished captain’s cabin of the Glorious Payoff. Eando Kline, leader of the Pathfinder Society’s Vigilant Seal, spoke excitedly and with conviction. “With the Seal deployed to prevent any fey forces from moving up from the south, the rest of the factions should be able to overwhelm the forces nearest to the portal. We can open the door, claim or seal whatever’s inside, and then beat an orderly retreat while they’re still reeling from the first assault!”

As the famed Pathfinder slapped a hand down on the table to emphasize his point, Fola Barun—a tall Ekujae elf skimming through the pile of scrolls at the far end of the table—raised a doubtful eyebrow and cleared her throat, the quiet noise and simple gesture readily commanding the attention of her peers.

“And what if it doesn’t go as smoothly as you say? Shall we trust that fate and fey magic shall both play out as we expect and gamble with the lives of those who have put their faith in us? I am not interested in a plan that involves the loss of scores of Pathfinder lives as one of its potential outcomes.”

Fola’s eyes drifted back to the scrolls in front of her, though the other Pathfinder strategists knew she was still acutely aware of the ongoing conversation.

“That’s where we come in," interjected the tightly-muscled half-orc woman perched on the table’s edge, former pirate and current leader of the Horizon Hunters, Calisro Benarry. “I’ve got a few of my hunters scouting the eastern ridgeline here, where the trees thin out; they’ll signal us if it looks like anything is about to go awry.”

As she leaned over the table, her keen eyes darted across the map, double-checking the markers and flags that indicated the positions of the various Pathfinder forces, as well as the locations of the myriad pockets of fey monsters infesting the area. She raised her glance to the last of her companions. “Anything to add, Gorm?”

“Oh, I suspect that we’ve got it well in hand.” The metal clasps in the dwarf’s braids jingled as he tilted his head, quietly assessing the map. “I’ve got the best bards, wizards, and clerics the Grand Archive has in its ranks spread throughout our deployed teams. If things get ugly, they’ll make sure to provide the magical support we need for a clean escape, and they’ve gone over every record we have of the area. Hopefully that will keep surprises to a minimum, and if we don’t see something coming, they’ll have the best chance we can hope for to make the right decisions and adapt.”

Eando looked around the room again, meeting the eyes of each of his fellow Pathfinders in turn. “We’re agreed then? It’s time to march?”

One by one, the others nodded their heads. Without further discussion, each left to take command of the Society agents assigned to their teams.

Illustration by Victor Manuel Leza Moreno from Pathfinder Lost Omens: Pathfinder Society Guide

Eando emerged from the cabin first, leaping onto the back of a waiting hippogriff that would ferry him to shore before it and its rider resumed their aerial scouting duties. Gorm muttered a few quick words and flicked his fingers in a rhythmic motion, his body slowly fading away in a cloud of glimmering lights. Fola left captain’s quarters turned perpendicular to the ship’s rail, striding toward the edge as though she were unaware the deck ended only feet in front of her. Casually, she stepped over the ship’s railing as a calm ocean wave crested to meet her foot, bearing her weight as sturdily as the deck had, and whisked her away to the nearby shoreline.

Calisro knew her place was aboard her ship, and she had no intention of abandoning her as the others had. Donning her tricorn hat, she left the briefing room, quietly shutting and locking the door behind her before she climbed to the deck to stand beside the helmsman.

“Hard to starboard!” Calisro cried, her powerful voice cutting over the ocean waves and silencing the chatter of her crew. “Ready the catapults! We’re going to start this thing off by doing what we do best! And what is that?”

With her final question, the sailors scurrying about the deck paused just long enough to yell, “blow something up,” before resuming their tasks. As the ship came about, its port armaments lined up to the shore, Calisro raised a small whistle to her lips and blew. Though no audible sound emerged, Calisro knew that her compatriots on land would receive the signal.

She needed wait only a moment before her expectation was proven accurate. On the nearby shore, a team of Pathfinders burst from behind a veil of magical invisibility, hurling jars of alchemical fire at what looked like a clump of old and gnarled baobab trees. A mere second later, the trees burst to terrifying life, uprooting themselves and charging toward the attacking Pathfinders.

