November 21, 2012 / Maurice de Mare / 8 comments
Running through the forest, Gavin silently congratulated himself. Things were going splendidly. The werewolf pack was hunting him down, and, if everything went according to plan, they would trouble the baroness no more.
No sooner had he finished the thought than the ground rose to meet him. Dazed, Gavin picked himself up and looked at the hunter’s snare that had tripped him. The irony didn’t escape him as the werewolves howled and he could hear them rushing through the forest. So much for the carefully laid-out trap he had planned for the werewolves. He needed another one now.
He had a bag of caltrops on him, a candle, and some leftover alchemical silver from the planned trap. Eyeing the snare, he added rope to his list. The werewolves were closing in—no pressure. No pressure at all.
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November 7, 2012 / Maurice de Mare / 2 comments
Standing over Robin’s motionless body, Gavin felt a slight pang of regret. Maybe he shouldn’t have teased the youth about his lack of experience. Robin’s bold charge of the albino dire bat had been glorious, but the fiendish bat had savaged the boy’s chest to a bloody pulp in return.
Scrounging through the boy’s pockets revealed some coins, which Gavin pocketed, and a can of ham, some wire, and several doses of medicine that relieved pain. Knowing that the bat would return—drawn in by the boy’s blood—Gavin had an idea. The albino dire bat was nothing more than an oversized mouse with wings. And trapsmiths know everything about building a better mouse trap.
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October 31, 2012 / Maurice de Mare / Comments Off
Gavin carefully handled the two porcelain dolls he had ordered. Both carried the visage of Dargon, the foolish mage who had reneged on their deal. Gavin had secured the mage’s tower with several contraptions and then the mage had decided that the secret of those contraptions should be kept by only one person. Gavin had narrowly dodged Dargon’s fireball, a bolt of lightning, and seemingly endless barrages of magic missiles before he could escape Dargon’s damned tower. But tonight he would return and tomorrow Dargon would be sorry. And very dead.
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October 24, 2012 / Maurice de Mare / 2 comments
“Praise the knight, for he is a metal-clad pillar of strength.”
Gavin didn’t know why he recalled that particular street preacher’ sermon as he sped through the narrow alley. It was oddly appropriate because the paladin did prove to be relentless in his pursuit. The clanking of metal armor stayed with him, even though Gavin used every trick in the book to get away.
“Praise the knight, for he is a metal-clad pillar of strength.”
Again the phrase came to the forefront of his thoughts. Why? Gavin smiled as he understood. Strength is weakness, and you fight the man—not the armor.
Trapsmithing while running, Gavin grabbed his compass and sewing kit and started to work. Now he needed to find an inn. Racing though the streets, he spotted a signpost that met his needs. He darted inside and made his way to the kitchen. Once there, he flipped a gold coin to the cook and advised him to take a break. Spotting the cauldron he needed, Gavin went to work. Then a set of waffle irons caught his eye, and a wicked smile formed on his face.
As every card shark knows, you play the man and not the cards. If the target is wrapped in sheets of metal, then you don’t attack the metal, but the soft flesh that the metal protects. The noxious branding trap is based upon that principle. In the cauldron you cook every piece of poisonous, nauseating, irritating herb or condiment you possess. The cauldron is sealed with paper. Attached to a compass needle is some wire, which is attached to a normal sewing needle.
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October 17, 2012 / Maurice de Mare / 2 comments
Shivering from the cold, Gavin stared through his spyglass, looking over the cultist’s compound. They worshiped an ice demon, but that didn’t stop them from staying inside. Judging from the smoke that spiralled up from the chimney, the cultists were keeping themselves very warm.
“Hypocrites,” Gavin spat.
Gavin reached for one of his trail rations. He needed to keep his strength up, but the frigid lumps of food weren’t very appetizing. Gavin had to restrain himself from throwing the ration away. That wasn’t in his best interest, and he always kept that in mind.
“I just want a hot meal,” Gavin muttered.
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