“So the shiny runes are… the reflection on the water?”

“Precisely! But there are many varieties and states of water, yes? How to maintain a reflection upon the frothing waves, or to split one across all the drops in a storm so that they fall in unison? What if one could calm and freeze the sea, carve off a piece of that reflection, and deposit it in another, still liquid sea—and have it continue reflecting that original sea? With a more expansive view of magic, one not held captive by axioms or collecting dust in a university library, one begins to see the hidden world truly unfold."

“Ez, I don’t wanna be in this chair all day.”

“Yes, yes.” Ezren scowled at his subject. “‘You can talk and tattoo at the same time,’ I believe were the exact words. Very well.”

Tak.

A precise blow, and Ezren’s needle once more pierced Valeros’s skin to deposit a drop of ink. Ezren placed the instrument on the work table, lifted another from a pot of sparking red liquid, muttered over it, and then the stuff turned just as black as any other ink. Valeros had asked about this about half an hour ago, which had earned him the lecture on magical theory.

Valeros wasn’t sure what hurt more, Ezren’s needle or the knowledge that he still had hours of pontification to sit through before the tattoo was done.
Illustration by Ian Perks

Tak.

Tak.

Tak.

Ezren lifted the striking rod, sighed brusquely, and set aside his tools. “Valeros, this patronage lasts for weeks. Can you at least try to be a good conversation partner?”

Valeros went to massage his temples, remembered he couldn’t move his right arm, and growled in frustration. “That’s rich. I tried with your big wet mirror analogy, you know! Hard to stay engaged when I can’t get a word in edgewise. Plus what do I know about magic theory? You want to have a proper conversation, you need to—"

The workshop’s southern face exploded inward in a storm of wood and dust. A ceiling joist smashed onto one end of Valeros’s chair, knocking it over and sending him rolling across the floor. Ezren hit the far wall, followed by several pots of ink—one of which hit the man square in the head. He folded like an anemic bird.

Valeros, dazed, opened an eye. No sign of sword: bad. Shield nearby: good. Shield slightly bent: standard.

Nothing broken, good. Lotta shallow stinging cuts, fair enough, not great.

Heavy, gurgling breathing, and what sounded like tightening rope.

Valeros rolled. A gnarled and glowing fist smashed through a fallen bookshelf and practically disintegrated the floor where his torso had been. He kneeled, lifted his shield, and turned to face his opponent.

Then swore. “Oh, give me a break.”

The person in front of him—he was almost certain it was a person—needed to crouch to fit in the cramped workshop. Which they were not doing, having instead used their neck and head as a battering ram. They had ploughed through roof and wreckage in their attempt to crush Valeros. Human-shaped, their body was covered in thick, obsidian scabs, viscous blood pouring from fissures like molten steel into a mold. They radiated heat like a furnace.

“Ez,” he called. “Ez!”

No sound but the hot roar of the giant’s breathing—and another tightening rope. He whipped his shield up, caught part of the blow, spun, and let the monstrosity stagger past him.

Fast not nimble. Probably too big to take out himself? Outmaneuver it, check on Ezren. Yeah.

Deep breath. Shield set. Knife out. Keep moving. In, sting. Out, shield up, make space. He was the horsefly, the heaving thing was the horse. Each bite of the blade loosed a cascade of blazing sludge that burned its way through the floor.

Sting, make space. Stay hard to see. Avoid the—

Valeros’s bones rattled inside his flesh and his vision exploded with hot, angry light.

“Back!”

Ezren’s voice rose over the assailant’s furnace rage. Valeros dipped in and out of consciousness, the ringing in his ears sometimes giving way to the whoosh of fire magic. He caught glimpses of Ezren wreathed in blue-white symbols, launching gouts of flame from one hand. His other held the snake-head staff, its eyes sapphire coals, surrounded in a blazing corona that flared every time the creature swung at Ezren. The fists seemed to hit an invisible barrier, and light erupted in a crackling flash.

It was pretty impressive, honestly. But Ezren was going to run out of steam soon.

The broken armor stand was leaning against the wall nearby, Valeros’s breastplate wrapped around it by the force of the giant’s initial entry. He lifted it, tested its weight. It was no sword, but it would do.

Valeros charged, makeshift weapon high, and brought it down on the thing’s spine. It screamed in a blast of sparks and spun toward him. Ezren continued raining flame into it. With each one, those internal fires grew hotter, and Valeros hoped that Ezren knew what the hell he was doing.

Then the tattoo started moving. Almost tickled, at first. It pulsed in time with Ezren’s magic, flared when those blue-white runes did. The tiger stripes slithered down his arm and up the erstwhile mace, and now each blow brought its own arcane heat. In, body blow, out. In, pull attention, out.

Then he raised the makeshift weapon high and brought it down on the creature’s leg. It stumbled forward and fell, now almost too bright to look at, its fissures incandescent, limbs churning on the splintered floor, little fires beginning to sprout around it.

It howled and launched its entire body at Valeros. At the same time, those tiger stripes leapt onto the shield Valeros was already raising. Monster met metal, and there was a deafening thunderclap.

---

Ezren said it was like a kettle with no lid. Too much steam, boom. Valeros didn’t know why you’d make a furnace-thing weak to fire, but hey, spell people were weird.

“So then what was the twisty tattoo thing?”

Valeros was mopping up ink, again. The last mop had melted after he’d tried to use it on the purple stuff.

Ezren looked up from the singed diagrams he was attempting to reconstruct. “I… honestly don’t know, which is very exciting! I think the tattoo was mimicking the ablative properties of my spellshaping. Which shouldn’t have been possible, given the crystallization matrix I established, but it was a tattoo, and blood, flesh, and hair are all traditionally puissant."



“Huh, I s’pose I could see that. So you moved the wet reflection to my big red mirror?”

“…so, my friend, you were paying attention!”

“I mean, kinda. Just… next time make it interesting, y’know? Say what the magic does, not just how it works in the fantastical and esoteric realms of the mind or whatever. You’re attaching it to my body, so tell me what it does, how I can use it. That’s the interesting stuff. Sorta like learning how someone fights.”

Ezren smiled and tapped the head of his staff on the pewter mug hanging from Valeros’s belt.

“Well, then. What say we talk the finer points of steel and ritual over a drink?”

Valeros held out a hand, offering to carry Ezren’s pack on the rough road into town.

“Maybe touch on who wants us dead so bad, too. Since we’ll be here for weeks and all. But, yeah,” he said, smiling, “that sounds good.”

About the Author

Andrew Mullen has been freelancing for Paizo and other publishers since 2017. He brings a keen interest in language and the interplay of geography and culture to his work, as seen in the Magaambya section of Lost Omens Character Guide, the xulgaths in the Extinction Curse Adventure Path, and numerous other monsters over the years. As a full-time parent, his daughter is his most important monster

About Iconic Encounters

Iconic Encounters is a series of web-based flash fiction set in the worlds of Pathfinder and Starfinder. Each short story provides a glimpse into the life and personality of one of the games’ iconic characters, showing the myriad stories of adventure and excitement players can tell with the Pathfinder and Starfinder roleplaying games.

 “Can you at least tell me what it does?”

Lem frowned down at the talisman. Feiya had just handed him a cord of braided sinew hung with scraps of fabric and a small yellowed fang.

“All in due time.” Feiya’s coyly reassuring smile almost achieved its goal. Her eyes betrayed her, preoccupied as they were with scanning the darkened corners of the shop. She was on the hunt, and even more terse than usual.

“Out of sight, fang near a vein, yes? Parallel. When the entity manifests, draw its attention. Then,” she growled through a predatory smile, “it’s mine.”

“So,” she chirped, malice evaporated, “the surprise is intentional!”

“Do consider how it might behoove you to be a bit more forthright?” Lem offered cheerfully, shirt pulled over one shoulder as he tied the charm around his bicep. “People appreciate directness! For instance, a witch might clearly label her concoctions in order to assure others that… hrm. Feiya?”

His willowy companion had drifted off around a rack of hats, their broad brims embroidered with scenes of local myths and histories. Lem sighed, dropped his shoulders slightly, and allowed a frown to darken his face. He sidestepped in front of a fitting mirror.

“She’s not listening, is she, Lem?” he asked his reflection morosely.

 “No, Lem, I don’t believe she is.” The mirrored image of Lem in the glass straightened, adopting a genteel tone. “Foregoing the pleasure of our company to go ask a spider for its gallbladder. Or some such.” Lem wrinkled his nose at himself. “Remember the rat?”

“How could I forget?” Mirror Lem mourned anew. “All that chittering, night after night. Daji said they preferred the ferns, but I think he just wanted an excuse to make noise when we were sleeping.”

They’d been tracing the Crushing Shadow for a few weeks, following a trail of property damage and strangulations across inland Ravounel. As best they could tell their quarry wasn’t a person, but some sort of magical force. Lem had picked up traces of hatred and want from the recent murder sites, not as acrid as one would expect from a mortal actor. They were attenuated—just not by time. With the most recent victim, they’d arrived right as her gaze became still and empty, yet even with violence so fresh, the emotions were wan and… dusty, was how he’d described it to Feiya. She had immediately agreed, then started down the path that had led to his strange new accessory.

An integral part of this was her nine-tailed fox’s repeated interviews with a rat. It was of utmost importance, Feiya had said, that the rat give the fang of its own free will. Mostly this had meant Lem got to practice the flute and forage for mushrooms for a few hours a day, and eventually Daji had returned triumphant from his protracted negotiations.

Feiya’s “other source” had revealed that, apart from the deceased’s, no flesh or blood were present at the killing. Lem had overheard Feiya mumbling in her sleep twice. The first time, she had mentioned “the lady’s dark and diaphanous wings,” and the second was something about traveling a path of stars. Then Lem shifted in his bedroll and saw Daji’s little red eyes peering at him over his pack. Since then, he’d done his best to ignore her troubled sleep.

Now, here they were in some packrat’s palace, searching hatboxes for traces of an invisible and apparently unliving force with a particular love for flattened tracheae.

 “Come now, Sad Lem, your tenebrous friend seems to have it all well in hand,” Mirror Lem reassured. “Just make sure that little—hey!”

A flash of white flitted behind a neat stack of bones. Muddy pawprints led from the ossuary and back to…

Real Lem looked down. “I just washed my feet! Do you know how long it takes to style my hair?” he groaned. “‘Back in a town,’ I thought, ‘do something nice for yourself after weeks of rainy roads.’ Should have known.”

A vulpine snicker sounded from the bones. A pair of red eyes glittered between them, then Daji strolled out into sight, nine tails swaying languidly.

“But Lem, practice makes perfect. Consternation builds character. That is my gift to you—the chance to grow as a performer and a person.” The fox knelt, wriggled as if to jump, then paused. “It was both, by the way. They liked ferns, and I liked needling you.”

Daji launched himself upward with a little yipping laugh, landing both atop a bookshelf and above the pincushion Lem had thrown at him. There was a dejected pah, pahf as the makeshift missile bounced off the shelf and fell to the floor.

---

Feiya snorted in amusement. Daji and the affable musician clearly enjoyed their verbal sparring. Truthfully, Lem was better company than she was used to. He didn’t ask uncomfortable questions, and if she shied away from a topic, he never brought attention to it; he just steered clear in future conversations. With him, the shadows of her past weren’t quite so deep, and it was easier to tend the cold and righteous fire at her core.

Never to gutter, never to rage, a still and safe anger to burn ‘til the day.

That was why they were here, really. She had been tracing a ley line when she stopped in a village for supplies. She’d entered the provisioner’s to find a red-jacketed halfling gentleman consoling a weeping shopkeeper. Townsfolk were hauling a body out the door and, being a curious sort, Feiya asked some questions. Seems the insightfulness of her queries impressed Red Jacket and suggested she might be able to help.

She was going to say no. Then she’d heard a child crying upstairs.

Certain things could stoke that cold fire until it blazed through her, and no fuel was greater than a child’s distress. Her face must have twisted, because Red Jacket paused, gave her a curious look, then handed her a torn scrap of the victim’s scarf.

“What do you make of this?” he’d said. “You know, magically. I’m guessing you’ll pick up some of the same things I did.”

Then he’d quickly closed and opened one eye at her? It was oddly endearing.

Now they were traveling companions, at least until this Crushing Shadow was found—assuming Lem didn’t strangle Daji first. She could hear her two companions locked in another of their philosophical debates, this one on the relative merits of mortal works.

Lem was lifting a gleaming sword from its velvet cradle. “…Yes, mortal work, and mortals perish. Yes, steel, and steel rusts. But the meaning we attach to the steel, to the sword and whatever violence it wreaks, that meaning grows tall and wide as wild rose, becomes a vast and tangled thing of beauty and danger both.”

Lem didn’t think Feiya was listening, but that never stopped him from talking all the same.
Illustration by Firat Solhan in Pathfinder Player Core.

“That is one of this great symphony’s mysterious movements!” Lem was winding himself up, gazing into the blade’s mirrored surface, talking as much to his reflection as to the witch’s familiar. “What may we mortals work that outlasts and out grows us? How privileged those few who see how the first stone they lay grows into a road, hear their song a continent and a lifetime away. Why, it reminds me of…”

Daji was weaving toward Feiya between the skulls and candlesticks of a high shelf.

“I walked away after the first sentence.”

He hopped down to sit in front of a black cloak with a vaguely sinister air, and cocked his head at it.

“Smells dangerous.” He nosed the dark fabric, which rippled in a disappointingly fabric-like manner. “Alas. Your new friend talks a lot, by the way.”

“Friend? But yes, he does. I think I like it? It’s comforting. And he makes me laugh in a way that feels good.” Feiya chewed on her lip. “You make me laugh like a cat who’s not done with their dinner. And that usually feels good, too. Mostly.”

She walked her finger under Daji’s chin and gave him a scratch. He made his I am pleased sound, though he’d never admit it. They sat a moment, just the two of them, in the quiet. It was almost like those first days, together in the snow.

“You’ve come far, little one, and she’ll lead you farther still,” purred the fox.

 “…Why is it quiet?”

Feiya turned to see the cloak strangling Lem.

It was wrapped around his neck, a sooty version of that eight-legged fish he’d been trying to explain to her the other day, and he was scrabbling at it to no avail.

She reached into herself for the cold anger that was always there. In her mind's eye it rose from the depths, trailing mist, and curled into long and wicked needles to jab into the minds of those who had wronged her. She snarled, and an invisible fang streaked toward the belligerent garment.

It ricocheted harmlessly off the utter void where the thing’s intent would have been, if it were a thinking, feeling creature.

“Daji!” She yelped, and her familiar responded with his own hungry growl.

---

Woe, woe, for the snuffing of a short-burned flame, the flower plucked before it blooms.

Red and black flames licked slowly at the edges of Lem’s darkening vision.

Enough, Sad Lem. Ideas?

Not a one! Oh, but I think he has some.

Daji was crouched on some taxidermized creature, his nine tails waving slowly back and forth, that bright red coloration crawling across his fur. His eyes glimmered bright as dying stars.

“A creature in sharp artifice will gnaw a limb to aid its flight,” said the fox, words smoldering and spreading. “A last gasp caught twixt death and life can tear as tender as a saw.”

One of Lem’s ragged breaths splintered, somehow, and then each splinter spread knife-like wings to launch itself at the cloak twisted about his neck. It writhed as the magic tore through stitch and seam. Fabric turned rotten and brittle, and the tightness around his neck eased.

The thin trickle of air into his lungs was all it took. The curiosity, the wonder, the desire to live and find out rose from his throat. He fumbled with numbing fingers, but his flute was unreachable. Still, he wasn’t without tools.

A single clear note sounded from his pursed lips. It shimmered against the ear, brittle, a raindrop brimming with the vast waters of mortal emotion and experience. Even standing as he was in death’s threshold, he marveled at how the smallest part of something could reflect the beauty of the whole—

echo of malice pale stitched heart wounds reflection of right that’s it—

“Feiya!” he rasped. “Not possessed, an echo! Recall the sound, remember your—” He stopped, unable to name the thing he had seen in her eyes that first day. He’d carried it himself, once.

But as the note faded, Lem saw the realization spread across her face. She stepped forward, lifted one cool, sharp claw—she had claws?—in front of his face, then sliced it downward. The tip bit into the writhing fabric of the cloak.

His bicep went cold, and that little yellow fang on the sinew thong ripped its way through his shirt. It, too, splintered, and suddenly he was surrounded by whizzing shards of bone, all tearing through gaps left by Daji’s spell. Between the talisman, the magic, and Feiya’s claws, the malicious thing was nothing more than gray tatters, some silver, and a few rapidly darkening red gems.

Lem slumped to the floor and took in a ragged breath.

“Maybe ‘all in due time’ could happen a bit sooner?” The gleam of candleflame across dully metallic nails caught his eye. “And since when did you get so pointy?”

“I’m not certain. It’s been a while.” Feiya lifted her hand to watch her nails lighten and retract. “Thank you for that final piece of the puzzle. I thought it was possession, but when you said to… you know.”

“Yes.” Lem’s bushy eyebrows scrunched together. “Feiya, I can only guess at what’s happened, and I truly don’t mean to pry, but with the strangling…”

A newly lengthened nail pressed against his lips, but Feiya’s expression was calm.

“It’s alright. Thank you,” she whispered, smiling slightly, “friend. Now, we should probably leave before—”

A shadow fell across the shop door’s stained-glass window. The key turned in the lock with the smoothness of an old habit, and a stout man stepped into the building. One look, and his face was rapidly darkening with anger.

“Mmm,” mused Lem, surrounded by shredded garments, bone fragments, and broken glass. “Bit late for that.”

About the Author

Andrew Mullen has been freelancing for Paizo and other publishers since 2017. He brings a keen interest in language and the interplay of geography and culture to his work, as seen in the Magaambya section of Lost Omens Character Guide, the xulgaths in the Extinction Curse Adventure Path, and numerous other monsters over the years. As a full-time parent, his daughter is his most important monster.

About Iconic Encounters

Iconic Encounters is a series of web-based flash fiction set in the worlds of Pathfinder and Starfinder. Each short story provides a glimpse into the life and personality of one of the games’ iconic characters, showing the myriad stories of adventure and excitement players can tell with the Pathfinder and Starfinder roleplaying games.

"Ready to keep going? Break time’s done.” Kyra straightened from her meditative stance in the darkened, deadened grass.

Merisiel had been pacing for the past few minutes already, eager to continue onward, muscles twitching in anticipation—chomping at the bit to keep going. Kyra had seen the elf’s posture like this many times and already knew the answer before it was voiced. Still, Merisiel turned an analytical eye toward her companion.

“That’s on you,” Merisiel said. “You used some magic back there. Are you ready to keep moving?”

“I’m ready,” Kyra confirmed, stretching away the stasis in her limbs, chuckling to herself as Merisiel practically leapt forward.

Kyra hung back a step, letting the elf take lead this time. The light was dim and muted here, and Merisiel was far better trained to step silently. Not that they particularly needed to, but it was generally good practice, especially here. This woodland commanded an almost reverent silence.

It wasn’t like other places Kyra had visited. She’d certainly seen her share of forest travel, but the Uskwood—and this particular part of it—was something different. Trees grew tall but held an innate roughness to them; branches twisted, splintered, or hunched as though in pain, yet still reached hopefully to the sky.

She couldn’t blame the trees for reaching toward the light. She would, too, if this was her home. Even the air felt heavier here than it did in sun-touched lands. Blue-gray fog wisped lazily at her feet and slithered away like a living creature. It made travel difficult for the two of them, obscuring the distance but offering a dim, hazy reflection of the light. Small comfort there.

There were stretches of Nidal and the Uskwood where the border between their universe and the shadowy realm of the Netherworld grew thin. While several of these rifts were already known and studied, the two adventurers knew there might be others that would randomly appear.

They’d just hoped to avoid them. Alas.

“It’s a nice place to visit, but I wouldn’t want to live here,” Merisiel said, smirking as she made her way forward step by careful step. In the unsettling silence, she didn’t have to speak loudly for her words to travel.

Kyra smiled despite herself. It was technically Merisiel’s fault they agreed to this mission in the first place; she wouldn’t have found herself in the Uskwood under normal circumstances. She responded quietly, “Definitely not.”

Silence descended on them again, smothering and cumbersome. Step by step, they proceeded alertly in this sinister quietude. The shadow-swept wood played with their senses; several times already during their trek, they’d both caught motion out of the corners of their eyes, only to find a disturbing lack of anything substantial. Whispers just on the edge of hearing teased them, only to result in nothing: no one there and little more than a persistent feeling of disquiet and of being toyed with by forces ever out of sight.

It was starting to grate on them both.

“Sooo,” sighed Merisiel quietly, “not to alarm you, but I’ve started to see things again.”

“Me too. Eyes watching in the trees,” Kyra answered. “More this time.”

Meri nodded agreement and both women moved their hands toward their respective weapons in preparation for a fight. During the last few hours, the appearance of the wispy illusions had all been false alarms, but to relax now would be foolish.

The Netherworld is no place for a casual forest stroll. Illustration by Emile Denis from Pathfinder GM Core.

As if guided by the hands of divinity, Kyra caught sight of strange, glowing eyes at the corner of her vision, then turned to look in the opposite direction—just in time to watch the nearby shadows spit out a giant, color-drained cat, its jaw extended and its long, misshapen claws stretching out for her, mid-pounce!

She met the strange creature with a startled cry. Her scimitar flashed in her hand, angled between them. It was an imperfect defense, she knew, even before her sword arm complained from the sharp sting of claw and tooth. At least the creature was wounded as well; its red blood turned gray and shadowy as it met the dark ground and melted into it.

If I’d hesitated but one second longer...

But then Merisiel was beside her, jumping from the fog-filled shadows behind the beast. Her face was contorted into a vicious snarl, and her daggers were lightning-fast, stabbing at the creature who attacked her wife before she retreated out of sight again.

Kyra’s mind whirled as quickly as her scimitar. They’d already encountered a small group of similar creatures, bleached of their color yet somehowharder to see in the dark mists of the forest, which commanded the shadows at their will and were, in turn, twisted by them. The previous attack had come from a sickly-looking stag who needed reminding that deer did not typically hunger for flesh. It was surely a mercy to put the crazed, blood-hungry creature to rest. They’d learned a lot from that battle.

It was the Netherworld’s influence on the real world, she knew. The animal inhabitants of the shadowy plane were bizarre, distorted beings that were a strange mirror to their own. When the planes bled into each other, as they did so strangely here… Well, it was no surprise there was some intermingling of worlds.

That didn’t make it any easier, though.

“It brought a friend!” Merisiel emerged from the shadows again, this time sending two daggers flying. One sank into the meaty, pale shank of the shadow-cat, and the other flew right past Kyra’s ear, hurtling toward the new enemy. “I think you’d be better handle that one, my love!”

With Meri commanding the feline’s attention, Kyra whipped around to follow the line of the elf’s weapon, though the crawling feeling along the back of her neck already told her the nature of the enemy behind her.

The creature was difficult to pick out at first, as it seemed to be merely the shadow of a nearby tree. Kyra’s eyes caught the strange, liquid movement of the being as it slithered from its base, all harsh angles and thorny, smoky darkness made manifest and given horrible life.

Horrible unlife, Kyra corrected herself, already feeling the burning heat of holy purpose filling her breast. Her right hand clenched around the golden idol of Sarenrae and thrust it up and outward. The Dawnflower’s magic answered, and the cleric focused it onto the shadow. A holy nimbus surrounded her clenched fist, and golden, magical fire lashed toward the creature, hungrily seeking to purge the corruption with its own radiant force. The undead reeled as divine magic lashed it, leaving it wounded and weakened.

Between the two of them, their enemies stood no chance. Merisiel’s seemingly endless supply of daggers, combined with her supreme agility, allowed her to easily get herself into advantageous positions. Kyra’s battle might shone as brightly as the angelic ankh idol in her hand, held aloft and glowing with sanctified cleansing magic.

It never failed to impress her how good of a team she and Merisiel made. In short time, their enemies were conquered, their weapons were cleaned, and their wounds were healed with a few, warming words and channeled magics.

Kyra sighed, worn down from a long day of exploration and battle. With a weary smile, she insisted, “Next time, love, I choose the mission.”

“How was I to know it was going to be this exciting?” Merisiel playfully retorted before dropping back into a more serious tone. “Look, we’re almost there. Just think: soon we’ll be at Volsazni Dezarr’s country home. We’ll enjoy a nice, long rest, a good meal, and we’ll be able to ask him more about the artifact we’re looking for. Easy!”

Kyra released a long breath. They could both use a good rest, she admitted to herself.

She had no idea how true that would become by journey’s end.

About the Author

Rachael Cruz is an award-winning writer / game designer whose TTRPG work can be found in Conan: Adventures in an Age Undreamed-Of, Dune: Adventures in the Imperium, Fantasy Age, RuneQuest, Star Trek Adventures, and more! She loves to help people of all ages play pretend and tell amazing stories together. For contact info, social addresses, and general writerly stuff, visit rachaelcruz.carrd.co.

About Iconic Encounters

Iconic Encounters is a series of web-based flash fiction set in the worlds of Pathfinder and Starfinder. Each short story provides a glimpse into the life and personality of one of the games’ iconic characters, showing the myriad stories of adventure and excitement players can tell with the Pathfinder and Starfinder roleplaying games.

Yoon’s target lay broken in the soot in front of her. She felt the air enter her lungs, but she didn’t pay it any heed, only the energy it held. The breath circulated through the young kineticist’s veins, coursing through her organs and flickering with the faintest traces of elemental power as it passed through each—at least, until it reached her heart and the gate within it. The energy ignited within Yoon, blazing as her body briefly became one with the Plane of Fire itself. Yoon’s eyes danced with embers as she set them on her target, thrusting her fist forward in a practiced stance and letting her breath out with a shout.

The log was no match, and it burst into flames.

“Do it again! Do it again!” Behind Yoon, the twins jumped up and down. Yoon smiled. The girls were growing up, and though they weren't quite as big as those two oni that Yoon had fought on the outskirts of Tsukiwa, they were about as relentless.

“OK, just one more,” Yoon drew her arms back, sweeping one leg in an exaggerated spiral she’d learned from a dancer at a roadside tavern (though she edited this part out for the twins’ young ears). “What should your eonni call this one?” Flames began to gather at her fingertips. Kyung-ja and Kyung-ok opened their mouths excitedly, but—

“Yoon! Ease up on the stove!” Yoon’s aunt turned around from where she was chopping vegetables. “Any more and we’ll burn our bottoms when we sit down to eat!”

Groans of disappointment came from the twins, deprived of their chance to see another of their cousin’s moves in action. “But dinner’s almost ready. Why don’t you three set the table?” The groans turned to cheers as food made its way out of the oven and delicious smells spilled forth.

---

“So there I was, the Gunpowder Gang all around me! They'd been skulking around the outskirts of Okim for weeks, and they had made off with the latest shipment of firearms. We tracked them to the edge of the forest, but they were holed up in a fort that was covered in giant spiked walls and surrounded by explosive mines. The rest of my team was stuck picking their way through the traps, but they couldn't keep out Yoon! I gathered my flames below me and blasted into the air—you know, your eonni can fly, sometimes.” She winked at the twins, whose mouths were hanging open so wide that a bean sprout fell out onto Kyung-ja’s plate.

Yoon defeats the Gunpowder Gang (Yoon’s version of events). Illustration by Yanis Cardin.

Yoon took a spoonful of piping hot stew from the table, putting it over her rice, before shifting a bit to pull her leg off the floor and onto a cushion. She hated to admit it, but her aunt had been right, she really had gone a little overboard with the stove that was now merrily warming the floors. “I landed in the middle of more hobgoblins than you’ve ever seen! They were all around me, so Gom-Gom came out to help.”

“Gom-Gom... came out?” Kyung-ok looked at the ragged stuffed animal attached to the side Yoon’s bag.

“Yeah, like this! I needed the backup,” Yoon waved her hand, conjuring flames in the shape of her beloved stuffed toy. The flame jumped from her hand to land on the table, where he struck a fighting pose.

Yoon’s uncle coughed once as he poured Yoon a glass of clear spirits. “Yoon, Gom-Gom’s melting the ice, and I’d hate to drink this expensive liquor at room temperature after you brought it all the way here.”

“Ah, sorry, Imobu.” Yoon nodded as she took the glass, turned away from the table, and drank it down. She turned back to the twins. “Anyway, there we were, just me and Gom-Gom. He watched my back, breathing out fire like PWOOSH, PWOOSH!” Yoon blew air in her little cousins’ faces. “I faced forward and saw the Gunpowder Gang’s leader, a hobgoblin who was six—no, seven—feet tall, holding a bomb in either hand. Do you know what I did?”

Yoon’s aunt wiped at Kyung-ja’s mouth, “Did you shoot the bombs in his—”

“I shot the bombs in his hands! They blew him backwards into the wall, putting him down for the count! But his lackeys were spilling out, running around and trying to arm their cannons. Gom-Gom and I leapt into the air as they fired and the cannonballs exploded around the fort, and then I reached into the Plane of Fire, pulling out as much flame as I could. Then—what should I call this one?”

“Super-duper Phoenix Detonation!”
“Million Billion Shooting Stars!”
“Gom-Gom Blaze Crusher!”

“Solar Flames in a Swirling Sphere!”

“Eonni Blows Up the World!”

Yoon chuckled. “Let’s go with Solar Detonation.” She continued the story of her overwhelming victory, while her aunt rolled her eyes, her uncle laughed, and warmth filled the house.

---

The twins yawned as Yoon drew the covers up. “Do you really have to go in the morning?” Kyung-ja asked.

Yoon ruffled her cousin’s hair. “I promised old man Lim that I’d help guard his caravan on the way to Haseong. Not everyone’s as invincible as me, you know, so I gotta help look out. But I'll be back before the seasons change.” Kyung-ok opened her mouth to protest. “Before I go, what colors do you two want?”

The protest turned to excitement. “Blue!”

“Purple!”

“Blue and purple, coming right up.” Yoon reached inwards, and with the slightest of breaths pulled two sparks forth, one in either hand. With the gentlest of motions, she spun them, one into a soft blue flicker and the other into a warm purple glow, and she set the two spheres above each mattress, dimming them as she did so. It took a little bit of her power, but Yoon had more than enough to spare on two nightlights for the important task of watching over her cousins while she was away.

“Be good now, the lights will know if you're naughty, and then I won't bring you a present back from the city.” The nightlights had no such power, but the girls didn't know that. The twins nodded vigorously, and soon were off to sleep.

Yoon shut the door and went back to the dining table. The morning would bring more journeys and battles, but for tonight, she could go for another drink with her uncle and another bite of her aunt's stew.

James Case (he / him)
Senior Designer

"And then he walked face-first into a swarm of mosquitos, just like that!” Lini chuckled. “I remember the first time I did that, so many years ago! It nearly scared the life out of me. He’s fine, though; just rattled from the experience.”

The orange-haired dwarf grunted acknowledgement, pausing in his forward motion long enough to ask, “This was while I was scouting?”

“Right,” the lively gnome confirmed. “That’s why Valeros and Ezren stayed back at camp. Val wanted to sleep off the mosquitos…”

“…and Ezren wanted to avoid getting his shoes wet again,” her friend grumbled.

“You’re not wrong.” Lini grinned, hopping over an old, grounded vine. “But I can’t really blame him for wanting to stay behind, Harsk. He’s been seeing enemies everywhere. Every plant’s a flesh-eater and each low-hanging vine’s a snake to the poor guy.”

“He’s not like us,” Harsk summarized.

Straight to the point as usual, the little druid mused, but no less correct for it. The three of them—her beloved companion Droogami, the ranger Harsk, and she—had already fallen into a comfortable pattern. Each of them knew the best places to set one’s feet to keep their steps as unobtrusive as possible, and they had a general knowledge of what to watch out for in this environment. Each was more comfortable here, in the middle of the thick-grown jungle, than in the chaos of “civilized” settlements. Likewise, they each trusted the other to be competent in their own skills.

“Right. And it’s never good to be alone, so I didn’t really mind them hanging back at camp while we went ahead,” Lini finished. She saw the momentary flicker of a grin cross Harsk’s face and knew he’d been thinking much the same thing about their traveling companions.

Exploring the jungle had been a lot easier since letting Ezren and Valeros stay back, she had to admit.

A short, sharp hiss of sound from the dwarf interrupted the conversation. Lini crouched instinctively and then rolled her eyes at herself; she was the one holding the torch. Most obvious target, anyone?

Fortunately, the ranger’s quick warning was not immediately followed by an attack. It was just a signal for her to be cautious. Moving forward quietly, keeping low, the green-haired druid soon discovered what Harsk had seen: through the darkness ahead, a stone monolith reached up through the shadows, impeding their chosen path.

Lini’s curiosity tingled through her, the thrill of discovery barely held at bay until she received an all-clear signal from Harsk and saw Droogami return from circling in the opposite direction. She practically bounced as she approached, hopping atop a nearby root, a thick but sturdy remnant from a long-fallen tree. At this greater height, she raised her small hand and gently cleared away a curtain of overgrown moss, then rested it along the edge of the strange, sculpted rock.

“Another one in the distance,” Harsk said, pointing out a similar shape at the edge of their vision. “Wonder how far these go.”

“Droo, look at this,” she breathed, running her fingers along the rock. “How old do you think this thing is?”

As ever, the snow leopard refused to lend her appraisal to the situation. Lini chuckled. “I bet Ezren’s kicking himself now. He’d have wanted to see this.” Though, she had to admit to herself, he’d have certainly seen that vine over there as another snake, that plush leaf as a squirmy caterpillar, that hanging bit of moss as a bat…

“We’ll bring them tomorrow. More light then,” Harsk said.

Nodding, Lini’s hand brushed over a dip in the stone’s surface. Following a hunch, the gnome cleared away more of the moss. “Hang on a tic...! Hey, Harsk, there’s some sculpted stuff on the monolith! Kinda looks all swirly and serpentine. Come and look!”

“One moment,” answered the ranger. His own exploration had turned up something odd: dark, splotchy stains on an otherwise-green leaf. Blood...? He looked up, trying to locate the source of any drip, but found nothing of interest above. His stomach tensed, as it often did when he realized there was likely danger nearby.

You never know what you’ll find in the heart of the jungle. Illustration by WIll O'Brien from Pathfinder GM Core.

Meanwhile, Lini’s eyes shifted, focusing just beyond the edges of the monolith, past the normal spectrum of light, into the space that allowed her to detect the presence of magic. What she found drew a thoughtful sound from her. “Huh. There’s a faint magical aura on it, too...”

Harsk’s warning whistle came just in time. Lini dropped down and saw the emerald green blur of a reptilian tail jam into the stone right where her head had been. Instinctually, she pulled magic around her, drawing from the earth and tightening her skin to mimic the stony strength of the monolith. If not for Harsk’s well-timed warning, she’d have been mincemeat! The creature righted itself along the side of the stone and reared up over the top, its bright, leathery wings catching the torchlight.

“Drake!” the ranger called. As if in answer, a second serpentine hunter launched itself from the trees, angling towards him. That was a mistake; lightning quick, Harsk brought his axes to hand and left a long wound along the creature’s side as it flew by, hearing a satisfying shriek in reaction.

Meanwhile, Droogami launched herself towards the perched dragon threatening Lini, deftly avoiding the swing of the creature’s stinger and swiping at it with her mighty claws.

Despite the danger she was in, Lini had to admit that jungle drakes were simply gorgeous creatures. Sure, they were larger than she was by a notable amount, and sure, their stingers hurt like nobody’s business and had enough goopy venom in them to sicken even the hardiest body. But they were just trying to eat, after all, and a dwarf, a gnome, and a big cat sure seemed like an easy meal. Lini could totally understand how tempting a target she must make. Still, how majestic they looked when they—Oops, it’s diving again!

Rolling clear of claws and dodging the drake’s stinger, Lini gathered her magic and aimed it at Droogami. Focusing nature’s might, she used herself as a conduit, feeding power into the great snow leopard. The little druid felt her bond with the cat strengthen, their shared energy invigorating her friend. “Droo!” she called. “Like we practiced!”

Her stalwart companion and protector stood between Lini and the hungry drake. Fixing the creature with its most menacing gaze, Droogami let loose a long, primal growl, a burst of sound that shredded the air before her. You are not hunter, the magically enhanced noise insisted as it tore into the drake. You are prey.

Even Harsk had to glance over his shoulder at the great cat; he’d never heard Droo do that before. He was glad he wasn’t the target of her aimed, pain-inducing yowl.

The drake, however, wasn’t so fortunate: it reeled, knocked off balance and startled by the painful sound. Its eyes widened with fear, and for a moment, it seemed to reconsider its options. Jungle drakes typically didn’t prefer to stay and face down their prey, instead opting to fly by, letting their venom do the work for them. This one’s meal had just become more trouble than it was worth.

Noting the creature’s hesitation, Lini pressed the attack, pulling her sling and sending sharpened, stinging rocks hurtling towards it. “Harsk, watch for the stingers and the spit,” she called.

“D’ya think?” countered Harsk, diving out of the way of a flailing stinger. He rolled closer to the great creature, angling his axes with the movement, and was rewarded with a horrible screech—and a spray of hot blood as he severed the drake’s stinger from its tail. Using his momentum, he leapt from the ground, slicing his weapons upward and catching the creature’s wing. It was all but done for, and the ranger wasted no time finishing the job.

That left the one facing Lini and Droogami. By now, the gnome had moved into a flanking position, sending stinging stones at its back while Droo slashed and clawed at the creature’s front. It was going to lose.

This was too much for the creature. In perhaps the smartest choice of its entire life, the drake decided that the small, helpless meal was neither as small nor as helpless as originally thought. It displayed its wings broadly to buy itself some space and, hissing, leapt into the canopy above, beating a hasty retreat.

The victory didn’t make the druid or her friends feel much better. Taking only a moment to catch his breath, Harsk asked tersely, “You hurt?”

“No,” breathed Lini, turning her attention to Droogami. A few moments reassured her that her friend was in healthy condition. “We’re both good. You?”

Harsk nodded, voicing the thought in the same moment Lini had it: “Strange that it chose to retreat so suddenly. I don’t like it.”

“I mean, we were more than it bargained for,” Lini said. “But I don’t like it either. They love to fly-by and poison, but it’s very rare for those things to only fly in twos.”

“Then there might be more,” Harsk said. “It might be getting friends. Let’s get back to camp.”

“And quickly,” agreed Lini. “Ez and Val may be in danger!”

Wasting no more time, Harsk bounded away. Lini hopped onto Droogami’s back and the giant cat was quick to follow. Tomorrow, they could return, clean the carcass, and continue exploring the ruins. Tonight, Ezren and Valeros might need help, and neither Lini nor Harsk intended to let their teammates down.

About the Author

Rachael Cruz is an award-winning writer / game designer whose TTRPG work can be found in Conan: Adventures in an Age Undreamed-Of, Dune: Adventures in the Imperium, Fantasy Age, RuneQuest, Star Trek Adventures, and more! She loves to help people of all ages play pretend and tell amazing stories together. For contact info, social addresses, and general writerly stuff, visit rachaelcruz.carrd.co.

About Iconic Encounters

Of course it happened while Kyyduh was alone and on their security shift. Of course.

While others were likely to gripe and moan, Kyyduh truly enjoyed their security shifts during cryosleep. Long trip through the Drift? Perfect time to read up on all sorts of interesting stuff around the galaxy. They were usually bored and twitchy for about two days of their shift, but after that they’d fall into an information hole on their datapad and bury themself into some new subject. Security shifts were dull and slow, so everyone found their own methods of entertainment, and Kyyduh’s was falling into research on a new, random topic each time. They were supposed to be more vigilant, given the Drift Crash and everything. Supposed to be keeping a close eye on the Drift monitors and the cameras that showed the engine rooms and storage. Supposed to.

Instead, Kyyduh had fallen into an information hole about the history of Eoxian bone lace. They’d found a whole article and several online video examinations theorizing on the history and origin of the craft and examining different techniques, and by the time they realized an alarm was blaring, they couldn’t have told anyone what day it was or what ship they were on. They swatted the button to reset the alarm, eyes flicking between the various monitors as they absentmindedly tucked their current weaving project (a tapestry of Meyel mid-battle dance) to the side of the console. Engines, fine. Storage, a little messy. Looks like some boxes were knocked over. Cryosleep—

Someone was in the cryosleep chamber. Kyyduh stood immediately, temper flaring at the thought of someone, something, some creature, interrupting their travels and preying on their buddies. And while they were sleeping no less!

As the doors slid open, a wave of nausea hit Kyyduh and they stumbled, grabbing onto a nearby container for support. They shook their head, feeling the plants that made up part of their body start to shift within their lungs and throat, allowing them to breathe more easily and fight off this sickness. They glanced up and spotted the intruder who, strangely surrounded by floating lights, was moving toward the life support systems.

“Hey! Not quite!” Kyyduh’s temper returned tenfold, and they jerked their arm, reforming it into a threatening cannon. “Turn around and hold still!” Their body vibrated softly as it readied an explosive shot, taking aim to hit the intruder and not any of the delicate support systems.

The intruder whipped around and Kyyduh caught a surprise burst of energy in the chest, knocking the air from their lungs, though the vines around their torso whipped together to form a bond that shielded them from most of the damage. With a roar they fired off a wild shot, missing the intruder but illuminating them enough to provide some more information. Strange hair, strange symbols— Oh by Meyel’s whiskers, a hesper? Here?

Illustration by Mirco Paganessi from Starfinder Interstellar Species.

They grit their teeth as the fey snarled at them, gathering energy around his body. Kyyduh took a few breaths, unable to fully calm down before another energy shot hit them in the chest, knocking them back against Raia’s chamber. The safety glass cracked beneath them, and Kyyduh saw red. They lunged for the hesper, shifting their arm into a claw just before they body-slammed into him, kicking him out of his float and onto the ground. The hesper struggled against Kyyduh’s weight, the denseness of his body working against him to keep him down. Kyyduh moved to hit him with their claw, but stopped when the reflection of their symbol of Meyel in the metal of a nearby chamber drew their eye to the expression on the hesper’s face. He wore a look of struggle and desperation, his cheeks thinner than they should be. Kyyduh forced themself to breathe, then gave the hesper a good shake.

“Calm down and tell me what you’re doing!” they demanded, dodging the hesper’s weak attempt to strike them once more. “Alright, enough with the hitting, come on!” They gave him another shake, slightly swatting at his face with their free hand. The swat seemed to startle the fey, at least enough that their radiation field dropped, letting Kyyduh breathe comfortably and sit up, dragging him with them. “Let’s start with the basics. What’s your name, bud?”

“Thakvine.” The hesper finally got out, calming down despite his repeated glances back at the life support systems. “Please, the Drift guided me here and I’m so hungry... Just a little bit of the power. Please. I need some. It’s been so long...”

Kyyduh gave him an inquisitive look, then a nod. “Don’t drain it dry. And you owe me.” They eased off, letting Thakvine stand and following him to the systems. Thakvine nodded in eager agreement, taking a moment as he pressed close to the machinery, absorbing the excess energy. After a moment, he looked back at Kyyduh, reaching out his hand and shifting it, making an exact copy of Kyyduh’s claw.

“You also change?” The fey asked, watching them.

“Yeah. Couple of years now. Not mutations, but plants and stuff. Doctors say I’m a natural at adaptation.” Kyyduh puffed their chest out, looking proud.

“Can you show me more? Like the gun, the cannon?” Thakvine, no longer gaunt looking, now wore a fascinated expression, moving closer to examine the moving plant life on Kyyduh’s body and armor.

The chitin on Kyyduh’s chest shifted, retracting, and they gave their claw a shake, reforming into its usual conical shape. “Sure.” They shrugged, giving Thakvine a smile. “But you’re a crew member now. Welcome to Sunrise Maiden. Your job is to help keep us focused during security shifts. Deal?” They held out their hand for a shake, laughing as Thakvine shook a single finger.

“Deal.” He agreed, before mimicking Kyyduh’s claw again.

Kyyduh laughed, wrapping an arm around Thakvine’s shoulders and glancing back as Raia’s chamber hissed open. “Hey! New crewmate!”

About the Author

Shay Snow is an agender Native American (Caddo and Swampy Cree) tabletop author and developer. They’ve contributed to Pathfinder, Starfinder, Backwater Southern Gothic, and Coyote & Crow. When they’re not playing or writing tabletop games, they can be found playing video games or talking about Indigenous issues on social media. They currently live on unceded Duwamish land with their Lakota spouse and two spoiled cats. You can find them on Twitter @spellsinsugar and keep up with their upcoming projects through their website, https://shayjay.carrd.co/.

About Iconic Encounters

Iconic Encounters is a series of web-based flash fiction set in the worlds of Pathfinder and Starfinder. Each short story provides a glimpse into the life and personality of one of the games’ iconic characters, showing the myriad stories of adventure and excitement players can tell with the Pathfinder and Starfinder roleplaying games.

At least this isn’t in Ustalav, Mios thought, smiling wryly to themself as they approached the Lily Lounge. It hadn’t taken much investigating into the recent mysterious disappearances in Augustana to find all signs pointing to this new luxury lounge, famous almost overnight. If this were Ustalav, Mios figured, the lodge would be full of vampires. Or werewolves. Or some kind of vampiric werewolves like those vukodlaks from last winter.

The Lily Lounge’s clientele, at least the ones who hadn’t been disappearing, tended towards the wealthy; after all, it advertised itself as a luxurious resting place for valiant hunters returning from their hunts. Though Andoran claimed to not have any nobles (technically true), many of these clients were just that in all but name. The real trouble is that the lounge was reported to also let in the less well to do… who would then go missing. Not at the lounge, though, and not right away. Whoever was responsible, likely the owners, weren’t that sloppy. No, these poorer clients were always seen afterwards for some time but mysteriously disappeared within a fortnight, often alongside reports of erratic behavior. Even odds it’s enchantment magic forcing the victim to kidnap themselves, Mios thought, or maybe this is the one time it actually IS a doppelganger replacing them at the lounge.

Regardless, the place was highly suspicious. Though Mios could tell that the lounge’s secrets were rather well-hidden by anyone else’s standards, little things gave it away to their trained eye. Heliotrope planted at the four corners of the lot, to divert close attention. Structure offset slightly from cardinal directions, subtly separating building from external expectations to decrease guard. It even extended to the proprietors—thought of highly, but only ever in the vaguest of terms—even Mios couldn’t discover much about one Gilbert Zoon (the lounge’s founder) or his business partner Sabricia (last name unknown). They’d been seen out during the day, though, so at least they weren’t vampires. And nothing was timed around the full moon…. Mios reflexively reached out and touched the old wound on their leg, another reminder of the past, and what it meant to let down one’s guard. Memories like these were why Mios never regretted leaving Ustalav behind. Here in Andoran, what was the worst it could be? No, Mios thought as they reflexively formed a turning-away sign, better not to jinx it. Some of the old superstitions died hard.

Their reminiscence was broken by an incoming party of young hunters—just the chance Mios had been waiting for. They waited until the hunters had just entered, then adjusted their wolf pelt, held their back straight, and walked forward like they owned the lodge. They’d seen enough nobles in their life that it was easy to put on airs. At the door, Mios made some small talk with the staff before being invited in. Pupil dilation normal, good recall of earlier events, able to respond to abstract questions. The staff didn’t seem to be under any form of direct mind control, though they did seem a bit tense.

After a day or two casing the Lily Lounge, Mios had decided the front door would be better than sneaking in a window or cellar, which would almost certainly be trapped or magically defended against break-ins. Threshold magic—versatile, but dependent on intent. If the owner’s intent was toward privacy, the magic could help reinforce a boundary between the outside and inside. It was the same principle when creating a circle of salt to ward off a ghost—create a boundary, then give it authority. But you can’t bar a door that you’ve opened yourself, like the front door. Let alone put greeters at. Even vampires can freely enter a public building. The staff smiled at Mios, and they walked in.

As Mios entered, two beads on their wrist pulsed once with subtle light, and a tarnished coin on their waist spun slightly. The building had been highly warded, then—but Mios had made it through easily. They absconded down a hallway, away from guests and staff, and reached out an empty hand. Ownership is never broken by mere distance, only a change in relationship. As Mios concentrated on the truism, they felt a familiar weight through their glove. When they looked down at their hand again, their lantern shone in it, and in its light, once-invisible defenses crisscrossed the walls and doors. Mios peered at an especially warded door. Sarkorian abjuration, but corrupted. Strange to see that so far south. It suggested demonic influence, or someone familiar with the Worldwound and its closing. Mios shifted their usual silver blade to a back sheath, replacing it with one of cold-forged iron, just in case. With a bit of effort—more than it usually took—Mios dismantled the wards, opened the door, and crept down the hallway beyond.

Passing nondescript private suites, Mios’s lantern light eventual fell upon a door covered up entirely by an illusion. Curious, since there was no sign of this wing from the outside. Extradimensional, or just a massive illusion? Mios slipped into the room to find out. Ah, the classic trapdoor leading down. That explained it. Maybe just mundane architectural tricks then. The chamber below was furnished in fine silk, imported wood, and elegant paintings, easily the most grandiose and opulent part of the lounge… but in the lantern’s light, the facade melted away. The entire place was a dismal cavern with clear demonic magic coursing through it. Well, clear to Mios. Surely the victims had been fooled. The thaumaturge drew their iron blade.

Mios’s lantern dispels more than just shadows. Art by Roena Rosenberger

As Mios turned the corner, their light shone on two figures who must have been the owners, though no sooner did the light reach them than their true forms were revealed. The man, now a hideous creature with claws and a carapace, shrieked in pain and flinched backwards from the light. Weak to light… no, not to light. Treachery demon. Harmed by truth. An incredibly dangerous threat for the unsuspecting citizenry of Augustana, but Mios began to grin; they were just about the worst possible match-up the demon could face. The thaumaturge reached into one of their many pouches, riffling for a bit before settling on a dried chrysanthemum. They passed the flower through the flame of their lantern and smeared the ash on their pick. They felt the concepts align, felt the tension of forces coming to oppose each other: against an unnatural creature of treachery cloaked in falsehoods, present an object of the natural world, symbolizing honesty, tempered in the light of truth. Three properties from the demon, three from Mios.

Their pick thrummed with power as the creatures howled. Time to get to work.

About the Author

Mark Seifter is the Director of Game Design for Roll for Combat, the former Design Manager at Paizo, and one of the four leads on the creation of Pathfinder Second Edition. He is the author of the thaumaturge class in Dark Archive. You can see him on Arcane Mark with Linda Zayas-Palmer Tuesdays at 7 PM Pacific, and Saturdays at 10 AM Pacific at https://www.twitch.tv/arcanemark, and Roll for Combat Live with Stephen Glicker at https://www.youtube.com/c/RollForCombat/." @markseifter on Twitter.

About Iconic Encounters

Iconic Encounters is a series of web-based flash fiction set in the worlds of Pathfinder and Starfinder. Each short story provides a glimpse into the life and personality of one of the games’ iconic characters, showing the myriad stories of adventure and excitement players can tell with the Pathfinder and Starfinder roleplaying games.

