"Would you like to hear how Ob Nixilis and Amun Jaro came to know one another, Abe?"
*****
The Rescue
Amun Jaro
Race: Human (Variant)
Bonus Feats: Tough War Caster
Class: Warlock
Level: Unknown
Pact Boon: Pact of the Blade, family dagger doubles as foci
Otherworldly Patron: The Fiend (fitting for his lore as one who makes deals with demons).
Ability Scores:
Strength: 8
Dexterity: 14 (for better AC and initiative)
Constitution: 15 (+1 from Human Variant = 16, for health and concentration checks)
Intelligence: 12
Wisdom: 10
Charisma: 15 (+1 from Human Variant = 16, primary stat for Warlock spellcasting and abilities)
Skills:
Arcana (reflecting his deep knowledge of magical things)
Intimidation (to mimic his formidable presence)
Investigation (a nod to his relentless search for arcane secrets)
History (knowledge of ancient and forbidden lore)
Eldritch Invocations:
Thirsting Blade (for two attacks per action with his pact weapon)
Fiendish Vigor (for temporary hit points)
Agonizing Blast (to add Charisma modifier to Eldritch Blast damage)
Devil’s Sight (see in darkness, both magical and non-magical, up to 120 feet)
Spells: (Focusing on destructive power and control)
Cantrips: Eldritch Blast, Mage Hand, Minor Illusion
1st Level: Armor of Agathys, Burning Hands
2nd Level: Hold Person, Mirror Image
3rd Level: Fireball, Counterspell
4th Level: Wall of Fire, Dimension Door
5th Level: Flame Strike
Equipment:
Magical Pact Weapon: Family Blade that can be summoned or dismissed so that it is never lost from his side, but can be hidden at will.
Armor: Light armor for mobility, potentially enhanced magically.
Other Items: Components for spells, a few potions of healing, and other thematic items.
His current companions:
Name: Sir Malric the Cursed Knight
Race: Half-Elf
Class: Oathbreaker Paladin
Level: 10
Alignment: Neutral Evil
Background: Fallen Noble (tempted away from the Corpus Path, where he was an abusive instructor)
Ability Scores
Strength: 16 (+1 Half-Elf = 17)
Dexterity: 10
Constitution: 14
Intelligence: 10
Wisdom: 12
Charisma: 14 (+2 Half-Elf = 16)
Skills:
Persuasion (reflects his noble origins)
Intimidation (demonstrates his menacing demeanor)
Deception (useful for manipulating others)
Paladin Features:
Divine Smite (for extra damage using spell slots)
Aura of Hate (increases melee damage for himself and any fiends or undead within 10 feet)
Dreadful Aspect (causes fear in enemies within 30 feet)
Equipment:
Weapon: Greatsword (cursed blade that boosts necrotic damage)
Armor: Heavy plate (blackened and etched with symbols of his fallen order)
Miscellaneous: A signet ring of his noble house, tarnished and cracked.
Familiar: The Shadow Raven
Type: Raven (but appears as a shadowy, almost ghostly version, indicating its connection to the Shadowfell)
Abilities:
Mimicry: The raven can mimic simple sounds it has heard, like whispers, doors creaking, etc.
Keen Sight and Hearing: The familiar has advantage on Wisdom (Perception) checks that rely on sight or hearing.
Shadow Blend: In dim light or darkness, the raven can blend into the shadows, making it invisible to those who rely on sight.
Role: This familiar serves not only as a spy for Sir Malric but also as an ominous presence, enhancing his intimidation and control over others. It can carry messages, scout ahead, and assist in his dark rituals.
How They Fit Together:
Sir Malric, once a noble knight, broke his sacred oaths after a tragic betrayal that led to the slaughter of his family. Swearing fealty to a dark entity, he now roams the land seeking power and revenge, accompanied by his sinister familiar. His goals align with the Warlock’s, possibly due to a shared enemy or a pact with the same fiendish patron.
Name: Lysandra Darkstring, the Melancholic Virtuoso, the Siren of Flame
Race: Tiefling
Class: Bard (College of Whispers)
Level: 10
Alignment: True Neutral (leans towards evil due to present company)
Background: Entertainer
Ability Scores (using point buy or standard array):
Strength: 8
Dexterity: 14
Constitution: 12
Intelligence: 13
Wisdom: 12
Charisma: 15 (+2 Tiefling = 17)
Skills:
Performance (violin and haunting vocals)
Deception (expert in manipulating others with her performances)
Stealth (moves silently, blending into shadows when needed)
Insight (reads the room and manipulates emotions effectively)
Bardic Features:
Bardic Inspiration (d6): Can inspire others through whispers only they can hear.
Words of Terror: Can speak to a humanoid alone for 1 minute and cause them to become frightened and paranoid.
Mantle of Whispers: Can capture a shadow of a dying person and impersonate them.
Psychic Blades: Deals extra psychic damage with weapon attacks when using Bardic Inspiration.
Equipment:
Weapon: A slender, darkwood violin bow that doubles as a rapier.
Armor: Lightweight leather, adorned with dark silken fabrics that flow eerily even without wind.
Miscellaneous: A mysterious, old violin case that holds more than just her instrument, perhaps enchanted or cursed.
Familiar: The Phantom Cat Tatoo
Type: Cat (appears normal but with ghostly, ethereal features, transparent and glowing faintly in moonlight)
Abilities:
Feline Agility: Can move with double speed until it chooses to move again.
Invisibility: Can turn invisible as a reaction to danger or to aid in stealth.
Etherealness: Can shift into the Ethereal Plane once per day, useful for scouting or escaping.
Role: The phantom cat serves as both a spy and protector for Lysandra, complementing her stealthy and deceptive nature. It can act as her eyes and ears in places she cannot physically reach, making it invaluable for gathering information.
How They Fit Together:
Lysandra Darkstring, a Tiefling bard of the College of Whispers, uses her melancholic music and haunting performances to manipulate and control those around her. Her background as an entertainer allows her to blend into various social settings, where she can play the role of a mere musician while secretly forwarding her own, and possibly the party's, dark agendas.
Together with the shadowy paladin and the fiendish warlock, Lysandra adds a layer of sophistication and subtlety to the party's interactions, capable of swaying the minds and hearts of both foes and potential allies with her eerie melodies and psychic powers. This trio forms a potent force, especially suited for campaigns with themes of intrigue, betrayal, and hidden motives.
Name: Finnan “Lefty” Mottleleaf, The Blighted Burglar
Race: Lightfoot Halfling
Class: Rogue (Thief)
Level: 10
Alignment: Chaotic Neutral
Background: Urchin
Ability Scores :
Strength: 8
Dexterity: 15 (+2 Halfling = 17)
Constitution: 12
Intelligence: 13
Wisdom: 10
Charisma: 14 (+1 Halfling = 15)
Skills:
Sleight of Hand (enhanced by his necrotically altered fingers)
Stealth (necessary for his thieving activities)
Perception (keen senses, typical of a skilled rogue)
Acrobatics (useful for escapes and agile maneuvers)
Rogue Features:
Fast Hands: Can use the bonus action granted by his Cunning Action to make a Dexterity (Sleight of Hand) check, using the remains of his hand to disarm a trap or open a lock, or take the Use an Object action.
