Arelith SPOOKTOBER creative writing contest! (Add your own Eldritch Patron???)

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Red Ropes
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Arelith SPOOKTOBER creative writing contest! (Add your own Eldritch Patron???)

Post by Red Ropes » Fri Sep 24, 2021 2:38 pm

SPOOKTOBER is soon upon us.

I recently did a massive update of the deity system and added a unique category for warlocks and occult classes; the Eldritch Patrons. DnD contains many concepts pulled from Lovecraft's works and has some less than well written parts that adjacent but not canon to Forgotten Realms so the category has been kind of small.

I do not want to bloat it with a lot of these vague or honestly uncreative ripoffs. What I thought might be more fun and interesting is engaging with YOU, the community, to help add a few additions in the category in a sort of contest and a creative writing exercise.



The Contest:

Write a short story that is no longer than what can fit within the span of one forum post (though if you go slightly over you can write up a google document or other website and link it). Relate the entity to the isle of Arelith and in some way connect it to history, an area, or an event. Some sort of "local lore" - you are allowed to use existing NPCs you think might be appropriate.

Suggestions are to have fun with it but be humble in the concept. A good example would be Bat Country's the Sequence.

In addition give any relevant information like names, titles and the aspects that'd be used in game (Hearth and Home, War and Destruction, Nature, etc).



Terms & Conditions:

I. It must be some sort of Lesser Fiend (Demon, Devil), Hag, Lesser Dark Fey, unspeakable entities lurking in the depths of the sea and other things a warlock might pact with or madmen might form cults around.

II. You must accept your story might not be chosen or your idea might be changed somewhat to adapt it to the server.

III. It can't be related to current characters, event, or other self-aggrandizing things.

IV. You can enter no more than two stories.

On October 31st the finalists will be chosen and potentially added to the category.

Post your stories here and have fun if you decide to participate!

If you have questions you can PM me.
🤡

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Re: Arelith SPOOKTOBER creative writing contest! (Add your own Eldritch Patron???)

Post by Party in the forest at midnight » Fri Sep 24, 2021 5:28 pm

"PLEASE, LET ME OUT"
You shout again. And like all the other times, the guards don't reply.
The heist wasn't supposed to go like this. You spent days scoping out that noble's house, figuring out when everyone came and went, and where the least travelled paths of that manor were. You can still hear that bitch Besheba laughing at you as you went through that secluded section of the west wing and came upon a watchman and a maid having an affair of all things.


"I WILL DO ANYTHING."
You scream in vain. Did they just leave you here to die? There are no windows, you have no idea how long you've been locked in here, or how long since you last saw them.

"I'm better than this. I don't deserve to die like this."
You say to yourself, sitting on the floor of the cell. This isn't how you're going to die. This isn't.

Fire crackles somewhere else in the room, unearthly sounds of screaming that are snuffed out as a light flashes and then fades away. You scramble to your feet and get to the front of the cell to look around, the smell of sulphur surrounding you. You see nothing at first, until dim torchlight catches a short figure moving. Batlike wings expanding, it flies up to be eye level with you.

"Salutations, prisoner. Your words have been heard and my master is willing to free you and have you transported far away from here. Just sign right here." It said, a scroll appearing in its hands in a puff of smoke, filled with glowing red text. The creature twists the ends of the scroll, hurrying to the end as fast as it can. You try to read as it rolls through it, catching bits and pieces of sentences as paragraphs appear and disappear. And finally it stops at a place with two lines. A place to sign, and another name. Kalthaphor.

"I can go through it later, but you should sign now so we can get you out of here. If they catch me here they're going to station guards and I won't be able to get you out later." The creature says as you try to read the visible paragraphs.

All you can glean is you are signing your soul away. But if you're going to die anyways, does it matter? Mask isn't the one here getting you out. You take the pen from the creature - It is uncomfortably warm to the touch - And you sign, glowing ink leaving flaming trails as you write, thin lines of smoke rising up as your name is seared onto the parchment.


***

Kalthaphor is a Paeliryon that supports cults of criminals in the realms. Unlike most devils, Kalthaphor puts great value on gold and material wealth, residing in Minauros. This gives it an edge when dealing with greedy criminals. What it wants is very tangible.

New cultists usually do not know the extent of what they are getting into when they sign. But the idea of promotion is presented as a tangible thing, that mortals can successfully work and their standing in Hell will be above other mortals when they die. So cultists are inclined to try and recruit more people and bring more souls in, as well as make offerings of gold and wealth to their patron. Ritual sacrifice involves sending gold, gems, and valuable objects to Kalthaphor. There is no such thing as being too wealthy, for a cultist believes they can buy their way ahead of others.

Cultists seek out vulnerable people who have nothing to lose, using imps to get into hard to reach places like jail cells. Or offering sums of gold and equipment up front to people who sign their soul away, making it a fast way to get ahead in life for people who have nothing.

While a warlock patron, thieves and the underbelly of society may also worship it and participate in the cult. Worshipper alignments LE or NE.

It would be cool if rogues or other classes could worship it, but not support divine classes. So warlocks could lead cults.

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Re: Arelith SPOOKTOBER creative writing contest! (Add your own Eldritch Patron???)

Post by Mini_Goblet » Fri Sep 24, 2021 9:10 pm

It has been said, many a time before, in voiceless words spoken by none in particular-
That when described, when restrained by the confines of language, The memory of a locale may become-- Warped. Changed. Lost. For by affixing the endless complexity of a city or village onto a simple set of words, one is, in a sense, undoing said depth. Unravelling at the very ethos of what once was, and burning away at the infinite edges of perspective. To describe something is, in essence, to rob it of itself. A crime without peer, in magnitude and savagery.

There it stands, beneath the underdark, beneath the Deep Wells, and beneath all that is beneath. The oldest settlement. An indescribable form, shaped by an endless stream of appendages from an endless stream of creatures from an endless stream of worlds. Slaves, to the shapeless mortar and impossible halls. Some are chosen. Custodians, given shackled freedom, and spat whence they came to carve doorways back home.

A Godless city, for there were no Gods to speak of, and no humanoids to grovel and worship when it was first birthed. Nameless, described and spoken and mauled by untold words for uncountable millennia and plunged into endless darkness, it is an infinite sprawl of meaningless, furious architecture.

