NPCs

Patient #3 at the sanitarium: a shape-changed ibix wearing Arthur Figwort's shape. The real Arthur is a prisoner-servant in the Brugh (C23).

Nestor is given to make snap judgments about other people and their motives. He sizes people up at first sight or first word—usually both—and nothing can really change his mind once it’s been made. You’d think that he would learn, after people fail to disappoint him in the way that he expects. However, he’s enraged just enough people just enough times to make them snap and behave in a negative way that he’s been proven right. There’s no fixing him now.

Corporal of the garrison's 1st Squad.

Abelia was raised in an orphanage and was never adopted. She is pleasant in appearance and has a quiet, calming voice, but she is reluctant to use it. She keeps to herself, avoids eye contact with others, and generally doesn’t ever speak unless spoken to first. Even when asked a question directly, she tends to answer with brief, vague responses. She will often hint at what she wants or leave clues for others to find, rather than asking directly. Thievery has been both a means of survival due to poverty, and a way to get things she might freely be given if she were able to ask.

Filled with boundless energy and enthusiasm, it fails to register with Abeline that she’s a bit taxing on people. Always ready for another adventure; always the first to introduce herself to someone new; never concerned that someone might not be interested to know her; never worried that the person might be dangerous. She’s well able to defend herself if need be, but in her mind the bad person is always an outlier in the beautiful world, and she’s never dissuaded.

If you know Achaicus Spinther, consider yourself fortunate indeed because you are part of a network of more people than you realize. It would be a stretch to say that Achaicus knows everyone personally, but he generally knows someone that knows the someone you’re inquiring about, and knows how you might get to know even more. Even if he doesn’t know who you’re talking about, a few words about their discipline or background is all he needs to know in order to reach out to the person who does. Far from being a know-it-all, Achaicus is acutely aware of how much there is to know and therefore how important it is to have a well- developed network of experts who know all the things you could never find the time to learn, let alone master. Get to know him—and, if you’re very lucky, his eldest brother, Themistocles Spinther (page 85). Oddly, despite their vast social and professional connections, both brothers flatly deny any involvement with the Coalition for Magical Cooperation. Publicly, at least. His favourite person to spend time with these days is Lavinia Septima (page 15). He’s finding that his mind is increasingly distracted by thoughts of her, and is not at all bothered by it.

Courageous, kind, and empathetic, Afton is called a “new age fighter” by people trying to talk kindly about him. Most people do, even the older generation of warriors who squirm on their bar stools at his curious mix of terrifying brutality and warm sensitivity. When he isn’t butchering monsters he likes to unwind by singing and painting. He is chaste, and a romantic at heart. He envisions a future where he owns a beautiful cottage by a lake, and near the forest. By day he will comb the woods, killing goblins and any others who might do harm. By night he will eat roasted meat by the fireside and talk with his loving wife about their dreams for the future. If you have a problem with any of that, why not take it up with him yourself?

Young thieves tend to have big dreams and empty pockets. Afton’s plan is to own a ship someday, and make the leap from landlocked thievery to buccaneering. Ships cost more than you think though. And it’s not just the ship, it’s the equipment, maintenance, crew, food and drink, salaries, and bribes. No small expense! So it’s robbery on dry ground until those coffers fill up.

Village apothecary; noticeably cheery when met on her way to the cemetery (B12).

Ailish knows what she appears to be to others, but still isn’t sure what she actually is. She awoke one morning, a full-grown adult “Elf,” enveloped within a cocoon and standing inside the recess of a hollow tree. Tearing herself free, she fell to her knees, wriggling face down and backwards, out the open bottom of the trunk. When she emerged naked from the forest, confused and without language, mouths hung open. An elven woman covered her with a cloak and led her to what would become home. She learned to understand elvish in a month and speak it fluently in three. Common took another two weeks. She chose her name out of those listed in a family scrapbook. She chose the woman as her mother. The tree that she’d been born from had vanished from the forest, and when she described it, none had any recollection of having known of such a tree. Magic came naturally to her, like another language. Curious about her origin but cautious about revealing herself, she speaks of her birth casually and in the third person. No one’s heard of such a thing, nor is there mention in any of the books she’s yet read. Curious.

A good son, Ainsley is caring for his elderly mother after the recent passing of his father. He had a good, albeit short run as an adventurer; it gave him the life experience he really wanted and couldn’t have otherwise received. He’s got a bit of money saved but is wondering where it will come from a few months from now. He is kind and patient and might be able to teach spells to junior Magic-Users or provide necessary magical research equipment and materials for cost plus a nominal service fee.

After a brief tenure at the Temple of Eternal Life, Ainsley was recently asked to leave for being caught in the passageway leading to the lower levels one too many times. Fortunately, his faith remains intact. He has a peculiar fascination with the undead, and the sermons didn’t delve into the subject of life and death as deeply as he was hoping they would. As there seems to be an inordinate amount of secrecy preventing acolytes from accessing certain libraries and building levels in the Temple, he thought he’d push his luck. No such luck. Plan B is to find some willing adventurers who share his interest and explore some crypts.

Alberic (“Elf Ruler”) has probably missed his chance to live up to his name. Life was idyllic in his family at the time that it was bestowed, but the call to war claimed his father while he was still a child. When the invaders came to sack the castle, Alberic was already gone with his mother, living anonymously under her brother’s roof. There is no castle to reclaim, just a ruin, though he could rebuild a new one there if he’s successful as a fighter. He has the talent—few are quicker with a blade. But he also has the strategic mind. While he is a very good tactician when given the time to plan an attack, where he really shines is in formulating a new strategy on the field when things have gone wrong. Almost instinctively, he can see how events will unfold based on the decisions he makes in the moment. He wonders if this is something inherited from his father, or something of his very own.

Alberich is becoming increasingly obsessed with Elves, and because he was always taught to revel in being a Dwarf, he’s feeling confusion mixed with guilt. He honestly can’t help it. He’s now questioning his decision to join the clergy and wondering whether it wouldn’t be better to woo and marry a lovely Elf woman, then raise a little brood of “Dwelves” in some picturesque little cabin. Is any of it possible? While he wrestles with this quandary, his spells aren’t working as reliably as they used to, which only adds to his shame.

Alda’s progression as a Magic-User has come at the expense of her marriage. When she met her future spouse, she was still uncertain where her fledgling abilities would take her—if anywhere. When it was clear that magic was turning her toward a path and commitment that her spouse refused to follow her on, they parted. She is hardly sleeping wondering if both of them are suffering this way. Her friends are trying to help, but she’s locked herself away, insisting she’d rather be alone.

Owing to the incompetence of the town guards, Aldway has carved out a healthy and mostly-legal business as a private detective. When he started out he wasn’t terribly fussy about who paid him, but as he has started to develop a reputation for results he’s strategically moved toward keeping himself busy with legitimate clientele. He’s aware the town guards are watching, and he’s got a lot to lose by working for criminals. Most have already found other thieves to take their business anyway.

Innkeeper and owner of the Split Moon; plump, in his late fifties, and famously grumpy -- getting a smile from him is almost impossible -- though the citizens of Peripont appreciate him regardless.

When invaders poured into her village, Alke discovered her talent for strategy and leadership. Securing the cooperation of women and children around her, she used wagons and carts and debris to corral the horde into the square while the men engaged them hand to hand. Penned by barriers, the villagers rained fire, stones, and arrows on the invaders from above. While losses of life and property were substantial, the enemy was destroyed. In the aftermath, every home was given a weapon to hang on the wall, and every resident instructed on how to react more quickly in the future. Alke founded a militia and trained her replacement before setting off alone.

When her place was robbed, the money that Alke had tucked away for her living expenses vanished. She was evicted and is now toting her books and equipment around in a small pull cart while she looks for other accommodations. She is kind and trustworthy but down on her luck. Fortunately, she was spotted by Eileanóra Yorke (page 18) who made a wizard and some clerics aware of her situation. They’re now making sure she has food and a safe place to sleep. She is grateful but embarrassed. She needs something permanent and has now learned wizard lock in anticipation of that day.

Her parents had hoped that their choice of a name would be prophetic, and indeed she grew into a woman of rarely paralleled beauty. It was to their great disappointment that she chose a life of expedition and service over children, hearth, and home. She has no regrets and a well- practised retort for any who dare to disagree with her life choices.

Hesitant to do harm unless it’s unavoidable, Allura is primarily specializing in illusion magic, with a secondary interest in spells that stop creatures without injuring them. She’s had difficulty finding party members that appreciate this approach.

Estranged sister of Edison (page 78). He had turned a blind eye to her activities until she used her relationship with him for an opportunity to empty the temple coffers. He paid for the losses from his own pocket, but warned her that any further losses he incurred by her actions would be met with a dispatch of assassins, gladly paid. There was a time when she would have doubted his sincerity, but there’s been a marked change since his career within the clergy has grown.

With zero interest in life as a merchant, following in her brother’s footsteps was the easiest decision she ever made. He helped and guided her through the hurdles; a favour she would gladly pay down to her sister Sighilde (page 20) if she was the least bit receptive. However, it seems like Ortrud (page 111) is faltering. He doesn’t speak hopefully about a future in wizardry and wonders what else he might do instead. He’s even talked about returning to Father’s store. Nonsense. He just needs to find a better class of Magic-Users to associate with. She’s heard of at least one group working to make things better. It’s small, but growing. One of its leaders, Blossom Averye (page 113), is as powerful as he is. Would she accept his help, or be threatened by him? As a more junior Magic- User, Aloysia might be able to make some polite inquiries. Yes, why not? And if all else fails, what’s to stop them from creating their own organization or guild? They already have management experience.

Alvar jokes that he’s ‘pacifist in recovery’ but does it with a straight face. He long believed that it was possible to solve disputes without resorting to violence, but lost too many friends as he persevered along that path. He bears both physical and psychological scars from those days of activism. Even though he now has the fighting and magical prowess to do great harm, he carefully measures the damage he does, using only the necessary amount of force.

A young cousin of Leofsige Alvine (page 114), she is intelligent but, unlike him, easily bored. She could be doing much better at her magical education but it would cut into her social life too much. Alvina craves novelty and is given to spontaneous, thrill-seeking adventures where she dives in headlong. After a brief obsession, her enthusiasm dissipates as quickly as it started and she’s in search of the next big thing. As a friend, this can be exhausting and so she has had a number of relationships come and go, though not as quickly as her other interests.

Considered one of the very best teachers for young people beginning the study of arcane magic, she is actually quite an introverted person. She loves her role but does find it quite exhausting. When not teaching or working on projects as a member of the Coalition for Magical Cooperation, she’s likely to be at home curled up with a book with 1d4 cats nearby. She is a very private person and doesn’t talk about herself.

Faithful son of the Temple of Wounds, Amor has taken to injuring himself regularly so as not to lose empathy for the ones the Temple serves. He has witnessed the loss of sensitivity in his fellow Healers. With so many in need of care, the approach has been on moving people in and out efficiently and anonymously. It’s so clinical; it’s not the reason he entered the profession. So he hurts himself in front of the clerical attendants in hopes of inspiring a movement from within. It’s yet to catch on.

A former student of Cynebald Bosques (page 56), he was dismissed for snooping through his elder master’s spellbooks and magical research materials. Bosques’ influence is wide, and even those who’ve never met him have closed ranks to prevent the young student from being accepted for any apprenticeships. At present, Anencletus is utterly reliant on trading spells with the few friends he has, and buying spells from others.

Annag is questioning whether her heart is in it anymore. By skill and no small amount of luck, she’s accumulated enough wealth that she could retrain, or possibly even retire if she lives frugally. She’s not “seen the light” by any stretch and has no interest in joining the clergy, but maybe it’s time to learn a craft and go into business for herself. But what to do? She’ll take on some small jobs while she ponders.

Ansgar—which means "spear of the Gods", according to his mother—was intended to be a Cleric. But he had other plans and his religious upbringing did little more than create a strong moral framework into which he’s begun to weave white magic. She’s still rather proud of him, and he loves her too much to explain that a Cleric can’t actually use the spear she bought for him. But then neither can a Magic-User, for entirely different reasons. But after all is said and done it’s just a name, and it’s for these reasons that he’s generally reluctant to talk about his name, or the spear, with anyone.

She’d like to establish her own guild someday but you probably wouldn’t want to work for her. Soft skills are not her strong suit. It’s not clear whether she’s been treated badly by peers who feel that thievery is a man’s profession, or if her haughty and overbearing manner is just natural grace. She’s not to be trifled with and do so at your peril.

The last descendant of the Rodemus family. After the recent Rodemus family retook the keep, an army of orcs and goblins overran it and the family fled into the catacombs and out by the second entrance; Arlen and Sarah then lived in a large cave not far from the keep, going to the keep only during the day. A few days ago their son Galen disappeared; searching the keep for him, they were captured by Girck's soldiers and are held prisoner in the command post. They do not know that the undead attacking the keep are their ancestors.

The way to Arna’s heart is through trinkets and knickknacks. She’s collected hundreds in her lifetime. Each is a reminder of an experience or a friendship, and she is wont to travel with up to a dozen at a time. A previous adventuring party learned by way of a high-speed wagon collision that these souvenirs can function as deadly projectiles. Should your sling run out of stones, her “ammunition” is usually nearby. She’ll forgive you. Just buy (or make) her something else.

The real Arthur Figwort, held in the Brugh and set to guard its wine cellar. An ibix wears his shape at the sanitarium (A2); his parents (B16) believe him mad.

Asbjorn Stigandr—"godly bear wanderer" in his native tongue—has been a nomad since his teens. When he became uncomfortable with the life that his mother was planning for him one step at a time, he fled south on foot, singing and playing his lute to distract himself from the cold. When he reached a second civilization, he took a room in a slum-house and found work as a mercenary and is still there. He is seeking either a partner or a party with complementary skills who might join him—or whom he might join—to continue adventuring. Someone with thief or magic skills would be ideal, but anyone would be better than the loneliness of no one.

As the now-adult child of a grave digger, Ash is quite content to have made it to the clergy. It was those gleaming white robes, mastery of language and command of peoples’ attention which captivated that young mind so many years ago. Though now respected and successful, Ash remains ever-aware of how it was to be poor, and carries out the role of Cleric of the Temple of New Birth with purest intent. The dress code of the high priests and priestesses is somewhat concerning. It seems that gleaming white robes are not in the future—not at this temple at least.

His gifted dexterity made Aston’s choice of thievery simple, but uninterrupted success eventually made it desperately dull. So, one day, he stole an entire wardrobe of clothes from a particularly wealthy and famous person and proceeded to rob the next string of victims in the guise of that same celebrity. Moreover, before departing, he allowed himself to be seen—by waving to victims and bystanders—just to ensure everyone was thoroughly astonished and confused. While there was considerable doubt that a wealthy celebrity would pillage other peoples’ homes, it was such a delightful thing to imagine that the rumours continued to persist. Repeating the routine with new disguises finally established that it had all been a clever trick, but did nothing to diminish the delight it created, even among some of those that were robbed.

Sassa has known many vile men like Cesan Finnegani (page 53) and Greysen Adaire (page 69) in her day. They’ve never heard of her, but she feels like she knows them well by the way that others have spoken about them behind their backs. Whether they realize it or not, a bad reputation follows you everywhere, invisibly. If Sassa could hear what is said about her, it wouldn’t change her behaviour, but at least she’d feel some assurance that the rumour mill communicates the good with the bad. Her loving, caring nature; faithfulness to family and friendship ties; and ability to cleave hobgoblin heads have not gone unnoticed, or undisclosed.

It’s hard being in the middle. With her elder sister Lioba (page 99) striding far ahead and her younger sister Minna (page 22) closing in from behind, she’s not sure who to be more concerned about. It just seems like both of them are much happier with their progress and less anxious about making a name for the family. It’s so unfair! She wonders if anyone else feels this way. She’s noticed that Imme De Veend (page 71) seems pretty lonely since she arrived. Maybe she should try to talk to her?

Audhild is afflicted with a very rare condition, pogonophobia—the fear of beards. As a Dwarf, this is particularly tragic given that nearly all males—and some of the females—have a proud display of facial hair. Upon encountering such a person she goes berserk. Rolling a d10, a 1-3 indicates that she flees the area in a random direction—roll 1d10 again and use the “Missiles That Miss” rule to determine where. On a 4-6, she will scream uncontrollably until the person leaves or her voice gives out. On a 7-9 she will attack immediately, swinging once, then running. On a 10, roll twice (ignoring 10s) and combine the two reactions in a way that makes sense.

St. Averil is what she’s called by others. Some intend it sincerely as a compliment and others as a pejorative. Helpful, kind, truthful, chaste, Creator-fearing, law abiding—she is so obviously selfless and pure that it grates on the nerves of the morally ambiguous. So it was that she came to the attention of Mallory Freemane (page 92), who made Averil many cups of tea and asked many more questions of her, before agreeing she was as close to a living saint as anyone she’d ever known—including her mother. At a meeting over tea with Leofsige Alvine (page 114) and Tuesday Rey (page 118), Averil gave her solemn vow to never speak of the subjects discussed that day. Then, a second vow whereby she pledged her service for life to The Octad as its fourth member. Keeping the secrecy of the organization’s existence is the closest thing to lying she’s ever done.

Badurad lives for the uphill climb. The most interesting part of living is when you’ve been pushed completely out of your comfort zone. Coping with change-induced panic—knowing you need to not only learn something new, but master it—there’s nothing like that. So don’t bother asking him to do something he’s already done before. He’ll yawn and ask you what else you’ve got to offer. Pitch something fiendishly difficult or spectacularly lethal—he’s already built up quite a tolerance with his varied experiences so far.

Orc queen and the brains of the Cave tribe. She alone knows the location of the secret door leading into Zelinth's complex.

Baronet's right-hand man (Major). 61, sharp mind, weak body. Served Baron Morgan for years; bitter at being left in the wildlands. Holds a vault key.

Proprietor of Balin's Arms in Dale. He stayed open late on the night the party returned from the Ruins so they could repair, re-equip, and sell anything before settling in for the night, laughing that they won't be paying for their drinks at the Laughing Dragon Inn.

Leader of the bandit party working the roads toward Rodemus Keep (wilderness encounter 1-2). His 8 bandits are Human Fighter 1: AC 13, #At 1 shortsword, Dam 1d6, Mv 40', Sv F1, ML 9, XP 25 ea., leather armor and shortsword (INT 4 (-2), CHA 14 (+1)).

Portly owner of secret gambling den behind concealed door. Pays protection to the watch.

Assistant cleric at the chapel.

De facto Baron, 26, slight, average warrior but uncanny tactician. Charismatic; frequents the tavern. Carries Potion of Flying, Medallion of Mind Reading; Platemail +1, shield, Ring of Protection +2, Longsword +1 (+3 vs undead).

After tiring of the routine of being a daytime pickpocket fleecing people in the marketplace, Barra tried his luck as a night prowler. It was then that he discovered that his true love of the trade was not merely the coin and the valuables he pilfered—but the terror he evoked. He prefers to break into peoples’ homes during the night, quietly gathering items before waking up the victim to demand to know where their secret treasures are hidden. If no suitable homes are to be found, he’ll stalk women walking alone, gagging them with his filthy handkerchief. He is a coward, making most of his living from widows. He will never attack or enter a domicile where a man might be present.

One-eyed farmer at the Toothless Dragon; hooks the party to the Olde Island Fortress.

The very model of frugality, Bathilda knows how to stretch a copper piece to acquire food and textiles, and not a scrap of it is wasted. She is not a miser, but a good-hearted soul who has had to turn away too many people because of the Temple of Want’s recurring shortages of food and clothing.

Sweet and bubbly, she’s not to everyone’s taste. In small amounts she is exactly the personality to lift you from your doldrums, but it can easily grow excessive. It’s unclear whether she really is a fountain of infinite happiness or whether it’s an act to make people like her. It’s backfiring. No one can be this positive all the time. One thing is clear—she is never alone. If one individual or group turns their back on her, she is quick to flit over to the next one. Maybe a career change is in order? As a teacher of young children her sunny disposition would be a huge hit.

Most folks around town are struggling to fill their cups each day. For a few, their cup runneth over. Beathan insists that you continue to fill his cup while he slurps the over-spill from the tabletop. He fights harder, sings louder, and eats and drinks more than anyone he knows. All these have increased steadily as he’s travelled more of the world and met others like himself. While everyone hopes he’s now reached the peak of his excess, who knows? It’s a shame, really; he’s not an idiot or a brute. He has alarming depth which might result in actual leadership abilities someday, if he can just outlive his current habits.

When not enjoying his own company, Becket prefers the companionship of plants. He’s learning to cope with the increasing necessity to interact with clergy colleagues and flock, but in his estimation the Creator lives in all creation. That is where he longs to be, and given sufficient opportunity he will use his concealment abilities to savour a quick recharge—up in a tree or nestled in tall grass. He’s always there for you in the end, but you’re third choice. It’s not your fault. Probably.

Peripont's singular beggar, almost seventy, missing his left hand and lame in the right leg; talks to himself, sings, and recites poems. He is one of the old copper miners who stayed when the rest left, and he knows where Badgerwood is.

Beornræd is a fighter. The Bannermanes have always been fighters. His father is a fighter. His grandfather was a fighter, until he died in a fight. His great grandfather was also a fighter. His great-great grandfather fought for a king, and that man’s own father had also fought and died for a king. Beornræd wishes he could fight for a king. He also hopes to have a son of his own someday. He’ll be a fighter, just as every other Bannermane has been.

Second son of a wainwright, his first armour was a wagon-wheel tower shield and a pole arm fashioned from a broken falling tongue. Like his brother, he learned by watching others in combat then practising in the field after chores. With no formal instruction in adulthood, he remains to this day a keen student. Observation, replication, observation, alteration, repeat. Never boastful about his abilities and never hesitant to share what he’s learned with others, he’s about the best friend and party member one could wish for.

As a hero-for-hire, Beowulf has found himself in some terrifying life-and-death situations, but he honestly believed the day he met Leofsige Alvine (page 114) was going to be the last day of his short life. He was browsing produce in the marketplace when the gag went in his mouth and the shroud enveloped his body. The bumpy wagon ride couldn’t end soon enough. He hoped the end would be quick. Instead, he found himself deposited at the centre of a room, encircled by 7 robed figures holding wands and weapons. One spoke. The voice told a story of four unearthly beings—The Tetrad—walking among us draped in the guises of men and women. Disappearances, deaths, a possible prelude to an invasion—it sounded surreal. Then Leofsige approached, knelt, and introduced himself. Beowulf had been chosen for his abilities, but more so, for his character. He’d been closely surveilled for months. As a junior member of a covert group of overseers—The Octad—he would need to do nothing more than continue his profession, passing along what he saw and heard—now that his attention had been turned.

Berghild expected that she would be a Cleric forever. It was disappointing then when she was not only dismissed from the Temple of New Birth, but excommunicated—severing her connection to her Deity and removing her powers completely. It is a huge blow to the Bjorg (“Salvation”) family, who have served many deities with distinction for generations. Yes, she spoke out of turn in questioning the lack of adornment on the high priests, but the punishment seems eerily draconian. Is it too late for her to reclaim her role in the service of another deity?

