Information

Myrwyn
Legacy Name: Myrwyn

The Glade Feli
Owner: Alkuna

Age: 8 years, 2 months, 3 weeks

Born: January 23rd, 2016

Adopted: 5 years, 2 weeks, 5 days ago

Adopted: March 31st, 2019

Statistics

• Level: 10
   
• Strength: 26
   
• Defense: 25
   
• Speed: 25
   
• Health: 25
   
• HP: 25/25
   
• Intelligence: 29
   
• Books Read: 29
• Food Eaten: 0
• Job: Unemployed

The name of Merwin is Celtic in origin, arising from the ancient Britons of Wales. The name's specific origins were derived from the Welsh personal name Mervin, which originally took the form Merlin.
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I looked over my Game Master Screen with a stoic expression at my players, drumming my fingers on the table thoughtfully. It had been a long campaign, and they had confronted what they had believed to be my BBEG (Big Bad Evil Guy). An Adult Nightmare Mahar named Diilliivlein had just been struck the final blow.

"The massive beast collapses; Paladin's axe buried in its skull. The deafening roars have been replaced by equally deafening silence. The once mighty dragon now lies dead before you."

Cheers erupted around the table, Paladin's player uttering a whoop and thrusting a victory fist into the air. As my players high five each other, I keep my expression still and solemn.

"What will you do now?"

"Loot the cave!" Rogue's player chanted, banging his fist on the table with every word. "Loot the cave! Loot! The! Cave!"

"The Mahar's lair seems oddly empty as you explore it. A pile of gold and a few gemstones is tucked away in one of the smaller storerooms. The largest room in the lair seems to be a library, stocked high with books and tomes."

I describe the dragon's hoard to the players, deliberately making it both disappointing, and a little anticlimactic. They get fair rewards, squirreled away in the areas where their character's search, but the number of coins was deliberately made uneven, causing the players to bicker back and forth about who gets the odd coins and who misses out.

The Cleric gives the shelves a look, rolling high enough Perception to see a considerable section dedicated to the undead. The Cleric's player, however, does not pay particular attention to the little detail I have just fed her. Instead, she latches onto a book called the Tome of Life for her character.

I allow her to open it, and her Cleric is immediately given a new permanent spell slot, and the spell Sanctify Remains; a spell which would not only prevent the corpses of monsters from spreading death and disease, but also prevent necromancers from making use of any blessed body.

She accepts the spell, and reduces the squabbling of the group by claiming a smaller portion of the gold in exchange.

I tilt my head at her inquiringly, "Do you wish to try out the spell?"

She shakes her head. "Nah."

I stare at her, surprise finding its way to my normally stoic expression.

"Well men," the Cleric says in-character, "We've beaten the BBEG! Shall we head back to town and get royally drunk?"

I had strewn warnings, hints and foreshadowing in their path since the beginning of the campaign. No Game Master ever wants to actively thwart a player's decision. Normally, if a player wants to be stupid, then they can live with the consequences. The Game Master has the benefit of knowing what the consequences will be, and is often more than happy to inflict them for their own perverse amusement.

But now and again, a decision will be considered so incredibly stupid that it threatens the survival of the team. And in those times, we Game Masters will ask the question that carries more weight than anything else in all of Mazes and Mahars could possibly carry. It's those three little words that will give even the most cavalier of adventurer pause to consider their life choices;

"Are you sure?"

It's the tone that usually sells it. But not here.

The party is drunk on its hubris. They have slaughtered many a monster before now, and believe themselves capable of handling anything that I can throw at them. The rest of the group take up the hurrah's and proceed to skip along in the Cleric's wake, leaving the definitely-not-Sanctified corpse of the Mahar alone to fester, surrounded by necromancy spell tomes.

The lair grows silent and dark in their wake. Then, in that silence there is a soft sound; a wet and sliding movement. The corpse of the Nightmare Mahar slowly begins to move, a hellish red light kindling to life in its empty eye sockets as its slowly decaying body rises to its great black claws. It shakes itself a little, like a dog, and opens its mouth to rumble in a cold, enraged voice; "I am Diilliivlein; my chosen name is 'undead wither world,' and I will have my revenge!"

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