A Tale of Two Scholars
Deep in the middle of a swampy jungle, a stout man with a curled mustache wades through the muck, grumbling about the scum that has splashed on his favorite trousers and how it will likely never wash out. If not for the prospect of a valuable wand to add to his collection, this would be the last place he would want to be. Even with that prospect, as the rain begins to drizzle down through the thick leaves overhead, the mud becoming like thick porridge, he is seriously reconsidering the endeavor. Then, through the ferns a few hundred feet ahead he sees the mossy cobbled walls of the lost Temple of Inathyra. Victoriously he sloshes ahead at full speed, which is to say approximately the same speed as before but with more effort.
As he steps up out of the muck, he pays no attention to the partially charred skeleton lying on the wet stone pathway leading into the temple. Either that or he didn’t notice it at all. Considering his lack of proper attire for such a trek, it is likely the latter. Once inside, the air quickly changes from warm and humid to cool and musty, the slosh of the mud giving way to the squish of his supple leather boots on the ancient stone. With steady nonchalance he retrieves a waxed match and a smoking pipe, striking the match on a suspender buckle and lighting the pipe as he takes a few puffs and walks inside.
The smoldering tobacco adds a bit of a haze to the already low visibility of the dark temple interior, a problem which is quickly remedied as he taps a few embers onto an oiled torch from a nearby sconce. The hallway is narrow and long before him, with a steep staircase at the end. He stands at the top of the staircase for a moment, takes a puff of broadleaf, and steps down. With a loud crash of stone on stone the stairs shift and turn into a ramp. He topples onto his backside, sliding fast down the steep slope. At some point along the fall, his bag is ripped open, sending loose-leaf tobacco, mustache wax, a gold monocle, and a pair of dark metal knuckle dusters flying. He reaches after the items just as the floor drops out from under him completely, his stomach flips as he is suddenly in a free fall.
With a wet *SLAP*, he lands flat on his back in a shallow pool of water. As he gets his bearings and stands up he is expecting a dark room given that his torch fizzled out somewhere in the pool. As he wipes the water from his eyes, however, he is met by an eerily beautiful scene. Hundreds of small flames line the walls and columns of a large sanctum. Torches, candles, and stone lanterns with a subtle blueish hue to their flame. It’s peaceful, warm, and almost comforting. But the comforting presence is quickly replaced with a disconcerting prickle up the back of his neck.
He isn’t alone down here.
A dark figure weaves through the columns, its form dimly outlined by candlelight. A voice hums out, deep and resonating in his chest, “Whyyy…whyyyy do they never learn?” the figure asks. It runs a set of long, claw-like fingernails along one of the columns as he walks, almost gliding along the stone floor before disappearing from view.
“They? Who are ‘they’?” the stout man asks. He instinctively takes a puff from his pipe, which gurgles with murky water. He spits it out and stows the pipe. “For that matter, what don’t they learn?” he asks.
“Your colleagues from the museum of course. They have tried many times before to rob me, but I’m afraid none have been successful,” says the figure. The stout man slowly moves his foot along the bottom of the pool trying to feel for the knuckle dusters when something that somehow feels distinctly like a human bone crunches as he puts his weight down. The figure speaks again from the darkness, saying “Ahhh, I see you have found one of them.” as he lets out a soft creepy chuckle. Then, there is a distant rattle of chain and a deep thud, as the water slowly begins to drain from the room. “And you brought a friend! This should be fun” says the figure, slipping into the shadows like a wisp of smoke, his voice mixing with the darkness and resonating from all around. Confused, the man looks around the room but sees no one.
“No I’m quite sure I came alone…”, he mutters under his breath, as his foot nudges something that might be one of his knuckle dusters. Suddenly, all of the candles, lanterns, and torches from one side of the sanctum are extinguished, as if being sucked up by some great breath. Their light is replaced by a singular white glow which illuminates the mysterious figure, standing tall near what looks like an altar. Its arms an unnatural length, its clawed fingers wrapped delicately around a wand made of obsidian and crystal. The crystal is shining a brilliant white with faint ribbons of mesmerizing color. The figure takes a slow breath.
“So be it,” the creature says, almost whispering. Then it yells, “The Void shall take you both!” in a growl as it flicks the wand in the direction of the stout man. A blinding streak of prismatic light flashes across the room. The man dives to the floor just in time as the beam whizzes overhead. It smashes into a nearby pillar with a deafening crash, burning his face and arms as if he had spent the entire afternoon sunbathing. With the pool of water all but drained he can spot his knuckle dusters, grabbing them hastily as he scrambles behind a nearby column.