Alfred's wife at the Split Moon Inn; her weapon of choice is a rolling pin.

In nearly every regard, Bertle is the apex of disciples. Strong, resilient, intelligent, and wise, he is the man that many wish they could be, were it not for his appearance… and the smell. At any time, 1d6-1 birds of various types are perched on his arms, shoulders and head (1d4-1 indoors; 1d2- 1 while seated). Regardless of rolls, one crow will be present with him at all times. His friendship with birds might be charming if they didn’t expel their waste on him with such alarming regularity, or if Bertle had more concern for hygiene. But as they are his constant companions, messengers and protectors, he’s more likely to miss their company than yours.

If there’s still daylight and he’s not otherwise occupied with official duties, Bertrand is out on the streets as a one-man recruitment team for the Temple of Judgment. No one asked him to do this. Word of this hasn’t reached the Temple— yet. His colleagues might be supportive if it weren’t for the fact that he asks prospective applicants to mention his name if they decide to join. He’s not out for a promotion or any sort of personal glory. He’s worried. He’s done terrible things in his past that he has yet to confess to. At the very least, he hopes the Deity will see his good work and forgive him. But, it’s his deeper hope that one of his mentors will pull him aside and ask for an explanation. It’s then that he will confess fully, and beg forgiveness from someone with the authority to grant it. He also accepts the possibility he might be expelled from the clergy. It’s what he fears he probably deserves anyway.

Short and slender, with auburn hair cut short and piercing green eyes; obsessed with looting, stealing, and exploring. The last thing she remembers is attempting to rob a wizard's tower; she will follow a capable party for so long as they amass riches.

Bjarne was never really certain about a career in the clergy, but they were such nice folks! The Temple of Lohmen seemed as good a place as any to discover if he was meant to be a Cleric. Many of those who are lost discover their purpose here. After a promising start, he is now in the midst of a crisis of faith. His belief is eroding, his spells are failing, and his colleagues and mentors are concerned.

Bjarne wasn’t raised around other Halflings. He was a foundling, discovered in a box on the side of the road. His adoptive father was a merchant who first tried to sell him, unsuccessfully, before later considering that he might be a long-term investment if he could be made to work someday. Thus, Bjarne learned to speak by watching his father haggle with strangers from sunup to sundown every day of the week. As a result, Bjarne seems to argue for the sake of arguing, to either begin or prolong a conversation, and he always insists on having the last word. Many have tried to understand why he does this and set him straight—it just foments another argument. He can’t help it. Regarding language and interpersonal relations, it seems completely normal to him.

With the usual nagging ailments fighters get from physically punishing themselves day after day, Bliktrud had no reason to worry when he visited the Healer-on-Duty at the Temple of Wounds. He did begin to grow concerned when that Cleric asked his advisor for a second opinion. The news was grim. If they cut off his leg, he might live a full life. If not, he might have a year. It was devastating. He stood, turned, and walked out of the Temple without saying a word and without looking back. Even as he did it, he knew what it meant. He thought that he had a lifetime to live. Now, he has only the question of what to do with the time he has left.

Best friend of Willow Averille (page 107) and co- founding member of the famed Coalition for Magical Cooperation (CMC), a loose partnership of high level Magic-Users and Clerics intent on doing good. But it seems that the mandate may have to grow beyond what it originally was. Her sources say that four invaders—The Tetrad—have been linked to many disappearances and deaths. The CMC may not have the strength or the numbers to fight them. It would not be the first time that Blossom had to meet a challenge. It’s been a necessity since her youth. Blossom is an only child and regards Willow as the sister she never had. For a while, she felt like she could only watch helplessly as Willow hurtled into despair. It looked like rage and megalomania to a lot of people, but Blossom knew where it had come from and what it meant. Remaining as the only listening ear while so many abandoned Willow was the most difficult thing she’d ever done. At times it felt like Willow screamed just to force people out of her life. She felt so empty and worthless, anger became part of fulfilling a destiny that was inevitable. She deserved no one, everyone would leave her eventually anyway— why not just get it over with quicker? But Blossom wouldn’t leave. She didn’t know then whether Willow felt the sense of sisterhood that she did. Probably not. Willow didn’t understand family. But allowing Willow to disappear into herself was something Blossom wouldn’t allow. So, she weathered the torrent, waited for the clearing, and pulled her friend back to shore. It wasn’t quick; the current against them was strong. But in the end they not only saved a friendship, but became like family, and later formed “the famed Coalition for Magical Cooperation.” ‘Til death do them part.

Brandr Halvard, 14th of his name, is not nearly as interesting as he believes he is. While intelligent and reasonably wise, he is fully devoted to ensuring that number 14 will go down in history as the greatest incarnation. Thus, a typical day with Brandr revolves around training, talking about training, fighting, and reminiscing about good fights. That’s no fun for anyone to listen to, and it can quickly devolve into cringe-inducing topics if Brandr overshares, which he very nearly always does. His dietary concerns based on his recent bowel movements is but one example— and we’ll stop right there. His sword, Gudbrand, is a family heirloom that he never removes and now even sleeps with. On more than one occasion, attempts have been made to steal it.

Brandywynn has it all going for her, and she knows it. She has a good heart, but she can come off as cold when she first meets people. She is long used to captivating people’s attention. There was a time when she earnestly tried to acknowledge each and every person vying for her attention, but there were so many it was exhausting. To get hers, you have to make her wait for yours. She is apt to spot others with a similar mix of intellect, talent and charisma, and ask to make their acquaintance.

When she was younger, Brianag met a priestess that completely changed her view of what clergy could be like. She wasn’t old, stuffy and buttoned up like most were. Her name was Whitney Worthame (page 108) and she worked for the Temple of Worms. “Gross!” Brianag had said. “Yes!” Whitney agreed, not missing a beat. She then told the younger girl how worms make beautiful things grow, even where the land had been poisoned. “That could be you, someday, Brianag,” she concluded. “Making the world better when others feel like it’s hopeless.” That conversation changed Brianag’s life. She knew what she wanted to do with her life. Accepting the invitation to become a Worm, Brianag now has her faith but also a personal code of conduct that guides her in the absence of rules. One of the things she’s still learning from Whitney is how to cope with circumstances where the rules get in the way.

It’s the end of the road for Briar. She (alternately, he) knew her time as a fighter would punish her body, and she’s now nearing the limit of what she’s prepared to take. Her community shuttered her cottage and has kept an eye on the roof for leaks since she’s been away, so now it’s just a question of making it back home. Perhaps one last adventure, so long as its along the way?

Unpredictability can often be a plus when you’re a thief. Observable patterns are likely to be noticed. Then, plans are made, traps are set, and the thief caught. However, Bríd’s behaviour is more than just calculated misdirection. She seems truly incapable of managing her whims and reactions, particularly her temper. She can morph from a sweet, song-voiced angel to a vengeful, poison-spitting demon in short order. Worse still, the higher the stakes, the more likely she is to be emotionally unstable.

Brìghde built her home at the hub of a circle of outlying communities. She is not affiliated with any temple. She believes the Creator is everywhere, in all substances and in all beings. Her home is open to any local residents or passing travellers in need of help, but she’s also known to make home visits. She refuses no one; not even suspected criminals, and she has never been robbed. Unknown to her, there exist unwritten directives within the regional thieves guilds that she is not to be harmed—ever. She does not request coin for her services, but it is gratefully accepted. The villages and towns also help see to her needs, bringing her seasonal produce, firewood and textiles in gratitude.

Dwarven smith working the Broken Anvil alongside Gistor Blez.

Cleric of the Temple of the Triune. (The book prints his XP as 25 despite his 2nd level -- kept as printed.)

The second ogre of Grimspire, denning on Dungeon Level 4 -- Gorfang in the ruins above speaks of him.

From birth, Burkhard was born to be a fighter, like his father, his grandfather, and nine previous generations of his kin. Despite the pressure, he never took to stick-sword fights, instead choosing to wield his as a staff. Burkhard may never be a great Magic-User, but he’s determined. As a youth he was known to choke out or cold- cock opponents, then claim that he’d successfully cast sleep. There are conflicting reports as to whether or not that still occurs.

Co-proprietor of The Jolly Fox Inn with Griselda; the two share a spellbook (detect magic, magic missile, magic mouth).

A dwarf mercenary of the Black Fist guild, hired by Valanunthe. He and Urias Banhammer bunk in the Dwarf Mercenary Barracks (room 8); since they are mercenaries they won't hesitate to leave the fight if it starts looking bad for them -- recheck morale if one of them dies, or either gets below half their hit points.

The child of two Magic-Users, the only question lingering as Calliope grew was whether she would manifest the destructive physical powers of her father or the subtle mental manipulations of her mother. When she began to speak in full sentences, it soon became clear. Her melodious voice was already charming others long before she learned the spell to intensify the effect. Will she become as feared and hated as her parents?

Following a painful and unexpected breakup, Camdyn is emotionally fragile right now. His normal resilience has been punctured and he doubts everything about himself that he thought he knew. He is apt to react emotionally and take things personally and has an intense need to be around other people right now, though most would like to withdraw from him if it didn’t look so bad. His remove fear spells are to cast on himself, while the animal spells are for those times when everyone else has someplace pressing that they need to be.

Camran’s curiosity got the better of him. Used to wandering and doing as he pleased, he failed to heed the warning sign to stay away from the storage chamber of unchecked materials donated to the Temple of Daevas. There he flipped through many books, until he opened the one containing an Infernal. Now possessed, his consciousness is the silent passenger along for the ride as the Infernal uses his mind and body to gather information, in preparation for a coup.

As a youth, Canicus was frequently described as gentle, kind, and fair. Not one to take these sorts of insults lying down, he’s endeavouring to become a little worse each day. Wanton violence, cruelty and immorality are still a long way away, but he is determined to “un-improve” himself. He’s nowhere near ready to choose a specialization yet, so he’s open to trying anything you’ll pay him to do.

Senior officer of the watch; reports to Bailiff Tomandy (described below). Argos also serves as Officer of the Watch, but only works the morning or evening watches (rank hath its privileges).

This demon-priest was cursed after having failed his master three times. His curse is a badly deformed leg, reducing his movement rate by half. He has decided to seek another demon master, and the call of Khaadk led him here. He fell in with the other NPCs when they were cornered by hobgoblins, and his magic turned the tide in their favor. He has become the party leader by sheer force of personality, but his control over the others is shaky at best.

In private, Carling laughs at his name. It suggests that he is what he seems to be, whereas he’s actually a Cloud Dragon (Age Category 6). It’s an interesting time to watch Humans. They’re closer now than they’ve ever been to extinction, and he’s got a front row seat. He has knowledge of more spells than he should for a wizard of this level, but in the interest in staying undercover he’s dutifully keeping a modest selection (at the GM’s option, he could have the full number his age permits). His treasure is far away and he’s got nothing to lose except his seat. If he is somehow found out, he will use whatever defensive means he can to create a distraction, then teleport away. He’ll then appear in a different region with a new name and a new appearance, but the same desire to witness what might be the end of the world, as it happens. For now though, things are splendid. He’s even opening his mind to exploring a romantic relationship with a Human female, Zanna Chadwicke (page 98), as a cover, but also as an experiment he’s yet to attempt over his long years.

An orphan and former child slave, little is publicly known about Carlyn’s past life but she is under heavy surveillance and constant protection of many powerful local figures. Carlyn was originally spotted by lay social worker Eileanóra Yorke (page 18), who passed her name through her network as a child in distress. Carlyn’s freedom was eventually forcibly obtained by the Coalition for Magical Cooperation. While being raised by Willow Averille (page 107), she expressed interest in learning arcane magic and was accepted for apprenticeship by Ambrosia Octavianus (page 57).

Anyone knowing Carpus from childhood would be shocked to learn he joined the Temple of the Muse. Then, as now, he worships at the altar of himself. Conceited to an extreme, he expects and generally receives special treatment. He can be inappropriately flirtatious and insincerely flattering to get what he wants, but as soon as you’re served your purpose he wants you gone— now. He is wicked and malicious. Which deity tolerates this from a Cleric?

The Flamen family have been priests for the entirety of living memory and historical record. The name is so synonymous with the role that some believe that the role was named after the family, “flamine” being a foreign word for priest. Naturally it was assumed that Cassandra would continue in that tradition. She’s gone along with it so far, securing a position at the Temple of the Morning Star while she grows in faith and power. But she’s a long way away from where her own ancestors filled the role, and while she is new to the area, her name is not. She’s gotten the sense that she is unwelcome here and that other family names seeking to make their own mark on this Temple would rather see her quietly disappear. There’s been nothing threatening, but the eerie insularity has made her fear that it was wrong of her to come this way. As an only child, she never considered what would happen to the family line were she to die without bearing children. Now it weighs on her heavily.

Cauliff is an artist hired to redo the mosaics; Duke Vadarin ordered the room 23 tiles changed to depict a dragon flying in the clouds, and Cauliff is at work in room 25. He is quite crazy -- driven mad by Khaadk's magic -- and it is useless to talk with him unless he is cured of madness, which will happen if the threat of Khaadk is eliminated.

As Captain of the Guard, Cesan ostensibly protects the town from those that would threaten its inhabitants, but that’s actually just a helpful side effect. He’s mostly just keeping it orderly so he can run his own criminal enterprise with a free and loyal defence force. His cousin Greysen Adaire (page 69) works informally as a spy, bodyguard and remover-of-problem-people in return for information and immunity from prosecution. Cesan has noticed that one of his mid-level officers Theodosius Scipio (page 28) is spending a lot of time with Eileanóra Yorke (page 18). He’s having Greysen tail him to determine if information is being passed that may risk exposure of their business activities. And if Theo turns out to be a problem person...

The Cydes' daughter at the Split Moon; she would gladly join a group of adventurers if only she had a sword -- giving her one, with vague promises of adventure, will convince her to join the party.

I questioned whether or not I should write an entry for myself. It seems egotistical, and yet I must acknowledge that I am a person of interest —if only as the author of all these glimpses into the memories and motivations of others. When I die—or if I abruptly leave this place and start over somewhere else, as I’ve so often done before—I know this book will be discovered and read. So, I will record something of my life here as an indulgence of your curiosity. Just know that this book was never intended for you. It was written for me. Many of the names in this book have meanings, and where I thought it was appropriate, I noted how the person’s destiny either upheld or disgraced the one they had been given. My name means “Gold Born” and in my childhood I wanted for nothing. My father was a ruler. My mother was the daughter of another. While it is often the custom that sons are married to daughters to create political alliances and concentrate wealth and power—and my parents were no exception— they grew to love each other in the way we all wish to become true for our own unions. They lavished attention, affection, praise, culture, education, and opportunity upon me, and one would assume that I grew up happy and appreciative of my good fortune. I did not. With no basis of comparison, my life felt perfectly ordinary to me. There were no obstacles, disappointments, or heartbreaks; no epiphanies, achievements, or transformational experiences. I just was, and the emptiness was intolerable to me. With my father’s position, I had an inordinate level of freedom which I exploited fully. I stole, I lied, then stole even more. I spread rumours of others’ culpability then planted evidence in support of it. I looked for people with enviable success and strong relationships and used all the skills I possessed to leave them humiliated, isolated and broken to the point where some chose not to live anymore. When I feared that I was about to be discovered I bade my parents goodbye, but not before taking the inheritance I believed would have been mine eventually. I would never return. I discarded my name and lived under dozens of others. I rose swiftly through the many guilds that were my home, rising to the top only to become bored and needing to begin anew in another city. I had no interest in leadership. Watching the chaos incited by my abrupt exit from a thriving enterprise was incalculably satisfying—creating dependence and then causing a void. An implosion of greed, entitlement, betrayal and violence. Beautiful madness. It took many repetitions of this behaviour to realize that the void that had always existed inside of me was infinite. Nothing filled it, and I’d learned instead to rejoice in spreading emptiness to others. It took longer still for me to understand that nothing about this path in life had done anything more than keep me a step ahead from being consumed by the emptiness. And then I quit. And I could, because I had somewhere to hide from it all. For all my wandering, I’d at one point realized I needed a place for my treasure and I bought a castle—not a guild. Naturally I couldn’t trust thieves to manage my affairs in my absence, but a number of men who fully understood my capabilities signed on as my hired staff. Having solved serious problems for each of them, they were loyal through a mix of fear and awe. When I returned unexpectedly I found that all was well, and they’ve served me faithfully to this day. I live under the pseudonym I created solely for the ownership of this castle and I am never seen. Everything I need is brought to me, and anything I send is delivered by trusted hands. I am content to be known to the common folk as a wealthy and possibly insane eccentric. It keeps them from scaling the walls. This book that you hold was not written for you, but for me. It has allowed me to escape myself, but to do so alone. While I never was able to feel, I quickly mastered the capacity to recognize feelings in others. While I never was able to truly befriend anyone, I was always a very good listener. And while I never felt I could belong anywhere, my indelible memory allowed me to retain the names and details of those whose paths I crossed, which are now catalogued here. Time spent distracting myself recording these lives has made mine more tolerable. Seeing these words, plainly staring back at me from the page, has made them more consequential than was the case when they were bits of unconnected trivia filed in my head. Reflecting on the work in its totality has given me much to think about. It is not a surprise to me to see pages upon pages of individuals who chose to squander their lives as foolishly as I did. More striking are the numbers who chose to do good, despite the existence of the rest of us, with no expectation of glory or reward, but just doggedly doing good for good’s sake. I can’t understand why. And now that I’ve indulged you, this exercise is complete. I don’t know how it is that you’ve come to read this, but it is not my legacy or a gift to living-kind. If I’m to be remembered at all, understand that the greatest kindness I showed the world was not to contribute, but to withdraw.

Elder cousin of Niamh (page 31), she might work with him if she didn’t view him as a direct competitor to getting what she believes is rightfully hers—everything. She’s just as arrogant as he, but better at concealing it. She’s noticed many successful criminals who damaged both their external reputation and inside loyalty by assuming that demonstrating fierce, erratic behaviour would make them look strong. Ciara is extraordinarily reserved. Her delicate tones and carefully weighed words are stupefying. The quieter she speaks to you, the more trouble you’re probably in. With this softly menacing approach she’s amassed a number of dedicated followers. Their next assignment may be to remove Niamh from the running before he gets the same idea about her.

Clayton desperately aspires to become a leader but doesn’t understand what that entails. He has a certain charisma and intellect and his physical prowess is significant, but he hasn't found a way to put it all together into a package that commands attention. He’s not a gifted speech- maker nor a tactical genius nor an organizational visionary. He can briefly inspire interest, but his lack of ideas and poor social skills quickly dissipates it. He dreams of scores of underlings, following with blind loyalty. Those around him wonder how it is that he's so enamoured with himself.

Trust came slowly to Colla, who unlike his brother Sòlas Ó Caisidei (page 20) has learned to read people better than his father ever did. In retrospect, it seems obvious that the more desperate people are, the less likely it is they can or will honour an agreement. In his life, he never loans anything he wouldn’t be prepared to part with, gives people one chance to make it right when they disappoint him, and only puts distance between himself and others when they’ve made it clear he’s only important when they need something. He’s weighing his feelings for his brother as of late, who seems to forget he exists for long stretches, but then has urgent need for assistance when he becomes upset or anxious. There must be some way to break him out of the shell he’s in.

Conrad isn’t exactly old, but you wouldn’t know it by the way he constantly vents about aches, pains, and the intimate details of his bodily functions. Bad knees, fallen arches, lower back pain, pulled groin—he freely shares all the things no one wishes they knew, with anyone within earshot, whether they like it or not. Gas pain, bloating, bowel troubles, flatulence—an endless litany of symptoms. If he wasn’t an independent he would have been banned from his guild. He’s not a popular mercenary these days, even with the steep discount.

Younger brother of Mallory Freemane (page 92). Formerly an acolyte of the Temple of Thorns, his interests have waned and he is now drifting. He easily found work as a pickup for a group whose Cleric had recently passed away. While he’s strong and competent, his party is bothered by his irritability and self-absorption. Since childhood he’s had a streak of competitiveness, but he now feels utterly helpless in the shadow of his sister. He constantly fantasizes about success while the world passes him by. He’s certain he would never stoop to doing anything to harm Mallory. Not that he would pose any threat to her. Not alone, anyway.

The statues in the room 42 tub are Corena, wife of Lirekos, and her attendant Saril, positioned as if bathing. They were petrified by Khaadk's magic; the water is cold.

Intelligent and wise but world-weary, Corliss is demonstrating wear and tear from her (alternately, his) scrapes with earthly creatures over the years. Her once care-free, live-and-let- live approach has nearly evaporated. Measured words have given way to jarring pronouncements; polite white lies discarded for bitter truths. She’s aware that she’s a drastically different Halfling now than the adventurous, patient, good- humoured one that once was. She does her best to do a good impression of that person when meeting old friends. But for strangers and new acquaintances, she just couldn’t be bothered. Anyone expecting the warmth and sociable charm her race is famous for will be sorely disappointed —and she doesn’t care. She attributes the change to too much time spent around Humans. It’s not a bad thing. It’s just reality. Choices have consequences, and she is the product of her experiences.

A self-designated Holy Avenger, Corliss has made it his (alternately, her) mission to hunt down heretics and other enemies of the Temple—that is, any perceived enemy of any temple. While Corliss calls himself a “non-denominational” Cleric, it’s more accurate to say that none of the sects have formally accepted his offer to seek out justice under their banner. However, they’re all paying very close attention and are occasionally pleased by his work, but also often embarrassed and occasionally even horrified. Still, on the whole, it’s generally acceptable work that everyone is somewhat thankful for more often than not, so long as it doesn’t have their names attached to it.

Among his peers, Bosques is regarded as one of the most talented Masters for young Magic-Users of first or second level. Such is his influence that an apprentice’s career can be nearly destroyed by a poor review. For example, Anencletus Macer (page 8), a former student, was dismissed for snooping through Bosques’ personal spellbooks and research materials. Even those who’d never met Bosques agreed to close ranks, indefinitely eliminating Anencletus from consideration for future apprenticeships. While strict, Boques is generous with his time, honest and fair, and earnest and respectful students have nothing to fear and much to gain from his tutelage. He is a member of the famed Coalition for Magical Cooperation.

Cyprian is a Mage-Investigator, who uses his considerable skills to solve crimes and locate missing persons when the town guard is unable to—which is often. After the sudden disappearance of his right hand, Halle Haldor (page 102), master criminal Eònan Donohuei contracted Cyprian for assistance. He’s interviewed several witnesses that confirmed she was seen entering the Temple of the Invisible, and there’s been no sightings of her since. So long as Eònan pays, Cyrpian will continue looking for any trace of Halle outside of the Temple.

An orphan and street urchin, Cyril envisions himself lord of his own guild someday. He understands hierarchy and is starting small, making it clear to children in the neighbourhood that he wants information and has the coin to pay for it. Early reports are mostly concerned with adultery and unlawful acts with livestock, so blackmail seems like the first viable income source, with extortion on the table for those that don’t choose to part with their money painlessly. Not yet comfortable with doing physical harm to clients, he’ll contract the work out until he develops the stomach for it. Speaking of which, it’s lunchtime—somewhere.