Second-Story Work: Climbing no longer costs him extra movement, and when he makes a running jump, the distance he covers increases by a number of feet equal to his Dexterity modifier.
Uncanny Dodge: Can halve the damage of an attack as a reaction, which is useful considering his vulnerable condition.
Supreme Sneak: Has advantage on Stealth checks if he moves no more than half his speed on the same turn.
Equipment:
Weapons: a gifted trap maker with complete tools and kit for trip, slips, snares, caltrops and grenades, also a short sword, and a hand crossbow.
Armor: Light leather armor, tailored to allow for flexibility and minimal noise.
Miscellaneous: Various small gadgets and tools hidden in many pockets of his outfit, useful for his thieving escapades.
Unique Trait: Necrotic Fingers
Description: One of Finnan’s hands bears visible signs of necrotic damage—a skeletal appearance with bony protrusions. These alterations provide him with unique thieving tools:
Enhanced Lock Manipulation: His bony fingers can feel and manipulate tumblers inside locks much better than normal tools.
Intimidating Presence: The grotesque appearance of his hand can be used to intimidate or distract targets during his operations.
How They Fit Together:
Finnan "Fingers" Mottleleaf once encountered the party during a misunderstood confrontation…he failed his pick pocket roll, …necrotic spells were flung, leaving him with a cursed hand. Though initially a foe, circumstances led him to join the party, using his unique condition to his advantage. His skills as a thief are unparalleled, and his necrotic hand, a constant reminder of his brush with death, now aids him in his escapades.
Finnan adds a lighter, though equally cunning, element to the group. His background and skills complement the darker themes of the party, providing necessary stealth and thievery expertise that can unlock doors, literal and metaphorical, which would otherwise remain closed to his more straightforward or menacing companions. This ragtag assembly of characters, each with their personal burdens and dark abilities, forms a formidable group bound by their need for survival, power, or redemption in a world that has not been kind to them.
Name: Sylas Embermind, the Scholar
Race: Dragonborn
Class: Wizard (School of Transmutation)
Level: 10
Alignment: Lawful Neutral
Background: Sage
Ability Scores :
Strength: 10
Dexterity: 12
Constitution: 14
Intelligence: 15 (+1 Dragonborn = 16)
Wisdom: 12
Charisma: 13 (+1 Dragonborn = 14)
Skills:
Arcana (extensive knowledge of magical theory and history)
History (studied the lore of the ancient world and magical artifacts)
Investigation (skilled at piecing together clues and solving mysteries)
Alchemy Tools (proficient in creating useful concoctions and magical substances)
Wizard Features:
Arcane Recovery: Can recover some expended spell slots during a short rest.
Transmuter’s Stone: Creates a magical stone that can confer benefits like resistance to a type of elemental damage, increase speed, or restore hit points.
Shapechanger: As a transmutation wizard, can use his action to transform into any beast with a challenge rating of 1 or lower.
Equipment:
Weapons: A staff that doubles as a wand for casting spells.
Armor: Robes that have been enchanted for additional protection.
Miscellaneous: A traveling alchemist’s lab, a heavily annotated spellbook, scrolls filled with research notes, and various magical trinkets.
Unique Trait: Draconic Researcher
Description: Sylas's dragonborn heritage grants him an innate connection to magical energies, which he channels into his studies and experiments. His focus on transmutation and alchemy allows him to create magical items, potions, and even alter the properties of matter. His sage background provides him with extensive libraries and arcane knowledge that can be pivotal in understanding ancient texts and artifacts that the party encounters.
How They Fit Together:
Sylas Embermind adds a crucial intellectual element to the party. His mastery of magic and alchemy makes him indispensable for both deciphering arcane mysteries and enhancing the party’s abilities through magical items and potions. His scholarly nature and nerdy inclinations make him the go-to member for planning and research, offering a contrast to the more physically inclined or stealthy members of the group.
Together with the party, Sylas ventures into ancient ruins and forbidden libraries, seeking knowledge that might help unravel the narratives driving their quests. His ability to transmute materials can be incredibly useful in various situations, from creating gold to bypass a financial obstacle to transforming lead into explosive compounds for tactical advantages. His presence not only broadens the scope of the party's capabilities but also deepens their engagement with the mystical aspects of your campaign world.
Finally,
Name: Valna Shadeweaver, the Forsaken
Race: Half-Drow, Half-Drider (she has sex organs)
Class: Cleric (War Domain)
Level: 10
Alignment: Chaotic Good
Background: Outcast
Ability Scores:
Strength: 14
Dexterity: 12
Constitution: 13
Intelligence: 10
Wisdom: 15 (+1 Drow Heritage = 16)
Charisma: 8 (+1 Drow Heritage = 9)
Skills:
Athletics (reflects her strength and combative training)
Religion (deep knowledge of her deities and religious rites)
Survival (necessity from living as a hunted outcast)
Intimidation (her appearance and prowess in battle make her naturally intimidating)
Cleric Features:
Divine Domain: War Domain grants martial prowess and battlefield utility.
War Priest: Can make extra attacks as a bonus action a number of times equal to her Wisdom modifier.
Guided Strike: Can use Channel Divinity to gain a +10 bonus to an attack roll, ensuring crucial hits.
Divine Strike: Adds divine energy to her weapon attacks, dealing extra damage.
Equipment:
Weapons: Two heavy flails that act as Thuribles, symbolizing her warlike nature and connection to her faith.
Armor: Chain mail or plate armor, etched with symbols of her faith and defiance.
Miscellaneous: Religious symbols and texts, remnants of her mixed heritage like a spider-themed item or locket.
Unique Trait: Half-Drider Descent
Description: Valna’s unique heritage gives her some drider-like features, such as patches of chitinous armor, maybe a few extra eyes, or even minor spider-like abilities such as producing webbing. These traits make her an outcast and a target among the drow, who view her existence as an abomination.
How They Fit Together:
Valna Shadeweaver, being part drow and part drider, faces constant peril from her own kin in the Underdark. Her capture during a failed mission adds urgency to the party’s quests, compelling them to delve into dangerous territories to rescue one of their own. Her war cleric abilities make her a formidable ally in battle, crucial for surviving and escaping the treacherous environments of the Underdark.
*****
In the dark underbelly of the world, where shadows twist into macabre shapes and light seldom dares to venture, lies the perilous expanse of the Underdark. It is a place of unspeakable horrors and unfathomable secrets, a labyrinthine network of caverns and tunnels that house creatures as dark as the void itself. Among these denizens are the drow, notorious for their mercilessness and dark elegance, ruling their domain with an iron fist cloaked in velvet.
