Smirking Elman

### Titles & Aliases

Smirk, The Smirking Man, The Devil's Writer, The Boogeyman, Hero of Bellhill, Savior of Velsend, RedgraveSir Almond, Sir Peach.

## Description

### Appearance

Long silvered hair, missing left eye (covered by an eyepatch), red marble gauntlet and black plate armour with a chaosphere on the breastplate.

## Relations

### Friends

Boris Zarovitch, Breathnach, Jerimahia Brik, Roy Winters, Gharial

### Enemies

The Gorgon, The Nemesis Queen, Duke Conbald (Duke of Dicks), The Octagonal Table

## **The legend behind the legend**

So, you wish to know more of The Devil's Writer, eh? Then sit a while and listen. *The man pulls up a chair for you and orders a round of drinks with a wave.* The legend begins in a land far away, lost to time and thought. Three men and an angel ride through the plains, battling a dozen knights which they manage to defeat. However, one of the men dies. But that's a story for another time, you're here for the Smirking Man and not the Other.

His begins in a little miners town called Velsend. Back then it was ruled by the cowardly buffoon Conbald. Tasked with cleaning the Silver Mines from vermin, the Writer came upon a crystal. As purple as wine, it was. Thinking it was worth a small fortune he stashed it in his bag, it's true power still unknown to him. *The man clears his throat and gulps down a swig of beer.* Yes, there was a race of under-dwellers. No, I can't pronounce their name. Can you? Whatever, they're not important, yet.

Ahem. Anyway, next up is Riverton. The Writer was always looking for ways to get in trouble, it just so happens thieving was the easiest one. I'm sure you've heard of this one before. What? You haven't? You...All that matters is that he stole an ancient relic-tome that held an insanely powerful demon within from under the noses of a Coven of witches. Yes, he sold his soul to said demon not long after, thus releasing it into the world. Yes, it was stupid. But, who are we to judge? Everyone fucks up from time to time. No? *The man smirks, briefly, before ordering another round of drinks. Some revelers begin to stand up, but they quickly sit down when the storyteller downs his drink.*

Heh. I guess you all want to hear about the Mozpalabree Museum Ghosts again, huh? Those dumbasses really thought, for a long while, that ghosts stole all their antiques. Giving credit where credit is due, there were others involved. But, they don't matter as much. What? No, that little goblin shit did not win the bet!

What's that? Oh, right. The Bellhill story. Listen carefully or you might miss it. The Writer was taking a vacation from his professional life, but I....he ended up saving everyone from certain doom anyway. No really, that's it. *The man downs yet another mug, you count seven mugs so far.* Ok, he did steal the Masque of Illusion and the Deck of a Thousand Deaths while he was there, you're right. Happy now? Can we move on? Good.

So, on to the slaying of The Gorgon. *Many revelers sigh and leave the table.* Fine, you drunkards, leave. You believed all the other shit, but somehow you're not buying this? Fools, the lot of you. Listen up kid, you might actually learn something about something for once. The Writer made a deal with a demon, remember that? Well, he wanted that deal to be over by now. So, the devil asked for the corpse of a certain avatar of The Gorgon. Thing is the worshippers of said avatar needed the body to cure the curse that had befallen them, and that fucking devil knew that. So the hero had two options: 1-Kill his friends and use The Gorgons body to regain his soul, thus damning the entire city, or 2-Damn his soul to eternity, but cure the worshippers in hopes that they'd learned their lesson and wouldn't fuck up again. *Three empty mugs have been added to the collection on the table since you last noticed.* Shit, I can't remember which one I chose.

Well, kid, it's late and I'm a shit storyteller anyway. I-it's time for me to leave. *The man puts a hand on the table as he stands up to leave, it's a red marble-like gauntlet. As he stumbles towards the door you notice something slips from his pocket. It's a purple gem. You rush to the street after the man, but he's gone. So is your gold pouch. With a fistful of crystal and a new weightlessness around you, you find a new thought has taken hold within your mind. It's the thought of adventure.*

## **The Boogeyman's Groove**

Enter scene, the burglar hides behind mystery https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-SjOkb3kVgI

Freedom for power, such is the fool's trade (once again) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fNltsEop2dQ

