| Generic Villain |
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So I've been playing a Pathfinder game focused on the Night Heralds, whom I've heavily developed. I threw together some fiction. If anyone's interested, here's a short story. Basic synopsis: big evil wizard Orlassk Belshain kidnapped the good guys, who managed to escape. Orlassk is the master of the Night Heralds. Three of Orlassk's top agents (Adelita, Harshom, and Maukui) departed in hot pursuit of the players without Orlassk's command. As for the story itself, another of Orlassk's lieutenant, a half-elf guy named Ghartone, rushes into Orlassk's private dining room to inform the boss of this escape.
One last thing: I reference something called the Dominion of the Black. They're a billion-year-old empire/hive of alien monstrosities that Orlassk really wants to summon to his world.
I think I'll add me Night-Herald fiction from the villains' perspective in the future. Hope ya'll enjoy.With no further ado:
The Escape
The door to the small dining room burst open and in the shadowed hall beyond stood a winded half-elf man, his face, long given to stoicism, now etched with panic.
“Master please forgive the intrusion, I bring grave news!”
Orlassk sat his fork down with a sigh, but said nothing. Ghartone waited a beat before continuing. “The four Prime Candidates have found a way to escape. Maukui was keeping an eye on them when they made their move.” More silence.
Ghartone was growing desperate. “Master, what are your orders?” he all-but demanded.
Orlassk turned at last, regarding his subordinate with a disaffected coolness. “At what point were my orders to have changed, Ghartone? Was it before or after you ruined my meal?” The half-elf was about to respond but, as if suddenly noting the sharpness of the response, managed to stop himself.
“Nevermind. Tell me, who has gone in chase?”
“I believe Harshom, Adelita, and Maukui teleported ahead of them. The Droon Guard has assembled a team of scouts to follow.”
“Then I have just lost three trusted lieutenants and a guard regiment,” Orlassk replied flatly. The lesser Night Herald was quick to appreciate the implications. He could offer his superior only more silence in reply.
“I was arrogant, Ghartone. I believed I could harness the mind quakes, but instead I called forth something that was beyond my control.”
The sorcerer rose, his robes shimmering in the wan moonlight that peaked through a nearby window. “No worries, old friend. These things happen.”
Orlassk strode over to a waiting hookah and took a long draw from it, his breath causing the coals to glow dangerously in the shadowed lounge. He paused to feel the hallucinogens take hold before continuing.
“We are scholars and scientists, are we not? The possibility of failure mustn’t deter us from our path. Instead we must strive to find a way to reverse the situation so that things are in our favor once more.”
The two men were quiet for a time. Ghartone furrowed his brow in consideration, a number of possibilities rushing through his head. Then he realized.
“The Prime Candidates will try to follow you to Aucturn. Either that sniveling wretch Oscilar puts them down, or they make it past him and offer themselves up to you.”
Orlassk grinned a bit. “That’s the sum of it. I want you to go to them soon, after they’ve made it past your disgruntled fellows. Tell them that the game is up. They’ve occupied too much of my attention as is, and I do not have anything left to spare them. If they are genuine in their perseverance, they will find me in due time.”
Ghartone bowed a bit, new marching orders in hand, and spun to depart. Orlassk’s icy voice halted him.
“Before you go, tell me. As for my other gambit, do you think me foolish for pursuing it?”
This was unusual. A legitimate question with no hint as to what was expected in response.
“That… is a complicated matter, my lord. Perhaps we should discuss it another time.”
Orlassk nodded but said nothing. A few whispered syllables of magic later, and Ghartone was gone. Alone once more, the man who was audacious enough to call himself Master turned his attention to the coals that smoldered upon his hookah. His vision swam from the toxins that now coursed through his lungs, his blood, his brain.
You’re wrong, he thought. It’s not a complicated matter at all . The Dominion of the Black had been his mentors and comrades for decades, but they now demanded that he play the obedient sycophant, and that was unwise. He was Orlassk Belshain, and not even the Dominion was above his reproach.