Our tale resumes with a motley assembly of heroes, bound not just by their quest but by the deep, often unspoken understanding that their fates are as intertwined as the threads of a spider's web. The Warlock, Amun Jaro, a man of formidable power and ambiguous morals; Sir Malric the Cursed, the brooding Oathbreaker Paladin haunted by his past and cursed bloodline; Lysandra Darkstring, the Tiefling Bard whose melodies weave despair and manipulation; Finnan "Fingers" Mottleleaf, the Halfling Rogue with his necrotic-touched hand, master of stealth and deceit; and Sylas Embermind, the Dragonborn Wizard, keeper of ancient lore and alchemical secrets. Together, they form a cadre of unlikely companions, each marked by their own brand of darkness.
Their mission is one of rescue, driven by urgency and the gnawing guilt of a mission gone awry. Valna Shadeweaver, the half-drow, half-drider War Cleric, once a companion, now a captive, is held deep within the clutches of the Underdark, betrayed into the hands of her kin by the very peculiarities of her birth. Her capture was no mere misfortune but a calculated move by the drow to harness or perhaps extinguish the anomalous power she wields. Valna, with her stunted, hidden appendages and a soul caught between worlds, symbolizes a bridge—a fusion of the grotesque and the divine, the reviled and the revered.
Stolen story; please report.
The party, each haunted by their personal demons and driven by their distinct motivations, must now delve deeper into this alien world than ever before. The path is fraught with perils, from the ever-present threat of drow patrols to the monstrous creatures that lurk in the dark recesses, waiting for the unwary. Yet, the greatest challenge they face is not the external dangers but the internal schisms—trust is a fragile commodity among those who are often more accustomed to betrayal.
As they stand at the precipice of the unknown, the air thick with the smell of damp and decay, Amun speaks a few words of power, cloaking them in veils of shadow. Malric's hand rests on the hilt of his sword, an unspoken vow to reclaim their lost comrade or fall to the darkness trying. Lysandra's fingers dance lightly on the strings of her darkwood violin, the sound a mournful echo that seems to stir the shadows themselves. Finnan's eyes, sharp and calculating, scan the terrain for traps and trails. Sylas, his staff glowing faintly with inner light, murmurs incantations that ward their minds and fortify their resolve.
Shadows and Secrets
In the murky depths of Mantol-Derith, a neutral ground for Underdark trade, whispers and rumors flow as freely as the ale in its underground taverns. The party, cloaked in the anonymity that only such a den of shadows can provide, huddled around a timeworn table in the corner of one such establishment. A lone candle flickered weakly, casting elongated shadows on their determined faces as they pored over a newly acquired reconnaissance report.
The document was procured at great cost from a group of deep gnomes, known for their staunch opposition to the drow and their intricate network of informants throughout the Underdark. These gnomes, driven by a deep-seated hatred of the drow who had enslaved many of their kin, had meticulously gathered intelligence on the drow stronghold where Valna Shadeweaver was held captive. They sympathized with Valna’s vision of an uprising, her dreams of shaking the very foundations of the oppressive structures in the Underdark that had long kept beings like them subjugated.
As the warlock with eyes like smoldering coals, unfolded the parchment, the others leaned in, their expressions a mix of anticipation and resolve. The report detailed the layout of the drow fortress, noting the heavily guarded entrances and the lesser-known back passages that were not without their own dangers, such as traps and roving patrols. There were annotations on guard shifts, potential weak points in the fortress’s daily routines, and even notes on the hierarchy of the drow house responsible for Valna’s capture.
Sir Malric, his gauntleted hands clenched in restrained fury, pointed to a section of the map showing the dungeons. “Here,” he said, his voice a low growl, “this is where they’re likely holding her. It’s the most secure area, and the report mentions it’s under the watch of an elite guard at night.”
Lysandra, whose dark eyes missed nothing, traced a line from the dungeons to what looked like a series of small service tunnels. “These could be our way in,” she suggested, her finger hovering over the paper. “The gnomes mention these are less frequented. With Fingers’ expertise, we might bypass any locks or traps quietly.”
Lefty Finnan grinned, his nimble fingers dancing slightly as if eager to prove their worth. He had already begun assembling a small collection of tools that would aid in their surreptitious entry. “I’ll have us through quicker than a shadow flees the light,” he boasted, confidence lacing his words, “And with enough explosives to act as a backup”.
Sylas Embermind, ever the scholar, was absorbed in a smaller scroll, an addendum to the report detailing the magical defenses and the presence of any arcane practitioners. “We must also prepare for magical barriers,” he intoned, adjusting the spectacles perched precariously on his nose. “I suggest we ready some dispel scrolls and perhaps a few countermeasures against drow sorcery.”
The discussion turned to timing. The gnomes had noted that during the shift change, there was a brief window where the guards were less vigilant, caught up in the handover. That was their best chance for a stealthy insertion, to slip through the cracks in the drow’s armor.
Each member of the party knew the stakes were high. Valna was more than a companion; she was a symbol of hope to many in the Underdark, a potential catalyst for change. Rescuing her was not just a mission; it was a strike against the tyranny that had oppressed them all in shadows for too long.
As the candle burned lower, casting ever deeper shadows, the group’s plan took shape. They were a band of shadows themselves—outcasts and rebels who had found each other in the darkness. Together, they would venture forth into the perilous night of the Underdark, armed with their cunning, their blades, and a burning desire for justice and rebellion.
Chapter: The Ambush of Shadows
The escape from the depths of the Underdark had been nothing short of miraculous. As the motley band of adventurers, now including the newly freed Valna Shadeweaver, made their way toward the surface, tension hung thick in the air like the oppressive darkness of the tunnels around them. Valna, still bound by arcane shackles that sapped her strength and barred her from accessing her divine powers, lay in a makeshift cart, a symbol of both vulnerability and hope.
The cart creaked and groaned under her weight, drawn by a hulking duergar whose newly won freedom was written in the grim set of his shoulders and the determined furrow of his brow. Sir Malric, having offered the duergar his protection and a chance at redemption, walked beside him, his hand never straying far from the hilt of his sword.
The corridors of the Underdark were a maze of danger, and every shadow could conceal a deadly threat. It was in one such shadow that their doom awaited, in the form of Matron Mother Triel Baenre, the formidable priestess of Lolth. Her arrival was not heralded by the clashing of swords but by a chilling silence that fell unnaturally upon the tunnel.
"Amun Jaro," her voice echoed, a melodic sound that belied the deadly intent behind each syllable. She emerged from the darkness, her retinue of elite drow warriors arrayed behind her, their weapons gleaming with a malevolent light but held at ease as per her command.
The party tensed, hands reaching for weapons and spells, but Amun raised a hand to halt their actions. His eyes, dark and unreadable, fixed on Triel as she approached, her steps measured and confident.
"Matron Baenre," Amun acknowledged, his voice neutral. "To what do we owe the honor?"