Fire, primal as it may be, cleans the soul of doubt and guilt https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oWgvET\_smDg

The slave's eyes open, the truth bare before him https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5fPl4ZVkSfc

A pact is broken, the slave rebels against his masters https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qk-QXAzphLE

## **Thieves, assassins and other unsung heroes.**

### By Elman Dirtwright.

*“…And so he met Jerimahia Brik, his gnomish friend with a knack for invention. And so he got rid of 500 coins worth of silverware…”

**Chapter 1, The breaking of a Coven.**

“… but the River Rats had seen his face, a smirk they’d not soon forget. Time runs fast when you try to hide from an organized mafia, more so if you do it while carousing. But they weren’t smart enough to find him, the master thief hoped.”

“The Greatwood Highwaymen were breathing heavy. So heavy they could be heard through the bushes they were hiding in. The thief’s hand sailed towards his crossbow as The Boris laid his hands on the brave idiot who jumped out first, pants down by his ankles still. Bolts, fists, venom and songs. Such are the tools with which one can kill…”

“Any seasoned traveler will tell it how it is: “The night’s there to keep your eyes from seeing the horrors that stalked your every step during the day. The one’s you never knew were there but always will be. So don’t fear the night, fear that glint beyond your campfire”. Most think it’s hogwash, something to keep the fools from venturing too far from the settlement. But, then again, most people don’t wake up to Choakers fighting an Ankylosaurus…”

“His companions were fooled by his act and let their guard down….or maybe they were just testing him. Either way, they went to sleep first. The thief, seeing this as his chance, prowled through the halls searching for his prey. A spellbook.

The library. A place of power to the scholar types, a pile of trash for him. Well, except for that one, black tome; the tome of Black Annis. A bird-like creature to guard it was all that stood in his way, an amateur would think. It just so happens witches enchant furniture to defend their most prized posessions. Were most would fail the thief succeeded, his leather gloves grasped the tome firmly in anticipation while he scurried back to his room. An unmistakable smirk plastered on his face.

The thief’s mind met sleep, his hands still shaking from excitement, hoping no one would notice the missing book. The group took off in the morning, his nightly escapades unknown…”

“The stench of the swamp had found home in their belongings, luckily only The Preacher and the thief were awake to be annoyed by this. First watch’s yours are the worst combination of words an adventurer can hear when nearing the end of day. Although, one could make a case for “No gambling”. The night was calm, absent were the noises of critters and splashing of water that keeps on from sleep.

I am indeed from Hilltop, said the strange girl. She had stumbled upon their camp during the first watch, naked and afraid. However, she was not alone. Out there, she said, my companion I lost and must find for he’s special to me as you will if you aid me. The Preacher woke the rest of the group, their surprise a front to cover their cynicism. The thief handed some clothes, a smirk on his face, the opposite hand ready at the crossbow.

Adrenaline fills their bodies as they see the innocent girl twist and change in monstrous ways. It aims to paralyze in fear and maim their bodies for amusement. But, with the pull of a trigger and the fly of a bolt the matter is dealt with and all but the thief go back to sleep.”

“…the book spoke to him. Tales of power and vengeance. Outwordly forces choosing a mortal to carry their desires in exchange for arcane talents. His mind wandered as the Boris continued to relate the tome’s legend…”

“River Rats by the alley, six of them to boot. They drank and pissed and skittered around, loud mouthed in their knowing someone their mess would scoop. A Boris and thief was all it took for the six rats to be hanged by the hook.

-A cautious reminder that overconfidence is a slow and insidious killer.”*

 *“He awakens in a starstruck abyss. A bare woman, fair of skin and dark of hair, speaks out to him with a deceptively soothing voice. In the vast emptyness they share she offers friendship…no…partnership. Hands are shaken, the pact is sealed. A mark is left on his face to remind him that this was no mere dream. The thief now white of hair and black of eyes walks the path of warlocks.”

“The River Rat captain was on the ground clawing his blinders out. The shapeshifter had shot venom into his eyes, surprising everyone in the room and kickstarting the conflict. The thief’s companions were there to conquer and they would do so by force of hand.

Six Rat spearmen surrounded them immediately, the dance of death had begun and the thief was ill prepared.