If Dagfinn was a book, he’d be an open one. He loves books, and the idea of becoming one after he passes away would tickle him much more than the alternative of mouldering underground. He regards his library like a shelf of old friends. He greets them cheerily by name when reaching for them from the shelf—and smells them when he opens them. If that seems repellent, you’re another of the many people he’s met in his life that shunned him for his idiosyncrasies rather than cherished him for his remarkable gifts. He is brilliant but always willing to share what he knows. Surprising, given how poorly he’s been treated. He very much wants to believe in people, but it’s his books that have proven more trustworthy.

Dagrun doesn’t look like you might expect a wizard to look, being both more muscular and more poorly dressed. It’s in stark contrast to peers at his level, and even in comparison to his former self. There was a rumour going around that he gambled his money away, and Dagrun did not argue otherwise. In truth, he’s a wereboar and just became tired of wearing finery that may be destroyed should he have the need or desire to transform himself. It’s still something he’s trying to keep secret. So far, the only ones that have died—gored by his tusks and wriggling in his jaws—have been thieves foolish enough to attack him on the road or at home. He poses no threat to anyone else. He’s content with doing his part to take a bite out of crime.

No one remembers what Dahlia looked like. It might have been a good idea for someone to paint a portrait of her remembered appearance before her body was destroyed, but any who might have been able to have long since passed on. Dahlia perished in the service of her Deity under terrible conditions. Abducted and tortured, her body was never released, and the head was placed in an iron box atop a castle tower where it remained under guard for most of the winter, until it was recovered by mercenary specialists. Her peers rushed her back to the Temple of the Impure where her brain was preserved in a reinforced crystal cylinder. By the Deity’s will she is able to detect individual presences (including those who are invisible), converse, answer questions, and cast spells. She can detect evil or detect magic in her presence at will and is immune to all scrying effects such as clairvoyance and mind reading.

Upon the completion of a successful adventure, Dane returned to an empty home. A neighbour broke the terrible news: his wife and children had been taken in the middle of the night about a month before. The village looked but couldn’t find them; no one knew how to reach Dane. For the next 3 years, he searched. He walked every road, talked to every stranger, and paid thieves for information. Nothing. So he returned to the road. He worked alone for a while before joining a party, then quit to return to life as a mercenary. He can’t feel close to people anymore. He’s tired of people’s concerns and questions. No one could understand this emptiness. Killing was the only thing that filled the void, but it was always over too soon. Then he realized that he appreciated the distraction of pain. He sold his shield and began taking on more dangerous jobs. He hurts, but it’s a welcome diversion for his attention. When the pain fades, the void is there again. Time to work.

Once a proud name in this family, Darby means “free from envy,” but in this case it fits like a pair of oversized, hand-me-down trousers from an elder relative. If Darby sees, he covets. If he covets, he takes. Embarrassed, his mother has started telling the neighbours that he died. In a sense perhaps he did, if the son she imagined ever actually existed.

A tougher barkling who runs the jail (area 9) with his hounds; he mostly keeps to himself, dislikes the company of others, and seldom leaves this area.

Healer of madness at the sanitarium; thin, soft-featured, with a wisp of white hair, and wears a funnel-like aluminum hat said to focus his mental exertions. An expert on fairy lore. Has diagnosed Arthur with 'humoural imbalance caused by persistent category II demonic infestation' and seeks consent to perform brain surgery. Carries a stone with a naturally-bored hole that lets one see invisible fairy creatures.

A dwarf Fighter who fell into a trap while exploring an old temple and was carried off by an evil mage's minions.

Dubhshìth is settling into his second career after a rather disastrous attempt to serve as a Magic- User’s Apprentice. “But you’re a Dwarf,” the well-mannered Wizard said. “Dwarves can’t be Magic-Users.” But Dubhshìth lied, insisting he was really just a short and ugly Human. Naturally, there were the kinds of disasters one would expect when non-magically-attuned folk dabble in the impossible. The Wizard’s Tower was eventually repaired, but because some of the stones were blasted into the farms of a neighbouring county, there were many heated arguments between the rulers and affected parties about who should pay, and how much. Thank the Creator that the news scribes have stopped following. The scandal sold a lot of scrolls, but enough is enough already.

Duke of Freestead, called the Iron Duke; ruled with a firm but fair hand. Appointed by the Regency Council after he forged an alliance with the dwarven delve and drove out the humanoid incursion twelve years ago. He caught Lady Kylenne stealing the emerald Freestead's Glory and was turned to stone in the moment of their confrontation (room 35).

Older brother of Imme (page 71), they are new to the area and terribly lonely, but it’s worth it for the new start it promises. Back at home it was considered unnatural for families to split between arcane and divine disciplines. When Imme chose to join the clergy after Ealdwine had already begun apprenticeship as a Magic-User, it created quite a stir. It’s unclear whether it is tolerated here. If only he knew of some examples of siblings that had done the same and prospered anyway.

An unfortunate miscast of polymorph self—a spell higher than his ability to cast it—has left Eardwulf permanently and partially transformed. He is somewhat recognizable as an Elf, but also has physical characteristics of a black bear. Additionally, his normal speech is periodically interrupted by growls, groans, grumbles, and shrieks and he has recently started packing on weight in anticipation of winter hibernation. The Temple of Ursus has agreed to allow him the use of their vegetable shed for his nap, provided that he agrees not to snack on them prior to his sleep. In the interim, he is very embarrassed by his appearance and uses his spells to charm, hide, or divert attention away. He hopes his incantations aren’t randomly punctuated by bear talk. Who knows what might happen?

Earnan seems from a distance to be a solitary man and, until recently, was often to be found silent and in his own company in the Temple of Daevas. They accepted him without asking a single question, and left him free to pursue independent study. Of all the places he’s studied, the Temple of Daevas contains his favourite libraries. He can get lost for hours learning about the many gods whose names are no longer spoken. It’s become less serene with the frequent comings and goings of a truly awful and profane group of four, led by Valentina Vibulanus (page 104). Soon after this began, angry and violent public protests followed in their wake. Now Earnan’s been asked to stop coming to the Temple. He was told it was for his own safety, but from what? None of the protesters ever laid a hand on him. Perhaps it’s Valentina. Without speaking a word, she radiates fury like he’s never felt, and he’s not usually sensitive to how people are feeling. People confuse him. Unlike books, they are difficult to read and you can’t close them up when you’ve had your fill. Also, they don’t like it when you put them on the shelf for a month or two while attending to more pressing things, like reading. Friendship has been elusive. Partnership is less satisfying, but more manageable. When they finally barred him from entering, Earnan put his name up on the notice board looking for work. He might be worth bringing along. So long as he is out on a mission and there are monsters to fight, he’s a fine man to have by your side. But in the awkward quiet before and afterwards...

If you’ve thought about the way a grandmother behaves and wondered, “Were they always this way?” meeting Edda at her present age might lead you to agree that they probably were. Concerned for others before herself, her first thought is always, “How can I make things better for everyone?” With clear and measurable daily goals, meticulously planned, everyone’s life at the Temple of Plenty is improved by her presence. Don’t ask her what she wants. Don’t suggest you’ll do something for her. You’ll receive a stern finger wagging, a polite rebuke, and a barely- concealed smile. A better approach is to just do her a kindness anonymously and without permission. She’ll protest lightly that such things are completely unnecessary, with another flash of that elusive smile.

Estranged brother of Alodie (page 24), he has threatened to send assassins to kill her should she ever again rob one of his sect’s temples. This betrayal shook him on many levels: first, that a sibling would steal from him; second, that he vowed to kill her and will follow through on the threat; and third, that he loves his position and power more than his own flesh and blood. She is beyond forgiveness. He might ponder whether the sin of her greed outweighs his sins of pride and wrath if he wasn’t still so furious with her.

In a just and fair existence there would have been some way for Egil to have been a wizard. It was certainly his interest, if not his destiny. That such things are simply impossible makes no sense to him. So he instead turned his intellect and swiftness to thieving, with a particular interest in ambidextrous fighting and trap setting. He’s worked steadily as a mercenary since he came to the area, and he’s almost always worked alone—though not by choice. There have been times here and there where he worked with one or more specialists on a job, but nothing that begged continuing. Perhaps the universe just intends for him to remain solitary.

On her 11th birthday, a fortune teller came by Eileanóra’s door to reveal her future. Seeing her father gripping his weapon in anticipation, the woman said, “A fighter. Yes, that’s it. Put down your dolls and pick up an axe instead.” Crestfallen, Eileanóra delivered her toys to the local orphanage, but her mood turned to delight in seeing the happy faces of the children receiving her gifts. She’d discovered her destiny on her own. Now grown and having acquired enough skill with an axe to please her father, she knows her real passion is social welfare. She’s established a small, grassroots circle of like- minded citizen contacts that watch the cities for children and families in dire need. When identified, they are passed on to established groups that are capable of intervening without fear of reprisal. She takes some pride in the success of her rescues. The girl now renamed Carlyn Donovani (page 9) is the most high profile example. One of her best grassroots network volunteers, Theodosius Scipio (page 28), is actually in love with her. He’s said nothing and she has no idea; she’s just grateful for the useful information he provides her nearly every day.

There’s something weird about this person. If he is, indeed, a person. Either he’s pretending to have considerably less power than he does, or he’s pretending to be something other than what he is. Don’t speculate aloud. All those that previously did have disappeared. One of four individuals that Leofsige Alvine (page 114) has dubbed The Tetrad.

Elfreda, which means “Elf Strength,” was a name to live up to—and she did. Disappointment in a female heir seems to be a Human phenomenon. Aelfric knew that by teaching his only daughter everything he knew from a young age, she would far exceed him over time. When that day finally arrived, he gave her his blessing to continue her education out in the world among peers. This stirred controversy and criticism, to which Aelfric sternly responded, “She is not my possession, but a gift.”

Wary of warnings from her family that she might meet her end the way Icarus did, Ellanher sought to curb her risky, thrill seeking behaviour by joining an organization in direct opposition. The Temple of the Dead Moth is a very old sect preaching the hazards of just that sort of lifestyle. Admittedly, it’s turned her life around. On a daily basis she gets to meet people just like she was, some of whom are much more damaged by their own reckless living. They remain in the safety of the temple from anywhere from a day to a few months as they recover. When they leave, a few come back to express thanks for the help they received at the Temple. Some return for another stay when they've strayed again into errant living. Entirely too many come back in a shroud for burial. Ellanher is one of the thankful.

Uncommonly proud of his family’s long history as the founders and builders of the region, Elton is easily distracted from his quest and his faith to weave long tales about his ancestors’ stellar achievements. He even has scrolls tucked away with extensive charts of over 15 generations of his lineage, including his own handwritten notes in the margins. Ask about them—at your peril.

Elton relishes being the centre of attention. While only modest in his abilities, he is able to briefly capture the attention of small crowds here and there. Nothing on the scale that the wizard at the fair last year was doing, but he imagines himself reaching that level of spectacle someday. He just might do it too, with a lot more studying and a lot less daydreaming.

A horse lover since she was a young girl, it was always a dream of hers to have a big, beautiful farmhouse under the shelter of plenty of shady elm trees, and stable full of beautiful thoroughbreds out back. She didn’t put a lot of thought into how much this dream might cost, but in the end she didn’t need to. You paid for it; or if not you, people like you. It all started at a tavern. She saw a group of adventurers sitting around a table planning their next sojourn, and at the end of the night she followed them home. Two had rooms upstairs at the tavern’s inn; two were townies whom she already recognized. It was a difficult night, but in the end those men had no other choice but to go adventuring—she’d left them with nothing but the coins in the pockets of the clothes they slept in. She realized she had a business model. She has to be careful not to be seen in the same taverns too often, and she lets a few parties go here and there just to allay suspicion, but it keeps the horses fed.

Taunted for being a “freak” when he was young, Emericus was born with an extra finger on each hand. Throughout childhood, he used to keep his fingers tightly packed together to obfuscate their appearance. He told himself that if he ever attained power he would make others feel as intimidated as he once did. He now has that power, and as it slowly increases it seems as though he will use it ruthlessly. In his mind, poor treatment has given him license to completely disregard the feelings of others, and he does so indiscriminately. As an adult, he proudly spreads his 6-fingered hands while he is casting spells.

Though not a stellar fighter by any measure, Emerson feels invincible. On the field this looks a lot like bravery, until you look closer and see the degree of risk he undertakes for the amount of skill he possesses. There’s clearly some kind of disconnect there between his perception and reality. It’s a lifelong condition. Voted by his school classmates as “Most Likely to Acquire a Career-Ending Permanent Injury,” Emerson just interpreted it as a challenge to be overcome before the reunion party. At least he’s got a good shield.

Merchant of the same group as Nozar, Basil, and Marbic; with Nozar, one of the two who reached Peripont after the road ambush (see Missing Cargo).

Ingenious by fighter standards—and by any standard—Ennius nonetheless finds himself in trouble when his reach exceeds his grasp. He's able to formulate intricate plans with plausibly good outcomes while failing to see the obvious pitfalls. Still, he’s often able to convince people to go along with his schemes and he’s been able to cope with “unforeseen events” due to his abilities, and no small amount of luck. To his great credit, he’s not an egomaniac. He’s never so enthralled by his own ideas to demand people to come along, and is happy to listen and follow a sensible plan from someone else.

When the expectations put upon you are high and endless, and there doesn’t seem to be any connection between how well you do and how well you are treated, is there any point in playing by the rules anymore? Eoforwine doesn’t think so. His sister Hilda (page 21) understands better than anyone what drove him into the thieves trade. He has no malice for others, but he wants results in return for his effort. When you try to influence people to give you what you want, your best attempts often yield nothing. However, when you just take what you want—you get it. No wondering, no disappointment. If he had any of his sister’s magical abilities, he could surely raise his earnings to a new level. Perhaps he can open her mind to thinking of new ways to use her magic for real benefit.

Erhard wants the best for others—to a point. He is sincerely congratulatory when he sees others succeed, so long as their success does not exceed his own. He doesn’t know why he is like this. There are more than enough heroes and role models in his orbit who he’s witnessed pointing to others that helped them become the people they are. Erhard’s fear is that he is neither good enough to be a hero, nor talented enough to help one on the way to greatness. For now, he’d like everyone to tie for last place.

If he had a gold piece for every time someone said, “You’re tougher than you look,” Erling could purchase a tract of land, build a pub on it, challenge all-comers to a nightly prize-fight, and still make enough money to open a second and third location the following year in adjoining towns. Even if hooch sales were slow, he’d still be saving the time and money he normally spends drinking and fighting at other public houses—and they’d be only too pleased to see him go.

Étaín can’t really remember a time where he felt feelings for anyone. Any at all. He’s never hated anyone, but he’s never loved anyone either. But, he’s carefully observed people expressing emotions and noted how they either improve or damage relationships. He reads faces very well, and has learned how to emulate those faces and the words he’s heard to get the outcomes he desires. Casual acquaintances remark that he is one of the calmest, friendliest and most inquisitive people they’ve met. He uses this demeanour to build trust and collect information before stealing very particular items, and not many from any one person. He sticks around long enough to express his feigned concern, then quietly disappears from their lives.

Euphemia loves the sound of her own voice. How fitting it is that she would become a priestess of the Temple of the New, a clerical startup in need of research marketing. Religion is on the decline and where there is a trend downward it’s always a sign that the current providers have lost touch with the needs of the people. Euphemia hit the marketplace to find out why. The major complaint of those leaving faith behind is the amount of work involved with piety. It’s not just the good behaviour within oneself that’s exhausting, but the need to extend that effort to everyone else. Compassion, empathy, generosity —the list is endless. Who has the patience— which is another tiring virtue—to give that much to others with no expectation of receiving any of it back—another ridiculous requirement of the old scriptures. So, as a member of the Temple of the New, you need only provide a monthly tithe and your personal assurance that you’re trying your best. If you’re a happy person inside and not intentionally harming anyone else, you’re golden. Profits are up a little this month; just think of all those shiny souls!

Evadne’s name means “good and holy” and she wears it well. Selfless and intuitive, she thinks of others first and knows how to reach them emotionally. She is known as someone who shoulders great responsibility and gets things done. While strong and independent, she understands that unity comes from working together. She has a talent for inspiring and motivating others into collective action. When her friend and frequent collaborator Mallory Freemane (page 92) invited her over for tea one day it came as a shock to see four other guests already seated before her. Leofsige Alvine (page 114) then stood, introduced himself and asked Evadne to swear on her faith to not disclose the offer he was about to make to her. She readily accepted a place as the sixth member of the covert group of overseers known as The Octad.

Everild has recently been released after a lengthy stay in prison. A combination of inmate overcrowding and the irritating protesters assembling daily outside his walls convinced the ruler to let a handful of prisoners go free. “Are you right or left handed?” the guard asked, before chopping off his left hand without waiting for an answer. Everild has basic equipment again, which he’d stored in a cousin’s barn. Incarceration gave him a lot of time to busy his mind while his body atrophied. He’s torn between retraining as a wizard or trying to continue his old trade with his new disability. Either path might be on hold while he considers revenge against the guard who maimed him.

Ezan Thane is a native of Roslane, the corrupt nation to the north. He is of noble birth but was forced to live on the streets after his family was slain and their lands taken by another nobleman. He imagines that he is a cool, suave, natural born leader but he is actually cowardly, sneaky, and totally ruthless. His real name is Etan Turan.

Farrah doesn’t trust anyone she isn’t paying. She doesn’t understand how friendship and loyalty work, only commerce. If there is some event she needs to attend in disguise, where it’s important to suggest that she’s just a normal person with friends—she’ll rent one for the occasion. Lots of junior thieves are keen to pick up the job for the chance to watch a chameleon at work.

While he’s a much better burglar now than he used to be, mistakes on the job turned out to be a blessing that informed his technique. While on the run from a botched assignment, he took refuge in a warehouse where he found a Halfling- sized shipping crate. Safely hidden inside, he was never discovered. Then the thought occurred, why not travel this way? And while Halflings are particularly good at hiding anyway, no one has been able to move between towns completely undetected as well as Farvald. The secret is the label. Always write the contents as something obviously important, but that no one is particularly excited to open upon receiving.

Head of the Temple of the Triune in Darion's Bridge.

Vicar of the Chapel of Saint Bebrah; will cast spells for the party at no more than 25 gp per spell. Philibert Drekh has asked him for help finding Naerie and Roderic.

Priest of the Chapel of St. Ludann; regularly leaves food out for Smithson the leper (B17).

Chapel of St. Queril, Church of Tah Reformed. Casts for parishioners free; adventurers for donation. Prepares cure light wounds x2, bless, hold person, cure disease.

Faylun met Ezan and Melana while planning a burglary of another wizard's home; they successfully entered by stealth but then Melana killed the wizard in his sleep (because she wanted to) and they were forced to run from the city to avoid prosecution.

After dialing down his expressiveness to better reflect the wise, reserved personae that he thought Clerics were supposed to have, Fern is now letting his happy Halfling out to play again— in spurts. He comes off as a bit weird now, vacillating between extroverted boisterousness and serene tranquility. He’ll find a sensible balance eventually.

Wherever Finnean goes, his dogs are always by his side. With one head under each hand more often than not, it’s like he stood up from an armchair and the armrests just followed. Entirely silent, they respond primarily to commands delivered by hand signals. They are large domesticated riding dogs and are occasionally ridden for transport or used for hauling cargo, as Halflings are known to do. He alternates which is ridden. Clearly there is some friendly rivalry between the pair, and Finnean goes to lengths to ensure that they know they are loved equally.

Who doesn’t enjoy a good laugh? Fionghan once relied on humour to get through some very difficult times, but then forgot to stop. He has no regard for time and place. It’s quite unsettling to hear him guffaw—at work, in the temple, next to a burial site. Nobody’s laughing now. What few friends he has left are wondering if an exorcism is necessary. Recently, Fionghan’s heard of an Elf Magic-User with the same last name and jokes that he’s his cousin. That’s almost funny—but no —more like his inverse doppelganger. And please don't tell Muirgen (page 71) where he lives—not even as a joke.

Desperate to be liked, Fionn is quick to agree with any opinion held by the person he happens to be in conversation with. And for the other person, it feels genuine and not automatic “yes- manship.” Fionn’s intelligence allows him to easily extrapolate on the perspective that he’s hearing about, and have a lot to offer in return. However, when the conversation ends and the person goes away, Fionn returns to normal— whatever that is. No one may ever know because Fionn is loath to give any opinion about anything extemporaneously. What is clear though is that if a second person engages him in a conversation with a diametrically-opposite opinion, Fionn will instantly shift his own stance to bolster the opinion of the new person. So... it seems like he could be trusted to support you... so long as he never speaks to anyone else?

There was a time in her life when she felt small and helpless. When she closes her eyes, it doesn’t feel that long ago. Being a fighter makes her feel strong, but it’s hard for her to control. And it’s hard to explain. The feelings are clear in her head but she doesn’t have the words to say them. Right now, she’s still trying to make sense of them. Hitting feels good. Anger feels good; but it’s blinding. It becomes hard to know when to stop. Not everyone is deserving of it in equal amounts, but knowing when to stop or being able to seems impossible. And there’s something satisfying in cruelty; for a moment at least. The shame comes quickly, but never lingers long enough to prevent the same sequence all over again. She feels like a bad person doing bad things, and that she must have deserved the bad things that once happened to her. It’s so confusing, like a tornado of thoughts swirling in her head. She will never have the right words.

Fleta, a Merchant-Thief, is an aspiring artist with no artistic talent. She also lacks the tools to practice with, and the will to learn even if she did have the tools. What’s been easier is stealing works of art from real artists and then passing them off as hers. It’s been challenging because she has to move frequently: stealing from one town, then selling in another. Experience has demonstrated that even this only works when the towns are very far apart because some artists’ styles are recognizable within the region. Also, in order to stave off requests for custom work, she’s had to invent a very eccentric personality that pretends that anything not currently on hand is passe. At whatever point the travel gets to be too much, she thinks she could retire comfortably as the owner/operator of a vanity gallery. Many have begged her to show their work alongside “her” art.

Florine was torn whether to pursue arcane or divine magic. She’s still not certain she made the right choice. She’s interested in nature magic but not particularly keen on serving a deity just to access those spells. However, once she’s in a place in her life where she can undertake magical research, she really wants to pursue it full-time. She’s curious to see whether she can formulate spells that would allow Magic-Users to speak with plants, animals, insects and even investigate whether ancient fixtures of the world, like mountains, contain any senses or memories. It doesn’t seem less possible to her than many other fantastical abilities that she knows exist.

Proprietor of the Hen's Teeth Tavern on the Moribund Way; adopted son of the Jolly Fox's owners. Mild-mannered and well-liked -- his customers will fight to defend him -- but keeps a loaded heavy crossbow behind the bar.

