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[Dealthagar]

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(This was posted many, many years ago, but appears to have faded into Oblivion. Thus I repost. Enjoy)
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Penned this 23rd day of Otar, 983 FS (Free State Reckoning),

By Althus the Scribe, Royal Historian of the Salucian Academy,

To Corinus the Librarian, Dean of the Salucian Academy

Master Corinus;

Hail and greetings. I have completed my mission and have finished compiling my note for the manuscript you now hold. Although it had taken me a bit longer to complete this than I had hoped, you now hold the only true and unedited record of how Lord Dealthagar came to be. Although he has assured me that certain parts have been left out, as to not give his enemies too much information. I have also included my own notes of the journey to his tower to give insight on how the "Master of the Wastes" enshrouds himself.

Humbly,

Your Servant;

Althus the Scribe

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10th Day of Veeder, 983 FS

I have left the City of Kensington. A militiaman told me that if I were to travel to the Great Bog of Despair, two days south of the city, it is rumored that the Tower of Obsidian stood there, and I would find Lord Dealthagar. He also told me that he knew of no one that had found it and returned. I will tread forward.

15th Day of Veeder, 983 FS

I have now been traveling in the Bog of Despair for two days. The militiaman in Kensington said that no one returned, but I am certain that the Lord of Wastes would welcome a chance to spread his word. I believe that if I appeal to his pride, I will have my leave.

23rd Day of Veeder, 983 FS

Ten days I have wandered in this muck. It is notable, that although rather heavily wooded, there seems to be no animals in this bog. I have also never seen a smidge of green. It seems this entire bog is nothing but fetid decay and dying trees. I tread ever on, my water and rations running low.

25th Day of Veeder, 983 FS

My water and food spent, I pray to Zon to guide me to the tower. This bog seems to go on forever.

26th Day of Veeder, 983 FS

I woke from terrible dreams to find two "men" in my camp. One handed me a satchel with fresh water and a few morsels to eat, and the other held a symbol of a Flaming Skull, the signet of Dealthagar. I use the word "men" lightly to describe these beings. There wear the field armor of the Knights of Branithar (An obscure order of Lycanthrope and Undead Hunters that disbanded in 148 FS, I believe) that has been blackened as if in a great tallow fire. Two sickly green orbs of light shine from behind their visors, where their eyes should be, and the glimpses of skin I can see are the color of the sky on a dark rainy afternoon. We walked for the entire day, and near night-fall, we came upon the Obsidian Tower.

How to describe the tower…

Picture the starry alabaster towers of the Elven Kingdom. The splendor of their gentle wispy peaks. The art and glory of their beauty. Now blacken them as if tossed into a smith’s forge, tearing away all joy. Imagine the towers searing and twisting in the fire, their marvelous spirrettes twisting and melting like wax down a candle of filth. Imagine this thing of horror, after being heated red in the fires of hell, to be chilled in the blood of a newborn babe. Perhaps then you can begin to imagine the Obsidian Tower of Dealthagar.

They led me into the tower and now into a room. I would guess for the night. Although in perfect repair, I would guess a living soul has not spent a night in this room in over a millennia. It is cold, and even with a fire in the hearth, I do not know if I will ever be warm again.

2nd Day of Otar, 983 FS

I have spent six days in this room. I cannot leave. The door feels barred from the other side. I do not suffer though. Each morning, when I awake, I fine clean clothing on the vanity, fresh food and drink on the table, my inkwell filled, my firewood replenished, my chamber pot clean, and my bath drawn and hot. I have even found several lost volumes of history (Note: I have included them with this manuscript, they are rather enlightening). My captor, if nothing else, is accommodating.

6th Day of Otar, 983 FS

After dressing this morning, I have been summoned to see the master of the tower. My escort awaits…

On all of Marna, there are few places as dread as the Obsidian Tower. The walls seem to pulse, as if alive. The tower is decorated in a parody of opulence. Rich braided rugs of human hair, Tapestries of skin, furniture of lacquered bone. It is depraved and disturbing and yet alluring. The master of the castle has no qualms of showing his displeasure of uninvited guests. It is silent, bar the shuffle of my sandals, and the creaking of armor of my "escort".

