As with all great stories, there is a part to this tale which happened quite some time ago. If I may digress: It was a gray and cloudy day in San Francisco, sometime in 1873. Then again, it was always foggy and gloomy in that part of California.

The plan had been simple, so very simple.

For the last eight months his host had been masquerading as one of the night staff at the San Francisco Mint. The fools had taken his forged reference papers at a glance and welcomed the extra help. The labor had been backbreaking, but worthwhile.

His host had gotten assigned to one of the melting vats and they had been feeding its’ hungry, burning mouth with silver day in and day out.

He was tired, so very tired of being trapped in his silver Denarius. He had been bound inside that silver coin long ago as a punishment. He wanted out.

His coin had traded hands many times over the years, first passing to Judas Iscariot. From the Traitor it passed to a bread merchant, then a moneylender, then to a Roman vassal and so on. Every time he found a new host he’d barter and negotiate with them, earning their allegiance and respect. In return for granting them knowledge, physical prowess or magical power he would live vicariously through his host and maintain some illusion of freedom.

He often let his hosts make their own mistakes, but he was protective of them. After facing the prospect of being buried with one of his former hosts he became acutely aware of what abandonment could mean for him: an eternity trapped beneath the dirt, with no way out and no way to do anything save wait for Armageddon.

This was by no means his first dastardly plot but it would be his most significant. If he pulled it off he need never fear such a fate ever again.

In a small pouch on his host’s work belt were a pile of silver filings. Each sliver of silver was taken from his coin and they would be added to a batch in order to make another fifty coins through which he could possess, coerce or otherwise affect the denizens of the outside world. He was usually pretty laid back in his evil-doings and was often content to just let his hosts live their normal lives until opportunity came knocking, which it invariably did. This time was different though.

For the last eight months the denarian had been planning this night, he wanted it to be perfect. After his host was dismissed from work they would hide in a ventilation shaft above one of the vats used for smelting. This would be impossible for an ordinary mortal, but by using a bit of magic to craft a seat partway up the pipe, magically shielding his host from the worst of it, and forcing the man’s breathing to almost match that of a dead man he was able to hide rather comfortably.

Once the majority of the workers left for the night he ordered his host out of hiding and into action. The plan was for him to go for the gladius that he had hidden under a workbench, dispatch the night’s security and cleaning staff, then use their blood to perform a ritual that would strengthen the slivers of his coin and allow them to survive the molten silver until they were made into coins and fell into the hands of his next fifty hosts.

The gladius was just where he left it. The people left in charge of guarding the building where stupid, but their blood was plentiful enough. The only real problem came in the form of the cleaning staff.

The two of them, one Black the other Asian, had been working on the same corridor. They heard the muffled cry of the last of the guards and got spooked. They bolted in separate directions, the black guy making for the front door and the Asian making for a side door.

It was easy enough to block the first man’s run to the front door and cut him down, but the gladius fouled in his ribs and by the time his host had finished disentangling the sword the Asian man had made his way out of the building and down the courtyard.

Although he was put out by the escape of one of his victims the denarian focused his hosts’ attention on getting things prepared for the ritual. He walked to each of his victims, placed the gladius upon a wound and whispered an incantation that drew a portion of their blood onto the blade to stay there till he released it.

It wouldn’t be long before the Asian came back with police, and the denarian had no wish to be caught flat-footed. The last thing he needed to deal with was a patrol of idiots with guns. All he wanted to do after he ensured his bigger and brighter future was to have his host bathe and get some sleep.

Using his sword as in impromptu pallet the denarian painted the runes and glyphs from memory. The blood smeared onto the vat did little to disrupt the grime that had coated it over the years and was almost indistinguishable from the black and red muck. With the designs drawn his host made his way to a catwalk above the tall vat to begin the obligatory waving and chanting.

A heavily accented voiced turned his head a few phrases into the incantation, “My name is Shiro Yoshimo, turn and fight.”

The host marked that it was the janitor from before. What drew the denarian’s attention was not the Asian man’s reappearance, but rather what he held: Fidelacchius, a sword of the Knights of the Cross. The three swords wielded by that order were constructed from iron nails taken from the Cross– note the capital C.

His host reacted while the denarian was struck by the surprise appearance of one of the Knights of the Cross. He pulled his bloodied gladius from his belt and charged the man. Without the denarian’s help his host was no match for the man.

The host didn’t know that.

The host also didn’t now exactly what it was that severed three of his fingers from his right hand, just above the knuckles. He thought it might have been the sword, but he couldn’t be sure.

His host’s pain startled the denarian into action.

First, he numbed the pain caused by the missing fingers and ordered his host to bring the sword up and to the left in order to block the oncoming thrust. His grip wasn’t solid, but he managed to get the flat of his blade between Fidelacchius’s tip and his face.

The impact shattered his nose, but again the denarian numbed the pain.

The denarian’s time spent in Rome was his favorite, not only because of the wild feasts and wilder parties, but because his coin had fallen into the hands of gladiators. Lots of gladiators.

When the Knight went to withdraw Fidelacchius for another thrust the denarian dropped his sword and caught it with his left hand. He held the ruined remnants of his host’s right hand to his side and warily eyed the Knight.

Fidelacchius had a long blade, which, while a great weapon in distanced battles, was of little to no use in close quarters combat. The denarian’s gladius, on the other hand, was a shorter and heavier blade and quite capable of sheering limbs in close quarters. If he could manage to get within the Knight’s reach he should easily be able to outmaneuver and overpower the smaller man.

With less of a thrust and more of a flying tackle the denarian rushed the knight, who parried and backpedaled to avoid grappling with the larger, stronger man. His parry wasn’t able to withstand the full force of the blow, however, and the knight took a painful cut to his cheek. There wasn’t much catwalk left and if the denarian could force his opponent over the edge he’d be able to claim victory as the knight fell to his death.