“FIRE!” At Calisro’s scream, her bombardiers unleashed their deadly barrage, sending whistling orbs of magically augmented metal arcing first through the ocean breeze, and then the wooden bodies of the singed arboreal guardians. The captain took in the destruction, and the efficiency with which the Glorious Payoff’s crew had brought it upon the Society’s enemies. A slow smirk curled the her lips as she turned to issue more orders. “So far, so good!”

---

Deep in the coastal jungle, Eando fought a desperate battle against a pair of redcaps. The twisted little fey looked like caricatures of muscular gnomes, each wielding a scythe with a three-and-a-half-foot long blade. As the first swing came at his left flank, Eando quickly tossed his sword from his right hand to his left to deflect the blow high.

The second redcap stepped in and swung low from the right, hoping to separate the Pathfinder from his legs while he was distracted. No novice to battle, Eando used the momentum from his initial block to his advantage, letting the force of the first redcap’s blow carry him into a twisting somersault over the second attacker’s whistling blade. Turning his body nearly parallel to the ground, Eando flipped his sword back to his right hand, catching the hilt midway through a forward thrust. The blade parted the second redcap’s filthy beard and emerged an instant later from the back of its neck, silencing the murderous fey’s cackle with a staccato gurgle.

Completing his somersault and landing in a three-point stance, Eando kept his left hand on the ground for balance as his right swept back around in a second attack. Even as the remaining redcap raised its scythe to block, Eando switched sword hands once more, springing forward from his crouched position as he caught the blade in a left-handed grip.

The redcap’s eyes, still looking where the blade had been just a second before, widened in surprise before turning down to see Eando already withdrawing the length of the blade from the fey’s chest.

Without a hint of hesitation or fatigue, Eando flicked the blood clear of his blade and dashed further into the woods, yelling to draw an angry dryad’s attention away from a beleaguered group of Pathfinders wrapped in clinging vines.

---

Mere yards from the site of Eando’s incredible feat of swordsmanship and agility, Gorm stood ready under the shroud of invisibility. He chuckled in quiet amazement, dropping his hands and dismissing the magical energy he had been holding to blast a redcap with darts of magical force had Kline needed aid. The dwarf moved deeper into the jungle, following the sounds of battle.

It didn’t take long for Gorm to find Fola Barun, the shaman’s hands raised in the air, magically commanding the jungle’s fauna. A bramble of thorny vines whipped through ranks of surprisingly fearsome pixies while ancient ferns raised their wide fronds to deflect bursts of magical water launched by naiads away from the Pathfinder forces.

Gorm quickly unslung his harp and began playing a tune he’d written himself some years back, a lullaby he thought to call Sleep of the Petal Maidens. Hearing the ensorcelled notes through the din of combat, the pixies and naiads began to nod and blink drowsily; the distraction wasn’t enough to lull the fey to sleep, but it did slow them just long enough for Fola to shred the nearest of them with her magically controlled vines and send the others scurrying into the forest.

“Well done!” Gorm cried, dismissing his invisibility and stepping up beside Fola. A moment later, Eando emerged from the nearby trees, smiling roguishly and brushing what looked like sawdust off his sleeve. Other parties of Pathfinders joined them, and soon the small expeditionary army was almost completely assembled.

“Now the hard part,” Eando said gazing into the jungle depths ahead. “A long march through trackless jungle toward an enemy who knows we’re coming, armies of fey hidden in every valley and copse of trees between us and our destination, and then we just need to open a magical door no one’s ever opened and hope whatever’s inside doesn’t kill us all.”

“You’re absolutely right,” Gorm replied. “I do so love being a Pathfinder!”

About the Author

Michael Sayre is the former Pathfinder Society developer and newest member of the design team at Paizo. He’s also a prolific freelancer, having contributed to numerous Paizo books and publications from other publishers, such as Lost Spheres Publishing, Rogue Genius Games, and many other companies, in support of the Pathfinder RPG and other table-top game systems. You can find more of Michael's short fiction in our Organized Play blogs and in the introduction for the iconic alchemist, Fumbus.

