The Star of the Priestess in the Land of Pig Farms

Twice upon time the forces of evil converged on the tiny hamlet of Gurp-on-Tunib. This particular conflagration of civilization consisted of one tavern, a statue so old and worn nobody could recall whom it honored, a one bedroom hovel belonging to the mayor, the root shack, and five pig farms in the surrounding boggy plains. One could say that its relative strategic and economic importance to the realm at large was somewhere above nonexistent but below measly.

The first instance of evil descending on the poor folk here was three generations before the time of Ullum the Gray, in the first shade of Winter. The mercenary forces of Ptoobo were marching from West to East, intent on sacking the port city of Yim. The Right and Proper Horde, as they called themselves at the time, were traveling from Northeast to Southwest, having it in their heads to search out Pixish treasures in the forests to the South of the lands of man. Gurp-on-Tunib was inconsequential to all of this, but the two groups happened to meet there.

The groups bristled. Taunts were made. The leaders met under a flag of truce. Meanwhile, a certain number of pigs went missing, with locals too afraid to make any accusations of theft. In the end, the two rampaging armies joined forces and proceeded East, which is why the port city of Yim is no longer on the map. Of course, no blame for this was ever ascribed to Gurp-on-Tunib.

One generation after the fall of Ullum the Gray a torrential rain besieged the entire region. Nothing much happened. One pig drowned. One village drowned as well, but the pig was more sorely mourned on account of the villager having been a complete twit.

Two generations after the fall of Ullum the Gray, in a gentle misting of Spring rain, evil converted once again upon the hamlet, though this time in markedly smaller numbers. Two. The number of evil was two.  

Ducking out of the light rain a bulky, cloaked figure entered the tavern. He paused, seemed to take in the small room consisting of the bar, two small round tables, and one booth under the far window. He opted for the booth and trudged across the dirt floor with heavy tread. All the while he muttered under his breath right up until he plopped himself down to quiet, patient contemplation.

The barkeep stayed back, waiting for some sign that his patron wanted service. This was only his side job, so he didn’t feel the need to push the issue. Primarily he was a pig farmer, although he considered himself more of a pig baron, having a partial ownership in several nearby pig farms. 

In due course, a lanky fellow came jangling in, plates of armor scraping and clanging off each other as he went directly to the booth. The larger man signaled the barkeep who in turn brought two wooden cups and a pitcher of mead. After a slight pause during which the two men said nothing, the barkeep retreated to behind the bar, making a point of keeping himself busy and looking as much as possible as though he were not paying attention. Even though he was.

The larger man poured generously into the two cups, “Tis not often that I get an invitation from no less than a prince for a sit down. Most hoighty-toighty types ain’t got the stomach fer the likes of a half-orc mercenary.”

The taller man scoffed and took his cup, “First of all, you know my title is self-bestowed, self-claimed through more violence and treachery than such types could manage. Secondly, by reputation you’re more assassin than mercenary.” He took a large draw from the cup, “Finally, the way I hear it, you’re more like three-quarters orc. The other fourth is in question.”

“That it is, friend,” he chuckled back, “That is, if I may call you friend? Or shall we follow courtesies of the court, your royal highness, Prince Chargham of Lowland East?”

“Matters little to me, but Chargham will do.”

“Eh, but not your other monker, The Charred?” The brutish fellow leaned forward, exposing a broad smile of uneven, bulky teeth.

His companion leaned forward into the dim light of the table’s candle, showing the rippling scars that encompassed his neck, chin, and left cheek, “Never one for manners, were you, Mr Bib?”

Another chuckle, “Nope, can’t say that I am. They don’t do me much good. Very few pleases and thank you’s when cutting a man’s throat.”

Leaning back again, the dark prince turned thoughtful, considering the brute, “I do hope you can do more than slit a man’s throat, or I’ve wasted my time.”

“I can bash in a skull.”

The prince nodded.

“I can crush a man’s ribcage.”

The prince nodded.

“I’ve slipped a bit o’ poison, when the situation demanded.”

The prince sipped his mead and nodded again, looking not at all impressed.

“I can run a man through like he was made o’ butter.”

A sigh.

“I can decapitate a man in one swing, unless he be really tall. Then it’s a funny angle, usually takes two swipes.”

Nothing.

“If I must, now I ain’t sayin’ it’s a keen interest of my own, but I can open a man up, leave him alive fer a bit, torture-like, ya see.”

Fingers interlaced, the prince leaned forward, “Mr Bib, you do boast so, but I need the other thing. The darker thing.”

“That’ll cost you more than you’s like to give up.”

The two men stared at one another. Mr Bib drained his cup and poured another. The prince did the same. Mr Bib motioned for the barkeep to bring more, which he did, both men sitting in silence as the empty pitcher was replaced with a full one.

“Can you really do it, kill a man and burn his soul in the process, reduce him and his eternal essence to nothing?”

“Tis not a common service, and it…exacts a toll, shall we say. But aye, as advertised, I’m one of the few to have mastered the kill of kills.”

The prince refilled his own cup, and Mr Bib could have sworn there was the slightest tremor in that hand. The man was getting on in years, but still, this was the hand that had slain kings and queens, and brought mighty generals and knights to their knees. Such a hand would not tremble.

“Does such a kill require any preparation? Any great time before the deed is done?”

Mr Bib shook his head, “Nay. Tis simple enough and more a matter of the rest afterward.”

“Name your price.”

“You won’t pay it.”

“Name it.”