Gazing past his easel at the bustling Commerce District of Niswan, Thaleon’s thoughts wandered once again. They rarely stayed put, but life would hardly be any fun if they did. There were so many delicious new sensations to take in, from the kites dancing overhead to the tempting sizzle of vegetable wraps from a nearby food stall. He observed the colors of the market, his eye lingering on a small shrine where a priest was drawing the rose of Shelyn in colored powders. The Rahadoumi elf didn’t worship to any gods himself, of course, but he had nothing but respect for the old priest’s lifelong devotion and mastery as his fingers effortlessly scattered a vibrant green around the rose’s exterior. Thaleon turned back to his own easel to paint with his mind’s eye, the emotions of the market his palette. He blended the vibrant gold of a cunning merchant’s intellect with the frustrated red of the customer she had just outwitted in a battle of bargains. Now for some green as well, the color of growth, flexibility, potential...

Thaleon frowned. He sensed a green, but it was of an altogether unpleasant, oily variety, coming from a woman in pristine robes, her ravenous eyes scouring the market. Wanting to get closer, Thaleon steadied his mind and searched his feelings until he found the one he needed. Calmness, boredom… no, listlessness. The drabbest of grays, utterly unremarkable. Without so much as an incantation, Thaleon cloaked himself in the emotion and vanished from sight. Quick and quiet as a shadow, he slipped through the marketplace. Most would struggle to navigate a crowd, even invisibly, without bumping into a customer or jostling a cart, but Thaleon had decades of practice slipping by unnoticed and had long ago learned the consequences of getting caught.

The woman’s eyes found their target, and a predatory grin spread across her face. The crowd before her instinctively parted, and within moments, she held her prey in her grasp, her nails digging deep into the priest’s shoulders. As blood pooled in their wake, the woman whispered a single word, “Watch.” Her eyes flashed that oily green, the unmistakable swirl of magic about them. Thaleon saw nothing, but he felt the man’s terror, pure white and primal as the priest gazed with horror at a nightmare no one else could see. He fell to his knees and pushed the nearby offering basket, filled with flowers and a few coins. “Please, not them. Take what you want from me, just don’t….” His words were cut short as he vomited onto the cobblestones. The woman scowled with disgust. “This is your final warning.” With a regal nod, she strode away, splitting the crowd in her wake.

Thaleon’s hands trembled. He wanted to soothe the priest’s terror and pain, but he knew the man couldn’t find peace while the monster’s threat loomed over him. He reached for compassion—blue, tranquil as a cloudless sky—and sent it flowing into the priest, calming the man and closing his wounds. The priest glanced about, seeking the source of the swirling colors.

“Don’t worry, Father,” Thaleon whispered from the empty air, “you’re not alone.”

He quickened his pace and strode after the woman. From that display, it was clear what manner of monster she was. All Thaleon needed was a chance, away from the market stalls where so many innocents walked, to show the fiend exactly what he felt about her threats. As fortune would have it, it didn’t take long before she chose to turn down a secluded alleyway.

Thaleon didn’t need to search for his fury, it was right at his fingertips, and he used it to paint a simple blade in the air, the shape of the blade he’d been given when he left home. As the blade shot towards the woman, red fury burned away the tranquil gray that had kept Thaleon invisible, but he wasn’t afraid to let the monster see his face. With a feline growl, she rolled out of the blade’s path, scuffing her robes, before spinning toward Thaleon. Her hands spun too, twisting backward, and weaving shadowy threads of magic.

An agonizing scream echoed within Thaleon’s mind, reverberating and tearing. He steeled his will against the oncoming tide, instinctively countering each wave of psychic sound until silence prevailed once again. Definitely a rakshasa, then. And one who underestimated him too, having chosen to attack him on the battlefield of the mind. Thaleon felt a surge of pride; if she wished to play with occult magic, she’d picked the wrong opponent.

As the rakshasa leapt forward, Thaleon transmuted his pride into certainty and fortitude, summoning a disc of force in the air. Claws met the barrier and cracked it like glass, but Thaleon’s brow furrowed as he poured more will, more certainty, into the spell. More translucent shields sprung into being, and though the rakshasa’s claws shattered two of the discs, they could do no more than carve a groove into the third. She rebounded back, and Thaleon released a stream of chaotic emotion that collected around the rakshasa’s feet, dragging her to the ground, but not before she wove shadows into a bolt of flame that clipped Thaleon’s side.

Arm throbbing, Thaleon’s fury blotted out all thought, bursting forth as the air shook with color. While the rakshasa was getting to her feet, he painted again, pouring out his heart to form not just one rage-blade, but an entire storm of them hovering above the alleyway.

Thaleon’s emotions unleash in a torrent of thought. Art by João Fiuza

With an oily green flash of the rakshasa’s eyes, a sickening vision filled Thaleon’s mind—a group of rakshasas savoring a platter of roast meat unmistakably elven in origin. For an instant, the artist’s stomach churned before he recognized the intrusion and broke the enchantment. This twisted scene was the rakshasa’s dream, not his. Still, if she expected him to be sick... he retched loudly, hoping the monster’s pride would dull her suspicions. Right on cue, she charged, claws extended, running at full speed until she was just below the hanging blades. Thaleon rose from the ground, and with a last exertion, let the blades fall, each sharper and more jagged than the last.

The rain lasted for only a moment, but when it was finished, Thaleon’s fury subsided, replaced by relief and sorrow for the fiend’s past victims. No more rakshasas threatened Niswan that day.

About the Author

Linda Zayas-Palmer is the Development Manager for the Digital Adventures team, which produces Organized Play scenarios and other digital-only adventure content. Her largest projects as an author are Paizo's Fires of the Haunted City and the final third of the Roll for Combat's Jewel of the Indigo Isles Adventure Path. You can see her on Arcane Mark with Mark Seifter on Tuesdays at 7 PM Pacific and Saturdays at 10 AM Pacific at https://www.twitch.tv/arcanemark.

About Iconic Encounters

Iconic Encounters is a series of web-based flash fiction set in the worlds of Pathfinder and Starfinder. Each short story provides a glimpse into the life and personality of one of the games’ iconic characters, showing the myriad stories of adventure and excitement players can tell with the Pathfinder and Starfinder roleplaying games.

Catch up on previous chapters of Wreckers Reunion here, here, and here.

HOME, SWEET HOME

“Droven?”

“Yes, Fumbus?”

“Home’s good, Droven.”

Droven was taking time to reacquaint himself with the city that had been home for most of his life. Today, as most days since his return, the inventor made his way along the streets of Absalom, a covered wicker basket held in his right hand. As expected, no sooner had Droven’s metal-shod feet hit the cobblestones then Fumbus materialized alongside him, the quiet patter of the goblin’s wide feet slapping counterpoint to Droven’s own clanking footsteps.

Today, Fumbus wore a suspiciously guilty look on his face, and Droven had chosen to alter his normal route, which typically brought him down to the Puddles where he delivered muffins and stories to some of the local children. Instead, the half-orc inventor led his mechanical companion Whirp and Fumbus through the markets of the Coins district, waiting for Fumbus to own up to whatever had the goblin so worked up.

Droven suspected that Fumbus had borrowed or accidentally destroyed something valuable in the Pathfinder Society’s Grand Lodge and was worried that the lodge’s steward, Ambrus Valsin, would punish him for it. Fumbus had an excessive reverence for the Pathfinder Society, and the mutton-chopped old venture-captain had a particular talent for inspiring fear in the goblin without actually doing anything to him at all.

Upon realizing that Fumbus was unlikely to broach the subject of his distress without prompting, Droven finally asked, “So what happened this time?”

Fumbus sheepishly explained that a piece had come off an astrolabe in one of the Grand Lodge’s smaller libraries, completely by accident of course! Before Fumbus could fix it, he’d heard the voice of an irate Valsin echoing down the halls and had fled in search of a certain inventor who the goblin assumed could set everything right.

Droven suppressed a smile and was about to tell Fumbus he could indeed fix the astrolabe when he realized he’d lost track of Whirp. Turning, he the mechanical “goblin” dashing down the street, chasing a bouncing metal gear. Droven didn’t need to see Fumbus worriedly poking a finger through the hole in his jacket pocket to realize where the gear had come from. Nor did he need to dwell on the chaos a goblin-sized construct might cause barreling through a crowded marketplace.

Whirp lets a gear get away from him in this illustration by Roberto Pitturru from Pathfinder Guns & Gears

“Whirp, wait!”

Droven’s command was swallowed by the bustle of the streets, and neither he nor Fumbus stopped to see if the construct heard him. Nodding to Fumbus, Droven dashed to get between a trundling cart loaded with what looked to be expensive pottery and the single-minded construct chasing a shiny new “toy.” Fumbus yanked out a new bomb he’d been formulating following his time in Arcadia, this one loaded with black flecks of magnetic stone. With a slightly belated call to “look up,” Fumbus heaved the bomb between Whirp and the bouncing gear, the magnetic burst from the bomb halting Whirp in its tracks and pulling the gear to a stop right in front of the construct. After Whirp calmly sat down and picked up the now-immobile gear, Droven quickly retrieved the part and slid it into a sturdy pocket of his leather bandolier, reassuring Fumbus that all would be set right when they returned to the lodge.

“Now that that’s… sorted, I believe we have some friends wondering where we are.”

---

“Fumbus! Droven! WHIRP!” The cries came from a bevy of young children who called the alleys and gutters of Absalom their home. Droven had made a habit of visiting these urchins between Absalom’s Puddles district and the nearby bustling docks. They were mostly young humans left to run wild while their parents focused on putting food on the table, though a halfling girl was their apparent leader and a goblin boy was, Droven suspected, the culprit who kept turning various bits of castoff garbage into decidedly unsafe toys.

Three of the little waifs clambered up Droven’s side, and the half-orc smilingly obliged them by holding his prosthetic limb straight out so they could hang from it like grubby, adorable fruit. Another goblin child took Whirp by the hand and began showing the inquisitive construct her collection of shiny rocks. As Droven calmly took back several of his tools that had somehow found their way into the pockets of the children hanging from his mechanical arm, he listened to Fumbus tell everyone the story of their voyage across the Arcadian Ocean, as he had several times over the last few weeks.

“Fumbus and Droven make powerful engine. WHOOSH! We fly across the waves! A huge serpent, bigger than ten ships, rises up out of the water. RAARGH! Ezren magics up a blast of wind and WHIPPOW! We zip past it…”

As much as Droven hated to interrupt his friend’s story, the inventor noticed that several of the children were growing increasingly more interested in the covered basket Droven held.

“Perhaps a snack for our friends and a drink to keep our storyteller’s voice from going hoarse, eh?”

The children squealed with glee and quickly gathered in a semi-circle around Droven as he removed the cloth covering from the top of his wicker basket. Inside was a bottle of chilled juice and a pile of delicious, bright yellow muffins, courtesy of a kindly Vudran baker who supplied the Grand Lodge. Fumbus filled small vials with a sip of juice for each child while Droven handed out the muffins, after which the children snacked and drank happily as Fumbus finished his story.

“When’s Whirp gonna tell us a story?” A little gnome boy’s eyes shone with genuine curiosity even as he gently polished Whirp’s metal arm with the edge of his filthy shirt. “I bet Whirp beat up a whole bunch of bad guys!”

Fumbus nodded in agreement and immediately launched into the story of Whirp leaping across the trees of Arcadia with a pair of rocket-powered blast boots. The goblin exaggerated slightly, but not so much so that Droven felt a need to interject.

“Then, BAMMO! Whirp comes fallin’ outta the sky and SHWOOP stops the fire from the baddy!” As the children cheered at the end of the story, Droven explained that Whirp needed Fumbus to tell his stories because the construct was too shy, and also Droven had forgotten to give him a mouth (which the inventor promised he’d look into fixing just as soon as he had the chance.)

Once the tale was done, Droven and Fumbus excused themselves from their youthful friends’ company, promising to return the next day with more muffins and stories. As the unlikely pair of adventurers made their way back to the Grand Lodge, Droven glanced fondly at the goblin who had somehow become his most loyal and steadfast friend.

“Fumbus?”

“Yeah, Droven?”

“Home’s good, Fumbus.”

About the Author

Michael Sayre is a designer at Paizo who previously worked on the Organized Play team. He’s also a prolific freelancer, having contributed to numerous Paizo books and publications from other publishers, such as Lost Spheres Publishing, Rogue Genius Games, and many other companies in support of the Pathfinder RPG and other table-top game systems.

Fred Van Lente is a New York Times bestselling writer of comics, prose, and gaming, including the Pathfinder: Fumbus one-shot successfully Kickstarted in 2021. His short story “Neversleeps” was shortlisted for Best American Science Fiction and Fantasy. In addition to playing Pathfinder 2e, he’s currently running Call of Cthulhu 7e and Fallout 2d20 campaigns in Brooklyn, NY. He’s on Twitter and Instagram as @fredvanlente and you can sign up for updates on his upcoming projects at www.fredvanlente.com.

About Iconic Encounters

Iconic Encounters is a series of web-based flash fiction set in the worlds of Pathfinder and Starfinder. Each short story provides a glimpse into the life and personality of one of the games’ iconic characters, showing the myriad stories of adventure and excitement players can tell with the Pathfinder and Starfinder roleplaying games.

Catch up on previous chapters of Wreckers Reunion here and here.

SUPPLY RUN

Droven could hardly believe the twists and turns the last few days had taken. Month after month, season after season, he’d traveled the continent of Arcadia, searching for passage back to Absalom, an ocean away in the region known as the Inner Sea. He had spent more than a few days in the last weeks carefully examining the soles of his metal-reinforced boots. Long ago, he’d promised one of the first friends he’d made in Arcadia, an old half-orc named Darv, that if he still hadn’t found a way back to Absalom by the time the soles of wore thin, he’d return to Darv’s workshop to begin a new life.

Instead, Droven had inadvertently aided one of his closest friends from the Inner Sea, the goblin alchemist Fumbus, in a daring rescue against a gang of smugglers, the Wreckers. Fumbus’s rescued friends were a powerful old wizard named Ezren, a wise young cleric named Kyra, a cunning elf named Merisiel, and a valiant warrior called Valeros.

Droven had at first been afraid to tell the others they were as stranded as he was, but after some discussion the group realized that they had almost everything they needed to make the journey back to Absalom. Ezren and Kyra’s magic could calm the worst of the storms and turn the currents in their favor, while Valeros’s strength and Merisiel’s cunning, combined with Droven’s and Fumbus’s ingenuity, would allow them to build a sturdy enough sea craft from the salvage of the Wreckers’ victims.

The biggest problem was the lack of any known eastward currents bridging the Arcadian Ocean to the continents of Avistan and Garund. Droven had heard tales of the legendary current carrying Ulfen vikings to Port Valen in northern Arcadia and had even seen the maps of the sea routes between Arcadia and Tian Xia, which shared a northern land bridge with Avistan. Frustratingly, the northern route was only one way and the western route presented unique geographic barriers Droven had never been able to surmount. Making the trek in either direction, even accompanied by a group of stalwart adventurers, was a fraught journey that would take months at least.

Instead, Droven had a plan that this group’s unique talents were particularly suited for. While Valeros and company assembled a ship based on Droven’s blueprints, the half-orc, his construct companion Whirp, and Fumbus would venture into the abandoned lair of a reckless alchemist in the nearby jungles to retrieve the materials necessary to assemble an alchemical engine capable of propelling their craft across the Arcadian Ocean, regardless of winds or currents.

Droven had marked the laboratory the first time he’d passed along this stretch of coast over a year ago, though he’d been unwilling to delve too deep after encountering various alchemical traps. But now, with the possibility of home so close and a trusted companion at his side, Droven felt it worth the risk.

---

“Droven!”

“Yes, Fumbus?”

“Ice?”

“I’m sorry my friend, I’m afraid I don’t take your meanin–GAAH!”

Droven and Fumbus had bypassed a variety of traps and strange monsters to the facility’s primary laboratory. Things had been going remarkably well, with inventor, construct, and alchemist each uniquely suited to disable the dangers laid by the paranoid alchemist who’d built the place. Droven blamed himself for their current predicament, trapped in a sealed room with an angry ooze climbing out of a broken glass tank.

Shaking the sting of an acidic tendril from his non-mechanical arm, Droven yelled for Whirp. “Defensive formation zero zero three: barricade!”

Responding to his maker’s command, Whirp leapt between his allies and the approaching ooze, deploying thin, folded metal sheets within his chassis to create a temporary barricade. As Droven ducked behind it, Fumbus cleared his throat.

Whirp provides cover for Droven and Fumbus in this illustration by Will O’Brien from Pathfinder Guns & Gears

“Miss you, Droven” Fumbus said, ducking an acidic pseudopod and swirling a blue cannister around in his hand. “Ice?”

Droven’s good eye widened in surprise as he finally realized what the goblin was asking. “Yes, Fumbus! As much as you’ve got!”

Fumbus hurled the cannister at the ooze, freezing a portion of its body but barely slowing its advance. As Droven fired a crossbow bolt into the ooze’s mass only to watch it dissolve, he realized Fumbus’s concoctions might be their only salvation. “More ice, Fumbus, quickly!”

Fumbus’s right hand snatched an empty glass vial from one of his pouches while his left darted from his tiled necklace to his pouches, and up… into his mouth. Furiously chewing each component before spewing the macerated remains into his vial, Fumbus quickly created a second vial of liquid ice and launched it at the encroaching ooze before repeating the process.

Droven took careful aim at a frozen section of ooze before firing his crossbow. As the icy chunk shattered into pieces, Droven was relieved to see that the ooze seemed to shrink, its regeneration stymied by the freezing cold. As Fumbus threw yet another liquid ice bomb, Droven glanced at his friend and suppressed a worried frown. Fumbus smiled at Droven, but the goblin’s saliva was frozen to his chin in icicles of drool, and his green skin had taken on a distinctly bluish hue. Worse, the goblin’s teeth chattered furiously, slowing down the liquid ice process. Seeing Fumbus’s predicament, Droven quickly removed a few mechanical components from his backpack. He’d been working on something the local Arcadians called a “cryomister,” a device intended to release a controlled stream of freezing liquid. Droven had been struggling to complete it due to his lack of familiarity with Arcadian alchemy, but Fumbus possessed exactly what Droven lacked.

“Fumbus! Pour everything you’ve got into this!”

Fumbus snatched up the proffered device and spewed all the components in his mouth directly into its ammunition cartridge. Trying hard not to think about what had just happened, Droven took the device back, activated it, and tossed it at the broken glass tank from which the ooze poured. As the cryomister sank into the acidic flow, chilling fog poured forth, solidifying the ooze until only a blue-green statue remained.

Wiping shards of frozen drool from his chin, Fumbus wasted no time in sacking the lab, quickly identifying a variety of ingredients and reagents capable of fueling the alchemical engine Droven intended to build. Struggling to his feet, Droven leaned on Whirp’s body. His good arm was burned by acid, and he felt the weight of his prosthetic limb keenly as he struggled to stand. The two friends and friendly construct quickly gathered the materials they would need to assemble their engine.

“Droven?”

“Yes, Fumbus?”

“Oozes terrible.”

“Yeah, Fumbus. They’re pretty bad.”

About the Author

Michael Sayre is a designer at Paizo who previously worked on the Organized Play team. He’s also a prolific freelancer, having contributed to numerous Paizo books and publications from other publishers, such as Lost Spheres Publishing, Rogue Genius Games, and many other companies in support of the Pathfinder RPG and other table-top game systems.

Fred Van Lente is a New York Times bestselling writer of comics, prose, and gaming, including the Pathfinder: Fumbus one-shot successfully Kickstarted in 2021. His short story “Neversleeps” was shortlisted for Best American Science Fiction and Fantasy. In addition to playing Pathfinder 2e, he’s currently running Call of Cthulhu 7e and Fallout 2d20 campaigns in Brooklyn, NY. He’s on Twitter and Instagram as @fredvanlente and you can sign up for updates on his upcoming projects at www.fredvanlente.com.

About Iconic Encounters

Iconic Encounters is a series of web-based flash fiction set in the worlds of Pathfinder and Starfinder. Each short story provides a glimpse into the life and personality of one of the games’ iconic characters, showing the myriad stories of adventure and excitement players can tell with the Pathfinder and Starfinder roleplaying games.

Catch up on previous chapters of Wreckers Reunion here.

BEACH PARTY

“Whirp–click?” the tiny construct asked of Droven, who rotated the lenses of a pair of clockwork glasses he’d been tinkering with.

“Hush now, little Whirp.” The half-orc placed a hand on the construct’s metal head. Farther down the beach—just within range of what the inventor could see through the darkness of early evening—a noisome band of pirates and smugglers gathered around a cooking fire obstructed by enough foliage to remain hidden from passing ships. The flames made it hard for Droven to calibrate his goggles as he looked on from the northern flank.

“Wreckers," Droven said quietly. The nomads had warned him about them—and for good reason. Just beyond the campfire, a half dozen captives remained locked inside a stockade. The structure looked sturdy, despite being crafted from driftwood and detritus collected from the beach. Many of the prisoners had been hog-tied. Others were yoked in makeshift stocks.

“I believe the Wreckers caught bigger fish than they meant to fry,” Droven said, adjusting his position. “Someone must have stripped and dumped the bodies we found near the tree line. I bet the smugglers ambushed the prisoners and overpowered them, but not before several were lost in the fray.” He exhaled. “Which would mean they desecrated the bodies of their own compatriots. Not much of a retirement plan if you ask me.”

“Bzzzzt–click” Whirp said, tugging desperately at the inventor’s arm. Droven didn’t need months exploring the Arcadian coastline with the construct to know what that meant. He dropped his goggles and spun to draw his hammer as Whirp gestured frantically toward the small hillock’s only safe pathway. Someone had snuck near their position, leaving obvious tracks behind. Droven glanced over his shoulder. The drop was too far to know whether he could leap down to the sands below and keep his footing.

“Ho there! I warn you; I am armed and no easy prey. Allow me to negotiate for the release of your prisoners and the cessation of attacks against the ships passing by this shoreline. Otherwise, prepare for battle!”

A pair of Wrecker scouts stepped out from the underbrush. A woman outstretched her arm to reveal a spider with barbed fur clamped around her wrist like a living gauntlet. The puckering spinneret twitched toward Droven, causing the inventor to tighten his grip on the hammer. The weapon was almost certainly a beast gun. He’d seen enough of them to know it possessed the abilities of the spider whose body it was constructed from. If he didn’t act first, he and Whirp would be enveloped in spiderweb and rolled down the embankment. Some heroes they would be—wrapped up like two helpless caterpillars in silk cocoons.

Droven whistled sharply and dropped to his stomach. Whirp planted its spindly arms in the dirt and somersaulted toward the Wreckers, just before detonating in a roiling ball of flame. The inventor had rigged the little construct to explode on command, knowing it would survive the blast largely unharmed. The same could not be said of the two smugglers who rolled on the ground to extinguish their burning clothes. Droven rushed forward and struck each of their skulls with the hammer, holding back just enough of his strength to leave them alive. At least, he hoped. Neither strike had drawn much blood.

Droven’s clockwork companion, Whirp, spews a gout of flame at his enemies in this exciting illustration from Pathfinder Guns & Gears, by Maichol Quinto.

It was only a matter of time before the explosion attracted other Wreckers, though with any luck the crest of the hillock obscured most of the remaining flames. Droven kicked sand over the parts of the smugglers that still smoldered and bound them with lengths of spare wire. He and Whirp had better move fast. But not before he snatched the spidery beast gun which had been so kindly gifted to them.

“Point and click, right, Whirp?” Droven snapped the weapon in place atop his forearm, suppressing a grimace as its tiny hairs pricked his skin.

The sounds of shouting in the distance grew louder. The inventor tapped Whirp on the shoulder, signaling the construct to collapse into a light carrying case. Droven scooped up his companion by its clockwork arm-turned-handle and dashed into the trees.

Sliding behind some foliage, Droven steadied his stolen weapon on top of the little construct’s condensed body. Two triggers protruded from the abdomen of the taxidermic spider. He was reasonably confident that depressing the first would fire a net of silk webbing. He had no inkling about the second. There was only one way to find out.

As the first Wrecker came into sight, Droven pulled the first trigger—only to discover the absurdity of his assumption. A barbed hair launched from the spider and stabbed the pirate in the neck. The smuggler collapsed to the ground in spastic convulsions just before growing still. Droven moved to the body, placing his hand on the Wrecker’s neck. No pulse. Droven struggled against the dread coalescing in the pit of his stomach. As much as the inventor detested unnecessary violence, his foe had undoubtedly met the same fate as the many innocent victims who crossed the pirates’ path. Perhaps he could find some solace in that.

When the next smuggler came into sight, Droven pulled the second trigger. The beast gun fired the webbing he’d expected before, provoking a sigh of relief. The web spiraled outward from the beast gun, pinning the Wrecker to a nearby tree as it wrapped circles around the trunk. As the pirate pleaded for someone to cut him free, Droven realized he and his companion could soon find themselves outnumbered. He tapped Whirp once more and the tiny construct unfolded into its bipedal form. Pulling a pair of boots sized for the construct out of his backpack, Droven quickly fitted them onto Whirp’s stubby legs.

“Lead them on a merry chase and then meet me at their bonfire. Understood?”

“Whirrrrrrrpup–click–whirrrrrr!” the construct said in response, slamming its tiny heels together to activate the blast boots. Whirp rocketed skyward through the trees; its path lit by twin tails of flame.

Droven moved quickly through the woods, heading toward the Wreckers’ bonfire and, most importantly, the stockade. When he arrived at camp, he slowed to sneak carefully behind the pair of guards who remained. As he moved, he pictured the rest of the Wreckers struggling to keep up as they chased the flash of Whirp’s fiery trail through the darkness. He smiled and shifted his hammer to his prosthetic hand. Droven rapped both pirates with a single flourish that would have been all but impossible with a limb comprised of flesh and blood. His last remaining enemies slumped to the ground unceremoniously, knocked cold.

Droven dashed toward the prison. After releasing a small blade integrated into his metal arm, he slashed through the ropes that tied the door shut. He moved toward the nearest prisoner: a cleric bearing a silver symbol of Sarenrae who had been muffled with a cloth gag. Droven slid his blade softly under the fabric, gently enough to avoid piercing the prisoner’s cheek, and pulled. He cut her free just in time to make out, “–hind you!”

Droven turned to behold his grave mistake. Three Wreckers remained behind, not two. The pirate Droven failed to spot had her own beast gun, this one made from the neck and maw of a fire-breathing drake.

“Oi! Drop the gun!” the woman shouted.

Hoping not to alarm her, Droven disconnected the spider gun from his arm and let it fall to the ground.

“Thought you could steal from the Wreckers, eh? ‘Fraid we’re going to have to make an example out of you! Any last words?” She leveled the drake gun at Droven.

Droven couldn’t help but glance toward the sky. Some twenty feet above the Wrecker, two thin lines of fire bisected the night sky.

“Last words? Why, yes, I do have some.” Droven stifled a grin. “I’m afraid that you failed to account… for the powerful bond of friendship!” As the inventor yelled, he activated a large magnet attached to a disposable electric reservoir in his prosthetic arm. The magnetic force drew Whirp—who hovered above he and the Wrecker thanks to the blast boots Droven had fitted the construct with—down toward the inventor’s arm.

The smuggler fired, unleashing a blast of flame from her drake gun. But it was too late. The little construct twisted its metallic body and absorbed the brunt of the explosion, shielding Droven from harm.

Droven remembered the blade on his prosthetic hand. Just before he moved to strike, a thunderous explosion forced him to duck behind Whirp. When he peaked back over the construct’s shoulder, the Wrecker lie prone, screaming, and thrashing—totally enveloped in flame. Despite burning alive, she staggered to her feet and pointed the drake gun once more—first at Whirp, then at Droven.

A small figure stepped out of the shadows behind her, holding a vial of alchemist’s fire in hand. Droven’s jaw dropped in disbelief.

"Fumbus?" he coughed. “Where did you come from?” But Droven heard no words in response.

Just another boom.

About the Author

Michael Sayre is a designer at Paizo who previously worked on the Organized Play team. He’s also a prolific freelancer, having contributed to numerous Paizo books and publications from other publishers, such as Lost Spheres Publishing, Rogue Genius Games, and many other companies in support of the Pathfinder RPG and other table-top game systems.

Fred Van Lente is a New York Times bestselling writer of comics, prose, and gaming, including the Pathfinder: Fumbus one-shot successfully Kickstarted in 2021. His short story “Neversleeps” was shortlisted for Best American Science Fiction and Fantasy. In addition to playing Pathfinder 2e, he’s currently running Call of Cthulhu 7e and Fallout 2d20 campaigns in Brooklyn, NY. He’s on Twitter and Instagram as @fredvanlente and you can sign up for updates on his upcoming projects at www.fredvanlente.com.

About Iconic Encounters

Iconic Encounters is a series of web-based flash fiction set in the worlds of Pathfinder and Starfinder. Each short story provides a glimpse into the life and personality of one of the games’ iconic characters, showing the myriad stories of adventure and excitement players can tell with the Pathfinder and Starfinder roleplaying games.

ON KILLING KIN

Amiri's arms burned as she hauled herself upward. Her hands cramped from finding tenuous grips on small extrusions of stone, and one particularly vicious bit of rock had sliced open a good gash below her knee out of what she assumed was sheer spite. She unspooled her rope as she went, securing it whenever she found an anchor point she was sure could bear Branum and Oska's weight.

Below her, the siblings moved slowly. They'd lashed themselves together and to the rope, and Oska helped haul her brother upward, pointing out easy hand- and footholds wherever she could. Oska looked up, the light from above casting a narrow band across her face. "Getting tired yet?" she called up. "You're slowing down."

"How about you don't insult the woman with the rope," Amiri replied, scowling down at her.

"How about… we all… just try… not to plunge to our deaths," Branum panted.

"From that height, you probably wouldn't die from the fall. You'd shatter your legs and starve to death," Amiri said.

"You'd die of thirst way before starving to death," Oska countered.

"Is this… supposed to be making me feel better?" Branum asked. He paused, clinging to the rope as he struggled to catch his breath.

"I'm not going to let you fall," Oska said seriously.

"I know. Besides, I could… always give us… a soft landing. I'm not… completely useless," Branum reminded her. He waggled his fingers, and a few anemic sparks of light danced around them.

"Stop showing off and save your strength. Come on. Halfway there," she said, fondness in her voice.

He nodded, steeled himself, and began to climb again. He was an odd one to find among the Six Bears, Amiri thought. He trusted his sister—and more than that, he readily accepted her aid and comfort. Not once had he objected to her taking the lead on physical tasks. It truly didn't seem to bother him that a woman was stronger than he was. That wasn't a trait she'd encountered from her kinsmen often. Or ever.

Amiri pulled herself up to a new handhold, then paused. It wasn't far to the top, now—she was close enough to see beyond the slim opening to a ceiling of stone. The top of the shaft led to another sheltered area, but given the light coming down through it, it wasn't entirely covered.

From above came a series of yips and snarls, then the scrambling of claws. Amiri gestured sharply for the others to halt and be silent as the growling intensified. Something clattered, and then a few bones—gristle still clinging to them—toppled over the side of the shaft. Amiri clung tight to the wall to avoid the debris. Branum stifled a startled sound as a femur smacked his shoulder.

Wait, Amiri motioned. The snarling and yipping and scrabbling continued. The cubs were playing.

The sounds went on for several minutes before falling into abrupt silence. Amiri waited another few moments, then began to climb again. They moved without speaking now, slow but steady.

Before long, Amiri was at the top of the shaft. She pushed her head and shoulders out of the opening, scanning for the peryton and its cubs.

The cubs lay curled up together on the far side of a large rock overhang, its floor littered with bones, offal, and half-eaten carcasses. One of the cubs had fallen asleep gnawing on a skull that might have belonged to a halfling; the other had a hand, half stripped of flesh, tucked between its paws. Beyond the overhang was a small plateau with slopes dropping off precipitously to all sides. There was no sign of the larger creature.

Amiri climbed out as silently as she could, then turned to help the others. Oska moved off to the side to push as Amiri pulled, and they got Branum up onto level ground, where he half-crouched and half-collapsed, wheezing as quietly as he could. Oska scrambled up, quick as a squirrel, but her arms were shaking, and she flexed her hands like they were cramped.

Amiri's limbs weren't thanking her, either. "Best go before the mother comes back," she whispered.

Oska nodded and tapped Branum's shoulder. He suppressed a groan as he staggered up to his feet, and they edged along the side of the sheltered area, Oska leading and Amiri taking up the rear to keep an eye on the cubs.

One moment, Oska was stepping out into the open, looking behind her with a frown to track her brother's progress. The next moment she was gone, snatched into the air with a scream.

"Oska!" Branum yelled. Amiri shoved past him. The peryton's wingbeats scattered dust and debris as the creature climbed, the grip of its hind talons piercing the flesh of Oska's shoulders. The girl screamed in pain and twisted—not to get free, but to throw her bow and quiver as hard as she could. They clattered to the ground 20 feet away. Amiri dove for them, snatched them up.

She sighted along the arrow. Waiting. The peryton circled around, moving awkwardly due to Oska's thrashing weight beneath it.

"Damn it, hold still or it'll drop you off the cliff!" Amiri shouted. "Wait!"

The creature banked, passing high overhead. Oska, miraculously, went still in its grip.

"Hope you weren't lying about that soft landing," Amiri said to Branum, not waiting for him to answer. The peryton's shadow darkened the edge of the plateau.

Amiri loosed the arrow. It struck the beast's left hind talon. The creature let out a strangled yelp of pain and lost its grip on the struggling huntress. She plunged downward. Branum reached out a hand and cried out a single word. Oska landed in a light crouch as the peryton tumbled in the air, righted, and wheeled away.

"Can we drive it off?" Branum asked. "Run?"

"We were in its nest. Its cubs are in there. It isn't going to leave us alone now," Amiri said. She tossed the bow and quiver back to Oska, who winced as she worked her punctured shoulders. Amiri unstrapped the unwieldy, broken base of her sword from her back, gripping the hilt in both hands.

The peryton's shadow glided over the plateau once more. Only its shape was wrong.

"It took your shadow," Oska said, seeing the same. She gave Amiri a considering look. "It's coming for you."

"Which means you could run," Amiri replied. "It won't chase you while I'm still standing."

The beast howled. It folded its wings in a dive, eyes fixed on Amiri. Oska and Branum fell back. And Amiri leapt to meet the creature's charge.

They met in the air—blade and beast, fang and fury. The peryton's eyes blazed with the fire of a mother whose cubs had been threatened. Amiri's blood sang with rage of her own. Anger for the beast, yes—but her old anger burned far brighter as she tumbled to the stony ground with the monster.

She chanced a quick glance: the siblings were gone. Good, she thought. They'd be safe. They'd live. Maruk wouldn't have any more reason to haunt her.

Her jagged blade slashed across the beast's chest, and the mountains rang with her brothers' mocking laughter. Teeth snapped in the air an inch from her throat, and the air slithered with whispers. It isn't right. She brings shame to all of us. Something must be done.

They had betrayed her. Made a fool of her. Humiliated her and tried to lead her to her death. But they had failed. She had showed them her true strength.

She struck at the peryton again and again in a storm of steel and claw. It darted in for quick attacks, retreating before she could get a proper strike in. Any time she closed, it used a few quick wingbeats to reposition, sending her scrambling around the plateau, wary of the sheer cliffs to every side. The broken blade was unbalanced and unwieldy. Fury collapsed into frustration, and she stood panting, both her and the beast bleeding from a half dozen minor wounds.

She'd put her back to the sheltered overhang, steering clear of the precipitous drop-offs—all too aware of how easy it would be for the peryton to fling her over the edge with a toss of its gore-rimed antlers.

A sharp pain shot through Amiri's calf. She let out a cry of pain, twisting and striking out. The broken blade swung, cleaving in half the peryton cub that had sunk its teeth into her leg. The other sprang up, needle teeth clamping around her wrist, as its mother let out a howl and charged.

Amiri flung the cub away as the larger beast's antlers caught her up and threw her back against the far wall of the cave. Her head hit stone with a crack. Stars burst in her vision, and she collapsed to the ground in a stunned crouch. The peryton paced forward, opening its jaws to bare its yellowed teeth.

There was a crackling sound, and lightning arced, blasting into the peryton's side. Two arrows followed in quick succession, and the peryton screamed, rearing away. Amiri launched herself forward, stars still dancing in her eyes, and dashed past the beast.

Oska and Branum stood at the edge of the plateau. Branum raised his hands, light dancing at his fingertips. Oska set another arrow to her bow. Amiri skidded to a stop in front of them.

"What do you think you're doing?" she demanded. "I told you to run."

"Talked it over. Decided not to listen to you," Branum said cheerfully.

"We don't leave kin to fight alone," Oska said firmly.

Amiri stared. It had been a long time—a very long time—since anyone had claimed her as kin. "I killed your father," she said hollowly. "He was a good man. More or less."

"You killed your kin," Oska agreed. Her eyes were bright. "But you know what, Amiri? I'm better than you."

The peryton staggered into the light. It reared up on its hind legs, bellowing out a call to shake the mountains.

Amiri and her kin turned to face it.

Illustration by Michael Penn

Amiri dumped the waterskin over her head, rinsing some of the blood out of her hair. The sun was going down. The cold air would keep the peryton's corpse, laid out on the plateau behind her, from rotting. But there were other scavengers in these mountains, and they'd be along soon to take their portion of the kill.

Oska had already carved the antlers from its head and bound them together to carry over her shoulder, as a trophy.

"You know you won't be able to claim that as your kill," Amiri said. She flicked her wet hair back from her face.

Oska didn't meet her eyes. "I'll say Branum killed it."

Branum laughed aloud. "Yeah, they'll certainly believe that."

"We'll figure it out," Oska said, securing her makeshift straps.

Amiri just shook her head. She'd never have let someone else claim one of her deeds at that age. She'd have shouted it to the whole clan at every opportunity.

And look how that turned out, she thought. She spat.

"Can I have that?" Branum asked. Amiri gave him a questioning look. He gestured at the two halves of her blade that rested on the ground beside her.

"You couldn't even lift the thing," she told him, amused.

"I mean I can fix it for you," Branum said.

Oska straightened up. A frown creased her lips. "That's the sword that—"

"It's a sword," Branum said. "Just a tool. What matters is who wields it, not what it's done."

Amiri gave him a level look. "The woman who wields this sword is the one that killed your father," she reminded him. "You really want to give me my blade back?"

Branum looked over at the dead peryton. "Honestly? I want you to die a slow and painful death," he said, his cheerful tone unwavering. "But that wouldn't do anybody any good, would it? You took my father from me. I've got no interest in forgiving you. And I've got no interest in being a kinslayer. So now I get to choose how I carry that—how I bear my choices without breaking. This is how I'm going to do it."

He stepped forward and reached for the sword. Neither Amiri nor Oska said anything to stop him as he dragged the pieces over to a clear patch of ground. He stood with an expression of deep concentration, his hands held over the blade.

Slowly, the segments shivered toward one another. The metal gleamed. The seam lit with a soft, silver light—and then the light faded, and the blade was whole once more.

Branum stepped away, not touching it again. He bent to pick up his pack and settled it on his shoulder. "That's done, then," he said simply.

Amiri hefted the blade. The familiar pull at her muscles was welcome. The guilt needling through her was not.

"Let's go," Oska said, touching her brother's arm. They turned away.

"Don't go back," Amiri said, staring at the sword. Behind her, their footsteps halted.

"What else are we supposed to do?" Oska asked.

"Just leave." Amiri lowered the sword and turned toward them. "Leave before they find a way to kill you, or kill everything you are."

"It's not that easy," Oska said.

Amiri's lips twisted. "If it was, maybe I could've done it, before it was too late. But you're smarter than I ever was. Or your brother is, at least."

Oska and Branum glanced at each other. "We don't hate the Six Bears," Branum said.

"Neither did I. I loved my brothers," Amiri said. "Didn't stop them trying to kill me. Didn't stop me killing them."

"Where are we supposed to go, then? With you?" Oska asked scornfully.

Amiri snorted. "None of us would survive that," she said, and Oska chuckled in reluctant agreement. "The world's bigger than you think. Go see what it holds. Leave—while you still have the option of coming home, if you decide that's what you want."

Oska didn't answer. Neither did Branum. They turned away, setting out without another word. But Branum looked at Oska, and Oska looked at Branum, and Amiri could tell that each was thinking of the other. Of the things they could achieve, if they found the place where they belonged.

They'd leave, she thought. Not for themselves, but each for the other. Maybe someday they would even return—as she never could.

Amiri made her way down the opposite flank of the mountain, away from the siblings. Away from the Six Bears.

The wind howled between the peaks. She listened long and hard, but there were no words within. It was only the wind.

About the Author

Kate Alice Marshall is the author of young adult and middle grade novels, including I AM STILL ALIVE, RULES FOR VANISHING, and THIRTEENS. She lives outside of Seattle with her husband, two dogs named Vonnegut and Octavia, and two kids. They all conspire to keep her on her toes. See katemarshallbooks.com for more information.

About Iconic Encounters

Iconic Encounters is a series of web-based flash fiction set in the worlds of Pathfinder and Starfinder. Each short story provides a glimpse into the life and personality of one of the games’ iconic characters, showing the myriad stories of adventure and excitement players can tell with the Pathfinder and Starfinder roleplaying games.

THE SPLINTERING OF BONE

Branum and Oska muttered to each other as Amiri prepared. She did her best to ignore them. She couldn't understand them, anyway—they were talking in an odd, garbled tongue, and suddenly she remembered that, too. The twins with their private language, infuriating Maruk because he thought his children were making fun of him. He'd always been going on about how his son was going to be as mighty a warrior as Maruk himself.

She glanced sidelong at Branum. He was shivering in the cool air of the cave, and his sister tossed her own cloak over his shoulders without comment. So much for Maruk's ambitions. He hadn't lived long enough to be disappointed in the boy.

Amiri turned on her heel, leaving the thought behind, and made her way to the back of the cave. A squeeze indeed. She hmmed, hand against the rock.

"Something wrong?" Branum asked.

"Just wondering how many ways to die there are, shoving yourself into a crack like that," Amiri mused.

"I could list them, if it helps," Branum said.

She gave him a flat look. "It really doesn't," she said. She turned sideways and slid into the gap.

Amiri wasn't afraid of tight spaces, as a rule, but a space this tight, it worked its way into the back of your brain, where all the deepest, most primal instincts hung around to tell you what was going to kill you. This was a killing space. A grasping, crushing, suffocating space. There wasn't even room to set her feet flat on the floor—she had to brace her legs at odd angles, push her way through with her calves and shoulders and by pulling with the tips of one outstretched hand. Behind her, Branum was praying. Behind him, Oska muttered to him or to herself, Amiri couldn't tell. She couldn't turn her head to look. It was like having ghosts at her back, whispering unseen.

Then, suddenly, she was free. The walls of the squeeze released her, and she stepped easily out into a wider tunnel. She worked her limbs, flexing to bring some feeling back into them.

"Made it through," she called back. Branum thanked a half-dozen gods and other entities, and the sounds of scraping and huffing intensified as the twins hurried to join her. From there, the trek was easier, though hardly swift going. Without the sun to track time, it was hard to tell how long they traveled, clambering over shelves of rock and backtracking when they hit dead ends. They hadn't found an exit yet, but they hadn't run out of cave, either.

"I can smell fresh air," Branum said at last, sniffing theatrically.

Amiri stood next to him and tested the air. "This way," she said, setting off down a side tunnel. She only made it a few steps before the tunnel abruptly ended in a small, round chamber.

The floor was scattered with bones.

She reached for her dagger, cautioning the others back. The bones looked animal—mostly. Half a deer lay in the middle of the floor, blood dried black but flesh not yet rotted away. Its blood had spattered half the chamber.

But it wasn’t the deer that held her gaze. Amiri’s eyes were fixed on a human skeleton sprawled across an outcrop of rock toward the back of the room. Bits of desiccated flesh and moldering clothes clung to the bones. A few scraps of leather armor still adorned its hips and chest, stamped with a pattern of paw prints and swirling lines, almost impossible to make out after so many years. But Amiri remembered them perfectly.

"Who do you think they were?" Branum asked, moving cautiously into the chamber. "What were they doing down here?"

"Does it matter?" Oska asked. "Something's been eating things in here. We shouldn't stick around."

Amiri tightened her jaw. "It matters," she said. "That's Erskar. He was wearing that armor the day I killed him."

Oska hissed between her teeth. Branum looked alarmed, straightening up. "I knew he was with Father that day, but his body wasn't found. Some people thought you'd run off together."

Amiri snorted. "With Erskar? Not on your life."

"So he survived? Snuck off on his own for some reason?" Branum mused.

"None of those men would have abandoned their clan," Oska spat.

"Certainly not without most of his guts. Erskar was dead. They were all dead," Amiri said, and as always, the image was as fresh and real in her mind as the day it happened. They brought it on themselves, she thought. They'd meant her to die. They'd weaseled their way out of calling it murder, but they'd brought her there to meet her end.

"Then how is he here?" Branum asked. Then, "Oh!" He pointed to Erskar's chest, and Amiri saw at once what he'd spotted. She'd left Erskar gutted on the ground. But the skeleton's legs were splintered, one arm broken clean through. And his ribs had been shattered, pried apart.

Illustration by Emile Denis

Perytons preferred live prey, but in lean times they scavenged, just like everything else. So the peryton—or its parent, maybe—had taken the corpse for a snack, flying up into the peaks with it. It had eaten its favorite part of the body, and apparently not gotten around to the rest. But no peryton would roost in these caves, even if it could fit.

"No tunnels out. But what about up?” Amiri mused.

Branum nodded and lifted his crystal, peering up toward the ceiling. And there it was. A chimney leading up out of the tunnel. Wider than the squeeze, at least. Wide enough for the corpse of a large man to tumble through and be forgotten, rotting away year after year.

“That’s our way out,” Amiri said.

“Looks like it,” Branum concurred.

“You know, if the peryton’s meals are falling down here this frequently…” Oska began.

Amiri nodded. “It’s eating up there. Which means that’s probably its nest.”

“Oh. Lovely,” Branum said.

“It’s our only option,” Amiri said. “So we’d better get climbing.” She’d take fighting the peryton over sticking around here with these cubs, that was certain.

“Not yet,” Oska said.

“You getting fond of the place?” Amiri asked her, but Oska glanced sidelong at Branum—who was trying to hide the fact that he was limping and out of breath, and pale as the belly of a fish.

“We should rest a while,” Oska said.

“I won’t make it up with or without rest,” Branum said, grimacing. “If you can get up and secure a rope or something…”

“We all go up,” Amiri said. She wasn’t going to leave the boy behind. And she certainly wasn’t going anywhere alone with his sister. Keeping Branum around was the only way to be sure one of them wasn’t going to end up dead.

“We’ve got rope. We can secure it as we go, help you up,” Oska said. “But I’d rather do that with some rest and some food in my belly.”

Amiri’s stomach rumbled on cue. “I hope you brought something to eat, because that deer’s long past being appetizing,” she said.

Oska gave a curt nod, and against their united front, Branum gave in. Oska set down her pack and pulled out salted fish, mashed and dried berries formed into a leather, and a handful of nuts. She broke the fish into three shares. Amiri expected to be handed a smaller one, but Oska had portioned them evenly. Even if she did drop it into Amiri’s hand like she was afraid of touching her.

“That’s all you brought?” Amiri asked.

Oska shrugged as she handed her brother his share. “It’s all we had. Like I said, game has been scarce.”

“You’re young yet. The clan shouldn’t be letting you go hungry,” Amiri said, troubled. “Not Maruk’s kids.”

She’d spent her years of exile thinking often enough of that last day—and less often of the day before. It was painful, remembering the way her clan had jeered and mocked her behind her back, had discussed her death with gleeful anticipation. But that pain was twinned with anger, and anger was an ally.

It was the earlier memories that were harder. Remembering not how Maruk had laughed at her, but the times they’d laughed together. Remembering not the way he’d died, cleaved limb from limb in the face of her rage, but the times they’d raced and wrestled and bickered. She’d made Maruk laugh a lot, she remembered. His wife had always thought her a bad influence. She’d thought he was one of the few that truly didn’t see her as a woman who ought to know her place, but as a warrior who’d earned it.

“It was like that a while,” Branum said. He sat with his legs splayed before him, picking at his food. “We had everything we could ask for. Everyone was always telling me how I was going to carry on Father’s legacy. Be a great warrior, like he was. And then I wasn’t, and they lost interest.”

“Someone had to provide for us,” Oska said. She hunched over her food, not meeting Amiri’s eyes. “But that only made it worse. Turned near everyone against us.”

“For feeding yourselves? I know it’s not common for a woman, but—"

Oska looked up, eyes alight with hatred. “It’s not just not common anymore. Not for the Six Bears. After what you did? ‘Look what happens when you let a woman think she’s a warrior,’ they said.”

“You think I didn’t hear that, too? ‘Watch out, or you’ll end up like Amiri,’ they’d tell the other girls. I never let it stop me,” Amiri said. She’d always taken it as a point of pride. Like Amiri meant strong, capable, unstoppable. She didn't want the things it denied her—the husband, the children, the days spent tending the fire and tanning another hunter's hides.

"And look what happened," Oska said dully. "You think that any girl in the Six Bears is allowed to even look at a sword, after you proved what a curse it is, to let a woman fight? I can't even feed myself and my brother without skulking around in secret. Maybe you should have let it stop you. Slow you down. Maybe the next girl would've had an easier time of it."

Amiri grunted. "I won't make myself less than I am. Not for anyone. Being what the clan wanted me to be would have killed me."

"Then leave," Branum whispered. They looked at him, surprised. He hadn't spoken this whole time, just stared off into the distance, but now his gaze was intense. "You could have just left."

"My kin, your father, arranged to have me killed," Amiri growled.

"They never did anything to you. Just let you do it to yourself," Branum said.

Amiri shook her head. "They wanted me dead. They betrayed me. And I—"

"Could have left," Branum repeated. "You weren't in danger. They were no threat to you. You could have walked away and lived a life to prove them wrong."

He was wrong. Someone else could have walked away, but Amiri couldn't. She was going to die that day, or they were. There was never going to be another path.

"We should go," Oska said roughly. She brushed crumbs from her fingers and stood. She put out her hand to help her brother up.

Amiri didn't know how she could explain what had happened in a way that the two would understand. It wasn't that Branum was wrong. She hadn't been defending herself. And it had been her own foolish pride and boastfulness that had made any of it possible.

For her kin to betray her. Humiliate her. Take her home from her—for how could she return, no matter the outcome, once she knew what they had intended? They wanted her dead or broken.

And she couldn't walk away. She couldn't. Someone else might have. Would have. There was nothing to stop her except herself. Her rage. Her grief at everything that had been torn so brutally from her in those horrible moments.