The First City.
Power Level: Planar Power
Symbol: A Door
Alignment: Lawful Evil
Portfolio: Subjugation, Entrapment, architecture
Worshipers: Explorers, Travellers, Enslaved sentients, Seekers of forbidden knowledge
Domains: Time, Space, Metal and Stone
Arelith worshippers’ alignments: LN, TN, CN, LE, NE, CE

***
Many thanks to Hadals (Drad An'ash) for helping me flesh this concept out!
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Re: Arelith SPOOKTOBER creative writing contest! (Add your own Eldritch Patron???)

Post by La Villa Strangiato » Fri Sep 24, 2021 9:21 pm

Your hands shake. They've always shaken. Your heart races at the eyes of another upon you, your voice has always come out soft and shivery. Pressure from your work, your family, your everything, threatens to make you weep. You hate your weakness. But that self-hatred hasn't stopped you from secluding yourself in your room, trying desperately with breathing techniques and heavy blankets to calm your ever-racing heart.

You just want to be strong.

----

You're angry. You've always been angry. Or you're riding a high you have no idea of the origins of, feeling compelled to do something wonderful and reckless-- and after it ends you are sunk in the deepest depths of apathetic despair. Your emotions, you've always felt, aren't your own. Your family seems to think so too, but they don't seem to comprehend your actions aren't fully in your control, you don't want to hurt anyone-- but you just can't stop it.

You just want to be calm.

----

You hear things. Voices murmur to you both strange and horrid impulses, words of advice, repeat your own stream of consciousness, or just talk. You aren't scared; you've lived like this for a very long time. After realizing that the voices are simply an extension of your overactive mind, you know to be content with them. Sometimes, you even talk back. Sometimes, people notice that you talk back. Sometimes, people point, stare, mock, jeer-- or chase. Or attack.

You just want to be safe.

----

I CAN FIX IT.

----

Your hands are perfectly still. You meet every glance with your own gaze. Your voice is full and clear. You have new work. Your family marvels at the change. You do not weep. You are strong.

All she asks is tribute. From an animal, from your brother. It does not matter. It is a symbiotic exchange-- she needs blood, and you need her influence.

----

You're not angry. You're not manic. You're not despairing. In fact, you are perfectly calm. You walk among crowds, and you whisper; wouldn't it be nice to feel perfect, unending contentment?

This is your service to him. There are others out there who have never known his caress. He calls upon you to bring in others like yourself, those with sad eyes and wandering minds. Soon all will know his grace unto them.

----

You still hear things. The voices have never left, but its voice lingers there also, and its voice is the strongest. It whispers words of power that you repeat aloud, and when you do destruction follows. Fluxes of magic shatter bone and spew blood, grasping hands choke life away, and when your lynch mob died screaming, you called out in praise of it.

You are safe, at last.

---

LAKZIAN
Prince of the Dreaming Deep, She Who Shepherds the Mad

Power Level: Planar Power
Symbol: A pair of wide, bloodshot eyes
Alignment: Chaotic Evil
Worshipers: The downtrodden ill and disabled, social rejects
Aspects: War and Destruction, Trickery and Deceit
Worshiper alignments: CE, NE

Lakzian is a particularly powerful loumara; an incorporeal inhabitant of the Abyss given to possessing objects or people and using them as vehicles for their malevolence. Unlike its more singularly-focused brethren, Lakzian has more long-ranging plans. Its targets are often the mentally ill or disabled, or otherwise those who have struggled with fitting into conventional society. Offering to stabilize their ills should they only serve it, Lakzian is thusly permitted a degree of control over the minds of its pacted. In exchange for such "services", the pacted must do Lakzian's will-- seeding subtle chaos and setting up the dominoes for destruction wherever they go.

(Note: Despite its self-given title, Lakzian is not actually a demon prince of loumara. They're arrogant that way.)

(is this where i pull out my "hey i have the mentally disableds" card)
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Re: Arelith SPOOKTOBER creative writing contest! (Add your own Eldritch Patron???)

Post by GrazalThruka » Fri Sep 24, 2021 9:54 pm

A prickle on the back of your neck. The distinct feeling that you're not alone. Shapes out of the corner of your eye. Everyone knows these feelings. Many dismiss it as tricks of the light, the wind, or signs of an overactive imagination.

They're wrong.

Absence's true name is long forgotten. Some claim it was a mortal assassin of great talent. Others a shade grown too large for even the gods to contain or a construct borne from the collective fear of the living.

Whatever it was, it exists and doesn't at the same time. It can be felt, but never seen or heard. Even divination magic can't detect or reveal it.

Occasionally, it chooses to make contact with a mortal. Such creatures can never recall the exact details of what happened, but they have a vague sense of their new patron's desires and gifts. Blessed (or perhaps cursed) with a small portion of their master's power, they find themselves harder and harder to detect or recall, until not even they can remember who they are.

===================================================

Absence
Power Level: Planar Power
Symbol: None
Alignment: Neutral Evil
Portfolio: Hidden Things, Fear, Paranoia
Worshippers: Assassins, Thieves, Unscrupulous Royal Advisors, Shadowdancers
Domains: Darkness, Illusion, Evil, Trickery
Arelith worshippers' alignments: LE, NE, CE
And on the 8th day, God created the gnomes, because he figured that everyone had it too good as it was.

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Re: Arelith SPOOKTOBER creative writing contest! (Add your own Eldritch Patron???)

Post by RustingWithYou » Fri Sep 24, 2021 10:27 pm

Once upon a time, there lived a gambler.

Perhaps he lived in a nation that had been forgotten by the time the Netherese lifted up their floating cities. Perhaps he was a human, or an elf, or a dwarf. Perhaps he was none of these things. All that needs to be known is that he could not resist a wager, and that he rarely ever lost.

He never stayed in one place too long - when you win too much, people are not kind to you. But he was lucky in all things, and he always made it away just in time. Except, as is always the way with gamblers, when it truly counted.

He had beaten a man in a game of dice. The rules of the game are forgotten now, but it was played with carved chunks of bone, taken from some great leviathan that had died before humankind ever breathed the air of Toril.

The man became angry. And so, as our gambler left his house of ill repute, he found a knife in his ribs, and a black-shrouded specter standing over him.

Some would call this Jergal, or Kelemvor, or some demon of death. But this is a story from long, long ago, before the gods as you know them today had taken form. All that is needed to understand this story is that Death stood before him.

As he laid there, struggling to breathe as blood filled his lungs and he drowned on dry land, the specter spoke.

"Wᴏᴜʟᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴀʀᴇ ғᴏʀ ᴀ ɢᴀᴍᴇ?"

