A cleric who doesn’t believe in the Divine.
A revenant with no memory of his past.
A blind elf looking for her children. Elvish children. As in elves.
The following story was adapted from a Dungeons & Dragons campaign, the original tabletop roleplaying game enjoyed by nerds, bachelors, and the unemployed alike.
This is a work of fiction satire. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Especially if they resemble Richard Dawkins.
The woods howled with the wind from the Southern Moors. Crooked trees loomed over the narrow path like corpses on the gallows. Their leaves rustled as night descended.
An icy raindrop struck Father Dawkins on a semi-pointed ear. He tugged on his collar and grimaced bitterly. Not at the claw marks of the chilling breeze. Nor the dampness that clung to his clothes. But that despite the fairy tales, elvish blood was no remedy for age. His bones shivered and muscles ached as he trotted after his companions like an old hound tied to an elvish rope. One that ran zigzag across the trail, through and around the trees, and sometimes, right into them.
“Ow! Look where you’re going!” Dolores shouted. A branch left a red line across her face.
Dawkins glanced ahead at Tulik. Less like a Father and more like a wizard brewing some forbidden potion. After scouring the land for clues, poring over ancient tomes locked within the vaults of the holiest cathedrals, could this walking cadaver really hold the keys to eternal life?
Did this fool even realize how close to divinity he was?
His thoughts dispersed as a shadow swooped down from the sky. Dawkins reached for his war hammer, and Tulik his sword. A creature covered in feathers soared over the soldier’s head, then seized the elf by her shoulder. Dawkins decided to hesitate. And it was a good thing.
“Hoot Hoot! You’re back!” Dolores cheered. “I don’t suppose you’ve spotted our missing elvish children, have you? Oh, dear, of course not.”
Tulik eyed the bird. “You have a pet owl?”
“Why, yes. Yes, I do.” She turned her blindfold to the feathered fiend happily perched on her shoulder. “This is Hoot Hoot. A hunter of the night! Oh, how I wish I knew what he looked like. Oh, Toolittle? Do be a gentleman, and tell me what color he is.”
“It’s white,” he said.
“Black,” Dawkins said with a sly grin.
“No, it’s white. With a little bit of brown.”
“Black.”
“White.”
“Black.”
Dolores followed the debate through her blindfold. Which is it? she wondered. Then she went as still as a stone. Either Dawkins or Tulilly is lying to me. I just know it!
And it was in that moment she suspected one of them was an elf.
Tulik shrugged and turned down the path. “Hey, guys? Looks like we got company.”
Dawkins followed the soldier’s gaze. Three shades drifted out from among the trees. They were men. Dirty. And rough.
Trouble.
“You, there,” the men called. “Halt!”
Dawkins and Tulik watched as the men blocked the path with a halfmoon stance.
“What seems to be the problem?” Tulik asked politely.
“See this here road?” one of them said, a scar dividing his face. “It’s a toll road. You know what that means, don’t ya?”
Tulik rubbed his head as he thought. “No, I don’t. What is that?”
Dawkins arched an eyebrow. He really did hit his head, didn’t he?
“That means you gimme your money.”
Tulik straightened up. “Why?”
“So folk can walk this road. With protection, ya hear?”
“I see.” Tulik seemed to put more thought into it, then nodded. “Thank you for your offer. But we can protect ourselves.”
“Oh, yeah? Well, other folk can’t. Now give.”
Dawkins cleared his throat and stepped forward. “Under whose authority do you act?”
The man shuffled his feet. “The town of Collisep,” he half-mumbled.
“Prove it.”
“Wha . . . fine! Just, uh . . . wait here as I talk to the other fellas, all right?”
They watched as the man backed off to hold a conference with his accomplices.
“I hope you at least remember how to swing a sword,” Dawkins whispered to Tulik.
“Of course!” Tulik said. I mean, how hard can it be?
One of the men approached Dawkins. He lifted his bare shoulder to reveal a tattoo of a human skull. “See that?”
Dawkins stared blankly. Squeezed his hammer.
“Now hold on just a second!” Everyone turned to face Dolores. “You don’t know who I am. And you don’t know my friends. And you know what? I don’t know them either! But we make a good team, me and them. And if you start trouble, well . . . oh! And I got Hoot Hoot, my owl! You can’t see him. But he’s up there in the sky, circling over us as I speak. And all I have to do is snap my fingers . . . and then you all die!”