She should have walked away. But Amiri of the Six Bears couldn't.

Maybe she could, now. But Amiri of no clan was not the woman who had been lured into those mountains. She was not the woman who had left. And she could not go back to that moment, and stand in the place Amiri of the Six Bears stood, and make her choices for her.

She could only move on.

Only move up.

She could only keep climbing.

About the Author

Kate Alice Marshall is the author of young adult and middle grade novels, including I AM STILL ALIVE, RULES FOR VANISHING, and THIRTEENS. She lives outside of Seattle with her husband, two dogs named Vonnegut and Octavia, and two kids. They all conspire to keep her on her toes. See katemarshallbooks.com for more information.

About Iconic Encounters

Iconic Encounters is a series of web-based flash fiction set in the worlds of Pathfinder and Starfinder. Each short story provides a glimpse into the life and personality of one of the games’ iconic characters, showing the myriad stories of adventure and excitement players can tell with the Pathfinder and Starfinder roleplaying games.

STRAY CUBS

Sometimes, when Amiri was bored, she considered all the ways she could have died over the years. Not that she had any desire to analyze them strategically, as one companion had suggested. Nor to contemplate the inevitability of death and its philosophical implications, as another had asked.

Mostly, she found it oddly soothing to know that death lurked so near, waiting for a step to the right instead of left, an undercooked bit of meat, a tent pitched under the wrong overhang. Death could come because of a mistake, a miscalculation, a failure—but it could come as easily from fortune's slightest whim.

She couldn't decide which sort of death this one was—error or chance. She debated it groggily in her mind for a few seconds before realizing that the fact that she was thinking about it at all probably meant she wasn’t actually dead.

The cold and all-too-familiar kiss of a blade at her throat, though, suggested that such luck might not last long.

She blinked grit from her eyes, but it didn't help much with the view. She lay on her side, her lower body half-buried under rocks and dirt, facing a rough stone wall a foot from her nose. One arm was pinned awkwardly under her. A hand held her by the hair, and another held a knife to her neck.

"Oska, what do you think you're doing?" a low voice asked. The boy.

"Don't you know who this is?" his sister replied.

"You're not going to slit the throat of an unconscious woman," he said, sounding much surer about it than Amiri was.

"I'm not unconscious, if it helps," Amiri grated out. The girl let out a startled oath, scrambling back. Amiri's mouth felt like it had been packed solid with dust. She coughed and tasted blood—hopefully from biting her tongue, not anything internal and annoyingly dire.

Amiri twisted onto her back, bringing herself around as best she could. Her legs remained trapped in place, but at least now she could look over at the two young hunters. The girl clutched a dagger like a claw, teeth bared and eyes wild. The boy hovered nearby, expression nervous. It was thanks to him she could see anything at all—the weak, steady light filling the cavern emanated from a small crystal held in his hand.

Up close, she guessed the two of them were maybe 15 or 16, but theirs was the battered kind of youth that came of dangerous places like this. The girl might have been pretty in a dull kind of way, but the scars on her cheek and arms rescued her, made her interesting. The boy had a lean, half-starved look, with hollow eyes and a frail energy around him.

“Well?” Amiri said, breaking the silence. “If you’re going to kill me, now’s the time. It’d spare us all the trouble of digging me out, at least.”

“I have to say, I’ve been called lazy more times than I can count, but I've never murdered anyone to avoid work," the boy said with nervous humor. "Oska. Come on, drop the knife."

The girl—Oska—stared at Amiri, unmoving. Her chest heaved with labored breaths. Amiri flexed her legs, shifting them a fraction, trying to loosen the earth that held her lower body trapped.

"You're Amiri," Oska said through gritted teeth. "Of the Six Bears."

"I am Amiri," she replied, low and steady. “I have no clan.”

A brother and sister with red-gold hair. That dimple in the girl's chin that made her border on adorable, and that she probably hated. Didn't Amiri remember a pair like that? A girl who crouched and watched Amiri train, a boy always huddled close to the fire or in his sister's shadow?

"Oska," she said, repeating the name, trying to place it. Her eyes flicked to the boy. "And you're Branum, is that right?"

He gave a quick, convulsive nod. Oska and Branum. Their mother was Kina, with the copper hair and sweet voice, dead years before Amiri left. And their father—their father was Maruk. Champion wrestler, champion drinker. He was dead, too.

He died the day Amiri left.

She glanced around, casual as she could, searching for her sword. She spotted it, half-wrapped in Branum’s cloak, well out of reach.

“You killed our father,” Oska said, all bile and hatred. Ready to strike.

Amiri illustration by Wayne Reynolds

Amiri had never denied the things she’d done. Not to herself or anyone else. “That’s right,” she said, voice steady. Oska let out a strangled sound of fury and grief and surged forward a step—just one.

Even pinned, Amiri knew she wouldn’t lose that fight. But it wasn’t one she much liked the thought of winning, either.

She pushed herself up on one elbow, glaring at Oska. “I killed your father,” she said. “But whatever I’ve done, girl, your father was my grandmother’s favorite nephew. We’re cousins, you and I. Kin. And that’d make you a kinslayer, just like me."

"Can the kinslayer's kin kill the kinslayer? Or will the kinslayer kill the kinslayer's slain kin's kin?" Branum rattled off. Amiri stared at him. He offered a crooked smile, spread his hands. "Sorry. I can't help it."

Oska snorted. She held still, every muscle tense, for several long seconds. Then, at last, she lowered her dagger. "I'm no kinslayer," she declared, backing away. Amiri let out a breath through her teeth as the tension left her.

Amiri levered herself up higher, still trying to work her legs. The rocks blocking the entrance shifted at her movement, and she froze. There was enough stone blocking the entrance that bringing it down on herself would be very stupid indeed.

"I think we can get you out clean if we move a couple of these rocks and pull you straight out," Branum said, as if following her train of thought.

Oska looked at him askance. "What are you talking about? I'm not helping her."

Branum shrugged. "If you aren't going to kill her, seems like helping her is the other option."

"We could just leave her here."

"She's in the way of the exit," Branum replied. "And I'm not sure we can dig our way out without squishing her, which we've just agreed not to do."

"I wouldn't be killing her, the rocks would be killing her," Oska said sweetly. Amiri glared at her. She glared back.

Had Amiri been this infuriating at this age? Surely not. It had taken at least a little while longer before her clan tried to arrange her death, and surely if she was this annoying they wouldn't have waited.

Oska sighed, surrendering. "Fine. We'll move her out of the way first. Which rocks?"

Branum pointed confidently, and Oska moved without questioning him. Amiri helped as best she could from her awkward angle, obeying Branum's strict instructions not to move her legs at all, lest she disrupt the pile and bring it down on all of them. Well, both of them, since Branum was staying well back for a "better vantage point."

Bit by bit, they eased her out, until finally she was able to clamber to her feet. Her legs were all pins and needles, her feet half-numb, but there was little pain. Nothing broken or too badly bruised, she thought. She'd been lucky. For certain definitions of the word.

"Now, let's get this cleared and get out of here," Oska said.

Branum put a palm to the rocks. Frowned. Got that distant look in his eye of people seeing something they had no natural business seeing. Then he shook his head. "No good. There's a solid few feet of stone in the way. Too much for even you ladies to budge."

"What's the alternative? Die gasping down here?" Oska asked.

Amiri stared at the two of them. Youths of the Six Bears clan. Two stray cubs. So this was what the witch had wanted her to find, then. Maruk's children—who didn't have any better sense than he once had, if they were hunting that peryton on their own. Then again, if Maruk had hared off on a hunt like this, she would have been right on his heels. Or sprinting past him, never mind the risk.

"What were you thinking?" she said, and realized as the words left her mouth that she wasn't sure who she was talking to. These cubs? Maruk's ghost? Or maybe she meant herself.

Oska turned on her. "That beast has been driving out anything bigger than a rabbit, and its fledglings eat all the rabbits. As long as it's here, hunting is scarce."v

"So go hunt the lowlands," Amiri said dismissively.

Oska's jaw flared. Branum shifted uncomfortably.

"She's not—" Branum started.

"Branum—" Oska warned.

"—supposed to be hunting," he finished. His sister looked ready to throw him in a lake. He was lucky there weren't any nearby. Branum sighed. "We're on our own these days, and the only thing I know how to catch is a cold. But Oska's not meant to be hunting, so we have to go where the others won't see us. With everyone in the lowlands it's harder."

"Why aren't you allowed to hunt?" Amiri asked, baffled.

"You might have noticed we share a gender," Oska said, one hand planted on her hip.

Amiri shrugged. "Never stopped me. Never stopped anyone I knew from taking a hare or a doe when they needed meat."

"Things are different now," Oska said.

Amiri's brow furrowed, but before she could ask what Oska meant, she felt something—the whisper of a breeze against the back of her neck. "There's fresh air coming from somewhere," she said, stalking toward the back of the cave. There, a narrow crack ran from floor to ceiling. Amiri waved Branum closer and borrowed his light, but the retreating shadows only revealed more stone. The passageway turned. No way to say how far it went or how narrow it got.

"That's quite a squeeze," Branum said.

"Shouldn't bother you, though," Amiri noted.

"Benefits of being a twig," he agreed, shrugging.

"It's not like we have another option. We'll have to see where it goes," Oska said. "But the kinslayer goes in front."

"Think I'm going to stab you in the back, do you?" Amiri asked, chuckling darkly. "Trust me, if I kill you, you'll know it's coming."

"Is it supposed to be a comfort to imagine that my father knew he was betrayed, the moment before you murdered him?" Oska snapped.

Amiri's anger was a lash of fire through her veins. "They were the traitors," she snarled.

Oska's hand wrapped around her dagger's hilt. Her lips skinned back from her teeth. "Liar. Killer. You—"

Branum stepped between them. He put a hand to Oska's shoulder and lifted the other toward Amiri—holding it close to his body, as though he thought she might bite him if he brought it any closer.

"Close quarters make for quick tempers," he said. "We can fight under clear skies. For now, keep focused."

"I've got no quarrel with that," Amiri said. "If your sister keeps her blade pointed elsewhere."

Oska spat at her and wheeled around. She stalked as far away as she could get, which was all of a spear's length, and made a show of checking her gear. Amiri shook her head. "All right. Let me get my sword, and let's get this over with."

"About that," Branum said, and Amiri's heart sank. He bent, lifting aside the fold of his cloak, which had concealed the blade of the massive bastard sword—and hidden where it had broken, snapped to a jagged end halfway down its length.

"What did you do?" Amiri demanded, crossing the distance in two steps and shoving Branum aside.

"We didn't do anything. It broke in the rockslide," Branum said. "Saved your life, though. You were shielding your head with it, didn't get caught by that one." He pointed to a large boulder, wedged inside the entrance. It had taken out a solid chunk of the cave wall on its way in.

"It's just a sword," Oska said.

"Why is it that people think that word has so much power?" Amiri asked.

"What word?" Oska asked, puzzled.

"'Just.' It's just a cut. Just a prank. Just an arrow in your belly. Just a dragon. Who needs magic and weapons when you have 'just' to solve all the world's ills?"

Just a sword. Except it wasn't. It was everything she'd done to get it, and everything that had happened after. A friend had once pointed out to her it was a bit literal, carrying the weight of her sins on her back. She'd shoved him into a bog for it. It wasn't about the weight. It was about the purpose. Each time she used this blade, it was one more thing she'd done with it that wasn't the first thing.

Her deeds were not a drop of blood in water, to dissolve and vanish. It wasn't about making the past disappear. It was about being more than that one moment.

That's what she told herself, at least.

She wrapped the blade carefully in Branum's cloak, minding its edges, and bound it with twine. Her pack had been lost somewhere in the rockfall, but she made a bundle she could carry one-handed.

She'd get out. Find someone to mend it.

Keep adding to its list of deeds.

About the Author

Kate Alice Marshall is the author of young adult and middle grade novels, including I AM STILL ALIVE, RULES FOR VANISHING, and THIRTEENS. She lives outside of Seattle with her husband, two dogs named Vonnegut and Octavia, and two kids. They all conspire to keep her on her toes. See katemarshallbooks.com for more information.

About Iconic Encounters

Iconic Encounters is a series of web-based flash fiction set in the worlds of Pathfinder and Starfinder. Each short story provides a glimpse into the life and personality of one of the games’ iconic characters, showing the myriad stories of adventure and excitement players can tell with the Pathfinder and Starfinder roleplaying games.

THE WIND BENEATH THE PEAKS

The sky was scabbed over with ominous looking clouds, but Amiri refused to take them as an ill omen. Just being back here in these mountains was all the bad luck she needed.

Amiri hadn’t yet decided just how much of a fool she was for coming back to the lands of her birth. Just on the other side of these peaks lay the place where she’d stood drenched in the blood of her kin: the finest warriors of the Six Bears. Men she had called her brothers. Her friends. She had felt the heat of their blood fading from her skin and known she could never go home again.

She’d told herself she never wanted to.

And in the time since, she never had. Until now. Following a witch-woman’s words of warning and promise. Because though in all that time she’d never wanted to return these lands had never fully loosed their hold on her.

Amiri gritted her teeth as she hauled herself over the sheer flank of a boulder. From here she could see down the slope toward the overgrown valley below and peer up toward the snow-crusted peaks. Not a single crow cawed. No mice scuttled among the rocks and scree.

More bad omens, maybe. Or they’d been scared off by a lumbering warrior who’d forgotten the way of navigating easily through this landscape, she thought, and spat.

“Told you it was a bad idea.” she muttered, though there was no one else to hear. She’d told herself it was a bad idea just about every step of the way, but she couldn’t get the witch-woman’s words out of her head.

The town was nothing special. Just a cluster of unremarkable houses, preyed on by unremarkable bandits who were foolish enough to mistake Amiri for an easy target. She hadn’t even known the town was there until the residents greeted her cheering, at the gates. They’d insisted on a feast, and who was Amiri to turn down free food?

The witch-woman’s gift had been less welcome.

“I don’t have any gold to offer, but I have a fortune,” she'd said.

“Knowing the future only ever causes trouble.” Amiri replied with a grunt, starting to turn away, but the woman had held on with a surprisingly firm grip.

“You hear the whispers. The wind among the peaks. When you wake, when you sleep. You hear their voices. The men you killed. You hear them mocking you. You hear them cursing you.”

“Leave me be.” Amiri had growled, but the woman was relentless.

“I see you returning to the land of your birth. I see two stray cubs, a broken blade. I see your heart torn from your chest,” the woman intoned.

“My heart torn from my chest?” Amiri echoed, skeptical. “Doesn’t sound like something I ought to go looking for.”

The old woman shrugged. “Could be a metaphor. Can’t always tell with these things. But I hear the splintering of bones.” The smoke from the cookfire twined around them, strangely thick.

“You’re telling me if I go back there... what? I find some kind of peace?” Amiri had asked, voice sharp with scorn. She was a creature of battle and bloodshed, not peace.

Though maybe sometimes she did hear the wind howling in the peaks. Maybe sometimes she even thought she imagined voices in that wind, and felt—what? Not guilt or regret, exactly.

More the sense of something unfinished.

“Peace? No. A kind of silence, maybe.” the witch said.

That night Amiri dreamed of howling wind and when she set out in the morning, her path bent northward.

Part of her had almost expected spirits of vengeance to come screaming out of the sky the moment she entered the Six Bears’ territory but so far, her journey had been uneventful. She was skirting the edge of it now, just at the border of her old clan’s hunting grounds. If everything was as barren as this, it must have been a lean winter.

A skittering of rock drew her attention up the slope. She almost missed it—a flash of gray against gray, something ducking behind a stone. Then came a tiny yip and a growl. She wasn’t entirely alone here, then.

Two stray cubs, she thought.

“Bad idea.” She reminded herself. But, shaking her head, she started up the slope. The footing was unstable and twice she slid back down a foot or two, almost losing her grip on the mountainside. But finally, she hauled herself up to where the small form had vanished. There was a cleft in the rock—a cave, too small for a human, but large enough for an animal’s den, perhaps. Amiri crouched, peering into the darkness.

In her experience, fortune telling and prophecy were infuriatingly vague or uselessly symbolic. Irony and prophecy were for bards as far as she was concerned. Just tell her what a thing was plainly—and how to kill it. So she wasn’t really expecting to find two stray cubs in this den. That would be too easy. Too literal.

Amiri took a strip of jerky from her pack and held it out. “Come on. Be simple for once,” she muttered, and tossed it on the ground just outside the den.

Two glowing eyes appeared in the darkness. A second set blinked just behind. Wolves’ eyes, Amiri thought, and for one bright moment let herself believe that she might find her “stray cubs” and be done with this whole business.

The nearer beast sprang forward. Amiri leapt back with a wordless sound of surprise. She’d been mistaken—that hadn’t been the click of claws she heard, but of hooves and talons.

The cub was a hideously proportioned thing—a fawn’s spindly front legs, an oversized wolf cub’s head, the nubs of antlers pushing up from its blunt and blood-speckled brow. Ragged wings, pinfeathers not yet grown in, sprouted from its back, and its hind end sported the wicked talons of a bird of prey at the end of each scaly foot.

The peryton cub snarled at her, hunching over the piece of jerky. The second cub scrambled out, diving for the meat, and the two snapped and tore at each other, their antics almost sending them rolling down the side of the mountain.

Amiri grimaced, putting a hand to the dagger at her belt. The beasts were the size of small dogs now—not much of a threat. But they’d grow fast, and perytons were vicious, evil things. Fully grown, they delighted in tearing the hearts from men’s chests. Just like the witch had seen.

Was this all the witch wanted from her? Come here, kill a couple of perytons before they could grow up and threaten the Six Bears? Penance for her crimes.

As if that would wipe away the past.

She drew the dagger. The witch said find the cubs. She’d found them. She’d put them down and leave and forget she was ever foolish enough to listen to an old woman’s rambling fortunes.

The cubs seemed to notice her at last. They looked up, their muzzles and faces plastered with blood. No wonder the slopes were so quiet. Even fledglings would go after anything with a heart they could pry from its chest. The two growled at her, advancing. Utterly fearless. Like they completely believed the combined fifty pounds of them could take out a full-grown warrior.

Wind stirred Amiri’s hair.

Or maybe they were fearless for another reason.

Amiri threw herself to the side the second before a massive beast slammed into the rock where she’d been standing. It whirled in a storm of fur and feathers and flashing claws, a howl of rage in its throat.

Peryton by Firat Solhan

She let out an oath. The thing was massive, bigger than any peryton she'd seen—or heard of. Its ragged gray fur was striped with scars and liberally stained with blood. Bits of dried gore hung like macabre ornaments from its broad antlers, and when it spread its wings, they blocked out the sky, casting Amiri in shadow.

Amiri grinned. This was more like it. She sheathed her dagger. Planted her feet. And gripped the hilt of her massive sword. Its weight strained her shoulders, pulled at her arms. But she could feel the familiar, welcome heat uncoiling through her veins. That bitter taste was on her tongue and her heart raced with that mix of danger and eagerness and fury—fury that this creature would dare to face her. Fury it would think it could stand against her strength and blade. That it would think her prey.

“Come on, then!” she screamed at the beast. It rose on its hind legs, beating its great wings and sending blasts of wind that tore the loose rocks and pebbles from the hillside, sending them tumbling.

An arrow hissed through the air. It struck the peryton’s flank with a dull, meaty thud. It howled in rage and pain, its attention twisting away from Amiri. Toward the young woman standing a hundred feet away, feet braced, setting another arrow to her quiver. A young man crouched next to her. They wore hunters’ leathers, and by the matching red-gold shade of their hair and their angular features, they looked to be brother and sister.

The peryton leapt for the young woman. Amiri screamed out a curse and threw herself after. The girl loosed another arrow, but the peryton’s leap had startled her, and it went wide.

Amiri knew she wouldn’t make it to the pair in time. Knew the girl’s hands, quick and sure as they were, weren’t quick enough to nock another arrow. Nothing would stop the creature’s murderous dive. Unless—

The man lifted his hands. The air seemed to bend and fold in front of his palms and a crack like thunder boomed out. The peryton’s charge broke. It slewed away in the air, snarling in pain and shock. The edge of the blast of sound tore past Amiri, slamming into her shoulder, leaving her ears ringing.

The peryton climbed into the air with powerful beats of its wings. Amiri leapt the last few feet to the rock where the two youths stood.

“It’s coming back around,” she warned.

“I can see that.” the young woman snapped, her gaze tracking the beast as it rose, as it turned.

It seemed to hesitate. Its gaze shifted away from the trio, tracking higher up the mountain slope.

Then Amiri heard it. Not the scrape and skitter of a few dislodged stones, but a deep, desultory rumbling. She looked up just as, high above, the mountainside gave way.

“Rockslide!” the young man cried. The peryton let out a warbling howl and dove, but not at the three of them this time—toward its cubs, their half-feathered wings useless to take them out of the path of the rapidly growing avalanche of stone. It swept them up in its hind talons and angled away in seconds as Amiri and the other two sprinted down the slope.

“Don’t suppose that magic of yours can stop a rockslide?” Amiri shouted over the growing din.

“Just start them, apparently.” he tossed back with a reckless grin, and Amiri couldn’t help but answer it.

Over his shoulder she spotted it: a blot of darkness—a cave entrance.

“There.” she said, pointing. The two didn’t need her to explain. The sister got there first but she stopped, waited as her brother reached her and dove past before she flitted in after him.

The dust cloud riding the front edge of the avalanche swept over Amiri, blotting out her vision and swallowing the light. She threw herself toward the cave opening just as the rockslide hit.

There was no light, only darkness and furious sound, as if the whole mountain was coming apart overhead. Amiri scrambled back from the entrance. Stones rained down. Above her sounded a horrible grinding and groaning—then a crack. The cave entrance was giving way. Amiri roared, bracing herself beneath her sword, as if she could hold the whole mountain up.

The roof of the cave collapsed over her.

About the Author

Kate Alice Marshall is the author of young adult and middle grade novels, including I AM STILL ALIVE, RULES FOR VANISHING, and THIRTEENS. She lives outside of Seattle with her husband, two dogs named Vonnegut and Octavia, and two kids. They all conspire to keep her on her toes. See katemarshallbooks.com for more information.

About Iconic Encounters

Iconic Encounters is a series of web-based flash fiction set in the worlds of Pathfinder and Starfinder. Each short story provides a glimpse into the life and personality of one of the games’ iconic characters, showing the myriad stories of adventure and excitement players can tell with the Pathfinder and Starfinder roleplaying games.

For the second time today, Ciravel found herself exceedingly grateful for seatbelts and stabilizers.

The first moment of gratitude was during Iseph's dizzying, looping, headlong dash toward Daimalko's surface—a flight where they showed both their skill at threading the space between the enormous meteoroids that surrounded the planet and their delight at making Ciravel shut her eyes despite herself. Ciravel ran and reran the possibilities in her mind, certain that this was the course that resulted in a safe arrival to a canyon on the planet's surface, and yet she still found herself clutching her armrests and putting just enough tension against the straps holding her in to make sure that they would, in fact, hold.

The second moment came thanks to the radiation drake who clamped its crystalline jaws around her hoverchair and shook its head back and forth as if in virulent disagreement with Ciravel's very existence—an action which, without the negation of the stabilizers, would be excruciating, since the surface of this portion of Daimalko unexpectedly lacked many things, including plant life, water, and, much to the chagrin of Ciravel's various joints, consistent gravity. Iseph had anchored themself to one of the rocks which floated above the planet's surface and was locked in combat with a second drake.

"You could have warned me—"

"—about the radiation? The drakes? The battlefield ruins? The asteroids? Did you—oof!—notice the radiation buffers that you were so reluctant to—ow!—pick up this morning? 'But I don't breathe!' Honestly—your head would fall off if I didn't remind you to bring a wrench! YOU could have warned me that you fly like a drunken moldstorm!"

"Can we discuss this when we're not—" Iseph ducked as their drake snapped its jaws shut, barely missing the android and a sending a soft crystalline ring echoing through the canyon, "—about to be turned into scrapyard bits?"

Ciravel closed her eyes and focused her power, channeling it through her extended hand. The possibilities for the drake's next action unfolded before her like cards laid out on a table. She knew what she had to do.

"Iseph, count to ten."

Wait for it…

"Ciravel, this hardly seems the ideal time for numerical calculation—"

Ciravel shifted her weight, angling her chair slightly as the drake clamped its jaws higher, sending the pistol in her side holster careening toward the rocky ruins below. One more good bite and it would have her.

…Wait…

"…Make that seven."

Illustration by Michele Giorgi from Starfinder Galactic Magic

The drake's jaws opened momentarily as it repositioned its bite once more. In the precise moment where the drake's gullet was perfectly aligned, Ciravel turned her thrusters on full-force—right down the drake's throat. Its spine glowed with the intense blue flame before it gasped in pain and tumbled to the ground, releasing Ciravel's chair. Moments later, a rocky thud echoed through the canyon.

Thank goodness for seat belts, Ciravel thought once again as her chair careened wildly until the thrusters reoriented it.

"Three…two…"

She could see the drake's spine begin to glow again as it readied another beam. She was too far away. She needed more time.

Ciravel blinked her eyes, holding the battlefield in stasis as she bolted toward Iseph.

"…one."

Iseph startled slightly at the voice that was suddenly right next to them. Ciravel grabbed the blaster pistol from Iseph's belt and winked. She lifted her chair up and away from Iseph, aiming the pistol directly at the drake, trying to catch its attention and spin it away from Iseph, exposing a heavily wounded flank to their blade. The drake turned, lifting its wing, preparing to follow Ciravel. This time, she looped time into a knot, immediately making the drake forget her presence and leaving it distracted long enough for Iseph to drive their searing blade directly into its wounded gut.

She knew it would cost her later—the exhaustion from this last effort would be brutal—but Ciravel dug deep and twisted time once more, calibrating the trajectory and moment that Iseph's blade entered the drake's thorax, ensuring that it hit every vital organ it could on the way in. The drake collapsed and tumbled to the ground below.

"My pistol?" Iseph outstretched their arm.

"Ah, the 'thanks for saving my circuits, Ciravel' must be a different time thread…" Ciravel maneuvered back toward the rock where Iseph had themselves anchored and winced slightly in pain as she handed back the weapon, stretching her neck. "I think maybe I'll drive home? But let's get our repairs done quickly…I'm sure the Recollectors aren't too far behind us, if they aren't already here."

"Ciravel, perhaps we have sailed the canal that was left."

"The left canal, Iseph. The saying is that you've sailed down the right canal when things go to plan, or the left canal when you cannot locate what you need. But yes, it certainly looks like we might have sailed quite far down the left canal, unfortunately."

---

She reached into one of the bags attached to the side of her hoverchair and pulled out a handle—which extended into a cane with a press of a button—and a tool kit, then released the safety belts attaching her to the chair. Activating the grav anchors on her boots and retracting the stabilizers, Ciravel stepped onto the hovering rock, and, leaning heavily on her cane, surveyed the damage to the chair. Not too bad, considering the jaws…

Iseph pulled a medical kit from a belt pouch and began doing their own repairs to patch up their wounds—a cut here, a re-soldered circuit there. As Ciravel tightened bolts and reattached anything that had come loose from her chair in the fight, something gnawed at the back of her mind, but she brushed it away. The Recollectors were on their trail and they hadn't found any real clues to the cause of The Awakening, the cataclysm that decimated life on Daimalko. No hint to whether it was a natural event or an apocalyptic weapon used in the bitter war that used to rage on the planet. All Ciravel knew was that when she last held a fragment of rock that originated here, a specimen back in the xenobiology lab in Sovyrian, she tasted time—the only way she could describe the strange way that she suddenly smelled salt and citrus and tasted spiced honey whenever she encountered items from far in the past—a strange sensory activation that tied to her only childhood memory. A memory from the Gap.

There hadn't been a whiff of anything other than sulfur and ozone since they arrived on Daimalko. But the way that rock had hummed in her ears…the song she had heard…what she'd heard…what didn't I hear?

"…Iseph, did you hear the impact of the second drake landing in the canyon?"

"An impact? No…I heard an echo of jaws clashing and ringing, your weapon falling, the flames of your chair, the pistol firing, the screams…everything echoed back. But I did not hear a second impact of a drake on the canyon floor."

In that moment, time unfolded for Ciravel as she registered three things. First: the air, which had reeked only of sulfur and centuries of decay, suddenly smelled of salt and citrus. The smell of Time, of the Gap. Second: the sudden darkness that fell when it had, only moments before, been glaringly bright. Night should have been nearly 30 hours away. And finally: the meaning of the absent sound of the drake's impact. Ciravel ran through the possibilities in a split second, and realization made her eyes go wide.

"Um…Iseph?"

"When I have finished repairing, Ciravel, I will assist you. It is already nightfall? We cannot waste our time tonight."

"Iseph…look up. We'll make some extra time."

The android glanced up from the wire they were reconnecting and then continued looking up, and up, and up the exoskeleton, watching in near-wonder as tendrils passed the drake corpse up…and up…and up…far higher than Ciravel's chair could reach on a day when it hadn't been rattled around in the jaws of a drake, past gargantuan claws and tusks.

As her own eyes met the four beady ones of the Kyokor, Ciravel tasted spiced honey.

She stared at the colossus, steadied herself back into her hoverchair, and activated the thrusters. She glided next to Iseph and looked over at them from beneath the creature's shadow, smiling.

"Well, what do you know? Perhaps we sailed the right canal after all."

About the Author

Jennifer Kretchmer is a Diana Jones Emerging Game Designer Award finalist, TV produce and performer, author (D&D's Candlekeep Mysteries, Haunted West), streamer, and disability consultant (Skybound Games: The Walking Dead, MCDM) who has been playing TTRPGs for more than 20 years. She appears on several actual play streams including Vampire: The Nightlife (Renegade) and Heroes of the Planes (Demiplane), where her character, Alyndra, is a playable champion in Idle Champions of the Forgotten Realms. Jen is a Jasper's Game Day Ambassador and is the creator of the Accessibility in Gaming Resource Guide.

Twitter/Instagram: @dreamwisp
Twitch: twitch.tv/dreamwispjen
Linktree: linktr.ee/dreamwisp

About Iconic Encounters

Iconic Encounters is a series of web-based flash fiction set in the worlds of Pathfinder and Starfinder. Each short story provides a glimpse into the life and personality of one of the games' iconic characters, showing the myriad stories of adventure and excitement players can tell with the Pathfinder and Starfinder roleplaying games.

They’d landed on a port moon to rehaul their ship before rendezvousing with the rest of the Pact World diplomatic team on a newly discovered world called Sigerro. A routine enough stop, but then, even in Near Space, the routine could quickly turn to excitement.

Zemir and Raia, part of the command team, were sent to find upgraded Drift drives for their ship. The thought was that Raia’s eye for tech would aid in finding the best equipment and Zemir’s tendency to bend chance might allow them to purchase it at a low price.

The technomancer and witchwarper debated the differences between their respective talents while perusing the port’s open-air markets.

“Our methods differ only in scope. You use your gifts to push technology,” said Zemir, tossing another faulty circuit board into a display case, “whereas I use mine to push reality.”

“Your scope may be wider,” said Raia, examining some drive schematics absently. “But my tech produces more reliable results.”

“Reliability is irrelevant. In the end, we seek the same thing—the new, impossible, the interesting. Is how we do it so important?”

“Some would say the ‘how’ is the most important part of all,” Raia answered, smiling. It was an old debate between friends, one they’d cheerfully had over drinks in many a space port.

“Perhaps you’re right,” said Zemir quietly. Raia recognized that faraway look. One day she’d learn the cause of Zemir’s periodic melancholy.

Before Zemir could say more, the market fell eerily silent. Everyone around them stared upward. Zemir and Raia joined them, and watched as the moon eclipsed the sun, and all went dark.

Soon after, the chittering squeaks and clicks began.

“I recognize those sounds,” said Raia. “Grioths.”

“What, this far in Near Space?” asked Zemir.

“They get closer every year,” said Raia sadly. She found grioths a fascinating formation of life. It’s too bad so many of them were in the monstrous grip of Nyarlathotep, for their voidglass technology and biology was quite interesting and could be put to great use in the Pact Worlds.

Her thoughts were interrupted by holes opening in the moon-eclipsed sky. From these shadowy portals descended a wave of winged terrors. The grioths’ silhouettes looked like thousands of bats with arms and legs—all of which held glittering weaponry.

The technomancer and the witchwarper watched the marketgoers flee. In silent agreement, both stood still amid the chaos, knowing they could hold off the grioths and allow these citizens to get to safety.

Several grioth raiders noticed the two holding their ground and broke off to attack them. Raia picked off one with a single blaster pulse while Zemir stared at another and muttered. Suddenly, the grioth’s wing seized and it plummeted to the ground. That left three more, who charged in a whirl of chittering squeaks and gleaming, deadly glass.

A fourth landed in front of Raia and swiped at her with its giant, clawed hand.

“No,” said Raia calmly, stepping back and raising her hands. She felt composed, as though in a simulation. She had spent the better part of the afternoon familiarizing herself with the tech around her, and now she simply had to put it to work, albeit for a new purpose.

As the grioth tried to grasp her again, she cast a spell with a word and a gesture. Behind her, the vast engine powering the veranda block rumbled and cracked. Suddenly, as though it were a puppet pulled by the technomancer’s strings, it unleashed from its casing and wrapped the grioth in an unbreakable embrace of steel and coiled wire.

Zemir watched his friend fight and wondered how best to aid her in the dance. He was no slouch with a blade, but with so many opponents, more help was needed.

What if, perhaps, another portal opened? One to a world filled with bright sunlight? Zemir pondered the possibilities and adjusted probabilities as though inputting calculations into the ultimately unknowable machine that was the universe. Calculations that, due to his training at the institute, he sometimes knew the outcomes for.

A bright portal to a sun-filled world opened, a world with—yes, perfect—a swarm of apari constituents, who poured from the portal, angry and hungry. The grioths shrieked at the light, some clutching their faces as its very photons pierced their psychic defenses. At Zemir’s direction, the apari swarm crashed against the grioths like a wave, instinctively trying to strike back against invaders who would darken a world.

Illustration by Mirco Paganessi from Starfinder Galactic Magic

“You will all perish for the glory of our dark master,” whispered one of grioth invaders with a harsh rasp. Before he could say more, he was overwhelmed by the swarm of apari.

He could have run—but he wouldn’t. Helping Raia made it worth it; knowing that, in some small way, Zemir had adjusted his account, paying back what he’d done wrong. He might never be able to atone for leaving his friends in that other reality, might never be able to get them back (though another part of him still wondered about this) but here, now, at least he and his friend Raia could save each other.

Together, weaving reality and technology with threads of magic, the technomancer and witchwarper beat back the remaining two grioth attackers, their martial prowess no match for the pair’s magical mastery.

“We have to get to the ship,” said Zemir once they had a moment to catch their breath. “I can open a gateway there, but I’ve expended a lot of power and can only take myself.”

“Go. I know you won’t leave me behind,” said Raia. For some reason, Zemir looked inexplicably sad at that.

“I will come back for you,” Zemir promised gravely. He stepped through the portal and was gone.

Raia waited, holding glowing sigils and technical weapons in the dark marketplace. From the chittering and squeaks, she knew another squad of grioths was inbound. With all the tech around her, Raia knew she could hold them off, but not indefinitely. She just hoped that Zemir would get back with the ship in time.

About The Author

Patrick Hurley has had fiction published in Galaxy’s Edge, Cosmic Roots & Eldritch Shores, Abyss & Apex, New Myths, Arcanist, Aurealis, Frozen Wavelets, The Overcast, and The Drabblecast. He is a 2017 graduate of the Taos Toolbox Writer's Workshop. In 2018, he was a finalist for the Baen Fantasy Award. Patrick lives in Seattle and is a member of SFWA and the Dreamcrashers. He still can’t quite believe he has the good fortune to also be an editor at Paizo.

About Iconic Encounters

Iconic Encounters is a series of web-based flash fiction set in the worlds of Pathfinder and Starfinder. Each short story provides a glimpse into the life and personality of one of the games’ iconic characters, showing the myriad stories of adventure and excitement players can tell with the Pathfinder and Starfinder roleplaying games.

As the white-bearded man casually strolled across the rainy courtyard, shadowy figures kept pace with him atop the buildings surrounding the square. The older man didn’t seem aware of the dark shapes stalking him, first from a distance, then closer, along his path. Nor did he show surprise when the ruffians stepped out of the shadows, blades glinting. The tallest of the black-clad figures spoke with a low growl.

“Shouldn’t have gotten involved in War Hounder business, old man. We don’t like folks asking questions about our dealings!”

“Well,” Ezren thought to himself, “it’s about time.”

Though confident in his preparations, the wizard still summoned some basic defenses as the War Hounders cautiously approached. A mage’s armor was, in his opinion, properly made of magic. He layered a shield spell atop it for good measure.

One of the ruffians flung a dagger at Ezren as the rest moved to cut off his escape routes… which he had no intention of taking.

“I’ve been trying to get your attention for some time,” Ezren said calmly as the knife bounced off his arcane shield. Unsurprisingly, the War Hounders ignored him. Ezren knew they were aware of his wizardly training and understood their desire to take him out quickly. If this had been a remotely fair fight, they’d be doing the right thing.

Ezren did his best to avoid “fair” fights, though. A fair fight was the result of poor research, and he prided himself on his scholarship.

His two fastest attackers were a scarred human and a dwarf; each wielding sword and dagger. Ezren reviewed a range of possible replies before settling on a simple lightning cantrip. Not fully powered, something in the mid-range he knew they’d survive. He wanted to deliver a message and getting the dead to deliver messages was more… problematic.

Ezren concentrated on the essence of lightning as he performed word and gesture to express that essence. Electricity jolted from his open hand, arcing first to the human and then the dwarf. Neither was quick enough to avoid his spell. The dwarf fell to the ground, flopping about like a fish trapped in a tide pool. The human grunted and raised his sword… as Merisiel’s thrown dagger buried itself in the back of his skull.

Ezren was not so foolish as to provoke a guild of thieves without backup, and it was gratifying to see the remaining War Hounders look stunned at Merisiel’s dramatic entrance. A moment later, it was Ezren’s turn to be surprised as a fifth War Hounder, a cloaked woman with two long daggers, launched herself between Merisiel and the fallen dwarf.

The situation was still in hand… for now.

Illustration by Tomasz Chistowski from Pathfinder Lost Omens Absalom, City of Lost Omens.

“I know you can’t answer my questions.” Ezren’s sounded calm as he turned in place, his cane held high to ward off the two-handed sword blow from the War Hounder who’d been trying to sneak up behind him. “But when you flee back to the Pyramid of the Dog, I want you to deliver your master a message.”

The cloaked woman began dragging the dwarf’s twitching body back into the shadows, tiny sparks of electricity continuing to bound off him across the worn road’s shallow puddles. The attacker with the greatsword swung it again, trying to cut Ezren in half with an attack powerful enough to force the wizard to expend his arcane shield to counter it. Merisiel threw another dagger into an apparently empty space… and the empty space grunted and spattered blood on the street.

“I’d have sent a courier requesting an audience, but none seemed willing to deliver my message, and I haven’t had any luck with public notices.”

Ezren formed a new eldritch concept in his mind, and colors sprayed out from his cane, hitting the greatsword-wielder full in the face. The attacker’s eyes took on the same rainbow colors, and the scoundrel dropped his sword as he staggered away unsteadily. The cloaked woman finished dragging her fallen comrade out of sight, and Merisiel positioned herself to watch his back.

Ezren turned slowly, scanning the open square. The blinded War Hounder was wandering aimlessly but could become a threat again within a minute or so. The woman and dwarf were out of sight but could potentially be maneuvering to make another assault. Merisiel would warn him if that were to happen. There was another man…

At the edge of the square, a man clad in brown and green lurked in the shadows. His drab clothing actually blended into the backdrop of Absalom’s Puddles District better than the pure black of his compatriots. He was bald with a full beard. He studied Ezren with a stern expression, single dagger in hand, though he was well out of stabbing range. The War Hounder could, of course, throw his blade. Or perhaps he knew some occult secret with which to blast Ezren’s mind.

Trusting Merisiel to handle any other unforeseen threats from behind, Ezren turned to face the bald man.

“You are, I take it, in charge?”

The bald man waved a hand in casual denial. “I wouldn’t say that. We aren’t strict in terms of rank or command, you see? More accurate to say I’m wise enough not to be on the front line when confronting a wizard of your… reputation.”

Ezren nodded in acknowledgment, though he suspected the bald man had no idea who he was or what reputation he might possess.

“May I assume,” asked Ezren, eyes still scanning for the missing dwarf, “that if I were to ask you to carry a message to the oldest and wisest of the War Hounders, you could see that it was received?”

“I’d be delighted.” The bald man looked anything but delighted, but Ezren believed his message would be delivered.

As Ezren was about to reply, the War Hounder who’d dropped the greatsword snapped out of his befuddlement. He looked back and forth between the wizard and the bald man. Merisiel was nowhere to be seen, but Ezren knew she was nearby. He kicked the dropped greatsword toward his assailant who, upon receiving a nod from the bald man, picked up his weapon and rushed to stand beside his ally.

“I would very much like to know,” said Ezren with as much iron as he could put in his voice, “what became of the papers and effects of Nessian. Further, I represent a buyer who would pay well for them, if they remain in War Hounder possession.”

The bald man tried to look impassive, but his eyes showed a hint of surprise. Then he nodded again, and gestured for the larger warrior to head out of the courtyard.

“I assure you, that message shall be delivered.”

And with that he followed after the taller man, both of whom were quickly enveloped by shadows.

Ezren smiled as he headed back toward the inn he was staying at in the Foreign Quarter. He made sure to walk slowly so he could easily be followed, trusting Merisiel to prevent further assaults. He suspected when the War Hounders attacked him again tonight, they’d bring someone who could answer his questions.

And tonight at the inn, he and Merisiel wouldn’t be alone to receive them.

About The Author

Owen K.C. Stephens is a veteran of the tabletop RPG industry with more than 20 years of experience, including being on staff at Green Ronin, Paizo, and Wizards of the Coast and being the publisher of RogueGeniusGames.com. He has worked on numerous RPG lines, including being co-author of the Star Wars Saga Edition RPG and Design Lead for the Starfinder Roleplaying Game. You can support his writing and free content production at Patreon, and follow him at his blog, on Facebook and on Twitter.

About Iconic Encounters

Iconic Encounters is a series of web-based flash fiction set in the worlds of Pathfinder and Starfinder. Each short story provides a glimpse into the life and personality of one of the games’ iconic characters, showing the myriad stories of adventure and excitement players can tell with the Pathfinder and Starfinder roleplaying games.

It’s strange how quickly a life-changing period spanning years can be replaced by what was once normal. Droven was certainly happy to be back in the field undertaking a Pathfinder mission again, and even happier to have an opportunity to deploy some of the gadgets and weaponry he’d created during his long exodus in Arcadia. He’d even lent his latest weapon, a gun that could create portals, to his partner for the exercise, a clever halfling freelancer from Cheliax who’d come highly recommended by a fellow Pathfinder.

The mission itself was fairly simple. There were reports of a large wolf or canine monster attacking travelers and caravans on the road between Absalom and Otari, a small port town on the western half of the Isle of Kortos. It was almost too simple, and in another place and time, the Pathfinder Society likely wouldn’t have sent a veteran agent still settling in after a long and dangerous journey abroad, but Otari was home to several friends of the Society, and perhaps just as relevant, it often served as a secondary destination for shipments too valuable to the wrong people to bring in through Absalom’s more closely watched ports.

So here Droven found himself, his entertaining companion playing a tune as they walked the forested highway on their way to Otari. As always, Whirp accompanied him, the quirky construct mostly doing what it was designed to do, staying by Droven’s side so the half-orc could readily access the tools it carried, but occasionally wandering off to examine a flower or dew drop on a leaf. Droven had disassembled, reassembled, and repaired the goblin-shaped construct countless times over the years, and he still had no explanation for Whirp’s strange moments of seeming sapience, curiosity, and self-direction. There was some magic interwoven with the clockwork devices that powered Whirp. Perhaps over the years of journeying through Arcadia, Droven’s one-sided conversations with the construct had made some impact on these arcane forces, granting Whirp a tiny spark of personality. Droven still carried on these conversations. While they drew the occasional odd look (once convincing a passing goblin to join in and look to their mechanical counterpart for a response that came in the form of an awkward hug and offered crowbar) most of Droven’s friends and peers had grown used to them and occasionally spoke to Whirp themselves.

---

On the evening of their second day out from Absalom, they finally encountered the creature they’d been sent to deal with. Droven was dozing by the fire, Whirp standing at his side and staring intently at an owl perched in the branches above, when their halfling companion whispered magically into his ear from his own hiding spot. “Barghest!”

Droven snapped awake; those years traveling on his own had sharpened his mind and reflexes. Drawing his hammer and putting his back against a nearby tree, he whispered back. “So not a wolf? Unfortunate.”

The same calm that always accompanied moments of stress descended once more over Droven. Later, when the fighting was done, his knees would shake and his eyes would water, but for now he was fully in the moment, the fire of his orcish blood fueling his analytical mind and sharpening his thoughts for the task at hand.

The barghest lurked just beyond the range of the firelight, its batlike ears and hunched shoulders faintly backlit by the leaf-shrouded moon. Droven made a mental note to recommend the halfling for future work; even his own eyes, capable of navigating lightless tunnels and moonless nights with relative ease, could barely make out the creature. Droven doubted he would have noticed the monster had he been on watch, let alone correctly identified it under these conditions.

He hoped their plan worked. Whirp was to leap in front of the threat, then scurry through a portal created by the experimental gun he’d given the halfling. Hopefully, the beast would follow Whirp through the portal, putting itself right in line for a thunderous blow from Droven’s hammer. Of course, they’d made the plan expecting a creature of animal intelligence, not a deadly fiend capable of critical thought with its own repertoire of magic.

Before Droven could propose a new tactic, Whirp began acting on the original plan Droven had modified the little construct to perform.

“Whirrrrrp!”

Illustration by Biagio d'Alessandro from Pathfinder Guns & Gears

Whether it was an intentional battle cry or merely the sound of the clockwork gears rattling throughout his small frame, it nonetheless signaled the start of the fight. Whirp’s body sparked for a moment before an explosive gout of flame vented from his chassis, launching the construct directly in front of the barghest. For Droven, an eternity seemed to pass as construct and barghest stared at one another, though it was likely no more than a few seconds. With a second “Whirrrrrp,” Droven’s clockwork companion lurched away, dashing through the woods as tools clattered out of the compartment on its back. Droven made a mental note to add a leather flap to the top of Whirp’s built-in toolbox even as he pressed tighter against the tree, hoping the barghest had failed to notice him or had forgotten him chasing after Whirp.

The plan worked to perfection. The halfling opened a portal next to Droven’s hiding spot before opening another in front of Whirp. As Whirp dashed through the eldritch opening, the barghest sped right behind it. As Whirp exited, Droven swung, his hammer whistling above the construct’s head even as the barghest’s snout cleared the portal. With a thunderous crunch, the barghest popped back out of the entry portal, its head lolling weirdly on a broken neck. Droven looked away from the barghest’s death throes, uninterested in exposing himself to another creature’s agonized final moments, and nodded to his halfling companion. A good plan, or at least an effective one, cleanly executed without injury. As much as Droven would have liked to say, “without negative consequences,” he realized that would be an inaccurate assessment. Somewhere scattered among the leaves and roots of the roadside forest, Whirp had lost an expensive and worrisome number of the inventor’s favorite tools.

About The Author

Michael Sayre is a designer at Paizo who previously worked on the Organized Play team. He’s also a prolific freelancer, having contributed to numerous Paizo books and publications from other publishers, such as Lost Spheres Publishing, Rogue Genius Games, and many other companies in support of the Pathfinder RPG and other table-top game systems.

About Iconic Encounters

Iconic Encounters is a series of web-based flash fiction set in the worlds of Pathfinder and Starfinder. Each short story provides a glimpse into the life and personality of one of the games’ iconic characters, showing the myriad stories of adventure and excitement players can tell with the Pathfinder and Starfinder roleplaying games.

“Please, Dhareen, must we go through with this? A bit of rock climbing is hardly a challenge for the Castrovel Kid!” Dhareen imagined her mentee thrusting his chest out proudly, thumb pressed triumphantly above his heart as he blustered several feet below her. She smiled to herself and pushed her piston-puncher into the mountain’s side, activating the gadget with a press of her lowleft thumb.

Kuh-klank.

“Perhaps, but it is custom among the tribes for a Yavnii to administer a test to every hopeful Brekai wanting to undergo the Test of the Mountain, and I am afraid that not even I have the authority to make exceptions to shobhad tradition. Not even for the ‘Castrovel Kid.’”

“See, you say that, but I can hear your grin,” Vellero replied sullenly.

“I know not what you mean.” Dhareen grinned again.

Both gladiators fell silent as they climbed, Dhareen pausing her ascent long enough for Vellero to scale up alongside her.

Kuh-klank.

He had taken to her tutelage well. Ka’s cliffside was grueling even for an expert; twenty-two miles long and comprised of thin basalt overtop stronger metamorphic stone, careless climbers often plummeted to their deaths after relying on pistons pounded into brittle basalt. One of the many roles of a yavnii was to ensure their breknai did not succumb to such a fate. Vellero had learned Dhareen’s lessons well thus far, scaling around several patches of basalt she had left in his path as a test.

Kuh-klank.

Vellero’s concentration reminded Dhareen of when she first met the headstrong lashunta in the ring at Arl’s VitariTech Coliseum. They were competing in the Icons Grand Brawl, and he was favored to win. The young man was a crowd pleaser on a seven-match winning streak. He was good, but not good enough; Dhareen scrubbed the floor with her future friend’s face. Literally. Nevertheless, there had been a spark within Vellero, a spark that intrigued her. The second time she knocked him down—or perhaps the third—he clamored to his feet with a bruised antenna and a few chipped teeth, wiped fresh blood from his lip, and grinned.

“Why do you persist?” Dhareen had asked, scarcely winded. “You cannot win. You bring yourself only pain. Throw your towel; others have when facing me. There is no shame in surrendering to your better.”

“You’re right,” he’d replied. “But that wouldn’t be fair for the folks who came here to see me fight, and I don’t want to let a single person in this ring who believed that I could win down.” He raised his fists into a boxer’s stance, a pointless gesture against an opponent twice his size with twice as many fists. “When I go down, I want them to know I gave it my all!”

Kuh-klank.

“I don’t mean to sound indignant,” Vellero interrupted Dhareen’s thoughts. “I know that the Test of the Mountain is sacred to your people, and that it is an honor to be allowed to undergo it as an outsider.”

Dhareen raised an eyebrow. “But?”

“But,” Vellero took a breath. “Is the reason we’re doing this,” Vellero gestured out behind them, over red dunes and rolling clouds of dust. “Because you don’t think I can?”