He couldn't speak. All that came out was a vile gurgling noise, and blood dripping down his chin. But he thought, as his life drifted away from him, What are the stakes?

"Iғ ʏᴏᴜ ʟᴏsᴇ, " the shadow said, "I sʜᴀʟʟ ᴛᴀᴋᴇ ʏᴏᴜʀ sᴏᴜʟ ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ɪᴛ ʙᴇʟᴏɴɢs."

And if I win?

"Yᴏᴜ sʜᴀʟʟ ɴᴏᴛ ᴅɪᴇ"

The gambler gave a weak nod, and Death took out a set of bone-carved dice.

If you were to ask him, he could not tell you how long the game went on. Perhaps it was over in the first throw. Perhaps it took days, or weeks, or years. Perhaps it never began at all, and this is the fantasy of a man desperate for hope in his last seconds.

All that you, dear friend, need to know is this. Our gambler's luck held true, and it all came down to the final throw. So in his last and desperate seconds, with fingers still as nimble as ever, he cheated. The dice in his hand switched for the one in his sleeve - one carefully weighted to give him what he needed. Coin, wine, women - and tonight, his very soul.

And as the dice landed, Death took them back into its robe and nodded once. An admission of defeat, as it turned away.

Still struggling to rise as the blood filled his lungs, the gambler stretched out his hand, pleading for the shadow to come back.

What are you doing?, he thought to the creature, as he felt the terror of his last moments seize him once more. I won! Where are you going?

"Yᴏᴜ ᴅɪᴅ. Cᴏɴɢʀᴀᴛᴜʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴs."

Curse you! You said that I would live!

"Nᴏ, " said the shadow, as it walked away. "I ᴅɪᴅɴ'ᴛ."


The gambler lay there for hours. Or days, perhaps. Still feeling his blood filling his lungs and spilling out onto the cobblestones. Still feeling his death a hair's breadth away - yet never reaching him.

And so eventually, he got to his feet and walked.

He has walked through the rise and fall of empires. Through the death and birth of gods. And all the while, as the shadow promised, he has not died.

No wound dealt him has healed over the millennia. That first knife-wound still bleeds, even though all blood should be gone by now. The side of his skull has been caved in from a bad fall. Most of his bones are broken, and they will never be repaired.

He has stopped walking, now. It was no longer feasible. The bones in his legs were too fragmented, and the jagged spears would simply tear through his flesh when he tried to stand.

So now the gambler lies in a cave. Blood pumps from a heart that should not beat. Ragged and agonised breath comes from lungs that should no breathe.

He has learned much. He has forgotten more. And should you find his final resting place, he will give you an offer.

You will find out how to kill him, and he will show you all that he has learned. He will grant you power, and you will grant him peace.

Untold thousands have made this deal. None have succeeded. Their bones fill his tomb.

Perhaps you will be different. It does not matter, in the end, to him. But at the very least, a new servant is a distraction from the pain that never ceases and the wounds that never heal.

The Gambler of Bones waits in his tomb. He will wait until the sun goes out.


THE GAMBLER OF BONES
Power level: Planar Power
Symbol: A pair of dice, gripped in a withered hand.
Alignment: Neutral Evil
Portfolio: Death, fate, torture
Worshippers: Necromancers, historians, seekers of immortality
Domains: Death, Undeath, Time, Madness
Arelith Worshippers' Alignments: LN, TN, CN, LN, NE, CE
Warlock Pact: Undying
Characters:

Lorenda Gald Wandering the Outlands
Jek Shadowclaw
Vel'zinnia Athol In a land where the sun does not burn
Tarok Thrice-Drowned

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Re: Arelith SPOOKTOBER creative writing contest! (Add your own Eldritch Patron???)

Post by Echohawk » Fri Sep 24, 2021 11:03 pm

Quietly, forgotten largely, he toils.
The elderly man working on the various star maps and continued shifting planetary paths in the sequestered depths of the hub is hardly worth notice, even as the office of the Hubmaster insists that his work continue.

At times when he was fortunate, he could collaborate with one of the more open minded students of the arcane tower that had a far more ease of view of the sky. It had been an interesting year, having found a number of blinking stars. Some might vanish for a day, a month, only to reappear.

Noting each of these veils and emergences he made a series of marks, lines for days, and dots for months. And with years now of observation, the only conclusion so far was that certain starlight would fade away, and those nearby it seemed to blink with quickening succession. An impossible thing, surely as their own stars nearby remained unblinking, and unending.

In a moment he was watching, not the maps and visualized models constructed with their combined observations.

In another, he looked upon somehow himself.

This drifting surreal, swimming and flailing I could not gain purchase against the phenomenon I was experiencing. Was it death, was I dying?

I could only close my eyes in the end, the ache of two lids shut as hard as I could manage, hoping not to be swallowed up by the countless agitated outsider entities continually parading through the hub walkways and districts.

It grew cold, colder than it should be possible to feel. Surely I am dead.
Crestfallen though I knew this change had to be met with witness, be it a trick or inevitable fate. But as the eyes pried back open, a strange and unrecognizable set of worlds was before me. Moving was impossible, as if I were one of the listless drifting worlds that I looked upon now.

A glorious white star turns bathing me in its glow, it is the only warmth I feel. I welcome it, I relish it, and gasp hard.

Yet in that breath something else comes, skittering in a thousand pieces like a cloud, only to reform at the edge of my vision. One of the worlds it appears next to has a blackened mist of a human hand claw onto it, and subsequently the world seems to start to crack as if were a mere eggshell trying to bear the weight of a man.

In a moment it takes a lengthy body, writhing towards the next constellation with impossible speed and twisted movements, before plotting into an immense ten winged dragon with a gaping point where the heat of a star is drawn into the void and blackness, lost forever.

Unleashing a scream that required no breath, only vibration to understand, this being, this thing was not done at all. Three arms it took to cling to the now lightless planetoids and floating asteroids. The three lights, the eyes if I dare call them that, scan as a hunter contemplating their next prey.

In a breath his heart stopped, the three bright lights turn,

It saw me.

Voidmaw the Star-Eater
Power Level: Planar Power
Symbol: Three white stars, one black star
Alignment: Evil
Portfolio: Hunger, Despair, Darkness
Worshippers: The power-hungry, the powerless, mourners, the lost
Domains: Darkness, Cold, Death, Destruction, Evil, Travel
Arelith worshippers' alignments: LE, NE, CE

On the perspective of a mortal looking skyward at the uncountable beyond, the entity is too far away, either too massive or shifting to fully visualize. Ultimately the form is not important, but primal need of all beings to consume to survive is manifested on a cosmic scale.