Triel’s gaze lingered on Amun with an intensity that was unsettling. "I have watched you, warlock," she purred, her tone a mix of admiration and something darker. "Your power is... intriguing. It is rare that one catches my eye as you have."
The party exchanged wary glances, sensing the danger beneath her words. Lysandra's fingers tightened around her violin, ready to strike up a discordant tune that would disorient their foes. Finnan's hand itched towards his daggers, and Sylas quietly began to mutter the incantations for a protective spell.
"Your flattery is noted," Amun replied, his voice steady. "But we have no time for dalliances. We are leaving, with or without your blessing."
Triel laughed, a sound that seemed to make the very air around them shiver. "Leaving so soon? And here I thought we might... negotiate."
Her eyes flicked towards Valna, then back to Amun. "Release the cleric to me, and I promise you not only safe passage but also a bond that could elevate you beyond your wildest dreams. Refuse, and I cannot guarantee that my next offer will be as generous."
Amun’s gaze hardened. "We are not in the business of trading lives."
As he spoke, Triel’s patience snapped. With a swift motion, she signaled her warriors. "Then you will learn the hard way that House Baenre does not take kindly to rejection."
The tunnel erupted into chaos. Drow warriors surged forward, their movements lethally precise, yet their blows were pulled, their lethality tempered by Triel's desire to win Amun’s favor. Lysandra’s violin cried out, sending waves of dissonant energy that staggered some of the attackers. Finnan darted forward, his daggers finding the gaps in the drow armor, while Sylas unleashed a barrage of spells that lit the cavern with arcane fire.
Amun himself moved to stand before Triel, his magic surging as he prepared to counter her next move. Their eyes locked, a battle of wills that was as intense as the physical skirmish around them.
Above the clash of steel and the crackle of spells, Malric's voice rang out, rallying his companions. "To the cart! We must protect Valna at all costs!"
The battle was fierce, and though the drow were formidable, Triel’s restraint gave the adventurers the edge they needed. Slowly, they fought their way back towards the cart, defending Valna and their path to freedom with a desperate ferocity born of more than just survival—it was a fight for the future, for a rebellion that could change the Underdark forever.
Chapter: The Salts of the Past
As the skirmish in the shadowy tunnels of the Underdark continued, it seemed that the party might finally have the upper hand. They had pushed back against the initial wave of drow attackers, and despite the dire circumstances, hope flickered like the sparse light of bioluminescent fungi on the cave walls. But Triel Baenre, Matron Mother and priestess of Lolth, was not one to relent easily, and her plans extended beyond mere physical confrontation.
With a cruel smile playing upon her lips, Triel reached for the numerous belted satchels tied around her waist. The battle momentarily lulled as both friends and foes watched her, uncertain yet deeply wary of her next move. "You think you know power, Amun Jaro?" Triel taunted, her voice echoing ominously through the cavern. "Let me show you what true power can summon from the ashes of defeat."
One by one, she opened the satchels, revealing their contents to the dim light: a collection of sacred salts and sandy remains. The air grew thick with a palpable tension as the significance of these contents dawned on the party. These were no ordinary ashes; they were the remains of Amun's previous comrades, fallen heroes whose lives had ended in tragedy, their legacies reduced to mere dust.
Triel's dark laughter filled the cavern as she began an incantation, her words slipping through the air like venom. The party tensed, preparing for what was to come. Sylas Embermind, quick to react, stepped forward, his mind racing through his extensive arcane knowledge. "She intends to summon wraiths—vengeful spirits of the fallen!" he warned, his voice urgent.
As Triel continued her chant, the salts began to swirl, lifted by an unseen force. The air around them darkened, and a cold wind whipped through the tunnel, chilling them to the bone. One by one, the grains began to coalesce into spectral forms, wraiths that bore the visages of Amun’s former allies, now twisted by necromancy into beings of pure vengeance.
Amun, his face a mask of horror and resolve, stepped forward, his hands raised in a defensive gesture. "These were once my friends, my brothers-in-arms. You desecrate their memory, Triel!" His voice broke through the howling of the newly formed spirits, filled with both fury and sorrow.
*****
Flashback
The warlock muttered to his comely, jade-skinned, half-orc, bard companion, “this is never going to work. The likes of this one, an Infernal, are locked in the eternal Blood War, devils of order jockeying for damnation with chaotic demons of the abyss. It probably has tar pits filled with the most vile-smelling patience. This horned-fucker can wait us out while his forces could be planning a rescue and flank us…. and we only have so much salted-meat and mead to last us.”.
She patted him gently on the arm, the large frame of rippling musculature that frequently, nimbly and interpretively danced her party into glorious confrontations strummed her long fingers there, “give it a moment, my crow-eyed lovely. We need not take on all the encumbrance for our faith-based party members. This foe is not to be taken lightly, as I know you know. Sort your plan of attack, Amun, whilst they pray into theirs. Mayhaps go look for ‘Goyle if you are restless,… perhaps you’ll find him stuck in another grease trap! Wasn’t that fun!?”. Barrel-Chest Betty’s gargantuan-inscisored jawline, unhinged with whispered joy, lighting on the shared memory.
Amun knew that the stoney-skinned, tiefling-rogue known to them as ‘Goyle would not be caught so flat-footed again, but reflected there, with a guttural chuckle that, it was a wonderful memory to carefully and quietly reminisce on in his supposed absence. Their lock-breaker in the group always went out ahead of the pack to gather reconnaissance, ensuring that expensive or ill-gotten maps weren’t out-dated lies and to disarm as many traps and snares ahead of time as possible. The misfortune of this wonderful companion is that he had been cursed as child by an Ifrit, for not keeping up his end of a bargain. Though ‘Goyle was a very talented scout for this group, if he wasn’t still or in flight with his cute, demure, stoney batwings, he moved at…an….abysmally……leaden-footed….pace. Not very quiet or sneaky while on hooves either. Forget the frailty of a wood plank bridge or ascending a rope ladder either. Thus, he always fluttered ahead of the group to serve the most good on quests and adventures, in the name of Lacon, their beloved Spire and the Unknown, Unseen Oduum.
‘Goyle, like his companions wasn’t without other faults, however, and this particular memory fluttered back into the early-on annals of the groups antics, the time when they had caught-up with the course-skinned, gremlin stuck slow sliding on a triggered oil trap. Sliding as quickly as his stubby, hooved-legs would allow, he was attempting to slide with enough inertia to ram and possibly jostle a wall torch onto the flammable liquid, for he was immune to the primal force of normal fire (also, very handy) and it would free him from the trap and embarrassment. Instead, the group indeed had found him slow-sliding back and forth, again and again, over and over, with very little momentum gain or progress to the piss-ye-pant hilarity of his spying compatriots. Not a one, even for all their expertise and valor would dare bring it up to ‘Goyle’s statuesque face. First of all, he was severely antisocial. More importantly, he could be lurking anywhere, waiting to snipe a backstabber that the party had not seen (also, very handy), but even his crew were terrified of ‘Goyles quiet temperament and twin vorpal crossbows. Their slip-sliding, hawkeye could be anywhere!