After another drink, Mr Bib said carefully, “I hear tell what you have a bit of a bauble, a trinket. The Star of the Priestess, some call it. And I hear tell you wears it all the day long, all the night, on account of it being a special protection charm. A powerful one. Might even be how you so uncannily done risen to your esteemed title, such as it is.”

The prince nodded, “So that is your price? You seek the star, as so many others have?”

More chuckling, “Aye, if I’m to deal with the dark prince, may it be a big deal, eh?”

With very little pause, the prince said simply, “Done.”

Mr Bib spluttered and choked on his drink. He slammed his massive fist on the table several times while he cleared his throat, sounding more like a water buffalo than a skilled killer. He waved off the bartender’s approach and considered the prince carefully while regaining his breath. There was no hint of humor or doubt in the long face.

So, the brute was left only to ask, “Who?”

“Me.”

Fortunately, Mr Bib had not taken another swig, or he would have had to repeat the whole noisy process again. As it was he could only sit dumbly and stare across the table the half-light. Across the small room, the barkeep was trying hard to contain his own reaction, lest his eavesdropping be all the more obvious.

“When?”

“As soon as the deal is struck. On this I must insist, once the deal is made, you must do it immediately. Understood.”

Mr Bib nodded, thought a moment, then ventured, “Why?”

The prince sighed, “I believe it best you don’t know. Second thoughts?”

“I never back out of a deal,” came the huffy reply, “You hand over the star, I’ll do you right on the spot.”

“Right, let’s get this over with,” the prince rose to his feet, the shock of black hair on his head brushing the low rafters. From within the neck of his shirt he tugged a necklace, pulling free a circular pendant that filled the palm of his hand, a red gem glistening in the firelight.

Mr Bib stood, looking wary and solemn, “Alright then, hand it over, yer highness.”

“No hesitation. Are we clear?”

“Crystal,” he replied with a shrug, though he still looked about the room nervously, seeking out every shadow and corner for some sign of treachery or trap.

“Ready?”

“Cripes, yes. Great gobs, ya nutter.”

The prince yanked on the amulet, causing the chain to snap at the back of his neck. He thrust it forward into the waiting hand of Mr. Bib, saying with no small intensity, “Now, man. Do it now!”

The center of the room erupted in ominous red and yellow light, a circle of flame inscribing itself in the floor. From within the circle rose a cackling orange-skinned beast in the shape of a man, though it sported curling horns about its head and threadbare wings that hung folded at its back. A yellow smile that seemed wider than the face upon which it stretched greeted the patrons and the barkeep.

A silky voice emanated from the creature, though its mouth did not move, “Chargham, you crafty fool. All this time, but now here you are, exposed, your soul over-ripe for the taking.”

Mr Bib stood slack jawed, the amulet warm in his hand. The barkeep passed out and fell over behind the bar. 

“Now! Do it now!” The prince showed a flash of fear on his face, a face that had been impassive before so many duels, battles, and even a trial.

Saying nothing, Mr Bib pulled a dagger from some unseen sheath, holding it level towards the beast. The candlelight flickered about its serpentine blade and angular facets. The creature took a step towards them, long arms sweeping such that its claws scraped the floor.

“Not against it, you fool. Me. Kill me now!”

Mr Bib shrugged, spared one last worried look for the creature, and plunged the dagger into the prince’s gut. Though his large hands looked clumsy, they were in fact quite skilled, and threaded the blade through the plates of armor to meet flesh. As he felt it sink deep, Mr Bib spared a glance for the creature now raising its arms high, glowing yellow eyes trained maliciously on the prince. Under his breath, he said the words required, willed his essence to complete the spell, and white light erupted from the stab wound.

The creature paused. Mr Bib tumbled back in the midst of a tiny maelstrom of unearthly wind and light. The prince, a triumphant smile on his marred visage, caught fire with a blue flame that clung closely about his body for a fraction of a second before consuming him to white ash that fluttered down like so much snow.

As Mr Bib scrambled to his feet again, amulet in one hand, dagger in the other, the creature stood with drooped arms, smile faded, “That was terribly, terribly rude. He sold me his soul eons ago, been hiding it from me ever since.”

“S-sorry,” Mr Bib ventured.

The creature shrugged and slumped back towards the bar, asking calmly as it leaned over it, “You, uh, mind if I take this one?”

“No business of mine,” Mr Bib answered, still gripping the amulet and blade tightly.

The creature’s long arm swooped over the bar and dragged the barkeep up. It slung the unconscious body over its shoulder and stepped to the circle, taking a careful look around the room. The smile came back to its full strength while the glowing eyes gazed upon Mr Bib.

“You needn’t worry,” it teased, “Keep that fancy-fancy about you, and you’ve nothing to fear from me or mine.”

“And that fellow then?” He pointed at the barkeep with his dagger.

The creature gave a nod towards the man, “This one? Sold his soul for…what was it? Pig farms, I think. Collection is a bit early, but I hate to come up for nothing.”

“Pig farms?”

The creature shrugged, “You’d be surprised how small some people dream. What, pray tell, do you dream of?”

“I’m quite content.”

“Suit yourself, but if you change yourself just call for Azmuel.”

The circle of flame in the floor ignited once again. With a whoosh, the creature and the barkeep slid down into shadow, gone without further trace. Mr Bib collapsed to the floor, seating his ample posterior in the dirt. His one loosened its grip on the dagger, letting it tile and rest on his leg. The other hand, going white at the knuckles, kept firm hold of the Star of the Priestess.