After a time that was much too long for my taste, and after countless flights of stairs, we came to a pair of grand doors. The escort on his right pointed at them. I screeched and fell to the floor in fright as the doors opened on their own.

A mild voice, quiet like a death rattle, but strong and firm called out. "Sularis. You may go. He is of…no threat to me. Please, Althus, you have nothing to fear from me. My servants will get your things." With that several shadows came to life, grabbing my fallen papers, inks and quills, and depositing them on the table in the grand hall. "Come. Sit." It was obviously not a request.

Although the rest of the tower had been a macabre display, the grand hall was extraordinary. A fine table and chairs made of Eloshian ebon-wood, highly polished and flawless, sat center in the room. Several candelabras of wrought mythril lit the room. Tapestries from around the world hung around the room giving it an almost friendly warmth. On platters of silver sat fresh fruits, cheeses and breads from all over the world. Next to where my papers had been lain, a large, dwarven-crafted, iron scribe’s lantern sat on its stand. At the far end of the hall, upon a thirteen-staired dais sat a throne of marble, gold, ebon-wood and black velvet sat a throne, grander that any lord’s, king’s or head of state on Marna. Upon the throne sat the most feared being on all of Marna, wrapped in robes of the finest black silk, a crown of obsidian and a staff of finely polished bone.

"L-l-l-lord Deathagar, I presume?"

He smiled as he rose, but there was no joy to it. Much like the smile of a predator who had finally cornered its prey.

"You have come to chronicle my life, eh, my existence. For my life ended millennia ago. At first I thought about leaving you to die in my swamp. But then I realized, although your reason for doing this is truly in a scholarly vein, I would allow it. You needn’t worry about my pride or stroking it. Your mind is open to me, and all you know, all you think is like an open book. I shall give you audience, for I believe the world should know why they fear me."

I sat down at the chair given, and began to prepare myself.

"You shall write my story, but you will do it in my words, exactly as I speak it to you. Anything else, and I shall feed you to the abyss. Do we understand each other?"

"Yes, Dread Lord. I pray though, may I annotate? Some references to time and place have changed, especially if you are as old as you say, and would like the reader to understand all." I began to tremble. The words were out of my mouth before I had thought about it, and now, if I had displeased him, I would certainly be slain.

"You may." He returned to his throne and began…

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(Scribes Note: To begin this Lord Dealthagar gave reference to the date, using the old Fetterstet dating method. This tells me two things: one, this method has been out of practice except in the Fetterstet courts for just under two millennia. This gives credence to his claim of age. Two, if I remembered my Fetterstet history right, the king he speaks of was the last king of his dynasty, and at least 5 other family dynasties have passed since. If all I remember is accurate it would date his birth to approximately 3458 PF (Pre-Free State Reckoning) meaning Lord Dealthagar was born nearly 4400 years ago! Truly remarkable!)

In the Seventeenth year of the twenty third Almani King of Fetterstet, my mother, Alia came from Noloth with a traveling band of gypsies, musicians, bards, jesters, actors and dancers. She was a dancer, and able to enrapture a man with her veils. They became very popular in the lands and were summoned before the king for a performance. King Sharmath IV was a poor ruler and a despot, who knew not how to rule his people. His people went hungry and criminals ruled the streets as he and his court lived in opulence and vain splendor.

After seeing my mother dance, he became lustful and enraptured with her beauty. He claimed the performance was poor and he was displeased, and he would keep her in payment for his displeasure. When the troupe objected, he set his guards upon them. Most escaped, but a few were killed. He kept my mother as a concubine and a slave.

The remaining troupe returned to their homeland of Noloth, where they were quite famed and in great favor with the emperor. He demanded that Alia be returned. As she was with child, Sharmath refused, and war ensued. The biggest surprise to him was that because of his poor rulership, his people turned on him as soon as war broke out. Fearing for her own life, as she was heavy with his only heir, she fled to the swamp to the west.