Hearing his name, Hoot Hoot pecked Dolores on the ear.
“Hoot Hoot? Get up there! Go on! Shoo!” Dolores wiggled her shoulders from side to side, but the owl held on with its talons.
The three men stared. “Is she . . . all right in the head?”
Tulik shook his own. “I don’t think so.”
“Good. Crazy people pay extra.”
Tulik gritted his teeth. “Now I know you’re lying.”
“Look here,” Dawkins said, his cassock flapping softly in the breeze. “I am a . . . ugh . . . I am a servant of the Divine. A priest. A cleric. I heal people. I bless people. I’ve come all this way just to pray for the dead. Your dead. Friends. Family. And this is how you treat me?”
The headman chuckled. “Well, Father, ’case you haven’t seen, there aren’t many churches around. Still gotta pay.”
The men nodded to each other, then closed in on the cleric. Tulik’s instincts told him to draw his sword. Instead, he grabbed his own shoulder. And pulled.
The men leapt back, clubs and daggers in hand. Tulik pulled and pulled. Then with a final grunt, his arm came loose with a squish and plopped to the ground. Still moving.
Three gasps resounded like a windstorm.
“Ya don’t think he’s a leper, do you?”
“Is it contagious?”
“Look, uh, we’ll just let you folks go. But next time, you gotta pay!”
With that, the bandits stowed their weapons and hurried down the path. With every look over their shoulders, they seemed to move a little faster.
“Wow! Dawkins. You’re a priest?” Dolores said. “I had no idea! You know, I just so happen to be very devoted to the Divine. Mhm. And so are my children! My elvish children. Have you seen them?”
“Not yet,” Dawkins grumbled. Then turning to Tulik, he whispered, “Why are we even helping this she-elf? She’s deranged, clearly!”
Tulik sighed as he clicked his arm back into its socket. “I can’t say for sure. But I feel like I must help her. There’s something about her that—ouch, my head!”
Dawkins remained silent as he watched the soldier rub savagely at his scalp.
“I remember her from somewhere,” Tulik said. “But every time I try to think from where, this pain shoots through my brain.”
Where goes the elf, goes Tulik, Dawkins thought. And an ex-priest in tow.
He was startled by a nudge at his shoulder.
“Excuse me, Father Dawkins?” Dolores said. “I heard you guys whispering and just wanted to get in on it. What’s going on?”
“We’re talking about a certain elf,” he hissed.
“Ooo! Really? Is it close by?”
“Yes. She is.”
“Oh, goodie, goodie!” She rubbed her hands together, turning to her owl. “Hoot Hoot? Get ready to attack!”
Hoot?
“You, silly!”
Hoot?
“The elf!”
Hoot.
“Yes there is, the priest said so!” Then Dolores stiffened. She still didn’t know the color of her owl’s feathers. Did Dawkins lie about it? Did he lie about seeing an elf too?
Was he the elf?
Dawkins exchanged a glance with Tulik for a shrug. As they continued down the path, the wind lashed through the trees, and chunks of ice dropped from the sky. Soon the woods parted, and a dark building appeared that looked older than time itself.
“The Silvian Manor,” Tulik said with a shiver. He glanced at Dolores. “I sure hope your children are in there.”
“My children?” Dolores wore a confounded look. “Oh! Yes! My elvish children.”
Dawkins led the way toward the entrance as Tulik guided Dolores from bumping into the side of the manor. Dawkins pounded on a thick wooden door with his hammer. After a moment of no response, Tulik reached for the iron knocker and tapped. And after another moment, Dolores reached up and knocked on the back of Tulik’s head.
The door cracked open. A tall man, richly dressed but not rich enough to own the estate, stepped out.
“No need to knock so loud, we can hear you,” he said as if he had been roused from his slumber. “We weren’t expecting any visitors at this hour. My name is Rohan, butler of the Silvian Manor. What can I do for you, milords?”
Dawkins was about to answer but decided to let the others speak.
“We’re sorry to bother you, sir,” Tulik said with a slight bow, “but this young woman here has lost her children. They’re elves, you see.”
