- Local time
- Today 12:44 PM
- Messages
- 165
- Age
- 42
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Barnaby polished the brass badge pinned to his grease-stained leather jerkin, using the dim light of a tallow candle to inspect its reflection. To the dockworkers of the Lower City, he was just Barnaby, the local urban ranger hired to clear out the oversized sewer-rodents gnawing through the foundations of the Outer Ward. To Barnaby, however, the badge was the crest of a consecrated knightly order, and the damp cobblestones beneath his boots were the holy flagstones of a magnificent sun cathedral.
Clutching his heavy iron-shod pole and a leather sack of toxic yellow tinctures, he descended the mossy stone steps into the sprawling cellar of the local temple. The air grew thick with the smell of old damp earth and stagnant bilge water.
"Stand fast, creatures of the pit," Barnaby muttered under his breath, lifting his pneumatic fumigation tank higher onto his shoulders. He considered the pressurized copper canister to be his sacred sun-engine, charged with the pure radiance of Lathander.
A squeal echoed from behind a stack of rotting wine casks. Two glowing red eyes blinked in the dark, followed by the rustle of coarse fur. A subterranean rat the size of a mastiff slinked out from the shadow of a pillar, its incisors dripping with foul saliva.
Barnaby did not flinch. He raised his hand in a grand, sweeping gesture, firmly believing he was channeling an absolute aura of divine protection. "By the eternal dawn, I banish you, foul abomination of the deep gloom!"
The beast lunged forward. Barnaby sidestepped with the fluid grace of an experienced tracker, driving the heavy brass nozzle of his tank directly toward the creature's flank. With a sharp pump of the handle, he released a thick cloud of acrid, chemical sulfur right into its face.
To the rat, it was a lethal dose of urban pesticide. To Barnaby, it was a searing blast of holy smite fire.
The giant rodent shrieked, thrashed against the stone floor for a few moments, and finally went still. Barnaby lowered his weapon, wiping a drop of sweat from his forehead with the back of a calloused hand. He muttered a brief, solemn prayer of thanks to his unseen solar deities for granting him victory in another grueling skirmish against the shadow.
Upstairs in the quiet scriptorium of the temple, High Prelate Vance sat by a tall stained-glass window, quill in hand. A nervous young novice stood before his desk, clutching a small ledger of municipal expenses and staring down toward the cellar stairs.
"Master Leopold," the novice began, his voice trembling slightly as the faint sound of Barnaby tramping back up the stone steps echoed through the floorboards. "Everyone in the Lower City calls Barnaby an ordinary pest control ranger. They say he takes coin to clear out the cellars and docks. But down there... he speaks of holy crusades, radiant suns, and unholy pits. Is he quite mad?"
Vance set his quill down on the parchment and rubbed his eyes, letting out a heavy, melancholic sigh. He looked out the window at the gray Lower City fog rolling in from the harbor.
"He is not simply mad, my boy," Leopold replied softly, shaking his head. "Years ago, during the skirmishes near the Cloakwood, Barnaby took a direct hit from a rogue arcanist casting a twisted variation of a feeble mind spell. The enchantment frayed the threads of his memory entirely. He survived, but his mind shattered and then mended itself around a singular, protective delusion."
Vance gestured vaguely toward the floorboards where Barnaby was currently stowing his gear by the front doors.
"In his broken mind, the humiliation of crawling through filth and killing sewer rats was too much to bear," Leopold continued. "So the magic warped his reality. It convinced him that every cellar is a grand cathedral, every pest is a demonic spawn, and he is no mere bounty collecting ranger at all. He is a shining paladin fighting a holy war. We pay him his copper because he keeps the temple free of vermin, and the gods know we need the help. But let him have his knightly armor in his heart, novice. It is the only shield he has left against the cruel truth of what he is."
Clutching his heavy iron-shod pole and a leather sack of toxic yellow tinctures, he descended the mossy stone steps into the sprawling cellar of the local temple. The air grew thick with the smell of old damp earth and stagnant bilge water.
"Stand fast, creatures of the pit," Barnaby muttered under his breath, lifting his pneumatic fumigation tank higher onto his shoulders. He considered the pressurized copper canister to be his sacred sun-engine, charged with the pure radiance of Lathander.
A squeal echoed from behind a stack of rotting wine casks. Two glowing red eyes blinked in the dark, followed by the rustle of coarse fur. A subterranean rat the size of a mastiff slinked out from the shadow of a pillar, its incisors dripping with foul saliva.
Barnaby did not flinch. He raised his hand in a grand, sweeping gesture, firmly believing he was channeling an absolute aura of divine protection. "By the eternal dawn, I banish you, foul abomination of the deep gloom!"
The beast lunged forward. Barnaby sidestepped with the fluid grace of an experienced tracker, driving the heavy brass nozzle of his tank directly toward the creature's flank. With a sharp pump of the handle, he released a thick cloud of acrid, chemical sulfur right into its face.
To the rat, it was a lethal dose of urban pesticide. To Barnaby, it was a searing blast of holy smite fire.
The giant rodent shrieked, thrashed against the stone floor for a few moments, and finally went still. Barnaby lowered his weapon, wiping a drop of sweat from his forehead with the back of a calloused hand. He muttered a brief, solemn prayer of thanks to his unseen solar deities for granting him victory in another grueling skirmish against the shadow.
Upstairs in the quiet scriptorium of the temple, High Prelate Vance sat by a tall stained-glass window, quill in hand. A nervous young novice stood before his desk, clutching a small ledger of municipal expenses and staring down toward the cellar stairs.
"Master Leopold," the novice began, his voice trembling slightly as the faint sound of Barnaby tramping back up the stone steps echoed through the floorboards. "Everyone in the Lower City calls Barnaby an ordinary pest control ranger. They say he takes coin to clear out the cellars and docks. But down there... he speaks of holy crusades, radiant suns, and unholy pits. Is he quite mad?"
Vance set his quill down on the parchment and rubbed his eyes, letting out a heavy, melancholic sigh. He looked out the window at the gray Lower City fog rolling in from the harbor.
"He is not simply mad, my boy," Leopold replied softly, shaking his head. "Years ago, during the skirmishes near the Cloakwood, Barnaby took a direct hit from a rogue arcanist casting a twisted variation of a feeble mind spell. The enchantment frayed the threads of his memory entirely. He survived, but his mind shattered and then mended itself around a singular, protective delusion."
Vance gestured vaguely toward the floorboards where Barnaby was currently stowing his gear by the front doors.
"In his broken mind, the humiliation of crawling through filth and killing sewer rats was too much to bear," Leopold continued. "So the magic warped his reality. It convinced him that every cellar is a grand cathedral, every pest is a demonic spawn, and he is no mere bounty collecting ranger at all. He is a shining paladin fighting a holy war. We pay him his copper because he keeps the temple free of vermin, and the gods know we need the help. But let him have his knightly armor in his heart, novice. It is the only shield he has left against the cruel truth of what he is."