Blood and screams of murder spilled to the room below where more Rats awaited, weapons in hand, for a victor to emerge. Slowly they made their way upstairs to find their boss. The stairs creaked under their feet, the gargling of blood dictated the tempo of the ascent. The door midway open, the faint light of a candle slipping through. At the center of the room stood a man of inhuman size. Some knew him as Boris, many more knew him as Boss.

A tiny wooden carving of an eagle on one hand and a letter to a, now orphan, son on the other; the thief had never given any thought to his actions, to his victims even…was he growing a conscience?. The burglar threw the figurine to Boris who wanted it delivered to the former Rat boss. This was just business but that statue is personal, said the burly man while gesturing to the corpses that laid in the previous room. Gharial hadn’t gotten to them yet so they still had all their fingers.

It was a secret to no one that the thief was being scouted by the bard and the time had come to make a choice. The final question was formed and the final answer was given. What were the exact words, you ask? You’ll have to venture out of this book to learn them. Perhaps one day you’ll find yourself in a similar situation and I wouldn't want to spoil the revelation…”

“…and so the thief became The Devil’s Writer and he introduced The Violin, formerly known as Boris, to his good friend Jerimahia who gifted upon them the greatness of mechanical engineering and promptly took their money for it…”

"The air was thick in the room. It tasted of iron, sweat and drugs. The prophet had come down from his temple in the mountains and the doctor in the woods had sent his daughter, the small space crowded by their respective bodyguards. A lizard, glued to the walls, payed closed attention to each one. The Writer walked between them in a vain attempt to blend in while scouting for insidious plans. The Preacher gazed into the room, a third eye for The Violin. The latter, using his speechcraft, enticed the heads to be devoid of thought and jump into his silver-tongued dealings.

An old enemy waited for his chance to attack, camouflaged with new clothes and hidden amongst his retinue. Regardless, his plans were foiled and his life cut short. Don Adisa was no more.

Deals were struck, bloodshed avoided. Save for the Greatwood bravemen who dared set foot in big boy's turf. Needless to say they got the boot."*

**Chapter 2, To heist a museum.**
*“Mozpalabree, a beacon of civilization on an otherwise chaotic enviroment. Markets filled with opportunities, streets bustling with loose pockets and streets rich in dark alleyways. A home far away from home to true professionals in Writer’s field.

Although he was there for pleasure instead of business one cannot wholly escape his duties once he joins a club. “We need help killing god. Book will help us kill god. You should steal book”, said The Violin. So, dear readers, next time someone tells you to read a book...do it, you never know what the book will teach you. Might learn how to read in the process.”

“A little sparrow spies on a thief. A black book draws it’s attention, the spy now covets the book…Little did the sparrow know…”

“Night falls. The sound of leather against cobblestone. The glint of metal in the alley. The smell of goblin in the air. These are things a trained guard would’ve picked up on, but the Mozpalabree museum guards were green as grass.

A smirk appeared on the Writer’s face, this job was as good as done. Sparrow was the entangler, she’d distract the guards long enough to strip the locale.

The thief, making use of his flying carpet, would clear the second floor with the help of Suella. She would find a friend in his shady companion.”

“The thief’s fingers were quick to work despite the cold weather. Alarms on the windows and doors so primitive a street urchin would’ve been able to disarm them. The real problem awaited inside the museum. Pairs of guards constantly patrolling rooms and hallways and locked doors every turn on heel.

A faint click on the window signaled the trick was done. It was time to put all that training to work…a real heist, the Writer couldn’t believe he was finally doing it.”*

*“The warmth of the room hit them both in the face, a much welcomed change. Said room contained a jet black sarcophagus with detailed carvings on the top but the Writer refused to open it, he was a thief not a tomb robber…a weak excuse to hide his fear of what may have laid within.

The adjacent room contained a collection of bones, the remains of long gone creatures, and a green tome on a pedestal. “Bingo” said the thief, unsure of his own statement since he had no description of the book he was after.