Rohan’s weary eyes glossed over the three of them. “Well, there are certainly no elvish children in this house, let me assure you.” He studied the soldier’s skin, which was as gray as a stone, then looked deep into the elf’s blindfold. His eyes landed last on the cleric. “You must be tired, Father, going out of your way to help these poor people. It’s a dreadful night to be out. We’ve got some spare rooms if you’d like to stay here till the storm passes over.”
Tulik turned to Dolores. “I truly don’t know what to do about your missing children. If they’re not here, then where else could they be?”
“Well,” she said thoughtfully as she looked up at the sky, which was really the porch ceiling. “Where are we, anyway?”
“South of Collisep and the Moors,” Dawkins answered. “And in the event you’re hard of hearing as well, at the Silvian Manor. Although I know not to whom this estate belongs.”
Rohan cleared his throat. “That would be Lord Raynor Sanguine.”
At the sound of that name, Tulik flinched.
“Oh, whatever is the matter?” Dawkins asked.
“I—I don’t know,” Tulik gasped. “My head. It hurts! I can’t . . .”
Tulik watched wide-eyed as the manor faded away, taking with it the man at the door and his companions. Even the trees disappeared, replaced by four walls. A stern, bearded face floated on the other side of a table, and another on the right and on the left.
“We’re honored to have you aboard, Tulik,” the face said. The body that followed wore a uniform similar to Tulik’s. “Soldiers of the Ex Cavare are just that. Soldiers. They sign up with expectations, and we deliver, throwing them against the hordes in the fields of glory. They’re brave lads, there’s no mistaking that. But they haven’t the wits to sniff out the rats that shite in the shadows. Your, eh, lesser than noble skills will be of most value in this task.”
Tulik felt himself nod. “I’ll do everything I can to help.” He patted the advance in his pocket. It clinked softly beneath the table.
“We’ve been looking into a matter related to the rise in demon activity. As far as we can tell, our inquiries have gone mostly unnoticed. Mostly. But if anything should happen to the other three members of this investigation, it will be the objective of the survivor to find an elven lord by the name of Raynor Sanguine. And once you do—”
Knock! Knock! Knock!
“General! A horde has been spotted in the Moors!”
“What! How many?”
“Unknown, sir. The scout was too petrified to speak. We barely got the warning out of him.”
“So be it. Sound the trumpets! We march for the Moors.”
“Yes, General!”
The face across the table turned back to Tulik. “I know your place is not on the battlefield. But those rats of which I speak will be among my men. Are you ready to play your part?”
Tulik nodded again. “I am.”
“Good. And as I was saying, if anything should happen to the investigation, you’re to find the elven lord. And once you do . . .”
The table fluttered away, and Tulik found himself back on the front steps to the Silvian Manor. A man stood at the door, and his companions stood at his side. He reached up and touched his forehead damp with sweat. He watched as Father Dawkins opened his mouth and said something he couldn’t hear. He glanced at Dolores, whose owl nibbled on one of her pointy ears. He then gazed at Rohan, the butler who gave up his master’s name like a codeword.
Raynor Sanguine.
Tulik collapsed with a thud.
Dolores snapped to attention. “What was that! Elves?”
Dawkins rolled his eyes and turned to Rohan. “I suppose we’ll be taking you up on those rooms you spoke of.”
Rohan nodded, stooped down, and grabbed Tulik by the legs. Dawkins tightened his gloves before gripping the shoulders, and with an involuntary grunt, followed the butler into the manor.
“What are they doing, Tulik?” Dolores asked, still outside.
“He’s in here!” Dawkins barked.
The elf twirled like a top, then banged into the doorframe.
“In here, Father,” Rohan said, using his rump to open the door to a small room that was just down the hall. “Place him here.”
Dawkins didn’t argue. He lowered—more like dropped—the corpse on a red divan, then immediately planted himself in a cushioned chair.
“Make yourselves at home, please,” Rohan said. He threw some logs on a hearth, and soon a fire crackled, bringing warmth to the room. In the hall, he found Dolores bumping into a wall and guided her into the room, but not without getting pecked on the hand by her owl. He left the three of them alone for the moment.
“I see soldiers, Father,” Tulik breathed. “And a family. Elves.”
Dawkins grunted. Why bother with this mindless cadaver? he thought. I’d be better off making my escape now that he’s out of it and leaving him with that ridiculous elf. Then he shook his head, his way of collecting the millions of thoughts spiraling around his mind like a galaxy.