Currently, knelt in front of the conspiring Amun and Betty, were the “faith-based”, gilded armor wearing companions, engaged strenuously in psionic combat. An Arcanuum war priest and a black guard had been locked in the invisible battle of wills with the redscaled monster for over a moon night. The many rivers and gullied-ponds of concentration that sat and then ran down their tattooed faces showed that this perhaps was becoming a fruitless raid, thus far. In a terse test of wills, the two tested faith-filled mental quarterstaff sized prods against what felt-like to them an enormous dam of demonic fury, that being the will of the ensnared Ob Nixilus, one of numerous Duke of Heil’s high command.
The party had quested for this pinnacle confrontation for prestige though, the Choir would give them such high praise for smiting such a foe. And with such valor comes unrequited access to the next level of training with Lacon and the Arcanuum, Amun for one was counting on it. So down the party went, following the map that Amun had tactically acquired through his hesitant miester contact at the Arcanuum. This Benjamin, as he was beginning to be known to the party, was always hand-wringing and nurse-maiding to hand over such intelligences for numerous reasons, according to he. One logically was that the party was currently incomplete and lop-sided, they had not fully recovered from the recent loss of a member, their barbaric weapon master. Ben was fearful that the party was being spurred on by woeful bloodlust to honor their fallen comrade, but had given over the parchment to ‘Goyle and the gang reluctantly in the end.
Ben counseled the group as they made preparations for the departure, “Go not into this quiet night still hearing your brother’s rage-filled bellow. Let that roar recede like the waters, let it settle and calm a bit before acting so hastily. Know peace for a time and then decide what to do do next.”
Aegis, of the Order of the Unseen, the party’s faithful war priest nodded in affirmation yet continued to pack the cart, along with his silent partner, the tower of dark armor, Tsybyl Truthfinder. Ben knew that Tsybyl missed her frontline battle buddy, it would be a difficult adjustment to the party’s primary strategy to not have their “team heavy-hitter” to hold the line with her. She had her faith, empowered by it, unwavering certainty in her long-time companion, Aegis and together their combined belief in the Unseen. Their armor, both physical and magickally, channelled tremendous power from the deep recesses of the blessed Continuum. Even so, they heard the caution because these infernal foes had access to other planes and many, many, mindless legions that would continue to crash against them. They both knew that they needed a strong weapon as their defense of faith held to break the waves, divide them and crush their morale.
Their fallen, the mighty GrendylHarm had done this for them on countless occasions, joyfully in fact. Full of blissful mirth, his twin caestuses would bludgeon bone and crumble envenomed fang fearlessly, humming his monkish mantra all the while. GrendylHarm was the party’s biggest leader of good cheer and optimism and for a Laconian band that held the difficult line of neutrality, a whipped-up voice of inspiration was often celebrated by Aegis and Tsybyl ( and quietly by the others as well). This was not the party’s first encounter with the infernal, they had lost their beloved Grendyl during a rescue mission.
Several of the Choirs low priests had fallen to temptation, given into depravity and consortion with infernal spies. The incubi had twisted them just outside of Lacon’s sight, in the lowlands that still had dens of carnal pleasure and ill repute. Like many mortal temptations, titillations were a downwards spiral and the priests excused themselves more and more often, under the evangelical guise of “wanting to cleanse these spaces”, “wash the unclean and bring them back to the fold of the Oduum”. Too often within the many coils of the Arcanuum’s Spire, the individuals go unchecked if suspicions aren’t raised and the priests were being very quiet about their nocturnal impulses. Going unchecked, the soiled priests would embolden, they would empty purses and speak with loosened tongues of the goings-on of the secretive Choir and this was highly sought-after information indeed. The incubuses ensnared the chaste priest’s loins and primal urges and with this advantage, they lured them into a pit that no mortal soul had even escaped, a bastion of rot on the proverbial borders of the living material plane and others, Club Twilight. The priests went there for a rendezvous romp and had never returned.
Seven moons were chased round before the Arcanuum and the Choir received the report of the unaccounted priests. Seven more before the investigation and divination of devilish details were fleshed-out to get the team a plan of action. At this point, the souls of the fallen priests were certainly flayed free from their flesh of fealty, indeed the remaining unconsumed soul of the original trinity was scheduled to depart for Aberon, to be ferried by the son Erebus themselves. If the soul successfully boarded, it would be lost and the Choir would never know how much knowledge was lost to their enemy. The party’s mission was to either rescue the soul through ritual exorcism, not an easy task deep in forsaken territory, or to destroy it before it stepped aboard the vessel of the dead.
In order to reach the shore in time, the Choir had to bestow certain sacred knowledge - that being how to cross planes of existence. To bridge planar dimensions, to slip through a created gap of time and space, from one point to the next, one of the party’s foci, be it Aegis’s scepter or Amun’s dagger would need to be tainted with material from the destination. The Choir would need to entrust this knowledge of plane jumping and then imbue a trusted item with stolen sand from the souless shores.
When Aegis denied the defilement of his sacred weapon, a symbol faith that crushed skull and impacted force waves from it when the war priest commanded, it was a supposedly reluctant warlock that handed over his coveted family dagger. The craft was entrusted to Amun and the knife was passed and stained by the sands. When he saw that his full-force group of soul conservators was at the ready, he spoke the craft fueled by his covenant with the Oduum, “Shou-Aberon”, his wrinkled and heavily muscled arms tensed and his gray arm hair stood on end and with a violent motion, Amun stabbed and tore the fabric of reality for the first time.
The fringe of reality fluttered and shimmered as though is had been unseen fabric present the whole time, just never looked for with appropriate vision. The cut and part yielded and divided as Amun focused his intent over and over in the mantra, “Shou-Aberon” (in time and in his practice, he would find that the vocalic wasn’t as necessary as the focus of will itself). Amun cut smoothly but every bundle of physical fiber in this hands, arms, and shoulders stood on end, at the extreme of flexion and tension, it was truly and remarkably unbearable to divide the fabric of reality and it fought against him.
Ribbons and tatters of light more beautiful and radiant than Betty’s favored weapons, luminous membranes of colour that folded and formed seeable spectrums, defining shape, depth and form unraveled in his spellwork, Amun had no time to revel in the sight of it, if he would hesitate in the art of unmaking, he would by siphoned into the membrane, lost forever. The cut was almost large enough and the party could see the dark amethyst shores across the spanse, not one of them dared to breathe as Amun act continued. The air they breathed had changed direction and was sucking into the alien shore. They smelled carrion and death on the shore of numberless amounts of skins and vessels left empty to rot on the sand. The party all mutually did a double-check of their constitution for it was new venue of nausea that they had never known, even wading into the vilest city sewer to hunt Bassilisk or known bogs couldn’t compare.
