Wednesday, May 9, 2018

From the Memories of Callidus Igni

The first time he donned the cloak and picked up the lantern, he knew it was the one. Not writing up the character sheet, not bickering with the DM about his character's abilities or growth potential, not the DM's attempt at punishment when insisting he had to make his own gear--that was a laugh.

Callidus was no shy hand at making clothing. He'd won adoration if not awards at conventions for the work he'd done, not just the "sewmanship," but also the design. He was no stranger to devaluing his own work, and so declined from competing; it didn't help that he had no desire to participate in the parading and acting on stage.

No, the woods were his stage, and the only spotlight he needed was tucked under his cloak. That's something that you wouldn't find in a standard cloak: utility pockets. When it had been inspected by his DM, that was a point of contention. Just wear a utility vest, he's said. And Callidus did, wear a vest, that is, but one could never have enough pockets.

And a cloak weighed down by nothing but itself didn't flow right, gusting about too freely with the wind like some silly superhero. Callidus wasn't a superhero, or a regular hero, or even an anti-hero. He was a bug in the code, a fly in the soup. His role in the game was to ruin everyone else's plans.

He was Callidus Igni, the Cunning Fire, and anybody who got too close would get burned.

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