For a common thief that book was unobtainable, too many guards and too much light between it and the door, but the Writer was no common thief. It had been weeks since last using Black Annis’ gifts, nevertheless calling upon them had become second nature and after a quick movement of the fingers the room was befallen by supernatural darkness. The void had come to rob the room of light. If not for Suella even our smirking hero would’ve had trouble navigating the room, still her eyes glowed and pierced the dark guiding both of them to the book and to the next room on the map where the statue of an open hand held the biggest gem they’d ever seen.”*

*“A gem the size of a human head, too big to let it sit on a museum forever, the guards were still busy stumbling around the darkened room. Surely he would’ve been long gone before they noticed it was missing so he disarmed the obvious traps that kept his loot warm and threw gave it a new home in his black bag of borrowed goodies. Hands trembling with excitement, mind high on adrenaline the thief decided to scribble down a note…a calling card of sorts.”*

*“Unbeknownst to all the ground floor had been nearly cleaned by the bones of a jazz man and a goblin, who promptly loaded their cart with vases and other antiques and continued to the second floor. The sparrow had played her part beyond perfection.”*

*“The thief and the snake continued their silent crawl through the museum unaware that their companions had already reached them. Pearls of sweat populated the Writer’s forehead, in his mind it was a matter of “when” instead of “if” they would get caught. The door to the armory clicked open.”*

*“…the second door opened into a gallery of some sort which included books and vials of foul smelling liquids, a strange individual of quirky mannerisms walking among them followed by what one could assume was his bodyguard. Suella, aware of her skill level, decided to find another way through the room and parted ways with the thief.”*

*“…with a bit of powder the goblin and his undead friend become invisible to all, including themselves. The guards were on edge, the stories of vile magics told to them as children had found their way back into their heads empty as they were. Lights going out, windows exploding and the sound of disembodied footsteps in plain sight, all contributed to the paranoia that developed during this night and the rumors of a haunted museum that would follow after…”*

*“The thief noticed, midway through the gallery, something was taking place on the rooms he had previously visited…”perhaps this place really is haunted”, he thought with a tinge of incredulity. Still he had made his way to the hallway, one step closer to the safe, where a couple of guards were turning the corner. The thief marveled at his own luck but it was short-lived as he realised Suella was around that very same corner. Reflexes kicked in as his hand sailed upwards to shoot them both with Ghost-Cocaine bolts. Whatever the drug allowed them to see it made the thief wonder, for months to come...should he had shot them to death instead?”*

*“...the guards were piled on the hallway, surrounding a broken window, swords in hand shaking in fear. The high-pitched sound of the alarm could be heard from the edges of Mozpalabree aswell as the marching boots of the Ivory Sabre Squad, an elite group tasked to deal with the supernatural.

Grovel and Jazzy had triggered a trap on said window causing it to blow open. On the other side of the shattered glass laid the Journal of Coraleith, the reason they were here...”*

*“The safe was protected by two guards, this museum’s lucky number, in a small room. They had heard the screams of panic and been infected by it which caused them to lump against the door. This time there was no chance at lining up a shot like the one before. With the alarm going, the sounds of windows crashing and marching boots ever closer all seemed lost. “Hey, take this it’s a smoke bomb don’t waste it” said Grovel, still invisible, pushing a leathery ball into the Writer’s chest.”*

*“…what happened after only the night knows for sure. The single piece of evidence left behind, a piece of paper with a poorly drawn smirk on it…”*

**Chapter 3, The Devil's Carnival.***"The Chronicles were finally out of his hands, handed over to The Violin with joy. The stress from the heist, the long journey to Goliath's Gate and the secret meetings had taken a toll on the thief's body. His hands were not as steady as he'd want them. It's time for some well-deserved rest, he thought.*

*However, as they say, once a fool; always a fool. All it took was a drunk guard named Roy. Sweet old Roy, hard-working captain by day and gutter-running drunkard by night. His breath would've melted the nose off from a less curious individual, nevertheless, the Writer listened carefully with new-found purpose..."

"There, at the spotlight of the arena, stood his neo hero. The Spider, posing as a fumbling mess of a knife thrower. The irony was not lost to the Writer. What little time they had spent together was enough to create an idol in the thief's mind. And this burglar was aiming to impress. A smirk plastered on his face as he slipped away from the act, unseen, into the muddy streets of the Circus...

