I sit in my favorite chair, the one with the giant sapphire Eye of Certainty inlaid at the top of its high mahogany back. I should really get that appraised. An unwelcome draft threatens to extinguish my candelabra, and the shifting light breaks my reverie.
The walls of this windowless room have not been so cleanly polished in at least a thousand years, perhaps not since the Goblin King first built the underground fortress that surrounds me. Terry, as I I knew him back then, a simple kid with big dreams, wisely had summoned me for architectural advice. If you were to view this complicated network of tunnels and chambers from above, looking down from the summit of Mount Terror, I am on the deepest level, in the throne room just off-center. Terry argued at first about that, before I pointed out that this arrangement completed the complex shape of a most powerful warding glyph, shared to me by the Old Ones. You see, the prophecy always foretold that I would be found here.
At the very least, I did not have to kill an old friend to move in more recently. Perhaps, he fled because he also had learned of the prophecy, but time had not been kind to Terry’s abandoned legacy. Few of my suggested security upgrades survived intact. Thankfully, my minions are tireless. I reach out psionically and am satisfied with their progress. New traps are being set. Valuables are stowed away safely again. I pause to reconsider not removing the library, but, how likely is it, really, that anyone above ground could understand those arcane languages? A small crew is sweeping around their loose, dry-fit stone repair of the back wall of the Tomb of the First Father. The passage beyond will lead directly into the fourth level of this fortress, and would spoil too much fun if left open and beckoning.
What is that? The Prophecy? Well, who among you, conducting yourself as I prefer for as long as I have, wouldn’t be cursed to know the method of your own doom, eventually? Mystics have to fill their scrolls. I just hope that all of my hard work is not undone in the process. This time, a Prince of the East will destroy me in the Dark Labyrinth of the Goblin King, blah blah. My favorite hobby has been to dispatch all male heirs in that kingdom. Frankly, I am getting bored, and yet, the last Queen of the East is incapable of having more children. Have I found a loophole? The right roll of the cosmic dice? If I continue to bribe the right senators, their path to a constitutional republic is all but assured. No more princes. I like the idea of resuming my work above ground, without distraction.
I am famished, and the Queen of the East was still rather distraught when I last visited. We connect again, but a wave of nausea briefly overtakes me. Her calm optimism leaves a bitter aftertaste. What have I missed?
They do not yet suspect that I sense many things from afar, what the rats and mice can see and hear. Dozens of eyes watch from the rafters as the Queen of the East receives an audience. At first, I can only scoff at the mismatched group assembled before her. Thankfully, not one holy symbol among them. Devout heroes can be such tiresome, self-righteous blowhards, and I can’t keep track of how many deities I have angered.
I yawn at the talkative three in front. The tall beefcake with a long sword and clean skin. The whisper thin archer. Is that a short lumberjack?
Off to the right, the one with the wide brimmed hat keeps checking the windows and doorways. He has a bent slug of bizarrely shaped cast metal tied to each hip. I have seen what such unassuming foreign weapons can do. I shall have to make inquiries with my spies in customs, to ensure I receive my proper percentage of gunpowder import tariffs.
Standing a few paces back from this lineup, the woman in purple robes could be an interesting distraction. She is probing the room with a graceful power I have not witnessed in a long time. I begin to pull back my awareness, lest I reveal myself too soon and spoil the game, when I notice the dark shadow in one corner. I stare with my remaining rat as the shadow moves forward to join the purple woman. Is it her familiar? I detect no scent of manbeast.
It is not a trick of the light or a glamour spell, but a figure wearing shadow. He looks up and stares through my rat with a confident smile. His laughter interrupts the Queen. He says “Forgive me, Your Highness, but he is here in this room with us, as I speak. He did not expect to face… Me.”
Damn me, that is a Necromancer. Worse, I think I know the guy. I frantically search the castle. The Prince was lying in state in the Grand Hall, where many people are gathered in delicious worry, now that his body is missing. That small pleasure is fleeting, as my awareness in the royal crypts below dwindles slowly. The undead Prince is consuming my rodent spies one by one.
Well, that is that. Now, I can only wait for their first move.
A great prompt to break in 2025: “My son has been brutally killed and I seek revenge,” said the Queen. “You have my sword.” proclaimed the Hero. “And my bow,” added the Archer. “And my magic,” intoned the Mage. “And my gun,” quipped the Ranger. “AND MY AXE!” exclaimed the Warrior. “And your son!” replied the Necromancer.