“If I didn’t think you could pass the Test of the Mountain, I wouldn’t have begun the climb with you, nor permitted you to undertake it.” Dhareen’s voice was gentle but her statement absolute. “The mountain is sacred to my people. We do not tolerate bloodshed on Ka. To send one who is unprepared up the Mountain is as shameful as slaying one’s enemies at its base.”

Vellero’s expression softened slightly. “Thanks.”

“Do not speak of it. You don’t want your throat to dry from the ascent.”

Vellero blinked, then burst out laughing.

“I don’t understand what you find so funny about that. You’ll have twenty miles left when we’ve reached the end of our shared path.”

Vellero kept laughing for a minute, wiping tears from his eyes. “Thanks, Dhareen.”

“You’re—”

Kuh-KUN.

Dhareen reaches for a falling Vellero in this illustration by Victor Manuel Leza Moreno from Starfinder: Galaxy Exploration Manual.

Dhareen gave herself no time for thinking. Before the sound of shattering basalt reached her ears, before Ka itself folded like a withered tumblefern in a windstorm, she whipped around to where Vellero was climbing even as his cliffside shifted downward, a cascade of metamorphic stone tearing free from Ka and tumbling towards the ground below. Vellero screamed as he fell, but Dhareen plucked him from the air like a corpseheron snatching a leaping spookfish out from the Irkonian Sea. Dhareen didn’t speak Ysoki, but she had spent enough time around ratfolk gladiators at VitariTech to recognize the lashunta lambasting the situation with at least six of the fourteen different Ysoki swears that she knew.

“Hold on, Vellero!” Climbing down wasn’t an option; a rockslide was eminent, and the best place to be during a rockslide was above it. Vellero was much smaller than she and less experienced at climbing, he would only slow them down. She could climbe faster with all four of her muscled arms free, anyway. There was only one option remaining.

Hoisting the Castrovel Kid onto her shoulders like a mother giving a youngling a backride, she placed the much smaller lashunta onto her shoulders and started climbing as fast as she could, giving only the barest of warnings. “Hold tight!”

Though Dhareen could hear Vellero shouting, her intense focus and the earsplitting sounds of portions of the rock wall sloughing off afforded her no opportunity to comprehend him. She climbed as quick as her body would allow, muscles aching and flaring as she abandoned her piston-punch and climbed barehanded. She knew full-well that the smallest mistake would send both she and her friend to their doom.

Ten yards from the top.

Five.

She was going to make it.

She and Vellero were going to make it.

Then her world shook as shadow overtook her vision. A boulder dislodged from above, tumbling towards her, threatening to crack her skull and send Dhareen and her breknai tumbling miles to their death. She refused to close her eyes; she would greet the Lady of Graves with firsthand tales of how she died. She was not alone; at the peak of her vision, she saw a small lashunta arm, no bigger than that of a shobhad child’s, reach out as if to catch the boulder. Dhareen admired Vellero’s bravery one last time.

The boulder collided with Vellero, and for a moment it was like watching a diver plunge into a serene pool. Vellero’s hand, then his arm, and then both their bodies plunged into the boulder.

Was it just an illusion?

Fine dust covered Dhareen as the boulder passed through her. From within, she watched the metamorphic rock splinter and crack in flight, first into smaller boulders, then into stone and pebbles, and finally into dust. The boulder never touched them; it dissolved before it even struck the Castrovel Kid’s hand.

Dhareen was stunned at first. But with safety just a few yards above and Ka continuing to shake and splinter, the feeling passed quickly as she bellowed at her peculiar friend.

“That, Vellero! Keep doing that!”

About The Author

Alexander "Alex" Augunas (he/him) is an author and behavioral health worker living outside of Philadelphia. He has contributed to numerous gaming products published by Paizo, with several of his better-known contributions including the Starfinder Roleplaying Game Core Rulebook, Starfinder Character Operations Manual, and Pathfinder Lost Omens Legends. Alex is also a staff member of the Know Direction Network, where he serves as Master of Ceremonies for Know Direction: Beyond, and publisher of third-party publisher Everybody Games.

About Iconic Encounters

Iconic Encounters is a series of web-based flash fiction set in the worlds of Pathfinder and Starfinder. Each short story provides a glimpse into the life and personality of one of the games’ iconic characters, showing the myriad stories of adventure and excitement players can tell with the Pathfinder and Starfinder roleplaying games.

Nhalmika Ironsight ran through the fresh snow. It wasn’t that much snow—it wouldn’t reach higher than mid-shin on a human—but it was higher than Nhalmika’s knees. And there’s a big difference, she now knew, between running through snow below your knees and running through snow above them. But she nevertheless ran on, hefting her scattergun to keep it free of moisture that might foul the firing mechanism. Most humans would find the large gun to be far too heavy, but Nhalmika carried it with practiced ease. So perhaps there was a fair tradeoff somehow.

Yesterday, she’d come into the village of Ivlanton to the sound of cheers. The village was deep in Irrisen, the land of perpetual winter. Frostbite and privation were as omnipresent as the snow. Ivlanton sorely needed blankets, firewood, and medicine.

A caravan master in Lod had sent a cartload of these goods to Ivlanton. When it didn’t return, he asked Nhalmika to investigate. At first, the master had praised Nhalmika’s son, an upright merchant with whom he’d done business, but Nhalmika wouldn’t venture deeper into Irrisen on familial pride alone. The master then offered a generous payment, but Nhalmika still refused. She was from the far south, and this wintry land was unfamiliar to her. She’d intended to move on quickly to warmer Varisia. But when the master talked about the difficulties the villagers would face if the goods hadn’t reached them, Nhalmika agreed to go. She couldn’t let innocent people suffer just because she didn’t like snow. She took the offered coin, too, and spent it on a hand-pulled wagon with still more blankets and medicine. If she couldn’t find the missing goods, she didn’t want to reach Ivlanton empty-handed.

It turned out she needn’t have worried. She found the cart a few miles from Ivlanton, pulled off the road. Anyone else might have missed it, but the dead teamster’s baldric buckle gleamed in the deep shadows of the snowy hedge, bright as a beacon to Nhalmika’s keen eyes. The horses were nowhere to be seen. She saw that bandits had plainly pawed through the wagon, but they’d left the blankets and firewood behind. “Disappointed in their mundane haul, no doubt,” she muttered. Nhalmika prepared a hasty cairn for the unfortunate teamster and doubled up the load in her wagon to bring the lot to Ivlanton.

The villagers were pleased, to be sure, but the village seer, an elderly and kind woman named Gerthanna, told Nhalmika that something had been stolen from the wagon after all: a small, magical flask that produced an endless stream of fresh water. In a land where water froze solid all year round, ready access to fresh water was vital.

“I know bandits,” Nhalmika said assuredly, “and I know how to put them into the dirt…that is, the snow, I suppose,” she finished with faltering confidence. She paused to consider, but only for a moment. “I’ll go after them, and I’ll bring back your magic flask.”

Nhalmika backtracked to the ransacked cart to look for tracks. Amid her own boot prints and the hoofprints of the departed horses, she discovered several heavy footprints, each a cross between an animal’s paw and an unshod human foot. Snowfall largely concealed the tracks, but Nhalmika was a little disappointed in herself to have missed them the first time. Even good eyes get old, she thought.

The tracks led away from the trail and up a nearby hill. That’s where she found the remains of the horses, brutally torn to pieces. Clearly, something had feasted on great chunks of their meat. “Well, at least a well-fed enemy is a sluggish enemy,” Nhalmika mused, following the tracks as the hills led into a series of steep canyons. They looked like the box canyons of home: winding, dangerous, and the perfect place for an ambush. She readied her scattergun and shifted her cloak to access her powder and shot more easily. Then she stopped to think.

The paw-footed bandits entered this canyon but didn’t leave it. That meant they’d either gone to hide inside or they were waiting in ambush. Either way, she could get a better look from above. Nhalmika scrambled up the canyon wall and made her way around its lip, crouching low

Near the end of the box canyon, Nhalmika spied an elaborate ice sculpture, resembling a cresting wave with spines like icicles jutting every which way. It looked like some sort of symbol, but one that twisted away from her scrutiny as if she weren’t welcome to understand it. She recognized it as a fiendish rune—and a powerful one at that—wrought entirely from ice. An open metal flask resting atop the sculpture spouted a stream of water that quickly froze to slush and then to ice.

Six hulking bandits worked around the ice sculpture, shaping the water as it froze to form the enormous rune. At first, Nhalmika thought they were dressed in ragged hides, but she soon observed that the patchy hides grew from their skin and claws sprouted from their hands and bare feet. They wore nothing other than blood-stained rags. The burly animal people were working with a definite purpose, and fear struck somewhere deep in Nhalmika’s soul.

A low growl behind her made Nhalmika gasp in surprise. She’d been so focused on the rune-shaping bandits that she’d forgotten her earliest training: “a vanguard must look in all directions at once.” She glanced behind her.

An enormous bear glared at Nhalmika from only a dozen yards away. Yet it wasn’t the bear’s hostile stare or aggressive posture that drew her gaze. The bear wore a harness of iron chains supporting a massive mirror atop its back. The mirror stood upright, reflecting Nhalmika’s puzzled expression as she perched at the canyon’s edge.

“I am never going to understand Irrisen,” Nhalmika sighed as she swung her scattergun around to point at the bear. Before she could scare the bear off, the mirror blazed with bright inner light. The light coalesced into a beam of energy that lanced out toward Nhalmika. She sidestepped the blast, but the mirror immediately started to glow again, as though preparing for another beam. The bear howled in anger, and the roar was answered by the bandits in the chasm. Even as distracted as they were, they couldn’t have missed the bright beam.

“Well, you shot first. My turn now.” Nhalmika fired at the bear’s head. Her shot might as well have struck stone. The bear hardly flinched, then took two paces, closing in on her. Nhalmika’s hands worked automatically as the scattergun recoiled, loading another round as she used the gun’s momentum to swing it back around in an arc to fire again. The bear ignored the second hit, and its mirror glowed even brighter. While her practiced fingers reloaded again, Nhalmika glanced around for options.

“That flashy weapon’s the trouble, my furry friend. I can’t let you keep it.” She fired her third round at the mirror, expecting an explosion of glass and metal, but the shot rebounded from the mirror’s surface without a scratch. The scattergun was growing hot in Nhalmika’s hands, but she smoothly loaded it once again.

“I guess this is hurting me more than it’s hurting you. I don’t have any more time for this.” Nhalmika aimed her scattergun at the snow and leapt from the top of the cliff. She pulled the trigger and the recoil propelled her even higher. Another energy blast shot across the snow where she’d been only a second ago. She had to admit the bear’s aim was good. Especially for a bear.

Illustration by Roberto Pitturru from Pathfinder Guns & Gears.

Nhalmika could see the beast bandits looking up at her. She reached the top of her arc and descended into the canyon. Her trajectory was taking her down to the wicked ice sculpture, where its prongs and spikes would impale her before she ever got close to the howling bandits’ claws. She swung her scattergun around as she fell and pulled the trigger.

For a split second, she wasn’t certain she’d reloaded after launching herself from the cliff. But her fingers knew their work and had reloaded in mid-air without any conscious direction. The round exploded from the barrel and slammed into the sculpture, shattering the frozen rune into a spray of icicles. Nhalmika reached out and snatched the flask as she completed her fall.

The bandits were bloodied from the ice fragments but didn’t seem to notice in their rage. Nhalmika could now see their faces up close, and she wished she couldn’t; they were twisted masses of animalistic snouts and snaggled teeth beneath hate-filled red eyes. Nhalmika hit the snow, rolled, and sprung to her feet. Having survived the fall, she had to grudgingly admit that maybe snow was good for something after all.

Seriously outnumbered and worried she’d see that strange energy-mirror bear lean over the canyon rim, Nhalmika ran. Her legs pumped furiously, but the snow was too deep for her to traverse quickly. Her benevolent thoughts toward snow only a few moments ago evaporated quickly and entirely.

The bandits—being significantly taller than she was—were having much less trouble. They roared and howled as they ran after her, closing in as Nhalmika reached the opening to the canyon. The wounds the bandits had suffered from the explosion were already almost completely healed. Nhalmika still didn’t know what they were, but right now she would have traded them for a whole pack of Mana Waste mutants. Preferably slower ones.

At the mouth of the canyon, Nhalmika stopped and turned. She wasn’t going to escape, and she wasn’t going to survive, but she might take a couple of the monstrous bandits down before they overwhelmed her. At least some of these brutes would have eaten their last horse! She aimed at the bandit in the middle of the pack and fired.

Nhalmika’s scattergun emitted a strange clunk and a gout of fire from the barrel. In a horrifying second, she’d realized what had happened. She’d reloaded by instinct again, but this time she’d had the small magical flask in her other hand. She hadn’t put a round in the gun; she’d loaded the flask in there instead, without realizing it until now.

But now was too late. The flask rocketed from the scattergun’s barrel and struck the central bandit in the face. The impact caused a geyser of water to drench all the bandits at once. Before Nhalmika could even lower her gun, the water became slush, then froze solid. The bandits were trapped.

Nhalmika took a few cautious steps forward. When she saw the bandits couldn’t burst free of their icy prison, she took a few more steps, then quickly scooped up the flask from the snow. To her surprise, it was still intact. And it wasn’t even cold!

“You’ve been a lot of trouble,” she said to the flask in a gentle, chiding tone. “I’m getting you to Ivlanton, then I’m walking south, and I’m not stopping until I can’t see a single snowflake.”

About The Author

Ron Lundeen lives in the rural hinterlands outside of Seattle, Washington, where he finds the climate a pleasant change from his native Illinois. After a career as a corporate attorney, Ron took a full-time position with Paizo, Inc. as a developer, working with freelancers to create fabulous worlds and monstrous threats for the Pathfinder and Starfinder roleplaying games. He now serves as development manager overseeing the Pathfinder development team. He also designs games in his free time, creating a dizzying variety of perils, plots, and legends. Ron’s favorite RPG design work is adventure writing, to help others share exciting stories with their friends. Although his first game design credit came back in 1993, Ron has recently written for Paizo, Wizards of the Coast, Ulisses Spiele, and many others. Ron also runs a gaming company and RPG writer advice blog, which you can visit at www.runamokgames.com.

About Iconic Encounters

Iconic Encounters is a series of web-based flash fiction set in the worlds of Pathfinder and Starfinder. Each short story provides a glimpse into the life and personality of one of the games’ iconic characters, showing the myriad stories of adventure and excitement players can tell with the Pathfinder and Starfinder roleplaying games.

OMINOUS TIDES

“REAGENTS!”

The goblin, Fumbus, came bounding out of the palms onto the beach with something in his hands raised triumphantly high.

Valeros had to repress the urge to pinch his brow and sigh. Whatever the excitable alchemist was on about, Valeros did not share his enthusiasm, and had a sinking feeling that was not about to change.

He had already chipped the blade of his sword beyond a whetstone’s help hacking down a half-dozen mahogany trunks for a raft; his mood wasn't going to be improving anytime soon.

“Reagents!” Fumbus skipped up to Valeros to show off his discovery. As soon as they got near Valeros’s nose, there was no mistaking what the blackish seed-sized pellets in the goblin's hands were.

“Eeuughh!” He reared back out of smelling distance. “Don't shove it my face, you—” Valeros thought back to all the innumerable goblins who had cursed at him to think of a word to really express his displeasure, and then gave up on it. “We're already up 'reagent' creek without a paddle as it is.”

Fumbus giggled and dropped the bat guano into the patched-up grog barrel lying amid the hundreds of other tide-tossed fragments from their reef-broken ship strewn across the beach. After a moment of rubbing his hands together, the goblin cackled hysterically in a way that Valeros had come to associate with imminent explosions.

“REAGENTS!”

“I get it! I can speak Taldane!” Valeros called after him, but the goblin, mercifully, had dashed back into the waving blade-bushes that marked the edge of the jungle, presumably toward the source of more nocturnal leavings.

He was as puzzled at Fumbus’s grog barrel as he was at Fumbus himself. Merisiel had challenged him to a drinking contest over that same barrel earlier that evening, back when they were all still on the same Arcadia-bound vessel. The voyage had been so long and tedious that he'd forgotten his two rules of drinking contests: one, never getting into a drinking contest with someone several centuries older than you; and two, never get into a drinking contest when there wasn’t more on the line than bragging rights. The problem with drinking contests was that no matter who wins, the next morning you’re both losing, and neither of you can remember who won anyway. Drinking was supposed to be fun, not a competition, after all.

Fumbus and Valeros make the most of the tools at hand in this illustration by Firat Solhan from Pathfinder Guns & Gears

The last memory he had was of the white-haired, black-eyed elf’s face going all fuzzy. Then, all of a sudden, everything was salty, wet, and getting dark fast—in that order. It took all his strength to kick his armored body upward, toward the sun shimmering above him on the ocean's surface; it took all his wits to keep from crying out and filling his lungs with seawater.

The bay of this seemingly uninhabited island was choked with the wrecked detritus of the brigantine, and every once in a while, the tides disgorged a passenger or sailor that Valeros recognized when they were onboard, and alive. Thank the Accidental God that all his friends had survived the wreck; sadly, they appeared to be the only ones.

That is, except Fumbus, whom Valeros had not realized stowed away on their vessel back in Absalom until the goblin popped out from beneath a coil of beached rope with a sputtering cry that scared him half to death. The self-taught alchemist soon began collecting random crap—literally—and filling his reclaimed cask with it.

Valeros had no idea what Fumbus was making, and once again found himself wishing Seoni was here to tell him. Everyone else had fanned out to look for food or friendly locals, and he had been left behind, as per usual, to do the grunt work because he had the muscles. He had spent several hours picking out, cutting down, and pruning the logs, then laying four side-by-side near the water’s edge—to make the completed raft easier to launch—then two under and above those at either end as pressure bars. By the time he was pulling down vines from trees, he was contemplating selling his soul for a drink, any drink—even water! The sun had had several hours to bake him inside his own breastplate. He felt like an engorged sweat sponge.

He thought he had grabbed the sturdiest vines he could find, but when he tugged the binding for the two front crossbeams together, the cord snapped in half, and he dropped on his backside in the sand.

Loud laughter behind him brought him to his feet, drawing his wrecked sword more from pique than caution. The goblin had finished whatever contraption he had been working on, having lashed on a conical nose to the top of the barrel with some of the vines Valeros had set aside for his raft.

“Okay, you!” Valeros pointed his sword at the lashed-together barrel. “This is what we call 'antisocial behavior.' I tore down those vines for my raft. I am trying to save our lives by getting us off this gods-forsaken island. You are yelling things in my face and stealing my stuff! Those vines are mine by right!”

He stepped toward the cone-headed barrel, but Fumbus bared his sharp, tiny teeth and leapt in front of him. “No no no no no!”

Valeros sighed. “You know what? You win. I’m sick of this yesterday. I'm gonna go lie down on the ground over there. Maybe when Kyra returns, she can tell me what's going on. But I find everything you do unfathomable.”

He retreated up the beach to the shade of the palms, dropped down onto his back, and prayed for a swift death

The goblin’s head loomed into his field of vision. The makeshift goggles the alchemist wore magnified his eyes so they bulged like magic orbs.

“Do you want to see?” Fumbus whispered without prompting and unscrewed a scroll case he kept slung across his back

“Um, no. That's alright. You really don’t need to...” But Fumbus was already pulling out a complex diagram, unfurling it on the fighter’s chest. Valeros raised his head far enough to see that it depicted a barrel, not unlike the one Fumbus was messing about with at the moment. Various incomprehensible symbols had been scrawled across it, but one in particular stood out: the word “Droven” bearing the look of a signature more than footnotes of a technical schematic.

“Droven showed Fumbus how to make something like this once,” the goblin said. “With better supplies, and different reagents, but I can make it work.”

Intrigued, Valeros sat up on his elbows and studied the chart. “Your old half-orc buddy? You miss him a lot, don’t you, Fumbus? We’ve all lost friends, little guy, and I know it can be hard to move on.” He felt suddenly guilty for giving the goblin such a hard time.

“Droven is lost,” Fumbus blurted with a surprising ferocity. “But he can help us even when he’s missing!

“Huh?”

Fumbus ran down to the barrel halfway down the beach, tugging Valeros’s arm to follow. “Come, come! Make this way!”

“For Cayden's sake, Fumbus, I just laid down!”

When they reached the barrel, Fumbus snapped two shards of flint together, and a spark sprung to the oil-slick wick Valeros now saw dangled from one side. It began to fizzle and shorten.

Fumbus gesticulated wildly at the cove below. “Into the sea it goes, unless you also want to explode!”

“Oh, those kind of 'reagents!’ Well, why didn’t you say so in the first place?”

With a curse, Valeros hefted the sputtering barrel on his shoulder and threw it as hard as he could down the beach. It bounced and arced into the water, floating out several yards…

Suddenly, Fumbus threw up his arms, blocking his face, and Valeros copied him, just as the barrel exploded into a massive waterspout that shot straight up into the clear blue sky and dropped a curtain of seawater onto their heads, along with a shower of springs, cogs, and steaming twists of metal. He managed to grab a bronze tentacle out of the air before it landed on his head.

An overturned clockwork vessel bobbed in the surf, semi ovoid and in the shape of an octopus’s head. Half of its grasping tentacles were severed and sputtered with silvery light. Some still grasped chests and gold statues and other valuables the apparatus had been trying to loot from the wreck on the ocean floor.

Stumbling out one of the shattered bulbous portholes where the octopus’s eyes would be came the apparatus's operator, pale Chelaxian skin bleeding and satin finery shredded from numerous miniature shrapnel wounds.

“Nice reflexes,” Fumbus said, nodding at the clockwork limb Valeros was still clutching.

Valeros laughed mirthlessly. “Lying in wait for hapless ships to come by then scavenging their cargo, eh?”

The Chelaxian coughed up seawater and tried to swing a boathook-like weapon in his general direction, but Valeros didn’t even bother drawing his sword. He backhanded the submariner across the face with the bronze tentacle and knocked him flat on his back in the surf.

Valeros placed a heavy boot on the man’s chest, pushing him into the soft, wet sand. “You just let me know when you’re ready to tell me everything I want to know about whatever scam it is you’re running here.”

“And where our friends are,” Fumbus demanded.

“Yeah! Tell us what you know about them, too!” Valeros glanced back at the treeline. The rest of his party had been gone an unusually long time.

The Chelaxian spat. “The others will have taken care of them by now. I was just sent to dig through the wreckage, but the others got to have…a lot more fun.”

“Got another barrel like that in you, Fumbus?” Valeros frowned. “I have a feeling this chump and his metal contraption are going to be the least of our worries.”

About The Author

Fred Van Lente is a New York Times bestselling writer of comics, prose, and gaming, including the Pathfinder: Fumbus one-shot successfully Kickstarted earlier in 2021. His short story “Neversleeps” was shortlisted for Best American Science Fiction and Fantasy. In addition to playing Pathfinder 2e, he’s currently running Call of Cthulhu 7e and Fallout 2d20 campaigns in Brooklyn, NY. He’s on Twitter and Instagram as @fredvanlente and you can sign up for updates on his upcoming projects at www.fredvanlente.com.

About Iconic Encounters

Iconic Encounters is a series of web-based flash fiction set in the worlds of Pathfinder and Starfinder. Each short story provides a glimpse into the life and personality of one of the games’ iconic characters, showing the myriad stories of adventure and excitement players can tell with the Pathfinder and Starfinder roleplaying games.

Raia crouched behind a stack of crates, camouflage membrane turned to full power, focused on powering up the warehouse’s maintenance terminal. Once her enchantments opened up the interface, she plugged the jack into her custom wrist mount and said into her comm, “I’m in.”

“You know,” answered Navasi. “I’ve never heard anyone say that on a job. Outside of an action holovid, anyway.”

“Those soap writers wish they wrote plots as good as my life,” Raia answered. “About to go virtual. Stay put until you get my beacon. After I trip security, I’m going to need a fast exit.”

“‘After’ you trip security?” said Navasi. “Don’t you mean ‘if’? Say you mean ‘if,’ Raia.”

Raia laughed and said, “Going virtual.”

The world around her vanished. Raia could still see, hear, and even feel and taste, but in this glowing, in-between world, meant to represent the digital flow of the local infosphere, sensation was different. Here, she was different. And much more powerful.

Raia had been hired by a politician to expose a cult. She’d taken the job, not for money, but for a favor. Months ago, Starfinder Society probes had discovered yet another inhabited planet along the edges of Near Space, which ancient star charts named Sigerro. Preliminary scans indicated Sigerro’s inhabitants possessed a rich culture and advanced technology. Many interested parties hoped to be on the first diplomatic team sent to meet their people, but such assignments would be determined by the Directorate in accordance with Pact World protocol.

Luckily, Elxur Droj, the verthani politician in charge of the Directorate’s diplomatic corp, was also a Seeker in his spare time—one of a group of infosphere conspiracists hoping to expose the wide-spread religion called the Disciples of Grace. Instead of helping the poor and sick, Seekers believed the Disciples were secretly corrupt slavers bent on taking over the Pact Worlds. Elxur not only believed this, he hoped to use their exposure to run for higher political office.

After approaching Elxur through her usual aliases, Raia had managed to secure a deal. If she could procure evidence of corrupt Disciple activity, Elxur would approve her request to be part of the diplomatic team on Sigerro.

The Disciples of Grace certainly weren’t spending all their credits on charity, no matter how well they laundered their donations. Raia had been able to locate a warehouse on Verces used by one of their shell companies for off-the-books shipments. If she could acquire shipping manifests, Elxur should grant her a place on the diplomatic mission.

Now, Raia stood on a floating platform in seemingly endless digital chasm. Once she leapt, there was no turning back. Checking to make all her defenses and countermeasures were in place, she dove into digital void.

Illustration by Alexandur Alexandrov from Starfinder Tech Revolution.

It was like freefall, glorious freefall, except instead of wind, breezes of bytes and floods of information cascaded all around her.

As long as Raia kept falling, standard security measures shouldn’t be able to track her presence, so fast was she moving from one node to the next. Yet this also made acquiring the right data hard.

Everywhere she looked, she saw secure files as floating screens—and each image they depicted was disturbing. People being led away in chains. Priests changing form in private. These weren’t shipping manifests, but they might be better. Like a hungry child in an orchard, Raia plucked as many files as she could into her avatar for later study. She didn’t have much time before the system’s internal security caught on to her falling simulation and—

VHHT VHHHT VHHHHHT

Suddenly, instead of descending down an endless void, Raia was approaching hard ground fast. A digital wall of spiky security code had manifested—which could shatter Raia’s persona on impact. They’d detected her more quickly than anticipated. Upgraded security. Definitely more cutting edge than a charitable religion should have access to.

Instead of smashing into the wall of code, Raia activated another program, buffering her processors through the node, her digital persona appearing to float gently to the ground.

Where she was instantly surrounded by glowing-red virtual security countermeasures. Vicious, cutting-edge anti-hacker programs, which in the virtual resembled crimson piranhas coated in blood-red razor wire, swirling in on themselves.

“Aren’t you just the cutest things,” she muttered. They rushed at her, but Raia had come ready for something like this.

With the grace of an acrobat, she dodged their serrated tentacles—prodding counterhacks trying to penetrate her avatar and learn her identity. Just when it seemed the countermeasures might be too numerous to evade, Raia pulled her next trick. In a flash of green, two digital versions of Raia stood surrounded by the menacing security programs. Both fled in different directions. The security countermeasures, momentarily confused, split up to chase both.

While her decoy fled, Raia dove behind a digital gleaming column and amped up her camouflage code, similar to the weave she’d been using in the real world. She blended completely into the digital wall around her. As the last security countermeasure flew past, Raia pounced, landing atop it, clawing both hands inside its glowing carapace.

With the precision of a surgeon, she copied its access privileges and modified its instructions. Once finished, the drone glowed the same green as her persona’s glowing functions. It sped off to fight its former companions, while Raia used its security clearance to copy the shipping manifests she’d originally been hoping to “borrow.”

A crackle and a beep indicated a message coming over her comm in the real world. “Raia? Things are getting pretty hot. Alarms everywhere and bots are summoning private security teams to your location.”

Time to rabbit. Raia exited the hacking sequence, copied data securely stored in her rig. She turned on her beacon and sprinted toward the street, already spotting Navasi’s hovercar blasting around the corner.

As she prepared to leap onto the vehicle, Raia wondered what she’d been able to acquire. She didn’t know exactly what was on those files, but it should be enough to get her on the diplomatic team. Either way, she’d make sure never to donate to Disciples of Grace in the future.

About The Author

Patrick Hurley has had fiction published in Galaxy’s Edge, Cosmic Roots & Eldritch Shores, Abyss & Apex, New Myths, Arcanist, Aurealis, Frozen Wavelets, The Overcast, and The Drabblecast. He is a 2017 graduate of the Taos Toolbox Writer's Workshop. In 2018, he was a finalist for the Baen Fantasy Award. Patrick lives in Seattle and is a member of SFWA and the Dreamcrashers. He still can’t quite believe he has the good fortune to also be an editor at Paizo.

About Iconic Encounters

Iconic Encounters is a series of web-based flash fiction set in the worlds of Pathfinder and Starfinder. Each short story provides a glimpse into the life and personality of one of the games’ iconic characters, showing the myriad stories of adventure and excitement players can tell with the Pathfinder and Starfinder roleplaying games.

“Oooh!” chirped Barsala, folding her goggles down over her eyes. She peered at the man’s leg, an image of the limb’s internal circuitry magnifying in her goggle’s lens. “The quality on your inner gyros is excellent. Liquid carbide receptors?”

“Can I see?” asked Keskodai. With a soft clicking of his mandibles, he leaned over to get a closer look. “Chhk-chhk, look! See the pistons! Look at the little energy regulators, aren’t they pretty?”

Raising one hand, Barsala waved at the shirren. “Kes, please hun, you’re in my light.”

“But you can see the problem, right?” asked Amril. Twitching nervously, the young man drummed his fingers against the arm of the chair. “I mean, is it the regulators? I hope it’s not the regulators. They should still be under warranty. Do you think it’s the compression circuits?”

“Calm down,” said Barsala. The words felt hollow in the face of her own burgeoning excitement. “It’ll be—”

Abruptly, his leg kicked. Trembling abruptly, the servos within whirred energetically. “Look!” yelped Amril, the lashunta’s antenna shivering, “It’s doing it again!”

“Fascinating... Kes, could you hand me the capacitor over there?”

Inhaling, Amril turned his eyes toward the ceiling of Barsala’s laboratory. “I knew I shouldn’t have got it cut rate. Stupid counterfeit augments. The price was just too good. But then it started acting up. I checked the actual prosthetic parts. I mean, I had it checked—an engineer. One of the mechanics down at the junk races said its fine...”

“They’re right,” commented Barsala, carefully separating two metal plates with two of her hands while magnifying her lenses with another. “In as far as the hardware is in working order. Whatever the problem is, it’s with the... Kes, please, you’re in my light again... it’s with the software.”

Another juddering tremor flew through Amril’s leg. He leaned up in the chair, excitedly. “I knew it! I mean, I knew you’d be able to figure it out. The moment I saw your vids, I knew Dr. B was the right person for the job! What are you going to do?”

“Did you hear that, Chhk-chhk? Our friend Barsala’s an expert.”

“I am hardly an expert on this particular subject, Chhk-Chhk, but,” she slid a glove free from her lowleft hand, exposing the chrome fingers beneath, “I do have some personal experience with cybernetic prosthetics.” Flexing her fingers, she slid back a thumb-sized port on the back of her palm. “Rudimentary system scan,” she explained. “My prosthetic has a proprietary Helix Computing interface, I’ll log into your software, give it a quick scan, and check the integration files to your wetware.”

Illustration by Alexandur Alexandrov from Starfinder Tech Revolution.

Glancing up at Keskodai, Amril asked “What does that mean?”

The shirren gave a soft shrug, his multifaceted insectile eyes seeming to widen in wonder.

Carefully, Barsala unwound a small connector cable from one of her many pockets, sliding one end into the port on her hand. “Don’t worry, it’ll be fine. I’ll go for a manual interface, so it’ll be more secure. Your internal firewall’s up to date?”

“I... think so?” tried the lashunta, hesitantly, as the biohacker slid the cable into his leg’s interface port. “I had a new one installed last week, after the twitching started.”

“Fascinating,” murmured the kasatha, drumming her fingers across a set of hard-light keys on her holographic display. “There’s some redundant files here. I can’t see any function for them. Do you have anything stored in them?”

“Couple of vid shows.” replied Amril. “Don’t look in the download section, please. I might have downloaded them illegally.”

With a few more taps from her three non-interfaced hands, Barsala announced, “Scanning now. Wait.” A sharp pause cut her voice silent. Then, glancing at the man’s cybernetic leg, she said “This is odd. The files are duplicating.” A second hard-light window appeared on the biohacker’s display—quickly joined by another. Then another.

“Chhk-chhk wants to know if that’s bad.” enquired Keskodai. “It looks bad.”

A series of digital windows blazed into life around Barsala, flaring like a cradle of stars. As they did, Amril’s leg shuddered violently, its pistons whirring at a fanatical speed, showering crackling sparks across the floor. “We’ve got exponential duplication!” yelled Barsala. “These aren’t redundant files—someone’s using them as a back door! Kes, quick—”

Abruptly, Barsala’s hand twisted upward, violently pulling her trailing cable from Amril’s port. The biohacker gave a sharp yelp as her cybernetic fingers tensed into claws and turned toward her. Violently, her rogue hand lashed out, clawing and swiping at her face.

“My! This is exciting!” chittered Keskodai. “I knew this would be a thrilling field trip. Do you need one of the inhibitors?” He asked nonchalantly, scanning a wide array which hung from the wall.

“The blue one!” called Barsala, latching two free hands around her rebellious prosthetic. Her cybernetic hand continued to flail, lashing out with her fingertips. She staggered back, wrestling frantically with her hand.

Quickly, Keskodai scooped up a sturdy metal cylinder marked with a blue label and hurled it over to the biohacker. Catching it deftly with her last free hand, Barsala wrestled her cybernetic hand down onto a cluttered workbench with the other two, scattering small vials and tubes. Holding her thrashing, violent hand down, she tugged open the interface port once again. “Okay,” she muttered, “that should override my biological systems long enough to isolate this thing...”

“What is it?” cried Amril, eyes wide in shock.

“Offensive countermeasure” replied Barsala. “Someone left a sentient computer virus in your prosthetic’s firmware.”

Amril sat bolt upright, looking down at his leg in panic. “A virus?”

Rolling up her sleeve, Barsala pushed the canister containing the inhibitor against her upper arm. It gave a soft hiss as the contents discharged, filling her bloodstream. “It was protecting a backdoor into your augment.” She explained, dropping the canister. Her arteries radiated a momentary glow. “Know anyone who’d want to hack your systems?” she asked.

“Hacking?” spat Amril. “No! Definitely not! I don’t have any enemies!” he paused. “Actually, wait, maybe it might be...”

With a series of thuds, Barsala’s augmented hand forced itself up from was held. Gritting her teeth in agitation, she grunted and grabbed a micro-welding torch. “Right!” she declared, crackling it to life. “Time for some surgical reprogramming!”

As she began to rewire the hand’s circuitry in deft, sharp moves, Keskodai watched in fascination. “Hmm,” he pondered, tapping a thin claw-tip against his chin. “Chhk-chhk wants to know if you can simply eject the hardware.” he asked. “If it’s trying to kill you, that is. Perhaps we can take it off and put it in a box for now?”

“Don’t need to” replied Barsala, her eyes focused intently on the work. A small shower of sparks flew from her hand. “I’ve confined the virus to a partition of the limb’s memory, which should let me get root access to... wait, Chhk-chhk wants to know?”

“Ah, yes,” trilled the shirren cheerfully. “You see, at this stage in larval development, we’ve formed a telepathic bond that’s strong enough for in-depth conversation. In fact, I’d be quite happy to discuss—”

“Maybe later.” she interrupted, dropping the torch onto the workbench, and opening another section of the limb. “I think... yes, let me just finish this scan... okay, system’s clear.”

Amril rubbed his head, his antennas drooping. “Is that it?” he asked. “The virus is gone?”

The biohacker slowly let go of her hand and bent each finger to test her control of her prosthetic, looking carefully for signs of any malicious intent. For a few moments she held her breath. Then, slowly, she gave a sigh of relief. “Scan’s clear,” she said. “Virus is gone. I’ve kept a log of if you want to watch it. In either case, your leg should be fine now.”

Whirling around to face her, Amril rubbed his eyes. “That’s... that’s amazing.” he muttered. “Thank you. Thank you so much. It feels a lot better.”

Flexing her fingers once more, Barsala reached into her pocket to recover her surgical glove. “We’ll still need to find out who hacked the limb.” She announced. “You’re quite sure you don’t have any enemies?”

Clapping his hands together, Amril inhaled. “Well, maybe that wasn’t quite true. Y’see...”

A heavy thud echoed through the laboratory. Somewhere in the distance, the ever-present hum of the power systems fell abruptly silent. The lab’s internal lights shuddered to darkness, replaced with the ghostly glow of emergency red illumination. “What?” snapped the biohacker.

“Okay,” admitted Amril, “so, I didn’t want to mention it, but I’m part of a group of hackers...”

Keskodai held up a hand. “Don’t want to interrupt” he said, “but I can sense six minds moving towards us. They seem... hostile. Friends of yours?”

“No!” yelled Amril, glancing around the room. “Okay, look, so we were sniffing around some corporate files, and...”

A heavy thud echoed from the other side of the laboratory’s door.

Barsala sighed, shaking her head, and calmly started to load her needler pistol. “And this was meant to be my weekend off.”

About The Author

Alison Cybe is a fantasy and horror author with other work featured in numerous horror and sci-fi/fantasy publications. They have a degree in Film & Media with a minor in sociology and media. They’re non-binary with pronouns they/them. They were born in Scotland and has written extensively on inclusion and positive representation within gaming communities in particular with relation to LGBTQ+ and transgender visibility in gaming publications and blogs. Their interests include Celtic mythology, transhumanism, model kits and pet rats.

About Iconic Encounters

Iconic Encounters is a series of web-based flash fiction set in the worlds of Pathfinder and Starfinder. Each short story provides a glimpse into the life and personality of one of the games’ iconic characters, showing the myriad stories of adventure and excitement players can tell with the Pathfinder and Starfinder roleplaying games.

Lini held her palms out, and water encased the skeletons instantly. She winced from the effort of throwing the spell so fast. The casting’s sparkling light illuminated the skeletons’ silhouettes slowly wading through the wall of water she’d created. It wouldn’t hold for long, but it would buy them time.

“Droo, let’s—” the words died on her lips.

Droogami, Lini’s leopard companion, clutched another skeleton in his formidable jaws, slamming down it into the newly created mud. Bones crunched as Droo wrestled with their enemy. The skeleton must have been just inside Lini’s spell. She drew her sling, then loaded it and let fly in one easy motion. Bone dust plumed in the air as her missile hit the undead creature’s skull with a satisfying crack. With well-practiced movements, Droo and Lini spread out, flanking their enemy, forcing it to divide its attention between them. When its bones finally collapsed into a truly dead pile in the mud, Lini sighed in relief.

A bony hand burst from the wall of water and clasped her throat. Lini desperately kicked up water and rocks as she fought to pry the clawed fingers from her neck. That’s what she got for letting her attention wander. She looked straight into the empty sockets of the undead monster choking her. The skeleton’s arm and head poked through the wall of water, and she saw more coming. The world wavered around the edges as she twisted as hard as she could. Droo took that opportunity to leap forward, breaking the monster’s hold. The leopard roared and crouched on his mud-caked haunches, ready to attack the rest.

Illustration by Miguel Regodón Harkness from Pathfinder Secrets of Magic

“No! Droo! Let’s go!” They couldn’t take this many on.

Lini had known dangerous undead lurked throughout the Gravelands, but she hadn’t realized they were so many of them. Instead of attacking, Droogami leapt to her side, and she clambered onto the leopard’s spotted back. They took off down the ravine. Her watery spell wouldn’t last for much longer, and she meant to be as far away from here as possible.

Mud and water flew as Droo sprinted down the path. Lini took a chance to look over her shoulder. They were gaining a little distance. Some of the skeletons were out of the water and shambling toward them, faster than Lini would have liked. More skeletons were still pulling themselves out of the wall.

In front of them, another kind of wall, one made of rock and loose dirt loomed. It seemed steep but clambering up it looked to be their only way out. Lini lowered herself closer to Droo’s fur and peeked over his head as the ravine wall grew closer. Seconds later, Droo’s muscles rippled, and Lini steadied herself for the great cat’s leap. They had done this many times, and her stomach still dropped to the bottom of her feet every time. Droogami hit the ravine wall and dug his ragged claws into the dirt. They started to slide, and Droo’s muscles bulged with the effort of keeping them in place. Slowly, the leopard scrabbled up, and they ascended the ravine.

Behind them, the spell creating the water reached the end of its duration, and the liquid wall collapsed, knocking most of the skeletons off their feet.

Silence greeted the pair as they clambered onto the ledge. Lini dismounted Droogami and peered down into the ravine. They’d been crossing its bed when the skeletons had begun rising from the dirt. The corruption here was much worse than she previously believed. She could taste it on her tongue, feel it all the way from her head to her toes. Lini had a horrible feeling there were more undead out there, much worse than skeletons.

Screams echoed around them and both Lini and Droogami crouched into ready positions. The cries had come from the other side of the ravine where smoke rose over a small holdfast on the horizon. Lini’s heart pounded. Many people had abandoned this land after the return of the Whispering Tyrant, but some still held on. They’d lived here for as long as they could remember; their ancestors knew this place as Lastwall. Lini and Droo had stayed with them to gather information before they crossed the ravine. The people had treated them fairly and shared what little they had. Lini remembered the hopeful face of the young girl who curled up next to Droo and fell asleep listening to tales of adventure.

Lini scanned the whole area. There was no way they could make it around the ravine in time. She looked back down to the ravine floor. The skeletons had fully recovered now and were trudging toward them.

“We have to go back, Droo,” Lini said.

The leopard looked at her and gave a soft growl.

“I know, but it’s the quickest way, and they need our help.” Lini looked into the leopard’s eyes, hoping her companion would feel what she felt.

Droo chuffed softly after a moment and crouched down with a determined look.

“I knew you’d understand, old friend,” Lini said.

Lini climbed up onto her companion’s back once again. She sat straight and squeezed Droogami's ribs with her knees, tightly enough to keep her in place. She held her hands up to the sky and they started to glow. Lini took a deep breath and narrowed her eyes. She thought of the people to steel her nerves.

“Let’s go.”

About The Author

Danielle DeLisle is a gamer, actress, and writer (not necessarily in that order). She can be found online at www.danielledelisle.com and @DanielleDeLisle on Twitter.

About Iconic Encounters

Iconic Encounters is a series of web-based flash fiction set in the worlds of Pathfinder and Starfinder. Each short story provides a glimpse into the life and personality of one of the games’ iconic characters, showing the myriad stories of adventure and excitement players can tell with the Pathfinder and Starfinder roleplaying games.

“We can take it.”

“But we don’t have to take it.”

Coiling an arm around the vesk’s shoulder, Veerkea gently pulled her friend into a crouch behind the fallen tree they used for cover, directing the vesk to look at her lower eyes. “It’s not about ability, Obo. It’s about need. You,” she observed, tapping Obozaya’s armor, “are a mighty vesk warrior. But that over there is a living creature that’s done nothing to offend you.” All seven of Veerkea’s eyes shimmered with empathy as the 5-foot-tall land squid pleaded with her scaly companion. “Focus on the mission, Obo.”

“I am! Look…” Obozaya stood up and glowered toward the clearing. “We came here looking for a crashed starship, right?” Veerkea extended her legs, raising her upper eyes high enough to peer over the fallen tree. The vesk gestured with her metallic staff as she kept talking, pointing out features. “How many rocks—big rocks—have you seen out here? Not many, right? But suddenly this clearing’s full of big slabs, and I’m figuring that’s no mistake.”

Veerkea alternated between peeking over the massive trunk with her upper eyes and squatting to peer under it with her lowers before glancing to Obozaya with renewed respect. “Good eye! In fact, those might not be rocks at all, but metal plates. And that might mean we’re standing atop the starship and the power core we need.” Peering over the trunk again, she wondered, “But what might have drawn this creature here?”

They both gazed at the beast perched atop the clearing’s highest point. Easily 12 feet long from snout to tail, the creature resembled a ponderous lizard with eight legs, a barrel-like body, a forest of spikes running along its back, and throat scales that occasionally glowed faintly as though the creature had swallowed a flashlight that was desperately signaling for help. Throughout the ijtikri and vesk’s hushed discussion, the beast had lazily watched them with a half-lidded eye, apparently unimpressed by its visitors and more interested in dozing in the errant sunbeam that peeked through the forest canopy here. As if to signal its nonchalant contentment, it issued a sloppy, snoring sigh and shuffled its body slightly to scratch an itch.

With wide eyes and her voice hushed with uncertainty and awe, Veerkea asked, “Maybe we—"

“—No.” The ijtikri flinched at Obozaya’s interjection. “No. You’re going to say ‘maybe we can talk to it,’ and no. It’s a glowy lizard. You got to sing happy songs with those peace-loving slugs earlier. But with big beasts, we do things my way!” Veerkea raised her arms to protest, but Obozaya waved her off. “No arguing with my scalesense, Vee. Let’s go!” Pushing off the ground with her feet and staff, Obozaya vaulted the fallen tree in a single bound.

The flustered ijtikri called after her. “But I think that’s a plasmalisk, so we need to—”

Illustration by Michele Giorgi from Starfinder Tech Revolution

“—Fight fire with fire, got it!” Obozaya barked confidently, as she landed in a controlled somersault. Knocking the butt of her staff against the ground as she rolled to her feet, she activated the weapon, causing a trio of plasma blades to flare to life and transform the shaft into an axe-like doshko. That got the lizard’s attention. Roaring with delight, Obozaya charged forward and drove the doshko’s energy blades deep into the surprised plasmalisk’s flank. The beast staggered under the impact, but it seemed unhurt. On the contrary, the creature’s flesh seemed to drink in the energy, simultaneously shorting out the doshko and causing its body to incandesce with power. The vesk barely voiced her shocked profanity before the beast moved with impossible speed that belied its bulk, twisting and slamming its tail into Obozaya’s chest and sending her flying back toward the fallen tree.

Veerkea squeaked in alarm as the vesk hurled overhead. Acting fast, she whipped her main arms upward, awakening a multitude of symbiotic nanites that spilled from her body in a torrent. The living cloud wrapped around Obozaya, cushioning her impact as she collided with a nearby tree. Yet the plasmalisk had energy to spare. Before the vesk hit the ground, it spat a fist-sized fiery globule toward the intruders. Predicting the blast, Veerkea folded her body against the ground and propelled herself under the fallen tree, surfing atop the leaf litter to the other side before the projectile shattered against a low-hanging branch, enveloping the forest in flames. Even as fiery splinters rained around her, her nanites snagged the debris, rapidly breaking it down and using it to build more tiny machines to replace the ones she’d lost in the explosion. The flames had devastated the nanites around Obozaya, but their improvised shield was enough; though groaning in pain, her friend was clearly alive.

The plasmalisk’s roar drowned out Obozaya’s groans as the beast trampled toward the ijtikri. Nanites whirled to life in a blinding fog, obscuring Veerkea’s form as the beast bit at her in vain. With each attack, the ijtikri sidestepped, her body partly discorporating into nanomachines with each defensive leap that carried her several body lengths out of harm’s way. As she reformed each time, she made a desperate attempt to defuse hostilities. “Excuse me! Please pardon my friend’s aggression, she—! Perhaps we could—oh no!” At last, the plasmalisk cornered her, cutting off her escape with its broad tail. But rather than bite her, it stared, its eyes glowing with radioactive intensity.

Veerkea’s body exploded in pain as she began blazing with the same heat raging in those eyes, her very cells boiling from the gaze’s energy. As the plasmalisk watched the ijtikri hungrily, the nanite cloud stirred. Millions of the airborne machines seeped back into their host’s body, diagnosing the ijtikri’s distress and isolating the misbehaving tissues to limit their damage. Aided by her myriad medics, Veerkea averted her eyes and suppressed the inner flames before they consumed her. The plasmalisk seemed far less impressed. Seeing that its prey hadn’t succumbed to its gaze, it closed in to finish her off with fangs alone.

A projectile slammed into the beast’s eye, deflecting its jaws as they narrowly missed the ijtikri. As Veerkea scrambled to safety, she nearly tripped over the deactivated plasma doshko that Obozaya had just thrown like a javelin. “Hey!” shouted the bristling vesk from atop one of the rocky outcroppings. “No plasma? No problem!” As if to punctuate her challenge, Obozaya splayed her claws threateningly and growled. Intrigued by this new prey, the beast obliged, hissing angrily as it lumbered toward and collided with the vesk. The two slashed and bit each other, but with twice the size and twice the claws, the plasmalisk quickly gained the advantage.

“Something cold, please!” Veerkea called out to her nanites as she leapt atop another outcropping. She tossed a battery into the air as she pivoted toward the melee, and her myriad machines complied, neatly enveloping the battery and assembling themselves into an energy rifle that landed in her hands. “Nicely done, friends,” the ijtikri chimed as she felt the rifle chilling the air even before it had been fired. She trained it on the plasmalisk, which had pinned Obozaya’s head in place, forcing the vesk to stare into its burning eyes.

Even as Obozaya roared in pain, Veerkea fired. Bolts of bright energy impacted the giant lizard’s haunches, instantaneously draining the target’s body heat and riming the targets with scale-shattering ice. A reflexive shiver forced the plasmalisk to drop Obozaya, and another two shots from Veerkea dimmed the glowing heat deep within the beast’s body. Panicked, the plasmalisk stumbled away, crashing through the foliage to escape the painful onslaught.

But Obozaya’s wounded roar drowned out the beast’s. Veerkea rushed over the where her friend knelt on the ground, pink mist steaming from her body as Obozaya desperately tore off pieces of armor to escape the heat building internally. The ijtikri tackled the vesk, bracing her head and pinning her flailing claws against the moss while channeling nanites into Obozaya’s body to arrest the ionizing affliction. For agonizing moments, the vesk reflexively fought both the fires and the ijtikri, but gradually her thrashing slowed as her natural fortitude prevailed. Obozaya coughed smoke as she came to her senses, blinking in confusion at the ijtikri pinning her before shrugging and drinking a healing serum. “So, ah… did we win?”

Flustered, Veerkea clambered off the vesk and searched the area. “We did, yes, we won. Ah…” As the adrenaline subsided, she began piecing together the puzzle. “The plasmalisk seemed to be basking, but it was clearly drinking in strong energy sources. If this the starship and power core we’re looking for, maybe the creature was drawing energy not from above, but from below?”

“Like a heated rock?” Obozaya had regained her feet, picked up her dented doshko, and staggered over.

