Kenzil's page

The Poet’s Requiem
Kenzil sat in his chair and sighed. His bones were old, and his flesh heavy. He could not doubt his life had been well lived, but much of it was lived free, free of all but the call of his Patron, that dark force that lent him it’s lore, it’s power. And in power, freedom.

And yet, here he sat, on a soot-stained stool, his honorary seat, salvaged from the Poet’s Repose, or what was left of it. First Saki had died (with no wish to return - he’d checked, of course), and then the Inn nearly so, and just at the start of the Festival! Still, Gregor had left as one of his acts as Councilor the plan that part of the Festival be a Job Fair, so work was readily at hand.

The city was near mad with joy despite recent tragedies - the Planting Festival was finally here! They had waited so long, after all, been denied so much. With the Troll attacks, and now increasing numbers of ghouls about... oh, the people had much to be afraid of, so they expected even more of him now... and his council, of course. Anando sat off in the Town Hall, working his new-learned witchcraft on accounting, while Elder Jhod took the reign of the more religious elements of the festivities. Holland was busy taking the visiting notables of Yossen’s four settlements - Whitehall, Elkholm, Tatzlford and Olegrad - as well as the messenger from Restov who had given a simple, if underwhelming, message acknowledging his increase in station. He didn’t mind the lack of fanfare, mind you, but he questioned these oaths of fealty and how much loyalty was expected between himself, the Swordlords, and the King of Brevoy if no direct meeting or oaths were ever taking place?

Speaking of loyalty, those under him had been increasingly questionable, especially those from the new territories in Southshield. Perhaps Kale, his new “Royal Executioner” should do a little “Royal Assassinating” as well. Akiros and his crew had proved most difficult, and many amongst his men were practically bandits anyway... Well, perhaps he would scry a bit and see what pruning might be done...

His most recent headaches, and the source of the destruction before him, proved interesting viewing to be sure. The antics of his eldest apprentice with the wisps and cultists was certainly a growing concern, but after his outspoken stance for “religious tolerance in Yossen” (yet one more ruling Tamara had maneuvered him into), he would have to be more careful in the future. The Troll-hunters were happily away, and when last he’d spied upon them, had just managed to take down a hungry Wyvern in search of a quick meal only a day’s travel east of Witchhaven. With Peter, Tamara, Aquilla & Winterheart away, along with Nathaniel (Tamara’s pet spy), he had a few less “helpful” courtiers in his hair - well, what hair he had left anyway.

They’d all looked so peculiar after he’d given them glimpses of their future just before they’d left... He always wondered what visions he granted, but that was between them and fate, and not for him to know.

Perhaps he’d best send Kale to join them before they got much further. They just might use a little pruning as well.

He had an heir to look after, after all! A son! A dynasty in the making, should the lad last long enough to come of age. Duke Kenzil might one day be replaced by Duke Orlando, or perhaps King Orlando, first Witchking of the Witchlands of Yossen!

Or not.

Fate is a fickle thing, and freedom a luxury sorely missed.

Kenzil sighed, slouching on his royal stump, stroking his white beard, his brow as heavy as his heart.

The Poet’s Repose
Kenzil sat in his chair and thought to himself It is good to be the King! Or Baron, or Witchlord. Any way he looked at it, the youngsters cared for him well.

Kenzil the Grey sat in the chair they’d set aside for him in the Inn, just as they’d set aside a seat for him at the Smithy only a few months before. The Council kept setting aside little thrones for him to rest his world-weary bones whenever a new establishment was opened in Witchhaven. Perhaps they thought he might up and float away if they didn’t go out of their way to give him every due consideration? Ha! They didn’t fawn over the Old Beldame this way. Oh, he could see the old Hag’s jealous, jaundiced eye, but the Council favored him. He knew how to play the kindly one better than she!

He looked up and caught sight of his sweet young Lily White dancing with the others. Everyone had turned out for the Inn’s opening, after all. They’d pulled aside the tables and benches, and everyone limber enough to do so was out enjoying the Brawl, one of the simpler dances his people knew. His people. Ha! He had wandered the world seven decades, learned magics light and dark, enjoyed entirely too much good food, and done some despicable things to those who may or may not have deserved it. And fate had made him a Baron of a provincial little colony at the edge of the world, given him a pretty young wife and a steady income of fools not careful enough with their own lives! He could barely contain himself with the humor of it all.

Just earlier this spring, the noted poet Iosis Vemorelion and his retinue of dilettantes and wealthy layabouts had passed through with far too much time and money for the modest little settlement of Witchhaven, and though they were quite happy to stay in the Stag’s Castle, Iosis and his company were only to happy to put forth a collection to help built Yossen’s first Inn. It was Winterheart who came up with the name, the “Poet’s Repose,” to honor their visiting patrons.

