The Chronicles of Ick

## The Chronicles of Ick, Vol. 1: Fahvarnimum

Ick's clan—as is the case with all of the scarcely remaining nomadic ghostwise—was a tribe of familial barbarians. But, like in many families, there was a black sheep. That was Ick's dad, Fahvarnimum.

Fahvarnimum Ick was known in his clan for eccentricity. He was also notorious for his secrecy and wanderlust. It was common for him to travel alongside the tribal caravan at several miles' distance during a perennial move, claiming to be scouting as a "lookout" for danger (this was not his job). Most knew he was just hoarding a lifestyle of excess and did not consider this information public. It was more than that, though. He never believed in sharing. He never valued family. He wanted to be alone. But mostly he valued power. And he took every opportunity to find advantage in the dwindling world of the ghostwise.

Almost 16 years ago, during probably one of the coldest winters the Chondalwood had ever seen, Fahvarnimum left encampment unannounced. This was ordinary behavior for him. He returned to the encampment several weeks later carrying a newborn child, claiming that he had bartered for the child in a nearby town. He said the baby was born into ghostwise slavery, which was almost undoubtedly a lie, as the Hin Ghostwars were long over, and no one had dealt in ghostwise slavery for centuries. He persisted that this was the truth and shut himself in, explaining that he now had fatherly responsibility.

Over the next decade and a half or so, he raised his son, Andondolan, in complete privacy... and shadow.

Ick was treated horribly by his father, who knew nothing of parenthood. His bedroom and toilet was a cage with a shroud draped over it. His only comfort object was a cleaning rag he named Mortechai. He was allowed out only at teatime and at night to help Fahvarnimum with meal preparation and chores. During the day, he was not permitted to talk aloud to his father, who would only reply to Silent Speech. Ick knew no other reality than the eclecticism of his father, whose only sign of affection were seemingly buried in the subtext of cold and inconsistent stories of his son's infancy.

Fahvarnimum would tell Ick tales of his origins at night. Sometimes, he was a slave baby barely rescued by Fahvarnimum's self-proclaimed altruism. Other times he knew Ick's mother as a dear friend. But he never revealed her name. In one story, she was a powerful night hag; in another, a fiend. A slip of his ale-soaked tongue once painted her as nothing more than "a neighboring clan's pit wench."

This used to sadden Ick, as he'd always wanted to know his mother. But he grew used to the stories and began to interpret them as his father's only means of expressing love; the stories were selfish attempts to fumigate the room of feelings for those outside their hut.

He taught Ick to be paranoid of the clan's intentions—that they'd never fully accept him... that the only true morality is selfishness. He taught him that power is the only salvation. Ick learned from him that he had to subjugate and grow large and opulent to outlast the future. And that he'd do well never to trust words like "community," "love," and "warmth."

"*'Warmth!'*" Fahvarnimum would occasionally scrape across the pitch black room, "...is the lie the flame tells the candle! Consider yourself *lucky*you should be so cold!" And Ick had no choice but to believe him.

Until his death.

Over his dying breaths, Fahvarnimum told him how to control his destiny, "Go deep into the Chondalwood; deep as deep will go until you see it: a turbulent orb of green fire. Your mother will be there, and she will teach you how to outsmart even Tymora herself."

## The Chronicles of Ick, Vol. 2: Mother

In the aftermath of his father's death and funeral, Ick was welcomed into the clan with open-but-weirded-out arms. They didn't say much to him with words—mostly just condolences passed to him in silence. (It was less awkward that way.)

Ick's mannerisms were odd to them, and theirs to him. Where were their belts and baubles? Their capes and cowls? What time was tea? Nothing they did resembled anything Fahvarnimum would do. Plus, they were so dirty. It was like someone was spitting all over them while they rolled in the piss mud as a primer before dipping in the Arran River. Yes, the river!!

His inheritance included many tools, books and objects he had grown up with in his father's supervision. This must have made him look strange to the other clanfolk, being that he carried much of his inheritance around with him. Some of his trinkets were things they'd never even heard of before.

"A Cloak of Dis-what-ment, now?" they'd ask.
"Displacement, sir," Ick would say.
And they'd reply, "Stand still, boy. You're fidgeting."

And displaced he did feel for a short while...

But over the next few months after Fahvarnimum's death, he spent his time testing his father's advice, and to his surprise, this was exponentially more entertaining than following it.

He danced in front of a fire! (One that was lit!) He watched the Nightgliders come back from a run on their giant owls! He also went to a festival and set up a fortunetelling booth selling flagons of tea for copper, but was asked to stop because the smell and taste was objectively revolting to the other festival-goers and the fumes were disintegrating the canopy they lent him for his exhibit. And he bought a vegetable from someone after that!

All in all, Ick was beginning to trust the clan, despite his father's warning. But he hadn't forgotten what else he'd said when he died...

"Mom is out there, Morty," he'd lay awake telling his rag at night, "And I'm gonna find 'er!"

CRACKOW! A brief relief to his insomnia interrupted by a loud and barreling attack! The camp was under fire. He rushed out to see what was the matter and laid eyes on war! The Nightgliders defended the camp valiantly and made quick work of the attackers—some band of violent idiots from from the peaks, probably—but there were so many injuries...