They had seen the wrinkled old man conjure jets of occursed Eldritch energy, he often painted in necrotic oils on their weapons, spoke to the dead and knew their secrets, but this was on another level and all were uncertain in Amun would survive the ordeal. Indeed he did and held the opening with his will, resheathing his blade at his belt. With a snarl over his robed shoulder, he inquired to the troop, “Come yea bastards, do you expert to live forever?”. ‘Goyle was the first to take flight and Amun was the last to pass through the tear he had temporarily made in reality.
*****
The effect on the party was instantaneous and suffocating, especially to the path-based members of the team. What the Arcanuum and the Choir hadn’t said, indeed didn’t know to warn the group about, was that they were teleporting to another realm of existence outside of their material plane. Faith isn’t a physical relationship, but to some minds and spirits, it is tied to holy spaces, relics and practices. The paladin and cleric found that the moment their vessels interacted with this new space, new air and desanctified ground….they weren’t actually weakened by it, but the did , however, doubt and question their connection to the Unseen - the source of their ability.
Sensing that their hearts were wavering on that shore, GrendylHarm turned to his attention to them, as he had done many times before to offer a cheery limerick of encouragement perhaps. This momentary loss of focus would prove to be a fatal flaw.
The swarm of offended undead flew up like a sudden dust storm and the party was surrounded. The fog blinded their physical sight with a misty hue of lovely dusted plum, but it was a breath of death that swallowed the barbarian, GrendylHarm first. As he smiled and went to speak, entwined twins of smoke laced his fists and arms, he was distracted and hadn’t noticed the weightless snare. The lattice-work did its deed and pulverized the mighty gauntlets and GrendylHarm, screamed not in fury or bloodlust, but in agony. His party was stunned by the shock of the scene, but it was the warlock who called up Eldritch flame to spew behind the towering man to attempt to separate him from the fogged assailant, but this was too late.
Aegis plated his shield in the shimmering sand, spoke his prayer and the shields sprang and multiplied, at first a bulwark to cut the front assault off then they curved inward until the spell craft finished off as a dome around the majority of them. Their sniper had flown off to find a blind to fire from and, as usual, wasn’t inside the immediacy of the group.
Tsybyl kept many vials of blessed liquids that were often employed as spell components for her team, they could bless weapons to act as a potent poisoning agent on weapons or could be volleyed and hurled at foes. On this dark occasion, she took two, and in each hand smashed them upon her breastplate and then laid-hands on the war priest to bless him, speaking what wavering faith she could muster, “May we survive this. Bless our might, Unseen. Prove that your presence, even in this space, is greater than theirs.”. She finished the prayer and opened her eyes and immediately regretted it.
The group inside Aegis’s dome of protection looked on as the ensnaring attack on their brutish barbarian had not ceased, even with the warlock’s verdant spray. The exhaled smoke from the countless dead’s final breath entrapped the man in whisps of wine-colors, only the cyanosis of his great head stood out as a different hues. The warrior had breathed the toxin in and was fading fast from this life, as his enormous body was being lifted be these semitransparent forces.
Betty lashed and danced and lashed, but her whips came away empty again and again, finding nothing to bite or slash in the deadly murk that was killing her companion. When her deadly dance halted, it was to Amun, the warlock, she pleaded to, “can you not do something for him?!?”. The party had not fought on another plane, had not been tested nor bested by forces such as these.
The warlock sprang to action, not knowing quite what to do, but feeling that making aa move of some sort was better than just standing there watching a packmate being strangled. Aegis raised the impotent protective barrier enough for the robed mage to roll under. Amun came up on foot and psychically extended a message to the unseen ‘Goyle, “‘Golye, we must be quick, what do you see?!?”. This mental exchange had happened between the two before, but unbeknownst only assumed and celebrated by the party.
‘Goyle hovered high above the shoreline and replied, “I see nothing, but the smog is coming from a source. Can you distract it or force it to change tactics? I do not have a shot because there’s nothing there.”
Amun grumbled and saw on their flank many approaching yellow cat eyes, he didn’t have long. He reached down to the shore and grabbed a fistful of sangria-colored pebble and sand. Smashing it palm to palm, he looked up from his work to spy the best probable target, focused will upon the smashed grit speaking, “Kho-Murus!”. He rubbed palm to palm, his skin chafing from the pressure, “Kho-Murus!” repeatedly in not a whispered request, but a command from the resonant voice. He flung the substance out and breathed unnatural force behind it with air released from his vessel with unnatural duration. The wind whooshed out from him, veiny webbing standing out on neck and face and forehead with torturous intensity.
The spell invoked a purple glass wall flying flat towards the unseen enemy and with Amun’s evoked exhalation enervated with dire energy, the substance kited. It flew and bent around something, something big. Amun’s crystalline wall bent around its target and it looked like a grape far above the dark waters. Amun’s breathed winds did not cease and he turned his attention on all of those eyes, who did not like the sand blown in them at all! The many unnatural screeches and rapid clicks of severe discomfort confirmed this. He was expended for the moment though, but perhaps the severing of fog from his source had saved the GrendylHarm.
It hadn’t.
Instead GrendyltHarm had been raised and mounted on the spike interior of the invisible dome. Not being able to see the protruding implement being his mount just left an open and gaping puncture in his torso, the evicerrated flesh was a gaping tear that was obviously a mortal wound. To this knowledge, the barbarian had not accepted the truth and instead violently twisted upon the mount, intensifying the grave wound to his onlooking party’s dismay. All but the warlock looked on in horror, Amun was transfixed upon the source of the attack somewhere off of the shoreline. He gathered up powdered amethysts, muttered his command, “Infamia Ostedus” and blew at his palm forcefully towards the calmed eye of the smokey mist. The purple blot went out and eventually stuck to it’s target hovering above the Cahron’s waters. The head and torso and turned their attention towards the robed magic user.
Amun seeing this aspect drew his family’s curved dagger, his constant companion and plunged it deep into the grains beneath his sandaled feet, scrawling a large circle. His guts suddenly churned, he could feel the seismic orations of the foreign language of the infernal booming from the hovering form. He had gotten its attention and knew that time was limited. The gruff growls and snarls, while angry sounded also presented as inquisitive also, then a change to something more hissing and smooth - it was searching for communication. Clicking and insecticidal whirring and one that was more or less ‘Whomps’ of air punctuated with odd ‘P’ noises until, “Agent of Mephistophles then?”. Amun couldn’t help the break in concentration in the recognition, his protective ward chant halted momentarily in recognition of common language. “Ahhh, come to bargain for the remaining soul then before it crosses? What have you to bargain for such a valuable soul? This one indeed will make quite a ear worm indeed, to creep in a spread silk into his colleagues intents within that infernal spire? Twist the psalms of the Choir and let the masses sup on that mana, sing and sway and be sheered of hope season after season. He has the access we need and he is already quite spineless, easier to crawl on his belly.”.
Amun could hear the hunger in it’s voice, the pride in bringing such an achievement to lay at he the stone of its superior’s hooves. This was a crowning achievement for this devil and the battle would not easily be won.
