Billie

Legend has it that before Anzen’s clan menaced the county, there was another, more vicious band of bandits that ruled the roads. Unlike the close-knit family living in the forest today, this swarm of miscreants was only united by their love of wealth.

Billie lead with her two other companions. They were not quite friends, but bound together by respect and shared close-calls. The story goes that the gang had just completed a successful heist, making off with a hefty chest of high-grade emeralds. Normally the band would sell such a find as quickly as possible, but Billie was fascinated by the gleaming stones. When she thought no one was looking, she slipped the largest and most brilliant of them into her pocket.

But someone had been watching, a teenage mook with lofty ambitions. She spilled the beans to Billie’s cohorts, and a violent scuffle broke out. By the time the dust settled, the emerald was missing and Billie lay dead.

The gang lived on as normal, but things began to go south. Strange noises, almost like raucous cackling or screams, would alert homeowners and guards during heists. Raids ended with bloodier wounds and missing dragons, and those who survived would be left haunted by what they had seen. Most disturbing off all, the bandits couldn’t seem to get rid of the emeralds. Potential buyers would scoff and turn up their snouts, even when the increasingly desperate sellers offered them for a fraction of their worth. If the chest was left behind or chucked in the river, it would show up in the middle of camp the next day, dripping with water and… something else. Something dark and tacky.

Years passed, and the band shrunk. The tattle-tale mook had risen in the ranks, becoming one of the leaders, but there were hardly any comrades left for her to command. When a freak accident took out both of Billie’s old companions in one go, what remained of the once-fierce group scattered to the winds. Then it was just the mook-turned-ruler, sitting in front of that dripping chest.

She knew what she had to do.

The young dragon scooped up the chest in her arms, and started to walk. Her wings had been tattered during a raid gone wrong, so all she could do was march on. She walked until her feet bled and the scales shed from her ankles one by one. She didn’t pause, not once, not even for food or rest. Her weakened legs took her all the way to the hidden hollow, just off the main road, where Billie’s corpse had been secretly buried.

It had changed dramatically after all those years, but the girl knew in her heart that this was the spot. She set the chest down on top of that unmarked grave, then lay there, waiting for the earth to claim her.

The ground swallowed the chest just fine, gulping it down into the rain-soaked muck with a whisper of phantom laughter, but no ghost rose to finish the job. Uncertain and weak, the girl limped away on shaking legs that could carry her no further. She collapsed in the road, and was found by a group of traveling merchants shortly after. Her name was lost to history, though the tale mentions that she lived the rest of her life happily, a simple storyteller with a new found family.

But Billie remained.

No one knows why the old bandit refuses to pass on despite getting her revenge. Perhaps she’s simply hasn’t had her fill of causing mischief and misfortune to those who wander her roads. Maybe she’s simply waiting for the world to end. Whatever the case, local miscreants, thieves, and bandits revere her, leaving tokens and prayers at the site of her grave. The guards don’t trifle with the sacred spot; they know better than to mess with a vengeful spirit.

Travelers say that if you travel by the grave site when the rain-clouds darken the sky and dampen the dust, you might catch a glimpse of that spectral fiend;
Old Billie, grinning by the roadside, clad in layers and layers of exquisite emerald jewelry.