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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