“Exactly,” confirmed Veerkea as she continued her examination. “To a plasmalisk, this probably seemed like an oasis, perfect for warming up or… oh…” Confused by the ijtikri’s sudden silence, Obozaya came over to investigate. The beast hadn’t just been basking atop the buried starship’s hatch; it had been incubating. Several shells littered the concave hatch, atop which hissed a foot-long plasmalisk, puffing its body in a feeble threat display.

Spreading her arms to loom over the infant, Obozaya silenced the creature through her presence alone. She grunted dismissively. “Runt of the litter, last to hatch. Well, hope its instincts are good. C’mon, run off to wherever your siblings scampered.” She nudged it with the butt of her doshko to clear the way to the hatch.

Veerkea pulled the doshko to one side. “That’s not how this works, Obo,” she chided. “You picked this fight. Needlessly. If you’re so ready to take a life, you need to be ready to save a life.” The vesk let her head loll to one side in exasperation, like a toddler suffering a lecture. “And it’s not a runt. They were,” observed the ijtikri, pointing to the other shells.

“Wait.” Obozaya’s attention had snapped back to the nest. "So the clutchmates hatch and fight, with the victor eating its siblings?"

Veerkea bobbed sadly. "I know, nature can be cruel."

But Obozaya shook her head with newfound respect. "No, I'm hearing that this is a born, blooded warrior.” She scooped up the eight-legged lizard that wriggled in protest. “My scalesense doesn’t lie. This is a survivor! A worthy companion! A—ow!" Instinctively wary of large predators and displeased with being handled, the baby plasmalisk latched onto Obozaya's finger with its needle-like teeth.

"Hylax rejoices, Obo," laughed Veerkea as she helped disentangle the creature's teeth and eight legs. "You just made first contact."

About The Author

John Compton is the Starfinder Senior Developer at Paizo, Inc., having joined the team after years of creating organized play adventure content. He has written extensively for Pathfinder and Starfinder, including adventures, setting content, and rulebooks, and before working for Paizo, he was a teacher, practicing archaeologist, and archaeometallurgist. You can find John on Twitter and Paizo-facing Discord servers @Archaeotagh.

About Iconic Encounters

Iconic Encounters is a series of web-based flash fiction set in the worlds of Pathfinder and Starfinder. Each short story provides a glimpse into the life and personality of one of the games’ iconic characters, showing the myriad stories of adventure and excitement players can tell with the Pathfinder and Starfinder roleplaying games.

“Alright Tuku. Today you’re going to teach me about water spirits!” Ija turned toward her companion and gave a fierce grin.

“Water elementals, you mean?” Tuku replied. The pink dragon’s wings fluttered as he glided from one tree limb perch to another. “I see the stretch of shore we’re looking for. It’s just ahead. When we pass the tree line, they’ll see us.”

“Elementals, spirits; what’s the difference? They’re relatives of yours, right?” Ija asked. She knew they weren’t, but it was fun to tease Tuku a little.

“They most certainly are not. I am a dragon!” he bristled slightly, though not truly annoyed.

Ija’s eyes lit up. “I heard elementals can take any shape. They could be dogs, or bats, or dragons…”

“So you did read the books from the Magaambya before we headed out here?” Tuku asked, surprised at her studiousness.

“Well, I... definitely looked at the pictures,” she admitted, though, yes, she had read many of the words, too—eventually.

“Water elementals are embodiments of the essence of matter, from the Plane of Water. They’re basically pure water. I am pure dragon.” Ija threw her eidolon a sidelong glance, and he sighed, repeating the fact she never let him forget: “Though, yes, without you to give me a body, I’m just formless mental essence from the Astral Plane. Thank you for giving me this glorious manifestation.”

Ija snorted and rolled her eyes. “If they have no mind, does that mean we can outthink them? Like I always outthink you?” This was how they worked out their strategies, and ultimately how Tuku guided her to better use her power—teasing insults and playful banter.

Tuku continued. “Oh, these aren’t just mindless puddles. These things are powerful in the water and they know it. They’ll try to drag us underwater.” He wasn’t kidding now, and Ija took the warning with the seriousness it deserved.

“But they’re causing trouble for the fishers, so they’re coming out of the water for that,” Ija mused, “So let’s bait them into attacking us on land, too. I can’t swim after them if they retreat back to the water, but you can, and—I know! D’you want gills?” The eidolon matched her hopeful grin with as straight and nonplussed an expression as his draconic face could muster. “Don’t worry! If they catch you in a trap, I’ll call you back, or let the bond snap if I have to. But c’mon, let’s see how well you can breathe underwater!”

Ija held the rune medallion she wore around her neck in one hand and held the other out in Tuku’s direction. The medallion, the matching rune on Ija’s headband, and the one emblazoned on her eidolon’s forehead all pulsed as their magical connection surged. Tuku felt an itch on both sides of his neck, just below his ears, and knew that he’d grown gills—at least temporarily. It wasn’t the plan he’d have suggested, but what was the harm?

“Is that it? Gills? Anything else we should be prepared for, or am I just going to swim the water to death?”

“Oh, I’m not done yet!” Ija’s excitement was palpable. She often had trouble focusing, but when she found something that captured her attention, her enthusiasm was contagious. “So! Water conducts electricity, right? I mean, yeah, it’s not actually the water, but the salts and stuff in the water. So as long as these aren’t made of pure water and are made of ocean water, then I should have just the thing.”

Before Tuku could respond, Ija dashed toward the edge of the trees, leaving her dragon companion nodding approvingly to himself.

“Hold on, short-stuff! Not so eager, or you might tip them off that something’s happening. Let’s either sneak up, or if we’re going to use your plan and bait them out, then pretend you don’t know they’re there,” Tuku suggested.

“So... I’m not sure we can convince them we’re just normal fishers they can terrorize. Do you think they’re going to be, I don’t know, put off by the whole you-being-a-dragon thing?”

“I’ll have you know that dragons are excellent at fishing. But you do have a point. Call me to your side when the time comes?” Tuku wondered aloud.

“Too slow. You sneak, I bait,” Ija decided, “There’s not a lot of cover, so try to use the seaweed. And your new gills!”

Tuku nodded his assent and disappeared into the water, though Ija knew exactly where he had gone. She wandered along the shore toward a rocky outcropping where the fishers had reported the most recent elemental attacks, seemingly lost in thought. It wasn’t hard to appear distracted, after all, because she did have an awful lot of things on her mind right then, but mostly she was thinking about shocking some water elementals.

She avoided glancing toward the water so as not to give herself away, but instead connected her senses to Tuku’s, so every so often she could peer through his eyes. That’s how she noticed the elementals slowly rising from the water to ambush her. Five huge, indistinct humanoid forms, almost the same color as the water itself. Two coming in close, one circling around, and another backing them up. The last one lurked in the distance to her left.

She turned her body away from them to further the deception, all the while glaring at them from Tuku’s position nearly completely submerged among the thick kelp nearby.

She waited... waited... That one on the left was still too far. Waiting... OK—now!

Ija’s senses rushed back into her own body, and she spun on her heel, already starting to cast her spell. Only from this perspective could she see that she’d misjudged their distance from Tuku’s vantage point; she had let them get too close! Ija might have fooled them, but it the nearest elemental was still close enough to slam its watery fist in her direction as she dropped her guard. Her concentration faltered—

“Look out!” While she’d been focusing on her own part in the ambush, Tuku was singularly occupied with keeping her safe. Realizing the threat, the dragon rose from the water and bolted toward her. Arriving just in time, Tuku spread his wings to shield his summoner, taking the brunt of the force as the warm, brackish water of the elemental’s slam fell clear of Ija.

Grinning mischievously and winking at her protector, Ija spread her hands, and unleashed a chain of lightning toward her attackers. Forks of electricity arced from figure to figure, jolting the elementals and causing their forms to lose cohesion. Wherever the lightning touched, water leaked from their bodies like the contents of a bucket seeping from uncaulked seams. Either the water had picked up sediments, or everything she and Tuku had been thinking had been wrong; maybe both. It didn’t matter either way.

Illustration by Rubén Pomares from Pathfinder Secrets of Magic

One of the elementals created a vortex of water just onto the shore. The moving eddy surged forward and back like a rushing tide, threatening to batter Ija and Tuku onto the rocks and deliver them into the depths. Ija tried to dodge, but her foot slipped on the wet sand. The incoming vortex was unavoidable.

But again, Tuku was vigilant; the dragon eidolon had been in a perfect position to notice and dodge the vortex. This time it was he who called upon their protective bond, swooping in to grab Ija, fluttering slightly off the ground for an instant, and setting her back down when the danger had passed.

This unlikely maneuver gave Ija room to dodge more oncoming blows from the nearest elementals. She backed up to a safer distance as Tuku went into a draconic frenzy, tearing apart the elemental that took the brunt of her lightning spell. The elementals responded in kind, surrounding the dragon and pummeling him with waves. Due to their bond, Ija felt every impact like a hit to her own body, but she knew they could last a little while longer.

“Ija, again!” Tuku shouted over the sound of crashing waves.

Ija called the lightning once more, and the sharp scent of ozone manifested as the magic sprang from her hands and arced into the elementals’ bodies. One of the remaining elementals was slain outright, or perhaps banished back to the Plane of Water—she honestly wasn’t sure what happened to these things when you destroyed them. Tuku noticed another that was leaking its essence from several places, and he used his jaws and claws to tear the holes wider, ripping the towering figure apart until it too collapsed into a splash of mundane water. Ija didn’t see any shining or shimmering like when a summoning spell ended; probably dead then.

The remaining two elementals began to flee in terror, finally realizing how dangerous Ija and Tuku were as a team. The dragon snapped at the nearest of them and looked back toward Ija, awaiting her approval. She quickly raised one eyebrow, as if to say, “go on,” and as quickly as that, Tuku was off beneath the waves.

A few minutes later, the dragon emerged from the water with a wide, goofy smile filling his toothy muzzle. “I told you dragons were good fishers,” Tuku said. Ija squeezed her hair to rid it of at least some of the water that now weighed heavily on her head. Her eyes widened, expectantly.

“And yeah,” Tuku continued begrudgingly, “I guess the gills didn’t hurt.”

About The Author

Mark Seifter is Paizo's Design Manager and one of the four designers on the creation of Pathfinder Second Edition. You can find him on twitter, @markseifter and check out Arcane Mark, his twitch stream with Linda Zayas-Palmer, Tuesdays and Thursdays at 7PM Pacific, and Saturdays at 10 AM Pacific at https://www.twitch.tv/arcanemark.

About Iconic Encounters

Iconic Encounters is a series of web-based flash fiction set in the worlds of Pathfinder and Starfinder. Each short story provides a glimpse into the life and personality of one of the games’ iconic characters, showing the myriad stories of adventure and excitement players can tell with the Pathfinder and Starfinder roleplaying games.

Twice have I been born, and with each birthing, I have gained a lifelong companion. The first companion was pain, learned the moment I was freed from my mother’s womb to the sight of my “father” standing over me with a drawn blade. Lord Bhrostra introduced me to my companion daily for years, finding new excuses to beat me and new ways to remind me that I was a blight on his house. Pain surrounded me in its warm embrace when my true sire, the elf Lairsaph, shattered my knee and left me broken, a gift to the men who hunted him so that he could escape while I paid the price for his crimes. That pain made me strong, tempered me against hardship, and set my foot on the path toward my second companion: the whispers.

Trapped in a dungeon for half a decade, tortured for the crimes of my sire, the whispers comforted me. They etched arcane runes in the hallways of my mind, told me the names of beings who could impart strength beyond anything I had dreamed of, and carved maps to ancient sites rife with power just waiting to be claimed. They’ve steered me toward ever-greater power since the moment of my emancipation: a scroll here, a spellbook there, a magic blade in the hands of an unworthy warrior. Each treasure a step closer to my destiny, each foe a whetstone sharpening me for the next task.

The whispers that brought me here, to this barren wasteland of bloodstained stone between the orcish hold of Belkzen and the so-called Gravelands ruled by hungry undead. They told me that there once was a mighty black dragon named Sharzathinek who served the Whispering Tyrant and that her lair was packed with spellbooks and magical trinkets. Such treasures came from a time before the Tyrant’s mortal life, ancient magic from an era when today’s archmages would have been seen as scarcely more than street magicians. The whispers also told me that Sharzathinek was, quite conveniently, dead, slain in a battle far from her lair. Hidden in such an inhospitable place as this, perhaps the lair and its treasures have gone unnoticed, waiting to be found once more by their rightful inheritor.

---

The lair should be close now. I had to put my horse down several miles back when its hoof caught in a rocky crevice and its leg shattered. Perhaps I could have set the bone and poured a healing potion down the beast’s throat, but I have used up most of the supplies it was intended to carry, and I would prefer to keep my precious healing resources for a true emergency. The horse screamed something fierce before I ended its misery, and while the dragon whose trove I’m searching for is supposedly long dead, some other deadly creature undoubtedly hunts in these lands. Not even the orcs wander into this desolation, but something tore apart a band of ghouls just a few miles back. Something with claws, teeth, and… acid.

---

The whispers surge in my mind, reassuring me that Sharzathinek is long dead. I needed not the reassurance; a dragon as old as that one wouldn’t merely have torn the ghouls apart, its claws would have scored the stone, and its breath would have melted rock into toxic vapor. I suspect that Sharzathinek left behind a clutch of eggs or wyrmling spawn, a lesser dragon that has likely claimed its mother’s horde. I don’t fear such a lesser creature, though I’m not so foolish as to risk encountering it unprepared.

I hear the faintest beating of wings far above me in the storm-wracked sky, and I use a scroll of protective magic to ward my body and equipment against acid. My blade leaps to hand with a thought and with it an array of powerful spells. No simple sword, my blade is fused with a powerful staff whose combat spells augment my specialized array of magic.

With my body warded and weapon in hand, I scan the skies. Was that a flicker of a bat-like wing, large enough to hold a draft horse aloft? Or had my nerves simply fooled my senses? The whispers assure me it was no illusion, so I do the only thing that makes sense. I scream into the darkened skies, “Come then, beast! Come and face your better, wyrm! I have more important tasks than wasting time with you here in this gods-forsaken corner of nowhere!”

The taunt works. I hear the faint beating in the distance become a deafening hiss, like the linen sail of a great ship tearing under the force of a hurricane. Foolish creature, too consumed by its own arrogant superiority to mask its approach. As it swoops towards me, for just a moment I feel the heavy dread of dragon-fear attempting to cloud my mind, but I brush it aside. I unleash a blast of lightning from my blade, wreathing its body in crackling arcs of electricity. I hold on to that power, grasping a fraction of its potential to wreath my blade in lingering electricity. The beast spews acid as it unleashes its deadly breath, but I sidestep the worst of the blast. The few droplets that reach me fizzle and fume before being extinguished entirely by my protective wards.

As the creature’s momentum carries it past me, I step through space itself, appearing at its flank and driving my lightning-sheathed sword into its flank. It roars as the blade parts its scales and jolts of electric energy sear the exposed muscle and nerves beneath, but I’m not done yet. Stepping into the blow, I drive the blade further even as I unleash another blast of lightning. I can feel the electricity pulling my blade deeper as the monster’s body spasms uncontrollably, and I know that I have dealt it a mortal blow. Then its tail slaps me across the side of my head, sending my body twisting and tumbling.

Illustration by Miguel Regodón Harkness from Pathfinder Secrets of Magic

I woke up a few hours later with a splitting headache, my hair matted to my scalp with blood. The dragon’s body lay nearby… Headless? I may be skilled and deadly but surely my spell wasn’t that devastating. Crawling, and then walking as I regained my equilibrium, I moved next to the dragon. As I inched closer, I noticed that its head had broken through a thin layer of dirt and shale into a cavern beneath. In the darkness below, I saw the glitter of gold and gems as well as the occasional reflective silver of weapons and armor when a line of lightning cut through the sky above. Good thing I brought some rope.

About The Author

Michael Sayre is a designer at Paizo who previously worked on the Organized Play team. He’s also a prolific freelancer, having contributed to numerous Paizo books and publications from other publishers, such as Lost Spheres Publishing, Rogue Genius Games, and many other companies in support of the Pathfinder RPG and other table-top game systems. You can find more of Michael's short fiction in our Organized Play blogs and in the introduction for the iconic alchemist, Fumbus.

About Iconic Encounters

Iconic Encounters is a series of web-based flash fiction set in the worlds of Pathfinder and Starfinder. Each short story provides a glimpse into the life and personality of one of the games’ iconic characters, showing the myriad stories of adventure and excitement players can tell with the Pathfinder and Starfinder roleplaying games.

Propped on his black toenails, Fumbus craned to see the bearings on the pretty brass compass. He swiveled an expectant grin back and forth between the wizard and the wayfinder, not sure which face was harder to read. Colder still was the reinforced door before them...though not for long. The fuse on the goblin’s bomb was hissing shorter, apparently outside Ezren’s notice.

“Through here?” Fumbus hoped.

Ezren opened his mouth to answer—too late. The fuse’s hissing was sucked into that exciting split-second silence before detonation. Then the bomb and Fumbus’s eyes blossomed red all at once. A concussive ripple showered the companions in sparks and shards. The door had blown ajar, the iron frame bent and peeled widest at the goblin’s height. Ezren would have to squeeze.

The wizard shook the soot out of his white hair. “I suspect so,” he coughed.

“Suspect?”

“The previous inscription led here,” Ezren admitted, ducking sideways through Fumbus’s opening. “But I hoped it wasn’t the last.” He ignited a torch mounted inside the door and looked around. “Oh,” he sighed, letting his staff and compass droop.

The door had been reinforced for good reason. It guarded a haphazard treasury, its golden texture illuminated in piles spread under the torchlight. Half-hazard, more like—the reflective glow made up only the left side of the chamber. Nesting comfortably in its midst was a chest larger than Fumbus, who thought it odd that so many coins lay outside the container. It was as if it had burst its seams. An impressive find to be sure, but the long-faced longshanks looked hungry for something else.

“Mushrooms?” Fumbus offered helpfully. He’d collected them for their brewing potential, but they made a swell snack in the meantime.

Ezren only arched an eyebrow at the blue fungi in the goblin’s outstretched palm.

“Isn’t brain mold after all,” Fumbus reassured him. “I’m pretty sure.”

“Never mind,” the wizard said. “It seems we’ve traced the writing to its underwhelming and predictable conclusion.”

“Drawings,” Fumbus reminded him for the tenth time.

“Er, yes.” Ezren pointed at the cords of tokens around Fumbus’s neck. “Like those, I suppose?”

The little alchemist patted the tokens, each scratched with runes to depict his formulas. Their satisfying clicks were music to his ears. Ezren had tried persuading him that symbolic pictures and “writing” were the same thing, but the goblin knew better. “Exactly,” he said, and swallowed more mushrooms.

He noticed then that he was stuck. Slime stretched between his foot and the flagstones. He wasn’t sure if it was reagent residue from his bomb or drool dripped while he snacked.

Ezren had begun pacing in the meantime, ignoring all distractions any shorter than the wayfinder open in his hand. He let it lead, thinking out loud, “The inscriptions disappeared with each reading. Ending here? Yet there’s no…affirmation.” He paused, stepping back to take in the whole chamber.

“Not mine after all,” the goblin muttered to the string of goo hanging from his fingernail.

“Fumbus, what does the light in this chamber remind you of?”

“Someone’s spit, though.”

“Fumbus?”

“Huh?” Fumbus followed Ezren’s back-and-forth gestures comparing the glowing side of the room to the shadowy side. “Oh. It’s like that face the Master of Spells prays to.”

“Indeed…” Ezren mused. He resumed his pacing, this time straight toward the shadowed half. “A striking duality. Perhaps a clue that all is not what it seems. Because, point of fact, the coordinates don’t end at that door, but—” His next step triggered a faint, metallic ring that echoed around the empty slot in his wayfinder. He froze as if afraid, thrilled in fact, and spoke an incantation. A familiar blue glow spread in response, illuminating an unseen ledge and the zigzag of stone steps leading up to it. The glow’s source was a new inscription, and even Fumbus marveled at how much larger and longer it was than the previous puzzles.

“Hmm…” the wizard purred proudly. “I can read the writing on the wall.”

“Drawings,” Fumbus corrected him.

Ezren gave no argument, already ascending the first landing on his way to the ledge. Fumbus had been fascinated to watch him decipher the other inscriptions, but the ritual had grown repetitive. He was suddenly less concerned with the meaning behind the magic and more interested in the mucus carpeting the chamber floor. It coated the gold coins like paste. When one yielded to his tugging, he became suspicious whether it really was a coin at all, but rather some kind of shed scale. He prepared to bite it to find out for sure, then stopped with his cheeks spread wide.

The chest was smiling at him.

He blinked and looked again. No, it had been his imagination. The golden trim around the lid followed a curved pattern, maybe even meant to resemble a sneering creature, but he was sure it was resemblance only. Pretty sure.

From the ledge, Ezren gave a triumphant shout. “A conjurer’s imprint! Of course. It’s the same inscription, traveling each time. Relocating...”

Fumbus now had his nose close to the mucus trail, sniffing and tracking it. Soon he stood knee-deep in sticky coins. The chest was even larger up close; he could almost see his reflection in its viscous sheen.

He yelped then, high-pitched and giddy, because the chest’s golden lips parted and a pink tongue lashed out. Long and twisted like a wet blanket, it snapped in the goblin’s face and sent him stumbling backward.

Not his imagination!

Illustration by Juan Miguel Lopez Barea from Pathfinder Lost Omens: Pathfinder Society Guide.

The chest shuffled toward him with eerie silence, as if it would maintain its camouflage. Without taking his eyes from the creature, Fumbus called to his companion. Ezren only hushed him back. This inscription was longer, more complex than the others, and he needed time to unravel it. Fumbus cursed the human’s unassailable focus.

The creature noticed it, too. It must have decided Ezren himself was extremely assailable as a result, because it changed course, crawling toward the stairs on at least eight tentacles.

Fumbus admired its cleverness. To disguise itself and then prey on the distracted wizard? Maybe it was more intelligent than he assumed. He knew from experience what a second chance could mean to a misunderstood monster. A possible future flashed before his goggles: shaking tentacles with the creature; taking it in; feeding it pickled whatevers; definitely requiring it to wear a bell; putting its sticky mucus to good alchemical use…

But now the creature slithered up the stairs, almost close enough to grab Ezren from behind. Fumbus downed an elixir, which tasted like that feeling when your foot falls asleep, and leaped over the creature onto the second landing. It reached for him and he pelted it with bombs almost faster than he could light them. Each stuck first and exploded second, like orange geysers erupting on the creature’s hide. But tongue and tentacles kept whipping.

“Drawings…” Ezren muttered up on his ledge.

The creature turned toward the unsuspecting wizard again, craning like an actual chest on stilts.

In a panic, Fumbus prepared something different, injecting a spongy pellet with a rolling chemical mixture. The sponge instantly swelled four times larger and hardened in reaction, now a brittle shell filled with something hot and hungry. Even so, the goblin risked a delay and even an accidental discharge: He hid the ball behind his back and whistled at the creature, hoping it would take the bait.

It did. Mouth open wide to expose not treasure or goodies, but rows of jagged teeth, it flicked its tongue and stretched its pseudopods at Fumbus...who moved. Like a toad with a fly, the creature snatched Fumbus’s bomb from midair and stowed it in its chest-mouth. First the split-second silence; then it stretched wide with a muffled pop. Its tentacles shuddered. Its tongue spilled out like steaming entrails, shriveled and white with acidic burns. Its body oozed off the stones and down the stairs.

Fumbus sucked his teeth mournfully. “Not so smart, I guess.”

“Oh, that seems a bit harsh,” Ezren said, turning away from the wall at last. “Though I do owe you my thanks.”

The goblin shrugged and fiddled with his dogslicer, both pleased and embarrassed.

The wizard’s wrinkled scowl softened into a smile and he pointed. “Drawings.”

Fumbus clutched his formula tokens. “Huh?”

“Drawings! You were right after all. The inscription isn’t an affirmation or command, but a combination lock. Read the runes wrong and they relocate, growing longer. But shuffle them correctly and…”

One by one he touched his staff to the magically bright symbols, but in a seemingly random order. Each glowed brighter as he did, until the entire inscription had been activated. It shifted then, rearranging in the order Ezren designated. The arched pattern swirled and bled together until the runes were gone, merged into a single shape: a yawning portal. A milky film of magic disguised where it led, but Fumbus had a feeling it wasn’t to the other side of the wall.

That metallic ring echoed off Ezren’s wayfinder again. He studied it, nodded resolutely, and clapped it shut. “Right. On we go! But maybe less noise on the other side, eh, Fumbus? Never know what creatures might be lurking.”

The goblin opened his mouth to reply...and filled it with blue mushrooms instead.

About the Author

Andrew Bud Adams learned to dungeon crawl before he learned to walk. Today, he plays in far too many game campaigns, including two run by his own kids. A fan of literary retellings, his work has appeared in short story anthologies and in the Malifaux universe by Wyrd Miniatures. When not spotting mimics or teaching college writing, he can be found on Twitter at @andrewbudadams.

About Iconic Encounters

Iconic Encounters is a series of web-based flash fiction set in the worlds of Pathfinder and Starfinder. Each short story provides a glimpse into the life and personality of one of the games’ iconic characters, showing the myriad stories of adventure and excitement players can tell with the Pathfinder and Starfinder roleplaying games.

When the explosions started, Navasi’s first thought was, This should speed up the wait, at least.

They’d been hired to escort a caravan running supplies to one of the smaller colonies just in the Diaspora. Rather than provide security on ship, their employer had told them it would be more efficient to use small, single-person starfighters to counter the raiding tactics of the local pirates. Which meant traveling to the military supply station nearest to the caravan, Okira Station, where the Pact Worlds government stored surplus ships.

The plan was to sign some the leases, pay some rental fees, pick fighters, and rendezvous back with the caravan when it came out of Drift. Navasi had mixed feelings about the job, since she was technically wanted dead or alive in the Diaspora by the Sixth Finger, the interplanetary thieves’ guild she once worked for.

But a job was a job.

As office workers ran out of the building in panic, Navasi and her team moved to the nearest window to survey the situation. Navasi couldn’t help but smile at the fleeing civilians. The bureaucrats in Okira had been doing their utter best to bore her team to death, loading them with long waits and endless waiver forms rather than part with any of their precious fighters. Those pen pushers all seemed to have vanished now that the guns were out, leaving Navasi and her team to their own devices.

Outside, swarms of steel-gray fighters with cockpits of crimson glass flew strafing patterns over the outpost. Navasi wondered for a moment if the Sixth Finger had finally caught up to her. But she knew that was wrong. This wasn’t the pirates’ style. Nor did any of these ships display the familiar sigils.

If the Sixth was going to even the score, they’d send someone to do it up close and personal. There seemed to be no pattern to this raid beyond “do as much random damage as possible.” No, this attack had nothing to do with her or her crew. They were just unlucky bystanders who happened to be caught in the crossfire. Already, Okira Station security was launching its own ships in response, leading to that deadly, graceful ballet of single-fighter combat.

Navasi was still wondering what they should do when Obo, ever spoiling for a fight, ignited her doshko and said, “Don’t suppose these cowards will put boots on the ground. Very well, let’s go kill them in the sky.”

Navasi was aware that Obo thought she relied on diplomacy too much. In this instance, though, she was inclined to share the vesk’s preferred tactic. There was a time for talk, but they were already past it. Right now, it was time for fire and chrome.

“Obo’s right,” she said. “It’s not safe on the ground. Everyone pick a ship.”

The vesk grinned as Navasi vaulted over the front desk and opened the computer terminal. Pathetically simple security took only a moment to override. After that, a few seconds of searching allowed her to find the docking bay level outside their building. She punched in the release codes and disarmed all the docked fighters’ cryptolocks.

“Are you sure, captain?” Velloro asked. Navasi followed the lashunta’s stare to Barsala. Navasi knew Velloro could fly, but they both knew Barsala had only minimal piloting skills. The kasatha scientist was brave, reliable, but she preferred to work on the ground and provide backup on a ship. These single-person fighters were incredibly intuitive—a child could fly one—and they’d all practiced in simulators to prepare, but that mattered little if you were flying up against space raiders who knew what they were doing.

“Well, we wanted to take these fighters for a practice ride, right?” said Navasi, leaping back over the counter. “What better way to get a field test? Barsala, just stick close to us.”

The walls shuddered under the impact of more artillery, causing dislodged dust to rain from the ceiling. Alarms screamed. It wouldn’t do to stay here and have the office collapse on their heads. Better to return the favor and see these bastards off. Who knows? The Okira Station officials could be so grateful that Navasi might be able to squeeze a discount out of them.

“The fighters out there have been unlocked and primed for takeoff,” Navasi said, leading them toward the door. “Fan out once we’re in the open! Don’t run in a straight line—don’t give them anything easy to shoot at.”

Easy to say, harder to do. Still, this wasn’t her crew’s first time getting shot at. They left the stale office air and entered a smoky hell. Overhead, most of the raiders were occupied by Okira Station’s deployed response, but more than enough were still concentrating on doing as much damage as they could.

Illustration by Tomasz Chistowski

Velloro formed a shield out of concentrated entropy and moved forward. Barsala followed behind, hesitant, no doubt trying to decide which ship would be best. Heedless of the destruction raining down on them, Obo ran straight for the starfighter with the biggest guns. Navasi saw one that reminded her of the ships she flew back when she was a pirate with another name. That would do nicely.

She’d just started to board her choice when she heard Barsala cry out. The kasatha biohacker stumbled but got to her feet quickly, her eyes wide. She still hadn’t chosen a fighter. She also didn’t notice the raider’s ship barreling down on her, guns blazing.

But Velloro did. Entropy shield raised, he leapt in front of Barsala as the two were enveloped in a fiery explosion.

---

Velloro felt zero hesitation leaping in front of Barsala. He was the Castrovel Crusher and could take the damage. Not only was protecting others instinctual for him, he was only returning the favor. Had not Barsala treated all their wounds countless times?

He didn’t hesitate. He never did, which was how he’d won in the arena all those years.

Still, the raider’s plasma blast was more powerful than he anticipated. It burned through his entropy shield, dissipating it, overwhelmed the energy and platemesh layers of his armor, burning him up inside and out. He tried to dissipate the heat as best he could, but the pain was intense. When the smoke cleared, Velloro looked down at his blistered and cracked skin and his shredded armor. He’d survived, but it was a near thing. He wasn’t sure about flying now, though.

Barsala’s head eclipsed his view of the smoky sky.

“Hold still,” she said and quickly brought out her medkit. In moments, she injected him with several syringes of various colors and applied salves where the burns looked the worst. Through his hazy vision, Velloro admired the calm poise on the kasatha’s face.

Then he noticed something else as well.

“There’s a two-person fighter over there,” Velloro said. “I can fly, you can shoot.”

“That sounds like a fair trade,” Barsala said as she injected more restoratives. Already, he felt worlds better and leapt to his feet.

“Wait, one more,” Barsala said. She pulled forth a green syringe. “If I’m going to rely on your reflexes, I want them to be sharp.” Velloro hated the idea of stims to make him fight better—it felt uncomfortably close to cheating—but if they were both going to fly, it wasn’t just his life in the balance. He nodded and Barsala plunged the injector into him. Immediately, he felt his senses crackle as though electric. Time seemed to slow. The air smelt of melted plastic and sulfurous flame.

Navasi and Obo had already taken off. Best to follow them.

“After you, friend,” Velloro said, as the biohacker jumped in the two-person cockpit.

“Velloro. Barsala, do you copy?” Obo’s voice growled over the fighter’s intercom. “What’s your status? Are you all right?”

“Why Obo, I didn’t know you cared,” said Barsala.

“I’m a little worse for wear,” Velloro said, “but Barsala patched me up quick.”

“Glad to hear it,” cut in Navasi from her own fighter. Velloro could see her ship moving to engage the raiders. “Now get to the sky. Time for a little payback.”

“Roger that,” said Velloro as he fired up the fighter’s engines. “You ready, Barsala?”

He heard the weapon systems on their ship’s go live with a deadly hum. When Barsala spoke, the kasatha scientist no longer sounded scared. “Let’s do this.”

About the Author

Patrick Hurley has had fiction published in Galaxy’s Edge, Cosmic Roots & Eldritch Shores, Abyss & Apex, New Myths, Arcanist, Aurealis, Frozen Wavelets, The Overcast, and The Drabblecast. He is a 2017 graduate of the Taos Toolbox Writer's Workshop. In 2018, he was a finalist for the Baen Fantasy Award. Patrick lives in Seattle and is a member of SFWA and the Dreamcrashers. He still can’t quite believe he has the good fortune to also be an editor at Paizo.

About Iconic Encounters

Iconic Encounters is a series of web-based flash fiction set in the worlds of Pathfinder and Starfinder. Each short story provides a glimpse into the life and personality of one of the games’ iconic characters, showing the myriad stories of adventure and excitement players can tell with the Pathfinder and Starfinder roleplaying games.

Lem cleared his throat, and Merisiel guiltily ceased fiddling with her dagger, giving her full attention to the halfling standing on the table in front of her.

“Now can we get started with my plan?” he asked.

The two adventurers were holed up in a tiny inn in Almas, and thanks to Lem, every inch of their room was covered in paper. Books sat in high piles on the room’s only table, alongside spent ink bottles, quills, and, of course, sheets and sheets of parchment. But it wasn’t the pages of transcriptions and doodles on the table that concerned Lem now, so much as the ones displayed upon the wall.

His plan.

It was essentially a collage—sheets and scrolls to match the scraps around the room—pinned precariously between the chamber’s two sputtering torches. Every inch of paper had notes, names, commentary, and observations scrawled across them, and most of these were pinned beside illustrations that Merisiel had to assume were related. A few maps and blueprints, charcoal rubbings, and pictures torn from books—but most of the images were clearly quick sketches of people, in Lem’s familiar style. The only structure to these focal points came from a handful of strands of crisscrossing, multicolored yarn, pinned down from picture to page and beyond, intersecting here and there like a haphazard spiderweb. It looked like the kind of thing a mad servant of Rovagug might call art—but to her, it just seemed like a cry for help.

Complicated Plan by Brian Valezap

“So,” he asked, lifting his bushy eyebrows. “What do you think?”

Merisiel took a deep breath, before finally asking the question she’d had since first boarding a ship for Andoran.

“What is all this about, Lem?”

To his credit, the halfling only faltered for a moment, a flash of disappointment as he scratched at the side of his head and his eyes flitted back and forth between his “plan” and the elf he’d roped into helping him with it. He lowered his hands, nodded, mumbled something under his breath so low even Merisiel’s keen ears couldn’t hear it clearly, and then met her concerned gaze with a solemn one of his own.

“As I said…I believe that there is a ring of Chelish spies at work here in Almas, a secret conspiracy of infernal agents subtly working to influence Andoren politics…and we are the only people who can stop them.”

“No, I mean—what does all this have to do with ambushing a Chelish spy?” the elf asked, shaking out a few loose strands of her long silver hair.

She glanced up at the wall again. She supposed now she could understand a little bit more of it; most of the map-scraps involved the border between Andoran and Cheliax, and there were a few infernal symbols and sketches of Hellknights. At least Lem’s paranoia made sense—he’d been raised a slave in Cheliax, after all.

“It all started,” Lem said, and there was a flash of performance in his tone, the spark of heraldry that usually only came out in the midst of battle. “When an old friend from the Bellflower Network reached out…”

The halfling indicated one of the doodles pinned to the wall. He began to speak at length about his old friend, a former slave, who had noticed certain Andoren merchants seemed to be making double their usual shipments…and all of them suspiciously close to the Chelish border.

“Her intel of course connects to Step Six of my plan,“ he poked at a different section of the wall. “Wherein, hopefully, any decoy Chelish caravans have already been waylaid by members of a certain halfling ‘legitimate business organization.’”

Merisiel was still seated, but she was trying to appear fully invested, even as her fingers fiddled with the dagger hilts protruding over her shoulder from the brace on her back.

“Legitimate…” she murmured, then brightened. “There’s a halfling mafia?”

“No,” Lem said, frowning. “But just in case, don’t ever mention them again.”

Without missing a beat, he charged back into his plan, jumping from point to point across the papers with no truly discernible pattern. One moment he’d be explaining how he’d mapped out town guards’ patrol routes, then he’d leap to a note about the weather along the border.

Although Merisiel had only just arrived in Almas, Lem had been lurking in the city for over a month. He’d eavesdropped on merchants and mercenaries, paid off Chelish expatriates, and pumped sympathetic Andoren warriors for intel—usually in disguise. The little bard had been busy with every manner of espionage at his disposal, and all of it had been for the sake of building an excruciatingly elaborate plan that, at least as far as Merisiel could tell, really only amounted to “ambush.”

The rogue felt her attention straying. Trying to keep her mind occupied, she flipped a knife around deftly, using its deadly point to clean beneath her fingernails. She grimaced at some of the filth she found there, and hastily wiped the dirtied blade off on the closest scrap of parchment.

Lem hadn’t noticed, still jabbering excitedly:

“…and thanks to the help of that poor hellspawn trader—no friend of the Chelish, unsurprisingly—we know exactly which coach our suspected spy will be driving.”

Merisiel looked up at him. “So then we catch it, and stab them?”

“No, no, no,” Lem said with a sigh. “We will already be lying in wait, assuming we leave tonight. Remember Step Thirty-four?”

Merisiel failed to subdue a groan.

“What?” asked Lem, blinking, genuinely perplexed.

“It’s just…” Merisiel trailed off awkwardly. She began digging her knife through some folded-up parchment, gently scoring the wood beneath.

“Where did I lose you? Step Fourteen, with the carriage switch? Or Step Twenty-nine, where Valeros and Kyra help us rig traps at the abandoned border checkpoint?”

Lem was pointing down at the table with a frown, where his friend’s knife was digging nervously into the parchment. Merisiel’s cheeks actually reddened a little as she saw that she had indeed scratched a line over a few scrabbled words, including “western border” and “abandoned checkpoint.” She cleared her throat and casually spun the knife before plunging its blade fully into the wood of the table, as if to say, “I meant to do that.”

“It’s not the, uh, overall plan, Lem,” she started, sighing. “Clearly you’ve been busy as a bugbear at a baby shower, but it all seems a bit…convoluted?”

The halfling gaped at her

“It just seems like it doesn’t require thirty-four—“

“Thirty-seven,” Lem interjected.

“—Thirty-seven steps! And we’ll follow you on all of ‘em. But doesn’t it all add up to: hide, wait, and then jump ‘em?”

Merisiel gestured toward the madcap collage of yarn, paper, and pictures, the books and debris strewn about the room, and finally, at Lem. The halfling was working himself into a lather over concocting the perfect scheme, when—at least as far as she was concerned—all they really needed was a head start and a little luck.

She rose from her seat, shaking her head softly, trying to meet his eyes under his mop of blond hair.

“You’ve planned enough,” Merisiel said, her tone steady and confident. “We’re ready.”

“Meri, this is Cheliax—it’s serious. If I’ve missed even one detail, misunderstood or forgotten one scrap of information—“

“You haven’t!” the rogue declared with an assuring smile, clapping her hand to his shoulder. “I mean, look at all this! You’ve thought this through from every angle.”

She deftly snatched blades from her dagger brace, and, one by one, with impossible swiftness, she tossed them at the wall—each one landing home on an illustration.

“We leave now—“

THUNK.

“We stay ahead of the spy—“

THUNK.

“We meet Kyra and Valeros—“

THUNK.

“And we stage our ambush before they cross the border.”

THUNK. THUNK. THUNK.

Lem looked at the circle of daggers embedded in the wall, watching as Merisiel strode over to the plan, withdrawing her knives one at a time. By the time she’d finished and turned back, he was grinning along with her. For the first time since the planning began, the halfling seemed like his old, confident self.

“I think you’re right,” he said with a cocky little grin. “I have thought of everything.”

Lem reached onto the table and plucked Merisiel’s last dagger from its resting place, tossing it back to her. She caught it deftly, and the two of them set about gathering their gear, ready to set off without looking back.

Unnoticed on the table, the scrap of paper Merisiel had been stabbing, no longer pinned, unfurled from the many folds and creases it had earned. Around the scratches, stains, and bits of under-fingernail dirt, text was clearly visible, a note hastily passed on to Lem by a terrified hellspawn trader—

“Along the western border, you’ll pass a single abandoned checkpoint…”

And beneath it, previously obscured by the parchment’s folds, the words continued—

“Avoid it at all costs.”

About the Author

Ryan Cady writes comics and horror fiction - with credits from Marvel and DC and everywhere in between. His critically acclaimed space horror series, Infinite Dark, recently concluded a two-volume run at Image Comics, and you can read his latest webcomic, Wolfsbane, for free on LINE Webtoon. Find him on twitter @rycady, where he rants about Star Wars, food, and TTRPGs.

About Iconic Encounters

Iconic Encounters is a series of web-based flash fiction set in the worlds of Pathfinder and Starfinder. Each short story provides a glimpse into the life and personality of one of the games’ iconic characters, showing the myriad stories of adventure and excitement players can tell with the Pathfinder and Starfinder roleplaying games.

“Now, mister, why would you bother yourself with questions like those?”

Quinn put down the brass cup he was drinking from and closed the open journal in front of him. “It’s unfortunately my job, ma’am.”

“And it’s a terrible job indeed, for such a handsome fellow,” the waitress mused. She tilted her pitcher of wine over his cup, and while the man was sure he’d had enough, he didn’t protest. “It’s such a gruesome thing for you to busy yourself with.”

“Someone’s got to be so busy.” He smirked, reaching into his pocket for a handful of coins and placing them in the waitress’s free hand. “Thank you for your assistance.”

The woman blushed at his touch, bowing as she stepped away. Quinn sipped from the now brimming cup of alcohol as he turned his attention back to his notes, the ones he had taken in his mind carefully as she spoke. This would be the eleventh body so far. He hadn’t seen it yet, but it was still fresh, and nearby—in an alley beside the rented homes at the docks, barely minutes of walking from the tavern he sat in. If the city’s own guards hadn’t moved it—and he was confident they wouldn’t, not until daylight had burned away most of their fear—then tonight was a good chance to get a look of his own.

The grim crime occurred near Augustana’s thriving docks, and Quinn knew which alley the victim lay in when the smell of rum and saltwater gave way to the overpowering stench of death as he approached. He held a torch above his head as he stepped into the dark toward the body. The corpse itself was as all the others, at least at first blush. It was dressed in the robes of the Skinsaw Cult, laying spread-eagle at the center of the scene. They had been exsanguinated, one clean deep cut to the neck letting all of their precious lifeblood out into a receptacle that was no longer at the scene, but left its round red ring of blood on the cobblestones as evidence.

Quinn assesses the scene of the crime in this illustration by Ksenia Kozhevnikova. Take your own investigators on adventures of murder and mystery with the Pathfinder Advanced Player’s Guide, available everywhere July 30.

The one difference between this scene and the others had been the first thing that Quinn saw, but he wanted to save his assessment of it for last. On the wall behind the body lay concentric painted circles of blood making a crude clock, skeletal arms pointing at the twelve and thirteen numerals. It was peculiar in ways that ultimately felt distracting. These cultists loved their gaudy death imagery—the skulls and bones and blood and exquisitely mannequined carcasses—all meant to elicit terror and leave those who witnessed their handiwork unable to shake the thought of the gruesome scene. As a rule, however, there was always something more meaningful beneath the theater, some misstep of a lazy mind, a revelation to be uncovered by the quick-witted.

Quinn stared at the macabre clock, waiting for it to reveal something deeper the its obvious message of intimidation and horror. It went up to thirteen hours—that would have been simple enough to dismiss as over-relying on superstition, but then why point at twelve? There were also the bones themselves. The body did have its arms split lengthwise, the skeleton severed at the joints for the bones to slip out as much as possible without disturbing the muscle beyond them. The arms nailed to the wall, however, did not belong to this victim. It took barely a moment of Quinn’s forensic acumen to tell. For one thing, there was a short hand, as all clocks were wont to have, but both limbs were still longer than the corpse’s. Each of these arms, then, must be another victim’s injury.

He paused to consider if that would be a useful hunch. That was where they pointed: to the twelfth and thirteenth bodies, somewhere waiting to be found among the ports of the Inner Sea. But why hint at them now? The murderer had so far never left any clues to a further kill. Perhaps he had learned that he was being followed, and the thrill had changed from the lust for blood to the game of not being caught. Quinn winced. “Please, don’t be one of the clever ones,” he muttered.

Quinn knelt and turned over the opened arms of the corpse with the tip of his cane, to check the rest of the man’s skin. The corpse’s nails were clean and manicured, and there were the clear tan lines of a bracelet and a ring around the wrist and fourth finger of the right hand. Nothing else about the person bore the kind of dazed, hungry demeanor of a cultist of the Skinsaw Man. Quinn sized up the man’s muscular build, sun-worn skin, and the pair of ornate anchor tattoos on each bicep—one in the Taldan or Andoren style he would expect of a citizen of Augustana, the other similar but with flourishes that appeared more Garundi, possibly Rahadoumi. This man must have been a sailor. This expanded his investigation quite a bit, and he sighed at the notion.

He endeavored to ask his questions in the morning, then. Sailors tend to be their most volatile at night.

At first light, Quinn awoke and took a moment to consider what he knew so far about the victims. The Skinsaw Cult garb was a ruse—but whose? Did a cultist find enough forethought to hide their latest body in their own robes? It was doubtful compared to the alternative: someone attempted to infiltrate the cult. It was highly unlikely that they were on the same path that he himself was. Still, what the poor soul may have found might be relevant, he thought. He hoped that the man may have shared some part of his plan with a crewmate.

Yes, he knew that would mean forcing the answers out of a sailor, the bulk of whom Quinn’s experience told him would be loyal to their oaths of secrecy, even those sworn to the dead. It’d be hard going, but at least there would be someone with answers.

Quinn spent the morning combing the Fleet District, listening and watching for any indication of what ship last night’s victim may have served on. If his theory were correct, if the victim truly was tracking the cult across the northern coast of the Inner Sea, then it’d be a ship recently arrived from Almas, after having put in at both Oppara and Cassomir, though not in that order. That narrowed the possible number of vessels to four.

It was early afternoon before he’d further winnowed the possibilities to a single ship, Oasis, which employed a Taldan crew but called Azir, Rahadoum’s so-called Port Godless, her home port. Oasis had arrived just two nights hence, and its crew were holed up in one of the sailor’s flophouses not far from the scene of the crime. When he found the home, Quinn lifted the head of his cane and rapped on the door three times with rhythmic precision, with the force of conviction but not malice. Just as he drew breath to call out his name and intention, the door slowly creaked open, and the stern face of a blond man in his forties glared at him. “What can I do for you, friend?”

“I may have a bit more to offer,” Quinn replied, smiling. “But first, do you know a tan-skinned man, around your height and build, maybe a bit younger, darker of hair, with twin anchor tattoos on the arms, of a kind but likely done by different needles in ports far from one another?”

“Er… I mean, I know lots of guys,” the man started, his eyes darting quickly from Quinn’s face to the head of his cane and back. “Why?” Quinn noticed that the man didn’t inhale at the end of the inquiry, nervously, subconsciously holding his breath.

Surely you heard tell of the murder last night, the ritual killing? I have reason to believe someone who’d been bunking here with the other members of his crew was involved.” Quinn drew his journal from a coat pocket now, making a show of checking it for the ship’s name. “Yes, the victim was most assuredly a sailor on the Oasis—strange name for a ship, no? You know it?”

“Victim?” the man said somberly, releasing his held breath and letting the door swing open wide enough for Quinn to enter. “Jassa, one of my mates…” His eyes opened wide, as if he were searching the floor between them both for something to make sense of his sudden grief. “I’m bosun of Oasis. I can’t imagine why Jassa’d be a target of a slaying that brutal. If what I heard is true, course.” When he finally found himself, he put his hand out to greet the detective. “Randall. Thank you for letting me know.”

Quinn shook the man’s hand firmly. There was the formality Quinn expected, the apprehension against opening up to anyone—especially non-sailors—who seemed to know more about a given situation. Experience told him that he just had to push a few buttons first. “Why would a man serving on a ship out of Azir be involved with religious zealots, cultists?”

“Cultists? You think one of those flesh-peeling Skinsaws did that to him?” Randall’s eyes flared with rage, but he caught himself suddenly.

There it was. Quinn had him now. “He told you something.”

“Like what, sir?”

“You didn’t even hesitate. Jumped straight from ‘cultist’ to ‘Skinsaws’. Your man Jassa was looking into something, and he let you know what. So now you’re going to tell me.” He walked past the man and toward the corner of the room that served as a kitchen and continued. “So, how do you like your tea?”

“… tea? What are you on about, man?”

Quinn peered into a kettle to ensure its cleanliness and began filling it with water, then turned to Randall and smirked. “When someone’s about to tell me a long story, I like to have something to drink.”

About the Author

Brandon O’Brien is a writer, performance poet, teaching artist and game designer from Trinidad and Tobago. His work has been shortlisted for the 2014 Alice Yard Prize for Art Writing and the 2014 and 2015 Small Axe Literary Competitions, and is published in Uncanny Magazine, Strange Horizons, Fireside Magazine, and New Worlds, Old Ways: Speculative Tales from the Caribbean, among others. He is also the poetry editor of FIYAH: A Magazine of Black Speculative Fiction.

About Iconic Encounters

Iconic Encounters is a series of web-based flash fiction set in the worlds of Pathfinder and Starfinder. Each short story provides a glimpse into the life and personality of one of the games’ iconic characters, showing the myriad stories of adventure and excitement players can tell with the Pathfinder and Starfinder roleplaying games.

“COLLISION IN THIRTY SEC...” Keskodai punched a flashing button and the ship computer fell silent, but the cockpit was still roaring from re-entry. From behind, he heard the shrieking of metal as the ship’s rear quarter twisted into collapsing fragments.

If I can just get the nose up. Iseph would know what to do. He was pathing now, as the only other living occupant of the Hellknight ship shared his telepathy

Raia dropped into the co-pilot seat next to him and began to struggle with the controls. Surely, this vessel must have an aerobraking system for safe landing in an emergency?

And I’d gladly use it, but all the controls are in devilspeak! Keskodai waved a hand over a control panel covered in infernal symbols.

Raia didn’t take her eyes off the viewscreen before her. Perhaps we should not have killed the entire crew.

They went to a Hell of their own making. Keskodai stared helplessly at the controls. I’m just not ready to join them yet.

Their thoughts fell silent as the surface of the planet rumbled ever closer. The shaking front viewscreen went yellow, then red, before their eyes; re-entry was melting the ship. Beneath them, however, were endless fields of white, a thick blanket of snow that rolled gently over hills and down into deep drifts.

It must be one of those, Raia pathed, pointing to a set of six brilliantly flashing buttons on Keskodai’s side of the cockpit.

