Apocryphile

My friend across the table muttered something in passing and my blood went cold.

“Did you just say, Apocryphile?” There was no reason she could possibly know what it meant, I tried to stay calm, hands flat at my side.

“Uh, what? No,” she replied.

The ‘Apocryphile ‘is a name of ill portent, a character from a set of stories I thought I had escaped, a year-spanning tabletop of four-color glory. A villain of quiet wit and patient menace. One of Steven Carroll’s devils. For a split second, I legitimately wondered: am I still playing that same game? Have all the stories and games and dungeons and adventures since that game been nothing but a long con? Am I still wandering through the streets of New Babylon? Any moment now my phone will buzz and razor-sharp letters will blaze.

get to waffhut, funtime back in town, dont tell liz

The devils we create, the stories that we tell — the strange grip an imaginary name can squeeze from it’s imaginary heart. These worlds were ours and they linger. They linger indeed.

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