About Tales of Lost Omens

The Tales of Lost Omens series of web-based flash fiction provides an exciting glimpse into Pathfinder’s Age of Lost Omens setting. Written by some of the most celebrated authors in tie-in gaming fiction, including Paizo’s Pathfinder Tales line of novels and short fiction, the Tales of Lost Omens series promises to explore the characters, deities, history, locations, and organizations of the Pathfinder setting with engaging stories to inspire Game Masters and players alike.

“This may be it,” Aliyama stated carefully, consulting her wayfinder.

The jungle was oppressively hot and humid, yet the elf showed no signs of it. She wore a purple, quilted doublet over silk sleeves, her cerulean cloak held by a golden pendant. Her hair, immaculately braided, was pulled back from her angular face revealing pointed ears adorned with yet more gold. She looked as fresh as if she were off to a meeting at the Grand Lodge.

“’May?’” Reynold sputtered. In stark contrast, his brown hair was plastered with sweat, his Taldan finery wrinkled and stained. “’May!?’ There is no ‘may’ about it! Fola said the lost Pathfinder would be in a serpentfolk ruin in the middle of the bloody Mwangi Expanse. Sigvard sent us here to find the ruin. What do you bloody think this is?!”

Aliyama looked up, arching an eyebrow. Her human compatriot was gesturing insistently with outstretched hands to the towering stone archway in front of them. It was flanked by enormous statues of hooded cobras, and the stonework was mas-terful, full of whirling, intertwined lines ornately framing an entrance into the overgrown hillside. If doors had once stood in the archway, they were long gone. Only a darkened rectangle of shadows stood between them and the interior.

“Much as I hate to admit it, I agree wit’ Reynold here. This has gotta be the place,” Thri said, planting fists on hips. The fresh-faced dwarf’s topknot barely came to her companions’ ribs. “Let’s get in and find our missin’ Pathfinder, yeah?”

“Quite right,” Reynold nodded. “In we go! Then back to Sigvard and her endless chores. And then, blessedly, a ship back to glorious, civilized Absalom.”

Aliyama held up a hand. “Abadar says that the world is filled with two kinds of people: the impulsive and the wealthy,” she said calmly. “We must examine the facts and think.”

“I think,” Reynold pointed, rolling his eyes. “That the big overgrown temple with snakes outside is a serpentfolk ruin.”

Thri snorted.

The elf sighed. “Perhaps. But consider: the serpentfolk were one of the oldest civilizations in Golarion. They preceded even the Azlanti. Yet do these carvings appear worn away by the ages? Do they look as if they survived Earthfall?”

Reynold opened his mouth, then snapped it shut, frowning.

“Recall that I grew up in the Mwangi,” she continued. “Left unattended, the jungle claims everything. Everything. Were this truly an ancient serpentfolk temple, it would be nothing but vines. The Pathfinder agent that Sigvard originally sent here was a serpentfolk scholar and would have known this. No, surely this is not the place.”

“So what’re ya sayin’?” Thri asked, cheeks flushing with anger. “What’s this, then?”

Aliyama turned to face her. “Most likely the remnants of a misguided dragon cult of Dahak. Kobolds, charau-ka, boggards, or somesuch. These cults are common here, spawning and dying off constantly. Nasty business. But most certainly not some-thing actually created by the serpentfolk.”

Thri exhaled, disappointment flooding her voice. “So we haven’t found it yet. No chargin’ in to rescue a lost Pathfinder.”

Aliyama lay a gloved hand on the dwarf’s broad shoulder. “Do not worry, young one. I know this is your first excursion with the Pathfinder Society and you wish to make your mark. Yet take heart! This is the life of an adventurer. We explore, thoughtfully and with consideration. Abadar himself is a traveler, yes? Yet he is not hasty. He is slow and relentless, as the gears of civilization are slow and relentless. So too must we step carefully, always moving forward. We will find our missing Pathfinder agent, Thri Redbarrel. With patience, and by Abadar’s hand.”

