Nanofiction: Character Bios

Here are some short (very short) bios of a few characters I’ve made up.

The Master (?) Chymist

January the elf was born a slave. Sold from master to master until an alchemical guild purchased him to be a janitor and test subject. They treated him cruelly. One day he found himself running away from the guild’s flaming wreckage, but couldn’t remember how it happened. Alchemy can do funny things to a mind…

I Turned My Teacher Into A Spoon

Ashley is a girl of eight. She has uncombed black hair, a lovely red dress, a pewter cauldron, and an imp familiar. When her parents died, they left her their mansion – but they forgot to leave the mansion. Tired of living in a haunted house, she struck out on her own. Friendless, evil, but redeemable.

Fearsome Friendly Dragon

Bosarius, or Boltrider, is a youngish bronze dragon. He breathes lightning. Bosarius took it upon himself to watch over a small, helpless port town. His goal: guide it over the years to become a thriving metropolis. But can the townsfolk survive having a brash, easily angered (but good-hearted) dragon as “protector”? Time will tell.

Secret Agent Woman

Tara is an agent of a shadowy agency – can’t tell you which. She was assigned as “handler” of a rather bumbling mayor, whose administration must be a success – for classified reasons. Using her elite skills, Tara covertly seeks out and eliminates threats to His Honor – when she’s not covertly saving him from his own mistakes.

The Wizard Who Did It

Jackiv. Once, an eccentric wizard who liked having fun with magic, never mind the consequences. One day he found an unholy artifact that rubbed him the wrong way. He unmade it, absorbed its power, and became a god. Now a divinity, he still futzes with magic for amusement. Unexplained obstacle? Bizarre phenomenon? Probably his fault.

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Sharan Nanofiction

An automatic voice boomed. “INTRUDERS IN THE FRONT GATE!” The  guard’s pay of dwarven ale was on the line: “Who drew a weapon!?” Up went the old man’s hands. “I’m sorry! It’s just a cane!” “Phew,” breathed the guard, sheathing his sword. The old man smacked him. “Dummy,” said Gigas as the illusion wore off.

Security was suddenly important to Gigas. At bedtime, he magically locked the door of his room, put a mannequin in his bed, teleported back out of the castle, came in again disguised as a servant, and went to sleep in a different room. No one knew where to find him at night. Well, except Tiva.

Gralannan brought King Tony to inspect the golem-and-dwarf shaped hole in the floor. “Seriously, Marshall?” sighed Tony. “Don’t look at me! I didn’t tell it to chase Johnny!” Suddenly, a second Gralannan came to see the commotion. Tony turned as the man next to him shapeshifted into a bird and flew away, laughing.

“All right, cough them up,” demanded Bane. The restrained gnome’s old face was full of contempt as he tossed a hefty bag. Bane held it to his grizzled mug and inspected: pure gold, every coin. Garbage. “Come on, the real stuff.” The gnome growled, withdrew the secret wooden nickels from his sock. Bane nodded. “Better.”

Planning to write the long awaited next chapter to Gigas’ Tale soon, in which I explain what G.I.G.A.S. stands for.

Gigas Flashforward: Magellan Nanofiction

These aren’t part of Gigas’ Tale. They’re nanofiction, 55-word stories about current goings on in our D&D campaign.

Don’t Feed The Sea Monsters

The undertaker couldn’t recognize the charred uniform – he’d died of a fireball to the face. “Looks Southumberlish — bury him at sea?” he suggested. Gigas recognized his own spellwork. “He’s a Blue Royal,” Gigas lied. “One of ours.” Gigas had zero respect for anyone who attacked a city. But the sahuagin had eaten enough today.

I Even Used My Own Body Spray

Come on, baby! What do you mean I’m not your type? No, I’m not drunk, I’m just celebrating! These aren’t bad manners, this is how dwarves talk! Of course I can handle you, my handle’s right there, see? So let’s you and me… What’s that? Oh, well, I am a waraxe. You’ve got me there.

Meanwhile In The Warehouse

Laid upon the workroom bench was an undetonated torpedo. Three men stood 40 feet away, watching the expert at work. One wrong wire cut, and the warehouse would go up in flames. Marshall steadied his hands, and made his choice. Snip. “There, it should be working now. What? Why would I want to DISarm it?”