Abad-Shai, Scion of the Black Flame, Scourge of the Ten Realms, the Dark Scholar, felt himself slowly pulling back together. Piece by piece, mote of essence by mote of essence, he gathered himself at the edge of the void between thought and form.
A former lord among lords, a once magnificent being, one of the fragments of the greatest entity to ever walk Reial, had been brought low. Ever so low. While he would have been too proud to whinge and whine before, Abad-Shai no longer bothered to mask his seething, impotent rage at his current state—that of a literal shadow barely tethered to his rotting corpse.
Oh, he had lofty ideas back then. He had it all planned out. After the great war stalled, he had a brilliant idea. He''d mask himself. He''d slowly infiltrate the court. He''d seduce some noblewomen, position himself in high society. He would slowly grow closer to the king and queen. He''d twist the queen away from her husband, planting treachery in her heart. He''d patiently whisper poisoned words into the king''s ear, convincing the soft-minded mortal to take action against his allies. Who, of course, would include the Hero, Dark One curse her name.
Of course she secretly wanted his throne, Abad would have said. Of course she had already made alliances with the faction of "dissident nobles," Abad would have claimed. Of course she was readying herself to strike, Abad would have insisted.
It would have been glorious.
While his loyal servants and dark siblings, if the various coalesced essences of a dead being who called himself "The Dark Lord" could even be called siblings, were busy fighting their "glorious" battles in the shit-covered plains, striking down peasants and their petty lords while making absolutely no ground against their common foe, he would have watched the hero''s head roll. He would have brought the king low. He would have executed the "dissidents" who orchestrated the king''s death. Then, he would have used his position to become the king, or at least he would have put the next king in the queen''s fertile belly, claiming her dead husband''s throne, her beautiful self, and the greatest of the ten kingdoms through his spawn.
Instead, he got a holy sword planted three feet into his sternum.
How could she see him? His illusions were perfect. His weaves were intricately designed to bypass all manner of magical protections, and he had personally unwoven the enchantments in the castle that posed him any possible risk. The question was vexing. He had turned it over in his mind countless times.
He also certainly hadn’t seen her coming. One moment, he was flirting with the queen in the castle''s courtyard after their most recent week-long tryst in the countryside, and the next moment—POW, sword. A few slices later, and he was only half of himself. Only a fortuitous protection spell and a last-resort ring of teleportation had prevented him from joining the ash-heap of history.
Not that it meant much. His vault called his broken body back home, and there he found himself bound to the little sarcophagus he had crafted on a whim as an apprentice. He had honestly forgotten about the old thing, buried under pounds and pounds of riches in the back of his vault. He remembered placing a giant''s axe on top of it, using the old thing as a makeshift display.
Once he found himself inside the stone coffin, the glowing runes illuminating his ashen skin, he was grateful that he hadn''t gotten rid of it to make more room for his collection. He was, however, upset at his past self for not making it larger. The stone walls brushed against his skin terribly whenever he tethered his soul back into his rotten body.
Adjustments for later, when he restored himself to his former glory.
Ah, his vault. The most decadent storage space for the most eclectic collection of art, treasure, and artifacts ever known to the seven races. Even his progenitor couldn''t claim a vault rivaling Abad''s own! It was his pride and joy... and now it was gone.
To think that he had heard voices outside of his sarcophagus. Lousy, filthy, disgusting voices cackling about the score they had found. His spirit bristled as he remembered the way they laughed. To think that mortals would dare enter his glorious vault. Day after day, they returned, stealing more and more of Abad''s precious belongings. They stole from the man who stole all that treasure!
The audacity.
Thinking on it, he vowed, for possibly the thousandth time, that somewhere, someday, he would find them. He would remember their voices. They''d been burned into his spirit like a branding iron on flesh. Ooohhh, then he''d make them laugh. Laugh and cry, and scream and—
He felt his spirit grow weary.
It didn’t matter now. What mattered was that he was here—rotting in his own vault like some lifeless corpse. Like a mortal. A mortal!
The thought sent a grimace through his still-forming jaw, and he willed his body to sigh, producing a dry, rattling sound that echoed through his tomb. The noise made him cough, which caused his arm to fall off. And not before the stone walls scraped his shoulders.
He grumbled and groaned before willing himself out of his body, back to the edge of the world between worlds.
There, he simmered, slowly slipping back into a dreamless slumber, a kind of restless nothingness that ebbed and flowed, caught in a place between worlds.
***
He woke up with a start.
His spirit was brought back to reality by a soft, metallic, impossibly irritating tapping noise.
As the haze slowly cleared from his mind, he realized he had been hearing the terrible noise every few minutes or so now for... a year? Time was fuzzy when you were a corpse. However, he knew it had been happening more and more frequently. He also remembered hearing those terrible voices again, not once but twice! Oh, he''d cook them alive.