Alia was born to and of gypsy blood. She had delivered many children, and was able to deliver her own. She told me I was an easy birth, as if I couldn’t wait to be in the world. As a gypsy and a witch, she was happy to raise me out of the sight of "mundane" people. I was born in the Days of Dark, and if we had been among mundane peoples, I would have surely been slain.

(Scribes Note: The Days of Dark refers to the eight days between the end of the old year and the beginning of the new. In the days before the Free State Revolution and with some non-civilized cultures, it was considered a bad omen for a child to be born in this week, and they were destined to be necromancers, criminals and generally evil beings. They were typically slain if the birth could not be drawn out until after the days were over. It has been noted by the Mage Academy of Uloth that people born in these days do have a greater connection with magic and the spirit world.)

My mother was a great teacher and began to admire the speed that I began to learn mathematics, divining, basic physiology and magical theory. Basic spell-casting came to me easily. By age seven I was an equal to most so-called "master magi".

(Scribes Note: I question his use of the title "master magi". In common parlance, this is a mage who has completed both his apprenticeship and journeyman stint and has been fully accredited by one of the 5 Mage Academies. Using dated parlayance, a master magi was one who had done all the aforementioned and had apprenticed at least five students, plus he or she had completed a new therom of his or her own design. It is impossible to believe a child of seven could be of the modern use of the title, much less the old form. If this is accurate, his mother was more than just a simple "witch", and I am dealing with the greatest wizard in all of Marna’s history.)

In the spring of my eighth year, three men came upon our cabin in the marsh. They were large men, hunters of lycanthropes and they were seeking wolvesbane. For a few gold coins, my mother offer to sell them what we had, and if need be, for a few more, could harvest them more. They were rough men, but well mannered at least. They agreed, and my mother put them up in the loft for a few days while she gathered the herbs.

On the fourth day they were with us, the day that changed the world happened.

It was a full moon, and they were edgy. The prey they were seeking was near, and they could feel it. They spent most of the day cleaning and sharpening their silver blades, and as evening fell they listened for the howls. Near midnight, their wish became true. I will never forget. As they ran off, my mother drank deeply of her tea, and swirled the dregs. Her face went white, and a tear ran down her face. When I asked her what was wrong, she said simply "Destiny Comes".

I awoke to hear the sounds of battle and yelling in the front of our home. The three men stood fighting a werewolf. It was a magnificent creature. Three cubits in height, eyes afire, teeth and claws gleaming in the moonlight, it had given well to the warriors and they had done little to stop it. They had been kind to us, so I went downstairs to see if I could help them. One of the warriors had fallen, nearly dead, and my mother stood at the front door, tears running down her face. Afraid she had been hurt, and being a simple child, I grew enraged. Had this foul thing dared to hurt my mother? All my rage and all my power swelled up, and I felt the strands of magic swirl within me. I summoned all my strength and bearing and called forth the most powerful spell I knew. As the eldritch energy crackled through me my mana dove deep underground, searching probing. Suddenly the spell came to fruitition and a score of skeletal knights drawn from the depths of the underworld appeared, and tore the werewolf to bits.

I reveled in the power. I had never felt this exhilarated after casting something so powerful. Before, I had always summoned one or two and felt drained for hours afterwards.

I turned and smiled at my mother, who weakly smiled back. I then turned to the three knights and smiled. Surely they would have appreciative of the help I just gave them, and possible impresses that one so young could do such a thing.

Instead the three looked at each other and then me in horror and disbelief. Drawing their weapons, they charged at me, screaming. "Necromancer!" and "Demon-spawn!"

My beloved mother tried to stop them, but they just cut her down. As she fell on top of me, Sularis, the youngest of them, and the one who was sorely injured, ran his spear through her back, and through my belly, pinning us to the ground.

(Scribes Note: It wasn’t until I re-read this that I realized that he referred to my undead escort as Sularis. The armor would fit the motivation of the warriors in Dealthagar’s tale. Has he kept the man, or men, that cut his mother down around as servants all this time?)