...their voices, hushed as they were, were tainted by fear. This kind the thief knew, for it was the fear of being caught. They spoke in half-sentences, talking without saying...true professionals. Their meeting was too brief to be fruitful, yet, a swift glimpse around their den yielded results. A blank porcelain mask, vessel to a lofty bulk of magic..."

"...but alas, once a fool; always a fool. And the thief found himself back in Bellhill, running from trouble as he used to. The night was cold and the streets were bathed in darkness, a faint fog danced around the smirking man's boots. Such stillness was only bothered by the sound of leather against stone, it's rythym soothed the burglar. A silk-dressed hand placed itself on the thief's shoulder, taking him by surprise. (This sentence hurts the author's pride more than you think).

His clothing informed nobility, his mannerisms cautioned a killer. And yet, It wasn't the obviously concealed weapons nor the symbol of Nimble on his coat which scared the thief, it was the fact that this man knew him both by name and face.

An insidious game of cat and mouse began, information were the stakes and our pickpocket was in clear disadvantage. The game'd ended before it started and, for the first time, the Writer came out on the loosing end..."

"The Violin was met by the handsome Maurice, and old lieutenant of his. They shook hands as Ravolt, a knight from a self-mutilating (they always are) cult, spewed forth his intelligence concerning the Circus and the atrocities therein. The night was still young as Aethern re-signed the papers for the capture of the Nimble Brothers and associates. And with courage in their hearts and steel in their hands the men stormed off to stop the show...once a fool..."*

**Chapter 4, The Fool's Errand**

"Bateman Hollow, a den of scum and villany known for it's peculiar thieves' guild, The Goodiebeards. The thief always took an interest for such guilds, having never belonged to one he found them quite amusing. Thieves, individuals with a hatred for society and it's limitations, coming together to form their own mimic system. In time they too would know the thief's name.
Regardless, he wasn't there for business at the time. It was The Heart the burglar was after, a twisted creation that hid the wielder from the time's sight. This mechanical wonder was carefully guarded in the occult city of Ahm-Shere. Surely someone is heading in that direction, thought the rogue..."

"The carpet had picked up speed as the two traversed the swamp. Her cloak was flapping in the wind, a majestic aura that soon crumbled when she spoke. It was better that way, the Writer felt uncomfortable around hero types. A long time had passed since the thief'd last seen her gish friend and, although the thief never owned up to it, the spellsword had saved his life countless times in years past.
The air was heavy in the swamp and the water reeked to high heaven, the two had run out of stories to tell each other and silence was agreed upon. Still in such place death had creeped it's ugly head, as otherwordly creatures circled them mid-flight...an ambush. But, who was the ambusher and who the ambushed?"

"...their blood mixed with that of the creatures as they repelled their second assault with the Preacher's help. The company didn't give chase to the extraplanars, preferring to take a moment and count their wounded. Magic was prevalent in the exchange, the thief was amazed by her friend's ability. Time had passed but, not enough time to bolster such talent. Did they traverse the same path?, the thief wondered. No, but soon enough, said The Writer..."

"...their hive was, as expected, very protected. These horrible abominations kept their victims in a trance-like state, wrapped in a coccoon of their own making. Finding Andvare wasn't hard, she was the smallest coccoon of them all. Getting her down, however, was the real challenge. The concentration of arcane power, and it's divine counterpart, created a unique circumstance, meaning, it's use was highly unreliable...By the end of the skirmish the thief had sustained, for the first time in his life, serious injury. Injected with the creatures' poison, his mind faded to black. Nightmarish visions soon followed, the usual sight of carnage and anger that came with Annis' call for a favor..."

"Souls. Curious creations. No one knows where they come from, no one knows why they're there. No, not even those "Gods" that talk from high above or deep below. Yet, they're highly coveted. Are they candy to those childish immortals? Or the fuel on which their powers burn?
The raven haired woman heard his slaves' petition, stone faced all the way through, as he continued to ramble on. "The life of a Gorgon for mine soul", whispered the thief, at last. His queen smiled, like an infant does before crushing an insect with their fingers, and nodded. The deal was struck..."