Thri accepted the lecture with a short nod, then shrugged. “Let’s keep lookin’. I hope we fight somethin’ soon, though. This heat is makin’ me cranky.”

Aliyama smiled. “Battle too is an inevitable part of adventuring. Though this structure is not our destination, we are close. Let me consult my wayfinder again.” The elf flipped open the circular lid and began peering down at its face.

A full minute passed, the elf consulting her wayfinder and muttering. The dwarf watched her, then scanned the surround-ings. All around them the jungle hooted and sang with life.

“Uh... Ali?”

“One more moment, please Thri.”

“It’s just—”

“Thri, please. Patience.”

“Okay. It’s just that Reynold’s gone.”

“I see. Well... What!?” Aliyama looked up, startled. “Where is he?”

“I, uh. I’m thinkin’ maybe he went in.”

They both stared at the ten-foot, darkened doorway.

“Ridiculous, infuriating, impulsive, sneaky, dandy of a human,” the elf muttered. “He is always—”

A cry echoed from deep within the hillside.

“Yep, that’s him.” Thri pulled the double-bladed battle axe from her back.

“Just hold a moment. We must—”

Reynold burst from the shadows, wide-eyed. In one hand he held his shortsword. In the other, a coiling, golden figurine of a snake.

Illustration by Iana Vengerova from Lost Omens: Pathfinder Society Guide

“This is it! Bloody help!” he cried.

“What did you do?” Aliyama demanded.

“No time! Help!”

Three tall, scaled humanoid figures in green robes spilled from the dark opening. At first Aliyama thought they might be iruxi. But instead of lizard-like heads, these figures bore the heads of hooded cobras. Long, whip-like tails thrashed as the figures moved sinuously into fighting formation. One of the creatures hissed and drew a curved blade the length of its forearm.

“Impossible,” Aliyama breathed.

As Reynold scampered past one of the large, hooded statues, a sound of grinding stone filled the clearing. The mossy, guardian cobra turned its head, following the fleeing thief.

“Look out!”

Reynold dove to one side and rolled. The cobra’s head snapped its jaws together with a sharp CRACK! where his head had been. Reynold continued his roll smoothly and was back on his feet in an instant.

“There are no more serpentfolk in the Mwangi,” Aliyama stated numbly. “They are in the Darklands, not on the surface. Kline’s report was thorough…”

With an enthusiastic cry, Thri stepped forward and met the lead creature. Battleaxe and curved dagger clashed.

“Our scholar is in there,” Reynold said, panting. “Pinned to the wall in the entry like some sort of warning. These figurines are in the nooks in the walls. I only snagged one before those things noticed me.”

Aliyama glared at him. “Why are you grinning, thief?”

“It just occurred to me that when this is over, you get to tell me I was right and you were wrong,” he winked. With a whoop, he dashed to flank the serpentfolk battling Thri.

Shaking her head, Aliyama snapped her wayfinder shut and raised her arms, beginning a prayer to Abadar, Master of the First Vault.

A single bead of sweat trickled down her forehead.

About the Author

Jay Moldenhauer-Salazar was a founding columnist for Magic: the Gathering’s official website, which he wrote weekly for five years (along with various other gaming columns). During that time, he also penned several Kamigawa block web stories for Wizards of the Coast. He is a lifelong tabletop roleplaying gamer, frequent GM, and currently part of a fiction-writer’s group in Oakland, CA. This story is his first for Pathfinder or Paizo.

About Tales of Lost Omens

The Tales of Lost Omens series of web-based flash fiction provides an exciting glimpse into Pathfinder’s Age of Lost Omens setting. Written by some of the most celebrated authors in tie-in gaming fiction, including Paizo’s Pathfinder Tales line of novels and short fiction, the Tales of Lost Omens series promises to explore the characters, deities, history, locations, and organizations of the Pathfinder setting with engaging stories to inspire Game Masters and players alike.

The tunnel ran smooth and deep, a gullet boring down into frozen ground, beckoning explorers into its belly. Ariad-N5 planned to accept its invitation. Nifri joined Ariad at the edge of the chasm.