Or would it?
It was plucking the sharp purple pebbles from it’s leathery armor, tenderly as if it was also prideful of it’s appearance….the scene was quite comical if the threat weren’t so severe. “This is how madness gets seeded”, Amun mused. The warlock needed to be prepared, several steps ahead of this foe, in fact. He felt this inkling of opportunity though, so he chose a path of chaotic risk, instead of his instructed and well-rehearsed, pre-planned and interacted structure of preparedness. Amun walked to the bank and stared out at the thing, amused yet terrified of his freedom of choice.
Meanwhile, his party worked together quickly to lower the drooping and dripping tower of Gren. ‘Goyle covered the activity, but the few had gone still, their attention it seemed was was at an impasse, distracted by the happenstance occurring on the shoreline. Amun’s took the pause as a strategic opportunity to see to their companion, several applauding mentally the grizzled pact-maker’s quick thinking of duplicating himself to the prideful devil’s hubris. Perhaps the least diplomatic of the group had a chance at a negotiation. In their scurry to attempt to save Gren, they could not see seeds of receipt being sown.
Amun, let the dark waters lap at his sandaled toes. Frigid waters, to no surprise that numbed to quickly, no pain, no pondering, no wanderings (wonderings) needed any longer, only quiet depths of Styx. He felt the aqueous gravity whispering to embrace him, the immeasurable barricade between the material plane and the land of the infernal, so close to the heathen’s seat of power, but like his own party, Amun knew that this place weakened the devil’s power. That wouldn’t stop it’s lies though, they always resorted to that tactic.
Amun hollered, “Sorry about yer finery, m’lord.”
The speckled shaded responded with a noise that wasn’t heard, more felt in gut and in skull, “You’ll pay for the trespass here, mortal. Their secrets must be precious indeed, it the choir would send one’s so unprepared, to join them.”
“Exactly the point I was about to make, horned one. Why rush yourself this exposure to my kind, your endangered here. Why the risk of such upset and embarrassment?” Amun, didn’t hesitate to raise the ruse.
“You and yours are no threat to me here…..”, The devil poked it’s head through the shade it drew around itself. An amethyst had embedded itself in its fair cheek.
Amun raised a palm to it, “Cry your pardon, king of devils and soot. You have erred in our alliances and you have erred in mine. I am hold no covenant to the Spire’s influence, but I do wield their power. I can call outsider’s to my side and you would be such a prized trophy to them.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”, the devil called the bluff.
Amun had no choice, but drew the dagger once more and spoke to a plane-less reality that was existed in gaps between planes. The abyss, a unmade space of endless chaos and dark, those that dwelt outside the perceived reality and yearned to be welcomed into the material, the divine, infernal and the infinite eons of others known and unknown. They lived in shadow and mirror, all unpredictable horrors unconfined by boundary, norms or law. Amun knew that according to the accords of the infinite Blood War between a demon such as this before him and his true foe, the chaos of the Abyss - this would get it’s attention.
Amun had not spoken the the bivocal thuum of his ancestors in so long, there had not been such a need to do so before this tense moment. The rumble churned in his belly and he breathed air into it, the vibration took to his throat deep, it resonated in a deep noise that may have been “WHA” or “OHM”, yet neither and simultaneous. It was not a comfortable harmony it indescribably beautiful and powerful.
Somewhere far away a furnace lit and heard this call. An ancient pit where an outsider from the Abyss had been cast long ago, it heard Amun’s call, but not to it. No mortal kindled by the Oduum’s continuum could know of it, yet somehow this pactless warlock had whispered something close to it’s name. The outsider would tempt this mage into freeing it someday, but that is another tale for later.
Amun dared to lower the blade that blurred in mortal views, it existed, he existed in material and not. He could come apart and free a killing curse like this, Vanessa had taught him how to do so as a dying wish. Even his mentor from youth would not imagine that Amun would pair that evening’s lesson with such an act against nature, the action was a pure atrocity - she would have killed him herself for contriving such a concoction. The recipe was the grit he felt beneath padded, boot, the liquid base of Styx, the smell of olde death, the sight of deep purple, he could taste the alkaloid and hear the roar of power between his ears.
Yet Amun dared, he begged his voice not quiver as he spoke, “Flame of this amethyst be lit; the blaze of the lumens of yore be kindled on this plane! Gleam forth by the dim suns betwixt the sleeping stars that saw the dawn of our times; shine forth with the illumination of the World Serpent’s Undying Stars! Ouroboros, the eyes of pyre, seven sets in the Hydra that now rouses in my desperate plea! Wake, Wake, WAKE! Perfect Truth, Perfect Sight revealed! Numbers in triad, over and over amalgam, know their counts as we witness: the eye of the serpent, Ouroboros!” He was a man possessed by his words, pushing his will through family blade, the chosen foci.
“Stop mortal. I ask for a palaver and enact the law of host and hospitality. You will not be threatened by me.”, the voice called out desperately from the shoreline. Amun noticed that the menace of scale and horn had hovered closer, but knew by this olde accord, it was no longer a threat for now - as long as Amun did not refuse. A blatant refusal would taint Amun’s name and reputation, damage a relationship with forces that stirred things like the continuum, it would disrupt a trust and Amun knew it would be folly not to accept. Besides, he was winded from his efforts, young as he was, and knew that had he touched his blade to the purple shore…..he would not be able to control or predict what would have happened.
Silently, the demon-lord came out from behind it’s own glamour and the two transported somewhere private and on an entirely different plane. In the echoing chambers beneath a jagged landscape, where the whispers of the forgotten resonated through the cold stone, Amun Jaro and the demon lord Ob Nixilis found themselves ensnared in a precarious negotiation. The warlock, clad in robes that absorbed the scant light, stood across from the imposing figure of Ob, his scales shimmering with a menace that pulsed in the dimness.
Amun: "Ob Nixilis, I acknowledge your power, your realm, and your standing within the infernal hierarchies. I come before you not as an adversary, but as one seeking mutual benefit. What is it that you desire most in this confluence of chaos and order?"
Ob Nixilis: His voice a grating rumble, Ob's eyes gleamed with a calculating light. "Amun Jaro, you trespass in my domain with boldness. I desire expansion of my territory, influence over the mortal realms, and souls to bind to my service. What can you offer that justifies your intrusion and these bold claims of mutual benefit?"
Amun: With a steady gaze, Amun spread his hands, a small orb of flickering darkness swirling between them. "I offer knowledge—secrets of arcane and divine magic that are coveted even among your kind. Additionally, I can provide access to a network of souls, ones that teeter on the brink of damnation and redemption. Their fates could sway heavily with just a nudge in the right direction."
Ob Nixilis: Narrowing his eyes, Ob leaned closer. "And what do you seek in return, warlock? Speak clearly, for my patience wears thin."