"There could have been deaths," he thought, "There could have been so much worse, and I just stood there watching..." For the first time in his life, Ick was stricken with the burden of his powerlessness, "But I can't do anything!!"

He became obsessed with the concept of community; family. How to preserve it, help it thrive. Empower it! He kept wondering which of Fahvarnimum's preoccupations were founded in sanity... and whether he could somehow have it all... "Could Mom make the clan more powerful?" He had to find out.

He began reading tarot in town during the day using a book of lore and deck his father left him. He wanted to know the future of the clanfolk. Everyone's cards came back basically the same: Strength, Tower, Death... Fool, Death, Tower... Judgement, Strength, Wheel... Why??

At the very next move, Ick traveled at a distance like always. And at night, he started going deeper into the Chondalwood to find the answer. He wanted to find this "turbulent orb." He needed to talk to his mother to help him avoid this terrible future. If nothing else, it would at least be cool to meet his maker.

And thus he did. After only 2 weeks of night trips, he came upon a flickering light in the distance; a great oak with a deep and severe cleavage where inside was nothing but a perfect and brilliant hovering orb of green fire. He entered the large opening in the great tree, but when he came upon the enormous orb within, the light faded and retracted.

He raised his lantern to see better. He spoke into the darkness.

"Hello?" he said. There was no reply.

Ick took one step forward. Stillness ruled the room.

"Hello?" he thought into the darkness...

KIRRRACKOW!!! As the lantern tumbled to the floor of the great oak's belly, its flickering red light transformed to a pale shade of green, and the orb violently exploded outward after him.

The orb reached forth to engulf Ick's tiny frame in radiant green fire! Its blazing tendrils wrapped around his arms and feet, drilling into his eyes as he screamed. The sphere grew brighter and larger with each second, seeming to feast on his agony. Ick's skin began to melt and fall from his body and limbs; his face, a frightened visage of horror. The orb, growing hotter, greener, more impatient, closed in on him as he struggled. Morphing and billowing, oozing and dripping hot, green oil, it threatened to swallow him up. Ick's shreiks became muffled as the fiery ropes climbed inward and knotted around his gaping face; consolidating its efforts into breaking him apart into a thousand burning shards. His mouth grew wider and wider, his eyes, giant burning lumps of charcoal.

Suddenly, the orb flinched! It quivered and coughed as it smothered its prey. It broke and buckled and tried to abort, but it was too late. Its massive surface let out a terrible, echoing howl, and began burning brighter than it seemed capable of doing, as though someone had thrown gas on its flaming skin.

Ick's foot stamped hard into the leaves behind him.

His body began rebounding. He was taking control! Ick's white hot skeleton shown brightly through his flesh. The mass began to shrink and collapse, whirling and flailing in protest. Ick was eating the orb! The light was blinding and focused as a star. Winds swirled round the two of them like a hurricane until the only light inside the great oak shined from Ick's tiring eyes. His screams became a powerful howl as he swallowed it whole, which quieted slowly to a whimper as his form renormalized… which became a fit of tears as his knees met the leaves below him… and a loud explosion was heard in the distance…

As Ick crawled backward in shock, he could see the sun coming up too early. But it was no sun.

He could see black clouds on the horizon. But they weren't clouds.

And he could see the peaks in the distance. But it wasn't the peaks.

Ick watched as the largest creature he had ever thought possible slowly and deliberately scooped up dozens of screaming Ghostwise by the pinch-ful of its tremendous fingers and dropped them into its flaming maw without pause…

Nightgliders burned up in the sky around it like ash and embers blown from a bonfire in a gentle breeze as they tried and failed to defend the sleeping caravan…

Fire ravaged the canopy absolutely, and misery rang throughout the Chondalwood. Ick had survived and become something fantastic. And he had just completed his first of many surges of feral power.

He raised his green-flamed lantern up to the fiery skies and sobbed that his nightmare had begun.

## The Chronicles of Ick, Vol. 3: Birth

"I pulled the trigger, in a matter of speaking. And in a matter of speaking, I did it. I don't know how, but I know I'm to blame.

"I'm a Ghostwise. Which is to say, I don't speak much, but when I do, I only mess things up worse than they were before. But that's not because I'm a Ghostwise, or anything... See? I'm doing it again.

"I'm from the Chondalwood. I've been surfing inn to inn, flask to flagon, traveling for a very long time. I suppose that's because I'm a Ghostwise, but we usually don't get out this far. We're nomads, see. Or we were... Still not quite used to saying that. I mean, 'we' still are, just not my... \*sigh\*... I think I'm come down with a cold...

"I messed up. I saw the carnage. I couldn't stop it. And it all started under the stars that fateful night; that night O night Tymora abandoned me. I pushed too far into the wilds... and so The Wilds pushed back. My clan is all dead, but me. Somehow, I summoned something powerful. And it follows me where I try to go, like me on my way to my reputation. Now, I'm in search of a place to call home where luck run out won't matter, and nobody knows my name. I'm Andondolan Ick—The Haunted Fortune Teller—and enchanté, I'm quite unsure."