"...The Gorgon's immolated corpse laid dead atop her altar. The air still heavy in the heroes' lungs, fire raging all around them as they gazed into the carnage they had brought. "I need the body", said the thief. The words struggled to come out and hit like a morningstar. The temple once again plunged, deep, into a pool of adrenaline. Eyes darting, fingers slipping and tongues persuading. Friends saw each other, for the first time, and wondered which one of them would see the next day...
How much is a soul worth? Nevermind that, how much is one's soul worth? The life of an unknown, uncaring god? No, it's not enough. One only needs to kill a god. Friends? Perhaps. But, if so, how can one hold the earned soul?"

**Chapter 6-7, Fire in the Sky / Deathbound.**

"Time froze for The Writer, reality hit hard as he realized he'd pushed the Ingabotrani too far. His power-play gone awry left him no other choice. Raking his fingernails across the pentagram on his forearms, he began to summon The Queen. Space warped as blood flowed, a revolting stench that would force even the toughest of mortals to retch. One second and the witch was a beatiful woman of fair skin and raven hair, another and an unparalleled abomination stood between the legions of caver-dwellers.
The shadows of the night, and the silence they held, banished as the mob of soldiers set fire to the world around them. A confusing mess of gore soon unfolded, their numbers quickly dwindled before the duo of demons. The Queen and her Writer washed Velsend's sins in oceans of pain and if not for The Saviors of Velsend, the city whole would've sunk into the hands of terror incarnate. Ravolt, Paladin of Rikard, and Mog, Rider of the Badlands, who stared into the abyss and scorched their mark into the firmament. May their names be remembered for ages to come!"

"Three elderly women sit around a bowl of water. One of them stares intently at the bowl, the others at her. The first can read the future, the rest can read her sister. The seer smiles intrigued, "The slave begins to rebel", she says, "it sees the weakness of the master". "So the game begins, just as you planed", replies the other with a raspy voice. The third cackles, then whispers "Tis why I guided him to the book. You see the future, sister. I see beyond that". The three witches share a laugh and continue to enjoy their little game unfold."

"A mangled mess of white hair, scar tissue and bone, sustained by magic and luck, awaits renewal in a dank cell. A thousand psychic wars raging inside. Man against demon, thief against writer. Neither are willing to give, the battle is to the death. The time of sharing was over, there could only be one."

"The thick snow blanketed the forest, no amount of clothes could shield one from the cold. It's diabolic nature choked life itself. The white hell came to be at a moment's notice, the frostbitten corpses littered the streets of Velsend.
In the time it took for the Saviors to regain their strength the Skinner had concentrated his. The snow was just the beginning, this they knew and so they rode to the Silver Mines with haste. Joined by a Betlic Scryden, a renowned wizard from across the land, and the Blood of Rikard, an especially zealous branch of the Paladin's faith, the group of heroes felt confident in their numbers. They would defeat the necromancer, lay waste to his horde and return unscathed to receive their fame and gold. But alas, luck is a fickle mistress."

"A bright, cold explosion gave momentary pause to the skirmish. The wizard, Scryden, had given his  light to destroy the necromancer's eldritch focus, sending his ravenous horde of corpses into disarray (Not that being trampled by thousands of undeath helped, mind you). The Paladin, sleigh of feet, rushed to meet The Skinner who harried him from afar with his black magic. However, by doing so, he left his men behind who, seeing themselves surrounded and doomed, quickly broke formation. Was it cowardice, incompetence or bad luck? Only the few survivors know, although they wished they didn't to this day.
Fire engaged ice in mortal combat, sword cut magic and devilry rent soul. The valiant knight had much heart, yet he lacked killing intent. He stood no chance. However, unbeknowst to the duelists, two specs of life hacked and slashed their way through the sea of death to aid their friend. They were Mog and Elman. The dwarf struck low, the human beheaded the stragglers. Walls of hands and flock of teeth came after them with every step, to taste their steel and meet their fury. Yet, they were indeed mortal; eventually their arms tired and their reflexes mired, the pair became separated and Mog was thought dead.
Elman, struggling because of the blood loss, managed to reach his comrade in the nick of time. Not a single word was uttered as the two sparrows began to battle the hawk, side by side putting their differences to rest for the greater good. And it worked. The necromancer, with all their power, couldn't take both of them and his physical shape ultimately fell under their blows. Though the horde did not..."