He pulled himself into his rotten body for the first time in however long and immediately regretted it. The smell! Devils below, he would do anything to not smell that smell again. Slowly, he pushed some of his essence into his desiccated eyes and fluttered them open. He felt his left eyelid split apart as he did. His shoulders scraped the walls of his coffin as his corpse animated.
The space around him was as dark as ever, save for the softly glowing runes on the lid of his too-small tomb. Listening intently, he realized the sound must be the wind knocking some piece of metal against the outside of his sarcophagus.
Tink.
Tink.
Tink.
Tink.
The wind? His vault was underground. No, this was intentional. Someone must be digging.
The sound made his fangs itch. He hated it. He hated it so much. The rage and curiosity and self-loathing would kill him if he weren''t already dead.
His spirit roiling, he willed his mind out of his body and back into the world between worlds, hoping that whatever it was that was making that racket would most quickly rust away, or die, or de-animate, or get eaten by wolves, or...
***
It felt like an eternity had passed since he’d drifted back to his body.The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.
He realized the abominable noise finally had stopped at some point. Madness was barely staved off. His fangs no longer itched.
His spirit floated back into his corpse, more easily this time. Once he had settled comfortably into his body, he noted that the smell had at last diminished. He was certain all of his insides had dried out at some point in his long rest. He sighed. How long would he have to wait?
He willed himself back to sleep. Would he ever be whole again?
***
He was pulled back into his body this time. A loud rumble had shook the coffin, causing his shoulders to scrape for the thousandth time. Then, hours... days... weeks... however long later, it was as if someone had poured essence into his spirit. He felt more alive than he had in a very long time.
His simmering rage had quieted some time ago. He simply existed now.
He raised a hand to his face, feeling around with the stiff, almost mechanical movement of fingers unused to effort. His skin was thin and cold, bending with an unsettling tautness over sharp bones. His hands, once capable of conjuring storms and calling forth legions, felt tired from the effort. It wouldn''t be much longer now... He hoped...
***
He shifted in his sarcophagus, yawning.
He froze.
For the first time in a very long time, he felt it. Life. A heartbeat. He could move. His body felt… whole. He didn''t stink. He could feel his own muscles, the tension in his sinews. His skin was cold, but it wasn''t as cold as the stone around him.
There was life in him again!
After years of waiting, his form had recovered enough to contain his essence. His body could respond to his will once again.
A flicker of hope curled within him. He moved slowly, experimentally stretching each muscle, feeling the stiffness of limbs that had lain dormant for what he could only assume had been years. Decades even. His vision cleared as he opened his eyes to take in the faint, darkened interior of his sarcophagus for the thousandth time.
He felt weak, abysmally so. He was certain even a lowly zombie could have made quick work of him if he wasn’t careful, but one thing was clear: He. Was. Alive.
He surveyed the cold light emanating from the sigils carved into the underside of his sarcophagus. Each glowed in a variety of dull, dust-covered colors—each contributing to an intricate enchantment designed to preserve the sarcophagus''s contents. A spark of pride stirred within him, though even his pride felt weak, ghostly, like an echo.
He gave himself permission to smile for the first time since his unfortunate passing. Then he heard a noise.
He froze.
"Master, are you awake?"
Abad''s mind reeled. He knew that voice... Where had he heard it?
The voice came again, faint and muffled by the thick stone around him. “Master! Please answer me. I can feel something. Are you finally awake?” the voice repeated, insistent now, as though Abad’s silence was more alarming than it had been.
Abad felt his thoughts gather, like mist swirling into form. He recognized that voice. It was... someone. A servant?
Ah! It belonged to Angra, his familiar. He had summoned the diminutive imp as his familiar during his final testing. His mistress demanded perfection, and due to his own stubbornness, he had almost botched the ritual and lost his life. Thankfully, he succeeded. Ever since, the creature had been loyal and tireless and unflaggingly persistent in ways that Abad valued in his servants.
Abad hesitated before answering her, curiosity tugging at him to assess the state of his newly restored form. Reaching into his mind, he summoned the metaphysical scroll that contained his unique qualities. A gift from the goddess during the third age, when the humans were brought to this world to fight his mortal''s war with his sire, it didn''t take long for Abad''s kind to learn to access the Goddess''s potent magic.
"Goddess be praised." He sneered.