But ... which? He took a hand off the control wheel and hovered over the array of buttons. Each bore indecipherable symbols. He felt himself overwhelmed by the consequence of choice. How many chances would he have to activate the proper system? If he picked the wrong one, would his choice doom the vessel, himself, and Raia? Or could he try again? Was there some clue here in the cockpit, written in letters that were twisted like fire but rigid like prison bars, that would help him select the proper one? It was thrilling, this paralysis. And every moment of indecision made the consequences vastly greater. His antenna twitched and shivered in horrified delight.

Raia’s eyes were wide with fear. They were less than a mile above the ground now, little more than a meteor adorned with half-melted spikes. Just pick one!

But he could not move

At the last instant, she lunged across the cockpit for the controls. Keskodai felt the braking thrusters fire, and they were both hurled from their chairs towards the viewscreen.

Then came blackness. And silence.

Raia awoke first. Everything was tilted at an angle. Crumpled in the cockpit’s nose, she tried to move. Pain. Broken shoulder. Her last healing serum... in her belt. Thinking was hard. But as the fluid trickled down her throat her head cleared. She was alive.

Keskodai lay on the floor, in bad shape. His chitin was cracked. She didn’t understand his biology but it wasn’t good. There was a box on the wall with a red vial on its face; she didn’t need to read the Hellknights’ devil language to recognize it as a first aid kit. Inside, a dermal stapler. The device made a ka-lunk sound as she put Keskodai’s abdominal plates back together. She bit the cap off a tube of sprayflesh and squeezed it out over the wound. It was all she could do.

The cold wasn’t from her injuries. Hull plates had separated in the descent, and a frigid wind outside blew snow sideways. She thumbed her environmental protections and leapt out one of the holes, landing in a knee-high drift.

Find everything you need to run your own starship encounters—including crash landings like this one, illustrated by Tomasz Chistowski—in Starfinder Starship Operations Manual, available everywhere July 30.

The crash had attracted scavengers. Half a dozen, each big as a shotalashu, with whip-like tails and massive lower jaws ending in projecting tusks. “Calories must be exceptionally difficult to find in this biome,” she said, not expecting them to respond. “So your hunger is understandable, but you will find me more trouble than I’m worth.” Behind her, she heard Keskodai climbing from the wreck.

Before the first one could lunge for her, she hurled twin bolts of green force at it, and pieces of the creature flew away into the freezing air, digitized into binary code. That surprised it, but the others charged. Bringing her hands together, touching thumbs, she conjured a fan of emerald flame and backed towards the ship. A white light spiraled out from over her shoulder: Keskodai. His psychic blast overwhelmed one of the creatures; it fell writhing in the snow, but the others were close now. She tried to levitate; one of the creatures clamped down on her leg with its massive jaws and she cried out as pain overwhelmed her. Desperate, she found her baton. It wouldn’t be enough.

But the frenzy abated. One of the animals sniffed the air, and the pack made snuffling noises to each other. As Raia slowly slid down the side of the hull into the snow, the beasts loped off.

Keskodai lowered himself down and got an arm under Raia. They can smell the Hellknight corpses, he told her. Let’s hope they enjoy barbecue.

We only have a little time. If we have not found shelter by the time they come back... she winced as she tried to put weight on her leg.

Keskodai helped her to her feet, and they limped to the top of a nearby hill. There wasn’t much to see, but a river of unnaturally dark blue was barely visible in the distance. They made for it.

The going was painful and slow. The snow stopped falling, but it was still thick and the ground was impossible to see, until suddenly only Keskodai’s long antennae were visible, the rest of him having fallen into a deep drift. It was growing dark as they reached the river. Raia knelt down to cup the water. “Antifreeze,” she said. It was the first they’d spoken since the attack. They couldn’t drink this.

“You’re mad at me.” Keskodai indicated no emotion, simply stating a fact.

“You shirren and your damn ... choice paralysis!”

“I am sorry, Raia.”

“My history teacher, Ms. Lueda, had a saying. ‘It is best to do the right thing. Next best is to do something. Worst of all is to do nothing.’”

“I said I was sorry.”

“Don’t they teach you anything in school?”

“I did not go to school.”

That made her pause. She couldn’t imagine it. “What?”

“My parents carried me with them, day after day. I learned about life through their experiences. Just as I carry Chk Chk.” He patted the armored cradle jar at his hip.

“Wait, you brought your son here? Through all,” she gestured in the vague direction of the crash and nearly stumbled. “That?”

“How else is he to learn?”

Raia’s leg was numb with pain. She was cold, but her environmental protections were running fine. That meant it wasn’t the weather. Shock was getting to her. She couldn’t stand any longer. Lowering herself to the river bank, she lay back in the snow.

Keskodai knelt down beside her.

Still angry, she pulled away from him ever so slightly. “What are you doing?”

“Healing your injuries.”

“You’re empty. We used almost everything we had on the Hellknights, and the rest on those scavengers.”

Was that a smile? Raia couldn’t tell. “See, this is where your magic and mine differ,” he said, placing a hand on her head. It wasn’t the leg that was killing her, he knew. It was head trauma from the crash. “So long as I’m alive, I’m never empty.”

Her head began to clear. But as it did, Keskodai’s green head gained ugly yellow bruises. Her leg stopped hurting, but cracks appeared in his chitin. One of his antennae withered. She lurched up, grabbing him, and emphatically pathed, Stop! He stopped.

“You didn’t have to do that, you ridiculous...” She was speaking again. “Why did you do that?”

Now it was Keskodai’s turn to fall flat on his back in the snow. She didn’t know how much damage he had done to himself, but it was serious. Maybe fatal. “It was easy,” he said. “There was only one choice.”

Raia still had the dermal stapler. She dug it out, gave it a quick whack to break the ice that had formed around the dispenser, and started ka-lunking the shirren back together. He began to make a noise, a rapid hk-ik-ikking noise.

“Are you laughing? Because from my perspective none of this is particularly funny.”

But he only rose a hand toward the sky. She looked over one shoulder.

The Sunrise Maiden emerged from the clouds. For the first time in days, Raia smiled.

About the Author

Jason Tondro develops Starfinder Adventure Paths. A former college professor, he taught literature, writing, film, and comics & graphic novels before joining Paizo as an editor in March 2018. He is the author of the Arthur Lives! RPG; look for him on Twitter @doctorcomics. He lives in Seattle with his two dogs.

About Iconic Encounters

Iconic Encounters is a series of web-based flash fiction set in the worlds of Pathfinder and Starfinder. Each short story provides a glimpse into the life and personality of one of the games’ iconic characters, showing the myriad stories of adventure and excitement players can tell with the Pathfinder and Starfinder roleplaying games.

Though the night air was still, Korakai’s feathers still rustled as if in a light breeze as he leaned on his staff and finally arrived at the mountain’s summit. The climb probably would’ve been easier if he hadn’t eaten so many skewers, but what was he to do? He’d reached the mountain trail after a long day’s travel, and he very well couldn't ignore the delicious smells and clinking glasses from the homey tavern tucked to the side of the road.

Korakai had to respect the location. He clearly wasn’t the only one who’d found the good food and drink more appetizing than an arduous hike, and like his family’s own restaurant, this tavern had been abuzz with the easy energy of a community that knew each other. One thing had led to another, and Korakai had ended up trading recipes with one of the regulars, an elderly spice merchant.

The night had devolved into an impromptu cook-off, and it would have been impolite for Korakai to not sample every combination of skewer and dipping sauce that had filled the table—as a professional courtesy to a fellow cook, of course. Korakai couldn’t believe the merchant had never heard of yuzu, though. He’d managed to whip up a substitute from lemon and orange, and though he knew his father would roll his eyes when he found out his only son had butchered a family recipe, Korakai thought the mix had actually turned out rather well.

Sighing contentedly, Korakai pulled a worn map out from his pack, shaking it out as his ever-present static clung the parchment to his feathers. He reflexively moved his talons, tracing symbols to conjure a light, but stopped as he realized he could make out the map just fine in the red glow of… Korakai turned around and his heart froze. In the valley below, he could see the tavern to his right, and creeping towards it, the glow of burning trees to his left.

No matter how quickly he ran down the trail, there was no way he’d make it around the steep switchbacks before the fires reached the tavern. Which meant… Korakai paced back and forth on the mountaintop for a few precious seconds, fidgeting and clicking his talons together. He wasn’t going to like this next part

Korakai recalled the words his grandfather had told him when he was younger. “A tengu belongs to the sky. A tengu does not fear the earth. A tengu belongs to the sky. A tengu does not fear the earth. A tengu belongs to the sky. A tengu does not fear—” Korakai clenched his eyes tight and leapt from the edge of the cliff, opening them again only when he felt the four winds catch him and carry him gently from the mountaintop.

Smoke stung Korakai’s eyes as he looked around a forest bathed in orange and red. Something felt wrong about this blaze, but he couldn’t quite place it. Soon enough, though, he found its source in a clearing before him: a pack of fiendish beasts slavering infernal fire that dripped to the group, setting the brush alight: hell hounds, four in all. Korakai’s legs locked. Had someone summoned the foul creatures here?

Before the fiends could notice Korakai, he tried to weave magic to shield himself, but fear had reduced his voice to a stammer too feeble to sustain the incantation, and the spell collapsed. As one of the hounds sniffed the air—how could it smell anything, when it reeked of brimstone?—Korakai wheeled around a tree and made himself as small as he could. He held his khakkhara staff close to him for comfort, for once happy that the heirloom was broken, as his trembling would surely have made the staff’s jingling rings give him away, were they still intact.

Maybe he could make a break for the tavern and warn them to evacuate? No, that wouldn’t do. Right now, the hounds were traveling in a pack, but if they split up, they’d set the forest on fire even faster. Even if everyone could get to safety—questionable, given the state some had been in when Korakai had left the tavern—it would take the owners forever to scrounge together the coin to rebuild it, and there’d be no replacing the memories it held.

No, he had to stop this here. Korakai breathed deep, trying to steady his trembling hands, and sank deep within himself. In his mind’s eye, he saw it standing there, unchanged since the day he’d swallowed the sea: a massive floodgate of salt-encrusted stone and metal. Even with the gate closed, Korakai could feel the ceaseless surging of water—six swelling waves, then a crashing seventh—the storm of creation just beyond. The hounds were powerful, yes, emissaries of the gods and rulers of the lower planes. But Korakai too was connected to gods, spirits, and myriad other sources of divine power—eight million or more—as numerous as grains in the sea. He had nothing to fear. Korakai stepped out from behind the tree and opened the floodgates but a crack.

Illustration by Valeriya Lutfullina. Korakai channels his inner tempest to douse his enemies in water. Tap into your own oracular mystery with the Pathfinder Advanced Player’s Guide, available everywhere July 30.

Power welled forth, coursing through his veins and churning in his lungs. The hounds noticed him, snarling. As the first of the pack leapt forward, Korakai swung his khakkhara in an arc, feeling the deities of wind and sky—good and evil alike—guide him. A gale surged, catching the hound in midair and sending it careening into a tree, where it exploded into embers.

As his beak opened in a grin, Korakai felt the unleashed energies swirl, their opposing currents clashing in a turbulent whirlpool. Winds howled as a sacred storm spiraled forth, and Korakai winced as electricity danced across his feathers. He had known it would happen; this was the price of drawing on the tempest, of opening a door that led somewhere unknowable.

The second of the hounds took advantage of Korakai’s distraction to circle behind him. In response, the tengu willed the floodgates to open even further, and this time, the spirits of rain and waves passed through. Water collected in Korakai’s balled fist, and with no more effort than it took to splash in a tidepool, he blasted it at the hound, where the torrent met its pelt with a hiss of steam. For a moment, it seemed like the fiend would withstand the deluge, but less than a heartbeat later, the lightning that wreathed Korakai’s body found its way through the waters, extinguishing the hell hound in a spray of saltwater. The backlash was immediate and fierce. Rain fell despite the cloudless sky as the winds around Korakai accelerated into a fierce hurricane.

Enraged, the two remaining hounds inhaled, chests distending as they stoked internal hellfire before breathing out twin gouts of flame that met in a burning wave. Korakai laughed, feeling for a moment oddly at home—he knew how to meet a wave. Recalling childhood lessons learned from his mother in the island surf, he dove forward, tucking his head under his arms, and the deluge of his storm protected him from the worst of the heat. Emerging in front of the shocked fiends, Korakai gave himself fully over to the tempest and brought his hands together in a thunderous clap. A deafening peal dispersed smoke and steam alike, shaking leaves from the trees, and when the sound cleared, the hell hounds were no more.

Audible in his mind, even amid the echoes, Korakai heard the floodgates slam shut. Though the energies he’d already drawn forth continued to rage around him, he found himself cut off from the primordial storm, unable to gather any more from the other side. It was a humbling reminder that he was a conduit for its power, not its owner. Once again, he was just Korakai, nothing more.

As he stood at peace within the hurricane, Korakai leaned on his staff again and let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. With a bit of meditation, he’d be able to quell the storm somewhat, but as he looked at the flames, he realized he might have use for it for a little while longer. He’d let the revelers in the tavern keep enjoying their night while he searched for who, or what, had summoned the fiends here in the first place. Rains and wind quenching the flames with each step, Korakai walked into the burning forest, trembling no longer.

About the Author

James Case is a developer at Paizo, where he helps to bring Golarion and the Pact Worlds alive as part of the organized play department. James has also edited manuscripts for scientific researchers, translated materials for music labels, and written for various RPG products, including the Pathfinder and Starfinder game systems. You can find him (and his thoughts on comma usage) on The Twitter at @toriariaria.

About Iconic Encounters

Iconic Encounters is a series of web-based flash fiction set in the worlds of Pathfinder and Starfinder. Each short story provides a glimpse into the life and personality of one of the games’ iconic characters, showing the myriad stories of adventure and excitement players can tell with the Pathfinder and Starfinder roleplaying games.

“They tell stories of this stuff up in Ustalav. Call it ‘fishgold’,” Jirelle said as she turned the heavy statuette over in her hands. The craft of the ugly thing wasn’t impressive, but the value of the red-tinted gold was undeniable. “You should throw it back.”

Captain Trank’s eyes widened comically, and Jirelle was again struck by how unappealing the man’s countenance was—and how appropriate the name of his ship was. “Throw it back?” he gasped. “This thing’s gotta be worth at least a hundred gold. You’re asking me to throw treasure overboard because some backwards lubber thousands of miles away has some sort of superstition? What kind of mercenary are you? You afraid of getting rich or something?”

Jirelle shrugged. “You called me in here to ask my opinion. I gave it. You hired me to help protect the Seatoad from danger. I did it. But I’m not part of your crew, so I don’t have to put up with your ignorance. Your stubbornness. Your lack of empathy. But regardless of what I think about you personally, and regardless of the fact that we’ve arrived at port, I’ve grown fond of your crew. So that makes me concerned for the Seatoad's safety. The ones who craft fishgold don’t give up on their creations easily when they’re snatched from their clutches. If you value your crew and your ship... you should throw it back,” she repeated as she tossed the statuette onto the cluttered desk amid Trank’s tacky collection of figurines. She tried not to look too pleased as the top-heavy thing flopped over and smashed a particularly ostentatious ceramic toad.

As she stood up, she again cast a disparaging eye over the furnishing of Captain Trank’s quarters. A real captain of the Shackles wouldn’t be caught dead among such base frippery. She wiped her palm against the back of the chair, as if to try to scrape the scent of fishgold from her hand. Captain Trank was sputtering. “How dare you? You’re lucky I don’t have you clapped in irons for disrespecting me, elf! You can forget about your bonus!”

Jirelle paused, mid-step toward the door. “Half-elf,” she said under her breath. Her hand dropped to the hilt of her sword as she started to turn. “And for another thing, Trank...” she began, deliberately omitting his title, only to pause as the alarm bell rang out on deck. Both of them listened to the crew’s screams for a heartbeat before Jirelle flashed the captain a dazzling smile. “...it sounds like I’m about to earn that bonus after all

She threw the door open and leapt out on deck, not surprised in the slightest to see a scaly green tide seething up over the Seatoad's bulwarks. While Jirelle recognized the creatures as ulat-kinis (or more commonly “skums” to those surface folk the creatures often preyed upon), she didn’t understand the guttural language the creatures were shrieking. Nonetheless, she knew what they wanted. Blood for fishgold.

There were over a dozen of them already on deck, and she could see half again as many more clambering up onto the pier the Seatoad had docked at. Further out, villagers were yelling and pointing and screaming, but Jirelle knew that there’d be no aid from them in time to save the crew. She barked a laugh, drew her sword, and leapt into the fray.

Jirelle, the iconic swashbuckler, swings into action in this exciting illustration by Stefano Moroni from the Pathfinder Advanced Player’s Guide, available everywhere July 30!

The crew was already engaging the ulat-kinis, but it was obvious that against a foe driven by vengeance and armed with claws, teeth, and tridents, the Seatoad's sailors were outmatched. Jirelle leapt up onto the bulwarks and raced along the narrow beam to where the nearest skum was preparing to skewer the bosun. She whipped her bright red cloak out, cracking it like a whip in front of the leering monster, and as he foolishly snapped at it, Jirelle was already behind him. The creature snarled, then spun to face her.

“Best of luck in the next life, fishlips,” she said, then held up her sword in a salute. It was already dripping with blood, and the ulat-kini was already collapsing to the deck from the precise, killing blow she’d struck before it realized it’d been stabbed.

Jirelle bounced from the bulwarks onto a rain barrel near the mast. Balancing atop the open barrel with a foot on each edge, she called out to the slavering sea of green on deck before her. “Leave them alone! The one who has your gold’s back in the cabin behind me!” She shook her head as the creatures shrieked and hissed and slobbered, obviously not understanding her words, but she had their attention. That’s what really mattered.

As the ulat-kinis scrambled forward, Jirelle kicked with one foot, tipping the barrel over onto its side. The sudden deluge of water was enough to knock one skum from its feet, and as she ran atop the rolling barrel, the others watched in disbelief—up until the point the heavy barrel smashed into a pair of them, knocking them over as well.

Jirelle had vacated her position atop the barrel an instant before it bowled the two fishy creatures over and now clung to a rope in the rigging along the ship’s port side. Her blade swept to the left, then the right, catching and turning aside trident thrusts and replying with precisely delivered jabs of her own. As the creatures dropped to the increasingly bloody deck below, Jirelle caught sight of what could only be their leader. With a particularly wicked looking trident gripped in his hands, the ulat-kini commander had clambered up onto the nearby pier and was barking out commands to the scaly masses.

With a slash that simultaneously cut the neck of a skum and the rope bound to a cleat at her feet, Jirelle used the momentum to swing out over the churning gap between the Seatoad and the pier. She landed with a pirouette, then came up to face the monster with a wink. The creature’s eyes widened as it took a step back, surprised that the half-elf was suddenly perched on a piling just above him.

“You the one in charge here?” she asked, not caring if the commander understood her or not. Her blade stabbed out, precisely striking the creature between the gills, confidently finishing him off with a twist of the wrist. As the commander toppled into the waters below the pier with a foamy red gurgle, she whipped her blade to the side to clean it of blood. “Oh... guess not anymore!”

The sound of the remaining ulat-kinis crying out in fear and the splashes as they dove from the Seatoad’s deck into the waters below brought a smile to Jirelle’s lips, but as she turned to look back at the ship she’d been hired to protect for the past several weeks, that smile broadened.

It hadn’t been her displays of panache and bravado that had driven the monsters off. It was the sight of the bright red tentacles slithering up from the sea to grip the Seatoad by the stern that had done that. Captain Trank’s squeal of shocked fear was unmistakable as a tentacle slithered in through a cabin porthole. The crew had largely abandoned the ship by now and were fleeing up the pier to the shore, but as unappealing as the captain had been, Jirelle wasn’t about to let him be pulled below by whatever was attached to the unseen end of those tentacles.

She swung back from the pier onto the ship’s deck, already anticipating Trank’s reaction to being saved by the woman he’d just insulted. The ulat-kinis may have fled, but as Jirelle stepped forward to start cutting away at those writhing crimson limbs, she knew that the real fun was only just beginning!

About the Author

James Jacobs is the Creative Director for Pathfinder. He's been helping to shape and create the world of Golarion and the Pathfinder RPG from the very start, with his adventure, "Burnt Offerings," introducing gamers around the world to the joys of goblin songs, the lurking menace of the runelords, and the dangers of drinking hagfish water. James maintains an ongoing AMA thread on the paizo.com forums which currently contains more than 75,000 posts.

About Iconic Encounters

Iconic Encounters is a series of web-based flash fiction set in the worlds of Pathfinder and Starfinder. Each short story provides a glimpse into the life and personality of one of the games’ iconic characters, showing the myriad stories of adventure and excitement players can tell with the Pathfinder and Starfinder roleplaying games.

Feiya followed her fox familiar’s nine white tails over the rocks and up the flank of a rocky butte. The night’s cold still clung to the hollows of the land, but she didn’t mind it. After years in Irrisen’s snowy woods, the chill comforted her. Cold, she understood. These too bright plains with too few trees, however, were pure mystery to her.

Daji looked over his shoulder, cocking his head a little. She had to laugh.

“Yes, my friend, I’m complaining to myself. Numeria, fascinating as it is, is a hard place.”

He almost seemed to bob his head, then went back to bounding along over the rocks and lichens that formed the skin of this gray land. Feiya found his mood infectious. After all, Numeria had already been good to her. Her contact with a Kellid tribe had given her a lead on the most promising shrine to Desna yet. A shrine built by hermits… in a cave near the top of this butte, far from any caravan routes or villages, shrouded in mystery… It all reminded her so much of the place where she believed the goddess had first called her to a life of magic

No, she was glad she had come here. She was ready to learn more about the deity who had transformed her from a scared girl to a powerful witch.

The butte grew steeper as she and the fox walked, a few dead trees clawing out between the rocks as if straining for moisture. Feiya felt herself walking more carefully, listening harder. Someone up on the summit might hear her approaching, and the trail’s hairpin turns meant blind curve after blind curve. She found herself moving her staff to the ready position, even though she heard nothing besides the wind and a distant hawk.

“Daji,” she whispered, trusting her gut. She slipped between two large boulders and felt glad for their protection. “The shrine is set in the cliffs near the butte’s summit. It’s not far now. You up to scouting it out?”

He sat down at her feet and fixed his golden eyes on her face. The hairs on Feiya’s arms tingled. Sometimes it was easy to think of Daji as a simple animal—a very special, nine-tailed animal, but an animal nonetheless. But at this moment, she could feel a wisdom emanating from his vulpine form, a wisdom older and deeper than any being, human or animal.

The world flashed white, and then her eyes adjusted, viewing the landscape in a new register of colors—the shadows more purple, the rocks more yellow. The world widened, too, her new eyes set farther apart than the ones in her own face. Daji’s eyes. The fox glanced up at Feiya’s body, quiet and senseless for the duration of the spell. She didn’t want to share Daji’s senses for more than a minute; these boulders were only a temporary shelter while she looked through her familiar’s eyes.

The fox spun around and leaped over a cluster of rocks. The lightness of his body made jumping pure joy. Feiya wished she could urge him to run even faster, just to feel his paws in motion.

He skidded to a stop, an acrid stench so powerful it was like a hand shoving his muzzle backward. His eyes watered a little at the biting stink of it. Some kind of craft sat blocking the trail, its metal flanks nearly blinding in the morning sun. The burning smell came off it in waves.

A sound whipped Daji’s head around—a sound so slight, Feiya would have never heard it with her own ears. The fox shrank beneath the nearest boulder, his heart pounding. The stinking craft had so overwhelmed him he hadn’t even noticed the horrifying creature emerging from the cliff wall above him.

Illustration by Valeriya Lutfullina. The witch is one of four classes making their second edition debut in the Pathfinder Advanced Player’s Guide, available July 30, 2020.

Feiya snapped her senses back into her own body. What in all Golarion had Daji just seen? She closed her eyes, drawing up her memory and trying to reacclimate to her human perspective. It was huge, she knew that. As big or probably bigger than a bear. The memory of Daji’s fear made her shiver, and she pushed it away, trying to force the jumbled images, scents, and sounds into some semblance of understanding.

But it was nothing she had ever seen or even heard of—some kind a giant insect or land lobster. She frowned, thinking harder. There’d been something strange about its legs, those spiky, lumpy, terrifying legs.

She wished she dared risk sharing Daji’s senses again, but it was too big a risk.

Which reminded her. Daji hadn’t come back yet.

Feiya lowered herself into a crouch and crept through the field of fallen boulders. Here on the north flank of the butte, she could see the strange craft, its sides a jumble of angles and colors she couldn’t begin to describe. It emanated a sense of alien power that reminded her of the few bits of skymetal she’d been lucky enough to inspect in her travels. Ancient, otherworldly stuff, it had made her skin tingle and her stomach prickle. Her eyes watered, looking at this new thing. She didn’t know what it was, but she felt certain it came from somewhere beyond her own sky.

Rocks clattered, and she pressed herself into the dirt. Boulders blocked her view, but she could hear rocks rattle, shift, and grind as something massive made its way down the cliff face.

A flick of white in the corner of her eye made her turn her head. Daji stared out at her from beneath a rock, curled as small as he could. She had never seen him look so worried.

Then one of the creature’s forelegs moved into view, and Feiya had to clamp her hand over her mouth to stifle her startled inhalation. The thing was bigger than she’d been able to see from Daji’s one quick glimpse. Its pointed foreleg drove into the ground mere feet from her head, shaking the rocks around her.

She followed the greenish armor of the leg up to a joint segment, up again, the leg widening, thicker than she was now, and—

An eye.

An enormous round orange eye, staring down at her.

The leg lifted and then slammed into the ground again. The boulders around Feiya shifted under the impact and she rolled into the trail, away from their crushing weight. Daji raced to her side.

She was exposed now, but she could see the beast in its entirety. Twice as big as a bear, its shell like an evil green mockery of a lobster’s. Giant, clacking pincers. And on its back, pink, swollen blisters, each one pulsing, beating, throbbing around a human brain.

Throbbing like a heart still pumping life into someone’s suffering soul.

She didn’t think twice. One of her oldest spells sprang into her mind, and she launched it with her full strength of will and concentration, energy pouring out of her palm and slamming into one of the pustules on the creature’s back. The power stirred a surge of dark glee in her heart, and she laughed, the laughter spurring her ray’s power longer and harder. The pustule exploded. A shriek filled Feiya’s mind, its words unfathomable but its rage palpable. Her mind faltered at the strength of the creature’s horrible anger.

The creature twitched a pincer and Feiya felt herself fly through the air, gripped by an invisible claw. For a second, she hovered above the ground, staring down at the alien monster whose magic held her tight.

Then she soared sideways into the trunk of a dead tree and slid down it, her head spinning, the air knocked out of her. Someplace in the distance, Daji growled. Feiya could only stare up at the horrible creature walking toward her, its shell nearly blotting out the sky, its remaining brains pulsing harder than ever.

There was only one way that her brain wouldn’t soon occupy another grotesque pustule on the creature’s back.

Feiya glanced toward her familiar, who now stood just behind the approaching horror, his tails splayed wide, ears back and teeth bared. “Yes, Daji,” she whispered as her fingers twitched, the magical force of a terrible curse forming around them. “I was thinking the same thing.”

About the Author

Wendy N. Wagner is the author of two Pathfinder tie-in novels (Skinwalkers and Starspawn), as well as the SF thriller An Oath of Dogs. The author of over 40 short stories, she is also the Managing/Senior editor of Lightspeed and Nightmare magazines. She lives in Portland, Oregon with her very understanding family. You can keep up with her at winniewoohoo.com.

About Iconic Encounters

Iconic Encounters is a series of web-based flash fiction set in the worlds of Pathfinder and Starfinder. Each short story provides a glimpse into the life and personality of one of the games’ iconic characters, showing the myriad stories of adventure and excitement players can tell with the Pathfinder and Starfinder roleplaying games.

Merisiel took a deep breath, held it, then let it out slowly as she tried to relax, her arms balanced, palms up, along the chair’s slender armrests. It wasn’t working. Her belly remained tight and crawling with gutwasps—the nervous feeling in the pit of your stomach that the church of Calistria called “the tingle you get ‘fore the trick is all set.” But this was no complex prank or long-planned vengeance that had the wasps doing their thing. It was something, Merisiel forced herself to remember, that she’d brought entirely upon herself.

Not that bringing nerve-wracking situations on herself was anything new either.

There was the time she’d crawled head-first into that narrow crevice at the base of that giant anvil-altar after Harsk had mentioned how worshipers of Droskar supposedly stashed treasures under the immense shrines.

Or the time that Valeros had challenged her to a drinking contest on that long trip to Absalom. And who could forget Lem’s face when she took him on with that dare to climb to the top of a Hellknight castle’s tower to swap out its flag for a set of ogre undergarments?

And of course, there was that stunt she’d pulled when she’d first met that cute cleric up in Sandpoint; when Merisiel had thrown herself into the thick of a fight against a pack of ghouls in order to show off that there was more than one way to destroy undead uprisings.

Thinking back on those antics did the trick, and Merisiel sighed in relief as the gutwasps settled down. After all, the cache of magic potions, scrolls, and talismans she’d recovered from the under-anvil stash ended up saving the day not long thereafter when those smoke-bearded undead guardians had risen up against them, hadn’t they? (Never mind the fact that it was the pilfering of the temple treasury that likely got their attention in the first place.)

And good, old Valeros sill thought she’d won the drinking contest fair and square and bragged about her fortitude to anyone who’d listen. (As far as Merisiel was concerned, some quick sleight of hand on the drinks was only playing to her strength anyway—it was only cheating if you got caught!)

And those insufferable Hellknights had the heraldry redecoration coming. (More to the point, everyone she told the story to agreed that ogre garments looked better on a Hellknight flagpole than any dull, old flag!)

And as for that ghoul-slaying gambit, the fact that Merisiel knew those filthy, old ghouls wouldn’t be able to paralyze her didn’t make the stunt any less risky. She’d managed to avoid any serious bites, but after finishing off the last of them with a dagger to the dome, she’d emerged completely covered with claw marks and a bit dizzy from blood loss. Of course, the dizzy only got worse when the cute cleric swooped in to catch her as she stumbled and began to heal up her wounds. Merisiel had been tempted to kiss her there and then, but those pesky gutwasps had gotten in the way. Still, she must have made an impression on Kyra, since that first kiss came not so long after. Better than the dragon’s whole treasure horde, that moment!

Illustration by Valeriya Lutfullina. The heartbond ritual and a dozen more can be found in the Pathfinder Advanced Player’s Guide, available July 30, 2020.

And just like that, all the work she’d done to banish her jitters went out the window. Just thinking of Kyra had brought back the gutwasps. Merisiel couldn’t help but wonder, was the woman she loved experiencing the same jitters herself, one room over? She couldn’t imagine it. Kyra was always so calming, so stable, so confident. And for that matter, the church of Sarenrae probably didn’t call it gutwasps anyway. Maybe… sun-gut? Angel ache? Dawnflower jitters? The healy heaves? The last notion brought a giggle to the elf’s lips, and the nervousness in that titter startled her. She reached down to give her weal ribbon a rub, but of course that didn’t help; she’d given the yellow and black Calistrian ribbon over to the high priestess for use in the ritual.

Merisiel was out of the chair then, pacing the length of the room as she ran over her part in the ritual in her head. Here, surrounded on all sides by Sarenite art and iconography, she couldn’t help but feel inadequate. What place did an elf with no family, a thief and a smuggler, a part-time worshiper of the goddess of trickery, vengeance, and pleasure, have in a place as beautiful as this? What place did she have at the side of one of the most kind-hearted and understanding people she’d ever met? Merisiel pushed those doubts aside, reminding herself that, while she’d spent most of that night a week ago building up her courage to suggest she and Kyra take part in a heartbond, Kyra had surprised her by making the suggestion herself. This whole plan wasn’t technically Merisiel’s own, despite the months she’d taken researching the ritual and preparing for it. Kyra had been the first to suggest it, after all.

Merisiel’s nervous thoughts kept returning to the what-ifs of the pending rite. She and Kyra, as the focus of the magic, would only be secondary performers in the ritual, but that didn’t mean that their part in activating the magic wouldn’t be important. She knew that Kyra would be performing her part of the ritual using her knack at knowing the right thing to say, but Merisiel had to rely upon her skill at knowing the ins and outs of society as a whole. As with any ritual, there was a potential for backlash, but the descriptions of the jitters and shakes and dulling of wits that struck those who failed to perform a heartbond properly didn’t seem all that much worse than the gutwasps she was already dealing with.

And of course, if all went according to plan, they’d have more than a cherished memory of the declaration of their love for each other—they would be connected on a level even deeper than before, able to sense each other’s proximity, to share their thoughts and hopes, and would never feel alone. Merisiel had assumed Kyra would want to seal the ritual with traditional matched rings. In preparation, she had actually purchased jewelry for the first time she could remember (plundered or stolen rings just seemed wrong in this case), only for Kyra to suggest using Calistrian weal ribbons to symbolize the bond. Kyra must have taken Merisiel’s shock for something other than speechless love, since she’d hastened to add, “Since you’ve pushed to have the ritual performed by my church, it just made sense for there to be an element of yours involved.” Or at least, that’s how Merisiel assumed the sentence would have ended if she hadn’t stopped it with an impulsive kiss.

A knock on the door brought her pacing feet and her racing thoughts to a standstill. “The high priestess is ready for you,” came the acolyte’s voice.

“Okay!” Merisiel answered, blushing as she heard that nervous tremble in her own voice. She took a breath and stepped toward the door. She could already hear the music swelling, could even hear Seoni chiding Valeros to “Quiet down—here they come” from the far side of the door. The gutwasps were back and worse than ever, and as Merisiel opened the door, she marveled at how her hand, normally so steady, so precise, was shaking.

And then, as she stood at the edge of the room, only vaguely aware of her friends gathered (mostly) silently along the walls, she saw Kyra framed in the opposite doorway. And a moment later, as Kyra’s lips moved, Merisiel heard her beloved’s voice whisper in her ear. If the ritual was truly successful, they’d both be able to speak to each other with their thoughts, but for the moment, Merisiel knew that Kyra had cast the cantrip herself.

“Here we go, Meri! You look amazing! Hope I don’t mess this up—I’ve got a raging case of gutwasps!”

With those words, Kyra effortlessly soothed Merisiel’s nerves, and with her whispered reply, words meant for Kyra alone, they strode into the room together.

About the Author

James Jacobs is the Creative Director for Pathfinder. He's been helping to shape and create the world of Golarion and the Pathfinder RPG from the very start, with his adventure, "Burnt Offerings," introducing gamers around the world to the joys of goblin songs, the lurking menace of the runelords, and the dangers of drinking hagfish water. James maintains an ongoing AMA thread on the paizo.com forums which currently contains more than 75,000 posts.

About Iconic Encounters

Iconic Encounters is a series of web-based flash fiction set in the worlds of Pathfinder and Starfinder. Each short story provides a glimpse into the life and personality of one of the games’ iconic characters, showing the myriad stories of adventure and excitement players can tell with the Pathfinder and Starfinder roleplaying games.

Zemir stepped around a fetid pool of… something… and tried to breathe shallowly. Intellectually he knew that either his mask was working or it wasn’t, and either way the worst he’d suffer was a strong sense of nausea if he did get a whiff of unfiltered air. But the horrid smell that penetrated the mask’s filters still made him want to avoid taking deep lungfuls of the stuff. Which made it difficult to keep up with Obozaya, as his vesk companion strode unfettered through the densely-packed market.

Illustration by Roberto Pitturru.

“I still do not understand you mammals!” Obozaya sounded more amused than perplexed. “If the atmosphere’s odor is so terrible it turns you into mewling monkeys, why not activate your environmental controls rather than just using the breather mask?”

Zemir ignored the “monkeys” jab. He was still relatively new to the crew of the Sunrise Maiden, hired for his power to search through and bring things from various iterations of reality. Obozaya was a respected, veteran member of the crew, and Zemir was better off humoring her. If he could earn Obozaya’s trust, the rest of the crew would quickly follow.

“There are two reasons.” Zemir sidestepped a group of haggling kasathas and picked up his pace to walk next to the vesk. “The first is that I’m not sure how much I trust this filter to pull the actual toxins out of the air, given how much of the rotting-fish-and-eggs odor it lets in. Since we’re here to get surplus air filters and pressurized tents so the rest of our crew can operate on this planet long-term—longer than our armor’s environmental seals will last—I’d like to test this model in the field. I don’t fully trust AbadarCorp’s marketing claims.”

Obozaya nodded, her teeth flashing briefly in what Zemir had come to believe was an expression of appreciation. Vesk might be one of a dozen species immune to the toxins in this planet’s air, but she was pragmatic enough that she certainly wouldn’t want her teammates hampered by nausea and weakness if their mission ran more than a few days.

“Secondly... are we being followed?”

Zemir did not change the tone of his voice at all, and to her credit Obozaya did not spin to look around. Instead she simply angled her path to skirt a denser part of the crowded market’s patrons. Zemir fell in behind her, moving through the wake she made in the throng. Creatures of half a dozen species cursed and stepped in behind them, shaking fists and raising their chins in angry postures. Which meant it was easy for Zemir to spot the group following them as they plowed into the already-agitated crowd, shoving sapients out of their way while remaining quiet and taking on hunched postures, trying to keep their profiles below the general level of the market’s customers.

There were three of them, short and broad humanoids in heavy armor. Zemir guessed they were lashuntas... or dwarves, though he had much less experience with dwarves. Their equipment was worn and patched, but looked functional enough. All three had laser rifles of some kind slung over their shoulders, and holstered sidearms. Their armors’ environmental seals were active, protecting them from the extreme discomfort of the atmosphere, and making their faces harder to discern.

But their facial tattoos were clear enough. He shifted his view, searching through nearby iterations of his own reality, and saw the three figures following someone on this street, at this time, in most alternate realities. Their presence here was not random.

Obozaya took a sharp turn onto another major road and stepped to the side, allowing Zemir to pass her. She shot him a glance with a raised brow ridge.

“Three of them, definitely following us. Short, maybe korasha. Facial tattoos.”

“Golden League?” Obozaya asked.

Zemir shrugged. “I don’t know the local families well enough to hazard a guess. Would Golden League assassins be likely to want you dead?”

Obozaya shook her head once, firmly, while unclipping the safety strap from her stellar cannon. Zemir bit his lower lip, though his mask concealed the expression. If they weren’t Xun assassins, then they were most likely just robbers, possibly drawn by his own obvious good taste in equipment. In that was the case, Obozaya and he could likely deal with them if it came to a fight, but likely not without getting ejected from the market for getting flechette holes in nearby shops. And even if he could talk their way out of expulsion, the shop they were headed to for supplies might close for the day if there was talk of a brawl in the street

Of course if they were robbers, their main motivation would be to make a quick credit in a shakedown.

Zemir put a hand on Obozaya’s arm. “Follow my lead.”

Her brow ridge went up even higher, but she nodded. Just as the three tattooed pursuers rounded the corner, Zemir stepped into the street and turned to face Obozaya.

“NOW you want your back pay?”

Obozaya was clearly surprised, but covered it quickly enough, especially since all eyes were on Zemir. She growled at him, which he hoped was just her way of playing along.

“I’m mortgaged to the hilt!” Zemir let exasperation leak into his voice. “I’ve even been reduced to wearing cheap knock-off fashion. Not a thing on me is worth a tenth its appearance. And since the family disowned me, I can’t turn to them for support!”

At first the squat ruffians simply stood in shock and stared at Zemir complaining to his apparent bodyguard, but as he continued to describe the dire straits of his finances, and lack of extended family, their expressions went from shock to sour. About the time he claimed he could pay Obozaya in a week, when his next loan came through, the lashuntas—he’d seen at least one antenna, so they must be lashuntas—turned as a group and trundled back the way they’d come.

Once Zemir was sure they were out of earshot, he stopped whining.

Obozaya chuckled. “Not how I’d have handled it, but effective. But aren’t you worried word will get out that you‘re broke, and merchants will refuse to talk to you?”

Zemir shrugged. “If we needed high-end or custom goods that you can only buy with an appointment, maybe. All we need are more filter masks. When we show the paramilitary surplus dealer our credits, he won’t care about rumors.”

Obozaya seemed satisfied, and began making her way toward the surplus shop again. “That taken care of... what was the second reason you’re not using your environmental seals?”

Zemir’s mask kept his predatory grin from being obvious, but his eyes did sparkle.

“I want to know this miasma well enough that I can grab a cloud of it from another iteration of reality. If I ever need to flood a room with it, anyone unfamiliar with the stench is in for quite the shock.”

---

About the Author

Owen K.C. Stephens is a veteran of the tabletop RPG industry with more than 20 years of experience, including being on staff at Green Ronin, Paizo, and Wizards of the Coast and being the publisher of RogueGeniusGames.com. He has worked on numerous RPG lines, including being co-author of the Star Wars Saga Edition RPG and Design Lead for the Starfinder Roleplaying Game. You can support his writing and free content production at Patreon, and follow him at his blog, on Facebook and on Twitter.

About Iconic Encounters

Iconic Encounters is a series of web-based flash fiction set in the worlds of Pathfinder and Starfinder. Each short story provides a glimpse into the life and personality of one of the games’ iconic characters, showing the myriad stories of adventure and excitement players can tell with the Pathfinder and Starfinder roleplaying games.

“There's nothing we can do—all systems are jammed! Prepare for emergency landing!”

As Captain Navasi's frantic voice echoed throughout the Sunrise Maiden's bridge, a sinking feeling settled into the pit of Zemir's stomach.

There were many realities in which the Maiden was an unreliable starship, but this wasn't one of them. Something wasn't right.

But that didn't change the fact that the ship was quickly plummeting into the atmosphere of an uncharted planet in the Vast. If the crew didn't act quickly, that desolate rock would be their grave.

Pushing aside his fear, Zemir leaned back in his chair and cleared his mind. In an instant he sorted through a thousand iterations of this crash landing and clung to just one—the one where everyone survived.

“Hard to starboard!” Zemir boomed. “Aim for that plateau—it's our only shot!”

“You heard him!” Navasi shouted, cutting in the ship's retro-thrusters to try to slow its descent. “All hands! Starboard side!”

Obozaya and Quig scrambled to the captain's terminal, the bulky vesk's eyes wide with adrenaline and the scraggly ysoki shrieking profanities. They forced their weight onto the controls, pulling the levers far past their safety points, desperately hoping the ship could find the landing spot Zemir had seemingly pulled from thin air.

“That's it,” Zemir encouraged them, clinging to the single survival scenario he foresaw. “We're going to make it!”

The Maiden's proximity sensor screamed a warning. The ship slammed three times into the hard ground. But sure enough, thanks to the reality Zemir had plucked like a grain of sand from an infinite beach, they crashed in one piece.

Once Navasi caught her breath, the captain stumbled over to Zemir and clapped him on the back.

“Another day, another of your mysterious magic tricks,” she said, grinning with relief. “I don't suppose the universe told you why we all just nearly died in a fiery crash, did it?”

Obozaya strode up behind Navasi, glowering with anger now that the danger had passed. “If there is an enemy here, Zemir, tell us. It is dishonorable to sabotage the ship,” she growled.

Zemir forced a characteristic chuckle and shook his head. His companions knew his powers didn't work that way.

“Look, I don't have all the answers,” Zemir said. He grinned impishly. “Where we are, and why we're here—well, I'll need some help figuring that out.”

Just then, a telltale pinging rang out from the Maiden's comms. Quig slid over to examine the readout.

“Hey,” the gruff ysoki barked. “While you three are over there solvin' the world's mysteries, somebody near us on this rock needs help. Distress signal incoming.”

Hesitating, Navasi turned toward Quig. “But the ship—how damaged are we?”

“Structural damage minimal. I'll reset our systems and we'll be peachy again in an hour. Seems we just hit an electronics-jamming field.”

Obozaya hefted her doshko and looked at the captain, who nodded.

“If someone else hit that field and didn't have someone with Zemir's talents aboard, it's possible there's another crew outside lying on death's door,” Navasi said. “Obo, Quig—you up for a search and rescue? Zemir and I'll watch the systems.”

The vesk and ysoki nodded, saluted their captain, and headed toward the ship's airlock.

Zemir's eyes narrowed. Again, the subtlest of ripples tickled his senses. Something was not right, but without any sense of what or why, Zemir did the only thing he could.

“I'll join the rescue,” he said, winking to Navasi and striding purposefully to catch up with his companions. “You saw that green sky? Seems like a view I can't miss.”

The captain nodded, and the three set off for the source of the distress signal. Despite the rocky planet's abandoned desolation, its atmosphere was surprisingly friendly. Helmets off, the crew sauntered past chalky rock formations, skirting steep valleys and stagnant pools of dark liquid. Knowing Zemir's love of culture and cuisine, Quig joked about making the witchwarper a “sludge soufflé,” while Obozaya missed the jest and offered to share traditional vesk baking recipes.

It was strangely like any other friendly stroll—until the twinge in the back of Zemir's mind became a nauseating wave. Gritting his teeth through the mental assault, Zemir saw dozens of beady eyes and vicious tusks beginning to rise from crevices in the surrounding rock.

The creatures' hulking, scaled forms and snake-like tongues were unmistakable.

“Riveners!” Zemir shouted. “It's an ambush!”

The tines of her doshko roaring to life, Obozaya gave a fearsome battle cry and lunged toward the nearest riveners—powerful and nearly mindlessly aggressive lizard-like monsters often used as shock troops. Not to be outdone, Quig snatched his flamethrower from his back and braced himself to unleash a gout of flaming petrol.

But Zemir stood back, the wisdom of infinite possibilities settling on his shoulders.

The odds, he noted, were not in the companions' favor. Zemir counted a dozen riveners rushing toward him and his friends, who were already beginning to falter. And Zemir was certain he saw a different humanoid form scuttle away from the battlefield.

The twinges he felt made sense now. There was another witchwarper at hand—that's why everything from the moment the Maiden's systems jammed until now felt like it existed in the reality next door. Someone was out to destroy Zemir and his friends, and it seemed they were willing to change existence itself to do it.

Not if Zemir could help it, he thought, as he scrambled atop a rock formation high above the fray.

Illustration by Igor Grechanyi

Gritting his teeth and stretching out his arms, Zemir focused his mind and began to call just a taste of a terrible world into their own. Hellfire rained down from the sky, the ground boiled into lava, and grasping hands sprang from the rocky earth to clutch at the slavering riveners' feet.

Of course, much of it was an illusion. Zemir's friends knew that; they had witnessed his raw power unleashed before. Still, Obozaya and Quig turned to stare at Zemir in terrified, respectful awe.

The riveners, on the other hand, screamed with horror as the spectral hands grabbed at them and the hellfire burned through their skin and flesh.

“Finish them off!” Zemir shouted. He leapt off the rock formation to pursue the opposing witchwarper. “Do not follow me!”

Purple robes billowing behind him, Zemir dashed to the ravine where he'd seen the mysterious humanoid figure disappear. But when he vaulted down, a different sight stole his breath.

Instead of a person, there was merely a metal hatch set into the ground. It was partially ajar, revealing a passage that led deep below. And on the hatch was a familiar crest: a stylized “IEM.”

The crest of the Institute for Extraordinary Minds.

An academy for witchwarpers.

Specifically, Zemir's alma mater—and one whose masters held a fierce vendetta against the fugitive who abandoned three of his classmates in an alternate reality many years ago.

Reflexively, Zemir lifted his comm unit to his mouth to warn Navasi back on the Maiden. His past had come to call, and now they were all in danger.

“Captain, they've found me,” he said.

No response.

“Captain?”

A scream, and then nothing but static.

About the Author
Amanda Hamon is the Managing Developer for Starfinder, and you could say science-fantasy is her jam. Her game design, worldbuilding, and adventure writing have appeared in dozens of RPG products, including the Starfinder and Pathfinder roleplaying games. Mostly, she just likes doing stupid voices for characters at the table. You can find Amanda on Twitter at @amandahamon.

About Iconic Encounters
Iconic Encounters is a series of web-based flash fiction set in the worlds of Pathfinder and Starfinder. Each short story provides a glimpse into the life and personality of one of the games' iconic characters, showing the myriad stories of adventure and excitement players can tell with the Pathfinder and Starfinder roleplaying games.

“I thought you said the signal was coming from a ruin,” Velloro said into his comm unit, looking up at the huge, very intact fortification in front of him with a large, unruined door blocking the way forward. The captain’s response was garbled, no doubt thanks to the rocky, mountainous terrain between him and the Sunrise Maiden. “Ye… …is th… …thing there?”

Rolling his eyes dramatically for the sake of his companions, who had instinctively turned toward the comm unit to try to decode Navasi’s transmission, Velloro shrugged. “Guess we’re improvising, Chk Chk,“ he said, winking at Keskodai’s larval son as he spun slowly in his protective canister. “Raia, can you get that door open?”

Before the technomancer could respond, a recess in the doorframe began to flicker with a dim red light that grew brighter and more steady. As it did, the ground thrummed with the energy of a long-dormant system sputtering to life.

“Yes—I’ll get the door,” Raia’s telepathic response darted through the hallways of Velloro’s mind as she began casting a spell that would magically bypass the door’s locks.

Several other vertical recesses in the wall drew Velloro’s eyes as they, too, activated. Boxy machines rose out of the staggered parapets, topped with gleaming barrels pointing straight up, then swiveled down to point directly at Velloro and his friends.

“Fall in—NOW!” Velloro’s last word was a telepathic shout to prevent the opening salvo of eight massive turrets firing heavy rounds from drowning it out. With no time to be polite, he pushed through his companions, knocking them off balance. Raia’s spell failed as her concentration faltered, but she immediately began to cast it again, cleaving close to Velloro as he raised his shield just in time to intercept the first wave of pounding projectiles.

Illustration by Setiawan Lee

As he often did in these situations, Velloro began to experience time much more slowly, to take notice of everything around him more carefully. He saw the firing mechanism jam on the fourth turret to the left of the entryway. He felt the heavy, staccato thud of rounds as they slammed into the ground just feet away and began to describe a dotted line that would momentarily bring the molten-hot metal slugs into contact with his shield, his armor—and possibly his friends.

The firing seemed to slow, but Velloro knew the automated turrets were cycling shots to prevent overheating; those towers wouldn’t run out of ammunition any time soon. Raia, somehow sounding out of breath despite being in his head, said “I’ve got the door,” and it slid open with unnerving silence and speed.

Three red-scaled, lizardlike ikeshtis wearing sand-tattered defrex hides skidded to a stop just in front of the entryway. They had been running toward stairs leading to the top of the wall, but now they turned to the intruders, semi-auto pistols in their clawed hands.

Velloro immediately charged the startled ikeshtis, smiling as he did. With each step, he drew more and more energy from the ground beneath his feet pushing back at him, until he’d gathered an invisible storm of entropy around himself, a cloak of molecular disorder that easily deflected the ikeshtis’ first few panicked shots. In just a few seconds, he was among them, facing down the biggest one as the two next to him flinched in anticipation.

