The Cursed Hoard

You are a dragon that specializes in cursed items. As you return to your cave, you are amused to find some wanna-be thieves that tried to steal from your hoard. 

"Vim, you're good with languages, yes?"

The little imp glanced up at their master, and considered the question. "I like to think I am, Master, especially in comparison to some of my lesser brethren, though if you consider the linguistic talents of the--"

Their master cut them off with a snort. "That was a yes or no question, Vim."

"Apologies, Master. Yes, I'm pretty good with languages."

"Is there a word among the various languages you know for 'amusement at someone else's folly or misfortune?'"

Vim perked up. "As it happens, yes, Master! It's from a human language from another where-and-when, called--" The imp paused, sensing the annoyance already building up, and amended their response. "--it doesn't matter. But the word you're looking for is called schadenfreude." They hesitated, then inquired, "Why do you ask, Master?"

"Every time I come home and see the keep above my hoard, I'm reminded of how much work it must have been for the builders, not realizing what the cave system they found had been claimed for already." A low chuckle issued forth. "I regret that I had to kill them as a matter of principle, even if I admire their handiwork."

"Your respect shows, Master! Hardly any damage to the keep despite your attacks! Truly, they didn't appreciate the magnanimity of your assault, sparing the decor as you did--"

"Be quiet, Vim."

The imp fell silent again as their master landed in the keep's courtyard with a tremendous crash of their size. They both froze, however, as they sensed something was amiss. Vim's arcane senses twinged in a particular way, while their master's nostrils flared. Both growled, as Vim reported, "Intruders have been here."

"A paltry three," their master confirmed, as Vim set down the bulging satchel they'd been carrying. Another deep breath, before some of the tension waned. "But there is no danger."

"Are you certain, Master? Even three adventurers can be dangerous if they've had sufficient time to prepare the battlefield, or come equipped with dragon-slaying weaponry--"

"No, Vim, these three were thieves." The imp looked up at the immense bulk of their master, their scintillating scaled hide shifting slightly as the dragon Prismarix's head lifted and scented the air again, eyes sweeping over the keep. Relaxing again, the dragon continued, "Bring our new trinkets, Vim. And let us go see our would-be burglars."

The imp, ten feet of obsequious servile eagerness compressed into a three-foot sack of rangy anxious flesh, heaved up the satchel again without complaint or apparent effort. They scampered behind Prismarix as the dragon's magic swirled around the glittering scales, until Vim was hurrying after a striding humanoid figure. The dragon's human guise was dressed as a nobleman, in fine silver-gray garments laced with golden threads, adorned with gemstones. Platinum-blond hair was swept back from aquiline features and two eyes that gleamed like fire opals.

Steepling his fingers together, lips set in a faint smile, Prismarix proceeded into the keep's great hall. "When was the last time we had burglars, Vim?"

The imp's face screwed up in thought, lips moving as they did some math. "Erm... sixteenth months, Master, unless you count the rats that got into the grain stores--"

"That recent? Hm. Feels like it was ages ago. Time can be funny that way."

"Well, Master, some philosophers like to compare time to a weird soup--"

"Be quiet, Vim."

They stood in the ritual circle which had been laid in the floor of the great hall, hidden amid the designs in the stone tiles, and with a gesture from Vim, the pair of them were teleported into the vault. The caves beneath the mountain on which the keep stood had all been repurposed for this by the dragon centuries before. The tunnels lit by everlasting torches and other discreet spellwork.

Tapestries and paintings were hung throughout, where space wasn't taken up by spellglass-front display cases or ornate racks. Nearly every display had at least one item of prominence. Here, a mannikin hand adorned with a selection of rings. There, a full suit of ebon armor with blood red crystal ornamentation, complete with a black-enameled sword gripped in both hands, planted in the base of its display. Gemstones on cushions in glass cases. A locked bookshelf filled with tomes and grimoires.

Room after room, tunnel after tunnel, extending throughout the entire mountain. Prismarix took a moment to close his eyes and smile faintly as he basked in the arcane energies surrounding him, then sighed. Before he could enjoy his collection, he would need to deal with the intruders. "Well, then. Let's be about it. Where are they, Vim?"

The imp closed their eyes, attuned to the wards and spells throughout the Hoard, and then started off down one of the tunnels. "Nearest is this way, Master. In the first gallery."

Prismarix chuckled. "Oh, the poor benighted fool. Very well, let's see which piece has transfixed them."

At the entrance to the room, however, Vim raised a hand. "Hold, Master, much of the gallery is in an active state. Give me a moment to restore it to quiescence." The imp vanished inside, and there passed a minute or two of angry shouting and declamations in Infernal before the servant bid their master enter. The expansive room held a number of paintings, tapestries, sculptures, and other objets d'art arranged in tasteful displays. It would not have looked out of place in a museum in one of the larger cities; it even had velvet ropes strung between bollards.