With a faint shimmer of dark magic, a translucent scroll formed and unfurled before his eyes:
<hr><hr>
Abad-Shai
Shadowspawn Elf Warlock of the Mask
Level IV
<hr>
Elf
??☆☆☆
<ol>
<li style="font-weight: 400">[Fey Senses] (Passive/Active, Reserve ?): Elves possess heightened perception, blending their superior physical senses with an innate connection to magic. You can see in the dark, hear acutely, and use mana to detect magic around you if you dedicate mana to this ability.</li>
<li style="font-weight: 400">[Locked]</li>
</ol>
<hr>
The Mask
???☆☆
<ol>
<li>[Illusion Magic] (Passive): You have the ability to weave subtle deceptions, clouding perception and bending reality to your will. You can learn spells that create illusions, deceive the senses, and manipulate perceptions of the world around you.
<ol>
<li style="font-weight: 400">[Mask of Many Faces] (2nd Circle, Active, Reserve ??): Due to being born under the sign of the Mask, you can dedicate a portion of your mana to change subtle elements of your appearance.</li>
</ol>
</li>
<li style="font-weight: 400">[Locked]</li>
<li style="font-weight: 400">[Locked]</li>
</ol>
<hr>
Shadowspawn
?????
<ol>
<li style="font-weight: 400">[Dark One''s Shadow] (Passive): As an inheritor of the Dark One’s essence, you are immortal and do not age past your prime. You also require less food, water, and air to survive, but you bear the marks of corruption upon your body.</li>
<li style="font-weight: 400">[Locked]</li>
<li style="font-weight: 400">[Locked]</li>
<li style="font-weight: 400">[Locked]</li>
<li style="font-weight: 400">[Locked]</li>
</ol>
<hr>
Warlock
????☆
<ol>
<li style="font-weight: 400">[Summoning] (Passive): You can call forth entities from other realms, who lend you their strength and skills. You can learn spells that summon, bind, and empower creatures and items to serve and protect you.
<ol>
<li style="font-weight: 400">[Familiar] (Active, Reserve ?): As a warlock, you have permanently dedicated a portion of your mana to summon and bond with a mythical creature that serves as your familiar.</li>
</ol>
</li>
<li style="font-weight: 400">[Locked]</li>
<li style="font-weight: 400">[Locked]</li>
<li style="font-weight: 400">[Locked]</li>
</ol>
<hr>
Enhancements
[Mana I] (Passive, Perk II): Increase your mana reserves by a small amount, allowing you to cast more spells.
[Potence I] (Passive, Perk IV): Increase the potency of your spells, increasing their range, power, and duration by a small amount.
[Presence I] (Passive, Enchantment): Increases your presence slightly, making you more noticeable and influential in social or leadership situations.
<hr>
Titles
<ul>
<li style="font-weight: 400">[None]</li>
</ul>
<hr>
Quests
<ul>
<li>[None]</li>
</ul>
<hr>
Equipment
<ul>
<li>[Rotten Clothes]: Tattered remnants of what was once finely crafted attire. These clothes are marred with age and decay, providing little in terms of protection or dignity. They emit a faint, unpleasant odor and are prone to tearing with the slightest movement, reminding you of your fall from power and the time spent dormant. The enchantments within these clothes have all but decayed, granting only [Charisma I].</li>
</ul>
<hr><hr>
Abad’s eyes narrowed as he read the top of the scroll. He often forgot that his birth mother was elven. He couldn''t remember much about her aside from her long golden hair. She mattered little in the grand scheme of things. The second his sire''s essence entered her spirit and poisoned the child inside her womb, her destiny was no longer her own.
Reading further, his lips curled into a sneer.
His form, once fearsome and beautiful and brimming with power, had withered into something nearly mortal. He had lost most of his talents and abilities, suggesting a fragility he was not used to. In fact, everything about him was diminished. His once-vast repertoire of magic was reduced. He could feel the absence of his knowledge, skills, and power without even looking at the character sheet, as if the parts of him that were missing were a faint echo that he could barely hear.
At the very least, he still had the ability to mask his appearance. He would need that ability being this weak. With a sigh, Abad closed the page, the weight of his diminished power hanging over him like a shroud.
“Yes, Angra,” Abad’s voice rasped, barely sounding like more than a whisper. It grated against his throat, unused for far too long. “I am awake.”
There was a sound of relief from outside the sarcophagus, which surprised Abad. He never deluded himself that his servants held much love for him. The compulsions guaranteeing her loyalty clearly were still intact after all this time.
"You''ve been in your vault for a very long time, master," the creature explained, then fell quiet for a moment before adding, "I feared you would never awaken."
The creature''s pitiful voice awoke something in Abad''s heart. A pang of something flickered through Abad’s chest. Empathy. Empathy had never been one of his virtues. Empathy. Mercy. Kindness. All useless. But the idea that his most loyal servant had been dutifully waiting for him made him pity the creature. He knew the creature''s feelings were nothing more than manifestations of the magics that bound her to him, but he couldn''t imagine waiting for anything as long as she had. She had been waiting years, maybe longer.
"I am here now. Please. Help me open the lid, my dear friend."