Flyta fancies herself as a peoples’ champion, robbing from the rich and giving to the poor. Harsh economic conditions have made this a difficult puzzle, with no wealthy individuals living anywhere near her home, and locals being distinguished in prosperity by the narrowest of margins. In fact, being robbed by her or having her spend her stolen income on their wares seems to be the most influential factor in whose fortunes go up and whose go down. Not ideal, but it beats a completely stagnant economy.

The town of Dale's beloved sage and former adviser to the Baron. He vanished while tracking Valanunthe, the apprentice who stole a top-secret map and his Amulet of the Mighty Fist from his home, and is found trapped in room 8 of the Ruins: the stone door in the northern wall is magically locked beyond his power to open. He twists a ring on his left finger, whispers some words, and disappears, arranging to meet the party back at the Laughing Dragon Inn.

Called “Sirius” by his close friends for his tendency to stargaze, Gage is struggling day-to- day with depression. Stargazing simultaneously fills him with a sense of wonder and of his own insignificance. He’s seemingly unaware of his own value. On better days he is full of charm and wit, and on any day he is a better fighter than most. But on the very worst days he wonders why he was brought into a world by those that clearly never wanted him there. If it’s even an answerable question, it’s not one he’d feel better hearing. It’s difficult to be his friend during these times. The way he tortures himself feels cyclical and infinite. He doesn’t need an argument, or even an answer. He needs a hug and some reassuring truth—that his life has bettered the lives he’s touched, and that his absence would leave a hole in that universe.

A recent immigrant to the area, Gaheris is still struggling both with understanding and making himself understood. His grasp of the local dialect is improving but the frequent use of idioms and slang still causes him a lot of confusion, as does humour. Consequently, he’s found himself very reliant on those around him to explain some meanings more clearly, and in some cases, even to make decisions on his behalf. It’s ripe for manipulation for anyone who might want to cause him harm, or just use him for their own purposes. Gaheris is similarly out of touch with the regional culture, and even the history of the Temple of Oreh. Hopefully he’s in the right place and surrounded by the right kind of people. Nothing bad has happened—so far.

The young son of Arlen and Sarah Rodemus, who went missing from the family's cave a few days ago. The undead of the catacombs brought him to the secret entrance to protect him, as they would any heir to the Rodemus name. He hides behind the ladder, fearful of the party unless he is shown the dragonfly necklace; if the necklace is placed around his neck, all further undead attacks are negated while the party is with Galen. Returning him to his parents earns an additional 200 XP reward.

Once a promising thief, Gamelin got lazy. With a wife at home to make sure there was always hot food and clean bedding, he decided to steal just enough to scrape by, and spend most of his time planted in a chair in the pub. “Aye, keepin’ watch,” he told himself, though he ended up carousing with any new face that might have been a potential prospect. After a while he was such a fixture it was impossible to imagine him having time to be a thief, and eventually, there wasn’t. His wife left him when she finally tired of his late nights and pitiful excuses. He discovered this when he came home and found his things packed; it was her house. So, back at the pub he presented himself to lonely Murreall, who was more than happy to marry him, put a roof over his head, tend to all his needs, and allow him to sit at the pub and make wild brags and empty promises to adventurers in search of a cunning thief. Hopefully they wise up to him quicker than his first wife did.

Garalia is a petite blond thief who is also a master at knot tying; she trussed herself and Sasha up in room 21 to make it look like they were captured by hobgoblins. The pair claim to be young ladies who were going to attend the wedding; given an opportunity they will steal weapons and anything valuable they can easily carry, and disappear.

Retired soldier; runs Toothless Dragon with wife Lianna. Ejects rude patrons personally (1 club 1d6, Mv 40').

Seven corporals of the Morgansfort garrison.

The rank and file of the Morgansfort garrison: 72 privates in 8 squads.

Five sergeants of the Morgansfort garrison.

The three named-squad sergeants of the Morgansfort garrison.

In the past, Gaufrid picked up a lot of jobs and did them well, and that worried him. He noticed that others who’d experienced the same success eventually attracted too much attention from guards, were put on a watchlist, followed, and imprisoned. He needed to create a different public image. So, every now and then he’ll do something harmless but mildly disruptive. This week he was arrested for trespassing. He sat down on a farmer’s front porch stroking a chicken on his lap, then refused to leave. He got a night in jail for it. The underground knows it’s a ruse and thinks he’s a genius. If asked, they’ll strongly encourage you to hire him. If he’s in custody for the night, just be waiting near the jail in the morning with some breakfast for him. He likes scrambled eggs.

Gautbert’s specialty is the acquisition and training of special creatures to become familiars. He is most certainly not interested in going on any adventures; his inventory of creatures cannot be left unsupervised. However, he may be able to provide spell tutoring for Magic-Users and provide magical research equipment and materials for cost plus a nominal service fee. At any given time, there is a 50% chance that his training facility in the dungeon of his tower may contain 1 brownie, 1 (Infernal) imp, 1 pseudodragon, and 1 (Infernal) quasit (roll for each creature type). He does not offer cats, crows, dogs, hawks, owls, ravens, toads, or weasels. For those, talk to Godabert Grieves (page 72). Yes, people do get them mixed up all the time. They’re used to it. And no that is not a hawk behind him, It’s a very naughty brownie trying to get your attention. And that raven is an imp who’s going to be in very big trouble unless she stops shape-changing right this instant.

Older brother of Levina (page 58) and non- identical twin of Ignifera Debellator (page 84), he is half of the self-styled duo “Fire & Ice.” It might sound stupid to some people, but it was just the sort of joyous invention that kids create when they’re happy—and he felt so bonded to her. They couldn’t actually cast any spells back then, it was just imagination. But somehow, with the passing time it evolved into an unspoken plan between them. They should—they must— become these people someday. And the plan seemed to be working. Side by side, their mastery of real spells put them on the path from kids playing “pretend” to wizards forming the core of a future adventuring party. But then she pulled away from him. Not intentionally—or not at first, at least. Her powers were still growing while he seemed to falter. She moved up to the next level; he still hasn’t made it. But the worst thing was when she mastered the spell that was supposed to be his spell: ice storm. That hurt. It felt like betrayal; like mocking. He can’t look at her the same way anymore. She acts like everything is fine. He does his best not to recoil from her.

One of the missing Blackapple children, charmed into servile work in the Brugh -- gardener at the Fungal Bluehouse. An ibix wears his shape in the village.

The hobgoblin leader holding Rodemus Keep. Acting on a letter from Murth Bloodletter, he made for the keep, cleared the area, and waited to receive the stolen documents from Valanunthe -- but the war party he sent to purchase the map was attacked by a mass of undead outside the castle, and the map disappeared; Girck never actually had it. Arlen and Sarah Rodemus are his prisoners in the command post.

Eternally optimistic, Gisberta chooses to see only the good in others. It’s also been suggested that she’s incapable of doing otherwise. While wise within her sphere of knowledge, she isn’t gifted at reading people or their intentions, nor does she easily remember a face. Many thieves seeking support from the (now poorly-named) Temple of Plenty learned to visit her weekly, making minor alterations to their disguises. She was only too happy to give. And give.

Since forever ago, Giselmund has implicitly understood that he is better than nearly everyone. Becoming a Cleric was nothing more than putting the Deity’s own plan into action, for who better to set the unwashed masses right than Giselmund the Wise? The inferior have no hope of muddling through daily lives without a keen and learned eye to point out their mistakes. It’s not a role that just anyone can do. Ask him and he’ll admit he’s probably one of the very few in the world worthy of the destiny to lead humankind. There are a few critics, of course, too stupid to understand his message. Beat those buffoons along with the rest of the non- Humans too ignorant and worthless to deserve salvation. Speaking of which, the recent inclusion of yet another Halfling into the Temple of Now cannot—and will not—stand.

Giselmund—"one who is committed to protecting the hostages"—could not agree more with the sensibility of his name. Hostages are worth a lot of money, and should they escape or be taken by a rival that’s a lot of money lost—not to mention time and effort. To prevent this, he goes to great lengths to hide his captives in the most obscure locations—preferably remote, sound-dampened, or masked by busy traffic or other environmental noise. Abduction: a sensible business where the potential inventory never runs out.

Manages the Broken Anvil, Peripont's only forge and weapon smith, together with the dwarf Brolin Frosthammer.

Hobeth's apprentice; on duty 70% of the time. Young.

Godabert is not available to join on adventures at this time. He may be able to provide spell tutoring for junior Magic-Users and provide magical research equipment and materials for cost plus a nominal service fee. His primary business is in the acquisition and training of animals to become familiars. At any given time his kennel has 2d4 cats, 1d4 crows, 1d6 dogs, 1d2 hawks, 1d2 owls, 1d2 ravens, 3d4 toads, and 1d4 weasels. Brownies, (infernal) imps, pseudodragons and (infernal) quasits are not available. For those, talk to Gautbert Gravese (page 116). Yes, people do get them mixed up all the time. They’re used to it.

As a high priestess of the Temple of New Birth, Godiva walks among the people as her doctrine prescribes—just as her Deity made her. In this place and at this time it’s not considered shocking. It’s a stark reminder of commonality, a warning against secretiveness, and an appeal for more truth and vulnerability in daily interaction. A relatively new sect, it’s gained a lot of traction by those concerned by the amount of crime and corruption festering in society—especially in cities. What isn’t certain is whether this message, presented in this format, will actually do anything to influence anyone.

The ogre lairing in the surface ruins of Grimspire. His neighbors are the goblins of the ruins, another ogre (Burgnar) lives on the fourth dungeon level, and he considers the dungeon below full of 'uppity orcs'.

Ice dragon who both speaks and casts spells; Lady Kylenne's master. When he learned of the great emerald Freestead's Glory he schemed to steal it. He was out hunting when the emerald was cracked; when the party approaches the fortress he will hide. If the Duke is restored he will leave the area; if the party leaves without dealing with the emerald, he will confront them outside the fortress and demand it.

Enamoured with his own mystique, it’s a miracle that he isn’t doing time. Grayson is a very good thief, but also a self-aggrandizing showboat. He wears rings on eight fingers. He dresses in expensive and flashy clothing that fits much too tightly, and was clearly designed with much younger people in mind. He brags about how it’s a crime that he shamelessly steals the way that he does. No one pays him any mind. First, he comes off as a pathetic, middle-aged twit. Second, people assume that he’s referring to his shop, which actually serves as the front for selling all the things that he steals. As a Merchant-Thief, he’s careful with his inventory. Only common items make it to the shelves and display cases. Unique items are sold or traded with other Merchant-Thieves that are part of his guild’s network. On some rare occasions he has been approached by people he’s stolen from in order to see about getting a replacement. In a few cases he’s “miraculously” been able to furnish one—after extensive polishing and refurbishment to ensure it looks better and newer than it did when stolen. Clearly he’s not as stupid as he seems.

Greysen once tried to be part of a team, but didn’t have the right mindset. In all things, he means to win—at any cost. Fairness is a noble quality, but what works for pricing produce and grain in the marketplace doesn’t apply where lives are at stake—especially his. As a fighter with only moderate abilities, he would be long dead had he not used his experience and charm to get a leg up on colleagues and competition. Unless he needs you alive, never trust him with your back. If only one of you gets to survive today, it won’t be you. His cousin, Cesan Finnegani (page 53), is captain of the guard and feeds him inside information and also protects him from people he’s angered. In return, Greysen keeps an eye on his back and does the odd job when Cesan is unhappy with the wheel of justice.

Co-proprietor of The Jolly Fox Inn with Burt; the two share a spellbook (detect magic, magic missile, magic mouth).

Never a hardcore thief, he steals to live but he would much rather make his living doing something reliable for pay—so long as the pay is good. He also doesn’t like to get dirty, and would prefer to avoid getting too much sun—it makes him sneeze. He likes to socialize with people but isn’t much of a team player. He also isn’t a good fit for repetitive work. The more he repeats something, the poorer his attention is to it. So, things like cleaning or manufacturing are right out. He’s never been a very good cook and is completely tone deaf. He’s afraid of the water, and even avoids bathing if he can help it. No magical talents to speak of. Can’t read. Can’t write. Can’t fight. Bad with money. Doesn’t believe in any deities. It’s odd that he’s having difficulty changing professions.

It’s not clear how serious Gumarich is about being a Magic-User. The two spells he was most excited to learn are still the only two spells he’s ever learned, and he doesn’t seem motivated to work any harder. Conversations with the family dog where the dog talks back, and a mouth on the lavatory door that cheers loudly for the activities occurring within are just some of the hilarious hijinks this week—and every week—at the Braddocke family home. Buffoon.

Gunvor thinks he’s a brave and brilliant battle strategist. If that means charging toward danger and screaming at it, then he is correct. He has a sentient Warhammer +2 named Ragna. Dwarven- made, she can see 60’ in darkness and detect sloping passages—just like he can. Still, she enjoys pointing it out with phrases like “Oooh! It’s getting dark! Can ya see? I can see!” or “Oooh! Didja feel that? I think we’re going down!” The stark contrast of his dour disposition and her cheery and upbeat presentation of the obvious can be quite funny to witness. She’s also quite chatty and not always able to contain herself even when the situation requires silence. Both Gunvor and Ragna have an Intelligence of 8.

Zelinth's zombie 'wife'; appears alive (arsenic preservation). ML 12.

With his many talents, Hadubert might have done anything—and still might. While his family expected him to do whatever he chose to the highest standard he could, he was free to choose. He dabbled in everything. He read, he fought, he spoke at length with as many elders as would spare him time. Extroverted and witty, he can captivate a room with tales of his party’s exploits with a style approaching that of epic literature. In battle, he is calm but lethal. He fights with fairness and grace, even against opponents who clearly wouldn’t offer him the same courtesy. Secretly, he carries remorse for a misstep made as a younger man. Rather than consume him, he’s made it a lesson to ensure that he never wavers from the straight path.

Halle remembers well the day she woke up and decided she couldn’t live with herself anymore. She considered walking straight into the Temple of the Invisible, but then went to find Willow Averille (page 107) instead. Willow was shocked. Halle was the right hand of Eònan Donohuei, a master criminal who’d recently expanded from smuggling to slave trading. Halle’s primary role was as his protector and occasional assassin-at- arms, and now she offered her protection services to Willow and her organization. But Willow, fearing that Halle would be killed for desertion, escorted her under armed guard to the Temple of the Invisible. In the presence of many witnesses, curious to see who was going in, Halle entered the Temple and was not seen again— until the following morning. Emerging in her robe, face hidden by the shadow of the cowl, Halle walked the streets, keeping a respectable distance from her new employer, ever watchful. She repeats this each day, unaware that her former employer has retained Cyprian Ovicula (page 100) to investigate whether her entering the Temple was an act of conscience or a clever deception.

Stableman of the Common Stable; wife died years ago. Armed with spear only in dire straits.

Friendly-seeming but greedy and conscienceless, Harper was a natural fit for estate auctions and property sales. If only he was the one authorized to settle the affairs of the departed. A lot of his work is done through finders. He pays dozens of low-level thieves to travel and case the region for prospects, staying at inns at his expense. The elderly and ill are first picks, but the middle-aged and isolated or estranged are also often promising. Surveillance determines whether the property and contents warrant further action. Should the prospect linger too long, a moderate dose of poison generally speeds things to a conclusion. It is then that Harper makes his appearance to handle the disposition with his practised blend of authority and sensitivity.

There have always been voices in Hartmut’s head, but he was always convinced they were still his own thoughts expressing themselves through different voices. Lately he’s not so sure. There are three distinct voices and he hopes that at least one of them is still his, or a manifestation of him—like his conscience. But what of the other two? His mother used to tell him about the Angel and the Devil that whispered into the ears of children, one perched on each shoulder. Perhaps it wasn’t just a story. If only he could ask someone without looking foolish, or worse, insane.

At least within certain families, there’s an awful lot of pressure on young Magic-Users to go out adventuring. Why? Clearly, no one’s paying attention to the number of fatalities. Hartmut is —and he’s heard the stories. He even saw a body once. It’s lethal out there! Why would anyone choose to go slogging through stinky, slippery, vermin-infested labyrinths when there are plenty of great desk jobs for talented people in the city? He wouldn’t, except he feels like there’s no other choice. When his mother had a family portrait made last year, Hartmut’s first thought was, “Well, at least she’ll have something to look at wistfully as she tells the neighbour about her poor, fallen child for the 90th time.”

Thievery was perhaps not the most inspired choice Heath made. Excelling at nothing in particular, he gravitated toward what appeared to require the least effort. He liked that it was light on reading and allowed him to learn by doing. It was also nice to be able to work alone and set his own hours. And best of all, he could just decide not to come to work if he didn’t feel like it. But in addition to being too lazy to excel, Heath lacks the organization to succeed. He’s not great at coming prepared and refuses to make a checklist. He’s often forgotten his tools at home, left them in the places he’s burgled, or misplaced them entirely with no clue when they were last seen. He’s clumsy and given to hysterics and expletives when injured on the job. He’s easily frustrated, and locks are really quite a bit trickier than he thought they'd be. Also, the tools are expensive to keep replacing and the guy he buys used sets from laughed at him the last time he came in for another one. Too embarrassed to ever return, Heath keeps an eye out for scrap metal by the Blacksmith’s anvil.

Hedley of the Temple of Gizeh has a fear of darkness. Not evil—well yes, that too—but also the absence of sunlight. With the permission of the ruling council he is in the process of lighting the walkways by planting hundreds of bioluminescent mushrooms. It’s unexpectedly proven to be a popular draw for both the faithful and the merely curious.

If she wasn’t so lovable, she’d be the party member everyone hated. As a compromise, they hate how much they love her. Why? Heide loves animals to an immoderate degree. In her mind, the great outdoors are just an extension of her backyard... which is an extension of her living room. Wherever she goes there are furry creatures to befriend, adopt, take on the road as her travelling companions, and eventually take home. But, as she isn’t home often and it’s impossible to get a good pet sitter, her non- animal companions have plenty of company on their journeys.

Oh dear. He looks irritable. He is irritable. A saint wouldn’t have the patience to deal with the endless string of amateur comedians Helo encounters in a typical week. Most of them just snicker at him as they file past. Yes, he is aware of how his name sounds. Think carefully before trying to make a joke about it—and never ever address him as Father Faddah, or worse, Faddah Faddah. He is guaranteed to break your foot with his mace without warning—and then instantly pray for his own forgiveness.

A week after meeting Hersilia, she will receive a message that changes her. Normally she’s the most caring and connected person in a group, but she’s suddenly become withdrawn. She’s in mourning but is hesitant to let on to anyone because she doesn’t believe they could ever understand how terrible the loss feels. Mourning a pet seems stupid to most people she’s met. In secret she’s cried more than she ever did after the death of her uncle. It sounds terrible to even think about it. She’ll just keep getting through the days somehow, but it’s hard to keep making excuses to people that know that there’s something she’s keeping from them. She often holds the message in her hand when she’s especially sad, but won’t show it to anyone. How could she ever let herself get hurt this way again?

The product of an extremely strict upbringing, Hilda feels relief that she is finally at a point in her life where she can make her own choices. At the top of the list: what to do with these powers she has? When her brother Eoforwine (page 60) embraced thievery as his trade, it sent shock- waves through the family. “We raised you better than this,” they said, before turning their backs on him and barring any communication. But is it really wrong to use the skills you have to get the things you want? Her brother doesn’t think so and suggested that she might use her powers to make her life better—with her roommate, for example. Subtle applications of charm have improved that relationship substantially, and for those times that things are truly terrible, putting her to sleep is a welcome relief. There’s nothing wrong with that, is there?

Noticeably older than her peers, Hildred is starting her life over again—differently this time, she hopes. Hating everything about who she was in her former life but unable to leave it behind, Hildred sought the intervention of Ulfhrafn of Eysteinn, master of magic affecting the memory. He cast a spell of his own design—tabula rasa— to wipe away all traces of her past self. All she began with was her literacy skills, and a note written to herself which she did not recognize. After assurances from Ulfhrafn, who prompted her to recopy her own note so she could see that the handwriting matched, she joined the Temple of the Invisible, as the note instructed her. Having reached nearly the same level of power in less than half the time, the Temple’s ruling council is wondering whether to send her out into the community to find new recruits. They see her potential, but also the risk that even under her new name she might be noticed by her former associates and lured back into her old life.

If leaving his community physically distanced Hjalmar from his Halfling roots, joining the Temple of Now severed any remaining similarities between who he was then, and who he is now. Leaving home began as a simple walk after an argument with his family. But then he just kept walking. The further he went, the more self- assured he felt that he was right and the less reason there was to acquiesce. Joining the clergy was an impulse. He needed food and a place to sleep. They offered. All he had to do was listen. He did, for a few months, and then set off again. As a travelling man of the cloth he found many doors opened to him and knew then that his walk had sent him on the path he was meant to follow. He entered any door that was opened, listened to any sermon that was given, and ate any meal that was provided. When his mind and body was full, he moved on. When he reached the Temple of Now, he stopped. Here he found people frustrated with declining values in an overly permissive society. Here he heard people decry the tolerance of social movements and protests and marches—the sudden obsession with rights. Here he saw clerics who took their message to the streets, but also their maces—beating down the rebels and reprobates who were unwilling or unable to be saved from themselves. If this isn’t the solution to saving a society quickly crumbling under the weight of its wickedness, it’s the closest thing his travels have found. He is ready to die in its service if need be.

Scribe at the Gatehouse; records all who enter, collects entry tax. Dislikes adventurers.

Huberta is still finding her way. Not a leader and not a follower, she’s feeling out her environment to determine who she might trust. A true believer, it’s organized religion that leaves her skeptical. She is concerned by what is rumoured to be the real intent of the Temple of Eternal Life. The clergy elite are rarely seen and never spoken of, except in whispers. From the limited vantage point of her current station, everything seems fine, but it sure doesn’t feel that way. The biographical information of some of the senior members doesn’t make sense, unless extreme longevity is more common than she knew. If only she could access the lower levels. There must be better records down there. Living quarters? Meeting rooms? Something.

A beginner in every sense, Idril has not learned to trust her instincts. She has the requisite mind and the discipline to attain a brilliant and successful career, but none of the confidence. She’s still amazed that she’s achieved what little she has and she requires constant positive feedback. It’s all a bit too taxing for would-be friends and mentors alike. Whatever positive impression she makes upon first meeting is ultimately undone by her near-constant neediness.

Older sister of Levina (page 58) and non-identical twin of Gelàre Debellator (page 71), she is half of the self-styled duo “Fire & Ice.” Ignifera wishes she could go back a year ago to how things used to be with her brother. She doesn’t understand how, but at some point her studies became so much more important than playing games. “Fire & Ice” was fun in its time, but then it began to feel like a joke that wasn’t funny anymore. Objectively, one can know how much something used to make you laugh, but also realize it just doesn’t affect you the way it once did. She thought Gelàre felt the same, or would come to, but he never seemed to let go of the fantasy. What wizard gets by in the world using their one famous spell? Out in the field, that sort of predictability gets you killed. She feels bad for not noticing how poorly he was doing in his studies and not offering to help. She only had good intentions when she learned his “signature spell” and also that of her younger sister. She hoped to increase her abilities and become a potential tutor to them. She’s trying to understand Levina. It’s not as easy talking with her as it was with Gelàre… but now it’s difficult talking with him, too.