With its distance, its influence is minimal, but the small familiar connection of hunger allows a fraction of power to be loaned in the short spans of time that mortal races possess. The only acknowledgement it offers in return is an enhancement of that same hungering-want, though it can manifest in any form, some examples being ambition or caloric satiation.

It is uncertain whether or not its worshippers and the cults that form in awe of it want to draw it closer or conversely have it go elsewhere. Apocalypse or savior.

(Author's note(s): The idea was to give star warlocks a sort of patron without taking away the intended mystery of the star pacts.)
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Re: Arelith SPOOKTOBER creative writing contest! (Add your own Eldritch Patron???)

Post by Edens_Fall » Fri Sep 24, 2021 11:58 pm

With a flash of power, the ritual was complete. Dark, nameless servants of a jealous Goddess gathered around a magical inferno as the first raindrops began to fall. Where the tainted water touched, the living died to return in unnatural life as a shade. The Skull Craigs suffered under Sharran plots as the soil was tainted.

But that was an unimportant thing.

For in Sibayad, within the Kings Valley of endless sand, just as the spell of epic magic ignited, a dozen rotting heads turned to gaze with soulless eyes upon the barren ground.

A single black rose bloomed and wilted in the span of a child's breath.

A new power was born with the silence of a grave.



__________________________________________________

Nyxteria
The Corpse Princess, Pale Death

Power Level:
Symbol: Withered Rose
Alignment: Evil
Portfolio: Negative Energy, Undeath
Worshipers: Necromancers, Pale Masters, Vampires, Undead, Mortals fearful of Death
Domains: Undeath, Evil, Cold
Arelith Worshiper Alignments: LE, CE, NE
Arelith Aspect 1: War & Death
Arelith Aspect 2: Magic

For years the lands of Arelith have been inundated with the Negative energies of undeath. Countless rituals of vile intent performed atop concentrations of great magic, mages of shadow binding the dead to service for bloodshed, and untold numbers of minor lichs hidden throughout the isle's many dungeons. The blight of undeath drowns the lands of Arelith with its corruption from sand-swept tombs to city crypt.

Nyxteria is the embodiment of undeath and its propagation. Beget from the concentrated Negative Energy saturating Arelith; her birth provoked by the Sharran's modified "Bonfire of Insanity" ritual held near the Skull Craig Weatherstone. The Corpse Princess desires only to create and spread undeath to the willing and unwilling alike.

DOGMA

"She is the beauty found in the pale flesh of a corpse. The wisdom heard in the last breath of Life. The secret kept by unmoving lips."


((Idea is a power for the Undying to Pact with, perhaps even a power for Undead PC's "Vampires" to follow as well))
Last edited by Edens_Fall on Sun Sep 26, 2021 9:53 pm, edited 2 times in total.

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Re: Arelith SPOOKTOBER creative writing contest! (Add your own Eldritch Patron???)

Post by Mattamue » Sat Sep 25, 2021 12:37 am

Slowly, predictably, the momentum of the spinning coin falters. Tymora's smiling face starts to resolve as the spinning coin morphs from the visual illusion of a silvery ball into a more recognizable coin. Thio put a particularly good spin on the coin this time. The spin imparted all the force into the coin's rotation without much energy being wasted on tossing the coin around the wide dirty wooden railing.

Thio's face has a placid look as he follows the coin's movement over the minor imperfections and wood grain. The coin slows further and settles into a familiar final edge-rolling motion. The characteristic sound of the coin against the wood rings out in the empty square, and stops.

Delaney and Thio are waiting in a guard station at the entrance to the Cordor square. Their night-shift was supposed to end hours ago, but their replacements haven't shown. This isn't the first time they've been stuck in the station until dawn. Delaney shifts and reaches out with both hands to lean against the railing around the guard station, trying to find some relief for his aching back. A twinge of annoyance pulls down at the corners of Delaney's mouth as Thio moves to pick up the coin and spin it again.

"Knock it off," Delaney says with an edge to his voice. Thio doesn't respond as he balances the coin again, and prepares to spin. Tymora's smile looks out to Delaney just before Thio flicks the coin into motion. This time, Tymora's smile has a mocking slant just before disappearing into the whirl of the coin.

The flick is wild and sends the coin skipping across the railing towards Delaney. The dull strike of the metal coin against the hollow wooden rail is innocent, but the sound is maddening to Delaney; all the annoyances of the night are beginning to add up. An impulse takes hold of Delaney, shooting down his arm, and he slams his hand down on the coin. Speaking more forcefully this time, Delaney says, "I said, knock it off."

Thio is tired, too. Tired of waiting for his shift replacement. Tired of being told what to do. Tired of standing around with stick-in-the-mud Delaney all night. When Thio looks over at Delaney he sees the frustration in Delaney's face. Thio knows that he's struck a nerve. "Finally", Thio thinks to himself, "something to do." A mocking half-smile forms on Thio's face.

Off in a shadowy corner of the square, a black entity takes shape, swirling out of the night. The same mocking grin is on the figure's almost-human face. Thio and Delaney don't notice as the figure forms a shadowy arm and reaches out into empty space, as if to rest a coin on a railing. Thio follows the movement a moment later, pulling a coin out of his pocket to rest it on the rail. Thio leans over with the coin poised under his finger, ready for a spin, and watches Daleny, looking for a reaction. Thio's grin grows wider as Delaney's brow knits down in anger. Thio sends the new coin spinning with a flick.

Delaney feels an impulse of action jolt his body, stronger now. What feels like a fiery arc of electricity grows in intensity from Delaney's spine, up his neck, and down his shoulder and arm into his hand. Delaney clenches his hand around the coin he had slapped before, the metal edges of the coin bite into the inside of his fist. In the shadowy corner, the figure's shape changes and it strikes out with an exaggerated right hook.

The impulse grips at Delaney and he fights it for a moment, but quickly gives in. Delaney swings a wild haymaker at Thio and connects squarely with Thio's stupidly grinning face. Thio falls back and cracks his head against the guard station floor, the hollow wooden sound echoes out in the empty square. The sound doesn't bother Delaney this time. "Gods that felt good," Delaney breathes out in relief.