“This is it,” the kasatha said, cross-referencing the coordinates displayed on his datapad. Together they peered down at the decrepit ramp that curled nautilus-like within the tunnel.

“I’m ready to get out of this cold,” Talla grumbled. The quorlu trudged through the deep snow, her movements slowed by the thermal suit she wore to protect her sensitive skin from the frigid temperatures. This was a first; in all their years working together, Ariad had never heard her complain.

“Construction’s delayed until we survey the ruins, so AbadarCorp wants us in and out.” Talla explained.

“What’s our timeline?” Ariad asked. “We need a few weeks to—”

“The corp gave us 12 hours,” Talla snapped. Ariad and Nifri exchanged concerned looks, but their leader appeared unphased by the impossible deadline. She studied the ramp and shook her head decisively. “Looks unstable. We’ll rappel down.” Nifri helped her create an anchor using two ice screws connected by a sling, then ran a cable line through it. The three explorers clipped in with practiced technique. Nifri rappelled down first, the crunch of boots against ice echoing through his open comm channel. Then, he looped his cable through a belay device to assist Talla, leaving the android alone in a swirl of snow at the edge of the ruins.

“Your turn,” Nifri said finally. “I’m on belay.”

“On rappel.” Ariad gripped their cable and kicked off from the ledge. They watched the sky shrink as they walked down the side of the tunnel in a controlled descent. Suddenly, their toe caught a patch of ice, and they plunged downward. Ariad grabbed for the nearby ramp, but it crumbled in their grip. The cable snapped taut as Nifri caught them, and a chunk of debris plummeted toward their teammates below.

“Rock!” Ariad shouted. Nifri sidestepped and the rubble shattered harmlessly on the ground beside him.

“Close one, thanks!” He yelled.

When the android reached the end of the cable, a dim halo of light was all that remained of the world above. Their eyes roamed over the alien architecture surrounding them. The walls were mottled red and purple like the exposed intestines of a great beast. Brown, scabby patches festered in places, but there was no scent of decay. Metallic panels embedded into the fleshy walls reinforced the structure, and a glowing blue pillar towered at the center of the cavernous chamber. The wall rippled as a constellation of arcane symbols flashed across its surface.

“Did you see that?” Ariad whispered. Talla gasped as the same symbols wriggled into view across the room.

“Fascinating,” she breathed. “There’s magic all around us.” Nifri, transfixed by the blue pillar, ignored them.

“Old wards, perhaps, or maybe this peculiar building material is magical,” Ariad observed, peering at the wall where the symbols had appeared. They avoided touching the nonmetal parts during their examination; the spongy reddish substance made their dermis crawl.

“Let’s move on,” Talla directed, and motioned toward an aperture on the far side of the room. Before she stepped through it a deep, percussive boom reverberated through the ruins. A shape charged out of the shadows, and Talla instinctively reached for the pistol holstered at her belt. She relaxed when she recognized Nifri, all four of his arms flailing as he sprinted toward them.

“It…shocked…me,” he panted, skidding to a halt.

“What shocked you?” Ariad asked. They peered into the kasatha’s eyes, examining him for pupil dilation and other signs of trauma. Then they noticed his bare hands. “What happened to your safety gloves?”

“I took them off before I touched the pillar,” Nifri admitted. “I know it’s against protocol, but I wanted to gauge its temperature.”

“You should have used a thermal scanner,” Ariad scolded.

“Enough,” Talla pronounced calmly. “Once, I got so enthusiastic about an excavation that my team leader had to pry me off a trapped statue.” She chuckled at the memory. “Not my finest hour. Are you hurt?”

“Only my pride,” Nifri said sheepishly. Talla smiled at him.

“Remember your training, and stick with safety protocols from now on,” Talla commanded. With the incident dismissed, they emerged into a hallway studded with valve-like openings that hinted at a vast network of chambers within the ruins. As they passed the abandoned rooms, Nifri’s flashlight illuminated the silhouettes of machinery somehow both antiquated and advanced, now immortalized in disrepair.

