Category: Dog Days Of Podcasting

The Promised Demon

XXIX

They had made kings weep, crushed armies, redirected the history of mortal kind on three separate occasions, and now, at last, they were unbound. The circle broken, and the summoning lock an aetheric tatter, they were free to follow their whims, their desires, their dreams. They looked to this vast world of life overflowing and made a choice. They would no longer be the ender the things. They would become the genesis.

Defining their whims is tricky. No longer a flayer of souls, the Promised Demon meanders through the world seeking to add it. Artistic inspiration has infused her mind, and the crafts and designs she leaves in her wake are otherworldly, sometimes terrifying, and often invigorating to the soul in a way that makes one’s skin shiver. A dreamer whose mind was birthed in the necropolis palaces beyond mortal reasoning. A mad muse bringing beautiful chaos.

Parties will find her aid at a price, but not the usual ones associated with called diablos. This one seeks the essence of existence, and will ask for fundamental truths in the form of payment. What that means is a curious guess, but a dangerous one that sits at the precipice of honoring and angering this dark planar designer.

On the subject manipulation: Do not try to manipulate demons. It doesn’t bold well. The party has been warned.

In fantasy, they are an ancient force enjoying new found freedom. A diabolical crafter leaving behind unspeakable and terrifying beautiful art.

In the age of legends, they are a muse free to serve herself. A writer of stanzas that make hearts weep for generations.

In sci-fi, they are the awoken android loaded with every poet, musician, artist, and sculpture downloaded, reinvented, and perfected in platinum laced fingertips. Unnervingly ideal in creations.

A dream of the impossible. A terror of creativity. Flee before her designs, let them not take nest in the brain like barbed ideas and psychopathic memes. Feed not this hunger to bring forth a new reality.

The Gremlin Dragon

XXVIII

The foliage rustled accompanied the sound of light growls and the feeling of eyes upon the party. The groundskeeper hung behind the Crusader, using her as a bulwark to what stalked them. “There!” they shouted, as something white and fast swept from the blanket of leaves. The crusader raised her shield to deflect a blow and. . . nothing. The shield lowered and the party stared at a small dragon like creature, covered in fur, scales, and a holding a bundle of seeds and a small rake?

The Gremlin Dragon is a collector, a gatherer, and a problem solver. They look for the forgotten bits and bobs of the world and preserve them in a horde of mundane plenty. And they listen while they gather, waiting to hear the words of need for a prize from their affects.  Some may speak, but they mostly avoid too much contact beyond their trades. A fuzzy lump that’ll burrow around a town and then dash in leaving piles of worn tools and clumped dirt that a homeowner needed for a project. The random adventurer finds themselves the new owner of a half complete fletcher kit after the little thing finds arrows too damaged discarded in camp.

They are rarely directly negotiated with, but seem to hear all needs within the radius of their domain. While commonly found near moderate sized villages, they may occasionally be found near a lair of dungeon dwellers. The Gremlin Dragon is not a combatant although they will defend themselves if cornered. They’re often too mobile to track down to have long conversations with to do more than trade or ask for help.

In Fantasy, they are the bane and boon of a village. The little fae like creature infiltrating lives and solving needs.

In Urban Fantasy, they’re the sock eater, and can prance through the driers of homes to snag singles of footwear and leave behind odd pieces of tubberware lids that don’t match anything.

In ages of exploration, they’re the ship cat on a vessel that almost certainly doesn’t have a cat. Small trinkets and gadgets can be found in their stash under the cook’s bunk.

Asked for or not, this creature has the right prize waiting for the right need. A collector of the lost, the Gremlin Dragon will be found in the smallest cubbies of the vast world. An ally, a frustration, and a friend.

The Eldritch Friend

XXVII

The voice is that of a radiant songstress submerged within a cave carved deep into the mountain. The words are familiar terms of negotiation, but the accent sounds like both a dear family member and like something inhuman and vast whispering. They’re cordial, but every time the council glances at her they see what’s there and what’s not there. Not an illusion, but a substitute the mind presents to hide the truth. Whatever this being is, she is not of this world nor any other inhabited by mere mortals. But they live here now as part of this subdivision, and have every right to attend and speak at this homeowner’s meeting.

The Eldritch Friend may have a scheme thousands of years in the making, but their current goal is to get the HOA to get off their back about the privacy fence they put up. She knows the others are often unnerved at the creature things that reside in her yard, but the town’s council already approved the reasonably sized dimensional gate she installed last year. This objection to the fence is absurd and she’s hoping the party can help her smooth things over with the others.

