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!
A few musicians play their instruments and a beatiful maiden dances to the music. Wonderful to look upon, you surely will spend a few coppers, will you? In addition, two thieves move through the on-looking crowd. "Spare the coppers - loose the silvers!" your father used to say.