The large ikeshti took the opportunity to fire at the lashunta nearly point blank, two bullets screaming toward the ancient rune of Castrovel glowing in the middle of Velloro’s chest plate. Velloro grunted with the impact of the first, yet this he could use. As the atoms of the bullet interacted with those of his armor, disorder bloomed like a coalescing storm cloud. Molecular lattices broke and reformed in countless chain reactions, ones Velloro could shape, divert, invest—and control. As the second bullet hit fractions of a second later, Velloro used the explosive energy of the first, all its waste heat and shrapnel and friction, to mitigate the damage from the second. The shiny metal round clinked harmlessly off his armor, no more destructive than an idly flicked pebble.

The lizard creatures on either side of Velloro raised their guns, taking advantage of the momentary distraction to aim at Raia and Keskodai. But Velloro was ready to react, grabbing the barrels of both weapons with either hand and crumpling them as though they were made of thin-pressed aluminum, before dropping them to the ground with a smirk.

Velloro turned his attention back to the one ikeshti that was still armed and swung his fist in a wide arc, gathering the remaining excess energy into his chest before sending it screaming to his shoulder, down his arm, and into his fist, where it whirled and careened in an ever-growing nimbus of destructive energy. As his fist made contact with the stunned ikeshti, Velloro cut the tether with the disorder he’d hoarded, sending it fully into the creature’s dry and brittle armor, which splintered and caved in. The ikeshti fell to the ground writhing in pain, futilely scratching at the ruined clasps of its armor in a desperate attempt to relieve the crushing pressure.

As Velloro turned back to the other two ikeshtis, who’d drawn their batons and were advancing on him cautiously, a gruff and incredulous voice rang out from somewhere high up, bouncing off the towering flat walls of the fort.

“Velloro?”

He looked up and knew her immediately, a towering and extremely familiar shobhad who was shouldering a sniper rifle that had moments ago been leveled at Velloro’s head. As the shobhad held two of her four hands out to stop the ikeshtis, Velloro grinned at Keskodai, who had already begun to focus on ripping the newcomer’s mind apart with his own.

“Hold on a sec, bud. This should be interesting…”

About the Author

Joe Pasini is the Starfinder Lead Designer at Paizo. He is steadfast in his belief that gaming is for absolutely everyone, and he’d love to play a game with you sometime! You can find him on Twitter at @joeadultman. His most recent passion project, the Starfinder Deck of Many Worlds, is out in December of 2019.

About Iconic Encounters

Iconic Encounters is a series of web-based flash fiction set in the worlds of Pathfinder and Starfinder. Each short story provides a glimpse into the life and personality of one of the games’ iconic characters, showing the myriad stories of adventure and excitement players can tell with the Pathfinder and Starfinder roleplaying games.

It was well after midnight when Barsala had her breakthrough.

She was in the temporary laboratory structure built for her by Iratha Incorporated deep in the swamps of Zulypsindo, a Near Space world known for its extensive marshlands and the site of the latest episode of “Dr. B’s Science Jubilee.” The windowless, prefabricated walls provided ample protection from nearly any environment outside, and the overhead lighting within dispelled the shadows, providing for a clean and efficient work space.

It had been a difficult, but ultimately rewarding, day of shooting. This particular program focused on the breed of caypin native to Zulypsindo, a large amphibious beast with a mass of detachable appendages that function as both eyestalks and chewing mouths. One had been captured for Barsala to show her viewers its fascinating anatomy, and everything had gone according to the script… until the caypin broke free from its enclosure and nearly ate one of the crew. The poor creature had to be put down, but the vidcameras caught every last minute of it. Edson Frost, her producer, had spent most of the dinner afterward exclaiming about the number of clicks the episode would get. Barsala was similarly excited, though she was more interested in getting her hands on the caypin’s corpse.

The exact way the caypin’s appendages functioned independently from its body were still a mystery to the scientific community, and Barsala surmised that if she could solve even a fraction of that mystery, she could help craft an entirely new category of biotech augmentations. When the meal was over, she rushed back to the lab, eager to begin experimentation. Hours later, as she inserted a small vial filled with a dissolved piece of an appendage into a mass spectrometer with one hand and typed frantically on a datapad with another, she reached for her comm unit with a third and started a transmission.

Illustration by Mark Molnar

A groggy voice answered. “B? Do you know what time it is?”

“Not precisely, Edson, I’ve been a bit too busy to pay attention to the clock.”

“Well, it’s late and I was sleeping… trying to sleep. Is there something the matter?”

“The quantum measurement paradox!” Barsala blurted.

“Who? What?”

“It’s not really my area of expertise, but there is a theory in quantum mechanics that if you could measure the state of a particle frequently—we’re talking thousands of measurements a microsecond or more—you could essentially arrest the decay of that particle. Like they say, ‘an observed cooking receptacle on a heating unit never reaches its boiling point.’”

“B, no one ever says that. But I think I know what you mean.” Edson yawned. “Riveting. Is that why you dragged me out of a peaceful slumber?”

“Yes! No. I mean, sort of. I’ve been in the lab, analyzing one of that caypin’s detachable tentacles.” She poked the grisly blood-red tube with a scalpel she held in her fourth, cybernetic hand. “It has no internal organs to speak of and should be no more animate than a clipped fingernail.”

“Gross.”

Barsala continued. “I wondered: how can these appendages survive apart from the host body for days at a time? How does the caypin know where they are and how does it call them back? I tested a few hypotheses, and I hit on the idea of quantum entanglement. Somehow, the caypin is constantly monitoring the state of its removed appendages on a quantum level, preventing them from rotting like dead meat!”

“Riveting once again. And also gross. But really, you could have just written this down for one of your scientific journals.”

“Right, right, sorry. I also had an idea for the show. I’d love to explain the basics of quantum theory to our viewers, maybe start with the wave-particle duality of light, do a practical double-slit experiment. We’d have to bring in an expert on the subject, of course, and…” Barsala trailed off as she looked down at the dissection tray. The appendage she had removed from the caypin’s body was nowhere to be seen, only a trail of blood and slime that led to the edge of the table.

“Barsala, is everything ok?” Edson asked, though Barsala didn’t hear him. She had placed her comm unit down and was already walking tentatively to the other side of the lab table. The detached appendage lay on the floor, squirming ever so slightly.

“Fascinating.” Barsala’s mind raced with possibilities. How was this thing moving? Delayed muscle death spasms? An internal parasite eating its way free? Necromantic energy? Or…

Barsala hissed in pain as she felt a sudden sting in her ankle. She turned to see several more of the caypin’s appendages wriggling at her feet, their tiny lamprey-like mouths lunging toward her. Surprised, she stepped backward, slipped on the half-dissected tentacle and fell onto her posterior. The mass of appendages slithered toward her.

Barsala fumbled for the custom microlab in her lab coat pocket, pointed it at the tentacles, and scanned them. Seconds later, she had her answer: they weren’t undead. In fact, they were quite normal as far as a handful of ambulatory feeding appendages went. She exhaled in relief. Living creatures she could handle.

Before their sharp little teeth could shred her boots, Barsala grabbed the edge of the table, pulled herself up to standing, and grabbed a syringe and a handful of test tubes. She mixed together several reagents, along with a fast-acting catalyst, inserting the resulting mixture into the syringe as Edson’s voice continued to call out from the comm unit. With a grunt, she jabbed the syringe down into the tentacles. A high-pitched squeal of pain emitted from the mass, and Barsala brought back a hand covered in several small bites.

“Let’s test this hypothesis,” she muttered to no one in particular as she stepped backward to a supply cabinet. “If I’m right, the gene-altering chemicals I’ve just injected into one of you should affect you all, thanks to your quantum entanglement. Making you particularly susceptible to this!” Barsala picked up a container of hydrochloric acid from the shelf behind her and hurled it at the throng of tentacles. The glass jar shattered, covering the feeding appendages in highly caustic acid. They writhed in agony as they dissolved into a disgusting puddle of acrid-smelling goo.

Barsala pressed her damaged hand into an armpit as she gathered up her comm unit. “Edson. Edson! I’m fine. Don’t worry. Just a minor accident.” She paused for a second. “The caypin. You’re sure it was dead, right?”

“We hit it with the electric prods until it stopped moving and then put the body in the lab’s freezer unit like you asked. Why?”

Barsala turned to see the freezer’s door wide open. A streak of bloody bile was smeared down the outside.

“I’m going to have to call you back.”

About the Author

Jason Keeley is a Developer at Paizo, working primarily on the Starfinder Adventure Path line. His work has appeared in all sorts of products, from adventures to supplements to short stories written for Paizo and many other RPG companies. You can find him (and pictures of his dog) on Twitter at @herzwesten, and also watch him as Professor Nikodemus Thorne on the Oblivion Oath stream every Thursday!

About Iconic Encounters

Iconic Encounters is a series of web-based flash fiction set in the worlds of Pathfinder and Starfinder. Each short story provides a glimpse into the life and personality of one of the games’ iconic characters, showing the myriad stories of adventure and excitement players can tell with the Pathfinder and Starfinder roleplaying games.

“Raia! Report status!”

Raia executed the last commands, feeling the change in the engine’s thrum as the Voidspear shifted course. She cued her coms. “All right, I’ve got good news and bad news.”

From far across the void, where the Sunrise Maiden currently hid on the far side of the moon, Navasi said, “Why don’t I like the sound of that?”

“The good news is that I’ve successfully rerouted the Voidspear into a decaying orbit. It should hit atmosphere in three minutes and break up over the planet’s surface.”

“And the bad news?”

Something huge boomed against the door to the bridge, accompanied by angry shouts.

“I’ll let you know in three minutes.”

“Raia—”

“Just be quiet and let me think, please.”

Navasi’s silence radiated disapproval, but at least it was silence. Raia looked around the empty bridge, taking in her options.

The original extraction plan was scrap. There were easily twenty drow soldiers between her and the escape pods—far too many to fight past. And while her security seal was holding for the moment, it was only safety in the most shortsighted sense. She was bottled up on a ship that would shortly begin tearing itself apart.

Of course, she could always undo the course change. Set the ship back in a stable orbit, wait for the drow to breach the blast doors, and throw herself on their mercy.

“Yeah, right,” she whispered to herself. “No thanks.”

She opened the captain’s internal hailing frequency, hearing the tone echo throughout the ship.

“Crew of the Voidspear,” she began, cool as a Triaxian glacier. “This ship will enter atmosphere and begin self-destruction in two minutes—you can see the truth of this on your nav readouts, or out the viewports with your own eyes. As your unauthorized pilot, I advise you to abandon ship immediately.”

That earned her more shouts from the hallway outside.

They wouldn’t evacuate, of course. Not most of them—drow were notorious for their zealotry, and their matriarchs would probably have any survivors executed anyway for losing a crucial warship like the Voidspear. But at least she’d given them the option. She’d avoided unnecessary loss of life as best she could.

Now for her own. Beyond the viewport window, the planet loomed large, the curve of its horizon rapidly flattening with proximity. Above it, the darkness of space beckoned, safety and danger in equal parts.

All right, then—if she couldn’t reach the escape pods, she’d just have to make her own.

First up: propulsion. There was no point exiting the ship just to follow it down the gravity well. Letting her eyes defocus, she summoned her magic and visualized what she needed.

This was the part that always looked like—well, magic to the uninitiated. And it was, but not in the way they thought of it. Technomancy wasn’t about just making wishes or reciting incantations. You had to understand the mechanics behind what you were doing, as clearly as if you were building something with your own hands. Control circuitry, discharge chamber, ion accelerator grid, hollow cathode neutralizer—every component mattered. Miss one relay or power processer, and all you had was a fancy sculpture. Assuming you didn’t blow yourself up.

Illustration by Rodrigo Gonzalez Toledo

Green lines glowed in the air before her, a three-dimensional wireframe technical drawing that expanded, gaining substance and heft, until the glow disappeared and the completed jetpack dropped into her waiting arms. She slapped a spare battery into it and watched the readouts light up. Fully functional.

Excellent. She slipped on the harness.

The next spell was easier—one of the first any sensible spacer learned. Putting one hand to her head, she formed a bubble of breathable atmosphere, extending the field down around her body. Not a great way to travel the stars for any length of time, but at least she wouldn’t immediately freeze, boil, or asphyxiate.

Alarms began to blare throughout the ship. Beneath her feet, the deck shuddered as structures intended solely for vacuum encountered their first fatal traces of atmosphere.

Time to go. Raia stared out the window, fixing a point in mind. Then she took a deep breath and cast the final spell.

Darkness. Weightlessness. Agoraphobia slammed into her as her brain suddenly recognized the lack of a ship’s comforting constraints around her. She fought down the urge to panic, willing herself to continue breathing deeply. Slowly, deliberately, she triggered the jetpack’s roll thrusters, spinning a hundred and eighty degrees.

Below, the Voidspear fell away from her, making its final dive into the blue and white of the planet. Already, delicate struts were breaking away, the hull glowing red with heat. As she watched, a single escape pod shot free—deserters choosing to take their chances with the matriarchs.

Good for them. Opening up her own engines to maximum, Raia accelerated hard, climbing toward a stable orbit. As she did, she reopened her coms. “Raia here. Mission complete.”

“Raia!” Navasi’s voice was gratifyingly relieved. “Are you all right? Where are you?”

Raia looked around, taking in the void stretching endlessly all around her.

“Well,” she said, “I’ve got good news and bad news...”

About the Author

James L. Sutter is a former Starfinder Creative Director and Executive Editor of the Pathfinder Tales novels. In addition to foundational work on both Pathfinder and Starfinder, he’s also written award-winning novels, comics, video games, and short stories. You can find him at jameslsutter.com or on Twitter at @jameslsutter. His Pathfinder Tales novels, Death’s Heretic and The Redemption Engine, are available now.

About Iconic Encounters

Iconic Encounters is a series of web-based flash fiction set in the worlds of Pathfinder and Starfinder. Each short story provides a glimpse into the life and personality of one of the games’ iconic characters, showing the myriad stories of adventure and excitement players can tell with the Pathfinder and Starfinder roleplaying games.

Sparks flew as Quig’s plasma cutter burned through the robot’s cranial plating. On the makeshift workbench, the bot twitched and shook, servos seizing as batteries failed and crucial fluids leaked from the wreckage of the robot’s lower body. The cranial plate popped open, revealing crystalline arrays and circuit boards blackened by discharge from misfiring neural processes.

“Ah, scrap!” He dropped the cutter and stretched a hand out toward the drone hovering just over his shoulder. “Scout—soldering iron! Now!”

Illustration by Rodrigo Gonzalez Toledo

The robot on the slab jerked again, and Quig leaned forward, pressing it down with his body so it couldn’t damage itself further. “Come on, buddy,” he whispered. “Stay with me...”

Obozaya glanced over, scaled snout wrinkling in confusion over the barrel of her rifle. “What’s the big deal? It’s just a robot.”

Iseph’s head whipped around from where they crouched next to an engineering screen in the station wall. “Excuse me?” The android’s words were dangerously flat. “Did you just—”

Navasi stepped smoothly between them. “I’m sure Obozaya didn’t mean it like that, Iseph. Obo, the authorization codes in this robot are the only way to access the station’s data core and locate the black ops facility. Without those coordinates, this mission is dead. Along with about a million Akitonians.” She turned toward the operating table. “How we doing, Quig?”

“I’m trying!” Quig drew a line of solder, crudely rerouting power around a glitching processor. The robot’s left eye telescoped outward with a whir, thrashing wildly.

“Try harder. Obo, what’s on the scopes? How far out is our pursuit?”

Obozaya consulted her datapad, scanning quickly. “Two ships, running dark—no transponders, but they’re probably Norikama dropships. One minute from rendezvous. Looks like they’re planning to skip the airlocks and come straight through the hull.”

“And after we rigged up those mines, too! Damn. That’s a waste of good ordnance.” Navasi looked out the viewport, toward the twin shadows of the approaching ships. “Two of those assault teams is two too many. We’ve got to pull back to the ship and cast off before—”

The robot on the packing crate jerked upright, glowing eyes staring blankly.

“Security codes verified.” Its voice fuzzed and crackled. “Facility access approved. Location 28.735, 98.302.” Then it slumped back onto the operating table, sparks and twitches ceasing.

“No!” Quig grabbed the robot’s head, jerking it up to stare into its dull, extinguished eyes. “No, no, no!” He poked frantically at the exposed circuitry of the robot’s metal skull.

“That was it! The coordinates!” Navasi’s face broke into a victorious grin—then fell just as quickly. She glanced around the room. “Uh... did anyone get that?”

“Um.” Obozaya looked back and forth between Navasi and the robot. “It started with a 2...?”

Navasi put her head in her hands. “Oh for the love of—”

“28.735, 98.302.” Iseph didn’t even look up from their wall panel as they flicked away warnings and error codes.

Obozaya gaped at the android. “You memorized it? Just like that?”

“My brain is one of the most advanced neural networks in the Pact Worlds.” Now Iseph turned to meet her gaze. “While yours is a glob of pudding evolved to run from predators that went extinct millennia ago.” The android returned their attention to the screen. “Not to mention currently fifty percent drugs by volume.”

“Hey!” Obozaya’s hand went instinctively to the armor pouch where she carried her nose-hookah. “Dragon’s breath is an honored Veskarium tradition. I only—”

“Save it!” Navasi drew her pistols. “You can light up once we’re safely in the Drift. We need to get back to the ship before—”

A hollow boom echoed through the station, shaking the decking beneath their feet. Navasi winced.

“That’s it, then. Iseph, you got the reactor overrides rigged?”

“Aye, Captain.” Iseph straightened, swiping a hand over the panel and turning the screen dark. “Failsafes are linked to my coms. One touch, containment goes down and this station becomes a short-lived star.”

“Perfect. Let’s move.” Navasi started toward the door, then stopped short. “Quig?”

The ysoki scrambled to strap the limp robot to the back of his pack, stuffing severed metal appendages into pockets. “Help me get Buddy!”

“The robot doesn’t matter anymore, Quig! We already got the coordinates.”

Quig looked at her like she’d just suggested he light his tail on fire, eyes wide behind his mask. “We can't just leave him here!” He looked down at the ruined robot. “Not after he helped us!”

Navasi rolled her eyes. Behind her, Iseph gazed at Quig with a thoughtful expression.

“Fine,” Navasi snapped. “But you’re carrying it. Obo, cover the rat. Iseph, you take point. Let’s go, people!”

They ran back through the derelict station’s halls. Emergency lighting flickering, illuminating walls scarred and streaked with the remnants of their battles. Quig huffed under the new weight of his pack, looking up enviously as Scout buzzed through the air in front of him, wondering if maybe he should have designed a drone capable of hauling more gear.

They rounded a corner, the docking bay coming into view. Quig had just a moment to register the swarm of red dots dancing across the wall ahead of them, and then all hell broke loose.

“Contact!” Iseph dove forward as a hail of bullets and the bright lines of energy weapons sliced through the air between them and Navasi. Quig turned and found an assault team in matte black body armor leapfrogging forward down a side corridor, their advance smooth and practiced, helmets a faceless, insectile cluster of lenses.

Obozaya swung around the edge of the hallway, autotarget rifle barking, forcing the intruders to take cover.

“Run!” Navasi sprinted toward the ship, Quig and Iseph hot on her heels. Behind them, Obozaya’s rifle went silent, spent magazine clinking against the decking. Then she was bringing up the rear, booted feet pounding.

Something roared. An unseen wave slammed Quig forward, sending him tumbling tail over whiskers. He scrambled out from beneath the crushing weight of a mountain of fallen metal, only to realize it was Obozaya, her heavy armor having protected them both from the grenade blast. They lurched to their feet, Quig snatching up his fallen pack.

It was too light. He looked back toward the blast’s point of origin.

The robot lay in the middle of the hallway, surrounded by steam from burst pipes and the sinister hiss of venting atmosphere.

“Buddy!” Quig started toward the fallen bot, but Obozaya grabbed the top of his pack and lifted him off his feet, carrying him backward toward the ship.

Behind them, red targeting lasers sliced through the steam.

They slid through the airlock, barely missing Iseph where the android knelt in the entrance, calmly laying down covering fire with their sniper rifle. The second they were aboard, the door whirred closed, and Quig was almost knocked off his feet a second time as Navasi goosed the thrusters.

Then they were free, ship gliding silently away. Quig staggered to the nearest viewport, looking out at the abandoned station as it shrank rapidly with distance.

“Iseph,” Navasi said. “Light ’em up.”

Iseph nodded and tapped their datapad.

The station erupted. The silent fireball expanded too quickly for Quig’s eyes to follow, engulfing the station and the enemy ships. The viewport dimmed automatically, shields maximizing to block the blaze of radiation. Yet almost as quickly, the glow faded, ionized gasses dispersing into vacuum.

It was like Iseph had said: A temporary sun, shining bright for one brief moment. And then darkness.

Quig put a hand to the viewport.

“Goodbye, Buddy,” he whispered. “And thanks.”

About the Author

James L. Sutter is a former Starfinder Creative Director and Executive Editor of the Pathfinder Tales novels. In addition to foundational work on both Pathfinder and Starfinder, he’s also written award-winning novels, comics, video games, and short stories. You can find him at jameslsutter.com or on Twitter at @jameslsutter. His Pathfinder Tales novels, Death’s Heretic and The Redemption Engine, are available now.

About Iconic Encounters
Iconic Encounters is a series of web-based flash fiction set in the worlds of Pathfinder and Starfinder. Each short story provides a glimpse into the life and personality of one of the games’ iconic characters, showing the myriad stories of adventure and excitement players can tell with the Pathfinder and Starfinder roleplaying games.

Obozaya peeked over the rocky ridge. There was still just one of the creatures guarding the entrance, less than fifty feet away. The tunnel mouth behind it was nothing special—just a dark hole in the side of the hill. Yet this was where the footage had shown the creatures taking her crew.

Obo ducked back down and considered her rifle. With it, she could easily take the guard out right now, before it even knew she was here. That was assuredly what Navasi would advise.

But where was the fun in that?

Slinging the rifle over her shoulder, she drew her doshko and thumbed it on. Plasma spikes blazed to life with a soft hiss.

Yes—much better. Last, but most importantly, she pulled out her datapad, synched it to her personal coms channel, and cued up Obozaya’s Mayhem Playlist.

Immediately, Sylix the Siren’s “Moneythumper” began pounding through Obo’s custom sound system, bone conduction carrying it not just to her ears, but into her very skeleton.

Breaking hearts.
Breaking heads.
I always get my money down in advance...

Gods, what a perfect fight song. A former merc herself, Sylix knew just what Obo needed—her voice was a classic Veskarium egg-croon, floating over syrupy bass and a tuned kick that hit like an orbital bombardment. Obo’s pulse surged.

Navasi hated when she did this. And maybe blasting tunes on the battlefield wasn’t the best idea when you were trying to coordinate with half a dozen squadmates. But for the moment, Obo was on her own, which meant she could indulge in a few old habits. If the captain didn’t like it, tough scales—the thing about rescue missions was that the rescuer got to call the shots. And Obo was in the mood to enjoy this.

Win while you can,
Then we’ll dance till we’re dead.
You’re only living if you’re taking a chance...

You said it, Sylix, Obo thought, and charged up over the ridge.

The creature—Raia had called it a “mi-go”—was fast, but Obo was faster. Her boots churned the rocky soil in time with the pounding beat, her tail stretched out behind her for balance. By the time the mi-go noticed seven feet of armored lizard bearing down on it and brought its weird spiky gun to bear, Obo was already too close. She ducked sideways out of the line of fire and brought the doshko up in a sweeping diagonal slice.

Illustration by Alberto Dal Lago

The plasma spikes slid home with a sizzle, not stopping till the haft was flat against the creature’s side. Yet instead of dying, the mi-go just stood there, the doshko’s white-hot spikes sending up steam that smelled incongruously like roasted vegetable skewers. Whorls of color played across the mi-go’s face as it glanced down at the weapon, then back up at Obozaya.

“Um.” Obo said.

The creature fired, the bolt of cold slamming into Obo’s shoulder and sending crackling tendrils of frost across her pauldron. Her armor’s thermal regulators kicked in, ceramic superconductors safely dispersing the cold across her entire surface area before it could freeze the water in her cells. But it was still closer than it ought to be. Obo spun aside, lashing out with an ineffective tail sweep.

Obo’s doshko strike had been flawless—naturally—so it must be that the creature was immune to heat and electricity. So much for having some fun with things. Obo clicked the doshko off and dropped it, diving into a roll as the mi-go fired again. She came up holding her rifle.

She fired. Two quick shots, snare-crack counterpoints to the bass still pounding in her bones. No point wasting ammo if these failed as well.

The mi-go’s head snapped backward as magnetically accelerated tungsten lanced through armor plating. It screamed in a language that was at once totally alien and completely universal.

Obo smiled and switched to full auto.

It was over in less than two seconds. The gun hummed against her shoulder as she unloaded the magazine, stitching shots across the creature’s chest. A lifetime of training had her slamming home a fresh magazine before the spent one had hit the ground, yet even as she reloaded she could see that she wouldn’t need it.

The mi-go lay sprawled in the dust, practically sawn in half by the magnetar’s metal roar. Obo crouched over it, rifle leveled at the cave entrance, ready to do the same to any emerging monstrosities. When they didn’t immediately appear, she stood and recovered her doshko, never letting the magnetar’s barrel stray from its bead on the darkness.

With a last exhortation to get paid, “Moneythumper” drew to a close, replaced by the Aballonian skitterbeats of Godhead Collective’s “You Know Who We Are.”

“Right,” Obo said, and cued her holoprojector. The glowing banner coalesced above her head, rising up from her backpack and unfurling to reveal her personal war-glyph.

Navasi hated that, too. But what was the point of victory if you didn’t get to take credit for it? Anonymity was for cowards—better to let everyone know who you were, and if that meant more enemies came for you, all the better. Obo was always down to dance.

But of course, that wasn’t usually her call. Once upon a time, Obo would have laughed at the idea of taking orders from someone like Navasi. The captain had style, sure, and she could fight like a proper merc when she had to, but her answer to everything was talking. The whole team was like that. They didn’t understand the glory of single combat, of making a name for yourself by succeeding against impossible odds on the battlefield. Half the time they schemed to avoid bloodshed! They were everything Damoritosh had taught her to revile.

Obo desperately hoped they were still alive.

“Hang tight, little friends,” she whispered. “Obo’s coming for you.”

Rifle barrel leading the way, she stepped into the darkness.

About the Author

James L. Sutter is a former Starfinder Creative Director and Executive Editor of the Pathfinder Tales novels. In addition to foundational work on both Pathfinder and Starfinder, he’s also written award-winning novels, comics, video games, and short stories. You can find him at jameslsutter.com or on Twitter at @jameslsutter. His Pathfinder Tales novels, Death’s Heretic and The Redemption Engine, are available now.

About Iconic Encounters

Iconic Encounters is a series of web-based flash fiction set in the worlds of Pathfinder and Starfinder. Each short story provides a glimpse into the life and personality of one of the games’ iconic characters, showing the myriad stories of adventure and excitement players can tell with the Pathfinder and Starfinder roleplaying games.

“Down!”

Navasi grabbed Keskodai and yanked him around the corner, sending him sprawling as lasers sliced through the space he’d occupied a moment before. She returned fire, then ducked back behind cover and glared at the shirren. “I thought I told you to go in disguise!”

From the floor, Keskodai looked up at her, mental voice radiating confusion. “But I am in disguise.”

Navasi squinted. “You look exactly the same.”

“The same?!” The shirren’s throat-teeth splayed wide in shock. “I took off my headpiece! I shaved my moustache!”

Navasi leaned closer. Sure enough, the chitin above his mouthparts was smooth. She fought the urge to put her head in her hands, instead settling for thrusting her plasma pistol around the corner and firing blind. Doing her best to keep her voice level, she said, “I don’t think that was enough.”

“But it’s my signature style! It’s how everyone recognizes me!”

Navasi entertained a brief but deeply fulfilling fantasy of throttling the shirren right there. Was it even wrong to strangle a death priest, ethically speaking? Wouldn’t sending him to Pharasma be like giving a dance-pop fan the chance to meet Sylix the Siren?

But the first rule of captaining was not killing your own people, even when they really deserved it. Instead, she took a calming breath and said, “You’re right—they must have been using advanced facial recognition software.” Then she darted her head around the corner.

Illustration by Alexander Nanitchkov

Her fusillade of plasma bolts had produced the desired effect—sort of. The gangsters had indeed pulled back out of the line of fire, as she’d hoped. But in their place, they’d sent in a security bot.

Where in the worlds had these lowlifes gotten a patrol-class model? The thing stalked toward her with a fluid mechanical gait, mirrored face scanning.

She wasn’t quick enough. Even as she jerked backward, the robot fired, a line of crackling electricity burning down the corridor. It missed her face, but her scarf wasn’t so lucky—the artificial lightning burned straight through its trailing end, flames curling up from singed threads.

“Damn it, Keskodai! That’s coming out of your share!” She snapped off another blind shot, then cued coms. “Quig! We need evac. Like, yesterday.”

“Copy that, fearless leader.” The rat’s voice came smooth and calm. “They see through Keskodai’s disguise?”

“Advanced facial recognition software,” Keskodai said. The priest didn’t even have the grace to sound embarrassed.

Quig clucked his tongue. “I figured something was up. The bay started swarming with Iovan’s thugs—I had to take off to keep them from boarding the ship.”

“You’re not in the docking bay?” Navasi’s heart lurched. She’d known in her heart that escape wouldn’t be easy—there was only one way off this station, so of course Iovan and his goons would try to cut them off. But this was a whole new level of busted.

“Don’t worry, Captain, I’ve got you an alternative.” Quig sounded even more self-satisfied than usual, if such a thing were possible. “There’s a maintenance lock at the apex of the main dome. I’ll be there in ninety seconds.”

“The main dome?!” Navasi couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “You want us to go back to the casino?”

“They’ll never expect it.”

“That’s because it’s stupid!”

“But it’s our kind of stupid.” Keskodai sounded positively cheerful. He crouched in a sprinter’s stance. “Ready when you are, Captain. May Pharasma bless us.”

“I’d rather she continue ignoring us.” But Navasi crouched as well. “Ready? Go!”

They burst from behind the corner, back the way Keskodai had come. The security bot was closer now, the emboldened gangsters creeping along behind it. Navasi raised her pistols, but even as she fired Keskodai darted forward, one hand to his temple. He thrust out with the other, and a wave of invisible force blasted outward, bowling bot and thugs backward like they’d been sucked out an airlock.

Then they were past them, tearing out of the corridor and into the grimy little station’s central casino. Glowing game machines and tables of crusty-looking spacers and only slightly less crusty courtesans packed every available inch, creating a maze of colors and chimes. Above it all rose a tall, transparent dome revealing the stars beyond—and the looming shape of her own ship as Quig matched the station’s rotation.

“There!” Navasi pointed to a ladder climbing one of the support struts, then vaulted up onto a felt-topped table, scattering chips and holograms. She leapt to the next table, then the next, using them like stones in a river crossing, Keskodai hot on her heels.

They reached the ladder. Behind them, the trail of angry shouts grew louder.

She climbed. Ten feet up, she looked back and realized Keskodai wasn’t following. “Kesk! Come on!”

The shirren had his head bowed, mouthparts clacking as he prayed aloud. Then he lifted his hands to the wall and began to climb, spidering up the dome’s sheer face faster than Navasi on her ladder.

Well, good for him. Navasi grit her teeth and climbed harder.

Her back itched, waiting for the bullet or laser blast. They were completely exposed out here on the wall, but that was part of the point: if they were lucky, nobody would dare shoot at them for fear of puncturing the dome and venting the whole place.

Of course, if they were unlucky, some drunken gangster wouldn’t think of that until it was too late. Long-term thinking wasn’t exactly these folks’ strong suit. It all came down to luck—appropriate enough for a casino, she supposed.

Above, Keskodai reached the airlock and cycled it open, clambering inside. Navasi’s shoulders burned as the angle of the ladder increased, the dome’s pitch threatening to peel her backward off a wall rapidly becoming a ceiling. Leaned back at this angle, she could see the bright gleam of the Maiden as Quig nestled it down against the hatch.

She was almost to the apex now, the ladder nearly horizontal, forcing her to hook her ankles around each rung, the floor a dizzying distance below. She leaned her head back, concentrating on the hatch.

Keskodai’s inverted head popped out of it, the casualness of his climbing magic giving her momentary vertigo as her brain tried to convince her that the two of them were right-side up, and the rest of the world was upside down.

“Faster!” he shouted in her brain.

On the floor below, something coughed. There was a single instant of blurred motion, and then the ladder between them exploded in a fireball.

Navasi’s hands tore free of the ladder. Suddenly she was hanging, arms waving helplessly as she dangled from a foot wedged painfully between two rungs.

“Captain!” Keskodai was out of the hatch in an instant, skittering across the dome’s underside until he reached her. He leaned down and she grabbed his hand, letting him aid her in the world’s worst abdominal crunch until she could bend double and catch the ladder’s rungs again.

Or what was left of them. Between her and the hatch, the last twenty feet of the ladder had been blown completely clear of the wall, nothing left to cling to but smooth, transparent polycarbon and jagged shards of white-hot metal.

Twenty feet or twenty miles, it didn’t matter—the hatch might as well be in another star system.

Except that next to her, her priest stuck to the dome as if he were a magnet.

“Keskodai!” she shouted. “Can you cast that spell on me?”

“I’m sorry, Captain—that was the last of my spells. But I’ve got the next best thing.” He turned, thrusting his armored butt in her direction. “Get on my back!”

“Your back?” She looked at his skinny limbs. “You can’t carry me! We’ll both fall!”

“Maybe!” he chirped. “If so, we’ll go meet the Lady together!” As she’d predicted, he didn’t sound particularly upset at the idea.

She had a choice, then. She could order him to save himself, to leave her to the gangsters or gravity. He might even do it. She was his captain, after all.

But that would violate the real first rule of captaining: You trusted your people. Always.

She let go of the ladder and swung out, grabbing for his shoulders.

The scramble into the hatch was a stomach-churning blur, Navasi clinging to the shirren like a baby monkey on its mother’s back. But then they were through, the airlock cycling behind them, making one final lurch up into the ship’s cockpit to collapse on the floor.

“Howdy, boss.” Quig swiveled the pilot’s seat to face them. “Where to?”

“Anywhere,” Navasi gasped. “Just out of here, please.”

“You got it.” Quig tapped a command on the console, and the engines engaged. Then he spun back sharply, furry eyebrows rising.

“Keskodai!” he blurted. “What happened to your ’stache?”

About the Author

James L. Sutter is a former Starfinder Creative Director and Executive Editor of the Pathfinder Tales novels. In addition to foundational work on both Pathfinder and Starfinder, he’s also written award-winning novels, comics, video games, and short stories. You can find him at jameslsutter.com or on Twitter at @jameslsutter. His Pathfinder Tales novels, Death’s Heretic and The Redemption Engine, are available now.

About Iconic Encounters

Iconic Encounters is a series of web-based flash fiction set in the worlds of Pathfinder and Starfinder. Each short story provides a glimpse into the life and personality of one of the games’ iconic characters, showing the myriad stories of adventure and excitement players can tell with the Pathfinder and Starfinder roleplaying games.

The light on the door pad blinked from red to green.

“Okay, you’re in.” Even though she was holed up in the data center, hacking the locks remotely, tension made Raia whisper. “The tracker chip I planted says Averly is in there. We need to get to him before they do... whatever it is they do to people.”

“Understood.” Keskodai stood from his place in the shadows. “I’m headed in.”

“Good hunting, Keskodai.”

Keskodai reached down to the child at his belt. “Ready, Chk Chk?”

Safe inside his canister, Chk Chk tapped his larval beak-tooth against the transparent polycarbon, treating Keskodai to a blast of confidence and enthusiasm.

Of course Chk Chk was confident. As far as he knew, his father was invincible. As was Chk Chk himself, for that matter. After all, hadn’t they survived one hundred percent of their adventures so far?

Keskodai knew better, yet some part of him still stood a little straighter at his child’s vision of him. Wasn’t that what drove every parent? A desire to be the person their child imagined them to be?

He stepped forward and keyed the door.

Illustration by Rodrigo Gonzalez Toledo

It swept aside, revealing a room full of strange equipment. Pumps whirred and hissed, spotlights stabbing down through the gloom to illuminate a shaved human lying nude on the central table. That was their contact, all right. Robotic arms like something out of Keskodai’s medical bay prodded at the inert body, injecting fluids or implanting subdermal machinery. And standing over it all—

The gray jerked upright, its movements an eerie, strobe-light stutter. It stretched a hand toward Keskodai, and he felt the sudden press of its mind—an overwhelming impulse to freeze, to sleep. It tugged at his synapses, seeking to reshape them with the force of its will.

But shirren already escaped such slavery once. Keskodai raised his pistol and fired.

The shot was dead-on: straight to the heart, the sort of merciful deathblow Keskodai thought of as the Lady’s Grace. Yet it passed through the gray like it was a hologram, the creature’s flesh seeming to ripple out of phase with reality. For a nanosecond, it was gone, and then it was there again, the bullet ricocheting harmlessly off the wall behind it.

Keskodai, on the other hand, had no such protections. He dove sideways behind a bank of machinery as the thing sighted its own weapon and fired, needles driving deep into the doorjamb.

So be it, Keskodai thought. If mercy wasn’t an option...

He stood, one hand out for focus, and shoved his way inside the gray’s head.

The creature’s mind was truly alien. In some ways, the neural pathways were structurally similar to Keskodai’s own, but without shared context or a known starting point, the thought processes that ran along them were nearly impossible to decipher. He’d heard Raia speak of different types of computer encryption, and this was like that—he could see the shapes of ideas, gliding past him like leviathans in a darkened sea, without having any idea what they meant.

But you didn’t need to know how something worked to smash it. Keskodai focused his magic and pushed.

The gray doubled over, screaming soundlessly as Keskodai’s spell surged through its neurons, scrambling synapses. Keskodai felt a momentary pang of regret—then plastered over it with the memory of what these creatures had done on Thersius 4. He pushed again, expanding his mental presence inside the creature’s skull, inflating until there was no room for anything else.

The creature gave a final twitch and collapsed to the ground.

Keskodai gasped and let the magic drop, grabbing the console for support as his mind dizzily readjusted to being back in his own body. He put one hand to Chk Chk’s canister—safely intact.

“I’m sorry you had to see that,” Keskodai said.

Chk Chk responded with a wave of fierce pride.

Keskodai tapped the canister in negation. “No, Chk Chk. That wasn’t good. Necessary, perhaps, but never good. Minds are sacred—they’re what make each of us unique. To shatter one like that, even in self-defense, is to take a sledgehammer to a cathedral.”

Chk Chk’s response was dubious, the telepathic sentiment accompanied by a rare image flash: Pharasma’s spiral, glowing in the air above Keskodai’s head.

The message was clear: if the Lady of Graves was content to let Keskodai take lives, then so was Chk Chk.

Keskodai’s antennae drooped in a sigh. He’d been worrying about this more and more, lately. Had his faith in Pharasma made Chk Chk too cavalier about death? Of course he couldn’t expect a larva to understand when it was acceptable to cut short a life, the differences between a death that furthered Pharasma’s plan and one that furthered your own. All the child saw was a father grown comfortable with killing.

Keskodai had never wanted to indoctrinate the child. Show him the galaxy, yes, and teach him as best he could, but it was crucial that Chk Chk feel free to walk his own path.

And one day, no doubt, he would. He’d leave Keskodai behind, the same way Keskodai had left his own parents. After years of constant company, Keskodai would be truly alone once more.

But there was no time to worry about that now. Keskodai hurried to the operating table. With the gray’s death, the robotic arms had gone limp—psychically driven, perhaps? That could be useful in Keskodai’s own medical bay. But he yanked them free, casting his senses down into the man’s flesh and letting the healing magic flow.

Except that it wasn’t needed. The man—their contact, who had called himself Averly—seemed perfectly healthy. Whatever the gray had implanted in him, it didn’t seem to be harming him. He didn’t even seem to be sedated, by any conventional or magical means.

Yet he didn’t wake at Keskodai’s touch. Keskodai shook him harder, slapping him gently on the cheeks, then less gently. He even spat on a battery and pressed its contact points to the man’s skin, shocking him. Yet still the man slept.

And now, Keskodai thought to himself, we set another bad example...

“Chk Chk,” he said. “Remember what I said about minds being sacred? That’s why you should normally never invade a friend’s without their consent. But sometimes, we must hurt to heal.”

And with that, he dove once again into the mind of another.

This intrusion was gentler—an attempt to read a book, not tear out its pages. The comatose man’s thoughts were a familiar human structure, yet in some ways that made the content stranger. The man wasn’t quite asleep, but neither was he awake. His thoughts routed around the edges of strange, artificial holes. Yet certain images recurred. A face... a ship...

A warning. Keskodai broke contact and cued his coms. “Raia?”

“Keskodai! Did it work? Is our contact okay?”

Keskodai looked down at the comatose man, locked inside his alien dreams.

“After a fashion,” he said. “But listen—we need to get back to Navasi and the others. Immediately.”

He could feel her come alert. “Why?”

Keskodai lifted the unconscious man in his arms and turned toward the door.

“Because I know who they’re going after next.”

About the Author

James L. Sutter is a former Starfinder Creative Director and Executive Editor of the Pathfinder Tales novels. In addition to foundational work on both Pathfinder and Starfinder, he’s also written award-winning novels, comics, video games, and short stories. You can find him at jameslsutter.com or on Twitter at @jameslsutter. His Pathfinder Tales novels, Death’s Heretic and The Redemption Engine, are available now.

About Iconic Encounters

Iconic Encounters is a series of web-based flash fiction set in the worlds of Pathfinder and Starfinder. Each short story provides a glimpse into the life and personality of one of the games’ iconic characters, showing the myriad stories of adventure and excitement players can tell with the Pathfinder and Starfinder roleplaying games.

Iseph crept through the empty museum, footsteps soundless on the tiled floor. All around the android, monsters loomed—alien creatures propped up in glass-walled display cases, their exhibits pumped full of inert gas to prevent the corpses' decay. In the dim emergency lighting, some of them almost looked alive. But of course that wasn't how places like this worked.

Iseph paused at the entrance to their destination. Pulling the tube from their belt, they blew a soft puff of dust through the doorway.

Laser lit up red, crisscrossing the small room. Iseph made a mental map of their locations, burning them into short-term memory even as the dust drifted to the floor and they disappeared again.

Bending low, Iseph slithered beneath the first laser, then arched high over the second. Of course, the android's cloaking field could bend lasers without breaking them, the same way it was currently foiling the thermal imaging cameras, and would have beaten the visual spectrum cameras if Iseph hadn't already hacked them to loop the footage. But Iseph had a certain level of professional pride, and laser tripwires were novice stuff—the sort of thing you put in because it looked impressive to clients, not because it deterred professionals. Dancing around them was so easy it was almost insulting. But of course the museum's security couldn't have known whom they'd be dealing with.

Illustration by Alberto Dal Lago

The crystal stood alone atop a display pedestal, glowing softly. Inside its cylindrical viewing case, it balanced incongruously on a single metal point, its lower half an elaborate setting of wires and circuitry.

Rerouting the arcano-electric security seal on the case itself was more of a challenge, but still too easy for someone of Iseph's skill. The android added the appropriate relays, synched them, and popped the case free.

With nothing left between Iseph and the crystal, the android considered the pedestal's pressure sensor. It was a classic mechanism—the sort of thing you saw everywhere from ancient temples to modern bank vaults—yet still remarkably difficult to deal with. The era when you could just swap in a similarly sized rock as you snatched away the treasure was long gone, if it had ever truly existed.

Iseph knew the right tool for the job—a specialized lifter-and-pump mechanism that you anchored outside the pressure sensor, then attached to your target. The pump drew up liquid from a reservoir in the anchor, inflating a sack atop the sensor at the exact same rate as the crane arm lifted the prize free, making sure the weight remained constant. But it was expensive, and by necessity single-use. Iseph couldn't be expected to have one on hand.

It was a perfectly reasonable test to fail, yet something about it stuck in Iseph's craw. It was just so pedestrian. If—

A glint at the crystal's base caught their eye. There—a single metal flake, its color slightly off from its surroundings.

Iseph smiled. A magnetic proximity alarm. Electromagnetic sensors inside the pedestal would be calibrated to the alloy of that tag, sensing its exact composition and distance. Move it, and you'd disrupt the invisible magnetic fields and trigger the alarm.

And Iseph almost hadn't seen it. Here, at last, was some quality security work. Getting past it would require time and finesse.

Iseph snatched the crystal off its pedestal.

Alarms blared, accompanied by the clangs of security gates slamming down across exits throughout the museum. Iseph dropped their cloaking field, briefly considered waving to the thermal cameras, then sprinted back through the exhibits.

Security guards came rushing through the main entrance just as Iseph neared it—two humans, a ysoki, and a full half-dozen humanoid security bots, all positioned between the android and the exit. They didn't even give a warning, just opened fire with arc emitters and pulsecasters, the air humming and crackling with electricity.

Well, that isn't very professional. Iseph dove for shelter behind an exhibit featuring some sort of star-nosed lizard. The android drew their own pistol and leaned out to return fire, winging one of the humans.

It was tempting to keep firing—to show them all just who they were dealing with. But nine was probably too many, even for Iseph, and besides, the android had promised: only enough combat to sell it. Which meant it was time for the hard part.

This is going to hurt. Wincing in anticipation, Iseph slipped the crystal into an armored pouch, then stood and darted around the corner, straight for one of the patrol bots.

The blast caught Iseph full in the chest, sending them sprawling as electricity overloaded circuits and set muscles twitching. Someone kicked the gun from Iseph's hand, and then the android was staring up at a circle of angry faces and mirrored robotic lenses.

The human Iseph had shot clutched at his injured shoulder. “An android?” he snarled. “I'd have thought one of you half-bots would be too smart to try stealing from the Galactic Heritage Foundation.” He patted Iseph down roughly, eyebrows rising as he pulled the crystal from its case. “The Songstone! You've got a good eye, for a thief.”

“I'm not the thief here.” Iseph pointed at the Songstone. “That crystal stores the psychic memories of the Parelnesi tribes going back a thousand generations—their whole culture is in there! It doesn't belong in a museum.”

“That's exactly why it belongs in a museum,” the guard snapped. “That kind of history is too valuable to leave on some backwater world. Besides, they obviously couldn't protect it.”

“No,” Iseph acknowledged with a nod. “But they could hire somebody to get it back.”

The guard smirked. “And look how well that went.”

Iseph matched his smile. “I don't know, I think it's going pretty well.”

The ysoki guard wrinkled her snout. “How do you figure?”

As if on cue, the six security bots swiveled in unison, pointing their weapons at the guards.

Over the museum's intercom, a familiar voice said, “Weapons down, please.”

“What?” The lead guard gaped, pistol hanging loose as he stared down the barrels of his robots' arc emitters.

“You didn't really think I tripped your alarm by accident, did you?” Iseph stood, shaking out the last pins and needles of the stun bolt. The android reached out and plucked the crystal from the guard's grip. “I just needed to lure you all away from the security station long enough for the others to get in there and work their magic.”

The intercom clicked on once more, ringing with Raia's smooth tones.

“The museum is now closed,” she announced. “All jewel thieves, please proceed to the nearest exit...”

About the Author
James L. Sutter is a former Starfinder Creative Director and Executive Editor of the Pathfinder Tales novels. In addition to foundational work on both Pathfinder and Starfinder, he’s also written award-winning novels, comics, video games, and short stories. You can find him at jameslsutter.com or on Twitter at @jameslsutter. His Pathfinder Tales novels, Death’s Heretic and The Redemption Engine, are available now.

About Iconic Encounters
Iconic Encounters is a series of web-based flash fiction set in the worlds of Pathfinder and Starfinder. Each short story provides a glimpse into the life and personality of one of the games’ iconic characters, showing the myriad stories of adventure and excitement players can tell with the Pathfinder and Starfinder roleplaying games.

“‘Fix the shuttle,’ she says. ‘It’s only a little banged up,’ she says.” Angry clanging noises came from beneath the deck, followed by Quig’s face popping up out of the engineering access bay. He waved a spanner angrily. “Next time Navasi wants to sign us up for a salvage mission, she can patch the junker, and I’ll stay on the Maiden and watch for pirates!”

Altronus stared down from the hallway, both sets of arms crossed. “I’m sure the captain was just expressing confidence in your abilities.”

“Yeah?” Grease-smeared ears twitched above Quig’s mask. “Well I’m sure that this rustbucket isn’t going anywhere without a miracle. I’ve wired together every battery we’ve got to charge the capacitors, but the reactor containment field is totally shot. If I fire it up without the magnetic bottle in place, they’ll be finding pieces of us all the way out on Aucturn.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Sure. You can tell our fearless leader that unless she wants to abandon our score to the rest of the jackals, we’re gonna remain stranded on a barren rock approximately three times the size of my furry brown ass, with no way to call in a tow because—oh yeah—this whole job is technically illegal.” The spanner made another wild circle, nearly clipping Altronus’s knee. “I swear by my grandmother’s tail, I—”

“Anything else I can do? To help with the repairs?”

Quig sighed and let the spanner droop. “Go outside and get a look at the right main thruster for me. Let me know if the nozzle housing looks intact.”

“Right.” Grateful for the chance to escape the ysoki’s incessant, undignified complaining, Altronus walked to the hatch and cycled the airlock.

The air beyond was thin, and bitterly cold. The sarcesian colonists who had once tried to make this asteroid habitable had long since abandoned the project, and Altronus’s lungs burned with strain and frost as he struggled to process what little air their machines had left behind.

Yet as it always did, the nearness to vacuum soothed him even as it stung. Out here, there was no barrier between him and the cosmos. The cold he felt was the same cold that wrapped the stars. The song of the Cycle hummed in his veins like background radiation.

He walked around to the back of the shuttle. From the outside, the damage looked worse—for all Altronus’s faith in the captain, he had to admit that Quig had a point. The fact that they were even close to getting the thing flying again was a testament to the ysoki’s skill. He reached up with his highhands and hauled himself easily up into the engine’s darkened mouth.

“Quig? Altronus?” Navasi’s voice crackled over coms. “Are you still at the shuttle?”

“Where else would we be?” Quig snapped. “Listen, Captain, this thing—”

“Stow it. Raia’s got life forms on scanners. Half a dozen of them, moving fast in your direction. Raia and I will intercept as many as we can with the Maiden, but some of them will reach you before we do.”

“Acknowledged, Captain.” Altronus turned and leapt down from the engine, his descent gruelingly slow in the meager gravity. “How much time do we have?”

But the answer was already coming over the crater’s rim: three round-shelled creatures, their front ends writhing masses of tentacles, two of which were longer than the others and heavily scaled. They skimmed along like antigrav speeders above the asteroid’s surface, their shells glimmering metallically in the light of Altronus’s mote. One instant they were at the ridge, and the next they were at the shuttle’s side—halfway between Altronus and the hatch.