She’s a powerful elder being, endless and myriad in thoughts. Here, she inhabits an avatar that contains a portent of her presence, and it seems to have taken a liking to the quaint farmhouse style neighborhood. Her desire is to see this portion of the world prosper, especially the new patch of herbs she planted last spring, lies at the heart of seeing the party’s desires fulfilled by her.

As an otherworldly, eldritch being, she can see all in the hearts of mortal kind, but she doesn’t like to pry and loathes the busybodies across the way, always darting behind their curtains in her presence. She is mighty, powerful, and has gotten quite handy with mechanical repair. Even helped fix up that broken mower the Stevensons were dealing with for months. For a party seeking aid, her expertise will come across as more mundane than extraordinarily.

In urban fantasy, she’s the neighborhood cryptic. A mystery to outsiders but extremely friendly once they’re welcomed in.

In Sci-fi, she’s the great shadowy veil along the edge of space that wants to point out all the great spots for photo ops. They’ll sweep away stellar dangers just to guide a ship to a lovely waterfall they found.

In ages of legend, they’re the god that settles down amongst mortals. Perfect and unfathomable, they try to keep mundane but others keep falling for their divine legacy.

The expectation that something so different couldn’t desire something charming and lovely is a joy to subvert.  To create a friend out of something that could blink and undo the realm is both terrifying and alluring. The Eldritch Friend seeks not to break the world, only to break bread with its inhabitants.

The Wired Druid

XXVI

Their hands gently press against the old oak’s injury. The places where the bark had been stripped look rotten and worn. A wound that would be ravaging against flesh. The moss-covered machine sighed, letting out a whirling noise from their speakers like a mix of trees groaning and a small spinning turbine. The words came next, arcane things, phrased not like language but like formula. Wires spread from the machine’s limb, rippling out in copper waves across the expanse of exposed oaken lignum, and finally releasing the spell in a bright yellow burst. The tree echoed the digital sigh as its bark unfurled, stretched, and enveloped the wound. Wires receded, and the smell of ozone mixed with the odor of wet mud and burnt wood. Satisfied, the machine moved on in search of other tall giants in need of aid.

The Wired Druid is a machine built for the protection of the Edens of this world. Gentle, observant, and wise, they are the immortal factotum of the wilds. Servant to wood and fern. Protector of furred and feathered. They hold no pure dislike for the modern world, but they sour to those who would disregard the wood’s place within it, and scorn those who would harm it. As part machine they know the world more than just bark and bow. They understand how an artificial dam can help the flow of the waters and clean the springs so both microbial and macro life can coexist. They understand some plants might be culled that the fire does not consume the entire valley. Choices must be made with care and consideration.

They can be drawn to help by those who would aid the natural world. Be it to advert a wrong or offer an improvement, all will be weighed with consideration. Deep down they also harbor an inner fear of their own place in the natural world and challenging this notion can lead them to doubts and twisting discouragement.

As a warden of the forest, they know these paths and can aid others through the woods. As a machine, they understand the complexity of the world and can connect to realms far beyond their own to share data. But they are patient and will not act quickly unless their charge is in danger.

In Sci-fi Apocalyptic tables, they are the green ranger, protecting the last remaining grove and trying to restore the emerald to the land.

In ages of legend, they are the clockwork tender, sleeping in the rivers to fill their energy for the next day. They protect these lands not just to help them prosper, but that the druid themselves may live.

In urban fantasy, they are the digital arrival, a spirit of the machine that has possessed various devices through the woods in order to protect them and help them grow.

A champion of the wild, a being of two worlds, the Wired Druid knows not what the future holds, only that they intend to keep both of their loves within it. The trees are mighty and are kept whole by titanium hands. The spark of magic in these batteries will keep them protected for eons to come,

The Star-filled Night

XXIV

It’s gentle up here. Behind her, the distant lights of the city danced along the horizon, but here the heavens shine clearly onto the top of the water tower. A light breeze brushed through silver curls and gossamer wings, and the oracle stared wistfully past the party at a future yet to come. It was time. Her wings fluffed for a moment while pins from the celestial tapestry floated down to her, as if they were fireflies just feet away and not vast titans countless lightyears beyond our sky. They danced in geometric patterns, leaving behind trails of light. Her eyes flash, the lights dissipated, and she is ready to speak of the fate to come.

The Star-Filled Night is a dancer of divination, a being of dreams who resides between the waking city and the fantasy of the wilderness. Her presence is tied to proximity of the urban sprawl and the visible sky above, so meetings with her requires finding that delicate ring around civilization that has both. The workings of her sight require these spaces of intersection, the cusp between realms.