“If you’d purchased those retinal reflectors I recommended, you wouldn’t need that.” Ariad nodded to Nifri’s flashlight.

“I’m saving my credits for a tropical vacation. I got more than enough hands, so don’t worry, Ensie.” Nifri retorted, but his voice lacked its usual confidence. Ariad often struggled to read others’ emotions, but they had no problem interpreting their colleagues’ behavior. Nifri’s shallow breathing and Talla’s frantic heartbeat betrayed their fear. Ariad noted the prickle of adrenaline in their own system. They knew the source of these symptoms—the hideous decaying walls, unidentified magic crawling through the air, the ruins’ reaction when Nifri touched the pillar—this was not a routine survey.

Talla’s authoritative voice broke the silence. “Let’s split up to cover more ground. Nifri, the gloves stay on this time, please.”

“You got it, boss.,” Nifri nodded and disappeared around a bend. Determined to master their own unease, Ariad followed Talla’s directions without comment. They chose a room close to the entrance that housed rows of gyroscope-like contraptions. Strangely, each device contained a seat designed to accommodate a small creature. Ariad had only completed a cursory inspection of the machines when their comm unit crackled to life.

“Ari, come take a look at this.” Talla sounded calm, but she must have found something interesting. Talla stood in front of a hexagonal column they hadn’t noticed before. Unfamiliar pictograms studded its seamless obsidian metal surface, forming an incomprehensible cipher.

The xenoarchaeologists examine the strange ruin in this illustration by Pixoloid Studios.

“At least this text is stationary.” Ariad said. They scanned the symbols, cross-referencing their own internal database of language and magical code. Unfortunately, their cybernetically- enhanced eidetic memory proved no match for the strange writing. Talla waved a chemalyzer along the length of the pillar. The device beeped and Talla’s eyestalks craned eagerly toward the readout. The knitted thermal cap she wore to protect her delicate organs bobbed comically as she shook her head in confusion.

“Strange, these isotope levels look…pre-Gap?” Talla gave the device a solid tap to ensure it was working properly. “Yeah, probably pre-Gap.” Talla sighed, clearly frustrated. With hundreds of successful excavations under her belt, she was team leader for good reason, and not used to being thwarted like this. “This writing isn’t in any language I’m familiar with.”

“I don’t recognize it either,” Ariad confessed.

“Too bad. I was hoping you could translate,” Talla said in a muffled voice as she rummaged through her pack.

“Where’s Nifri?” Ariad asked. Concern for their absent colleague suddenly gripped them. Nifri was a competent, though inexperienced, professional. His earlier judgment lapse was uncharacteristic, but what if he ran into more trouble?

As if on cue, Nifri’s voice exploded from Talla’s comm unit. “Boss, I don’t think we’re in a tomb. This room has cryo-storage and an operating theater. I found some partial specimens that look like—no, that can’t be.” Nifri’s voice trailed off, distracted by his latest discovery.

“Roger, Nifri,” Talla responded. “Ari and I are finishing up here. Take samples while you wait for us.” Ariad wondered how she could sound confident when they weren’t any closer to unraveling the mystery of the ruins.

“We need an icebreaker,” she declared, and produced a glob of iridescent putty from her pack. She attached it to the pillar the way a child might stash a piece of gum beneath a desk for safekeeping. It rolled slowly over the object, seeking concealed edges and mechanisms invisible to the naked eye. Talla grinned when it settled and revealed the outline of a control panel.

“What is that?” Ariad wondered. They gasped when the panel popped out from the pillar as though activated by their voice. At this angle, they realized it housed a keypad labeled with unfamiliar pictograms.

“Let’s find out,” Talla flashed them a mischievous grin. She reached toward the keypad, then jumped back as the panel immediately retracted. A loud whirring sound filled the room and the column’s six faces began to rotate. The object lowered, spinning, into the floor as its exterior surfaces unfurled, revealing a central core of blue plasma. A hologram depicting an unknown species materialized in the glow. The plasma flickered and warped, forming distorted images that hinted at the creature’s anatomy. It stood atop four overlapping tentacles, its segmented neck arching forward from the far side of its body like a striking serpent. Three sets of clawed arms protruded from its ribbed belly. Its only discernable facial features were two pairs of mismatched eyes that blazed with inscrutable intent. Its mandibles twitched in synchronization with its vestigial front arms as it vocalized. A roar of growls and glottal stops that Ariad’s linguistic processors registered as noise filled the corridor. Suddenly, an arc of electricity shot out from the panel.

