Never Trust an Icosohedron

“How dare you refuse me a discount, mortal!” The icosohedron yelled, nearly rattling the wooden walls of Kerrik’s damp apartment above the goldsmith.

“Shh!” Kerrik said in a loud whisper. “You don’t want the neighbors to hear us, do you? Also, I’m not exactly mortal myself,” he said, pulling at his gray flesh.

Kerrik’s client turned a shade of green usually reserved for the freshest lettuce. Kerrik sighed, smoothed out his new coat and tricorn hat and sat back down. 

“I told you before, you folks are new. You’re not made of cotton candy are you? You’re not a shade or a mannequin? Then you get my standard bribe rate for this type o’ job.”

“This is most irregular!” the polyhedron said, floating a menacing three feet above the ground. “In MY dimension—”

“Yeah, well, we’re not in your dimension, mate,” Kerrik said. Kerrik flashed his necklace, the sign of the Dusk Syndicate upon it. “And, er, additionally, your demands are... unique.”

The icosohedron floated slowly over to Kerrik and gently bumped into him.

“Don’t you get rough with me,” Kerrik said. “I know you scads can’t die, but that doesn’t mean you can treat me like trash - you hired me, if you recall?”

The client reverted back to fuschia as a megre form of apology. Kerrik rolled his eyes and went over the creature’s demand again. A bribe to Kerrik to look the other way during his assignment to the Widow herself... The icosohedrons were a tricky bunch - this much he knew - and they were probably looking to nick something.

The being sighed. “All right, creature,” it said. “I consent to the price. Half now, half after the job is completed.” 

Kerrik gently scratched the withering flesh remaining on his chin and clicked his rubbery tongue before extending his boney arm holding his sack. Out of a small portal rained down a veritable waterfall of gold coins.

“When can I expect a return on my considerable investment?”

Kerrik’s gray eyes looked at the annoyed polyhedron. “It isn’t an easy request, you know... but I can do it.”

“You are sure?”

Kerrik nodded and pulled his tricorn over his eyes. “Be sure you get out of here before they clean the rooms. They’ll be wondering what one of your kind is doing in this part of town.”

The being ‘nodded’ and Kerrik closed the wooden door behind him. He could hear a faint series of screams from the street. The humans were distracted - he could escape the place without being noticed too badly. He tipped his cap to the centaur goldsmith and tossed him a coin for the use of the premises before stepping into the late morning sun and into some cotton candy that had spilled into the street.

“I do apologize,” a huge voice glopped nearby as humans were struggling to free themselves from a candy being’s mass. “Oh dear, I am sorry...”

Kerrik checked his new boots - damn. Oh well, he could use the fountain at the old mansion. The water-logged old town couldn’t take many more portals opening up, but still they were being opened by some rogue (and not quite right-in-the-head) wizard.

The question that Kerrik found himself asking was “why would an Icosohedron need some of the Widow’s mummy dust?” The Shrouded Widow, head of the Dusk Syndicate, was quite possibly the most influential creature in town - and Kerrik had considered her his mentor since he joined a year ago.

No, Kerrik, he told himself, don’t grow a conscience now. With the other half of that money, I could finally escape this place...

There was an explosion in the distance. Cotton candy now engulfed one of his favorite taverns. Another huge voice apologizing. Kerrik sighed as a group of shadow children ran past him giggling.

“You rapscallions!” A human woman in an apron shouted in the distance. A wry smile crossed Kerrik’s zombie lips. The town was insane and overrun, but it was... entertaining.

Dammit.

The bell above the door of Selthia’s apothecary shop. The old vixen recognized her friend immediately.

“Kerrik, how goes it?” She smiled as her long gray tail whipped around her. “Can I sell you some special smelling salts? Wolfweed? I know you like to relax.”

“Heh, not today Selthia,” he said. “I have a, uh, delicate question.”

Rarely was the witch vixen surprised but there was a day for everything. “I thought those had fallen off long ago.”

“No no no,” he said. “This is about a job.”

“Ah, I see,” she said, her purple eyes sparkling along with her white fangs.

“Can you think of any use for mummy dust?”

The fox stood and went into the back behind a sparkling violet curtain. “I can, indeed.”

Kerrik could fainly hear the movement of parchment and binding on shelves as, soon, the vixen came back out - blowing dust off an old tome.

“That wasn’t mummy dust, was it?” Kerrik said, attempting a joke. Selthia marched over to the front desk without acknowledging it. The book was titled, ‘On the Focus of Scrying Mirrors’. Selthia deftly turned to the exact right page, put on her little fushia reading spectacles, and began to read.

“Mummy dust is used to clean scrying mirrors which - in turn - are the exact type of surfaces that are on polyhedrons.” She quickly closed the tome, which eeked out some dust. “Your friend could be gussying themselves up for a romantic interlude, perhaps? Shiny polyhedrons are beautiful in my humble opinion.”

Kerrik scoffed. “Is that all? Well, that’s not too bad I suppose.”

Selthia closed her book, coughed, and gladly accepted the gold piece that Kerrik offered her. Kerrik leaned on the front desk after Selthia put the book back.

“Another thing, Selthia: Have you gotten any details on who has been opening all those portals?”

The smile faded from the vixen’s snoot. “Not as such, no, but I am still looking. You take care with your... errand, Kerrik, all right? I’d hate to see anything happen to my favorite customer.”

Kerrik could almost feel himself blushing as he waved goodbye.

The town that Kerrik inhabited was slowly sinking into the sea. A dock town founded in the archaic past, its foundation was succumbing to the gods of saltwater and time and - some would say - to the crimes of its past.

Kerrik had to step around puddles to ensure his decaying body didn’t decay any faster as he made his way to the older parts of the dock wherein the Shrouded Widow could be found. In that part of town were the shades and mannequins.