“Father?”
Dawkins didn’t answer. He’s a revenant, he thought. Those who return from the dead by the unholy power of revenge. Yet this particular specimen hasn’t the faintest idea who he is, much less what vendetta has resurrected him. Already, he defies the laws of mortality. If I can restore his memories, perhaps I can solve the revenant riddle. And if I can replicate it with the help of some alchemy, then perhaps I shall finally have the cure to mortality . . .
Dawkins forced his head up. “What are the soldiers doing?”
“It’s too hard to tell,” Tulik said. “But I think—”
A scream pierced the manor. Tulik sat up, eyes darting back and forth. Dolores stood behind the couch, head cocked to the side. With the opportunity presented, the owl bit her ear.
They both jumped when the door opened. In came Rohan with a tray of food.
“What was that noise?” Tulik asked, muscles tense. Dolores nodded shakily. Dawkins just gazed at the floor, thinking.
“Oh, you’ll hear many a strange sound in this house, you will,” Rohan said, setting the tray on a table. “That, and there are, uh, birds in the attic. But don’t worry about them.” He paused at the door. “I should warn you against wandering from this room during your stay. The master, he’s a generous man, but like all masters, he needs his space. Good night, milords, milady.” The door clicked behind him.
Dawkins shut his book of thoughts and joined Tulik in approaching the tray like it were a bag of stolen goods. The steam of barley soup traveled up their nostrils, reminding one of them of Mother’s cooking and the other of the soup kitchen. Tulik dug in without a second thought, while Dawkins only took a few sips before dozing off in his chair.
Dolores stared at the ceiling, malice written over her face. “Hoot Hoot,” she whispered. “Go find out if there are any birds in the attic. Go!” The owl departed from her shoulder and circled the ceiling several times before returning. “Well? Find anything?”
Hoot?
“The birds the man mentioned.”
Hoot?
“The kind man who let us in.”
Hoot.
“O nunquam mens, ave damnata!” Dolores heaved a sigh and lifted a spoon to her lips. Then froze. “Something’s wrong,” she said aloud. “I know that scent. It’s . . . poison!”
“I don’t know, I think it’s pretty good,” Tulik said, licking his bowl clean. He set it down and settled his gaze on Dolores. “Going to finish that?”
Dolores scowled but surrendered her bowl without a fight. Tulik, however, decided he had enough when he saw the owl stool floating in the middle of the soup.
“Well, I suppose we should get some sleep,” he said. “It’s been a long day, searching for your children and all. Father Dawkins? Any clue where we might find some elves?”
Dawkins stirred. “Auster and Meridies are close by. Both are elvish villages.”
“Ooo,” Dolores hummed. “Let’s try Auster!”
Dawkins cracked open his eyes in a death-glare. “You can go to Auster.” He then saw Tulik’s determined look. “And I suppose we can too.” It wasn’t long before Dawkins drifted off again, grumbling liturgical words interlaced with blasphemies. Tulik lay down on the couch, rolling several times until he found a comfortable position.
But Dolores stayed on her toes.
“I’m going to sleep outside,” she said. “This way, I can hear if anyone comes to the door in the middle of the night.”
“Suit yourself,” Tulik yawned. He half-watched as Dolores marched up to a cupboard in the corner of the room and let herself inside.
What is it about her? he wondered. What is it about Father? And this place?
The room seemed like a maze as he tried to make sense of the world around him. There was a second door in the room that no one had opened. It was just behind Dawkins’s chair. A closet, Tulik thought. What ghosts could be hiding in there?
Within the hour, a sharp pain brought Tulik to his feet. He hobbled across the floor, clutching his chest. What’s wrong? he thought. Then he fell like a tower, back slamming against the rug. But as if nothing had happened, he jumped right back to his feet. “Wow. Dolores was right. That soup really was poisoned!”
On the armchair, Dawkins cringed. He only had a few sips, but it was enough to rouse him from his slumber. “Good heavens, I’m having the big one—I’m having the big one!”
“You okay, Father? Just stay still—”
The door behind Dawkins swung open.
“Father! Look out!”
Dawkins made a horrible face as he rolled off his chair, staggering to his feet with the use of his war hammer. When he turned, he saw two more Tuliks in the room. Gray. Grotesque. And swaying on their feet like drunken sailors.