Delaney feels his grip loosen and glances down at the coin in his hand. Instead of Tymora, the entity's deformed face is shaped into the metal. The entity grins out at Delaney and Delaney smiles back. Delaney tucks the coin into his pocket as he steps over Thio's motionless form on his way out of the guard station.

Strangely, Delaney doesn't feel frustrated or tired anymore. A song worms its way into Delaney's head and he starts to whistle quietly as he wanders out of the square. Another impulse pulls at Delaney's arm and he obliges, pulling the coin back out. Delaney flips the coin up and catches it in a jaunty manner as he steps out into the dim light of the rising sun.


---

Arsus

Power Level: Lesser malevolence
Symbol: Pupil-less eyes and a taunting grin on black
Alignment: Chaotic evil
Portfolio: Petty impulses, excuses, deadly bar fights, releasing control
Worshipers: Politicians, Addicts, Public servants
Domains: Community, Hatred, Vengeance
Arelith worshippers' alignments: NE, CE, CN

Worshippers

Arsus does not have a clergy or temple of worship. Prayers to Arsus are heard when frustration boils over and the individual wishes to overreact. In this moment, Arsus will silp in and encourage an impulse. If the individual gives up control, Arsus will help them remove their frustration and take away their pain by taking over to help the individual complete their impulse. Often, the frustration is removed with violent or decisive action, but it is always impulsive. As an individual falls under Arsus' sway they give up more control and lower Arsus' threshold to activate their temper.

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Re: Arelith SPOOKTOBER creative writing contest! (Add your own Eldritch Patron???)

Post by DM Starfish » Sat Sep 25, 2021 5:42 am

I have two to submit.
The second still needs a bit of fleshing out but it's a solid concept!

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Coil, The Un-Star, The Light-Crowned-Dark

Power Level: Planar Power

Symbol: A horizontal filled figure eight

Alignment: Lawful Neutral

Portfolio: Desire, stellar death, gravity

Worshipers: Astronomers, hoarders, gluttons, lovers

Domains: Hearth & Home, War & Destruction

Never able to be observed directly, this enigmatic knot of celestial darkness is surrounded by a perpetual halo of light. When the willing Initiated gaze too long upon her, they become convinced that something slithers and coils within the darkness of her core. They feel an intense yearning to be drawn in, to be part of something greater and often experience dreams of endless falling. Observations of this stellar phenomenon have been recorded for many thousands of years and have often been repeatedly lost and rediscovered.

Astronomers have noted that stars and other distant celestial bodies have been drawn into her, never to be seen again. Those same people are often dismissed as insane years later and are heard muttering such things as "Coil loves us all, it is only a matter of time", "To be one is to be whole", "Her face is shadowed but her brow is radiant", "What has passed will come to pass" and "Her desire is inevitable". They are convinced that one day in the far future the world will be within her grasp and they could not be more ready.

The entity known as Coil is embodied in the inevitable pull of gravity, the inescapable yearning that even stars cannot escape. She is desire on a scale too terrible to comprehend. Not even light can escape her crushing embrace. As she grows, so too does the shadow of her influence and so too does her unwavering love. As she accretes ever more mass her outline becomes increasingly radiant and her core grows ever darker.

##############################################################################################

The Fault

Power Level: Planar Power

Symbol: Two right angles facing left and right, the vertical axis pointing down

Alignment: Neutral Evil

Portfolio: Travel, oceans, thalassophobia

Worshipers: Divers, explorers, evil sea creatures

Domains: Magic, Trickery & Deceit

Worshipper Alignment: CN, LN, CE, NE, LE

Known universally as The Fault, this ominous occurrence appears intelligently attracted to various conditions that it favours. When strange currents roil and when deep things stir. When the light fades as you descend into the thalassic depths and when the fear of never returning sets in. When these things occur The Fault may manifest. Appearing as impossibly deep cracks of sharpened basalt, etched with tantalizingly familiar runes and just wide enough to slip through, it is often accompanied by perilous undertow which drags the unwary to an unfortunate fate. Those lucky few who manage to resist the hungry currents find themselves changed in some manner, deep within themselves. They are plagued by dreams of ocean depths, ominous chanting in tongues not meant for the mortal minds and the same almost familiar runes carved upon living rock. Worst of all is that the dreams eventually begin to make sense.

It is said to have first appeared on the bottom of the Plane of Water but true scholars of the planes and their workings know that the Plane of Water continues ever down. Those that get sucked into manifestations of The Fault often find themselves in the oceans of Stygia or in one of the many oceanic layers of the Abyss where they are quickly set upon by the denizens therein.
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Re: Arelith SPOOKTOBER creative writing contest! (Add your own Eldritch Patron???)

Post by Vespidae » Sat Sep 25, 2021 10:45 am

(My first. A second may follow)

Sothraspende, the Guardian Eye
______________________________________________________________________________________________

"Life, death. Good, evil. Gods, planars. They are corrupt things that were never meant to be.
The blackness between the stars is the barrier that They use to protect the Blessed Realms from the taint of Reality.
Guardian Eye, Exalted Determinist, SHE who sees all taint, look upon our works.
We will unmake the cycle of life and death.
We will unravel the spiral of good and evil.
We will topple the gyre of the planes."

As the demagogue finished her sermon, the hooded figures turned their gaze to the stars. There were no clouds this night, and the hills were bathed in a soft astral glow.

She looked over the gathered. The hooded robes of the acolytes revealed nothing, their faces hidden. She didn't want to know their identities, only that they understood the simple truth: they were part of a reality that should not be.

"Beneath the sidereal firmament we gather, here to provide the Guardian Eye with knowledge. Who has brought the seeking-star wisdom today?"

A figure, hooded like all the others, edged forward and placed a book in the hands of the demagogue.
"I believe, ah, this may be of interest, Speaker."

She opened the book that had been given to her, and the smile on her face was hidden to all, just as theirs were to her. After a few moments reading, she lifted her neck slightly so the stars were just visible below the brow of her cowl.

"Sothraspende! We offer knowledge of unmaking! Hear this!"

The acolytes peered upward. If one of the stars really was watching them, they weren't sure which one.

The demagogue began to read aloud from the book.
"Rifts. Interview with Amadeo Pneuma.

"It may be best that I start from the beginning. I'll attempt to consolidate my telling into more manageable sections. It would be a lengthy narration otherwise. To begin, the cause of the crisis, in truth, the rifts began as a confluence of events..."

