Trenchcoater

Abby here, from Abby’s Rant–my column in the Waterdeep Times focusing on the strange, aberrant creatures found below the surface of the earth. My good friend Sylvia Sylvester asked me to do a guest article for The Beast Released, and I thought it would be the perfect chance for me to talk about one creature that I know makes regular appearances on the surface- the Trenchcoater.

This relative to the Cloaker first came to my attention when I stumbled across a letter from a scholar writing to an expert of the occult. The relevant bits read thusly:

The real reason for my writing to you is to ask if you can explain a recent encounter I had with a gentleman who acted most strange.

I was picking at a rustic meal at a small local tavern- the Blazing Duck, I think it was? In any case, the meal was unremarkable, and I found myself more interested in people-watching, a hobby which I have gotten fairly good at doing without being noticed–except of course by others such as myself. It was while I watched a group of adventurers quibble over some paltry reward from their last run-in with bandits (or whatever it is adventurers do these days) that the tavern door opened. My eyes were instantly drawn to the figure in the doorway.

It was late, so no light followed the figure inside, but it is mid-summer now so I thought it odd that the man in question wore a heavy leather jacket. It was long- too long, in fact, as it dusted the floor and obscured the man’s feet. I remember, too, that the jacket arms were rolled up to fit the man’s arms. Considering how tall he was, this jacket must have been made for a small giant.

No one else glanced over at him. As far as I could tell they were all content to mind their own mugs of watered-down ale and plates of stale bread, so I don’t think anyone else noticed that as he entered the room, his feet made nary a sound on the wooden floor. It was almost as if the man were gliding.

Now that I could see him in the light of the tavern’s lanterns, he seemed more out of place than ever. Had he not been near six feet tall, I would have sworn the man was a dwarf. He had a large, well-kept beard, a solid brow, and stocky features as well as a helm which most certainly was of dwarven make. He carried no weapons or bag upon his back, though for all I know there could have been an arsenal beneath the fastened jacket. I’m not sure what it was, but the jacket itself kept drawing my attention. I couldn’t tell what held it closed as it had no obvious buttons nor any other sign of fastenings as the man smoothly proceeded to the bar.

Finally, the dwarf-giant reached the bar, beaming happily… almost too much so. At this point he had at least garnered the attention of the tavernkeep, who looked at him with a look akin to what must have been playing across my own face as well. The keep remained polite and asked what the gentleman would like. The request was simple, but still struck me as odd. “Meat,” he said with confidence and zeal. “Whatever meat you have.” The keep nodded and mentioned the house specialty was roasted duck. At this, the dwarf-giant nodded and asked “Can I have it raw?”

Perhaps it was this strange request that caught the attention of the adventurers, because one of them finally looked over. As the tavernkeep stuttered out a question for clarification, the adventurer stood up with a befuddled look on her face. “Donar? Donar Shieldbanger? Is that you? I thought you fell to your death in the sewers! Gods, it’s good to see you alive. How’d you get to be so tall?”

The man looked over, and a grimace poured across his face, shifting. Now, as I have said, people-watching is a bit of a hobby of mine, so I feel fairly confident that I can name the emotions on a stranger’s face. I could swear that for a brief moment a look of recognition passed over the man’s face, followed by happiness, then mock-confusion. “Ah, no,” he said, almost as if it pained him to lie to a friend, “I’m afraid you have the wrong man. My name is… Rodar… Rodar Hammerhaver, though I know of this Donar and am certain he is fine and well.”

At this point the entire tavern was watching an uncomfortable Donar–or Rodar, or whoever it was that stood there–clearly sweating in a much-too-large jacket on a hot summer evening, having just asked the tavernkeep for a raw duck. The adventurer was having none of it though. “Donar, what are you… are you standing on another dwarf under there? Are you in trouble of some kind?”

This seemed to be too much for the man. He made a hurried excuse and then flew out the door. I’d like to say that this is a turn of phrase, but as he went I could have sworn that I got a glimpse under the jacket, and indeed, I saw no feet touching the floor as he silently but surprisingly quickly exited the Blazing Duck. The adventurer who recognized him raced after, the rest of her party in-tow, but I had seen enough and left them to their chase. Though I almost regret this, as the last few nights have been fairly sleepless as I contemplated what could have been happening. Please write back soon, or I should die of curiosity and lack of sleep.

I do not know if this scholar ever got his reply, but I do indeed know the cause of this mysterious occurrence. This Donar fellow was the unfortunate victim of a Trenchcoater: an unusual creature which masquerades as a coat. Indeed, its face is hidden on the coat’s inside. A Trenchcoater likes to charm its victims, clinging snugly, but not harmfully, about the neck. It then communicates telepathically with its “wearer,” asking for help acquiring food. It will levitate the victim, and when worn by shorter folk such as halflings or gnomes, can make it appear as if two or even three have stacked up inside to avoid detection.

Like their cousins the Cloakers, harming a Trenchcoater is certain to hurt the wearer, and given the charm effect it is unlikely that the victim will sit still while you try to pry the creature off. A dangerous foe indeed, best handled by clever, quick-thinking, and hopefully experienced, adventurers.

In the end, my best advice is to avoid putting on any strange coats, and to not underestimate what might at first appear to be children stacked up beneath a jacket.

This is Abby, signing off.