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Tehir Minchenzatht Haraldson, wise hermetic wizard

Permit me to introduce the first and perhaps most formidable of my companions—a gentleman and scholar who delights in his solitude atop his lofty tower. Acting both as mentor and guide, he is a master in the study of the games we so ardently play. A gatherer of knowledge and guardian of forgotten lore, he is a man with whom an evening of discourse feels but a fleeting moment, no matter how many hours we while away in debate amist the early hours of the morning, the quiet hillside bathed in moonlight at the top of his lofty tower.

It remains something of a marvel to me that I made his acquaintance at all. These days, he seldom stirs from his domain except in the face of kingdom-wide calamity. Yet I suspect, from certain tales told with a glint in his eye, that he was in his youth a creature of no small energy and mischief. Our introduction came by way of a mutual friend—one who complained often and bitterly of the wizard’s tendency to ignore his letters. My own assumptions, however, were swiftly dashed when I discovered that this reclusive sage harboured as fervent a passion for roleplaying games as I myself, and that his formative years had been spent in dedicated study of their every nuance. We soon developed a close and fruitful association, with myself diligently plying him for his wisdom, that I might share it with the wider world.

Yet, I must offer a word of caution. His mind is as quick and sharp as any blade, and when it comes to rules and regulations he yields to no one. Persuading him to entertain a notion not enshrined in his beloved scriptures is a task fit for the gods themselves. Still, I grant him his eccentricities. However, one offence alone I cannot abide—the distinct suspicion that he employs his arcane talents to gain undue advantage during those rare occasions I have the privilege (or perhaps misfortune) of serving as his gamemaster. Regrettably, this is an unfounded accusation for at any moment I attempt to inspect the validity of his dice, he bedazzles me with his astonishing record-keeping skills and my attention slips.

All in all, I will present to you many of the discussions we have shared over the years for your consideration and delight—debates most often centred upon the rules that govern our play, their virtues, their failings, and the curious alchemy by which they shape our stories. He is, without doubt, an endlessly fascinating companion, and I can but hope that in these pages I might succeed in conveying even a modest portion of his vast and intricate wisdom.

Sehkhepri, loyal and lusterous scarab beetle familiar

Were Sehkhepri ever to take up the mantle of gamesmaster—a notion both thrilling and terrifying—she would no doubt lavish her players a tapestry of secrets, sights, and lore so rich and strange that none could emerge unchanged—all while scheming their downfall in cruel and malefic ways. Her plots would be intricate beyond reason, darkly wondrous and elaborate, yet she would, with cheerful indifference, neglect the herculean task to tie their threads together at the last. The finale would leave more riddles than the beginning, and whether this were from cunning malice or inscrutable practicality, I confess I could not tell. As any who have dealt with scarab beetles (and especially those elevated to the station of familiar) will know, their powers of deception are as profound as they are inscrutable.

My association with Sehkhepri is one of such longevity and complexity that to recount it here would be folly. Let it suffice that ours is a contract forged in ink and will, unbreakable, and that Sehkhepri relishes her freedom from my side whenever possible. What she gains from our pact remains a mystery to me—but what I gain is beyond price. In the quiet hours before dawn, when my troupe still slumbers and my mind begins to stir with the day’s imaginings, Sehkhepri comes to me. With an elegance that can only be described as otherworldly, she describes some hidden wonder or forgotten marvel of our world, hitherto unknown to me. No wellspring of inspiration is as clear or as deep, and it is by her gifts that many a session has found its spark. Yet I must temper my reliance upon her; she vanishes for weeks at a time on strange errands of her own devising, returning without warning to rest, clasped dormant upon my pendant.

It would be remiss of me not to add that Sehkhepri’s talents extend beyond the imaginative. She has proven herself an informant of rare ability, unearthing the whereabouts of settlements for our performances when my own connections falter. Her awareness of my troupe’s doings borders on the uncanny—a boon, I assure you, when peace and quiet must be maintained.

I do, on occasion, ponder the intricate terms of our binding and whether, in time, these ink-bound shackles may weigh more heavily upon me than I had foreseen. But for the present, all is well, and dear Seeky remains a most treasured companion. In due course, I shall recount to you of the wonders she has explored in hopes that it may aid you too on your journey for inspiration.

Underling, an eternal nuisance and my supposed protégé

My underling—if indeed I must claim them as such—is an incompetent, unreliable, and thoroughly untrustworthy ne’er-do-well, whose presence in my life I rue with every fibre of my being. Alas, bound as I am by the cruel chains of familial obligation and an overdeveloped sense of moral duty, I am compelled to keep this hapless soul beneath my wing until such time as they, by some miracle, elect to forge a path of their own.

Were it not for the distant ties of blood that connect us (a bond I often wish were of a more metaphorical than literal nature), I should never have agreed to take them as my apprentice. The toil, the sleepless nights, the sheer volume of tears and sweat expended in this ill-fated endeavour—all these stand as testament to my grievous error. Never before have I encountered an individual so singularly unsuited even to playing the fool upon the humble stage of my commedia dell’arte troupe.

As if this were not burden enough, the underling has taken it upon themselves to perpetrate their own lamentable facsimile of my beloved roleplaying games. They preside over these travesties before a band of players who must, I can only assume, be both deaf and blind. This, of course, results in an endless procession of questions, each more senseless than the last, from which I find no refuge. To consider that one day this individual may one day be presented with powers of an arcane nature oft threatens to halt the pacing of my heart dead in its tracks.

You must, dear reader, pardon me if, in these pages, I occasionally recount the fresh misadventures and novel predicaments my underling contrives. To set down their follies—and my weary attempts at remedy—is a small balm to my frayed nerves and, perhaps, a cautionary tale to others who might consider taking on such a charge.