______________________________________________________________________________________________

Sothraspende, the Guardian Eye
Power Level: Planar Power
Symbol: An eye within a five pointed star, within a thick black circle
Alignment: Lawful Evil
Portfolio: Cleansing, Revelation, Self-annihilation
Worshippers: Astrologers, Loreseekers, Gibberlings
Domains: Knowledge, Destruction, Darkness, Evil
Arelith Domains: Knowledge and Invention, War and Destruction
Worshipper alignments: LE, NE

Her cultists claim she is the Daughter of the darkness beyond the stars. That darkness, they also claim, is a barrier that prevents the "taint" of the planes from escaping into the "purity" of the Far Realm. The purpose given to Sothraspende, the "daughter", is to seek out ways to cleanse sources of taint before they threaten the sanctity of that Purity.

They claim she is a star, though her true form is unknowable. Some say she drifts through the astral sea, others that she is stationary but her gaze wanders across all worlds, and into the minds of mortals. Those who heed the revelations bestowed upon them come to believe that the whole cosmos, and gods and death and life and undeath must slowly be purged so that all can ascend to a true place of transcendence beyond the Barrier.

Seeking ways to undo reality is not easy of course, since the horrors of the Far Realm are kept at bay by the Gods. So her cultists seek to undermine all faiths, slowly but surely. They seek the killing of gods as a great step towards the overall goal. Cults began to appear during the Time of Troubles across Faerun, but achieved little impetus and most that didn't dissipate were wiped out. Despite their obvious delusion, her adherents often believed genuinely that they were doing the right thing - that they were doing a terrible but necessary task that was for the benefit of all creation.

Since the rift crisis on Arelith, the gaze of Sothraspende has fallen upon that isle. Her few remaining cultists have turned their gaze that way also. Could that incident provide the denizens of the Far Realm with a way to undo the whole Cosmic Wheel once and for all?
Playing: Tal

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Re: Arelith SPOOKTOBER creative writing contest! (Add your own Eldritch Patron???)

Post by DM Snowcat » Sat Sep 25, 2021 11:44 pm

Glowing lights and the being of mystery, when faced with mortals curiousity.
When many came to ask the creature who they are, they never quite had an answer. a being long forgotten, unknown to even themselves, they gave out only a vague title of a name.

"My true name long forgotten by myself, but you can call me", her voice came a jumbled mess in my head at that point. I know she spoke, but what was said just escapes me every time I try to go back on it.

But she spoke of being able to reach the state of life when you're beyond mortals. When time and death doesn't concern you anymore. But the route had it's cost. A terrible, long-standing costs. It's clear if you looked at her - lost so much to become .. That.
I finally dared to ask her; what is it you can do to become immortal?

Answer, was to revel in the madness that lies beyond time.

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'The Lady'
The Eternal One, The One That Lurks Beyond Time, Walker of Worlds

Power Level: Planar Power
Symbol: Cracked hourglass
Alignment: Neutral Evil (Allegedly)
Portfolio: Mysteries, Time, Ending of Things
Worshippers: Immortal Beings, Immortality Seekers, Madmen, Chronomancers, Doomsday Cultists, Warlocks
Arelith Worshiper Alignments: LN, TN, CN, LE, NE, CE
Aspects: Magic + Trickery & Deception
Pacts: Star / Undying

Immortality has for so long been something that many adventurers have wanted to seek out. Few might have succeeded, and many have gone mad on either their attempts to reach immortality, or after living further than you were meant to, seeing everyone you loved wither and die.
The Lady embodies what it is to exist outside the boundary of passage of time, being something from beyond this realm where the concept of aging doesn't exist. Concept of death has become futile, as you have achieved the perfection.

Existing in the dark unknown, The Lady is known to be willing to lend her power to mortals who are willing to gaze to the madness that will be the end - many that have received power from her, have received cryptic dream-like sequences of the death, withering and destruction of all things, that will come in the end of all time.
"The lady gave me eyes to see what is to come to all, all that dwell in the bounds of mortality. When it all withers, only she will remain with us. It will be our final ascension"
- 'Lucid', cultist of the Eternal.

Many of her cultists adapt a new name in respect to her, as the true name of the Lady has been long forgotten. Many have gone under symbolic rituals to forget their name, which they believe is the first of many things that tie them to be equal to other mortals, and should be the beginning of their becoming journey.

It is unclear if the Lady is truly a feminine being, or if she is just undead star, that had it's first cultist title it into the feminine form.

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Author's Note; the Lady is enigma shrouded in mystery, catered towards Star and Undying pacted warlocks. While giving her the aspect of undying and undeath, it's mostly catered towards those who may believe that through undeath a true eternal life can be achieved or similar. Main aspect was to create a patron that would be very logical for dual-pacts too, or one that can give different pacts to different people. And because my own fascination with time, passage of time and beings that might not be affected by that - thus, the Lady was born.
"Just want to remind everyone when talking about anything involving DM workload as if it's an easy thing, we have 153 players per dm." - Garrbear
[When Arelith goes down, only one Hero remains] Artistic Rendition (By LavaCookies)

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Re: Arelith SPOOKTOBER creative writing contest! (Add your own Eldritch Patron???)

Post by Dreams » Sun Sep 26, 2021 7:14 am

Hei Lianhua
The Black Lotus, Cursed Mother

Power Level: ?
Symbol: A single black petal.
Alignment: Evil
Portfolio: Vengeance killings, poisoned tea, betrayal
Worshipers: Warlocks, Assassins, betrayed family members
Domains: Chaos, Evil, Trickery
Arelith Worshiper Alignments: LE, CE, NE
Arelith Aspect 1: W&D
Arelith Aspect 2: T&D
(Access to Shadow-weave)

Along with the influence of traders and adventurers that have traveled from the Far East, so too comes a tale of an old woman from Shou Lung. The character of this woman was used in some parts as something of a warning to young children, so that they might be obedient and do as they are told - particularly when it comes to matters of family. In the children's tales, the old woman is called the Cursed Mother and arrives in the tale to steal away children that have betrayed their families in some manner.

However, these stories have actually come from a hag that had been forever cursed by the Celestial Emperor and banished from Shou Lung. Over thousands of years, the hag traveled through different regions of Faerun, gathering willing humans through seduction of both a physical and metaphysical nature. She forged small covens and taught them to make themselves useful to the people around them.

As a result, the influence of 'Eastern Witchcraft' has slowly spread from East to West. It is by no means common, but in many of the 'Shou Town' districts it is not unknown. The Black Lotus is a guise taken by those influenced by the hag as they go about their evils in the world. It is not so much a disguise as a uniform of black silk, a burgundy sash, and one black petal left behind in any crime or foul deed committed.