Even the icosohedrons avoided the mannequins.

Rounding the last block, Kerrik saw the Crimson Wish - formerly a good time tavern, now a local mannequin and shade hangout. The shadow from the overhanging Widow’s mansion provided some good ‘food’ for the shades. Clustered around were a gaggle of humans with signs reading:

“No more portals!”

And

“The Widow Supports Portals!”

Kerrik avoided them as much as he could, nearly stepping in a rather large puddle. The Shrouded Widow’s mansion was as gray and sullen as ever, leaning slightly southward from its perch on a hill. Figures could be seen moving from window to shuttered window, performing their daily cleaning and searching for spies. Kerrik made his way up the rotting stone steps and slowly the front door guards came into view: mannequins stationed at the front door, as per usual - faceless and unmoving.

“Lavinia,” he said tipping his hat to the black one on the left - dressed in a pirate costume. “Scarlet,” he said to the white on the right in a long black duster. 

Slowly the front door opened.

“Master Kerrik,” Albert the strange human butler acknowledged slowly.

Kerrik smiled his rotten smile. “‘Allo Albert. Here for my mission.” Albert stepped aside. The mansion within was just as gray as it was without, but it had grown more alien over the past year. He didn’t like what the Syndicate was turning into - relying more and more on mannequins and shades instead of flesh and blood creatures like himself.

Kerrik was led up to the Widow’s room where - again - two mannequins stood outside her door, facing him. He looked away, heard a click, and looked back to see their pale arms outstretched and the widow’s door open.

“Hello Kerrik,” the Shrouded Widow - matriarch of the Dusk Syndicate - whispered. Kerrik had never seen her face: she was always in the gray-black shroud of mourning. He took quick account of the room: On the mantle was a dusty jar of the exact description given by the icosohedron.

“Mistress,” Kerrik said, bowing - no hint of unctuousness. “I’m here for your next mission.”

“Indeed,” she said, turning. She always seemed to glide along the ground. She picked up a parchment. “This is the description of an agitator we have been monitoring for months. Recently, they have disappeared.”

Kerrik read the description and gulped. “A twenty-sided polyhedron, you say?”

“Yes,” the widow confirmed. “About a yard on each side? Floats? Changes color based on mood? Do you know of such a thing?” She whispered condescendingly.

“Yes, mistress, yes,” Kerrik said, “I know about polyhedrons.”

“Good, then finding this one and ending its petty existence should not be a problem.”

Kerrik bowed and exited.

Did the Syndicate know? 

How long had they known?

They must know: the widow had never been that abrupt before... although, she was under a considerable amount of pressure from the populace as of late: The citizens had been having a difficult time with all the new creatures running about and portals being open and had been vehemently complaining.

The bribe he had received for the mummy dust was quite high, though, so Kerrik decided upon stealing from the widow that night. He made his way to the other side of town for the rest of the day, stopping for a few insects caught in cotton candy that he had spotted on his way over.

When night fell, Kerrik put on his anti-shade grips: gloves he had gotten from Selthia to repel the shadow creatures that the syndicate now seemed to employ as guards. The gloves themselves were made of some black leather-like material, inlaid with a few enchanted jewels. As far as the mannequins, all he had to do was keep an eye on them: they couldn’t move while observed.

Climbing the side of the house without making noise was difficult: he wondered if there could have been an easier way, but no - he was too recognizable. Dodging windows and keeping a good footing, Kerrik wondered if he was an even better thief dead than alive. After a solid twenty minutes of carefully scaling the boarded outside of the tall manor, Kerrik finally arrived at the widow’s room.

Peering inside, all he could see was a mannequin standing guard. It was strange, however: a black cloud fluttered around it. He ducked but glimpsed it turning on its own. Then a thought occurred...

...why would the Widow keep a jar of mummy dust?

He reached in, then felt a hand catch his right on his glove, followed by a screech. He grasped the jar just as he lost his grip on the awning.

Quickly, he loosed his grappling hook and - with a large bit of resistance - fell one story before rappelling down. There were more screeches, and more and more, as Kerrik clutched the jar, abandoned the rope, and sprinted for the front gates. He could hear the shuffling of the mannequins behind him as he ran.

Well, if they didn’t know before, it was safe to assume they knew now.

He threw his Dusk Syndicate periapt into the bay: they had been used to track traitors in the past. He ran and ran until he could hear the mannequins getting stuck in a substance he easily maneuvered around.

A gloppy voice in the distance: “I am so sorry! I do apologize!”

The next day, Kerrik had to rest and rejuvenate his undead limbs with a jelly: his veins no longer carried oxygen to his muscles, so this was the next best thing. He had stopped by an inn down the street and watched the constables and other city workers try to get the mannequins unstuck from their cotton-candy-moorings the next morning. By noon, a carrier had gotten Kerrik’s letter to his icosohedron friend and by the afternoon, the creature was floating outside his room.

“Hello there,” Kerrik said politely. The floating polyhedron squeezed itself in.

“Enough pleasantries,” it barked. “Do you have it?”

Kerrik - always willing to give a paying customer a show - produced the jar from behind his back. A sack of coins was tossed Kerrik’s way and, after a quick count, the jar was handed over.

“That concludes our business I believe,” the icosohedron said, and promptly left without another word.

Kerrik smiled - it was a good severance package for leaving the Syndicate. The day was blue and the constables were still having quite a bit of trouble getting the mannequins unstuck.

“So sorry,” he could hear a voice say faintly from down the street. 

Along the other street perpendicular to that one - which was empty from the commotion on the main street - he saw the icosohedron floating and then enter Selthia’s shop.

Kerrik squinted.