Illustration by Alyssa McCarthy

“Altronus!” Quig appeared in the open airlock. “Get in here!”

“Working on it,” Altronus muttered. Then he stepped forward, careful not to launch himself off the asteroid’s surface, and raised his voice.

“Greetings, friends.” He lifted all four hands in what he hoped was a universal sign of peace. Would tentacled creatures even recognize the gesture? Raia would probably know. “I mean you no harm. My name is Altronus Barasul Dovenayan, a kasatha of House—”

A distortion rippled across the creatures’ shells, blue lines that weren’t quite lightning tracing down their tentacles.

Altronus froze. “Easy, friends. I—”

The creatures pulsed.

Altronus flew forward, dragged off his feet by some invisible force. He landed in the dust and rolled, barely avoiding lashes from the closest creature’s main tentacles. He yanked his pistol free of its holster, but the creatures pulsed again. This time, the pull on his body was weak enough that he could brace against it, but the gun lurched from his hand, slapping against the side of the creature’s shell and sticking there like—

Of course. Magnets! Now that he had the idea in his head, he could feel the variation in the pull—the force exerted on the metal components of his armor, but none on the plates themselves. If he squinted, he could see the lines of magnetic fields around the creatures, dust-like metallic fines from the asteroid’s surface forming a cloud that pulsed like breath.

Quig’s swearing flooded the coms. Altronus looked over and saw the ysoki splayed out across one of the creature’s shells, pinned to it by his junkyard of a spacesuit.

Beneath his scarf, Altronus smiled.

The creatures thought they’d disarmed him. They didn’t realize that the gun was just a tool.

Altronus was the weapon.

He stilled his mind, letting the false divisions between him and the universe fall away.

He was not Altronus. He was not kasatha. He was matter: forged in the heart of a star, pulling and pulled by every atom in the cosmic dance. He was energy: uncreateable, undestroyable, a momentary configuration of an eternal process.

He was everything. He was nothing.

And he was going to wipe the floor with these worm-faced bastards.

He stretched his consciousness down, into the asteroid, finding the thread of its gravitational pull and strengthening it. This time, when the creatures pulsed, he stood firm, tethered to the rock’s surface. With his lowright hand, he reached up and grabbed his mote, feeling the white-hot stellar energy distending into its familiar blade.

There was a sharp pop, like an electrical arc, and something slammed into Altronus’s side, spinning him halfway around. He looked down at the metallic barb protruding from his armor, and had just enough time to think the word harpoon before the creature pulsed again. The force yanked him sideways, threatening to rip him in two as the creature’s magnetic tether competed with his own gravitational anchor.

Well, one of those he could control. He dropped the anchor, lurching through the air toward the barb-thrower, stellar blade extended. The sudden rush caught the creature off-guard, and alien eyes widened as the blade struck home. The creature thrashed, tentacles sliding across Altronus’s armor as he slid his glowing blade free and thrust again. And again.

The creature’s strange antigravity cut out, dropping them both to the ground. Before Altronus could regain his feet, new tentacles wrapped him up from behind, pinning his arms to his sides.

The thing’s grip was like industrial machinery, the coiled tentacles crushing. Trying hard to ignore creaking bones and empty lungs, Altronus cast his mind out to Mataras, the blazing sun at the heart of the Pact Worlds. Delving down into its flaming seas, he made his consciousness a conduit, and let the fire flow.

Flames burst from his body in all directions, a tiny supernova burning tentacles to ash. He spun, chest heaving as the pressure around it relented, and brought his blade up.

The creature lay flat against the ground, charred tentacles twitching spasmodically. Off to one side, Quig stood next to the corpse of his own attacker, yanking tools free from its shell.

Alien eyes rolled in terror as Altronus pinned his beast to the rock with one foot, placing the tip of his blade inches from its eye.

Altronus coughed. “Let’s try this again, friend. I mean you no harm. And you don’t mean me any harm either, do you?” He waggled the blade.

The creature stared up at him, but made no move to protest. It just lay there, its shell wrapped in softly pulsing lines of magnetic fields.

Magnetic fields. Altronus turned to his companion. “Quig. Is the reactor’s magnetic containment still broken?”

“Yeah, why?”

Altronus stared down into the creature’s eyes.

“Because I’ve got a crazy idea.”

About the Author

James L. Sutter is a former Starfinder Creative Director and Executive Editor of the Pathfinder Tales novels. In addition to foundational work on both Pathfinder and Starfinder, he’s also written award-winning novels, comics, video games, and short stories. You can find him at jameslsutter.com or on Twitter at @jameslsutter. His Pathfinder Tales novels, Death’s Heretic and The Redemption Engine are available now.

About Iconic Encounters

Iconic Encounters is a series of web-based flash fiction set in the worlds of Pathfinder and Starfinder. Each short story provides a glimpse into the life and personality of one of the games’ iconic characters, showing the myriad stories of adventure and excitement players can tell with the Pathfinder and Starfinder roleplaying games.

Pathfinder fans haven't had as much time to get to know the iconic goblin alchemist, Fumbus, as they have our other iconic characters, but that doesn't mean he isn't up to the same shenanigans as the rest of the crew. He might be new to the mix, but he's far from free of high-stakes adventure. We had initially not planned on doing an Iconic Encounter for Fumbus, as he didn't have an Iconic Evolution video to accompany his story, but after the rest of the series was so well received by the community, we decided to complete the set with a piece for all twelve iconics, not just those carrying over from first edition. While this is the last Iconic Encounter for now, we've loved putting them together, and the door's always open for more of them in the future. In the meantime, enjoy this piece of flash fiction from James L. Sutter showing the sorts of stories you can tell with Pathfinder Second Edition, available August 1!

Illustration by Federico Musetti

Maybe it was the way they were holding him—upside down with a knife to his throat—but Fumbus was starting to get the impression that the wererats didn't want any pickles.

It didn't make any sense. Fumbus was usually pretty good with rats. At first, they'd scratch and bite, like all wild, furry things, but typically all you had to do was give them a bit of food and convince them you weren't going to eat them, and pretty soon they'd calm right down.

At which point you would eat them—because they were rats. But they didn't need to know that.

These rats, however, hadn't even listened to Fumbus's offer of a handful of his best pickled grubs. Maybe it was because they were only rats when the moon was full. The rest of the time, they were humans, and who could say why humans did anything?

It had all started innocently enough. Fumbus had been making his monthly infiltration of the docks, looking for information about Droven—a necessary bit of sneakery, ever since the harbormaster had banned him from the docks. He normally wouldn't have spent much time searching the wererats' ship, as it was too small to have taken Droven to the far-off lands Fumbus imagined the Pathfinder must have left for. But they'd been loading barrels full of salt pork, and everyone knew salt pork was just pig-pickles. Fumbus hadn't been able to resist stealing a taste.

When he'd popped the lid, however, there'd been no delicious strips of salty pig, only a fine, dusty powder. Fumbus had leaned in to give it a sniff, and nearly lost his grip on the side of the barrel as the suddenly overpowering scents of bitterbark and redroot stabbed him in the brain. He'd swayed, the world going dark and tingly, and then both he and the barrel had been falling sideways.

When his head eventually cleared, the world was still the wrong way around, thanks to the wererat holding him up by his feet. They were inside the wererats' ship, the sailors all growing long snouts and fur as they tore through Fumbus's pack, yelling about the Harbor Guard and rival gangs and something called "grit." He'd tried to make his pickle offer, but the one holding his legs had cuffed him so hard he almost passed out again.

Now the captain threw down his pack and whirled on him, long incisors gleaming yellow in the lantern light. He was a big rat, wearing an unnecessarily large number of knives, and leaned in so close that Fumbus could smell the wine on his breath.

"Who are you working for?" he demanded. "Who sent you to spy on our operation?"

"No one!" Fumbus shook his head hard enough that he almost lost his goggles. "No one sent me!"

"I don't believe you." The captain reached down into Fumbus's pack and pulled out a sealed glass vial. He held it up, the claws of his free hand digging into Fumbus's cheeks as he yanked the goblin's head around to face the potion. "If you're not working for anyone, who gave you these?"

Fumbus squirmed, but there was no escaping the wererat's grip. "Nobody! I made them!"

That drew a surprised laugh from everyone present. The captain gave a wide, grotesque grin.

"You made these." His tone said everything. "A goblin alchemist."

"It's true!" From his inverted position, Fumbus glared up at all of them. "I know things—secret things! I brew magic!"

The captain leaned back and crossed his arms. "If you're an alchemist," he drawled, holding up the vial, "then what does this one do?"

Fumbus stared for a moment, then answered truthfully. "It makes light. Lots of it. But you have to shake it."

"Really?" One eyebrow quirked upward. The wererat pursed his lips thoughtfully, then gave the vial a hard shake.

Fumbus hadn't been lying—that mixture really did make light. And heat. And a delicious, smoky smell as both potion and captain exploded into flames.

The wererat holding Fumbus's feet jumped backward, releasing his grip. Fumbus hit the deck and rolled, coming up with his pack before the flames could set off any more of his concoctions—or worse, boil his pickles.

In an eyeblink, he was up the ladder to the main deck. Sailors shouted and scrambled after him, but he dug into his pouches as he ran, coming up with a half-prepared starter bottle and a handful of ingredients. With a practiced motion, he jammed the reagents into the bottle, judging the right proportions by feel and smell, and lobbed it into an open hatch.

Fire bloomed beneath the foredeck, drawing screams from those trapped below.

It wasn't quite enough, though. While several sailors raced to douse the flames, others pursued him down the gangplank, through the maze of crates waiting to be loaded.

He considered throwing another fire flask, but already the dock's fire bells were tolling. He'd come to like living in Absalom and didn't really want to burn down the entire harbor. At least not before Droven came back.

He needed something different. As he ran, he yanked bottles and pots from his pack, flicking open the stoppers to taste each one, trying to find what he needed. Acrid meant guano, which was a fine base, but the tangy toadstool juice wouldn't do at all...

Behind him, filthy claws scraped against Fumbus's pickle-barrel pack as the lead rat lunged, just barely missing flesh.

In desperation, Fumbus upended another flask into his mouth. Its contents fizzed and frothed across his tongue.

Perfect! Ducking around an assembly of loading carts, he withdrew another of his starter bombs, spitting in just the right amount of bubbling liquid. With a flick of his flint, he lit the fuse—

And held it. Here on the docks, everything was too open. But if he could just find the right spot...

There—a gate in the seawall, opening onto a crowded promenade where formerly carousing sailors now gawked at the flames or raced to save their ships. Fumbus zagged toward it, skidding past a shocked guard, and tossed the flask backward over his shoulder.

It exploded in a thick cloud of roiling smoke, engulfing the pursuing rats. In that moment of blindness, Fumbus ducked between the legs of passing longshanks, disappearing into the crowd.

He kept running for two more blocks, making sure no rats had followed, then turned uphill, clambering up a rain barrel and onto the roof of a sagging tavern. From a perch near the chimney, he looked out at the docks, where flames now rose from half a dozen ships.

Fumbus sighed. Now the harbormaster would really never help him find Droven. He'd probably have to avoid the whole district for weeks, at least. And it wasn't even his fault! He didn't mean for everything to end in fire. It was just something that sometimes happened—like lightning storms or burglary. There was nothing to be done about it.

But he had to admit, it was kind of pretty.

Leaning back against the chimney, he rested his head against cold bricks and watched the flames curl skyward.

That concludes this series of Iconic Encounters. For more short fiction set in the world of Pathfinder, check back next week for the first in our Tales of Lost Omens series, detailing the sorts of adventures you can set in the Age of Lost Omens! Until then, Pathfinders, may your bombs only explode when and where you want them to.

Mark Moreland
Franchise Manager

It seems like forever ago that we first introduced the iconic characters who have since come to embody the amazing adventures that make Pathfinder the beloved game it has become. First among them, was the iconic fighter, Valeros, who made his debut just over 12 years ago, on May 7, 2007. Since then, he's gotten a more thorough Meet the Iconics introduction, and featured in three Pathfinder Legends adventure path adaptations and nearly 50 issues of Pathfinder comics, making him one of the most omnipresent iconic characters around. That doesn't mean his story's over, however, as we've got another exciting tale featuring his antics below. Enjoy the following piece of short fiction from James L. Sutter in the next entry into our series of Iconic Encounters—brief vignettes of the iconic characters showcasing the myriad stories you can tell with Pathfinder Second Edition.

Illustration by Hai Hoang

The soldier had been staring at him from the corner for the last two drinks. Now at last she stood and moved his direction, plate armor hanging heavily from her broad shoulders.

Valeros smiled. Big was good—he liked a woman who could throw him around a little.

Then the two soldiers with her stood, and his smile faded. He could work with that if it came to it, but it wasn't really his first choice.

Then she reached into the shadows beneath a table and withdrew a greatsword, the steel sliding free of its sheath with a whispered song, and Valeros was forced to concede that maybe the night wasn't going his way after all.

"Valeros of Andoran," the woman thundered. "For crimes against the Empire of Cheliax, I hereby place you under arrest."

Damn. Valeros had seen the sigils on their armor, but they were a long way from Cheliax, and he'd thought she'd been interested in his hair, not his history.

He took a sip from his mug and eyed her sword. "I thought we were supposed to check our weapons at the door."

"You are," the woman said, and all three of the soldiers grinned wolfishly. "It makes our job easier."

Valeros sighed. He'd really been hoping for a different sort of tussle tonight. He sagged, folding his arms tiredly over the shield propped against the side of his chair.

"Well," he observed, "good thing this isn't really a weapon, then."

The shield's metal edge slammed up beneath the first soldier's chin, snapping his head back and sending him sprawling across a nearby table. Valeros's chair followed him, spinning out into the other two and fouling them up long enough for Valeros to slip his arm through the shield's leather straps.

He brought it back around just in time to catch the scything stroke of the woman's blade, barely managing to turn it aside. Beer sloshed from the mug in his free hand.

"Hey!" he yelled. "I paid for that!"

"You'll pay for more than that!" The woman hammered the sword down again. The force of the blow dented steel, sending a shock of pain up Valeros's shield arm, followed by a more concerning numbness.

"Yeah, to hell with this." Valeros rammed the shield into the woman's chest, pulling her backward. He started to take a swing at the other soldier, only to remember he still held his tankard. He turned the blow into an elbow strike, slamming his armor into the man's cheekbone.

The huge sword—and really, what kind of overcompensating barbarian fought with something that large?—struck again, crashing down like a falling tree. It was too much for the shield: one of the leather straps popped free, leaving Valeros holding the military equivalent of an oversized serving platter.

"Stupid shield!" Valeros flung it aside, then spun around behind the soldier with the busted cheek, grabbing him in a chokehold and putting him between Valeros and the swordswoman. "Meat's the best shield, anyway."

The swordswoman paused, calculating the probability of beheading Valeros without hurting her comrade. Or possibly evaluating how much she liked said comrade—Chelaxians were a tough bunch like that. Either way, it gave Valeros a moment to breathe, and he took the opportunity to take a drink from his tankard.

And got nothing. In growing horror, he looked down into the empty mug, then at the dark trail of beer across the sawdust-covered floor.

The last of his good mood slipped away. He squeezed his captive's neck tighter, leaning down to speak directly into the terrified soldier's ear.

"You broke my shield," he whispered. "That's annoying, but fixable. That beer, though..." He flexed, and the man's limbs began flailing frantically. "That beer is gone forever..."

If you enjoyed this week's entry into the Iconic Encounters series, be sure to check back next week for the series' conclusion with a story featuring the iconic goblin alchemist, Fumbus! Until then, Pathfinders, keep your shield ready and your tankards full.

Mark Moreland
Franchise Manager

Some spellcasters study tirelessly to master the arcane arts, such as the wizard Ezren, whose understanding of various treatises on magic was at the heart of his Iconic Encounter a few months ago. Others, however, like the iconic sorcerer, Seoni, gain their magical abilities from their blood, whether that's a hint of an extraplanar power or simply legendary ancestors from ages long past. Enjoy the following piece of short fiction from James L. Sutter in the next entry into our series of Iconic Encounters—brief vignettes of the iconic characters showcasing the myriad stories you can tell with Pathfinder Second Edition.

Illustration by Mikhail Palamarchuk

The gargoyles hit like a ton of bricks—which they were, more or less. Valeros went flying as the leading statue-beast slammed into him, and if not for Kyra grabbing his leg as he sailed past, he might have tumbled from the roof entirely. Seoni only barely managed to dodge the two that came for her, their stony wings chipping shards from the parapet as they swooped in for the kill.

Valeros didn't bother to stand. From his position flat on his back, he thrust upward with his sword. Steel sparked and screeched across stone pectorals, barely scratching one of the beasts as it glided past, claws raking at his armor.

Behind him, light blazed from 'Kyra's holy symbol, casting long shadows against the dusk.

"It's no good!" the cleric shouted, lashing out ineffectively with her own blade. "They're not evil!"

"You could have fooled me!" Valeros rolled aside as claws gouged stone like bread dough, leaving deep furrows. He barely blocked a second strike with his shield. "Cayden's cup, how do we hurt these things?"

How indeed? Seoni raised her staff, then hesitated. Would fire even touch these stone monstrosities? Or lightning?

Best to be safe. She let her eyes defocus, turning her sight inward—down inside herself, to the roiling core. Across her skin, tattoos flared to life, their blue light feeding back into her, running like ley lines into her soul.

For Ezren, magic was a memory—the struggle to record and remember, his wizardry dry and academic. For Kyra, it was channeling the power the divine, making herself a vessel for the sun goddess's holy flame.

For Seoni, it was both of these and neither. The power came to her like a memory, but it was not her memory. The power that filled her was not a god's, but her own people's, a thousand generations flowing through her veins. With it came their whispers—shards of lives she'd never lived, voices long since turned to dust. Uncounted faces staring back from inside her.

Sigils blazed in the air before her. They spun around her hands, then shot forward like darts, smashing through the gargoyles' stone flesh in bloodless explosions. The monsters screamed in shock and pain, banking away from the tower.

Seoni smiled, but only briefly. She'd proved the creatures could be hurt, but her missiles were too weak to take on all of them singlehanded. Wearing them down would take too long, and already the beasts were wheeling around for another pass.

Yet something about the creatures' twisted visages tugged at her memory.

Or maybe not her memory...

Falling back into the shelter of the cathedral's doorway, she closed her eyes. Shutting out the snarls of the enemy and the shouts of her friends, she sought new voices—those flowing through her blood. They surged louder, surrounding her as she asked her silent question.

A storm of images, whirling and chaotic. Faces familiar and foreign, seasons flickering past like lightning. A flash of stone wings. The glint of a blade too bright for steel...

Seoni's eyes snapped open. "Adamantine! They're vulnerable to adamantine!"

Kyra dodged another claw swipe and looked over at her, her own eyes wide. "Those blades in the crypt! The ones the knights were buried with!"

"Then what are we waiting for?" Through bruises and blood, Valeros grinned. "Looks like the church is going to make a donation to us for a change!"

If you liked this week's Iconic Encounter, be sure to check back next Thursday for another new entry in the series. Until then, Pathfinders, may the power of your ancestors flow through your veins.

Mark Moreland
Franchise Manager

It takes dedication and resolve to stay true to one's principles, even when doing so is difficult or disadvantageous. No Pathfinder class more exemplifies this truth than the champion, whose sacrifices for her beliefs bring her incredible power, and no character better embodies the spirit of a champion than Seelah, the iconic paladin. Enjoy the following piece of short fiction from James L. Sutter in the next entry into our series of Iconic Encounters—brief vignettes of the iconic characters showcasing the myriad stories you can tell with Pathfinder Second Edition.

Illustration by Biagio d'Alessandro

The spirit in Seelah's blade sang, an angelic chorus that only she could hear. It surged triumphantly as she blocked another devil's glaive strike, paeans like invisible hands supporting her weary sword arm.

Around her, Hell seethed, its flaming pits and spiked chains everything the canon had described. Blistering winds heated her armor until it burned like a brand wherever metal touched exposed skin. Blood ran freely from dozens of cuts, the last of her strength trickling from infernal wounds that refused to clot. She was tired—so, so tired.

But there could be no rest. No retreat. Just ahead, Merisiel's unconscious body bobbed as if floating on a sea of devils. Seelah wasn't about to abandon the elf, even if it meant her own death.

After all, she'd followed her friends into Hell itself—compared to that, what was one more battle?

She grinned fiercely at the thought and shoved forward, knocking another wicked glaive aside with her shield. Above a beard of writhing barbs, the devil's eyes widened.

"Iomedae!" Seelah screamed and slammed her sword into the devil's chest.

Light burst from the strike, flowing over the devil in radiant fire. It stumbled sideways, skin flaking and disintegrating into holy illumination. The goddess's power clung to the fiend like honey as Seelah moved past it, striking left and right with righteous fury, making one last push to reach her friend.

The devils carrying Merisiel saw the paladin coming, their fellows falling like wheat before the reaper as she carved a path to them.

The one holding the elf's feet dropped them. Snarling something in the tongue of the damned, it raised its glaive, reversed it, and slammed the point home into Merisiel's chest.

Or tried to. As the blade descended, light shot from the crossguard of Seelah's sword, sliding between the murderous glaive and Merisiel's undefended chest to wrap the elf in a paper-thin shield of blazing glory. The glaive's tip slid sideways.

The devil looked up just in time to see Seelah's blade scythe in. Severed beard-tendrils scattered as the devil's head left its shoulders, bouncing down the endless steps toward the flaming chasm that had spawned it.

It was enough. The other devils broke at last, dropping Merisiel's body and scrambling up the steps toward the safety of their blackened keep.

Seelah knelt, putting a radiant hand to Merisiel's chest. The elf's eyes flickered open.

"Seelah?" Merisiel stared up in surprise. "You came back for me?"

Seelah smiled. "You should have more faith, Merisiel."

Somewhere above them, a horn sounded. Then another.

Seelah's smile faded. She stood, every muscle in her legs screaming, and hauled the elf to her feet. Merisiel hissed as her injured knee took the weight, and Seelah draped one of the elf's arms across her armored shoulders.

"Come on," she said, as they began hobbling back down the stairs. "Let's see if the goddess has one last miracle for us..."

If you liked this week's Iconic Encounter, be sure to check back next Thursday for another exciting entry in the series. Until then, Pathfinders, may all your strikes be retributive.

Mark Moreland
Franchise Manager

We're hard at work training for the release of Pathfinder Second Edition, a task that requires precision of mind, feats of endurance, and the patience of a coiled viper. The task would be next to impossible if we didn't have such an inspiring example in Sajan, the iconic monk, who strives every day to perfect himself and those around him. Enjoy the following piece of short fiction from James L. Sutter in the next entry into our series of Iconic Encounters—brief vignettes of the iconic characters showcasing the myriad stories you can tell with Pathfinder Second Edition.

Illustration by Robert Pitturru

Claws large enough to take Sajan's head clean off whispered past his shoulder, sliding through the air where he'd been a heartbeat earlier. The troll caught himself, following up with a kidney strike that could have eviscerated a horse, but too slowly. Sajan stepped inside the troll's guard, the combination flowing smoothly. Gut, gut, face, throat—his arms pistoned as he struck, the sound of each fist's impact blending with the others like raindrops in a storm.

The troll staggered backward, pushing Sajan away with a clumsy front kick, abandoning any attempt at grappling in order to put some space between them.

It was the wrong move. Sajan took two steps forward and launched himself into the air, rolling to his left. His chambered right leg shot out, heel catching the troll in the cheek with all the force of his momentum. Bone shattered.

Both Sajan and the troll dropped to the ground, but only Sajan landed on his feet. The troll lay on the paving stones, chest heaving as he blinked uncomprehendingly up at the hawks riding thermals high above.

Sajan leaned down and extended a hand.

"Again?"

"With you?" The troll accepted Sajan's hand, threating to pull the monk off his feet as he lurched upright. He reached up and shoved his broken jaw back into place with a crunch. "If I enjoyed hurting myself, I would have stayed in Kaer Maga and become an Augur."

Sajan grinned and slapped the troll's enormous shoulder. "Quit whining—some of us actually have to live with our injuries. In ten minutes you won't even remember that I hit you."

"Not true." The troll led him across the practice yard to the water barrel. Ignoring the dipper, the giant lifted the entire thing and took a long drink before setting it down again. "I won't be forgetting that anytime soon." He shook his head. "Tusks, Sajan—if that's how you fight when it's all in good fun, I'd hate to see you angry."

Sajan lifted the ladle, dribbling water over his shaved head. "That's my secret, Jora: I never fight angry. Anger clouds the mind, makes you stupid. Slow."

Jora raised one bushy caterpillar of an eyebrow. "Never?"

Memories rose unbidden: A battle. A lord. A hard woman with his own face.

Sajan frowned. "I—"

A gong rang. Both Jora and Sajan spun, snapping to attention. Across the yard, the temple's huge bronze doors swung open, unleashing an orderly procession of monks. And behind them...

Sajan bowed low, Jora only a heartbeat behind. "Master! You honor us."

The old woman approached. She was tiny, her silver hair bright against the deep blue of her sari, yet her ancient feet made no sound as they crossed the weathered stones. Her callused palm touched the back of Sajan's head, as gentle as a sparrow alighting.

"Sajan." Her voice was high and strong, forged on countless battlefields. "You've trained well in your time with us, yet the time for study is past. I have seen the path that Irori has set for you, and it is long—long before you came to us, and longer still once you leave. Yet before you go, if you would be a full son of the Hidden Peaks School, you must pass one final challenge."

Sajan closed his eyes.

"Tell me what I must do."

If you liked this week's Iconic Encounter, be sure to check back next Thursday for another exciting entry in the series. Until then, Pathfinders, keep your ki focused and your minds open.

Mark Moreland
Franchise Manager

I had to search extra carefully to locate this week's Iconic Encounter, thanks in no small part to the unmatched stealth of Merisiel, the iconic rogue! Enjoy the following piece of short fiction from James L. Sutter in the next entry into our series of Iconic Encounters—brief vignettes of the iconic characters showcasing the myriad stories you can tell with Pathfinder Second Edition.

Illustration by Mary Jane Pajaron

Merisiel had heard enough. The targets, the timetables, the names of the operatives—she had everything she could need to properly foil their plan.

Below, the vampires stood around their map table, arguing over details. Merisiel itched to put knives in all their backs, but even with the element of surprise, she knew the only person she was likely to kill with such an attack was herself. Besides, it wasn't in the plan.

Unfortunately, what came next also wasn't in the plan. She'd arrived well before the vampires, and chosen the perfect hiding place in the subterranean cathedral's upper balcony. It had been a beautiful piece of infiltration work, if she did say so herself. Yet how could she have known that the head vampire's first order of business would be making her pretty-boy underlings move the map table from its original position to a new spot directly blocking Merisiel's exit? Who orchestrated a coup and then wasted valuable conspiracy time rearranging furniture?

Regardless, Merisiel was going to have to get creative. Given the vampires' ability to see in the dark, the shadows wouldn't be much help. And from their new positions around the table, no matter which way she tried to sneak past them, at least one would inevitably spot her long before she made it to the door.

Her gaze rose, taking in the vaulted ceiling.

Maybe...

Without further deliberation, she crept to the wall and began to climb.

It was a big risk—but then, what part of this caper wasn't? And for all the vampires' supernatural senses, they'd still started out as humans, which meant they retained a human mindset. And humans rarely looked up without a reason. Silent as a ghost, Merisiel picked her way across the ceiling, spidering over ancient frescoes of rulers long since turned to dust in the crypts below.

She was almost to the door when the fop with the perfectly tousled hair made an impertinent comment, earning a backhand from the leader. The slap knocked the vampire's head backward, tilting it at just the wrong angle. His eyes met Merisiel's and widened.

She dropped the last ten feet to the floor, rolling to distribute the momentum as best she could, and darted for the door.

They were almost too fast for her. A brace of knives flung backward slowed them enough to give her a lead, but she knew that would only buy her so much time—once they realized she wasn't packing silver, they'd lose what little caution they had.

She sprinted through musty stone corridors, the pack baying like hounds at her heels. The squad of spawn who'd been keeping lookout at the main entrance appeared in the tunnel ahead, and Merisiel dodged left around a corner, barely touching the stairs beneath her as she raced downward, deeper into the crypts.

Behind her, someone shouted about the sewers, realizing how she must have gotten past them the first time. She banked around another corner—

—and into a dead end. Half a dozen sarcophagi lay in niches around the circular mausoleum, the windowless walls covered in ornate Pharasmin prayers.

She whirled just in time to see vampires fill the only doorway. Recognizing her predicament, they grinned and took the time to form up, stalking forward slowly to savor the drama. Predatory eyes glowed with reflected light from the solitary torch.

"So. A spy." The dandy with the stupid hat sneered, baring a single long fang. "Perhaps not everyone in the court is as clueless as we presumed. Too bad they'll never hear your report."

"Oh, I wouldn't worry about that," Merisiel replied. "They already know all your plans."

"What?" It wasn't really possible for someone that pale to blanch, but he made a valiant effort.

"Yeah, see, I snuck in yesterday while you were all taking your coffin naps and copied your documents." Merisiel made a face. "Honestly, I know you're a little behind the times, on account of being dead and all, but you really need to invest in some better locks. I mean, poison needle traps? What am I—twelve?"

"She's bluffing." The leader shoved her way to the front and grabbed Merisiel by her armor's leather collar. She hauled the elf close, perfect face twisting in a cruel smile. "If you had done what you say, why would you risk being here now?"

Merisiel made no move to resist, only matched that smile with one of her own.

"The thing is," she said, "it just seemed like a shame to waste the opportunity. What with all of you being together in one place."

The sound of grinding stone echoed from every direction as lids slid from sarcophagi. Kyra and the other priests stood up from their hiding places, holy symbols already extended.

Merisiel closed her eyes as the blaze of holy light washed over her.

If you liked this week's Iconic Encounter, be sure to check back next Thursday for another exciting entry in the series. Until then, Pathfinders, may your heists go off without a hitch.

Mark Moreland
Franchise Manager

We're now over a month into our Iconic Encounters web series, so it's only natural that we'd get to Lini, the iconic gnome druid, sooner rather than later. This week's piece of flash fiction from James L. Sutter finds the intrepid adventurer alone in the Darklands with only her faithful companion, Droogami, to aid her in battling a sinister, fleshwarped foe.

Illustration by Sam Yang

Lini ducked just as the spider-lady flung a gob of green acid. It spattered across Droogami’s fur instead, sending up a waft of sickly acrid smoke. The leopard snarled, contorting in pain.

“Droo! Don’t bite it!” Lini closed her eyes, stretching out her mind-hands to feel for the big cat’s wound. There—a twisted, blackened feeling, like the trail of a summer wildfire. She reached out to the life around her, begging and borrowing from the mushrooms and water bugs of the strange cave, redirecting their shared energy. In her mind’s eye, she pictured rain pattering down across that forest scar, feeding dormant seeds, calling forth the first green shoots of regrowth.

She opened her eyes. Where the acid had burned, the leopard’s flesh had healed to gray-pink scar tissue, already beginning to sprout fur.

Droogami yowled again.

“Oh, hush! It’ll grow out!” Lini turned back just in time to dodge a swipe of the arachnid abomination’s claws.

The fleshwarp shouted something in a language that sounded like snapping twigs, but that Lini was pretty sure wasn’t the language of twigs. If twigs could speak to anyone, Lini was fairly confident they’d talk to her, not this gross spider-lady.

And she really was gross. Who’d ruin a perfectly good giant spider by fusing half an elf to it? Let alone a rude one like this.

One of the spear-like spider legs shot out, catching Droogami in the chest and flinging the cat sideways against the wall. Droogami hissed and surged back to his feet.

Definitely rude. Lini fell back toward the mushroom patch and reached for the green essence that flowed through nature.

Not, like, literal green—everything growing in these caves was purple or glow-pink or fishbelly white. But it was all still part of the green within Lini, Droogami, and even the fleshwarped dark elf: the endless cycles of the natural world that bound all things. The things that grew down here might not match the hills and forests she was used to, but that didn’t matter. Being a druid meant finding the natural in everything. You took your forest with you. She reached out to all the little lives—the skittish minds of the crawlers and burrowers, the sleeping spirits of the fungus, the unseen parasites in their water-drop empires—and asked for help.

They answered in a rush, vines bursting forth from nowhere to tangle the dark elf aberration’s legs. She screeched and fell sideways, slashing with her claws, but for every vine she severed three more took hold. She turned toward Lini, one fist wreathed in black flame.

Droogami pounced, landing on the angry arachnid from above and driving her down into the writhing mass. The vines immediately wrapped him up as well—there was only so much discretion you could ask from a plant, magical or otherwise—but unlike the spider-lady, he had no interest in breaking free. As the vines bound them closer together, he snarled and took the dark elf’s neck in his mouth, biting down just hard enough to draw blood.

The fleshwarp went still, flame winking out as she took the hint.

“Sorry about his breath,” Lini observed in the language of elves. She picked her way closer, hopping from mushroom to mushroom. “I’ve tried to show him how to scrape his teeth with twigs, but he’s too stubborn. And you wouldn’t believe some of the things he’s eaten down here.” She wrinkled her nose. “Or maybe you would. I don’t know what you believe. That’s your business.” She seated herself cross-legged at the edge of the vines.

Through the waving tendrils, the spider-lady watched the gnome with angry, unblinking eyes. Lini drew her scythe, tapping it thoughtfully against her cheek.

“My business, on the other hand, is finding where those slavers took our friends. And since Droogami here can smell them on you, we’d like to ask you a few questions...”

If you liked this week's Iconic Encounter, you won't want to miss next week's exciting entry. Until then, Pathfinders, may your circle be unbroken!

Mark Moreland
Franchise Manager

An adventuring party is like a rock band, each member bringing his or her own unique sound to the collective whole. A champion or fighter may stand in front, her wailing axe cutting a line through the crowd. A cleric or wizard might hide off to the side, out of the spotlight, but filling the room with atmospheric effects, a veritable wall of sound. A witty rogue may dart about the stage with precise choreography, delivering pointed accents to her allies' riffs. But it's the bard that ties the entire ensemble together, the drummer who keeps everyone on the beat, making each of his bandmates' parts shine. Lem, the iconic bard, is Pathfinder's Ringo, and his friends certainly get by with a little of his help!

Enjoy the following piece of short fiction from James L. Sutter in the next entry into our series of Iconic Encounters—brief vignettes of the iconic characters showcasing the myriad stories you can tell with Pathfinder Second Edition.

Illustration by Biagio d'Alessandro

The three harpies circled the ruins, raining threats, darts, and excrement in equal measure.

"Oh yeah?!" Lem dodged another grotesque barrage, releasing the knot of his whirling sling as he went. The bullet shot from the pouch, smashing into the leader's jaw and dropping her to the cobblestone plaza. "Bring it, birdbrains!"

The remaining harpies—a male and a female—screeched and retreated as far as the crumbling arcade, putting the ancient pillars between them and further slingstones.

Valeros cursed as one of his few remaining arrows shattered against the masonry. He nocked another. "At least we've got them on the run."

And then, like fetid angels, the harpies opened their mouths and began to sing.

The notes seemed too pure for the fanged maws that made them—high and clear, without any trace of the harpies' usual hunting shriek. Their haunting refrain echoed across the plaza.

Lem snorted. "Ah yes, natural minor—very spooky, very exotic. But you'll have to do better than that if—"

Next to him, Valeros took a staggering step forward, bow lowered and eyes rapturously blank.

"Oh come on!" Lem grabbed at the warrior's wrist, only to be shoved aside as Valeros broke into a stumbling run toward the grinning harpies. "Seriously?! They don't even have lyrics! What about rhyme and meter? Clever wordplay?"

Merisiel dodged in front of Valeros, barely managing to parry a club swing that would have taken his head off. "I don't think he's interested in an artistic education right now, Lem!"

"What else is new?" But Lem tucked his sling away. Drawing his flute, he clambered up the side of the temple entrance and perched atop its crumbled stones. Around him, the harpies' song filled the air, heavy with magic.

Lem pursed his lips. "Not a bad riff," he conceded. "A little simple, but you've got to start somewhere." He raised the flute. "Now let me try."

He played. At first, it was just notes—a quick trilling ascension to make sure he had the right key—yet it was enough to kindle his own magic. The spell swirled inside him as he found the groove, perfectly matching the harpies' melody.

For a moment, he almost didn't want to follow through. There was an infectious quality to the harpies' song—not the magical compulsion pulling Valeros to his doom, but the familiar pleasure or playing with other talented musicians. The harpies were talented, in their way. Under other circumstances, he would have loved to lose himself in the collaboration, feeling their tones resonating through his chest, their harmonies raising the hair on his arms and toes. Instead, he let that desire feed his magic, swelling toward a vast, impending crescendo.

Hearing their own song echoed back, the harpies looked over at him in surprise.

Lem waggled his eyebrows and triggered the spell.

Power flowed through him, surging into his lungs, coursing down into his fingers. It was still him playing, but now it was as if he'd played this particular piece a thousand times, his body moving through muscle memory, faster than conscious thought. His flute dove away from the melody line, threading through the piece like dolphins playing in the surf. And where he played, the harpies' song changed: his tones altering their chords, his notes filling their silences, each revision robbing their performance of its power. He blew harder, and the magic found their song's most crucial notes and inverted them, playing ghost notes that somehow crashed into the harpies' own and canceled them out, sucking both tones from the air.

The harpies broke off their faltering song. Screaming in outrage, they stooped and dove toward the bard, claws and clubs extended.

Valeros's arrow caught the female in the shoulder, sending her tumbling from the sky. Merisiel's dagger was a second slower but twice as sure, lancing through the male's throat and killing him before he even had a chance to fall.

Lem let the magic fade. Pulling the flute from his lips, he stared down at the fallen harpies with genuine sadness.

"Sorry," he said. "You were good, but my friends are kind of a tough crowd..."

If you liked this week's Iconic Encounter, you won't want to miss next week's exciting entry. Until then, Pathfinders, if music be the food of love, play on!

Mark Moreland
Franchise Manager

Glory to the Dawnflower! Today, Sarenrae answered the prayers of fans of Kyra, the iconic cleric! Enjoy the following piece of short fiction from James L. Sutter in the next entry into our series of Iconic Encounters—brief vignettes of the iconic characters showcasing the myriad stories you can tell with Pathfinder Second Edition.

Illustration by Matteo Spirito

The doors of the refuge shuddered as the monstrosity slammed against it once more. Wood that had protected the townsfolk faithfully for generations cracked and split, the stout timbers no match for the strength of a full-grown troll.

Kyra moved through the cave, tending to the injured in the light of ancient glowworms. She'd long since used up the last of her magic, and now had little more to offer than a kind word and a gentle hand. Yet still she walked among them, head held high—a symbol of Sarenrae's salvation.

"Why don't you fight it?"

The child was small and shoeless, with the unflinching boldness of the very young. Kyra seethed at the question, yet knelt to look him in the eye, careful to keep her voice calm. "We have no fire. Without it, my sword is useless. And I have no magic left."

The child frowned. "But Sarenrae has fire and magic. Shouldn't we pray?"

"Aren't we?" Kyra smiled, reaching out to cup the child's cheek. "Sometimes the best prayer is helping others."

The child opened his mouth, but any further questions were cut off by a final, fatal crunch from the doors as the crossbeam gave way. Kyra turned and drew her scimitar, waving aside the townsfolk who were frantically pressing their backs against the ruined wood.

The doors exploded open, slamming into the unfinished rock of the stronghold's walls. The soft glow of the cave worms spread gentle, syrupy light over the hulking shoulders and shovel-sized claws of the murderous troll.

Kyra stepped forward. Despite her wounds, despite the heaviness of her sword arm, her heart felt lighter than it had since the whole nightmare had begun. She was out of tricks, out of any real hope of defeating the beast—yet here she was, placing herself between the predator and the innocent. Right where she was supposed to be.

As she'd told the child, sometimes that was prayer enough.

"Again, priest?" Wet lips smacked around protruding tusks as the troll chuckled. He spread his enormous arms, showing thin lines of scar tissue that had been gaping wounds an hour ago. "So be it. I'm ready. But are you?"

Kyra said nothing, only angled her blade and slid her rear foot back into Sunrise Wakes the Mountain.

He was right, of course. She'd been outmatched even when she'd been fresh, when her heart-fires had roared with the spells of her faith. Yet the stance still came easily, muscles trained by countless morning prayer forms. Her mind might know she was beaten, but her body didn't.

"You're out of magic." The troll grunted—a boar's wet snort. "Your goddess has abandoned you. But die how you like." He shrugged and reached for her.

That's when she felt it: the familiar warmth, waiting like a hot coal in her chest. She breathed in, letting the embers flare, and sank into the heat like the embrace it was. She raised her holy symbol.

The troll's tiny, piggish eyes shot wide, and then the flames engulfed him, searing green flesh black. He roared, falling backward as he burned.

Kyra let the goddess's symbol fall back against her chest, pain flooding back in as the magic receded.

From the cave floor, the charred mess of the troll glared up with agonized incredulity. His croak was as cracked as his flesh. "How?"

"You were wrong." Kyra stood over him, looking down calmly. "Whatever happens, the goddess never truly leaves us. She'll walk with me until my last breath."

She raised her sword in both hands.

"Or until yours..."

If you liked this week's Iconic Encounter, you won't want to miss next week's exciting entry. Until then, Pathfinders, may you walk in the light and heat of the sun!

Mark Moreland
Franchise Manager

Pathfinder fans have been tracking Harsk, the iconic ranger, for years now, but he's finally revealed himself and he's armed for bear! Enjoy the following piece of short fiction from James L. Sutter in the next entry into our series of Iconic Encounters—brief vignettes of the iconic characters showcasing the myriad stories you can tell with Pathfinder Second Edition.

Harsk had to admit, they'd had him stumped.

It'd been obvious what had happened in the village. The stench of blood and death had hung in the frozen air, fresh from corpses that hadn't even finished freezing. And there'd been no question as to where the raiders had gone: one set of wagon ruts, heavily laden.

But the tracks—the tracks hadn't made any sense. Each corpse sprawled in a wedding-dance swirl of boot prints, but they were all the corpses' own prints. Every one of them, slain fighting a foe that left no trace but bloodshed.

He'd been headed into one of the ransacked houses to boil himself a pot of thinking tea when he remembered the story he'd heard at the trading post, of magical white-furred slavers called wikkawaks who slid light as ghosts over the snow. On impulse, he'd passed by the hearth in favor of the house's salt pot. He'd carried it outside and shook it over the snow, and suddenly there they were: a flurry of deep tracks, just like the folktales said.

Illustration by Valeria Lutfullina

Now he crouched among the stones of the mountain pass, white bear pelt blending with the snow as he gazed down at the three slavers and their caged victims.

There was a time when he would have ended it here. Put them down with his crossbow from the shadow of the rock. It was the prudent move, as efficient and mechanical as the bow itself.

He still did it that way, when he had to. Yet in recent years he'd found himself more and more reluctant to unsling the machine. Killing that way felt too detached. It felt like cowardice.

Which was ridiculous. A wolf felt no guilt over striking from darkness, no shame in hunting with the pack. Only humanoids were stupid enough to forego the advantages nature granted.

He dropped loudly into the middle of the camp, axes in hand. Rough voices shouted in alarm.

His brother had once said that in a battle, you had to fight as if you were taking on the whole army yourself—watching everywhere at once, ready to attack or be attacked from any quarter. And that was true as far as it went. You needed to keep your eyes open.

But it was also badger scat. You didn't hunt every deer in the forest. You singled one out, ran it down, and did what needed doing.

He chose the one in front, figuring it for the leader by its necklace of human ears. He drew back his arm, letting the rest of the world fall away as that snarling face filled his vision. The bond of predator and prey.

The hatchet flew. At the last moment, the wikkiwak managed to snap its shield up. Crude pig iron shattered beneath the force of dwarven steel.

But Harsk was already moving, axe coming in low to take the creature's leg off at the knee. He dove beneath a wild swing, free hand snatching up the fallen hatchet, and rolled to his feet, burying the weapon in the monster's chest.

One down. The world stuttered back into focus, revealing the two remaining slavers. They spread out, trying to flank him, but they came on slowly. Cautiously.

For the first time that day, Harsk smiled.

"Next."

If you liked this week's Iconic Encounter, you won't want to miss next week's exciting entry. Until then, Pathfinders, may your enemies always be favored!

Mark Moreland
Franchise Manager

Pathfinder scholars are already familiar with Ezren, the iconic wizard, but even old dogs occasionally show off new tricks! Enjoy the following piece of short fiction from James L. Sutter in the next entry into our series of Iconic Encounters—brief vignettes of the iconic characters showcasing the myriad stories you can tell with Pathfinder Second Edition.

Illustration by Matteo Spirito

Tomes older than half the nations of the Inner Sea haphazardly crammed the shelves, or else leaned in stacks that had teetered on the brink of collapse since the days of Aroden. Ezren closed his eyes and inhaled, taking in the bone-dry bouquet of ancient pages slowly losing their battle with entropy, the scholarly tang of acetic acid. Truly, there was nothing so marvelous as a library.

"Getting a little hot out here, Ez!"

Valeros's shout cut through the perfect moment. Ezren opened his eyes in irritation, but it was true—already the temperature in the vault was rising. Outside, the crackle of flames rose alongside the hellhounds' baying, answered by the signature whoosh of Seoni's magic. Always the same spells, sorcerers. After this long traveling together, he could find her on a battlefield by sound alone.

He sighed. A shame that such an ancient repository of knowledge would be ashes by morning. But such was the fate of all things eventually.

Seating himself cross-legged among the treatises of scholars long since turned to dust, he pulled the puzzle box from his satchel. Runes glowed back at him mockingly. They'd burned to life beneath his magically altered vision, but steadfastly refused to reveal their meaning no matter which linguistic magics he'd attempted.

Very well, then—time to get creative. He applied Kazmiri's Cryptographic Theorem, twisting the wheels in quick, precise turns. Lomal's Revealing Incantations traced the box's edges in cerulean fire, yet failed to penetrate. Perhaps the Inquiring Sigil, combined with the Lockbreaker's Progressions...

"Ezren!" Valeros's voice rose, hitting the octave of a man at least partially on fire.

No. None of the old standbys. That was the problem with classics—if you knew them, so did everyone else.

That was what the arrogant elitists of the Arcanamirium and the pampered dandies at the College of Mysteries never understood. It didn't matter how many old spells you knew—wizardry wasn't butterfly collecting. They could memorize as many spells as they wanted, performing tricks for each other in their ivory towers, and still be no better than a sorcerer, trading instinct for rote.

Learning spells was supposed to be a springboard for one's own experimentation. Magic was an art and a science—both creative pursuit and process of discovery. That was what Ezren's studies on the road had taught him. In the real world, your magic had to be flexible. You needed to be able to calibrate, to channel more magic into a spell, to stretch or quicken it, to—

Adapt.

Of course! Ezren abandoned all the incantations except Lomal's and tried again, inverting the third and fifth gestures. This time, however, he infused it with a thrill of ice magic, a tendril of frost that curled inside the words and crystallized. Suddenly the magic sank inward, the box's inner workings revealed like a three-dimensional schematic as the spell traced them in Ezren's penetrating sight. With the secrets revealed, it was a simple matter to break the enchantment and align the runes in the proper order, cracking the box open to reveal...

Treasure. A glittering mass of gems, no doubt the ransom of some forgotten noble.

How disappointing. Ezren sagged backward, the box suddenly heavy in his hands. After all his research, all the team's work to fight their way into these final chambers, he'd really thought—

A voice boomed out from behind him. "WHO SUMMONS ME?"

Ezren froze. Slowly, he turned, doing his best to hide a triumphant grin.

"Greetings, Excellency." He bowed, gesturing with the glowing box. "This won't take long. Just a few questions..."

If you liked this week's Iconic Encounter, you won't want to miss next week's exciting entry. Until then, Pathfinders, study hard!

Mark Moreland
Franchise Manager

You've already met Amiri, the iconic barbarian, but you've never seen her like this! Enjoy the following piece of short fiction from James L. Sutter in the first of our series of Iconic Encounters—brief vignettes of the iconic characters showcasing the myriad stories you can tell with Pathfinder Second Edition.

Illustration by Roberto Pitturru

Snow whipped around Amiri as she stepped out from behind the rock, letting her cloak drop away. "That's far enough."

The giant looked down in surprise. Tattoos the color of woad swirled across ice-blue skin as he towered over her, the axes in his hands taller than Amiri herself. Yet she had eyes only for the broken horn on his helm. This was him, all right.

"Hail, Agmundr Jarl." Amiri knew it was pointless to feign diplomacy, but her employers had been insistent. They still thought they could solve this without blood. Never mind that blood was all that ever really solved anything. Even now, White Elk scouts were hiding in the cliffs, watching to see if she could truly do what she claimed. "The White Elk Clan greets you," she said sternly, "and will trade if you wish, but your band may not enter their territory. The council forbids it."

The frost giant stared for a moment, then guffawed, a thunderous shout that threatened to bring down an avalanche and bury them both. The frozen waterfall of his beard split in a malicious grin.

"Forbid?" His voice was the groaning of glaciers. "Prey does not forbid. Prey runs, and the hunter pursues."

"So you agree we're done talking, then." Amiri unslung the sword from her back.

The jarl's grin widened as he took in Amiri's oversized weapon. "A giant's blade! And what will you do with that, little ermine? Shelter beneath it?"

"Stick around and find out."

Amiri hoisted the sword. Immediately, her biceps began to shake, her shoulders cramping. She bit down hard, teeth grinding as she tried to steady her traitorous muscles by sheer force of will. Yet the sword's point still bobbed like a ship at sea.

"You're too weak, little ermine." Agmundr laughed again and spat, the spittle freezing in midair with a crack. "And the time for weakness has passed. The last war is nearly upon us."

There it was, then. War. It had always been coming, as inevitable as the winter snows. Amiri had known that even before accepting the White Elk Clan's offer.

Yet now she knew nothing. Red haze settled across her vision, painting white snow a prophetic crimson. Her heart beat in her temples, a war drum throb that flowed hot through her limbs. Pulsing. Eager.

"Say it again," she growled.

"You're weak." He leered down at her, eyes alight. "Too weak to fight. Too weak to even make a proper slave. Nothing but dripping fat and marrow for the cook fire."

The cold was a distant memory. Inside Amiri's chest, a blast furnace opened its doors. Her ears filled with its roar.

The sword steadied, point going as still as a rock viper.

The giant's eyes widened.

"You're right about one thing, Jarl." She smiled. "War is coming. So let's get started."

Sword held high, she raced up the slanted stone. Axes made to fell watchtowers rose into guard position as the giant stepped back. In her hands, Amiri's giant-made blade sang, its frost-forged steel suddenly light as a willow switch, longing for the blood of its makers.

Around them, the storm shrieked, savage and unstoppable.

Amiri screamed with it.

And leapt.

Check back next week for another Iconic Encounter. Until then, Pathfinders, rage on!

Mark Moreland
Franchise Manager