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.