Younger sister of Ealdwine (page 78), her family recently moved to the region and are completely isolated from everyone they knew and loved. It seems like everyone already has a friend. Everyone except Athela Fenne (page 70), anyway. Perhaps one of them should reach out to the other?

Imme, a former agnostic and lifelong skeptic, is aware that religion is deeply divisive among people. She’s thought about it deeply and accepts this as part of her mission. She wonders if the Temple of Judgment is really the right place to be having these feelings. She’ll never forget that before she believed in something, she was already a good person. She’s also met plenty of self-professed Deity-fearing men who—outside of the temple—shed their thin guise of decency and morality. She does good for all who are in need. No strings, no questions asked. Those who want to know more about her beliefs always ask her. Those who don’t, develop a deep respect for her despite the theological divide. She is a friend of Oswald Ashworthe (page 33). They meet up regularly to discuss local politics, philosophy and magic as a tool for social justice.

Daughter of a King, her speech and mannerisms are on a completely different level than that of her peers. She’s told no one of her royal heritage and her name is of her own invention. It has spurred endless curiosity from Oswald Ashworthe (page 33), who’s desperate to establish how they might be distantly related. It’s too late to change now; she already established the new identity before they’d met. After the death of her mother she watched her father slip into crippling mistrust bordering on paranoia. Loving and empathetic, she did what he could until his controlling suspicion turned on her. Already aware that she had both magical powers and the affection of her subjects, she quietly slipped away in the middle of the night. Her father sent men in search, but the numbers dropped as time went on and morale plummeted. She’s kept nothing from her old life, but her time in the public eye carries the risk that she might be identified by a passing traveller.

Ingvar has always been curious about people— especially Humans. What makes them who they are? What are the individual differences that make a person unique from others? He’s spent many years in his workshop trying to find out, and the declining social and economic conditions have given him plenty to work with. There’s always much more out on the street than the man with the cart has room to collect. Unfortunately, he’s still no closer to an answer, and now he is starting to run out of room. Time to bury some of his failed experiments to free up some more space. He’s already learned that the cart man doesn’t accept partials, and putting them back together has never been as successful as taking them apart.

Serving wench; Garnoth & Lianna's daughter.

Now that the novelty has worn off, adventuring really isn’t as fun as it used to be—or at least the mindless killing for gold. Sure, it’s given her a nice little nest egg so that there’s no rush to go out on another sojourn to the Forbidden Lair of the Mysterious Creature of Ecch, or whatnot. What she needs is a reason to get out of bed in the morning; a quest that actually means something. No ridiculous quests in search of lost items of no intrinsic value either.

A career-long monster hunter, she started from humble beginnings killing rats in pub cellars for food and lodging, to her current trade—killing much more terrifying beasts for food and lodging. And coin—lots of coin. But it’s surprising how much she enjoys going to work when it’s someone else’s responsibility to ensure she is fed and rested. She’s enjoying road trips less and less as she gets older, so she’s now making travel arrangements the client’s responsibility. Choose carefully. If she doesn’t like what you send to pick her up, she’s not coming to fight your monster.

“He’s an idiot, but he’s our idiot,” is what his friends say. He’s not insulted by it. He knows what he’s bringing to the fight and it’s not witty quotes from literature. He never learned to read anyway. But he’s strong, fast, and good for a laugh. Not too ugly either, especially for a Dwarf.

One of the Duke's guards, driven insane by Khaadk's magic. He hides behind the last bed on the left in the barracks (room 13); he will attack if approached, and if the party leaves without investigating his unmade bed he will try to sneak up behind them (though he is hardly a thief and is wearing platemail armor). He is armed with a longsword.

Formerly of the Temple of Now, Jarl sensed a growing undercurrent of hatred forming for the non-Human members of the sect. While he considered it a betrayal, given that the early success of the Temple was directly attributable to the membership and work of non-Humans, he also realized it was inevitable. It’s what the Humans do. But he also realized that he’d learned a lot about designing, creating and managing such an organization, and marketing it effectively to grow membership. He founded the Temple of Deimos: god of terror and dread. He wasn’t even sure that Deimos still lived—not until the spells worked, anyway. But now he believes in Deimos, though not quite as much as he believes in himself. This stands an excellent chance of scooping up so many isolated, angry and disillusioned citizens, and is almost guaranteed to absorb the entire non-Human member base of the Temple of Now, when it finally boils over.

Beyond raw beefiness, Jarl never demonstrated much promise as a child. He was not very strong, not very fast, nor too wise, and only marginally good looking. However, his inability to read people or situations well did result in many fights during his youth. He learned a few things from being knocked to the ground, and now falls considerably less. He’s a challenging person to like. He speaks his uninformed opinions with pride and volume. He’s as emotionally blunt as the axe he drags around, and swings as cleanly. He lacks insight into himself and is completely unaware how events—particularly his own behaviour—affect others. If they knew each other, Afton Airaldii (page 67) might take him on as a fixer-upper. There’s got to be a redemption story there somewhere.

Assistant cleric at the chapel.

Local trader in dry goods; buys serviceable dungeon loot at 4sp/gp value.

Proprietor of the Laughing Dragon Inn in Dale. When a town guard burst in with the news that Fonkin was missing, Johne calmed the inn and called for volunteers, warning that the garrison had no manpower to spare and that bandit activity outside town was rising. If one of the characters is a Magic-User, he will present the party with the Orb of Light before they set out.

Maien's comely teenage daughter.

Kaelyn was raised in an orphanage, and was never given any information about how it was she came to be there. When she was seven, a nice old woman arrived to take her away to a beautiful and spacious home. There she was given a blanket to sleep on in the back of the broom closet that was her personal quarters. For the next 8 years she lived as a servant there, cooking and cleaning, and sleeping from the time that the bell stopped ringing at night until it resumed again in the morning. One day, the bell hadn’t rung long after sunrise. When she went to the woman’s room she found her still in bed, dead and cold. Fearing that she would be blamed and punished, she gathered clothes, money, one large kitchen knife and a cleaver, and she set off wandering. Keeping to the busy roads, she found an Inn to hire her as a sous-chef and occasional waitress. The pay is poor but she was given a full room, and she overhears a lot of information casually shared during conversations. When her room door was broken down in the middle of the night, she scrambled to avoid the clutches of a drunken man intent on doing her harm. With little option, she sunk the knife into his chest. Hearing the racket, her employer bolted into the room. “Finally got what he deserved,” she said. “Empty his pockets, but leave a copper or two. The rest is yours.” Kaelyn’s job duties increased that day, though her responsibilities are strictly in-house, selling information and dealing with problem patrons.

As the youngest sibling of three older boys, Kaelyn learned to fight the way most boys do. Why wear stupid dresses when they make it hard to charge the muddy field, wooden sword in hand, to slay the dragon? Her brothers never feared her, but they received enough blows from the flat side of her blade to respect her. She demands the same of any potential party member. Any snide remarks about women being less able fighters than men will be met with an icy stare, more biting than a harsh retort. Revenge will come unexpectedly. Tricks, traps, and practical jokes were also part of the training syllabus at Hamme House.

A troll with the powers of a 1st-level Cleric, holding the chapel on Dungeon Level 4.

Warehouse laborer; sleeps in building.

Merchant whose caravan was attacked by orcs north of Morgansfort; the only survivor. He approaches adventurers in the Toothless Dragon Tavern seeking help.

Kendrick may be the only thief ever to leave a place he’d just broken into due to the lack of cleanliness. Despite the effort it took, he just couldn’t bring himself to touch anything in order to search. Hands that could make a mess like this couldn’t possibly have anything of value. His own place is meticulous. You’d never believe that a criminal lived there, but it explains a lot about him and his success. He wouldn’t be caught dead in a wasteland, wilderness, dungeon, or catacomb. He’s strictly commercial and residential properties. And his adverseness to filth extends doubly to people. He won’t shake hands, won’t eat food that he didn’t cook himself, and won’t even allow others close enough where they might exhale air that he might then breathe. Needless to say he wears gloves and a mask at all times. His thievery record is similarly spotless. Leaving no trace of his entry, search, theft, and egress, there are some jobs where the thefts were never reported because the owners never realize that anything was stolen.

A demonic monster, servant of Syn-Cheron, god of hate, imprisoned by mortal mages inside the great emerald Freestead's Glory. The crack in the emerald lets his mental powers leak into the world: many fortress inhabitants were turned to stone, monsters and evil clerics were drawn to the fortress, and the green glow now allows entry but not exit. He does not know what imprisons him or where it is; his voice speaks from the emerald in room 35, begging to be freed. Freeing him would be a catastrophe; the emerald must be secured instead.

Years of childhood play allowed Kirsa to perfect the art of the steal. Concealed in the branches of trees, good timing and a sleeper hold is all that lies between opportunity and payday. While the sweets and treats of yesteryear are gone, coins and occasional “sparkly rocks” make adult living a little easier to afford.

Knox has gotten older and yet has still failed to grow. It’s true that all men remember their younger, wilder, stupider years with some fondness, and to some degree a bit of that immaturity never entirely leaves. Knox’s inner child became a teenager and never moved out. He works sporadically, bathes occasionally, and sleeps and lounges excessively. He’s charming enough to get meals paid for and a place to sleep most of the time, and for the remaining times there are haylofts and free-range poultry. He’ll work if he’s desperate and the money is good. Pay him daily at the end of the day, no matter what story he tells you. Any coin provided in advance will disappear, along with your expectations.

A beautiful elven Magic-User, soft-spoken and benevolent; her friends and family are likely still alive, and her goal is to gather a bit of gold and head back home.

Lachaidh is quite a talented thief, but he’s either insecure or just enjoys playing mind games with others. Maybe both. He is quick to find fault in others: their personality, their performance, their apparent loyalty to the guild—anything that might cast a critical eye on a competitor. His own professed loyalty notwithstanding, that is how he looks upon other guild members. Entirely hypocritical, he shamelessly holds other people to higher standards than himself. Should they point this out, he accuses them of deflecting. “That you’re lashing out at me proves my point, I think.” If he ends up dead, no one would be surprised. They’d just be curious which of his numerous enemies was the one to finally do it.

Dead-set against Livinius's proposed brain surgery on Arthur and refuses to consent; she may enlist the party to rescue her son from the sanitarium and return him to the manor.

Lady Kylenne the Courageous, supposedly a knight from the distant kingdom of Alambar; in truth the last survivor of a group of adventurers sent to slay the dragon Gravarthan, who charmed her and kept her as his pet. She secretly escaped the charm some time ago and schemes to steal both Gravarthan's treasure and the emerald. Duke Vadarin caught her stealing Freestead's Glory; she dropped it, cracking it, and was turned to stone beside him (room 35).

Folks have taken to calling him “Landyn Brood” behind his back because he is notoriously antisocial, difficult to work with, and angry when confronted about it. While he is extraordinarily physically gifted, he does not understand even the basics of working with others—nor seem to care. He’s been observed to ignore cries for help, use others as cover from projectiles, and even strike at his own party members when they fail to meet his personal performance standard. However, because he fights brilliantly, it’s hard to argue with success… at least until recently. The number of permanent injuries and deaths is slowly creeping up to form an observable trend, and the recent correlating change is the inclusion of Landyn Byrde. One of the four individuals that Leofsige Alvine (page 114) has dubbed The Tetrad.

Dressed in his very finest robes, Lane walks the road alone. He prefers it that way; he’s more likely to be attacked. That way, when he lays waste to his opponents—they had it coming. Absolutely no guilt; not that he’s ever been driven by conscience. It was never this satisfying being a member of a party. Fighters in particular seem to think that it’s their role to be up front, hacking mindlessly away. So it’s particularly enjoyable when one of those “muscle-bound sword monkeys” stops him in the road and demands his valuables. Lane’s favourite trick is to pretend to rummage through his sack, mumbling to himself as the ape demands that he hand the loot over. Then he pulls a fireball out and roasts him alive. So very satisfying.

Seventh daughter of a seventh daughter, Lavinia demonstrated rudimentary abilities to purify and heal from a tender age. A warrior in only the most minimalist sense, her actions in combat are exclusively in defence of the weak and in aid of the wounded. With greater powers and the right magical items, she would gratefully shed her armour, weapon and shield in order to manoeuvre more easily to heal the victims, while nullifying their attackers with appropriate spells. She’s recently been surprised by attention from Achaicus Spinther (page 13) and would like him more, if only he would open up about his family. Her sisters are everything to her, and he would need to feel the same way. It wouldn’t hurt if he had a social conscience and used his networking to improve the world, either.

Born missing his left foot and only a partial shin, Leofflæd was nearly drowned at birth by his father. It was his mother that fought vehemently for his life, insisting that whatever the Creator had withheld from his body would be paid back tenfold in some other way. She hoped it was musical talent, paying for tutoring from a retired bard—but Leofflæd was hopelessly tone deaf. It was his discovery of cantrips to help with chores around the house that cued his mother that it was a great and powerful wizard she’d given birth to all those years ago. As an apprentice, he made incredible strides—and not just with his mind, but with his seemingly effortless charm and positiveness. He is destined for greatness. His prosthetic is of his own design, and the hollowed shin doubles as a case for wands and scrolls.

Elder cousin of Alvina (page 31) he has all of the maturity she currently lacks, but was always a radically different personality. He reads voraciously, networks extensively, and ponders deeply. Face to face with him you discover someone that is extremely laid back and carefully measured. He eases into things slowly before fully committing and isn’t given to changing his mind without a compelling reason. He is idealistic, loyal, and a firm adherent of law and morality. To that end, he’s become greatly concerned by a number of people he’s come to refer to as The Tetrad. They seemingly have nothing in common except their utter disdain for others, and the number of injuries, deaths and disappearances that coincide with their proximity. They seem to have no clear motive or discernible plan. Leofsige brought his concerns to the one person he knew would understand the gravity as well as himself, Mallory Freemane (page 92). Together they began secretly assembling a surveillance force, The Octad, to gather intelligence in preparation for a response. While he often functions in the role of official Lead, at its heart The Octad is a partnership. The members comprising five of the six remaining places were selected by Mallory based on her own contacts. The final slot, occupied by Themistocles Spinther (page 85), was at Leofsige’s invitation because of their long and trusting friendship.

Leopoldine has always hated her name. It’s an ugly name. It doesn’t slide off the tongue. It stumbles—awkwardly. It doesn’t even have a good shortened form, except for Leo, but that’s for males… which leads to the reason that she hates her name the most. She fears that she’s a disappointment to her father. He’d set his mind to expect another boy and he got her instead. She’s never felt like he loved her any less. It’s just a feeling. And brother Stanford Botwrighte (page 26), with his plate mail and a party already doing weekend dungeon delving fills Papa with a pride you can see all over his face. It’s made her feel like she has to be one of those knife- throwing wizards, like the one they saw at the Fair last year, so she’s started practising in secret.

Younger sister of Ignifera (page 84) and Gelàre Debellator (page 71), she has always felt like an outsider in the family due to the closeness of the older twins. Because of their respective interests in arcane spells they imagined themselves as a secret super-duo: “Fire & Ice.” At first it was just a silly game they played at home, but as they got older they became a lot more enamoured with the idea, and it spread to school. People thought it was cute and clever, and at its height there was an undercurrent of haters who envied their closeness and their popularity. She knows, because she was one of them. She kept hoping that there might be a place in their partnership for her someday—“Fire, Ice & Lightning” maybe? It doesn’t sound as good. But that doesn’t seem like it will ever happen now. They seem distant now; even strained. She never wanted this to happen and now feels guilty for ever having been jealous.

Leviticus is not a thief, just a trader. The problem is that it’s a rather one-sided agreement. He sees; he covets; he exchanges. He never takes anything he doesn’t already have. He never leaves people with nothing. What he does is provide himself with an upgrade—newer for older, fancier for plainer, and sometimes operational for broken. He’s quite smitten with his take on thievery and can often be seen quaffing an ale with his good friend Sindri Färberg (page 61), asking, “So, how was your day then?” and laughing before changing the subject.

A former soldier, Lexus had retired to a quiet agricultural community, and stored his past life in a trunk for two years. That is, until the monsters came into town. Shouting for his neighbour to help him with his armour, Lex mounted his horse and charged. People were horrified as the man they’d only seen reading books and nursing his ale deftly slaughtered the half-dozen invaders, then rode away. He’d just freed himself of his armour with the neighbour's assistance when the knock came at the door. Everyone wanted to know who he really was, and why he’d never told.

Garnoth's wife; co-runs the tavern. Sister of innkeeper Lorynn.

One of four lieutenants serving as Officer of the Watch in rotation.

One of four lieutenants serving as Officer of the Watch in rotation.

One of four lieutenants serving as Officer of the Watch in rotation.

One of four lieutenants serving as Officer of the Watch in rotation.

Lindley doesn’t seem to get along with others or understand the importance of cooperation. All of her (alternately, his) former guild partners have died in the field, even on simple missions that weren’t seemingly dangerous. People are now refusing to pair up. It hasn’t affected guild income. Lindley has a frightening level of dexterity, strength and grit. One of the four individuals that Leofsige Alvine (page 114) has dubbed The Tetrad.

As the elder sister of Minna (page 22) and Athela (page 70), it fell to Lioba to navigate magical learning with not a friend to turn to. Now well into making something of herself, she still feels like she’s yet to make a name. At the beginning of all of this it seemed certain that her success would open up some of the closed circles that pre-dated her family’s appearance. Now it’s clear that one generation isn’t nearly enough to be taken seriously by the establishment. Perhaps she’s been looking for the wrong peoples’ approval all these years. Maybe they would fare better in finding another group of recent arrivals.

The statue of the bald man in room 18 is the famous sculptor Lirekos, who was turned to stone just as he finished carving a statue of Lady Kylenne. His wife is Corena and his daughter is Shiali, both also petrified elsewhere in the fortress.

If you call Llewellyn superstitious, he’ll deny it. He honestly doesn’t believe he is. He’s just been traumatized by some weird coincidences and he’s mistaken it for causality. Mirrors, for example, are particularly frightening to him. Pull out a mirror to shave with and he will yelp, double over, and slink away as quickly as he can hobble. You might suspect he was a vampire if he wasn’t such an ardent sun-worshipper. Not literally; he loves to wake up early and watch the sun rise. But he believes mirrors function as a door for the undead, and putting two mirrors facing each other opens a passage for an Infernal. Or perhaps evil is just attracted by men shaving? Is shaving a ritual to summon evil? Is this a good time to mention that Llewellyn is terrified of undead and infernals? It’s an odd characteristic for a Cleric, but his mother told him the only way he would ever conquer his fears is by facing them head on. Bad advice, but she certainly meant well by it.

Lord of Figwort Manor. Open to Dr. Livinius's proposed cure for Arthur, over his wife's objections; the Figworts know Arthur 'is not himself,' but have no inkling he was captured by elves and replaced with a goatman.

Iron Helm innkeeper; Lianna's older brother. Unmarried; dotes on unattended human/Elven women (free bath).

Though she’s very wise, Louella is not very bright. Her ineptness at times has been, to put it mildly, disastrous. She’s learned some painful lessons over the years, but it’s put nary a dent in her impenetrable cheerfulness. She is the first to talk about the successes of others, and her place in the rumour mill is spreading gossip about the kindness and brilliance and grace she’s experienced with her colleagues. Consequently, people love having her around—at a distance, and with suitable precautions put in place.

Serving wench; Garnoth & Lianna's daughter.

Lucas is the last prophet and sole resident of the building now known as the Temple of the Dire Wolf. Any other “members” that are seen praying or welcoming visitors at the entrance are actually “volunteers” whose lives Lucas has agreed to spare—along with their families—from his blood thirst. Over a hundred and fifty years ago, all former members of the ruling council left to found the Temple of Eternal Life. Lucas, a then- junior member of the council, was chosen by the Deities to assume the role of Chair. Angered, the senior members all left; he remained. Out of fear, the congregation soon followed. It fell to Lucas to try to rebuild the entire membership, but no one dared join him. He died there as an elderly man, prostrated in supplication before the altar. A red circle of light surrounded him, and by the following morning his fallen body had changed to the form of a dire wolf curled and asleep. He remained there for a hundred years. During that time, anyone who entered the temple and crossed the circle, vaporized. When he finally stirred from his rest, Lucas understood what he was—a shape-changed vampire. He then commandeered the participation of families and gave word to spread the news that it was safe again to enter the temple. The Deities infused any who prayed there with clerical powers— provided that they showed interest in killing the undead. In time, when sufficient numbers exist, the new adherents will receive the order from the Deities—to descend upon the Temple of Eternal Life and destroy it.

Ludo uses his considerable intellect, dexterity, and charm to greatly increase his success at games of chance. Outcomes are no longer random, luck-based, or skill-dependent in any game where he is a player—cards, dice, roulette, anything. You probably should think of quitting anyway.

Captain of the Guards of Dale. He sits in with Fonkin and Johne Wolfsbane at the Laughing Dragon Inn to brief the party before Rodemus Keep: the town guard is committed to keeping the roads safe from the bandit and goblinoid raids that were timed with the theft of Fonkin's map, so retrieving it falls to the party.

As her name suggests, Lupa comes from a long line of falconers. She has been breeding, training, and hunting with falcons and other birds of prey since childhood and she is never without one. Because they take between 5 and 10 years to fully train, she usually is working with one or more wild birds, including hawks and eagles. They function as a second set of eyes and ears, but also as companions to her. As such, one or more may attack with their beak and talons if Lupa is in obvious distress.

Lycaon has already made huge gains as a trader spanning both the public and the underground markets for rare and exotic items. If there’s something obscure or specialized you want to own legally and you’re willing to pay, he’s nearly certain to be able to locate it for you. If you’re not concerned where it came from and agree to keep his secret, the same item can be had for less. Of course, if you do expose him, his refusal to do further business with you will be the least of your worries.

No powder, potion, food or drink invigorates Machar like the ridiculously dangerous risk-taking behaviours that he frequently engages in, just to make himself feel that way. Yes, stealing is fun for the income it brings in, but it’s nearly a fringe-benefit for Machar who feeds on the energy that the uncertainty always brings. With each job, he tries to barely escape, leaving himself less and less opportunity to extract himself successfully with the loot. Eventually he’ll want to get caught, then miraculously escape from custody. It’s concerning, but it’s the way he wants it.

Awkward when asked about his nickname, Magnhild will insist it’s just something he’s always been called. In truth, it’s a nickname he invented for himself to conceal his lack of a surname. As a child dumped anonymously at the orphanage, he was never told it—so it’s long since lost, along with any living relatives. He was a labourer, then briefly worked as an on-call substitute in the fighting pits, but learned he didn’t have the heart for it. He saw other men like himself, desperate and lost, fighting someone they had no quarrel with to put bread on the table. What he really wants are people to fight alongside with, and a purpose.

Maida serves as the personal bodyguard of Themistocles Spinther (page 85). They are never seen together, and he does not acknowledge that he has a bodyguard—not even to his friends. His brother Achaicus (page 13) knows of her, but keeps his secret. Whether at home or outside, Maida will be hiding where she can see and hear him at all times. When both brothers are present in the same place, she has been instructed to prioritize the safety of Achaicus.