Laying on the floor was a body, wearing the sort of rough leathers common to the brigands that prowled the byways of the land, a dagger and shortsword at its sides. Prismarix walked over to it, feeling the pull of glamor from several of the paintings as he passed by, and paused as he reached the one called Malignant Altar, as an air of malevolence gripped at him. The disguised dragon turned one eye upon the piece, looking at the distant figure in the artwork, a pale robed figure reclined with an almost relaxed air, unstained by the bloodstained chantry surrounding it. The figure's throne was atop a mountain of bones. Prismarix could see a new detail in the foreground, a slumped body in rough leathers, face down in the pool of blood before the altar. After a glare from the dragon, the malevolent air abated, and he fancied he heard a distant laugh on the breeze.

"This one's been dead at least a day, Master," Vim reported as they prodded at the body, and the imp sniffed at it a bit. "Good news at least, the preservation enchantments kept it from decaying, but unless you got a way to snatch the soul back out of that painting, I don't think we can revive him."

"No," Prismarix decided. "But we can still make use of it." He turned to a plinth on which a jade urn sat, into which black obsidian designs had been set. With a whispered conjuration, he reached a hand inside, and drew forth a clinging wisp of light, which he gently blew toward the recumbent body.

Vim leapt back as the body seized up, then rose to its feet. Two blank eyes turned to the dragon, who ordered it, "Proceed to the main vault hall and await further instructions. Touch nothing. I will return for you." The undead servitor nodded its understanding, lurching toward the main hall, while the imp led their master to the next intruder.

They found her in the blue treasure room, called such for the blue tapestries and rugs adorning the room, not for the color of the treasure within. In addition to stockpiled ingots and stacks of coins, heaps of gems, and other more standard treasure, there were mannikins wearing various armor sets. It did not usually, however, contain statues, so the one of the woman in a similar set of rough leathers, facing a gold-framed crystal mirror was of interest to the dragon. He knew immediately the cause, as he cupped the heavy, diamond necklace with the glimmering emerald stone.

"It seems this one took an interest in Vasquela's Crux," Vim noted. The imp poked a bit at the statue, and then peered up at the necklace. "Same timeframe as the one claimed by the Malignant Altar, Master."

He nodded, letting the necklace fall back against the statue's throat, before whispering an arcane word and transmuting the stone body into wood and porcelain. The humanoid doll received a similar command to the undead servitor and after curtseying to the dragon, it marched off to await further instructions.

When they came to the last burglar, they found that him half-trapped in a tapestry. Prismarix smiled faintly. "Ah. The Ghatian Jungle was always a favorite of mine, Vim," he remarked to the imp. He glanced down to regard the scattered gemstones. Vim didn't need telling, and was already gathering these into a pouch to return them later. The dragon, meanwhile, was glaring at the pale and sweating figure gasping in the tapestry's clutches, the vines and branches of the jungle scene having animated and wrapped around him.

"Do you like my collection." It was not a question, and the burglar just made a croaking sound. At least a day's captivity had left him desperate for a drink. Prismarix held out a hand and waited as Vim pulled a crystal flask of water from their pack. "I've spent many an age acquiring various pieces, as most of my kind are wont to do. We all tend to have our peculiarities about what we covet. Have you guessed what mine is?"

He poured a measure of water from the flask into the would-be thief's mouth, but then clamped a hand over the attempted burbling apology. Vim spoke up. "I wouldn't talk yet, lad. The Master is of a mind to declaim for a bit. Count yourself lucky we returned when we did, or the Jungle would have taken you."

"Go put our recent acquisitions in the office, Vim," Prismarix ordered. The imp bowed and vanished in a blur to be about their duties, while the dragon smiled faintly at the thief. "I find curses so endlessly fascinating. Talented as I am with magic, I've never had the knack for producing them. Handling them, yes. Restraining them, yes. And when I realized that I could do something with all the gold that inevitably piles up after ages of hoarding, and that so many unfortunate people would happily part with their cursed regalia or artwork or sundry other things, well... it was really not a difficult choice to start building a collection."

The thief wisely said nothing. Prismarix nodded. "You'd heard rumors on the wind of some kind, about a collection of treasure, a dragon's hoard, one which had practically no defenses, no traps or wards." He smirked. "Don't look surprised. You're not the first burglars to discover why there are no conventional defenses. My collection rather neatly deals with intruders. And if you had managed to escape with something," he shrugged. "I would have found you and dealt with you eventually. Just for the lark."

He steepled his fingers again. "So. Your friends are mine, now. They'll serve until they fall apart. You will do so as well, but you get a choice. Will you serve until death, at which point I'll graciously let your soul part to its eternal destination, or must you die first and I just turn your body into another servitor and feed your soul to something else in my collection?"