Dawkins stumbled backward as a smelly arm swatted the air before him. He fought for balance, groaning as his stomach churned. He glared into the creature’s dim eyes, then noticed the pointy ears. “Elves?” he said with a frown.
The cupboard rattled. “Where!”
With a growl he didn’t know he was capable of, Dawkins swung his weapon. The hammer smashed into the side of the zombie’s head. Blood smattered across the wall.
Tulik shouldered his crossbow and squeezed the trigger. A bolt spiraled through the air, nailing the second zombie in the chest. Without even thinking, he dropped his weapon and drew his short sword, hurrying up beside Dawkins.
A fleshless hand clawed forward, scathing Dawkins’s chainmail.
The cupboard flew open, and out stumbled Dolores. She could hear the hollow breath of the two horrors in the room. She nudged her owl, shouting words in the True Tongue: “Nothi occidere!” The bird launched into the air, pulsing with vigor as it swooped over the undead elves, poking out the eye of the bigger while scratching the legs of the smaller.
Tulik arched his sword back to strike at the bigger zombie’s legs. But when he swung, his blade got stuck in Dawkins’s chair.
Dawkins cursed. “What are you doing, boy!”
The bigger zombie stumbled over the rug and crashed to the floor, snarling as it pulled itself along the ground. The smaller zombie swiped as Tulik danced away.
“That’s it!” Dolores yelled. “Hoot Hoot, you’ve had your fun. Now I’m going to get my hands dirty!” True to her words, she ran toward the smaller zombie with her hands out. While meaning to gouge out its eyes, she instead tripped over the rug and sunk her teeth into its rotting leg.
Dawkins swung again with a battle cry. His hammer flattened the bigger zombie’s head into the floor.
The smaller zombie struck Dolores, forcing her back. “That’s it!” she shrieked, feeling her cheek. “I’m going all in!” Dolores lowered her head and charged like a bull, ramming into the creature. They rolled across the floor, tangled in an elvish knot.
Dawkins lowered his hammer. He proceeded to wipe the sweat off his forehead with the sleeve of his cassock.
Tulik stared as their elvish companion repeatedly smacked her head against the zombie’s, pestling it into the ground. Blood cascaded down her face. She laughed and screamed with delight, licking her gory fingers.
“Dolores?” he said. The elf tore into the zombie’s innards and rained its guts through the air. “Dolores, I think it’s dead.”
“Yes, yes! But it’s an elf!”
“Yeah, but . . . wait, why does that matter?”
“Because I hate elves!” Then she paused, a ceasefire of raining blood. “I mean, no, I hate . . . elf zombies!” She continued to strike the corpse’s face, which was now mostly mush.
Tulik turned to Dawkins. “She’s crazy. I’m convinced now. But would we rather have her on our side than not? I think we should give her a weapon.”
Dawkins smirked. “Brilliant. Give a blind elf something she can hurt people with. I suppose you’d prefer we give her something that shoots too, wouldn’t you?”
Tulik shrugged. “Good point. I just don’t want her to think we don’t trust her.”
Dawkins paused in thought, then reached for his crossbow. He cocked the string but did not place a bolt on the barrel. Tulik nodded as Dawkins handed it to Dolores. She immediately began ramming its butt into the zombie’s face, or what remained of it. At last, she stood. Her tunic was soddened in blood.
“Ready?” she smiled, her face smattered red. “I hear Auster is lovely this time of year!”
Dawkins shouldered his hammer. He met Tulik with an uncomfortable gaze.
Poisoned soup. Now zombies. There was more to Silvian Manor than the mayor bothered to tell them. And Dawkins was not amused.
“Let us leave this accursed manor,” he said, then turning to the elf. “I am done looking for these ‘elvish’ children of yours. From now on . . .” But Dolores wasn’t where he thought she was. Surveying the blood and guts soaking into the rug, he caught sight of a hunched-over shadow in the corner, its back toward them and an owl perched on its shoulder. She was nibbling on something in her hand. It was smaller than a carrot and as gray as a finger.
Or at least as gray as one of Tulik’s fingers.
“Hey! Give that back!”
Dolores opened her mouth for another bite. But the finger wiggled loose, slithering across the floor like a snake—the elf crawling after it. The chase ended at Tulik’s boots. He stuck his finger back on his hand, frowning.
