Father smacks me on the head.

"Pay attention. It's not every day a god dies."

Who do you think we fought against? This is their end. I don't want to acknowledge them. Nevertheless, I suppress my thoughts, shut my book, and reluctantly mumble my agreement.

Obeying Father, I focus on the God. A magnificent creature, it could pass for a person if not for its demeanor. Physically, it was a peak specimen, but something about its bearing made it supernatural. It could not be mistaken for anything other than divinity. The souls of the dead sustained divinity, that was born from the faith. How the mighty fell.

An ensemble of trumpets announced the arrival of the executioner. He walked like a man carrying the weight of the world, for indeed he was. Killing a God carried grave consequences. When an Archmage slew Hades, God of the Dead and Riches, the King of the Underworld cursed them to become invisible and forgotten. Their name forever lost to all. Moreover, all gold became tarnished black, and gems lost their luster. This left a permanent stain on all the wealth extracted from the earth that lacked magical protection.

The poor executioner stepped onto the stage, likely wondering what curse he would carry.

A thin man wearing red robes walked onto the stage. He unfurled a scroll and made an announcement. "Helios, the God of the Sun, stands accused of acts of divinity, tyranny, causing droughts, desertification, multiple counts of assault, sexual assault and murder. It is possible for a god to renounce their godhood, thereby absolving themselves of the crime of having divinity. Helios will be given the opportunity to do so."

As the announcer waved his hand, the chains around Helios' head loosened.

"Pay attention. It's not every day a god dies," says Father, smacking me on the head.

What do you think we fought in the war? This is the last of them. But I don't want to give them any attention because the worst insult you can receive from anyone is to be ignored. It's the one that hurts the most. But I silence my thoughts, close my book and mumble out an agreement.

Obeying Father, I focus on the god. A magnificent creature, it could pass for a person if not for its demeanor. Physically, it was a peak specimen but something about its bearing made it supernatural. It could not be mistaken for anything other than divinity. Divinity, born from the faith, sustained by the souls of countless dead. How the mighty fell.

The supreme power of a wizard lay in their capacity to plan. Thus, the examination would focus on that topic. The problem was that I was shit at planning. And I sucked even more at sticking to one. I was more of a go-with-the-flow kind of guy. But anyway, we drew lots the week before the exam in my class of twelve students. Each would combat a distinct creature, but the lots did not specify the beast. Instead, they contained clues. Which was good because I believed I was better at putting things together.

I received a report and started with pictures the pictures. Why? I like pictures. And the first one showed a desiccated corpse. The second picture is the same. The third also shows a dried husk. So do the fourth and fifth. Boring. I skimmed the divination results. Every single one of them perished in the same spot. Wow, like I couldn't tell that from the pictures. Blah blah blah, traces of necrotic energy. Huh. The corpse shows signs of forced life-drain. Well, that narrowed things down. And look at that, they all died at night.

I went to the library and cracked open the Undead Encyclopedia of Weak Undead. Some higher-level undead could have the same signs, but the Archivists wouldn't use them. They wanted us trained, not dead. The book had two sections discussing corporeal and incorporeal undead. No physical undead at this level would have a life-drain ability, so I skipped to the second section.

The listing was alphabetical, but that didn't matter because it only had two entries. No fucking way there were only two types of incorporeal undead at this level. I asked the librarian if any other books covered the same material.

"I'm sorry, that book only contains general typings. It says so on the disclaimer on the cover."

Sure enough, the book said it in a small font at the bottom of the cover.

Shit, how would I find a low-level undead that kills at night and has the life-drain ability?

"Why are you looking for a Specter?"

"I said that out loud. Wait, you know what it is?"

She frowned but nodded.

Archive of Pandemonium,
Campaign 1, Episode 1

When Sariel Erenaeth, the owner of Flowing Amber, was hiring a bartender, Thordin Stoutale proudly claimed that he could determine the type of drunk someone was when they walked into a bar. And if a drunk broke anything, the boss could deduct the cost from his paycheck. Finding an excuse to cut wages, she hired him on the spot.