The trouble was that getting inside Shiro’s reach wasn’t going to happen again anytime soon.

The catwalk’s narrow sides and the flashing Fidelacchius stopped the denarian from gaining ground. Try as he might, the denarian simply couldn’t bridge enough distance to throttle the other man. To make matters worse, his host was tiring– first from spending a good portion of the day inhaling toxic fumes and doing hard labor, then yet more from blood loss– and the knight’s stamina still seemed untested.

If his host hadn’t been so stupid as to lose fingers the denarian should have been able to quickly claim victory. While distracting this Shiro Yoshimo with a display of swordsmanship he would’ve drawn magical power into his off-hand and once he garnered enough force he’d simply blast his victim from the catwalk and let him fall to his death. However, there was only one spell the denarian knew that could be performed with his two remaining fingers and he didn’t think that a cleaning cantrip would be of much use.

With deft precision and a confidence forged, literally, in hellfire Shiro moved onto the offensive. His lightning fast and skillful display backed the denarian’s host further up the catwalk. Towards the vat. Only the denarian’s lifetimes of experience gave him the skill necessary to avoid mortal injury from the deadly long sword while fighting one-handed, with his host’s weaker off-hand, and a shorter blade no less.

The denarian’s injured hand had been at his back for most of the fight. First working to free the sack from his belt, then slowly opening the drawstring. He may’ve been losing the fight, but he didn’t need to win. He was able to invade the mind of anyone who touched his coin… or in this case, pieces of his coin.

He had no illusions about trying to dominate the Knight’s will with such a weak connection, but it should be a simple enough matter to ignite every pain center in the man’s body for a few seconds while his host disarmed and throttled the poor bastard.

Perhaps sensing his plan Shiro went into a dizzying array of attacks, forcing the denarian further and further down the catwalk and forcing his host to take small nips from Fidelacchius’ blade all the while. Finally they were in the right position.

Now!

The denarian dropped his sword and took a slash to the ribs. It wouldn’t be fatal, but his host would be feeling it for the next few years. Ridding the world of one of the Knights and claiming Fidelacchius would be well worth whatever aches and pains his host had to deal with. His host fell to his knees in a slump.

The Knights of the Cross where sworn to never kill a yielding opponent. Shiro believed that his opponent had finally acknowledged defeat and was about to launch into one of his monologues about how good will always triumph over evil. He didn’t get the first word out before he caught a cloud of metal filings with his face.

“Gotcha, Fool!” the denarian sent into Shiro’s mind.

The Knight fell to the ground and screamed in pain. Most all of the denarian’s attention was focused on this distraction and he could no longer keep his host’s wounds from taking their toll. His host fell to the ground, bloodied and past his limit.

“Damn, get up you worthless sack of meat!” the denarian cursed at his host. In little time Shiro– father of three, 31 years of age– would get enough of his control back to break the illusion of pain and put an end to the fight.

It was a shame that Shiro had to die, his body was fit, he had a lifetime of experience to feed the denarian, and, to top it all off, he had possession of one of the three holy swords.

Wait… did he have to die?

Waste not, want not.

With what little hold he still had over his exhausted host he willed the host into taking the coin from around his neck. With a little more effort he had his host wriggling towards Shiro. With the actual coin in contact with Shiro’s skin he could strengthen his hold and corrupt the Knight, fancy sword or not.

It was then that he felt something snap.

Shiro hadn’t broken the illusion of pain and still must’ve been feeling as if he were being cooked alive. While the feeling definitely wasn’t pleasant to him, it was familiar. Familiar enough to be ignored and put aside.

Shiro got to his feet, moving his exposed skin out of reach of the denarian’s host, and carefully walked the four feet to retrieve his sword. He used Fidelacchius’s slightly shaking blade to take the chain that the denarian’s coin was connected to and flick the erstwhile medallion into the vat of molten silver with a sharp snap.

The denarian screamed foreign words inside the head’s of the mortals present. He felt that he was dissolving, falling apart and losing whatever it was that made him whole. Rather quickly he lost his tenuous connection to Shiro. The host, however, wasn’t so fortunate. The once a well-respected shopkeeper cried and shook for minutes on end before falling silent. The denarian’s screams broke the poor man.

Shiro shuddered and leaned against the catwalk as his pain faded. He breathed a few shuddering gasps and set about regaining his composure.

Another day, another devil.

Back in the present day, in a musty, old attic a young lad named Joseph was distraught. The sky was gray and the rain had kept him in doors, which didn’t do anything to help his mood. His grandfather, an old and gentle man, had died last week. The boy had snuck up here to get away from his parents and all of the relatives that were wishing him and his family well. Joseph railed against them, and against how unfair it was to have taken away his grandpa.

Without much thought, he slammed his fist into an old cardboard box. The pile of junk that was under it unbalanced and sent the entire thing crashing to the floor spilling his grandpa’s coin collection all over the attic.

One coin in particular caught Joseph’s attention, and on impulse he grabbed it. It would be his memento. He pealed off the protective plastic seal that was around the coin and enjoyed feeling its cold metal in his palm.

Not long afterward, something about Joseph changed. He was constantly busy, always plotting, oftentimes he would be distracted, like he was listening to a voice only he could hear. At first his parents became glad that he no longer spent all his time hanging about the house and they assumed he was out making friends and being the young teenager that he was. They were glad that he’d gotten over his grandfather’s death so quickly.

Eight days later pets started disappearing from the neighborhood.

Two weeks later Joseph’s parents issued a Missing Person’s Report. Joseph’s mother spent that night praying for his safe return and well-being.