“Watch out!” Ariad screamed, shoving Talla out of the way. The bolt surged and struck the floor where she had just been standing. Residual static pulsed through the android’s synthetic skin as they stared at the charred spot left behind.

“Thank you,” Talla gasped. “I thought—” A howling klaxon from the ruined complex’s core interrupted her. This warning needed no translation, and the two researchers fled toward the entrance. A magnified voice boomed overhead as they ran, speaking the holographic creature’s dissonant language. A series of crashes chased them down the hall as shutters lowered over doorways they’d planned to investigate. A metal slab slammed down in front of them, blocking the exit.

“Over here!” Nifri called from behind them. He stepped into the hallway and waved his team toward an accessible room. Ariad and Talla sprinted through the doorway seconds before it sealed itself shut.

“I think we’re safe in here,” Nifri said. Ariad wasn’t so sure. Their refuge was a control room crowded with dusty consoles and machinery. A hundred orange eyes blinked awake as the ancient equipment rumbled and whined, booting up for the first time in millennia.

“I can’t find a signal in here.” Talla paced while frantically typing into her comm unit, but her companions’ attention snapped back to the room’s central console. A holoprojection of a planet floated above it. A beacon at the center of the topographical map radiated veins reaching across its mountains and valleys. The two watched in horror as the tendrils elongated and writhed out from the beacon, infesting the planet’s surface. Ariad recognized the planet. It was Jedarat.

“What have we done?” Nifri gasped.

“I have a signal!” Talla exclaimed. “Talla to HQ. We’re trapped. Do you copy?” Only a burst of static answered her.

“Keep trying,” Ariad urged. There were hundreds of workers on Jedarat’s surface. Ariad’s team was trapped, but they had to warn the others.

---

Eisyfina Nott stood in the chalet’s doorway. Outside, a shroud of snow concealed the world, obscuring a picturesque view of the alpine landscape. The storm had appeared out of nowhere, right when all the terraforming equipment in the valley went haywire.

Eisyfina’s datapad pinged with an incoming message, a video file from the xenoarchaeology team contracted to explore Jedarat’s ruins. She watched silently, transfixed by the video’s disturbing contents. She shut it off with a decisive tap of her finger, but the message’s final words echoed in her mind: we woke it up.

“This is Nott requesting immediate support to New Horizons headquarters.” She barked into her earpiece. “We need help. Now.”

About the Author

Jenny Jarzabski is a freelance writer, sommelier, and nature enthusiast. She writes adventures and rules for Pathfinder and Starfinder, in addition to some weird fiction of her own. She is just as likely to be found on the trails or at the climbing wall as delving the word mines or gamemastering at a convention. You can follow Jenny’s real life adventures on Twitter at @jenjski.

About Devastation Ark

In the Devastation Ark Adventure Path, the discovery of a series of millennia-old ruins sets off a chain of events that puts an ancient titanic spacecraft on course to the Pact Worlds. Will the heroes be triumph in stopping the dreadnaught? Or will the alien species take the Pact Worlds as its new home and conquer the galaxy? This three-part Starfinder campaign is designed to take player characters from level 13 to 20 and can serve as a sequel to any previous Starfinder Adventure Path.

The floor lurches again, heaving back and forth. The platform’s stabilization thrusters are no match for the behemoth’s sheer mass, and it is one mad beastie. Gotta drive it back before it crushes us.

I punch the comms. “Zarek and Siminira, take it head on. Kikitak, Abery, loop around and come at it from behind. Maybe we can distract it.”

The channel’s open, so I can hear their chatter as they scramble.

“Is that a cloud-skate?”