“Some ale for our Lord?” the barmaid appeared, offering at his elbow.

Kenzil laughed and took the proffered mug. “Thank you good Mistress Saki, and thank your Master too!” he toasted to her, before enjoying the profits of the cup.

His holdings continued to grow, with little interest or direction from him. Tamara the Green, ambitious in her rebirth, had encouraged the Barony’s growth as far north as the Spiderfells, named for the patch of plains she and the Green Hands had run afoul of a pit-spider of unnatural size, and as far east as Nettle’s Crossing. The western border with the Southshield Barony nebulously stretched the length of the Narlmarches, at least for now. And to the south, well... to the south stood the Candlemere, and it was to there Tamara led the Green Hand Band, along with Vayne the Red, to see about claiming that haunted isle that so fascinated his dreams. Perhaps they might find that missing boy, Tig the Tanners son, who’s tracks had been found to be mingled with that of Lizard Folk along the shores of the Tuskwater. Or maybe they will kill a few of those Manicures he’s heard have been snatching the occasional sheep. It would certainly make Master Vermorelion happy if they did. The wordsmith has a funny idea about turning their quills into pens for the writing of his next epic.

Why if he were younger... Ah, but mucking about in the woods like that is a young man’s game. Better for these old bones to sit by the fire, with much ale to warm the blood and bring rose to the cheeks, to be adored and respected in his dotage.

It wasn’t like he planned to live forever, after all.

Not really.

Not yet.

The Cauldron of Rebirth
Vayne looks up at me, annoyance in her eyes, as she sits, holding her sleeping redheaded child on her lap. She watches as I drift down out of the night sky, a man’s cold corpse cradled in my thick, trunk-like arms.

“You found him,” a faint cord of hope touching her voice.

“Oh yes,” I chortle back, feeling pleased with myself.

Twice now I have harvested corpses from the haunted-fields of the ill-named Stag Lord’s Fortress, and twice I have thrown them into my cauldron and boiled their fat from their bones in that exiting mix of oils and unguents, whispered incantations and offered the dead new lives. Neither time was it the one she wanted, but ones I deigned to return to this world for my own purpose. The middle-aged mother, the Alchemist reshaped young calling herself Tamara, and the scout reborn as an elf, calling himself Winterheart; they live now to serve as my apprentices, to learn from my experiences, to even sue for my station in this new kingdom we seek to build. We joke of calling it Witchland, we joke of naming me the Witchking, but we joke lightly, recognizing the humor is only halfhearted. The Swordlords might not like our sense of comedy.

Vayne tucks her toddler under the blanket of her bedroll and comes over to watch intently as I lay the man down next to the pot and rip out each arrow in turn. I whistle happily and leave it to her to strip him of his arms and armor, to rub his naked body with the rare extracts and oils I have brought with us for just such a purpose. I in turn pick up the man-sized cauldron in my meaty arms and carry it over to plop it onto the fire.

“You haven’t let the young fools try to cook with it again, have you?” I mutter back, running a finger along the inside edge, attempting to identify what sort of grease might have accumulated since last it was used.

“No, Master Kenzil, I didn’t. I made sure they knew well enough to leave it alone. Tamara knows the purpose of a brew-pot, and Winterheart I sent hunting to keep from getting underfoot,” she barks back as she carefully, reverently shells the dead man as if he was a crab for the cook pot.

I smile. She was a good choice. They are all good choices. But they are for me. This one, I think to myself as I pick up the man like some stiff rag-doll and toss him into the pot, is for her, and her alone.

As she pours water from the lake in, bucket after bucket, I begin tossing in other, stranger elements. Feathers from an Owlbear, a bit of Troll-fat, a tusk from a toad, rare oils from rarer beasts. I watch in delight as the pot slowly comes to a boil. With a large wooden spoon I stir the pot, whispering dark words for the dead to hear: “Haha! Come back now, come back! I call you Isuldor Iomedaeson, come back! The world isn’t done with you yet!”

Time passes. The others return from their tasks, fetching me a little of this, a little more of that. A vial of Tatzlwyrm blood pick-pocketed from an ill-attentive Wizard, a fresh tooth from the Redcap’s child, a powder of silver dabbed from a Kobold’s scales, a dollop of wine from the Stag Lord’s stash. I stir and I stir, I whisper and I cajole. The body breaks down, the body reforms. Fresh faced Isuldor, but not Isuldor breaks free from the water, heeding my call. A man-elf where only the corpse of a man had been breaths life again for the very first time.

“Ha Ho! Welcome to a new life,” I chide as Vayne grabs him by the hair and wrenches him forcefully out of the pot to land with soft new skin on the sandy beach of the Tuskwater. I watch bemusedly as the Toad-witch puts her boot to his throat and growls “You owe me, Godson. Whine if you like to your mother, but your life is mine now!”