I grew afraid. In all my life I had never known pain like this. My mother, her life waning, brought her hands to my face. She could not speak, but from her eyes, I knew. She was scared. She was angry. Most of all, she knew we would never see each other again. As the light went from her eyes, all began to grow dark…

The darkness called to me. I felt it, and I knew it. Oblivion. Conceived in evil, born in evil, it knew me. I was its chosen. I was given great power by Oblivion’s embrace. It sang to me. I was to be its avatar on Marna. Destruction. Death. Chaos. These were the tools it gave me. In return, I gave it my soul. A bargain I would praise every day since. I embraced Oblivion, and it embraced me.

I felt a fire in my belly. It grew. The power I felt when I casted the summoning was nothing like the power I felt surging in me now. My magic, my soul, refused to let go to this mortal coil. Surges of mana crackled around me, and in moments all across the bog. My soul was eating, consuming, devouring every last bit of magic it could. When it ran out of magic, the primal magic of life itself began to wane. In moments all the power of the bog, all the life of the bog, all the anger, the power, the destiny, all became one. Tearing myself free of the flesh of my child’s form I created a new shell for my soul. One of power and majesty. My mother had spoken of such majesty and power. I was a Lich now, and no mere mortal could stand against me now. I kissed my mother’s soul goodbye as it floated to the heavens, and then turned to my attackers.

"We showed you kindness. We showed you compassion. We showed you trust. This is how "noble knights" repay debts? You have slain the only person that I have cared for, after we helped you! This is the goodness of virtue? I shall remember this lesson you have taught me. I shall remember it always! As shall you!"

As I tore the life-force from their flesh, I bound their spirits. They would serve me. Always. They would always feel pain, and they would suffer for eternity. But they would serve.

Peering into my new play-thing’s souls, I saw how lords and masters of the land lived. I sew the regal way in which they ruled their lands. Again, I called out to Oblivion. The Darkness resounded. Reaching deep into the bowels and shadows of the world, I drew forth my tower. My bastion. My sanctum. Rent of pure obsidian, pulled from the depths, my tower erupted from the ground, like a knife through the back of the world. Here I would grow, and learn. Basking in the darkness of Oblivion, I have become more than any being could hope to ever be.

For over four millennia I have puppeted the forces of evil on Marna. I have granted slivers of power, fractions of Oblivion, to those I deemed worthy. I have hunted those who would topple me, and slew those who would challenge me.

Marna has become little of a challenge anymore. All that is evil, all that is corrupt, all that is decay and death, all that is wrong on Marna, answers to me.

(Scribes Note: At this point I asked him why he hasn’t conquered Marna, or crushed it under his heel. Strangely enough He wasn’t angered by my interruption. He actually smiled. A chilling thing, I pray to never see again. His answer was "If I crush all of humanity to a powder under my heel, what will I have left to play with?" A chilling thought indeed.)

The reason I have allowed you to come and tell my tale is this:. I am leaving Marna. Not forever, Not entirely, but I am leaving. I have found a world called Sosaria. Oblivion has sent me there. Marna was simply a practice ground. There I will meet with many children of Oblivion, and we are to spread his word. I will spawn a child, and he shall rule my place on Marna in my leave. The beings of Sosaria art a thousand times more challenging than any found here. Once we have conquered Sosaria, the Word of Oblivion will wander the universe, seeking greater challenges, more powerful lands to corrupt.

So tell the people of Marna this: Rejoice! Relish the freedom they now have. For once I finish with Sosaria, I will return here, and my wrath will be like nothing they have ever dreamed. A living nightmare, that will never end.

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With that, he waved his hand, and I appeared at the edge of the Bog of Despair, not ten paces from where I entered. I quickly made my way back to Kensington and here, to my room at the Iron Dragon Inn. I shall spend the next few weeks transcribing my notes, and preparing this manuscript for you, Master Corinus. I have turned the lamp up. I do not know that I will ever be comfortable in darkness again. I pray that Dealthagar’s mission on Sosaria takes long. Or at least until I am not of this world any longer…

Humbly,

Your Servant;

Althus the Scribe
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The Three Truths of Singularity
Do something to the best of your abilty or don't do it at all
Feel to the fullest of your ability, cutting yourself off from your emotions leads to spiritual death
Control your being, your existance, your destiny.
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