Friendly middle-aged herbalist widow. Sells Potions of Healing (1d4 in stock, 250 gp, restock 2 weeks).

The half-sister of Muireall Whelani (page 6), she never knew her father and is unaware of her sibling’s existence. He had already disappeared before she was born and so she was given her mother’s last name. Her first name, Máirín—“star of the sea”—is the only thing that connects her to her father and half-sister. In her mind, he is still alive somewhere, sailing in search of riches. She briefly gave some thought to becoming a pirate herself, but was then sobered by the reality of being trapped on a ship with a dozen angry men. So, in the midst of her work in the information trade, she listens for any mention of him. It’s entirely possible that his name will pass over Muireall’s lips and be overheard by someone in the network. How would it feel to know she had more living family? Would they feel drawn together, or angered by each other? It would be a difficult experience for each of them to understand how one man could be so different to two of his children.

Maitane distinguished herself early in her clerical career for her ability to work well with others without emotional entanglement. Because of this, she’s gradually been invited to to share more of her abilities with the inner circle of the temple. Now sitting at the table of elite, she’s disturbed by the amount of dysfunction. The pure-intent to do right is still there, but the council’s desire to have complete harmony has seriously affected its decision-making process. No proposition put before them is able to pass until it has been added to and deleted from until it bears only passing resemblance to the original. There’s no anger. In fact, everyone is on their best behaviour. But the need to accommodate all opinions so that the finished product reflects everyone’s viewpoint is creating some terrible policy. It could lead to a mass-exit of faithful and a collapse of the Temple at a point where it is already struggling to remain open.

Mallory’s mother is probably the most Creator- fearing person she’d ever known—at least before befriending Averil Warwicke (page 95). At the time of her pregnancy, Hailie Freemane was concerned by what she feared were the initial signs of an approaching apocalypse. Mallory, which means “Ill-Omened” was a name meant to impart to her daughter the importance of vigilance. Mallory joined the clergy to be well placed to both watch the world for signs of evil, and be in position to do something if the signs persisted. So, when she was approached by Leofsige Alvine (page 114) and heard what he had observed, she knew they needed to work together in secret to mount a defence. They co-founded The Octad—a covert group of overseers that chose its name as a response to The Tetrad, the group it now watches. It has been some time since she heard that her brother Conrad (page 52) had left the Temple of Thorns. What is he up to?

Maon remembers the first time he ever heard people call him a hero. It flooded his body with energy and warmth. How did it all change? Perhaps he did. When he returned from his next campaign people were pleased to see him and asked how he’d been. No word of his deeds had made it home. He felt cheated somehow. Then the citizens became fearful of an encroachment by monsters on the outskirts of town. Maon assembled a team and drove them away. As a hero once again he was fulfilled for a while... and then everything returned to normal. He’s uncomfortable with normal. He wishes that something would happen to the town so he might have another chance to save it.

Now retired from military service, Maon has begun taking on jobs as a mercenary. For a while he enjoyed the freedom of travelling light, meeting new people, and filling his schedule any way he pleased. It still has its moments. Warm and gregarious, he has the capacity to be the life of the party should he find himself in a pub of like-minded strangers. It’s the quiet hours that are killing him. He never lived alone before and now realizes he hates it. In the military, his troop served double as friends and family. Now that’s all gone. He needs to find a new one.

A tall young red-haired merchant, captured in the road ambush and held in this cell; his companion Basil was killed and the group's goods stolen. When found he has no equipment and wears nothing but dirty rags.

Marlee has a tragic backstory. She’ll tell it to you if you really want to hear it; she’s not bothered by it anymore—but it has nothing to do with the person she’s become. She’s heard more than her fair share of moaning from drunken thieves complaining about what ruined their lives and led them to their desperate existence. What a load of road apples. It’s people like them that left her an orphan. Why would she do what was done to her, to another person? She wouldn’t, that’s what. If she did slip in that direction, it would be as a vigilante—removing people like them. But, that’s not who she is. She’s not quite invested enough in the social welfare system to volunteer any time helping one of the local do-good organizations. She’s not a saint, and the world still isn’t doing her any favours. Maybe when she doesn’t have her own problems to manage.

A teenager who helps Father Grigor around the chapel; an orphan Grigor took under his wing and plans to send to the seminary.

Shape-changed ibix wearing the forms of Blackapple's children in the village, while the real children serve in the Brugh.

Though some of the troops complain about his rather arbitrary management style, he is fiercely loyal to his troops and has done his utmost to prepare the defenses of the fortress so that no men will die needlessly if an enemy attacks.

Dedicated servant of the Temple of Now, he’s often to be found proselytizing in marketplaces, at town fairs, and sometimes in front of the temples of other faiths. His mouth is a gaping maw of rotting teeth, lashing tongue, flying spittle, and expletive-infused prophecies about humanity’s terrible end should it refuse to turn to his Deity. It’s best not to confront him. Those that have were severely beaten and some permanently maimed. The town guards have been strangely reluctant to dissuade him. They might be on the Temple’s payroll, or perhaps they just enjoy the show.

Mayor of Peripont for over ten years; offers payment for ending the barkling threat -- but only against tangible evidence it has been neutralized. Wears the Mayor's ring, gold set with an amethyst, handed down from mayor to mayor.

Melana is strong, brutal, and cruel, but not all that bright; Ezan hired her for protection after convincing her he was royalty.

Assistant cleric at the chapel.

When Melitta’s father stepped out to look in on his bees after supper one night, no one thought much about it. Dusk was always a good time to check; the risk of accidental stinging was much less. When he did not return before morning, she set off in search. His body had been partially eaten by a were-creature; it was unclear which. The gruesome discovery left a permanent scar. Thereafter, she was always cognizant of the moon cycles, and since adulthood has kept one or more protection scrolls on hand at all times.

Halfling assistant to Weren at the Town Mill, together with Tilo.

As the first of their kin to manifest any magical abilities, the Fenne girls—Minna, Athela (page 70) and Lioba (page 99)—often feel like they have no one to turn to except each other. They’re grateful for that much, but would be ever more grateful if a well established family would reach out to them. It seems like everyone already knows each other, or at least knows of the family reputation. Their reputation is being made now.

For hundreds of years the Elf Lord's trusted lieutenant, majordomo, and jester. As boisterous and rude as his lord is reserved; very loud, always speaks of himself in the third person, and likes to show off by juggling sharp objects.

Retired Magic-User running Goodall's Fine Trading; secretly casts detect magic during appraisals and low-balls parties who don't know an item is magical. Guards posted inside and out.

She was born to a young mother and an elderly father. A former pirate and smuggler, he’d had a change of heart when the cargo turned out to be a Dwarven woman. Leaving instructions for his crew on his study table, he fled his anchored ship with the woman and his treasure in tow—rowing to the mainland, never to return. Changing his name and appearance, he reinvented himself as a blacksmith in a remote settlement. He offered the woman freedom; she remained. A child was born. Weapons were forged in her name. Training was given. All was well until the slavers’ bandits came in search of the traitor. He’d planned for this day—the wagon, the weapons, the escape route, the means to start over. Sending a messenger boy with a red ribbon and a piece of silver, he met the bandits head on. Fighting with the ferocity that only a husband and father can truly know, he felled many before finally being overcome. The family lived on. Another name in another place; another chance. “Muireall” (“Sea-Bright”) contemplated revenge, but knew it would endanger her mother. She chose instead to become a warrior in her own right—one worthy of her father’s sacrifice. She is the half-sister of Máirín Nolani (page 49) though neither is aware of the other’s existence. If they were to ever meet and learn the truth, both might feel differently about their father than they do now.

As rigid and unforgiving as plate mail may be, it’s wildly elastic when compared to Muirgen. No shenanigans, no hootenanny, no nonsense—no way, no how. And if you think that buying him an ale at a pub might wrestle the grimace on his face into a smile, think again. More relentlessly optimistic people than you have tried and failed. He’ll take his allotted 10 daily sips of brew and then ask the bartender if he can take the cup to go. So, enough with the pointless attempts at camaraderie. Get to work. Don’t talk! And if you must, say what you mean exactly as you intend it, and for the love of the Creator don’t try to inject it with humour. He’s heard that there’s a Dwarven Thief Fionghan (page 22) with the same last name who makes jokes that they’re cousins. Not only is it not funny, it’s completely inaccurate. And insulting!

Mungan is under considerable stress. He’s always felt a close connection with his Deity; not just while at prayer, but everywhere. Lately though, she has been entering his dreams. She is greatly concerned that the scriptures, while never properly understood, need to be read again and taught with the meanings she intended. Mungan has been chosen as her prophet. Lacking the seniority and council membership to have any input into the current practices of the Temple, he is terrified. His enactment of her proclamation will, in the very least, get him excommunicated because of the threat he poses to the establishment. But more likely he would be executed as a heretic. What to do? She’s assured him his powers are safe, whatever the Temple may say to the contrary. He could always strike out and start his own temple as some older and wiser clerics have done... but would they leave him to it?

The determination of a Dwarven Fighter has two sides. Murchadh has the epic fighter side that refuses to give up when the odds aren’t favourable and the likelihood of victory—if not survival—is diminishing. He persists, and people love him for it. But he also has the epic Dwarf side that refuses to give up absolutely anything at all, ever, under any circumstances once his mind is made up about it. “No” is a word he doesn’t like to hear—and so he doesn’t. He’ll tell himself you were joking; he’ll tell himself you didn’t understand; he’ll tell himself he knows better, and then proceed accordingly. He’s a good lad if you keep him engaged in battle and away from the conversation.

No one ever thinks they’re the bad guy. Murchadh calls himself a rebel—“an unheralded champion of justice for the oppressed,” as he puts it—though he’s exclusively protecting his own rights at this time. Notoriously cheap, he’s shifted his worldview to re-frame thievery as “a natural consequence of too many long hours for piteous wages under inhumane conditions.” He also refuses to pay rent, and will squat in any unoccupied space for as long as he can barricade himself in.

Philibert's wife, abducted with Roderic in Badgerwood; the barklings use her as a waitress and cleaner between the kitchen and the feasting area. She stole poison from Nova's belongings while cleaning her retreat and is plotting with the kitchen kobolds to poison the barklings and escape -- but she needs more poison for the plan to work.

A pixie held prisoner in Nova's Retreat, captured when the Black Paws first moved in; starved and repeatedly questioned about the statue of gnomes, she has so far refused to share any information. Her friends in area 24 fear she was captured and are looking for her.

The rival party's Thief. One of a four-person party presenting themselves as seasoned heroes come to save the day -- the locals are rallying behind them, making them rivals and serious annoyances to the PCs. Their ulterior motive: they are not in Grimspire to fight monsters but to sell the humanoids second-hand human-made swords, shields, and armor, and they snub and insult the PCs to keep them from getting too close.

A notorious collector of things lost, most days of the week Nerthus will surely have picked up something dropped, forgotten or misplaced and deposited it on a shelf in her home. She’s not a thief; just the opposite, in fact. Crime being what it is these days, the likelihood of thieves absconding with your item before you return for it is high. Lost something? Drop by and describe what you mislaid. No, you may not enter. There’s been a problem with thief shoplifters in the past. Lost pet? She has those, too. Lost child? What kind of parent are you? You might ask Eileanóra Yorke (page 18). When Nerthus finds children, they’re delivered to her.

In what seems to be an act of revenge, Nerva’s home was burned to the ground. For now, he’s got temporary quarters at the thieves’ guild, is wearing surplus equipment, and he’s wondering who did this to him. There’s no question that it’s arson. But why? While “there’s no honour among thieves” there are unwritten rules—a code. If he somehow violated it, he doesn’t understand how. No one is keen on looking into it. He’s not nearly important enough to protect, and there’s no other profit that their assistance could yield. Was it an inside job?

Young cousin of Ciara (page 103), as he’s progressed in his craft, Niamh has begun to feel like his superior abilities place him above the law. He’s long felt a disconnect between himself and other people, and now sees both the potential and the advantage of increasing that distance. He has no conscience, but doesn’t believe that a conscience—or even a soul, for that matter—even exists outside of religious texts (which he dismisses as speculative fiction).

Nicomedes found himself vaulted into a leadership role due to his talent for brokering peace between the other contenders for the role. No one enjoyed the squabbling, but no one wanted to be the one to show weakness and acquiesce either. Nicomedes stepped into that gap and won hearts and minds as the reasonable alternative between warring factions. It’s an illusion. He’s no less power hungry, but does have a talent for reading a room, understanding how a course of events will unfold, biding his time, choosing his words very carefully, and delivering his message in a way that inspires calm confidence. Once he’s affirmed in a formal position of power, his ruthlessness will be allowed out to play. He is unforgiving of those who might cross him, and with the contest already won he will not waste time with a measured response.

Norma has long realized her talents are wasted as a thief. She was never the fastest, but has always been one of the smartest. She’s well- liked and has a good network of contacts, so she wants to hang out her own shingle. As a Merchant-Thief, she can easily fence stolen goods that her former colleagues bring her way. She just needs to earn a bit more to cover the startup costs. Do you have a job to offer that needs both dexterity and cunning? Limited time offer.

Shaman and leader of the Black Paws barklings, lairing in this retreat. She captured the pixie Neily when the tribe first moved in and has been questioning -- and starving -- her to learn the secrets of the gnome statue.

Merchant who arrived in Peripont three days ago, found in the Split Moon's common room with Endil. A vulgar, boorish character who reinvented himself as a small-time merchant after a life of larceny and a lengthy jail term.

An influential public personality, he—perhaps more than any other living Magic-User—has brought more new hopefuls into the discipline than any wizard before or since. Long past his dungeon crawling days, his public presentations are a calculated and thrilling combination of violently spectacular spellcasting and thrown steel. We’ll never know how many Magic-Users began collecting discarded daggers in a sack and learning the art of throwing after having watched Odovacar pierce strawmen with deadly accuracy, before burning them to the ground with a flick of a pinky finger. You’re imagining it right now, aren’t you? Far from a hack showman, he’s reticent to calculate (and would just as soon forget) the number of living monsters that died horribly as he honed his skills in combat. On his personal time, he memorizes a different set of spells—ones useful in protecting himself from obsessed fans, and enemies. In the event he is threatened and outnumbered, he typically kills the strongest attacker he sees in gruesome fashion, then animates the body to turn on its former party members. This is quite effective with the intense psychological terror it induces. Upon ceasing control, he’ll then leave the body as a warning to would-be criminals of the dire consequences of tangling with a wizard. Definitely not a charlatan. Whatever the crowd, whatever the circumstances, he knows exactly how to create the desired effect in his audience.

As a young man yet to grasp the limits of his own limited intelligence, Olaf wanted to be an inventor. He generated dozens of ideas, but lacked the ability to follow through on them. First, they were utterly pointless. Second, he had neither the knowledge nor experience to execute them. Third, he lacks a mind capable of ever getting the knowledge and experience needed to attempt and fail, let alone to grasp that his ideas are terrible. He is a fighter—quite a good one at that. People like it when he kills monsters and doesn’t talk.

Ogre leader in the Cave of the Unknown, sharing power with Badushna the orc queen.

The rival party's Magic-User. One of a four-person party presenting themselves as seasoned heroes come to save the day -- the locals are rallying behind them, making them rivals and serious annoyances to the PCs. Their ulterior motive: they are not in Grimspire to fight monsters but to sell the humanoids second-hand human-made swords, shields, and armor, and they snub and insult the PCs to keep them from getting too close.

Eldest sibling to Aloysia (page 57) and Sighilde De Vend (page 20), it feels like a long time since he gave any thought to the historical family business —general merchandise sales. He didn’t hear the calling, as much as his father might have wished it. As the first child to break away, he dove headlong into his arcane studies at the risk of being disowned, but his father loved him much more than he ever realized. Nothing Ortrud could do would be a true disappointment, so long as it was performed at a level of greatness. Rising toward the top of the wizarding class, he began to see it for what it was: a political minefield. If there is some glorious golden room where mages embrace and reflect on the good that they’ve accomplished putting their powers to work, Ortrud hasn’t found it. There’s a back room, certainly, but one filled with schemers plotting how to concentrate power into as few hands as possible. Perhaps it’s time to go back to the store, at least for a while. Taking stock of his life, it feels much more draining than taking stock on the shelves once did.

Like the tail of a comet, it’s easy to see Orvar’s path of destruction when he’s been angered. He flings himself forward—hard—and just keeps going. It’s in his name and his nature. A nomad born of nomads, he prefers simple living with few material possessions. Armour, weapons, a few tools, and coins for food and drink. He’s quite cheerful until “caged”—that is, holed up in an inn somewhere having meetings with shady characters. Then he becomes quite grumpy; never yelling, but making a near-constant muffled grumbling. He is also not a fan of trips to the market. Anything of any real value is pulled away from the bodies of the dead.

Osborn broke his left big toe walking through a doorway once. It festered, turned gangrenous, and had to be cut off and the wound cauterized. He’s never walked the same way again—through doorways. Otherwise, he’s perfectly fine. The doorway to his home is now protected by a small symbol of his chosen Deity. He only enters and exits through the front door so that his Deity’s protection both enters and leaves with him. He’s heard that the back door might also be safe if similarly equipped, but he’s just not ready to risk it. He always enters right-foot-first, exits the same way, and demands that any visitors do the same. He also won’t shake hands with anyone standing in his doorway because local Lore-givers told him it will make a friend into an enemy. Now he wants to ask whether it might turn an enemy into a friend.

Even by the rather forgiving standards of Halfling behaviour, Osgar is arguably a big glutton. As a young recruit of the trade, he was considerably thinner and more dexterous. Unfortunately, the spoils of his adventures are going straight into steak, gravy, potatoes, and stout for breakfast, lunch, supper, plus those other in-between meals. Or, perhaps it’s fortunate. Does the world really need more thieves? And, prison would slim him down again.

Bright, studious, and curious, it was these qualities that influenced his decision to veer away from his family’s warrior heritage. Too many beatings from his brothers might have also factored in—he was always the slowest of the bunch. It’s all for the best though. He has the physical body of a fighter, if not the inclination. He’s the sort of wizard that no one would dare pick a fight with, and shouldn’t. He owns a dagger, but uses it to open his mail or tend to his fingernails—which are always immaculately clean. He’s grappled, pinned or tossed enough troublemakers at the pub for people to know not to misbehave around him. He hates being alone, so he’s generally seen having tea or a stout with friends several times a week. He’s missing his family since his life changed, so was intrigued when he made the acquaintance of Imogene Ashworthe (page 32). She is elegant and effusive but becomes strangely guarded when asked about her own family ties. Perhaps he could do a bit of research in the library or consult the temple records. Surely Imme Färberg (page 25) could get him access there.

While still in the dawn of his career, Pádraigín is already spending an inordinate amount of time daydreaming of a future he has hardly begun to earn. In his mind’s eye, he is already famous and the ruler of the area is offering him a title of nobility if he agrees to build a stronghold within the ruler’s domain. Tickled by the invitation, he ponders whether he should reply immediately or in a week or two to inform the ruler that other rulers in outlying regions are also vying for his attention. Embarrassingly, he also casts magic mouth on his pocket mirror and asks daily, “Mirror, mirror, in my hand. Who’s the greatest wizard in the land?”

It’s a sad tale. The first time he fought in armed combat, Pádraigín wet himself. It’s common for first timers, he heard, but he was so embarrassed he never returned to that town again except to pack his things and move on. On to the next town, and the next, and the next, and surely the last one—but no. He had the physicality of a fighter, but not the courage. While his fighting didn’t improve he did get rather good at using his nimbleness to scoop up better equipment for himself. Halfling-sized magic armour was hard to come by, but when he finally saw it, there wasn’t a lineup for it. Now very protected, he wets himself considerably less, but still needs to change towns now and again when the “Pee Pee Pádraigín” chants start up again, inevitably.

He’s one of those Elves. You know the ones; a superiority complex from here to eternity. Don’t invite him to join your party; not unless you are a party entirely comprised of Elves. He would only work for that type of party anyway. If you see him at the pub—and you’ll probably hear him first —accidentally spill a drink on him and then apologize profusely. Then, you can spend the rest of your night listening to him complain about you, as you drink and giggle about what an insufferable whinger he is. Then, tip your servers and go your merry way without him. Not a bad night out.

Pantera, who hasn’t worked in many months, is concerned about her health but is having a hard time being taken seriously. Her symptoms are real, but varied, with afflictions to her skin, eyes, and joints that make it impossible to do her job. The healers are useless. They’ve written her off as a hypochondriac, suggesting that she’s inventing her illness but unable to make up a sensible one. Others have suggested she’s going insane. What quacks! After waiting for what she considered a sufficient amount of time to allay suspicion, she broke into their stores and robbed them of all their medicines. She’d like to try to treat herself, if she knew what all these powders and pastes were for. There’s got to be someone who believes her, and will at least try to help.

As the only son of a live-in Mage Advisor to a ruler, Paschalis enjoyed a childhood of privilege, safe inside castle walls. So it continued, until the enchantress Valda Duerrg (page 86) set her eyes on that life for herself. Through beauty and sorcery, she warped the ruler’s mind until he fully believed he was surrounded by traitorous usurpers. Scores were put to the guillotine, including his parents. Valda solidified her position in becoming the ruler’s consort, but within the year he withered from an unknown ailment, still too paranoid to allow the Clerics anywhere near him. She remains safely within the walls of his castle. Paschalis learns, and waits for his chance.

Payton has raised thievery to a high art, like sculpture or composing a symphony. She (alternately, he) is a meticulous planner with high standards and a tendency to criticize her performance overly harshly. She replays her mistakes over and over in her mind, and tries to better the performance. Oddly, this makes her priorities completely reversed to that of her current peers, who are pleased with even a sloppy job so long as it is successful. Payton has begun taking on jobs not because she desires a particular item so much as because it’s another opportunity to practice.

A Brugh Elf who arrives at the Hen's Teeth if the party spends any time there: hunter's green cloak over leather armor, boar spear in one hand, a sack holding a goose carcass in the other.

Logical to a fault, Petrina leaves emotion out of any problem solving or decision making process. This works... until it harms people and situations where emotional damage was one of the potential outcomes. Logic is her shield. She is both uncomfortable with people and emotions, and aware of the limits of her own intellect. So, she tends to boil situations down over- simplistically to reduce the number of variables to consider, and she tries to make herself sound smarter by giving overly complex explanations others are unlikely to understand. She’s never deliberately deceptive in circumstances where lives might be lost and she doesn’t seem evil. Perhaps it’s immaturity or insecurity. There’s still time for her to work on herself. She could use a better mentor.

Farmer living about a mile west of Peripont. His wife Naerie and eldest son Roderic were abducted by barklings while mushroom-picking in Badgerwood; stuck tending his three other children and the farm, he begs for help and offers the Drekh family heirloom -- a gold ring set with an emerald -- to whoever rescues them.

Missing Blackapple child, charmed server in the Brugh. An ibix wears his shape in the village.