“Come now, we can be reasonable, can’t we?” the man asks from behind the pillar. He slowly slides the knuckle dusters over his large fingers. As he snugs them into place there is an almost imperceptible whir that emanates from them, like the metal suddenly has a great amount of pent-up energy within it. The room darkens a bit more as another bank of candles and torches are extinguished. The man clenches his fist and steps out from behind the column. The blinding light rips across the room as he throws a haymaker directly at it. Out from his knuckles comes an ethereal force like a ghostly boxing glove. The beam explodes as it collides with this unseen force, the brunt of the attack parting like a stream around a large stone. Without missing a step, the man runs full tilt at the dark figure, spinning into a ferocious right hook at the last second. With a subtle flash of energy, the blow connects, sending the figure flying several feet back into the darkness.
A shriek fills the room. “Fool! You have only postponed your inevitable demise!” the figure screeches. There is another rattle of heavy chains, met with a grinding of stone on stone. Portions of the walls slowly open up, as flames begin to roll out, licking up the wall. The room fis ully illuminated, the figure stands tall and in full view. Lidless eyes peer out from behind long black hair, greasy and unkempt, matching its soot-black robes. It grins with a mouth full of jagged, yellow teeth. “I am Bozgraddeth, Harbinger of the Void! You will not leave this place alive,” it says, dripping with arrogance and spittle. It slowly twirls the wand, the fires spinning in a similar motion like snakes being charmed. As the flames begin to be drawn in from all around, it lets out a terrifying laugh. “Your death will be so absolute that it will be an example for generations to come, the Void will devour you like the all-consuming fires of—” *BOOM*
There is a loud bang, as Bozgraddeth’s head explodes. Bits of leathery flesh, bone, and thick black ichor are scattered all over the front of the stout man. The headless body lingers there for a moment, then crumples to the floor. Behind it stands a slender but robust woman, a smoking blunderbuss in hand. ”I thought he would never shut up,” she says, lowering the weapon, “Thank you for the distraction, whoever you are.”
“Distraction?! I had him just where I wanted him!” he says. He removes the knuckles, holding out a hand as he approaches her. “Arthur Fitz is the name, I’m a collector. Perhaps you’ve heard of me?”
“No,“ she says without hesitation, “I can’t say that I have.” She does not shake his outstretched hand.
Arthur is taken aback by this but maintains a gentlemanly composer. “And who might you be? Are you from the museum?” he asks.
She stops in her tracks, then turns on her heel with an expression of disgust. “Not anymore. Those pompous, arrogant, dinosaurs had the nerve to fire me. Something about my ‘brash impatience’ and ‘insubordination’,” she says in a huff.
“Nonsense! Good riddance to them. If they can’t see the value in a strong-willed woman, then bugger them all!” he says, then they both look down. At their feet lays the wand. “Ah!” he exclaims as they both reach down to pick it up. Their hands meet on the wand. He looks up and they find themselves staring into each other’s eyes. Arthur is just about to comment on the color of her irises when she grabs his wrist, giving it a sharp twist. With extraordinary ease, she skillfully flips Arthur on his back with a loud thud, placing him in an arm bar. She gasps, releasing her grip. “Oh goodness, I’m terribly sorry! I’m not sure what came over me!” she says. She takes a deep breath and lets it out in a sigh. “I suppose perhaps they have a point. I was just so angry when I found out they were going to take credit for my biggest finds. I couldn’t just stand by and take it,” she says.
Arthur nods along in agreement, unable to speak as the wind has been knocked out of him. “That’s…okay...” he wheezes.
“Oh goodness, sorry again, I’m rambling,” she says. She extends him a hand, helping him to his feet.
They brush themselves off. Arthur retrieves a handkerchief and attempts to wipe the ichor from his face with little success. Together they find their way out of the temple, the wand carefully stowed as they head back into the swampy muck. After a little while, Arthur says “Did I mention I was a collector? Well, I’ve actually been working on opening a gallery. But, as it seems I am no explorer, I evidently will need a curator—"
”I’m not going to work for you,” she says, cutting him off.
”No no, you misunderstand,” he says, “I’m not looking for an employee, I’m looking for a partner! You see in my experience, nothing upsets a bunch of pompous arrogant dinosaurs than when a private gallery starts beating them to all the best finds. And it takes the best curator to get your hands on the best finds, so naturally I felt I should offer it to you. But I simply cannot.” He pauses. She has an unexpected feeling of disappointment as he says this, but he continues, saying “No, it just wouldn’t be proper to go into a business with a partner when you don’t even know their name!”
She begins to blush and turns away. She thinks for a moment, then turns and sticks out a hand for him to shake. He hesitates, remembering what happened the last time she grabbed him, but a slow, pretty smile creeps across her face. “It’s Marianna. Marianna Harper.”
He smiles back and firmly shakes her hand. She shakes his even firmer.
“Well Marianna, I look forward to our partnership,” he says, and together they slosh through the muck, side-by-side, into the sunset.
Arthur and Marianna go on to open the West Umbridge Gallery. Their collection of fine wands is available now on Dungeon Masters Guild, here!