The Warlock's Chair.
A place of magic and adventure.
Long ago when the world was young the Faerie races ruled far and wide across the lands of the Earth.
Then with the coming of Man, they disappeared into myth and legend. But they had survived. Hidd...
IT WAS STILL DARK OUTSIDE when they all gathered in the great hall. There was a dull throbbing behind Holt's eyes. The strong Gnome ale flowed well last night.
'Today we are going to plunder Vultaur Syth's Castle,' Thayn was saying.
'What!' exclaimed one of the listeners. 'We only raided it last week.'
'Precisely, they will not be expecting us back so soon,' the red-haired Gnome continued. 'Unless you have any objections, that is. I am sure Varg would like to hear them.'
The Gnome who had voiced his misgivings shuffled nervously and shook his head.
Holt knew of Vultaur Syth, another Gnome Warlord, a very powerful one at that. But his stronghold was on the other side of Yar-Atgur, hundreds of miles away from here.
'And how do you propose we get there and back in time for lunch?' Holt asked him feigning ignorance.
'That is where Shabur Varg and his Amulet come in, my friend,' Tiber Grist interrupted. 'Come, you said you wished to meet Shabur Varg, now is the time.'
They left the hall and climbed a wide, curving stairway that led up to the topmost floor of the keep. There, great studded doors, guarded by two of Ixil Driz's brethren, barred their way. The doors swung back on well-oiled hinges as they approached. Another great hall spread out in front of them, light from the approaching dawn penetrated the large windows that surrounded the room. A roaring fire blazed in the fireplace, its flames glinting off the piles of gold and jewels that spilt from chests stacked high around the chamber.
But it was the gargantuan figure sprawled on a massive bed in the centre of the room that captured Holt's attention.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Shabur Varg's vast bloated bulk lay spread out across the thick mattresses, swathed in a thin sheet that did little to hide the abundant rolls of fat that covered his body. His features showed little of his Gnome heritage. Lank greasy hair hung over the discoloured pillows that propped up his body. Sweat pooled across the Gnome's forehead and dripped into his eyes. The nose had all but disappeared in the fatty tissue of the face. His mouth, a cruel misshapen gash full of rotting stumps of teeth, broke into a hideous grin as they entered. Thick drool dribbled from it, running down onto the jowls beneath. The odour of unwashed flesh made Holt feel nauseous, especially on top of the ale he had supped earlier.
Holt could see now why Tiber Grist thought the warlord may not have long to live.
Two She-Gnomes fussed and pampered around him, feeding him morsels of food and drink. He waved them away with a stubby-fingered hand and beckoned to Dagan Thayn.
'Thayn, come closer,' he wheezed uncomfortably. 'Has all been prepared.'
Dagan Thayn moved towards the bed. 'Yes my lord, everything has been arranged as instructed. Grist and his Brigands stand ready.'