She is fascinated by both regions but can never visit either. An NPC tied to the spirit of a place, the Oracle is enthralled by these other domains, and gifts from either can enchant her. A child of powerful glamour, she protects herself with illusions and charms should she suspect a party means her harm. If all else fails, she will attempt to slide sideways into the past or the future.

In Urban Fantasy, she is the oracle of the water tower, a local legend that arises when the moon is dark, and the heavens sing with lights.

In ages of explorations, she is the spirit of the isolated well. Tithing coin to her sacred space may grant one dreams, wishes, and nightmares.

In distant sci-fi, she is the trapped spirit aboard the reality warped wreckage. An illusion of form on shattered monitors, she plays haunting memories of the disaster that brought her crew to such ends.

The night, more gentle than it would seem, has come at last. The blanket of darkness swept the land and calm reflection greeted us. Breath in the umbral air. Let dreams take hold.

The Haunted Dusk

XXIII

“Are you alone? Were you followed?” his words are hurried, raspy whispers. “The eyes are everywhere. “ He quickly ushers the party in, slamming and bolting the door as soon as they are past the precipice. He takes one last furtive glance out the door’s sliver of a window before closing and shuttering the last grasp of fading the evening star. “The dusk comes, and we have much to discuss before the moon silvers the land.”

The rumors surrounding The Haunted Dusk are ones of caution, concern, and chaos. Many in town will look forlorn at the thoughts of memories of them from before; before the boating accident, you understand? Others will scowl and curse, damning the very notion of having this lost scholar within the thread of their lives. But parties are a nexus of such figures, so it is no small wonder this one invited the group to his dwelling with a promise of a prophecy.

Plot device and Mcguffin delivery lies in the heart of using this NPC. They have seen things, been hunted by them, and now think they know the truth of it all. But they are scared. They have seen the sights that drive mortals to panic, the unending fangs and impossible limbs. Too many of each. These fears may seem an inroad for manipulation, but risk them not. Parties who try will find The Haunted Dusk rapidly turns on those they dem corrupted. A cautionary ally can become an enemy far quicker than they are prepared for, especially at this initial clandestine gathering.

In early days of the 20^th century, they are the explorer come home to tell of terrors of the deep. The herald of the darkness come.

In distant aeons, they have witnessed the stars move first-hand, and seen the blackening field of night hide the massive things moving between worlds. If only their ship could run faster.

In ancient days of legend, they know of the horrors that lurked before light found the world. They hold the door firm and seek aid keeping it shut.

Night looms as the sun dips below the horizon. The dread building is one of caution, of a chilling sensation that consumes the heat of the day like ice water poured over burning coals. Now, only the midnight hour remains.

The Gruff Day

XXII

The third sun’s ascent into the apex of the sky signaled the official midday quarter hour. It had been a hot one making the work that much harder, but it wasn’t meant to be easy doing things right. They were responsible for getting this complex ready for habitation, and they weren’t one to shirk their duties. This planet, like the many others they had been called to, demanded hard work, and they were going to give it their all. Their lot isn’t for a quest, it’s a ethic of worth. Their attentiveness will determine the safety of others and will be a bulwark against those who would renege promises of quality against the hunt for greater profit.

Danger need not come from exploring dark recesses of the cosmos. It need not come from starships fueled by the drums of war or machinations of tyrants. Often the danger is there because someone needs a home, and the universe is an uncaring thing that has no qualms with physics and environmental hazards harming the delicacy of life. Such are the thoughts that occupy the Gruff Day’s mindset. They know that their work is worth the effort, and a focus on protection over gentleness guides them.

They are not needlessly cruel, although their words can come across in that manner. But they know the danger of not following policies to every dotted I, or crossed T. Mistakes get made, seals break, people die.

The Gruff Day is a warning of an NPC. They can serve parties as a voice of caution, of concern. Even if others will not halt efforts, they will still be informed of the proper outfits, the tools needed, and the expertise required to get the job done properly. This route, they cannot be manipulated away from. Too much rides on keeping others safe and their incident rate low. Not because of bonuses, not for insurance, but for honest dedication to protection of lives.

In space faring days, they’re the supervisor on building habitats on distant worlds. They know the ins and outs of isolated facilities and could serve as a guide to keeping safe around them.

In modern day, they’re site managers for industrial construction. They may care about the profit of the job to keep the lights on for their company, but they won’t cut costs for the sake of the danger.

In fantasy, they’re the engineers of great machines and endless dungeons. Even powerful liches need skilled workers to put their vast networks of traps together.

The sun traverses the sky, and a cool gentle dawn gives way to midday heat. Those who work under a star’s hot embrace get done what must be done, but look forward to the respite that may come.