Beside him, Dawkins watched with an expressionless green face. His mouth twitched as if he had something to say. But when it opened, he painted Tulik in vomit.
“Gross!”
Dawkins wheezed, holding the wall for balance. “Follow her as you will . . . but keep that creature ten feet away from me at all times!”
Dolores’s pointy ears perked up. “Did you guys hear that? I heard dogs!”
As Tulik wiped himself down with a tablecloth, Dawkins inched toward the door to the hall from which they had come.
“Locked,” he spat. His eyes settled on the other door, and Tulik tiptoed over the guts to reach it.
“This one’s locked too,” Tulik said. Then he put on a thoughtful look, curious even. “Don’t worry, I . . . think I got this.” He stooped down on one knee, and jamming a blade and lockpick into the slot, a few twists and turns dislodged the door from its frame. “At least I remember how to do that!” The room on the other side was black, and a foul stench filled their lungs. Borrowing a log from the fire, Tulik led the way, backing the shadows into corners.
“What do you see?” Dawkins asked from behind. When Dolores’s head popped up beside him, he flashed his teeth and strode across the room, stepping over broken furniture and using Tulik as a human barricade between him and the elf. Why is the floor sticky? He glanced down to see he was standing in a pool of red. Bloodlets dripped from the spigot of a winepress. Beside it was a stack of bodies. Some were guards clad in armor. Others were commonfolk in rags.
Dawkins’s mouth twitched. But he had already vomited. “Monsters,” he said numbly. His eyes followed the pool draining out through the crack beneath a door that he guessed must have led outside. “No doubt they intended to do the same to us. We’ve narrowly escaped our doom.”
Tulik stared. Who would do this? His muscles tensed. The elven lord.
He felt a nudge from behind. He turned to face Dolores. “What is it?” he asked.
“Well,” Dolores said, lowering her voice. “You know, Tulip . . . you and I. We understand each other. But that Father Dawkins, well . . . I don’t trust him. I don’t even like him. In fact, I hate him. Do you want to help me kill him?”
Tulik paused. What the . . . ? Then he nodded. “Now that you mention it, I don’t trust him either. And I think I know the best way to get rid of him.”
“You do? Really, Tulip?”
“Sure. Follow me.”
Tulik led the elf back to the previous room. Dawkins watched with suspicion. What is that devilish elf up to this time?
“Now wait behind the door,” Tulik whispered, “and I’ll lure him in.”
Dolores grinned from pointed ear to pointed ear. “Okay!”
Then Tulik shut the door, turning the lock.
Dawkins frowned. “What was that all about?”
“She’s bats!” Tulik cried. “We can’t keep her around anymore. Let’s just get out of here and forget we ever had the misfortune of running into that crazy elf!”
“Oh, Tulip?” she said from the other side.
The handle jiggled.
“Tulip . . . ?”
Dawkins and Tulik shared a worried glance.
“Tulip!” she shrieked like a wounded animal. “You were elves! Both of you! I knew it! Hoot Hoot’s not black nor white, is he? He’s gray! Or maybe brown. You plotted against me! Oh, just you wait! I’ll get you for this. I will strike when you least expect it!”
Glass shattered from the other side. Then a shadow flew by the window.
Dawkins eyed the door leading out. “Wonderful. Now she can ambush us. Better hope she doesn’t get her hands on a quiver of bolts. Someone had the brilliance to give her a crossbow.”
“But she can’t see!” Tulik protested.
“Or pretends she can’t.”
Tulik heaved a sigh. “So, what now?”
Dawkins sized up the winepress, planting the butt of his bloodstained hammer into the palm of his hand. “I suppose we can’t just walk away from this. We shall find the master of this house and press him for answers.” He turned to face Tulik. “What was his name, again?”
Tulik straightened and clenched his fists. If anything should happen to the investigation, you’re to find the elven lord. And once you do . . . you must kill him.
“Raynor Sanguine.”
Continue to Dawkins & Dragons III: Shades of Sanguine
BEHIND THE SCENES
90 percent of this story is a literal account of what happened, the biggest addition being Tulik’s vision outside the manor. There was a path the players could have taken on the way to the manor, which would have led them to a werewolf’s den. This session ended after killing the zombies.
Special thanks to Dom (Tulik), Austin (Dolores), and Tom (Dungeon Master).