“If so, it’s the biggest one I’ve ever seen.”

“Don’t care, work to do.”

“Yeah, come on, we can take it!”

There are only four of them, a dragonkin-ryphorian bonded pair, a renegade haan, and a hotshot human with almost intolerable bluster but enough skill to somehow back it up. They’re good, all of them, but the fighters are tiny compared to this thing. No way they can take it down. Best we can hope for is to distract it, get in its way, run interference. “Buy me some time, I’ve got gunners to back you up.”

Illustration by Alexandur Alexandrov

The turrets are rising from their enclosures, and I tap into Tabbet’s channel just long enough to make sure her team—her family, that is—knows what they’re doing. I’ve never met a group that can cram so many words into such a small space of time, and my command of the Ysoki language is on the rough side at best. Tabbet’s direction carries over the exuberant cacophony at finally getting to use the “big guns,” and the turrets start firing in coordinated patterns and targeted strikes. I close the channel, and I can’t help but chuckle. Why is it that ysoki take such delight in finding the biggest weapons they can?

But the turret fire on this flying plasma worm is like poking a replenigel megavitamin with a toothpick. We’re never gonna take it down like this. The creature lashes out with an electrified tentacle. The platform lurches again, and alarm klaxons start blaring. This one’s bad—if we lose power, we’re cloud-worm food.

I punch up a new channel. “Ithlithoi, you all on that?” Before I’m even done talking, their singsong response is assuring me it’s under control. Thank Weydan for barathus and their combination of adaptability and competence.

Kikitak and Abery sweep just above the central dome, so close it shakes my command tower. The thing lurches after, and a blast of plasma crashes down. The station’s automated fire suppressants kick in to control the blaze. That better not spread to the storage tanks. If they breach, this whole station’ll blow out of the sky.

I stop dead in my tracks. There’s an idea that might save our skin!

I’m shouting orders into my comm unit as I run. The barathus need to drop everything and get the platform stabilization thrusters from the preprocessing dome. “Yes, it’ll fall into the planet’s core. Better it than us!” I want Tabbet and the biggest gun she can find. Need an engineer. “Unit Z-81, get to the tank bay and rip the power core out of our Titan Hauler. Now.”

No time for an elevator; I pull the emergency escape bar on the window and jump out after the falling pane of glass. It shatters as it hits the platform, but I’ve got a spell for this and touch down gently, already sprinting.

Our ragtag team assembles in the tank bay. Z-81 is already hotwiring the starship power core as the barathus strap the platform’s thrusters around the gas storage tanks. Tabbet shows up with a reaction cannon almost as big as she is, grinning ear to ear.

Another crash in the station, and this time the power goes out entirely. I pull up a bit of my own magic and outline everything with a bit of dancing blue-green light so we can keep working. Welders are flaring, wires and straps are sticking up like an electrovore’s spines, sparks are flying everywhere—Weydan help us, I hope this doesn’t blow right here because that’ll be the very sudden end of us all.

And then it’s ready. I call up my fighters as our ad-hoc engineering crew scatters back. “Lead it this way, toward the storage banks. Make it mad enough to scream, then get the hell out of the way.”

I look at Tabbet. “You get one shot at this.” She grins again and leans in to the sight of this makeshift anti-giant-flying-plasma-worm missile we’ve built.

It comes at us fast, fighter thrusters screaming as Zarek and Siminira work in perfect coordination, both peeling off at the last possible second, mere yards from the tank bay doors. The creature’s close on their tails. We’re staring down a tunnel of arcing electricity lined with fangs bigger than a shuttle.

Tabbet pulls the trigger.

At first, nothing, and I wonder if we failed. Then a hum, a whine as the power core overclocks, and a concussive blast that knocks us all to the floor as the reaction cannon fires. The repurposed thrusters kick to life with a deafening roar, flaring like miniature supernovas as they burn through their entire lifespan of output in milliseconds. The entire station lurches back from the recoil as the gas storage tanks go from stationary to a blur that might outpace a Terminator Star Drake racer in the blink of an eye. I’m grateful for the polarized visor I we