Chapter Two: Imp-possible Undertakings

According to people who know better, an imp is a creature akin to a pixie or sprite, only more mischeivous. On the sliding scale of small fantastic creatures who would do a person serious harm as good as look at him, the imp is somewhere in the upper average.

Pygmy elves or what are called domestic elves, the kind that work with shoes and household chores, are probably the nicest of the lot. No one complains about an elf willing to do your laundry. Next come the sprites, for they are playful and refreshing. Then come the pixies with their magical sticks and fairy dust, followed by the nixies who, though universal complainers, generally are good folk. The chubby brownies are next, rating a little above average on the good side. Leperchauns tend to mark the average. As for pookas and kelpies, if you were to give them a "how moral are you?" test, would probably score about a 68%. A high D-average, but they can surprise you sometimes with a kind word. Goblins are definitely troublesome and were never studious where ethics are concerned. Born bullies, the hobgoblins and the bloody red caps, are always too busy killing to take a "goodness" test. Needless to say, they would probably find the essay section a little too much for their violent intellectual proclivities. The brutish orc is simply a cousin of the hobgoblin. Some believe trolls and ogres, bugbears, and gnomes to be related to this family line, but that is not true. They are all related to giants. Rather small giants, but giants, nonetheless.

Imps, then, fall somewhere between pooka and goblin. They are the unholy union of a domestic elf and a wandering demon. An imp begins its life in a scenario much like this: the domestic elf is busy doing the dishes that the householders apathetically left in the sink, her hands soaked with dirty suds, when the doorbell rings. She wipes her dainty good hands on her lacey apron and skips to the door so as not to disturb the sleeping children in the upstairs corner bedroom. When she opens wide the front door, she is greeted by a red-skinned, goatish-looking man, horns and hooves and all, usually well built and carrying a briefcase full of sample encyclopedias or brushes. Before she knows it, she has signed a contract for a complete set of books with her soul thrown in as part of the bargain. Timidly, her tiny elf heart beats madly. She pleads with the demonic salesman to release her from his bondage so that she can continue her "legal" bondage to the household. Surely, says he cleaning dirt from a talon and rubbing his knuckles on his vest. For a price. And from there, I'll let you draw your own conclusion. It involves a lot of heavy panting, an infernal odor, and some well placed saddle soap.

Other grimoires, the ones less studied by mad authors, argue that the imp is none of this, nor that neither. The imp, they say, is really the spirit of a child, most likely those between the years of 1 to 4 years of age. These are called the "brat" imps, caught in their terrible infantine stage of development. If good children go to heaven, imps are children who ended up in that other place.

An imp was supposedly under the service of Paracelsus, the legendary alchemist, who kept one locked inside the crystal pommel of his sword for reasons that are unclear to us today. Like most demons, when under contract, they tend to behave themselves fairly well. But left on their own, their machinations turn to infernal affairs.

The imps attacking the meaty legs of the barbarian had been released from their contract centuries before. They were taking, you might say, a corporate coffee break before going back to business. As such, when they saw Barkhor stumbling over the stones and ruins of the necropolis, wide grins spread like a poison ivy infection across their pointy little faces. They looked at each other, put down their coffee cups, and began the ambush.

Ambushing a barbarian is not as hard as it sounds. This one, in particularly, posed no threat. The imps heard his off-key humming long before he turned the bend in the valley. As for Barkhor, he was expecting an army of skeletons to rise out of the earth and attack him. That was the sort of thing skeletons did. But imps were another matter. They don't rise, so much as hop. And before he knew what hit him, a swarm of imps had sprung from their hiding place behind some big rocks and attacked.

Imp bites fall somewhere between mosquito bites, bee stings, and a laceration with a rusty saw. While their mouths are tiny, they are filled with sharp pointy teeth. To say nothing of the drool. Bitten by an imp is perhaps the pleasant effect. Imp drool is viscous, stains the skin a raspberry color, and has the odor of spoiled milk. At this point, the barbarian smelled like some rancid breakfast cereal.

Barkhor yowled. It took him a moment's composure to give the signal for help. The party discussed what this sign should be. Walorian suggested a red magic candle shot into the air. The others felt that not only would that alert any traveling wyrm or barghest to their party's position, but that, unable to recreate such an event themselves, it would be too showy for the mage.

"That would be fine for dinner theatre," the elf commented. "But it's a little too flashy for my tastes." And at that point the mage reminded the elf of his formal wear during a local prince's recent stag ball.

It was Zalina who suggested the whistle. And all agreed after trying out the signal that this would be adequate. At first Barkhor could only wolf-whistle, never having practical experience with any other kind, but he eventually figured it out.

The others came to the barbarian's aid eventually. In reality, it had been a few mintues before they decided to leave their conversation and pack up their camp gear. When they saw that he was in trouble, they increased their speed slightly. It was a little embarrassing, they had to admit, to save their best warrior from a band of tiny devil children. But because he was caught in a swarm, the imps were holding their own. They were also holding their own limbs, these having been hacked off by the barbarian's great sword.

The battle continued for several minutes. The elf adriotly attacked with his bow and quiver of economy arrows, while the rogue skewered a few with her sword. The old mage fell a group of imps with a spray of magical rainbow colors as they climbed on each others' shoulders to make a makeshift seige weapon.

When the battle was over, imp parts littered the field. Barkhor, bleeding profusely from the knees, simply fainted from loss of blood. They brought him to with a few pungent whiffs from a vial of magical salts. He sat up, rubbed his sore legs with catcher mitt hands, and said, "me think this job have poor health benefits."

That wasn't the half of it.

In the distance, between a field of imp parts and streaks of the barbarian's blood the path sunk into a sinister-looking valley. The menhirs of the ancient temple peeked around a break in the mountainside.

Next chapter: Temple, Temple.