MyWarlock Origin Story, or Why My DM Will Never Let Me Write Character Backstories Ever Again

When I entered the hovel I shared with Jackson, it was hard to miss the smell of brimstone in the air and the red light coming from the kitchen.

Again?

I had had a hard day slinging hash at Mom’s Bar & Diner and so another botched demon summoning was the last thing I wanted to deal with. Jackson was cute enough and decent in the sack, so I was willing to put up with some of his nonsense, but I was getting tired of his magical ineptitude. There was a reason the Balorinthian Mage Guild had suggested he take up swordplay, after all, and that’s not something they do every day. Nonetheless, he persisted.

At least he could clean the place up really well.

I had to see what he had gotten himself into this time, so I headed into the kitchen to see what he had summoned. When I saw the entity, I was actually impressed: He had summoned a messenger devil. They may be one of the lower tiers, but they were still well above the hoi polloi of devil kind. It was hard to not be appreciative of his thick muscles, majestic beard, or dark, curving horns. I pointedly ignored his red-skinned majesty in his dark chain mail and walked to the other side of the kitchen.

I pulled out some bread, meat, and other sandwich fixings. “Nice guest, Jackson. How long is staying?”

Jackson was busy going through the spell book he had recently bought. “Not that long, Halloran. I hope.”

The devil was glaring at Jackson. “One little scratch, and I could be gone almost instantly.” The comment put Jackson in a panicked hurry; if the pentagram holding him was messed with, both our lives were forfeit and our souls would no doubt end up as currency on some hellish plane. Devils were so predictable. Scary, but predictable.

I had finished the sandwiches I was working on, including some crisps for some added crunch. I put them on plates and walked two of them over to the other two. Jackson took his and kept looking for an answer between bites; he never seemed to notice what he put into his mouth. I offered the other to the devil: “I know you’re here against your will, but that doesn’t mean we need to be rude.”

“Thank you.” He took the sandwich with both hands and took a bite. He smiled; “This is a lovely sandwich. And the crisps add so much between the added saltiness and crunch.” He took another bite. “Is that Dijon?”

I took the plate. “You are very welcome. And yes, it is.” I put the plate down and began eating my own sandwich. I of course took full advantage to commit the details of the devil to memory. For my drawing practice later, obviously. And there was so, so much to commit to memory.

He finished the sandwich and looked at me. “You know, we don’t always need to negotiate for souls. I am perfectly willing to negotiate for freedom and a sandwich every so often.” He smiled. “As well as other considerations.” He flexed.

I smiled appreciatively. “Think you could teach me…some magic tricks?” I looked over at Jackson. “I’m sure you would be a better teacher.”

He looked over at Jackson and back to me, smiling. “Yes, yes I would. And you would learn so much.” He took a moment to appraise me. “But I’m sure you could teach me something.”

I had finished my sandwich and was cleaning up. “But it starts with freeing you, doesn’t it?”

He put his hands behind his back. “Yep. But at least you get to keep your soul.”

I put the dishes into the sink. “I’d like to keep Jackson around as well, but he needs to stop casting spells.” The goof was too deep into his book to even notice he was being discussed.

The devil smiled. “Not a problem. I think I have the perfect solution, actually.”

I approached him. I put my foot just outside the pentagram. His silence was palpable. “So all I need to do is make one little motion?”

The devil nodded.

I smiled. “Sure.” So I scratched the pentagram. He smiled.

The first thing that happened was that he stretched. Then he grinned. Evilly. He turned to face Jackson. He looked at me. I glared at him. “Or no sandwiches.” He sighed. “Fine.”

He walked over to Jackson, knocking the book out of his hands. He barely had time to realize what was happening as the demon stripped him down to his underwear. He actually took the time to force Jackson into the position where I could see his entire back and then his entire front (I miss that smooth twink), specifically so I could see his look of surprise and betrayal, and then hit him with a green bolt. Jackson shrunk down, his skin becoming leathery as wings grew from his back. In moments, he was no longer the cute guy who had shared my bed and was now an imp. The polymorph spell had the bonus of wiping his memory, but there is always the possibility he could remember why he was an imp, or even return to his former shape, but it was something I would have to live with.

My sole consoling thought is that at least he was alive. Well, that and his soul was still his.

The devil produced a neckband from nowhere as well as a matching steel ring. He clapped the band around Jackson’s scrawny neck and tossed me the ring. “First lesson: Keep your familiar protected, and he’ll help you in so many ways.” I nodded. “Now, for lesson two: My name, for our purposes, is ‘Bastian’.” I nodded again.

Since then our relationship has normalized, sort of. Once a week Bastian shows up, teaches me some basic magic, and then we go out and hit the town. Turns out some devils can disguise themselves as humans, some very hot humans. Then we go back to my new home (turns out that being a mage, even a warlock, pays well) and I show him a thing or two.

Oh, and I enrolled in some classes at the local culinary school. My sandwich game has never been better.