Rest in peace, Aram.

You died as you lived, you glorious bastard – fast, flamboyant, always skirting the edge between a picaresque ne’er-do-well from a Jack Vance novel and a loveable rogue from a Fritz Leiber story. You lived as long as you did on the cunning of your sorcery and speed of your wits.

You locked the Baroness in her ruby sarcophagus, tricked and slayed the Ghoul King and trapped the vampire general in an unwinnable position so that the aged hunter could get his vengeance.

How does one become a saint in this world? Do the Sisters welcome you to a holy post in the Loom’s pantheon? Is there a Saint of Treasure-hunters? Maybe we will start to hear of St. Aram in the years to come.