Many questions were asked of me the morning after I returned to the village. My parents were well thought of in the community, and were well known for being up before the sun to attend to something that needed doing. Most thought this was due to civic mindedness, but I knew it was their way to “atone" for bringing such a weak child into this world. It made me sick that they could think so little of their only offspring, and that they had fooled all these people into thinking better of them. Thankfully I could avoid most questions by saying they were off on some hunt but there was only so long that excuse could last. I needed to get out of here, out of the tribe lands in general.

My few belongings were packed away and I was able to find passage out with a wandering trader in exchange for keeping their books. I made a big deal about leaving, letting everyone know I was going to make something of myself and hopefully do my parents proud. My gorge rose thinking of this, images of their bodies flashing before my eyes among the well wishes of the village. Two days after murdering my last connection to the village I set off, never to see any of them again.

Travel was good for me, and I found satisfaction in my work. Something about the order of numbers appealed to my meticulous nature, and I found a lucrative side business in writing letters and documents for illiterate folks wherever we traveled. The caravan master allowed it, even advertised it as long as the company got a cut. This was fine with me, as I was too proud to hide my skills and didn’t want to lose out on my ability to keep moving.

Request from my new patron came in with some regularity, and my power grew by leaps and bounds. It always left me uneasy, though. It always involved pain, death, or painful death, and it sickened me what was required to grow stronger. I found that when I used my powers, however, my tasks left me elated. Only a hollowness remained after I was done, and that was preferable to the alternative. The escalation of depravity made me dip deeper and deeper into the tainted font I drew my abilities from, and soon I was almost looking forward to the next request, not liking the empty ache my normal self had become.

I found the line one day, something that I would not cross no matter how deep I drew from my powers. Waking up to the smell of brimstone, I unconsciously reached for the note I new would be below my pillow. Written in spidery runes whose meaning came unbidden to my mind was a request to destroy a small farmstead. They’d prayed to whoever would listen that someone would ease their crippled child’s suffering. My patron wished to grant their prayer and ordered me to slay the child, desecrating the body and leaving it on the kitchen table as proof that its suffering was ended. My mind immediately recoiled in disgust. Drawing deep on my powers, I read through the request again, and still found myself sickened by what was written there. No matter how deep I pulled, I couldn’t find the elation I’d come to rely on the get through the day.

I’d never had a problem before, taking sadistic glee in destroying families. But as I thought it through, I realized I never explicitly killed the children before. Wounded them, yes. Made them orphans, leading to their possible deaths in the future, yes. But taking an active role in their death? No, I had never done that. I knew this was a task I couldn’t complete. At least, not without destroying the last bit of who I was in the process. Unfortunately as long as I was still connected to my patron I would be punished greatly for failing to fulfill the task. With a sigh, I knew I needed to break another pact. But without further protection, I would have two great powers seeking my destruction. The problem was I only had a few days to find something before we moved on from this town and I would be punished. Fate, the bitch, seemed to smile down on me. The last night we were in town I was approached by a robed group of men as I packed up my stall.

“Good sirs, I am closed for the night, and will be leaving tomorrow. If you need something written up post haste, I suggest the local temple. Their rates are extortionate, but they will be discrete about whatever you need.”

Stolen story; please report.

“We know what you seek. We can get you protection from your patron.” I froze. My secret appeared to be out, and that could not stand. Discretely palming my pen knife with one hand while drawing on some baleful magic with the other, I turned to them with the most charming smile I could muster.

“Good sirs, I have no idea what you could possibly mean! My only patron is the good master if this caravan, and while his cut may be more than I wish to part with I am assured he means me no harm.” I slowly closed the distance, ready to strike down these interlopers. My mind already ran through the lies I would have to spin to the town guard to get out of this.

“We know what you are, warlock. Our master could protect you. Become your new patron. Give you all the power you need immediately to protect yourself. You just need to come with us.” My steps slowed. It sounded almost too good to be true.

I had made up my mind to complete my task tonight, to swallow down my revulsion and do what I had to to survive. If there was another way out…a way to keep who I am. I had to take it, to at least hear them out. Crushing them was still on the table if need be.

“Lead the way.” I dropped the friendly shopkeeper act, dispelling the building magic and pocketing the pen knife. Tension melted from the air, tension I had been unaware of until now. The group seemed to turn as one and led me down dark alleyways. Mildew and rot assaulted my nose, pungent odors of vomit and piss when we passed taverns, offal and death when we passed butchers and the like. Blood was ever present, though, blending the miasma of cities at night into a singular creature that seemed to pervade every brick and cobble. We stopped in front of a cellar door, disappearing into it one by one until I finally entered, darkness taking over as the door was shut behind me.

At the bottom of the stairs sat a circle before an altar. Strange light seemed to permeate everything, casting everything with an eldritch tint. Shadows danced along the walls creating shapes that seemed to moved against the light. Smoke and incense was heavy in the air, cloying and suffocating. Faces were shrouded, features hidden but suggesting something grossly wrong with those beneath. I clamped down on my fear, having come too far now to give up.

“Everything has been prepared for you. Simply enter the circle and shed your blood on the altar. Then our master will speak with you.” The voice seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere. This underground world was dreamlike, and I moved like a sleepwalker without thinking, my movements graceful and dance like. A susurration began, the bodies swaying like trees in a storm, building the waking dream I found myself in. My legs bumped against the altar, and I was surprised to find myself there with bloodied knife in hand, crimson splotches blooming like flowers on the ground behind me. Unconsciously I raised my split palm and watched the blood fall in slow motion towards the rough hewn stone.

Lightning seemed to strike me when it hit. My body shook, locked into place. I could feel a terrible presence, the attention forcing my stillness. My heart beat wildly, a wild bird trying to escape a new cage. Fear was my world now, the only emotion allowed into my mind. I could picture some great eye turning towards me, dwarfing me in scale and scope. A wounded scream tore itself from my throat, harsh and bestial.

You come. I know. I give. The voice grated against my mind, knives of fire and ice stabbing into me. I screamed again, muscles taut and straining, trying to escape. Light blossomed in my the fire and warmth I felt torn from my very soul and replaced with…something. Something unknowable. Something foreign. Something terrible. My sanity seemed to reach its snapping point, pulses threatening to make it break. I knew immediately that when it did, I would lose what I was anyway. Innately I knew that this was how all those robed being came to be. They sought power and were broken by it, becoming nothing more than puppets to this dead god and those who resisted the longest, who were able to keep even a minute amount of themselves.

I threw everything I had into breaking free. My screams became those of defiance, flecks of blood spraying from my ruined throat. Power built in my mind, lashing out at this great being. It turned away, seemingly wounded, its screams threatening to end me. Free from its attention, I rained fire and ice down on the altar. The dream shattered, feedback causing the cultists behind me to collapse. Wild eyes scanned the room, unrestrained power tearing into everything. Fire, ice, and force ripped into stone and flesh, turning the room into a charnel house. I felt and sudden emptiness in my soul and realized that I had broken my third pact. I was defenseless, and needed to escape right now. With heaving breaths, body wracked with pain, I stumbled for the exit, and ran off into the darkness.