While the truth of the stories may be obscured, the storytelling of bards in Faerun, along with the chain of whispers that have brought the story of the Cursed Mother have created a feeling of 'Eastern Mysticism' about her. She is now sought out or named by Shou and Westernfolk alike, seeking some kind of retribution when feelings of betrayal arise.

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Re: Arelith SPOOKTOBER creative writing contest! (Add your own Eldritch Patron???)

Post by White Haven » Sun Sep 26, 2021 6:11 pm

Yes, indeed.

There exists a story about that place: the darkened part of the Arelith Wood. An old tale, an ancient ballad, best forgotten. In the young times, it was whispered by protective parents and passed down by troublesome elder siblings to childlings so prone to wandering where they shouldn't.

The story of Caerwyn's Promise, they called it. Whether Caerwyn is the name of the once-castle itself or its fallen lord is lost to time. Sometimes, it is told that Lord Caerwyn was an elf, sometimes a faerie prince. Whether elf or fey, however, what is constant is his beauty, his might, and his word. Old Caerwyn stood long before the elves constructed their outpost here and named it Myon, or so the story goes. Now, it is little more than a forsaken pile of stones, haunted by the shades of the past. Its mystery and sinister nature have lead many to wonder at is origin, and as mortals are wont to do about things beyond their ken a number of stories cropped up around it, weaving together across storytellers into a singular tale, growing and changing in the telling.

Just a story, most will tell you, but like most stories, it contains more truth than any would care to know. This is the Tale of Caerwyn's Promise.

Like many stories of this nature, it begins with a palace: a shining castle of brightest stone which stood near the heart of the Arelith Forest. In it lived a lord, eternally young and beautiful. The beauty of the lord and his castle drew many courtiers from far and wide, but he was most loved for his justice. It is said that the Lord of Caerwyn never broke a vow, and even as his subjects swore fealty to him, he too made an oath unto them: to protect them and rule them fairly. Lord Caerwyn was fair and kind, but under his rule those who broke this oath were punished harshly, from the lowest of his servants to the most noble of his courtiers. These punishments were often violent, but they were as swift and merciful as they could be. It is said that the Lord Caerwyn was often made sorrowful by these punishments and executions, but he never erred.

He never erred, for he knew that it was these oaths that gave himself and his glorious realm their power. The walls of Caerwyn were formed of an oath-bond between the Lord and the Forest Itself. His impenetrable armor was his vow to protect his people, made thousand-fold. The edge of his blade was itself a promise. He never erred, for he knew that while the power these oaths granted him was great, an oath itself is an incredibly fragile thing, easily broken.

He was not alone in this knowledge, and outside the forest, in the rain-drenched moors and deep lakes of Minmir, there lurked one who coveted him and his power greatly with all of her blackened heart.

One fateful day, a Lady of great beauty arrived, astounding the court of Caerwyn--even the Lord himself was said to be captivated. The Lady said that she had come from her castle in Minmir Lake to visit her neighbor. Against the quiet urgings of one of his most loyal knights, the Lord agreed to let her stay for a time as was due a Lady of her stature and swore to house her safely for the duration of her stay. Lavish feasts and dances were thrown in her honor, and all were enthralled by her beauty and many talents, especially her skill with music. Lord Caerwyn was a great lover of music, and by her song she won his favor. In a show of boldness heretofore unprecedented, she composed an amorous ballad for the Lord himself!

So enraptured was the Lord of Caerwyn that he swore to join their two lands in marriage. This brought on a protest from the Most Loyal Knight who had been against the Lady Minmir since her arrival. He insisted that he sensed sinister intent within her, the madness and corruptive influence inflicted by the Curse of Unseelie. Lady Minmir defended herself, and insisted, tearfully, that it was the Knight who attacked her. To prove this, she produced a token of his: a silken ribbon he often wore pinned to his tunic, won from a past tournament and marred by flecks of new blood.. her blood. The Knight was outraged, alleging instead that the Lady had stolen it from him.

Therein lies the problem with oaths, you know: take too many upon yourself and confliction arises. Caerwyn was torn between his oath to his Knight to rule him justly, and his oath to keep the Lady Minmir safe while she was under his roof. This was a situation of utmost delicacy, and it hinged upon the Lady's word. The Court held its breath as they awaited the judgement of Lord Caerwyn.

There is disagreement upon the nature of Lady Minmir. Some storytellers allege that she was an enchantress that wove spells into her songs, or even that she was not a Lady at all, but a hideous hag in disguise! Others say that Lord Caerwyn's justice was simply not as infallible as it was believed; that he desired the Lady Minmir enough to break his promise despite knowing she was lying.

Whatever the case, the result is the same: he cursed the Knight for his alleged crime. Unable to bring himself to kill a dear friend, he instead turned him into a hound. The act broke Caerwyn almost instantly, the pebble that caused an avalanche. Enchantments and dweomers bound to his oaths shattered, a cascade of failures as the boons granted by the oaths were corrupted, and all at once the sanctions--the dread consequence that awaits all who forswear their pledges--fell upon the Lord and his land.

The walls of that unassailable fortress crumbled and fell, and a dread shadow fell across the land, corrupting all who it touched. These poor souls became shades, shadows of themselves. Stood amongst the wreckage and suffering the backlash of all the spells he'd woven, the Once-Lord of fallen Caerwyn succumbed to madness and fell under the Curse of Unseelie. Where once he had been the shining hope of the Wood, he became its terror: a dark rider sworn to the Dark Queen of the Winter Court best known by his title: The Knight of Castigation, Avenger of Broken Vows. It is said that his word is as iron-clad as ever, and he rides out on his dread steed to relentlessly pursue and execute those who break oaths to his Queen, deterred only by challenges he deems "honorable". A cruel reflection of what he once was.

The ruins of Caerwyn remain to this day, haunted by the shades of its once-inhabitants, forever bound by oath to remain and watched over by the Hound that was once a Knight. But what of Lady Minmir, you ask?

Well. Her fate is a mystery. Some tell that she is among those shades, cursed to madness and unlife, and some... some say that she stood and watched the fall of wretched Caerwyn and smiled before retreating back to her lake, having destroyed the object of her envy. There she is said to remain, in her castle on Lake Minmir's bed, where local legend blames her for the deaths of many a fisherman, ferryman, or traveler come to drink its waters. Indeed, it is said that she sings her enchanted song, luring them to their doom, or alternatively appears as a talkative old crone lingering near its shore, trading stories for company, for she prefers to be close to her prey, just as she was the Lord of Caerwyn.