Philocrates took notice when he saw thieves already eyeing his tower as it was still being constructed. He realized he needed to build a trap so fiendish that any thief that dared to enter would never leave. Then, upon further reflection, he thought there might need to be more than one. Security works best in layers. His first protection was darkness. Other than the single entrance, there are no portals and no windows. The only light inside is magical. There are candles, but they trigger a silent alarm. Second, there are clues at the entrance that suggest the presence of a trap, and additional clues in the foyer once the thief breaches the door. These are decoys intended to be found. Disarming them provides a soft but satisfying-sounding click, but otherwise has no effect. Third, there are many Magic Mouths strategically placed along the walls; so many that they look like an extension of the tower’s overall Gargoyle decor motif. These remain completely silent when passed by Philo or one of his designates, but scream at maximum volume when passed by an intruder. Depending on where a thief has managed to get to, one or several trap doors may open in the intruder’s proximity. Type I contains acid; Type II is filled with rats; Type III is filled with undead; Type IV is a standard spike pit that already imprisons a gelatinous cube. Variations of these also exist with an illusionary floor instead of a trap door. Philo is very pleased by the early results and would love to get more accurate statistics from the tally he’s been keeping, but there’s been a sudden loss of interest in breaking in. Still, he’s thinking of adding some bronze golems, for that classy suit-of-armour decor look, but also as a means of driving thieves to the deadliest locations.

Being raised from the dead has had a profound effect on Posy. Her faith, never wavering, has only become stronger since her return. She’s been less able to cope with having several years of her knowledge and experiences lost as a result of her death. It’s a wound she still feels, along with the physical scars she’s been left with as a reminder of the ordeal. She doesn’t wish that she’d have died permanently, but learning to live again is more difficult than she could have ever imagined. She still has faint impressions of the fatal blow and it replays endlessly some days. The idea of ever venturing out of the temple again seems impossible.

The history books may someday credit Randel as the inventor of toxic positivity. He is utterly determined to find the bright side in every situation, regardless of how grim or dire. Cat died? “Think of the money you’ll save on food!” Lost your job? “Now you can follow your heart to the career of your dreams!” House burned down? “Everyone could use more sunshine and fresh air. Oh! And sleeping under the stars!” Would he react this positively to misfortune affecting his own life? Everyone is dying to find out.

A pretty face opens doors, but also chests, satchels, and coin purses. While not the strongest thief, her delicate body, lithe movement, and charismatic personality rarely prevent her from getting what she wants. Unsurprisingly, men in particular seem to struggle the most—not physically, but mentally. Even the most learned find themselves stunned as their mind frantically processes the dichotomy between what they are being asked to do, and the woman asking them to do it. The shortsword is a last means of egress from the rare situation she can’t talk her way out of.

Quite a character: tall and strong, with a receding hairline, missing most of his teeth, and covered in scars.

Some fighters are made, not born. Ringo grew into his role slowly, first accepting it as a community responsibility to which he was delegated, before realizing that he had real talent for it, and eventually embracing it as part of his identity. It was the stark realization that there wasn’t enough for him to do at home that led him to wandering into the wide world, leaving his kin with mixed emotions of pride and regret.

Ríoghnach (“Queen”) aspires to power. She believes the current establishment is weakening, and that at some point her abilities will make her an ideal candidate to assume control. Her fear is that others are probably noticing the same trend. She is throwing herself into her studies while simultaneously building a small network of loyal friends and followers. As far as each of them is concerned, there will be a special reward in store for them if they stand behind her. For some of them, that will actually be true. She’s keeping a list of names. It changes from week to week, depending on who has pledged their commitment and how they are rising in the ranks. She really doesn’t care how the list reads when her time comes, so long as they step up when called for.

Minister to the Fallen and devoted brother of the Temple of the Invisible, Rodachan’s mission is to reach out to the very worst sinners and convince them to disappear from the lives they have, and become someone better. He attracts much ridicule and occasional violence from those who are proud of the evil they’ve done—though this has decreased somewhat since the town guards realized he was a magnet for people they wanted to arrest. An ex-thief of no reputation, he was himself saved from these same streets by an elder mentor now long since passed. As a sanctuary not open to the public, those who enter the Temple leave their clothes and any other material possessions at the entrance for donation to the poor. Inside, they receive an old robe, a new name, and a chance to reinvent themselves—provided they are open to parting with their non-material possessions. Many do, and disappear inside the sanctuary for years, or permanently. The very best are allowed out on day passes, like Rodachan.

The Drekhs' eldest son, held in this cell; he followed the barklings with the intention of rescuing his mother and was captured.

Roderick is someone who you hate when he has his attention on you, but love when he’s casting it somewhere else. Roderick’s hobby is correcting others. For example: constantly correcting other people’s grammar (“I think you meant to say…”) or vocabulary (“I don’t think that word means what you think it does. I think you meant to say…”). But his very favourite thing to do is pick at details in stories where the veracity is doubtful, and this is how Waldenburg Bradleye (page 103) came to regard Roderick as his sworn enemy. It’s strictly a one-sided feud. Roderick loves him, and considers “Wallybug” his favourite plaything. “Are you sure about that, Wallybug?”

Rollo Kara hides in plain sight. Anywhere there is a city march, consciousness-raising event, or other public demonstration—especially protests —Rollo is there. His fellow attendees have come to regard him as a social activist. In truth, anywhere people are gathered in great numbers, voices are loud, and emotions are high is a bonanza for a pickpocket. Jumping, shouting, climbing, jostling, charging—it’s just the sort of chaos where collision with others is expected and accepted. When people find themselves back at home without their coin purse they assume they must have dropped it on the ground during the commotion. Genius!

Cook at the Troll Bridge pub, in his mid-forties and in charge of the cooking; if insulted, he will probably fight.

Rovena is wound a little too tightly to begin with, and when she gets nervous she talks to relieve her anxiety—except it doesn't work. It accelerates into a stream-of-consciousness barrage of loosely connected words. Sometimes it’s a shopping list; sometimes it’s her cats’ names in alphabetical order; sometimes it’s oversharing personal topics you wish you could “unhear.” She knows she has a problem and has tried to get a grip on it. Lately it’s just ended up punctuating the stream with hiccups. It’s not good for spellcasting; it’s even worse for avoiding wandering monsters. Please do not invite her on your adventure, unless you thrive on that sort of unpredictability.

Robust blacksmith, friendly smile, firm handshake. Bachelor, lives upstairs.

Powerful but cautious, Runar prefers to remain a safe distance away from harm at all times, or, if that’s not possible, to be fully encircled by Human meat-shields. No—companions. Yes, that’s right.

Smart, but not nearly as smart as she (alternately, he) thinks she is, Rylee will never work in the information trade because she is constantly alienating people. While initially very charismatic, it’s a ruse. Rylee will tell anyone whatever it is they want to hear, to get whatever it is she needs out of them, then replace that person with a better one when the opportunity presents itself. Not an effective way to build a network. Perhaps a switch to livestock or commodities trading would be more suitable?

Tall and attractive, with long dark hair and deep blue eyes. She was trapped in the orb by the very deity she served after a clerical misstep; heartbroken at her abandonment, she rarely speaks and is looking for a fresh start and a new god to serve.

Wife of Arlen Rodemus, captured with him by Girck's soldiers and held in the command post. If the pair are freed and Galen is still missing, Sarah will go to Girck's desk and hand the party the Rodemus family dragonfly necklace, hoping their son will recognize his mother's necklace.

Warehouse clerk (days); rooms at the inn.

Gwelayn's serving girl, taken prisoner with her mistress.

Saril is the attendant of Corena, wife of Lirekos; both were petrified by Khaadk's magic in the bathing room tub (room 42).

Sasha is a brunette thief, a bit rotund. She acts all blubbery but is sharp as a dagger. With Garalia she faked being captured by hobgoblins in room 21; the pair claim to be young ladies who were going to attend the wedding, and will steal and disappear given an opportunity.

Since he was a young person, Saturnus has felt like there was a giant void within him; like he wasn’t whole. His mother took him to the Healer to be checked; everything was fine. But the feeling never went away. He told his mother he loved her. He didn’t know what it meant, but he understood it was something she wanted to hear, so he said it. Now much older, he still doesn’t really understand it, or many of the other rituals he’s had to learn in order to function better alongside other people. He’s watched people embrace and cry, scream and fight, joke and laugh. None of it resonates. It all goes into his very long book of observations. He has chapters for individuals that he meets, and a separate section for general traits that seem to apply to everyone. It’s been a good resource. His relationships are better so long as he keeps his notes up to date. It’s also why he likes spells and magical research. If you’re a good student, you can always make adjustments to improve the outcome of your experiments, even if you’re not always certain why the changes help. It’s all about getting satisfactory results.

Sèitheach is an obsessive collector of weaponry. It’s not unusual, though he lacks one of the hallmarks of an experienced curator—a discerning eye. Anything that’s not split up by the party? “I’ll take that.” A duplicate of something he already has? “It never hurts to have a backup.” Rusted, pitted, half-rotted, dinged, singed, and filthy? “Well… I know I really shouldn’t. But then it’s just sittin’ there, innit?” No one’s seen where all these treasures end up after an adventure. One hopes he has a barn somewhere serving as a warehouse, and perhaps a second life ahead of him as a merchant in his retirement years.

Selby now desperately wishes he (alternately, she) hadn’t ridiculed that old Cleric lady. He was feeling a bit too full of himself and lashed out at her to make himself feel an even bigger man. As if she’d read his mind, she waved the back of her hand in his direction and said, “Understand how it feels to be small.” At the time he didn’t know what she meant, but after a few months he started to notice the change. After a year he was an entire foot shorter than he once was. His bones ache; his clothes don’t fit; he can’t work. Lately, he’s been hanging out by the Temple of the Muse, because it’s nearest to the place that they passed each other. But he’s never seen her again. It must have been a coincidence because that Temple seems to be devoted to egos and idols. No one there will help him; they’re far more arrogant than he ever was.

Manager of the Troll Bridge pub; an immigrant from Nisenria and a friendly sort.

The statues in room 41 are a girl, Shiali, daughter of the sculptor Lirekos, and one of the Duke's hunting dogs. They were petrified by Khaadk's magic.

One of the town guards from the town of Dale. She also followed Fonkin's trail to the ruins and is currently looking for him (wandering encounter 8 in The Search for The Missing Gnome).

“Siggie” is a self-styled artist of marginal talent whose main source of income is depleting the funds of whichever man or woman she happens to be with at the time. She is an expert in spotting successful but insecure people, dazzling them, and then abruptly withdrawing before returning again. This creates an intense need on the part of her prey to try to keep her satisfied all the time, for fear she will abandon them again. Her art sales are not a clever front—she actually believes she’s a genius—but it’s ultimately the savings of her victims that keeps her afloat. She must understand this; at any given time she is actively flirting with other prospects in order to have options should the coffers empty.

Normally very level-headed, organized and dependable, Sif is in a shambles this week. He’s recently quit tobacco and is unable to think of much else. Fidgety and forgetful, he’s getting on his own nerves within his inability to act anywhere nearly as competently as his reputation suggests he is. If by the end of all this no one wants to work with him anymore, was it really worth it?

Fiercely independent and charismatic, some believe that she would have excelled as a fighter. They’re correct. But, like her elder siblings Aloysia (page 57) and Ortrud (page 111) she gravitated towards the arcane. Eschewing the pathetic and dated stylings of the wizards she remembers growing up with—weird-bearded geezers wearing their bed-covers around town— she took a different approach. It’s something akin to what Odovacar Alcimus Libo (page 115) might wear, if he weren’t also aging out of fashion: a smart tunic, a stylish vest with pockets for daggers and vials, and no creepy hat.

Sigurd, devoted servant of the Temple of the Sun, woke up this morning and realized his destiny— the saviour of all living-kind. The Deity did not speak it to him in words; he rose from his bed infused with the truth. It will need to be done with utmost secrecy. Surely jealousy would upend the table of the council as they squabble about which of them is most deserving of this special distinction. No—his mission is to restore the sect to its rightful power and primacy, not to foment chaos from within. He must leave immediately, take the message on the road, never to return until the work is done, a wooden crate for his pulpit.

Sindri doesn’t steal and would never accept work as an assassin. He has specialized as a saboteur and has found plenty of opportunities there. He’s caused castle walls to collapse and made jousting competitors fall from their horses—and it always looks accidental. His slight build and almost feminine face belies his dangerousness. He’s a good friend of Leviticus Puck (page 63) and both men are quite chuffed about their alternate takes on the trade.

Sionn feels like he’s going through the motions, waiting to become the wizard he wants to be. His real interest is death magic and he’s already begun conducting magical research in that area. He pays a thief to “borrow” and return relevant books from the secret library of the Temple of Eternal Life. So far, no one seems to have noticed. Too poor to construct a tower, he’s converted his parents’ cellar into a passable workshop. They were not in favour of the idea and subsequently became his first test subjects. They are no longer alive, but also not functioning as undead in the way he had hoped. He needs to do more reading and it may be necessary to acquire other subjects.

As is customary in this territory, all knights are officers; these junior knights are Lieutenants.

Sir Galadin is a pious man; what coin he has he donates to the Chapel of Saint Queril.

Sir Ragnan: Ftr 2, AC 18, HP 10, #At 1, AB +2, Dam 1d8, Mv 20', ML 11 (9) Sir Ragnan has 15 ep.

Sir Emeric's contains 17 ep and 14 gp.

Senior knight (Major) and commander of the knights of Morgansfort. A tactician, famous for fighting hobgoblins as far away as Slateholm; in his youth an unmatched cavalryman, though now past his prime.

Sir Horn: Ftr 2, AC 18, HP 10, #At 1, AB +2, Dam 1d8, Mv 20', ML 11 (9) Sir Horn has 9 gp.

Sir Mora: Ftr 2, AC 18, HP 10, #At 1, AB +2, Dam 1d8, Mv 20', ML 11 (9) Sir Mora has 2 sp and 9 pp.

A wary sellsword lodging at the Jolly Fox, looking for work; may point the party to the village's help-wanted activities (B5).

Cleric of the Temple of the Triune.

Slade has always been good at playing the long game. If there was a fortune to be made playing chess, he might have the mind for it. Instead, he chose a life as an investment broker. Presenting himself as the middleman between budding investors and businesses seeking capital, Slade sells fictitious opportunities with the zeal of a preacher. Money comes in, a few early investors receive dividends back, and then more investors give him money which he is happy to take. There are even a few of the early investors that refuse the dividend, and ask for it to be reinvested. Chumps. In the end, his rented office is emptied, lives are ruined, and Slade moves several towns away to quietly start up again.

The village leper, living apart at B17; Father Naskew (B9) leaves food out for him.

Watching his father’s troubles as a moneylender permanently shaped Sòlas’ worldview. He trusts no one, anywhere, to do anything agreed upon, ever—except his brother, Colla Ó Caisidei (page 59). If you’re anyone else he won’t loan his quill, agree to meet anywhere at a specific time, or trust that you feel the way you say you do, or that anything about your behaviour is anything other than a clever ruse to conceal some other real intent. He only trusts books—and only some of those—because they may have instructions that dictate actions that yield applicable results. Thus, he enjoys cooking and casting spells. He’d like to make potions, but the books suggest that he isn’t ready yet. He’ll keep studying. Please don’t bother him or he’ll bar you from the room.

Stanford wears a smile like a thief wears a disguise—to project an image that he hopes others will believe in. Maybe he can convince himself at the same time? He never had the athleticism to be a hardcore fighter. In fact, he feels like a person with marginal abilities across the board, but it’s surprising how much confidence a smile can inspire. He charmed them at the Temple of the Dire Wolf to get this clerical position—and the spells finally seem to be working now. And then there were the lunkheads hanging around the catacombs that were only too pleased to bring someone on who might help protect them from the skeletons. But at his core, he is terrified. He doesn’t want to die, but he doesn’t want to disappoint either; his Papa's obvious pride in him only makes things worse. His sister Leopoldine (page 21) has yet to see him fail and probably assumes that it comes easily to him to play the role of hero. In reality, he feels like a hostage of his own reputation. His remove fear spell is oftentimes for himself because the smile doesn’t always work. He knows it’s fake.

Low-level necromancer turned zombraire; immune to sleep/charm/hold/poison; Turned as wight. Spells: shield, sleep x2, invisibility, web, protection from normal missiles, hold person.

Starla was so-named because her dark eyes— nearly black in colour and depth—reflect light in a way that sparkles. It makes people stare longer than they should. She will quickly turn away when she notices. Friendly but shy, she is uncomfortable with the effect that her appearance has on others. She’s determined to be taken seriously. It’s her mind they should be wary of.

Stephan DeSant is the Duke's wizard-in-residence, whose laboratory this is (room 44) and whose bedroom is room 46. Various NPCs mentioned elsewhere in this module may be found among the petrified statues in the Dining Hall (room 10), including Stephan DeSant. He is the only person who knows the code in which the labels in room 45 are written.

Missing Blackapple child, charmed sous chef in the Brugh kitchen. An ibix wears his shape in the village.

A likeable person when he’s sober, Stígandr is quietly slipping deeper into alcoholism. He’s unusually sensitive, though reticent to show this side of himself. In his relatively short time as a fighter, he’s encountered an unusual amount of horror. He’s unsure what to do with the feelings he’s left with, and drinking makes him feel better. He used to do it with his party members, but the depressive spiral afterwards left him in tears. Now, he’s drinking in secret and hiding it from his party. He hates himself for it but feels trapped.

He is the hard wolf that his name suggests, if only he could find a pack and become a part of it. It just seems so unlikely. Whether he was born suspicious or just treated badly, he trusts holy scripture and the deities above, but wouldn’t trust you further than he could toss you. The onus is on you to convince him otherwise.

She showed early promise as a beginning acolyte, but now Sunna is feeling the pressure to maintain her standing. Her frazzled nerves and characteristic enthusiasm are now stepping on toes as she tries to remain at the forefront. Increasingly, she answers for other people rather than letting them speak. Right or wrong, it’s awkward for everyone in attendance and it’s poisoning her friendships. Worse, when called upon for an opinion she’s blindsided, often just repeating what others have said in her own words. No one’s very impressed and even fewer have any sympathy for it. She might not have what it takes to succeed here.

Sutton doesn’t understand healthy boundaries. He stands uncomfortably close to others—even complete strangers—and leans in even closer with his head when speaking or listening. It’s worsened by the fact that he gestures a lot when he talks. He’s quite charming despite all of this, but one wonders what kind of closeness he experienced growing up, or indeed if he grew up inside a garden shed.

For the longest time, Sverre thought of nothing except how he could win the love and admiration of his father. He understands how he must have once seemed a bitter disappointment. He was lazy and ignorant and had a lot of growing up to do. But then it was like a lantern had been lit in his mind. He pursued excellence and mastery in a way that he never had the will to before. He discovered potential he wasn’t aware he had, and developed abilities that would shock anyone who knew him as a young lad. But it’s too late. There’s seemingly nothing he can accomplish that makes him any more than the lazy ne’er-do-well that he once was. Then came the realization that his siblings, who had better beginnings but considerably less success, still fill his father’s chest with pride. It’s maddening. He’s still not over it. There’s nothing to be done except push his father out of his mind and his heart for good. And he won’t be at his graveside when the old man is finally laid to rest.

Sylva has always been rather introverted, so when her personality changed, no one noticed. So far, she hasn’t either. She is the second member of the Temple of Worms to have been borrowed by a member of the Vitni, a non- corporeal race that learns by temporarily inhabiting physical beings. They strive to be as non-invasive as possible, and for the most part try to limit themselves to monitoring the host’s senses to observe activity. However, where they deem it necessary, they are capable of assuming temporary control to follow a path of interest. This may be as simple as asking a question or as arduous as steering the person through some desired experience (e.g. an adventure). Short losses of control are not usually noticed by the host, but long ones run the risk of host and Vitni asserting control simultaneously. From an outsider’s perspective, this looks a lot like seeing a person who is distracted or confused. In such cases, the host is unaware of why they are struggling to do what they intend and are unaware of the passing time. They sense they are internally conflicted, but do not sense the foreign presence. They become frightened when discovering they are doing things they did not choose to do. Hosts tend to assume they are experiencing the onset of dementia. Consequently, they often attempt to compensate as well as they are able in order to save face. Her elder Wilton Waters (page 64) is experiencing this now. It may be possible to drive the Vitni away if two Clerics cast Dispel Good and Dispel Evil simultaneously on an affected person.

Warehouse laborer; sleeps in building.

Tasia (pronounced TAH-zha, if you please) is the name of a woman who grew from a girl named Anastasia. That girl wore dresses under duress, took dance lessons under supervision, and learned manners under the yoke of a yew switch. It was never the person she was meant to be. Tasia now dresses in chain mail, cleaves heads and limbs with the grace of a ballerina, and obeys none but her own conscience.

The rival party's Fighter. One of a four-person party presenting themselves as seasoned heroes come to save the day -- the locals are rallying behind them, making them rivals and serious annoyances to the PCs. Their ulterior motive: they are not in Grimspire to fight monsters but to sell the humanoids second-hand human-made swords, shields, and armor, and they snub and insult the PCs to keep them from getting too close.

Ancient lord of the Brugh, trapped within it; haughty and affected, initially friendly while he sizes visitors up. Can be summoned to the Brugh's mirrors by the 'Mirror Man' rhyme.

An old crone with pitch-black eyes, abroad in the environs hunting her black cat (last seen fleeing a pack of wild dogs). Wandering-table entry 7; the book gives her no personal name.

Semi-retired MU studying scrolls/tomes. Puts on airs but kind; will help those in need. Hidden scrolls: protection from magic, detect magic, detect evil, shield, web.

Eldest brother to Achaicus Spinther (page 13) the information magnate, Themi is said to have taught his six younger brothers everything he ever learned as he progressed upward in the magical hierarchy. Gregarious and charismatic, he demonstrates a nearly endless interest in people, but is rather modest about his own activities and achievements. It’s a family trait. The other brothers, while successful in their own right, chose lives away from the public eye. They all meet regularly and remain incredibly close. All are also perpetually aware of Achaicus’ special status, but there is too great a sense of family pride for there to be any jealousy. Ack’s natural birthright is to eclipse everyone in the family, if not most living men (and never call him Ack, except in private). The two publicly famous brothers deny any involvement with the Coalition for Magical Cooperation. Strange, given that Themi is a wizard and Achaicus is in the clergy. They seem ideally suited to pass information between the magical lines. Of course, they do— but in secret. Unbeknownst to his brother, Themi is also a shadow member of a covert group of overseers—The Octad—led by his good friend Leofsige Alvine (page 114). Themi regrets the deception, but feels that Ack is already endangered enough by secret involvement in one organization, let alone a second one where the risk is significantly greater. At all times he is under the watchful eye of Maida Downere (page 87), unless Themi has dispatched her to watch over his brother.

