The Game Begins

If you recognize some of these names, you’re a nerd like me. (If you recognize all of them, I’d be thoroughly impressed!) This was written as some fun background vignette stuff for the players in a Dungeons & Dragons game I run for my friends. I decided to take the opportunity to practice writing in different voices and perspectives, and now I’m subjecting you to it. It probably won’t make a lot of sense beyond giving some vibes and the sense of a story beginning, but that’s okay—my players don’t know who any of these characters are either. Yet! In any case, let me know if the voices “work”!

Vincent Trench sank into his chair with his pipe and took a long puff.

Something was up, that’s for certain.

His contacts in the city had started to hear whispers a few weeks back. Something about a stone. New automatons on the market. Just hints. Snippets of overheard echoes in alleyways.

And then this attack came. A bold one. One with no warning. No obvious target, unless you count abducting Elminster. Or his soul, at least. The body was dead, and refused resurrection magic.

That was a big deal, but it didn’t make sense.

What did the Red Wizards want with Elminster’s soul?

Trench took another puff, wreathed in smoke and insulated from the bitter cold outside.

Winter was his least favorite season. The summer heat was better, but the real irritation was that some of his informants would be hunkered down to wait out the cold weather.

And something was up in his city.

He checked himself mentally. It wasn’t his city. He’d just gotten comfortable here. The people were nice. And it felt good to be a silent fish. Not big, but silent. To watch the games being played.

Trench sat bolt upright in his chair.

Of course. This was a Game.

Since when did the Red Wizards play the Game?

My Lord Neverember—
I have done as you requested, but your son is really quite a pain to keep track of. This game, that hunt, those friends, that tavern and that tavern oh and that other tavern too. I can only loiter in front of so many taverns before the Watch gets suspicious of me. And yes, he has your amulet still, though I’ve no clue why he wouldn’t. I’ll let you know if anything changes or if Renaer takes up any useful hobbies.
—Dalakhar

My Lord Neverember—
Why did it have to be the Xanathar Guild? Creepy eye things floating around everywhere. At least things with feet make noise if they’re sneaking up on you. Gazers are just suddenly there. Gives me the willies. Anyway, I’ll keep my eyes open and see if I can spot It.
—Dalakhar

MLN—
Found it. Will move soon.
—D

His bony fingers smoothed his robes and an observer might suspect that he contemplated the cool stone walls of the chamber. But the lich’s gaze encompassed more, far more, than the spartan trappings of his current lair.

It was finally beginning.

For centuries, he had maneuvered, with a well-timed rumor here, a modest gift there. The Vrilya had been most accommodating, for their trinkets proved to be convenient and sought-after tokens of his favor.

He contemplated the ring that clung loosely to his knuckle; it was one of the least interesting of the Vrilyan gifts, but the one most useful for him. Hardly an item to turn heads, but minds such as his despised such short-sighted pursuits as vanity.

He was in the long game.

Even now, the mortals in Waterdeep were beginning some “Great Game” in the chaos created by his initial attack to chase a few coins and temporal power. Leave them to their squabbling—he was going after the only sovereignty that mattered.

After long decades of searching, his infiltrators in the cults of Orcus and Set had finally found it, and soon it would be his. His thought bent upon it, and the walls of his chamber fully melted away from his consciousness as he considered his adversary. Ossithrax was a worthy opponent. The dragonlich was of greater power than he, but only for the nonce, for soon he would be strong enough to challenge the Keeper of the Tablet.

Elminster was an excellent first specimen. Just a few souls more, and he could make his move.

His phylacteries were secure in the Vault, and none had even gotten close to breaching its defenses, the product of his devious brilliance.

A hideous grin crept across the lipless rictus of his face, and the stone walls came back into focus.

Just a few souls more … and only the best would do.

Szass Tam again smoothed his red robes, and turned ever so slowly to face his lieutenant.

“Is everything prepared?”

“Any news from the little man?”

“Patience, my dear giant,” said Cyblenra. “He’s busy looking after his little plots and strings.”

“I don’t get what good he does down here. He’s up there.”

“What do your dreams tell you, O king?”

“Dreams say he gets smooshed by the Smoosher.”

“Then so it shall be. He has given our gifts to his minions. Trust me when I tell you that he underestimates our lagh-craft.”

“Bah,” said the Three-Eyed King. “Smoosher is better than lagh.”

“Then imagine,” said Cyblenra, sidling closer to the giant, “hordes of undead, a giant at the head of every battalion, ready to ‘smoosh’ at your command. The city above, crushed under your feet. You rule above. We rule below.”

“Still don’t get why we need him.”

“Chaos creates opportunities, and chaos between liches is the best kind of chaos.”

“I want to start.”

“Patience, my dear giant. Soon. Very, very soon.”

Despair.

It swelled.

The city’s emotions surged through it.

Fear.

It reached out. Touched a mind with greed.

Not much, not at this distance.

Just a glimmer.

Dragons.

An echo.

The Tablet.

A dream.

The Stone.

A whisper.

Power.

It swelled and surged as the emotions of a million souls swirled around it and it fed on them and it fed them in turn.

Chaos.