A 99 word poem of a small town, and the demon who guards its chapel when the mists rise.
Rumors of gold and more, spoken on the wind draw the greedy to their doom.
“Swiftly, repent! The Saintmaker is coming!”
For your pleasure and entertainment, here we present, thirty fiendlings seasoned with a whiff of brimstone, teasingly clad in shadow, accompanied by tunes played on pipes of angel-bone; likewise do we tell of the gifts they might bestow upon one in their favor.
So get them before Hell freezes over!