| T O P I C R E V I E W |
| grithfang |
Posted - 08 Dec 2017 : 22:40:32
I had a player create a backstory that his family was controlled by a lich. So I wrote this story for him for Christmas.
CR 98
“I am tired Grandfather, why have I been summoned,” the old man whined. “I have served the family for over three hundred years, but the life extending magics are exhausted, and I am ready to die.”
The cold voice drifted across the ancient tower, “Three hundred years? Empires are laid low for the secrets that gave you those three hundred years, and yet you protest. Your family requires your services, and yet you protest. You disappoint me Archmage Terem yn Ujemi.” The creature, with a gesture, waved away the further titles.
The old man bowed his head in rebuke. “I am sorry for my insolence Grandfather, but my divinitions have revealed this to be the day of my death. I do not understand what I can do for you with so little time left.”
“Less than an hour to be precise.” If the mercurial creatures face held pity or compassion it did not show, though its gesture was one of paternal familiarity.
“I require one last obedience of you grandson of my grandson,” the lich said. “Candlekeep has turned away my agents. Olmur, the new Keeper of Tomes has decreed that seekers can stay no more than a ten day, and only the avowed now have direct access to the library. To fully preserve the revelations of Alaundo, he claims. I cannot abide being denied access. I need an agent in the library to conduct my research”.
“What of Candlekeep? Myth Drannor rises to greater heights ever day. Its libraries have long past eclipsed that of those odd monks and their chanting circles. I do not understand! I am to die today, how can I be of any further help to the family in this matter?” Terem asked.
"Mulhorand slain, Mystryl sacrificed, when even Gods fall what are the works of mortals. Narfell and Rauathar are ghostly echoes of the past. Those that are high will fall low, those that are low will become ascendant. Cities that do not yet exist will have high kings not yet born. We look not the past or even the present."
For a man at the end of his life, the past was all his mind could think of. His eyes followed the form of the creature his mother had brought him to almost two hundred ninety years ago, she had called him Grandfather also. He remembered the tears in her eyes, now long gone to the house of the dead. “For the family,” she had said leaving the crying youth behind.
Terem saw the lich pause on front of a table, on it was a book. The title read, “First Expedition to the Shadow Plane. Journal of Killium the Arcanist of Xinlenal”. Other objects the Archmage could easily identify as common in the enchantment of an item, other things, though his knowledge of magic was vast, were unfamiliar to him.
"Karsus's Folly cost me much," the once human creature said, his hollow voice ringing through the hall. "So much of my power was lost, it has taken years to recover. In truth, I have not and cannot ever return to the heights I once held. I have learned patience though, through my long years. It is a virtue you shall now have to learn as well."
"I am confused Grandfather. I do not," Terem started. As the lich turned he saw in its hand a ornate pendent, princely in its worth. Then he saw the Athame. "No! Grandfather".
Archmage Terem felt his muscles sieze, despite his considerable will and defences. The chants of the lich echoing in the workroom. He tried to focus on his years of arcane training and research, lost and forbidden knowledge he had gleaned from dusty and forgotten towers. All came to the same conclusion, there was nothing that could be done. The divinitions were correct, he would die this day.
"Less that a few moments left granson".
It seemed to Terem that he almost heard regret in the empty voice. If it existed it did not stop the inexorable arch of the ceremonial blade or the brief pain that followed.
"I shall keep your phylactery with me, protected from all harm," the creature stated in between chants. He lifted the book and placed it on the corpse of the old mage. Skeletal fingers clutched the cover and opened it, holding it deathly still as it brought an ivory pen inscribed with runes, it nib filled with a golden ink gleaming with its own inner light.
With death, the cold fingers of fear had released Terem. It surprised him to find oblivion did not follow. He was still aware. Although blinded, knowledge of his surroundings still filled his senses. Throwing out this awareness he watched the creature he called Grandfather work with calm precision, tirelessly anointing the edges of each page with tiny runes.
"No Terem, there is no peace in death for either of us, we shall continue to protect our family. For you, Candlekeep will be your home, protect it well. In the years to come when your shade rises in its defense you will be looked upon as a guardian of the walled library. They will think nothing of your ghostly form roaming its halls. They will tell themselves you were once of the avowed. All while you obtain for me the knowledge that I need. The tomes that others bring will enhance my knowledge. If Candlekeep falls, may hap you will end up in another useful library."
The spirit once known as the Archmage Terem continued to watch dispassionately as the lich he once called Grandfater patiently waited for the golden ink to dry and start again. It was over a hundred pages before the spirit realized the creature would press unduly hard on the nib pressing the ink deeply through the page. It took almost a thousand before the shade understood.
The inhuman thing that worked ever so patiently felt the spirits understanding, and was pleased. "Your phylactery holds your soul, while the book holds your spirit. As long as your soul is protected the book cannot be truly destroyed. It will always reform and call your spirit back. It is the only one of its kind, and Candlekeep will always desire you returned."
It continued to speak, uncharacteristically verbose, pleased with its own guile. "As long as you are in the library, I shall enter at my leisure. The monks will look at each page with care, the magics obvious even to a dullard. They will check each page carefully, first one side then the other, their study will be most thorough. The Avowed lack the wit to discern what I have hidden, for the magic circle I have created does not run along its pages, but through them. In as long as this hidden gate exists, with your awareness to draw me in, no ward now or in the future shall prevent my entry."
As the echo of his voice faded from the chamber the lich drew the final rune on the final page. The chant of many magics filled the air, some of the spells Terem recognized, non-detection, protection, and some he did not. As if to mark the end of his labors, the lich pressed his left skeletal hand onto the inside of the front cover, leaving a black claw print in the tome.
Finally, the lich called for his servants.
If the awareness that had been Syl-Vizer Terem yn Ujemi yn Sardikar el makhlab-dabab yi Memnon could be startled the sight of his former apprentice, a nephew, entering would have done so. There had been no sense of time, but the boy he had left was now aged and bent.
"Grandfather," He said, his wide with fear as he recieved his instructions and scurried out of the room.
Sardikar Makhlb-dabab, decended from the Djinn, and was called the talon in the mist by his enemies now long dead. Tahlaunmiiz was the name his decedents bore in Westgate, Talonmist in the Dalelands. He had shepherded the various branches around Faerûn, and watched from afar. It would be more than a thousand years before his plans would come to fruition. He was, as always, patient.
Mod edit: Relocated from the ethers.  |
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