Before you proceed, please understand that this is an in-character record of my gaming notes. Be aware that it contains spoilers for the Castle Xyntillan mega dungeon module. Turn back now.
Start at Part One.
For this scheduled session, many of the players at our table, myself included, could not make it. Instead, please enjoy this short fiction.
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| Source: Wikimedia Commons |
August 18, 2026
Norg turned, and a pair of bloodshot eyes met his gaze. The wood brown face in the mirror frowned at him. It was his face. His long white beard, typically worn long, neatly combed, and tied at the end, was tangled. His favorite red cap was stained brown from tobacco smoke. He had been up for hours, too many to count, and now Baravar Cloakshadow, the gnomish god of illusion and deception, weaved his tricks and illusions at this small hour of the night. Thick pipe smoke filled his cramped room at the Vulgar Unicorn, not that it mattered to one of his stature. Was it true, or was he being paranoid? He needed to clear his head.
He hopped down from his chair, the soft leather of his boots lightly kissing the rough wooden floor. The gnome strode to the window, and his small but strong hands pushed open the shutters. Leaning on the sill, Norg let his head rest in his palms as the strongly scented smoke rushed outward. Baravar may be the god of deception to his people, but he is also the god of protection. Only Garl Glittergold stands higher in regard amongst the gnomish people.
Watery blue eyes gazed out over the city, scanning rooftops and chimneys as they rose higher, eventually settling on the moon. She was waxing crescent, glowing softly as cotton puff clouds slowly sailed past. It was a good sign, one of new beginnings. Now is a time for setting intentions, especially ambitious little fellows like Norg.
The last haul was good. He and his companions from the delving company made it back with their lives, as well as a nice little haul of booty. The Malevol's vintage was easily sold, and having sampled it in the castle cellars, it was easy to see why. It was certainly one of the finest wines he's ever tasted in seventy-five years of walking the world. They would have to go back and secure the rest. Unfortunately, that likely means putting Ambrosius down. It was clear he wouldn't easily part with the family's special reserve. A shame, as Norg genuinely liked the jolly monk.
They called him Leadbelly for a reason. Like his dwarfish cousins, gnomes are a merry making folk, and in his youth Norg whiled away many hours in drink, dancing and song. But he was never destined to be a goldsmith or gem cutter. Instead, he drifted into adventuring, joining a long gnomish tradition of rebels and mischief makers. Hopefully he would be one to truly strike it rich! Coin passes quickly through gnomish fingers. Or at least they did for him.
Norg had seen many things within Castle Xyntillan. Disturbing things that went against the grain of life. While no friend of Law, neither was he a servant of Evil; Norg simply wanted to get rich just as much as the two-bit delvers with whom he trucked around. Today was the day where his fellowship would make their weekly foray into the castle, ready to help its residents part with what wasn't nailed down.
However, it wasn't meant to be. His brothers and sisters in the pursuit of fame and fortune each faced setbacks that kept them from making the trip out to the castle grounds. Spud wouldn't stop mooning over the painting of Philomone, which the delving company recovered during an earlier expedition. Whim injured himself during fighting practice. Carl simply stared wistfully out the window of his room, musing on when they might visit 'tina once more. Sister Riley was kept back to attend to business with her order. And Brother Jean faced similar restrictions with his holy brothers. And Norg made the sixth member of this company.
Six is a sacred number, one of harmony and balance. Things have been sailing smoothly as these companions became more regular in their expeditions to the castle. But something must be lacking for the balance to so suddenly slip out of alignment. Would a seventh companion tip the scales back into his favor? It is the divine number after all. Or was this a prank from his gods, meant to teach him some lesson in humility?
The gnome rose to his feet and moved toward the tall desk on the opposite end of his room. He scooped the carafe that was sitting there with trained hands, tilting it to fill his tankard. Ruby red drops trickled out. The wine was gone. He had spent the day drinking, chasing the memory of the Malevol family's special reserve. Norg realized now that he was quite drunk.
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