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Enchanted Trinkets Complete--a hardcover book containing over 500 magic items for your D&D games!

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Message: <blockquote data-quote="Lazybones" data-source="post: 2802903" data-attributes="member: 143">Shaman = nasty. But you guys already knew that....  <img src="https://cdn.jsdelivr.net/joypixels/assets/8.0/png/unicode/64/1f61b.png" class="smilie smilie--emoji" loading="lazy" width="64" height="64" alt=":p" title="Stick out tongue    :p"  data-smilie="7"data-shortname=":p" /> * * * * * Chapter 517Although Cal missed the sunset, there was another watching that evening, the fading rays of the setting sun glistening off the gray orbs of his eyes.  Below, spread out before the low, lightly wooded ridge upon which he perched, the watcher looked intently upon the community of Ember Vale as the cluster of buildings snug within the walls became indistinct in the deep shadows of twilight.  A few lights appeared within the community as the night deepened, flickering points like the glitter of the fey-ra insect, back in his own Reality. The Shaman of the M’butu lingered until the village was all but invisible in the gathering dark.  He rose and departed, moving back into the scattered trees that spotted the ridge.  His destination was a copse of scraggly trees that had grown together in a small dip in the ridge, forming a rocky dell where enough soil had settled to support their efforts.The ground was treacherous, but the Shaman had no difficulty making his way down the uneven descent.  As he reached the bottom of the dell his four guards materialized around him out of the dark, making no noise with their movements despite their size and bulk.  They were clad now in plain gray robes of heavy wool that could not fully disguise the alien cast of their features, a necessary adjustment to what was for them a bitterly cold Reality.  The garments did not fit well, but they served the Soldiers of the M’butu more than their former owners, the late cultists of Graz’zt whose bones were currently being gnawed by vermin in the sewers beneath the city of Scornubel. The Shaman did not feel any such concerns; for him such minor considerations as temperature and climate were far beneath his notice.  This Reality was alien, hostile, but his link to the Spirit World was still potent, his bond pulsing in a beat that was both different and familiar at the same time.  He could feel the life that filled this place, tiny beads of heat in the cold surroundings of this place.  Those creatures sufficiently aware of their Reality could sense what he was, and they had fled before him, knowing only that an intruder had come among them, and that he was foreign, threatening, Danger.  The Shaman could have masked his coming, or compelled them to him, but thus far he had not bothered with either.  The Soldiers spread out, taking up defensive positions around the perimeter of the dell. He ignored them, kneeling beside a small mound of earth formed against the tangled root mass of one of the trees.  Making a deep-pitched clicking sound in his chest, he used his staff to draw crude markings in the packed dirt.  Then he reached into the ground, his powerful fingers breaking through the hard surface and turning the softer soil beneath.  His fingers felt the fibrous length of a root, and he drew his hand back, pulling away the ground from the mass of the tree. Tiny things squirmed in the ground.  The Shaman clucked in approval, watching the insects, sensing their dim awareness of their Reality.  A small form crawled over the exposed root—a beetle, perhaps an inch long.  The Shaman extended his hand and captured it.  The beetle, displeased at the rough treatment, bit his finger.  The Shaman’s mouth twisted in that grim smile.</blockquote>

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