Thordin had been a bartender at the Flowing Amber for about half a century. Throughout his career, he had interacted with a wide variety of individuals who enjoyed a few too many drinks, coming from all walks of life. As a result, he honed the particular skill that he boasted about. It was probably because of that one instance when he had to hand over money to his boss instead.

The Flowing Amber had two other bartenders and was open all day, so Thordin only had an eight-hour shift each day. The schedules were less of a rule and more of a guideline, but this week, he argued to have the day shifts. Few people came in during the day. People who wanted to drown themself in alcohol had tales to tell. Those started in the morning, even more so. So when the doorbells jingled, it was a surprise but not an unwelcome one.

This wanna-be drunk was a human male wearing an untucked and creased white shirt with faded black jeans. He walked with a slouch, his head angled towards the floor, making his face hard to see. His black hair was shiny with grease. He was perfect.

The human sat on a cheap backless stool in front of the bar. He put his elbows on the table and paused for a moment. Raising his right arm straight above the table, he folded the sleeve and did the same for the left arm. Only then did he put his elbows on the table and his face in his hands. And Thordin knew his time had come.

Thordin walked steadily toward the human, ensuring his footsteps were discernible yet not boisterous. When he reached the human, he posed with a rug in one hand and a mug in another and, in a subdued manner that he would deny practicing, inquired, "May I inquire about your preferred beverage, my friend?"

Without missing a beat, the human answers in a soft monotone, "Mead. Capsicumel, if you have it."

Thordin raises an eyebrow but pours a mug anyway.

"You know, when a man enters a bar in the day, they mostly either ask for beer or rum," says Thordin as he puts the mug in front of the stranger.

The human scoffs and grabs the mug.

Archive of Pandemonium,
Campaign 1, Episode 1

When the Rulgaer Gravelbrew, the owner of Flowing Amber, was hiring a bartender, Gurth Orebeard proudly claimed that he could determine the type of drunk someone was when they walked into a bar. And if a drunk broke anything, the boss could deduct the cost from his paycheck. Finding an excuse to cut wages, the boss hired him on the spot.

Gurth had been a bartender at the Flowing Amber for about half a century. Throughout his career, he had interacted with a wide variety of individuals who enjoyed a few too many drinks, coming from all walks of life. As a result, he honed the particular skill that he boasted about. It was probably because of that one instance when he had to hand over money to his boss instead.

The new customer piqued his interest. People who wanted to drown themself in alcohol had tales to tell. Those started in the morning, even more so. This wanna-be drunk was a human male wearing an untucked and creased white shirt with faded black jeans. He walked with a slouch, his head angled towards the floor, making his face hard to see. His black hair was shiny with grease. He was perfect.

The human sat on a cheap backless stool in front of the bar. He put his elbows on the table and paused for a moment. Raising his right arm straight above the table, he folded the sleeve and did the same for the left arm. Only then did he put his elbows on the table and his face in his hands. And Gurth knew his time had come.

Gurth walked steadily toward the human, ensuring his footsteps were discernible yet not boisterous. When he reached the human, he posed with a rug in one hand and a mug in another and, in a subdued manner that he would deny practicing, inquired, "May I inquire about your preferred beverage, my friend?"

When the Rulgaer Gravelbrew, the owner of Flowing Amber, was hiring a bartender, Dutmomli Orebeard proudly claimed that he could determine the type of drunk someone when they walked into a bar. And if a drunk broke anything, the boss could deduct the cost from his paycheck. Finding an excuse to cut wages, the boss hired him on the spot.

Dutmomli had been a bartender at the Flowing Amber for about half a century. Throughout his career, he had interacted with a wide variety of individuals who enjoyed a few too many drinks, coming from all walks of life. As a result, he honed the particular skill that he boasted about. It was probably because of that one instance when he had to hand over money to his boss instead.

The new customer piqued his interest. People who wanted to drown themself in alcohol had tales to tell. Those started in the morning, more so.