Amun: "Protection and an alliance. My enemies are powerful, capable of threatening even your interests in the mortal plane. Together, we can thwart their endeavors. I seek your assurance that my pursuits will be unimpeded by infernal interference, and in exchange, I will divert threats away from your operations."
Ob Nixilis: A slow, menacing smile spread across Ob's face. "A pact, then. But know this, Amun Jaro: any deception, any deviation from our agreed terms, and you will find that my wrath is as boundless as the pits of Hell itself."
Amun: Nodding solemnly, Amun extended his hand, dark energy crackling around it. "I understand the terms, and I agree. Let us bind this pact with a token of power."
As the agreement was voiced, Amun drew forth a small, intricately carved box, opening it to reveal a set of twin pendants: one adorned with an obsidian stone, the other with a fiery ruby. He took the obsidian, and Ob, the ruby, each symbolizing the dark bond they now shared.
Ob Nixilis: Clasping the pendant, Ob's laugh echoed through the chamber. "With this pact, our fates are intertwined. Act wisely, Amun Jaro, for your freedom now carries the weight of my expectations."
Amun: "And let your enemies beware, for my cunning is now backed by the fury of Ob Nixilis."
As the pact sealed, a surge of power swept through the cavern, the stones themselves whispering of a new, formidable alliance in the dark tapestry of cosmic games. Amun turned away, the ruby pendant glinting at his chest, a constant reminder of the demon lord that now held part of his fate in cruel claws.
The pact made and the new darkness was not merely the absence of light but a palpable entity, Amun Jaro stood before Ob Nixilis, the air thick with ancient magic and whispered threats. Their previous encounters had been marked by cunning and guarded words, but now, all was different. Tonight was about a dark convergence that would seal their fates together in blood and shadow.
Ob Nixilis: His voice a low rumble, resonating with the power of the abyss, Ob Nixilis studied Amun with a predatory gaze. "The pact is simple, Amun. Your companions' souls will seal our agreement. Their lives end, but their essence will fuel your rise to power. You will absorb their skills, their memories, their very essences. In exchange, I gain their souls, bound to serve in my legions forever. Do you accept these terms?"
Amun: Facing the demon lord, Amun felt the weight of his decision crushing him like the stone around them. His eyes flickered momentarily to his companions, bound by ethereal chains that shimmered with malevolent energy. Each face reflected a mixture of betrayal and resignation, knowing too well the depth of the darkness that had enveloped their warlock's heart. "I accept," he said, his voice devoid of the hesitation that plagued his heart. "But their prowess, their lives—they fuel not just my rise but my reign. Make it so."
Ob Nixilis: A sardonic smile twisted the corners of Ob’s mouth. "Very well, warlock. Let the covenant be sealed!" He raised his arms, and the cavern trembled with the force of unleashed hellfire. Dark energy swirled around Amun's companions, drawing out silvery strands of life force that spiraled towards Amun, enveloping him in a vortex of screaming wind and whispering voices.
As the souls of his friends and comrades were absorbed into his being, Amun felt a surge of power unlike anything before. He could feel their abilities merging with his, their knowledge filling the gaps in his own, their memories flashing before his eyes in a torrent of joy and sorrow, victory and defeat. He was becoming something more than just a warlock; he was becoming a repository of combined might, a soul-eater endowed with the essence of those he had betrayed.
Aftermath:
As the ritual concluded, the bodies of his former companions fell lifeless to the ground, their eyes empty, their purposes fulfilled and twisted in the darkest way imaginable. Ob Nixilis laughed, a sound that echoed through the now silent cavern, pleased with the successful transaction of souls.
Amun stood alone, surrounded by the quiet dead, the new powers coursing through his veins. He felt the warriors’ strength, the rogues’ stealth, the sorcerers’ arcane knowledge, and the clerics’ divine insights melding with his own dark sorceries. The overwhelming influx of experiences was intoxicating, yet the hollow victory was tainted by the visceral memory of their final moments of despair.
Haunted by the ghosts of his actions, Amun now walked a path shadowed by power and haunted by loss. His ascent in the dark arts was meteoric, his name whispered with fear and awe across the realms, yet the echoes of the souls he consumed would forever remind him of the price of his ambition.
*****
Chapter: The Echoes of Sacrifice
In the treacherous labyrinth of the Underdark, the battle between Amun Jaro's party and the forces of Matron Mother Triel Baenre reached its climax. Amidst the echoing caverns, the clash of steel and the hum of dark magic filled the air with a palpable tension.
Triel, with the satchels tied securely around her waist, stood at the forefront of her elite drow warriors, directing the flow of battle with a cruel precision. Her eyes, alight with malice, were fixed on Amun, who fought with a desperate ferocity that belied his usual calm demeanor.
Triel Baenre: "You cannot win, warlock. Surrender the satchels, and I may yet spare your friends."
Amun Jaro: Breathing heavily, his robes torn and stained with the blood of battle, Amun glared at Triel. "Never. We end this now!"
As the battle raged, it became clear that the odds were overwhelmingly in favor of Triel and her seasoned fighters. One by one, Amun's companions fell, each sacrifice buying him precious moments to advance toward Triel. Their loyalty and bravery shone even in their final moments, each falling with the name of freedom on their lips.
In a desperate maneuver, Valna Shadeweaver, her own life force nearly spent, summoned the last of her divine power to forge a path through the enemy ranks directly to Triel.
Valna Shadeweaver: "For the future!" With a burst of radiant energy, Valna cleared the way, her body crumbling to dust as the light faded, leaving a clear path for Amun.
Seizing the opportunity, Amun surged forward, his eyes set on the satchels. With a swift movement born of necessity and fueled by rage, he snatched them from Triel's grasp, just as she was about to unleash a fatal spell.
Triel Baenre: Stumbling backward in shock, Triel hissed, "You think you have won, but you have merely sealed your fate!"
With the satchels in hand, Amun retreated, his heart heavy with the cost of this victory. As he regrouped at a safe distance, the irony of his possession dawned on him. Opening one of the satchels, he found the sacred salts—the remains of his previous companions, now bound to his will as wraiths.
In the eerie silence that followed the battle, Amun realized the full extent of his actions. The souls of his former friends, once lost to him, were now his to command, a ghostly legion bound by the very salts he had fought so fiercely to reclaim.
Amun Jaro: Holding a handful of the glittering salts, Amun whispered, "Forgive me. I will use this power to honor your sacrifices, not in vain, but to challenge the darkness that consumes our world."
As he prepared to leave the blood-soaked battleground, the wraiths formed from the salts stirred, their spectral forms coalescing into a silent, eerie procession behind him. With each step, the sounds of their whispers blended with the shifting shadows, a haunting reminder of the price of power and the burden of leadership.
Amun, now a commander of spirits, walked back into the depths of the Underdark, his path illuminated by the ghostly light of the wraiths. His victory was pyrrhic, tinged with the sorrow of loss but also the resolve to use his newfound power to bring about change, possibly even revolution, in the dark realms that had so often dictated the terms of his existence.