Ever since he first laid eyes on Eileanóra Yorke (page 18), Theodosius knew he loved her. She is strong, beautiful, and with a caring heart. What would it take for her to feel the same? Right now, he’s just one of many members of her grassroots network keeping an eye out for problems in the town. But, as a member of the town guard, he has occasion not only to see a lot more, but also hear more—including backroom discussions by his colleagues. He can’t imagine that any leak might be traced back to him. In any case, he’s certain that Eileanóra would only use the information to do good, and if there’s any chance she might grow to love him the way he loves her, it’s worth it. He doesn’t suspect that his Captain Cesan Finnegani (page 53) has dispatched his cousin Greysen Adaire (page 69) to tail him for suspicious behaviour.

Handsome but a bit prickly, Thistle is adjusting to the increased noise, speed, and congestion of city living. Obviously things were a bit too quiet back at home but is it really necessary to completely pack the day sunup to sundown with non-stop action, weird smells, incessant chatter, and people packed in the streets like kernels on an ear of corn? And then do it again the next day, only slightly differently? WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU ALL?! But don’t judge him too harshly. He’s only Halfling, after all. He fares better in the company of a small group of adventurers that he likes, where the purpose of the mission is clear and there’s time set aside for food, drink, a good laugh, and a proper night’s sleep.

When she first started training as a fighter, one of Thora’s instructors criticized her for her solitary tendencies. “Why aren’t you spending your downtime socializing with your group?” he said. “High morale saves lives.” And so she made a considerable effort to hang out, talk, and laugh with others. It was fine, but also exhausting. When she found a slot in a full-time adventuring group it was necessary to do it all again; invest time and effort into getting to know the people she’d be depending on. Now it’s done, but it seems like an inescapable expectation. Whenever she goes out to the forest alone to lean against a tree and listen to the Creator’s message on the breath of the wind, inevitably she’ll be tracked and interrupted: “Whatcha doin’?” None of them seem to understand how important it is for her to disengage and decompress. They think there’s something wrong. Nothing is wrong. She needs solitude.

Halfling assistant to Weren at the Town Mill, together with Meri.

Rugarr's strapping young apprentice; sleeps on cot in smithy.

Proprietor of Tobler's Knick Knacks and Taxidermy -- the most powerful Magic-User in Blackapple; his shop stock includes animated (zombie) animals.

Married, Tollak is working to make the life he dreamed of as a child a reality for his own children. He’s not available for out of town jobs. They’re still young and they need to be tucked in every night. He can help with the local caverns, dungeons and crypts, but he has to be home for supper. If that doesn’t suit you, he’s happy to introduce a few friends he can vouch for that are still single.

A troubled character who was imprisoned inside the orb by an evil mage.

Tomas’ father’s reputation as “the town drunk” caused him no end of embarrassment as a youth, but what came home every evening was worse. When he was old enough, he fled the family home and took up whatever jobs he fancied and drifted in and out of relationships, treating women like livestock. At one father’s insistence, he married the girl rather than face the consequences, but he was unhappy. His father-in-law used connections and got him a plum job as a manager, but he was unhappy. Several children were born, but he was unhappy. The only things that seem to fulfill him are fighting, money, and fame. Tomas fights, then spends on himself extravagantly. He wants to be seen about town, well-dressed and looking successful, rubbing shoulders and patting backs with people he desperately wants to impress. He fights again; he wins; he crows his victory loudly and proudly. Then he goes to the pub and drinks because he doesn’t know what else to do. You might see him there. He’ll gladly work for you. He’s anxious to get out on the road again because he doesn’t want to be at home with his wife and children. He never wanted it.

The rival party's Cleric. One of a four-person party presenting themselves as seasoned heroes come to save the day -- the locals are rallying behind them, making them rivals and serious annoyances to the PCs. Their ulterior motive: they are not in Grimspire to fight monsters but to sell the humanoids second-hand human-made swords, shields, and armor, and they snub and insult the PCs to keep them from getting too close.

He is particularly hard on anyone caught drinking, or even smelling of alcohol, while on duty.

It might drive another fighter to bloodthirst to hear “Where’s your other half, Dan?” year after year, but Torny is comfortable being the butt of a joke. The secret is to find others with the same sense of priority. On a level field, where each member of the party can laugh or be laughed at, Torny will do his very best work. Pester or insult him with arrogant hokum, and he’ll use his wizard-level smarts to puncture your ego before his scimitar follows up with a cut to remember him by.

She is her father’s pride and joy. He is her role model. A simple ploughman, he got her an education he could not have otherwise afforded by way of attending mass and enlisting her as a volunteer at the Temple of the Moon. There she learned to read and sing and work with others until it was clear she would do it for life. She’s grateful for it, but not spoiled. She is disciplined and dedicated. No job is below her. She is first to get her hands dirty; last one to leave.

The quintessential halfling, young Tronde is relentlessly cheerful, reliable, and cooperative. His parents would not have taken him for an adventuring type but his remarkable strength, quickness and wisdom made him a standout to even the casual observer. When an opportunity came calling by way of a party passing through, he was happy to follow. If it’s no fun, there’s always home to come back to.

When Truinnean was a boy he was told never to lie, but when he told the truth terrible things were done to him—shouting, beatings, and even worse punishments. He carries the confusion with him to this day. He doesn’t think of himself as a liar and indeed he rarely, if ever, says things that are untrue. But he is highly selective with how much truth he gives, and to whom. Even if he doesn’t have a reason to feel threatened, he provides the minimum amount of information that will satisfy the inquisitor, and hopes there are no follow-ups for clarification.

Senior member of a covert group of overseers, The Octad. She was Mallory Freemane’s (page 92) first selection for candidates to add to the then-fledgling organization she co-founded with Leofsige Alvine (page 114). Never a killer, Tuesday was a robber of dungeons and catacombs—and perhaps incidentally, one or two monstrous Humans—before switching to the information trade as she grew more experienced. Extroverted and intuitive, she excels at getting people to talk about things they later can’t believe they said. She’s also excellent at getting into places where she’s likely to overhear valuable information. In her early days this was mostly through skilled climbing and disguise kits. Now she can pretty much talk herself into any room.

Some kids are exposed to the trade early. An orphan, Tycho was adopted by two thieves posing as a married couple and then sold at a slave auction for a profit. Thus, he has no faith in anyone’s intentions, regardless of how genuine they seem. He had many failed escapes and endured many more beatings before finally fleeing beyond his owner’s reach. Unusually resilient, Tycho learned how to be a successful thief the hard way—getting caught, surviving, and learning to do it better. He is an extreme risk- taker and is very comfortable with improvising on the job. Nothing ever goes as planned anyway.

When they came to arrest him, Ulf surrendered quietly. He was a thief, but not a liar. He would not sell out his associates, but would instead confess his crime and accept imprisonment. Shackled and with a burlap bag on his head, he endured the bumpy ride to what he thought was prison. Instead, a dark room. Four hooded figures lurked in the corners while two more stood behind him with a wand and a weapon pointing menacingly. “So it’s death,” Ulf said. “I will not protest. I knew it would come.” “Not today and not from me,” said Leofsige Alvine (page 114) lowering his cowl. Ulf was given a choice: become a junior member of a covert group of overseers—The Octad—and gather intelligence on 4 persons of interest, or… return to life as he knew it. That was his last day as an independent contractor.

Eldest daughter of a barber, Ulla followed her own dream of being a Lumberjill (woodcutter) until she suffered a broken leg while leaping from tree to tree. Now fully healed and retrained as a fighter, she still favours her former tool in trade, albeit a “slightly larger” version.

Influenced by a Druid he just met, Ulricus has developed a rather consuming fascination with mushrooms. He’s currently poring over as many tomes as he can locate to learn as much as possible about their various properties: magical, medicinal, nutritional, pernicious, and—most recently—hallucinogenic. He’s not studying much else, and really should consider switching classes.

Upton didn’t really have a life plan, but the clergy seemed to have a constant drive for new recruits. Upon joining, he found that the poor box was nearly always full and the cabinets had plenty of ceremonial wine. Even after cutting back on the amount he’s skimmed from the coffers, he’s remained quite satisfied. Deities must grade on a curve because his spells nearly always work, and when they don’t it’s because he’s too inebriated to recite them correctly.

A dwarf mercenary of the Black Fist guild, hired by Valanunthe, bunking with Cagbral Maryam in the Dwarf Mercenary Barracks (room 8). Like Cagbral he will abandon the fight if it turns bad -- recheck morale if one of them dies, or either gets below half their hit points.

Missing Blackapple child, charmed musician in the Ballroom. An ibix wears her shape in the village.

For the non-magical, the secret to invisibility is being a person that no one wants to see. Ursus drapes himself in the garb of a beggar and positions himself in crowded areas where he is likely to see and hear a lot. Many fail to notice him at all; others do and give him a wide berth. Everyone is happy that he never actually begs from them, so no one reports him to the town guards. At the end of the day he sells what he’s witnessed to people who want to know, but not before removing his costume. Dressed normally, he’s really rather charming (CHA 15).

Aloof is probably the best descriptor for Ursus. He’s talented and dependable; he just doesn’t want to socialize. Chit chat on the long road trip? Not happening. Split the cost of a room? He’ll get his own. A mug of ale to celebrate? No thanks. He’s not rude—not intentionally, anyway. He’d just rather keep things professional, that’s all. It’s worked out better for him that way. No need to be sad. You’ll make another friend.

An elven apprentice Fonkin recently hired and then dismissed when he suspected she had ulterior motives; after her termination she broke into his home and stole the secret map and the Amulet of the Mighty Fist. She is holed up on the second level of the Ruins, where the gathered monsters were recruited by her to protect her. Fonkin wants her brought back dead or alive, and she would be more valuable alive for questioning.

Power hungry to the last, Valda rules from the castle of her happily departed husband. Her subjects pay her taxes and homage. No one dares challenge her, let alone speak of the treachery that brought her to rule. Paschalis Sacerdos (page 22) remembers, but also remains silent and distant. He was still a boy when he watched his parents’ heads tumble into a basket. Valda pays him no mind. Many children she knew from that time drank themselves to an early grave, starved, or froze to death sleeping in ditches. Why would he have fared any better? Still, she is well aware that she is hated and prepares accordingly.

Warehouse laborer; sleeps in building.

One of four of the individuals that Leofsige Alvine (page 114) has dubbed The Tetrad. Anyone known to have been left alone in her presence is never seen or heard from again.

Vesper has reached a friction point as a Cleric. She (alternately, he) does enjoy the feeling of not being utterly lost and confused all the time. She appreciates that spells work most of the time and as intended. It’s the crushing expectation that she must learn and pray and pray and learn, all day and night, that is now utterly exhausting. There must be a shortcut to progress somewhere, where one does not need to concern themselves with mundane tangents and pointless minutia. The structure and routine; the constant oversight, mentoring and accountability—it’s all a bit much. She’s heard that the Temple of Daevas has a pretty low bar for entry. The rumour also suggested that it had closed its doors to the public, but surely they wouldn’t turn away a new recruit ready to pledge service to their cause… whatever that is.

His names combined mean “strong boar,” but because his interests were arcane, not athletic, he was occasionally teased as the “strong bore.” A smack upside the head from his dexterous hand generally convinced people that he wasn’t all just book-smarts. This is especially true after successfully dodging the blows that sometimes came in return. Because of those days, he doesn’t enjoy working with “big dumb fighters” but he’s no snob. If he feels respected and appreciated he’s happy to throw his lot in with a group of adventurers. If he just could find a decent bunch, he’d really prefer just to settle down and stop looking. He’s worth talking to. He throws knives like that wizard at the fair did last year. You know the one. Everyone has heard of him, even though they don’t always recall his name.

When reminded that his name is Latin for “war” Viggo will roll his eyes and correct you that it’s only true for the root of his name, vig. Then he’ll point out that his complete first name is of Old Norse and Scandinavian origin and can mean, “battle,” “fight,” or “one who lies in a cradle.” Waiting for your surprised reaction, he will add, “Are you calling me a baby?” Then, without waiting for an answer, he’ll smile and return to his book, scroll, wood carving, or whatever diversion was consuming his attention before you so rudely interrupted. He is not a common fighter. He obeyed his parents and continued the lineage of warriors as was expected of him, but the job constitutes only the smallest fraction of a much richer inner life. Viggo fights with a ruthless efficiency of movement. Hack and slash is for the weak-minded. He lives economically and saves aggressively. He will build a keep as soon as it’s possible to do so, teach his deadly swordplay to his Captain of the Guard, and live out his days whittling, painting, reading, and perhaps even writing. Surely he could write better content than the authors of some of the truly terrible books he’s found along the roadside. And in private libraries. Magic-Users collect a surprising amount of trashy romance—and worse.

Viggo thought he was finished with his fighting career, then his castle was struck by lightning, causing a fire that killed most of his men and destroyed a lifetime’s possessions. He is not happy. Money that was set aside to keep him well in his retirement has now gone to rebuilding. He needs to replace decades of income as quickly as possible so he can enjoy life while he still has some good years left in him.

Sworn enemy of Roderick Wylie (page 101) and possibly the best thief to ever practice the trade, or so his stories would lead you to believe. No matter what tales of derring-do are shared over the firelight, Waldenburg has one to top it. He did it first, better, and faster. He travelled farther, dug deeper and climbed higher. He picked the lock with his right hand while parrying with his left. It’s hilarious until it’s stupid and you wish it would stop. Best you can do is look for another fire and hope that he doesn’t follow behind.

Wassa has a strange way of dealing with anxiety. If there is ever anything upsetting to her, be it an unfortunate event or an interpersonal incident— she pretends it never happened. Heated arguments, disappointing jobs, sudden deaths— never happened. It might have been a clever coping mechanism at one time, but it’s gone on too long now. Talking with her requires that you remain aware of two realities—hers and everyone else’s. You can try to confront her with evidence that her recollections of events are wrong. At best, you’ll just start an argument that she won’t acknowledge the next time you see her.

”Wazo the Wildcard” was a mystery to everyone— friends, teachers, and especially his parents. The youngest in his family, it was expected that he would demonstrate some discernible talent at some point. But years passed and he achieved little, impressed no one, and irritated most. He read a lot and he did chores, but poorly enough so that he wouldn’t be asked to ever do them again. He was nearly 10 when he first saw Odovacar Alcimus Libo (page 115) who was then a younger man, but still thrilling to behold. Transfixed, Wazo used his literacy to voraciously consume anything he could find on the subject of magic. Then, he pestered wizards relentlessly. Many Magic-Users mentioned in this book will have either heard of or been accosted by Wazo. Those that know him will deny it so as to avoid further contact.

Peripont's Mill Master, almost seventy and frail, with a hard time hearing; he has worked at the mill since he was a child and still holds most of the technical knowledge to operate and mend it.

Elder sister of Wymond (page 83). Deeply devoted to her faith but non-traditionally open-minded and free-thinking, one might think that Whitney would be an adherent of the Temple of the New or the Temple of Now. She’s not certain that either of those are legitimate. At best, she thinks they are vanity organizations founded by power- hungry Clerics that were unable to get control of the organizations they came up in. The Temple of Worms is an ancient sect founded on simple truths. Where worms are active, the soil prospers and beauty grows. Where worms are absent, beauty withers and evil takes root. The Temple of Worms seeks to spread their numbers and leave evil with nowhere to grow unchecked. It’s an old wisdom, not as trendy or edgy as the alternatives, but not ready to disappear into the past, either. With new generations of clergy like her and Wilton Waters (page 64) — non- judgmental, not dogmatic, more connected to society — the Temple is holding its own. And with young people like Brianag Mohani (page 38) coming in the front door, these “next-generation” temples may disappear as quickly as other local fads. Come to think of Wilton, she’s actually quite worried about the health of her friend. He’s just not himself recently.

From her earliest days, it was clear that Wilhelmine felt a deep sense of responsibility for everyone in her circle. She was born to parents late in their lives and tended to their health while still a child. She rescued animals in the neighbourhood and brought food and clothing to people in need in her community. As a Cleric, she worked out of the Temple of Want for only a short time because it was clear that many in the community—and the region—needed help but could not make their way to her to get it. So, she set off and has yet to settle anywhere. Now it seems that only the world will be enough for Wilhelmine.

It hasn’t occurred to Willa to inquire what the name “The Temple of Silent Reach” means. She’s not the sort to have doubts or judge too quickly— if at all. She was just excited to be offered an exciting opportunity to work alongside nice people doing work which seems to be intended for the public good, as curious as it is sometimes. But whatever they ask, she does—cheerfully, expeditiously, completely. Everyone should have a Willa. Her one unusual quirk is her insistence on making up a cute nickname for everyone she works with, but don’t you worry yourself about that, “Chubbycheeks.” Oh dear.

The leader of the Black Fist mercenaries here in the ruins, as well as Valanunthe's second in command. He is also a wererat, and although he will not transform into a rat he will take the form of a ratman if harried. He may be met in room 9 (Captain of the Guard) or as wandering encounter 12.

Friend of Blossom Averye (page 113) and a co- founding member of the famed Coalition for Magical Cooperation, she’s also the foster mother to Carlyn Donovani (page 9). Although she appears strong and confident externally, Willow often reflects on how she might have become an entirely different person. Clearly, she had the ingredients to become the success she is, but there was much about her as a younger woman that might have steered her wrong—especially during her teens. She was always good at thinking about things in the long term. Perhaps that’s what saved her? No—definitely not—at least not alone. She was always a disciplined and organized person, a tireless worker, and very focused on having a successful career someday. But her intense drive and early success turned her past the point of confidence and assertiveness and into arrogance and self- aggrandizement. She became insular and completely self-centred and for a time refused to have any involvement with others unless she was granted control. In the process, she drove away every friend she’d ever made. All except Blossom. Blossom persisted through the rage, until the anger fractured into tears, and eventually into realization, regret and reform. It wasn’t the magical transformation from children’s fairy tales. It took years, and she’s still not convinced that she isn’t still broken inside. She also understands that her behaviour didn’t come from nowhere, but that there’s no point in blaming. Regardless of what’s been done to you, who you become is a choice you make for yourself. Thank the Creator for Blossom. It was Blossom that convinced her that there were wrongs to be righted everywhere, and that it could be their mission to use magic to do it. She’d never felt so small in a long time, until she realized that it was her inflated sense of urgency to protect herself constantly that was gone. In being given a purpose, she’d been returned to her place.

“You don’t need to have the initials W.W. to work here, but it helps!” was Wilton’s special joke with his friend and colleague Whitney Worthame (page 108), both of the Temple of Worms. It was actually starting to grate on her just a little, to be honest, when he abruptly stopped. He’s still recognizably his same-old self, quiet and cheerful but also spontaneously exuberant—but only about half of the time now. The rest of the time he seems to be in a daze. He forgets names and details and sometimes isn’t always sure of what’s just happened around him. Whitney is wondering if it’s health-related but doesn’t know how to broach the subject without offending him, but there are other possible causes as well. In this case, he is a host of the Vitni. Like Sylva Demetra (page 26) his conscious experiences are being observed by a non-corporeal being inhabiting his body. Unlike her, the frequent overrides on his behaviour are creating conflicts for control, which manifest themselves in observable episodes of confusion. And they are getting longer. Will they lengthen to the point where Wilton essentially becomes catatonic, or will the Vitni find someone else to inhabit? It may be possible to drive the Vitni away if two Clerics cast Dispel Good and Dispel Evil on him simultaneously.

Anyone not knowing Wolfgang very well might take him for a cheapskate. He’s unquestionably protective of his money and property, but for good reason. Owing to a feud that ended before he was ever born, he was raised in a hermitage far flung from his parents’ home community. With no one to trade with, they needed to be completely self-sufficient, but the land wasn’t fertile and the wildlife were sparse. Consequently he grew up in extreme poverty and only narrowly avoided an early death from undernourishment and starvation. When he was old enough to set off alone, he did, but with nowhere to go, life wasn’t appreciably better. Thievery started as a means of survival and continued because he didn’t know what talents he might have. After all, most of his life has been devoted to staying alive.

Woodrow has learned that his best chance at success has been to set others up to fail. It’s nothing personal; it’s a necessity. Power is a hierarchy, with positions diminishing the closer you get to the top. You’re a small obstacle now, or a larger one later. Better to put you in your rightful place while the job is easier. On the ladder to success, it’s smart to climb hard, skip any rungs possible, and kick the faces of those climbing underneath you.

Wulfstan was conscripted into military service by a warlord at the age of 7. An army swept through his hamlet, forcibly taking all boys who looked like they could be of use. Any parents that resisted the abductions were killed. He witnessed other parents being killed by soldiers, but not his own. He was assured that they were also killed for their attempts to deceive and conceal. As part of an assessment process, Wulfstan was tested with various responsibilities including food preparation, equipment management, looting, intelligence gathering, field medical assistance, and squire duty. Eventually he graduated into a soldier, rising to officer class through a combination of bravery, talent, and loss of leaders from ongoing casualties and occasional desertion. At 17, distressed by the duties of his role, Wulfstan collapsed after taking non-lethal damage and lay in a pile of bodies pretending to be dead. In his army there was no ceremony. Fallen soldiers were left to rot where they lay. When the Warlord departed, Wulfstan salvaged some equipment and set off to work for the next 18 months as a courier, bodyguard, guide and mercenary for hire, but he misses being part of a troop. He’s grown a beard and changed his name. While technically he was abandoned by the Warlord, he still fears recognition and discovery.

The Figworts' daughter; will try to get to know a friendly party and may offer to join them.

Wymond, younger brother of Whitney (page 108) might have embarked on a career educating young minds, but he’d really rather mess with them instead. Not just young ones: all of them. He’s not proud of it, but—actually, yes, he’s really quite proud of it. Family get-togethers where both siblings are present are rather uncomfortable.

Zana doesn’t look dangerous, which is what makes her so very dangerous. Her above average skills across the spectrum make her very successful in her highly specialized and sought- after talent—making people disappear.

Despite her attractiveness, charm, and warmth, Zanna has never been in a relationship. Her depth of intellect and wisdom, especially for her age, can be intimidating to others—and she wouldn’t waste her time with anyone who had to struggle with that. In any case, there’s been years of intense study and difficult work occupying her time in order to reach the level she’s achieved. She was starting to make peace with the fact that her career would consume her whole life, and that it was more than satisfactory to her. She never thought she would meet someone that she might fall in love with, but then came Carling Truemane (page 116), who is quite unlike anyone she’s ever met. His intellect ensnares her. The amount of time he’s spent learning and exploring the world to accumulate the knowledge he has is truly startling, and he’s an open and endless book of stories. They’ve spent nights awake just talking. No matter how much time they’re together, it never seems like enough. If that’s not the beginning of love, what is? The best thing about him: because of his long pursuit of knowledge, he’s never been in a relationship either. They could explore this new experience together.

Resigned to accept that humanity’s fate is sealed, Zeph works as a historian in the metaphysical cartography department of the Temple of the Abyss. His job is to research and maintain a complete record of events pertaining to the imminent extinction of all life. In part, this includes historical examples of declining morality in society, major scandals, wars, plagues, astrological phenomena, weather, and any other tidbits that are arguably indicative of an approaching apocalypse. They may be helpless to stop it, but at least there will be an accurate record. They haven’t given much thought as to who might be left alive to read it, but then, there isn’t the time.