Worry not, dear stranger. As I said, it is only an old story.

======================================================

The Knight of Castigation, Avenger of Broken Vows
Symbol: The head of a snarling black hound with bloodstained teeth
Alignment: Lawful Evil
Themes: Fealty, Execution, Punishment, Trial-by-Combat, Etiquette, Oathmaking
Aspects: W&D, H&H
Pact: Fey

Cailleach, Singer of the Deeps (hag)/The Vicountess of Ruinous Song (fey)
Symbol: a broken crown of silver, half-sunken in water
Alignment: Neutral Evil
Themes: Envy, Temptation (especially to break promises and cause ruin), Song-based magic, Betrayal
Aspects: T&D, Magic
Pact: Hag, Fey, and possibly Fathomless
Last edited by White Haven on Thu Oct 07, 2021 11:34 pm, edited 1 time in total.

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Re: Arelith SPOOKTOBER creative writing contest! (Add your own Eldritch Patron???)

Post by Red Ropes » Mon Oct 04, 2021 7:58 am

I am liking what I have seen so far. The event ends on Halloween but it's good to get things in sooner rather than later!

Some small notes for those who have participated and will participate soon; I'd like to see more relation to the island of Arelith, Sibayad, Skaljard, etc - if you have ever seen an area or faced a malevolent NPC that seems to lack fluff this might be your chance to add to it or refine it some!

Furthermore - with the little "deity blurb" things remember that these entities have to be indisputably malevolent and the "worshipper alignments" do not matter as Eldritch Patrons equate to "all evil".

For those uncertain or in need of some help as they're right on the cusp of an idea but have not been able to squeeze anything out the SCP channels on Youtube present a great way to think about these things and are fun to binge during spooky month.

Have fun!
🤡

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Re: Arelith SPOOKTOBER creative writing contest! (Add your own Eldritch Patron???)

Post by Eters » Mon Oct 04, 2021 12:32 pm

A wanderer, survivor of the Wharftown slaughter, a reaver who simply wished for a life of equality when none was found, a pirate that wished to bask in unparalleled freedom, yet denied such little pleasures, such rights given to you from birth by life itself. Chained and bound, you're pushed into a corner, within jails you expire, within graves you rot, but who's to see? Who's to hear the woes of the downtrodden?

Misfortune surrounds you, and from the unfairness of life you suffer continuously. The fates were never in your favor, nor were you born in a castle of coin and gold, you are no son of noble, nor did your ventures ever yield you enough to buy yourself a day's meal. They judge you, in the shining armor, they push you, with their written laws and textbooks. They churn you, for you were not blessed with the gift of a bath ...

And so you wander alone and the clutches of darkness wrap around you, your eyes can no longer see light and Kelemvor's halls call for you, a life spent by being in the sidelines and who's fault is that? Is it yours?

No.

The darkness is your friend, and you hear my whispers usher you away from the hold of misfortune, the gaze of Beshaba will no longer break you, nor will Helm's sight reach you... You'll be given what you owe, walk my path, indulge in my dance, break the chains of reason and let entropy guide you towards your rightful place upon the world.

A droplet of blood is all you need, it's what makes you all mortals, it's what makes you all equal, so ravel in such, and offer me a drop, and for that little price the dice will roll in your favor. Cut the man down, you won't be seen. Break that lock away, you will not be caught, for when no one watches, I do. For when no one believes, I do. For when no one stands behind you, I do..

"Afar'gal , The Godfather."
Power Level : Planar Power (Demon)
Symbol : An eye hidden behind a dark veil
Alignment : Chaotic Evil
Portfolio : Murder, Thievery, Deception, Illusion
Worshipers : Criminals, Thieves, Assassins, Beggars, All those considering breaking the law out of hopelessness
Domains : Avarice, Luck, Trickery, Vengeance
Arelith worshippers alignment : TN, NE, CN, CE

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Re: Arelith SPOOKTOBER creative writing contest! (Add your own Eldritch Patron???)

Post by Borin Drakkmurl » Mon Oct 04, 2021 3:45 pm

I have this barely played concept of a duergar ranger/shadow dancer that wanders the Underdark guided by nightmares, premonitions, readings of guts and entrails, all in the pursuit of a song, the melody of the Wild Dark.

In my mind I had imagined this thing as a an Ancient One / Eldritch Horror of some kind that permeates all the of the deep dark as a presence that the mad and insane can connect into if they wander into all the wrong places.

This is the small bit I had written for myself as background/context for that character, that could've well been made as a warlock. It is not much, but it strikes at the flavour of what I wanted to portray, had I had the time to play:
The Wild Dark

Far from the places where people live
There is a Song
Where none can hear it and none can see
There is a Melody
Deep in the guts of you and me
There She sings
There She sings
What you dream
And no one knows
That She sings
That She sings

Deep below shadow and light
Where right is left and left is right
If you go up you find a lie
If you go down you never die.
In true dark there is a call
A song that guides
A tune that draws
A hand that blinds
And reveals all.

Far from the places where people dream
There is a Song
Where nightmares sink in the abyss
There is Harmony
A song of fear and ecstasy.
How She sings!
How She sings!
What you wish
And no one knows
That She sings
That She sings.
Past characters: Daedin Angthalion; Lurg Norgar; Urebriwyn; Ubaldo Ferraz; Erodash Uzdshak; Borin; Belchior Heliodoro; Orestes Fontebela

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Re: Arelith SPOOKTOBER creative writing contest! (Add your own Eldritch Patron???)

Post by Mythic » Tue Oct 05, 2021 8:05 pm

Beware the woods where silence reigns

Beware the wood which Weeping

Whispers rustle through the breeze

Tempting you to follow the bountiful trails.

Blind yourself to not see the bleeding Bark

Wander not with the Wisps or fluttering fey

Or you too will join the cacophony of Silence

Beware the woods where silence reigns


| The Weeping Tree |

Folk tales amongst the fringes of civilizations across the Realms share the same story. Wherever there is a copse of trees, a forest or a wood, Old wives tales and warn to not venture into them. For monsters with teeth and claws are but one concern

It begins silently. With harvests falling foul, and folk heading to the Forest to gather for their larders. Teeming anew with fresh fruits and fungi despite the seasons. Yet no chirping of birds or rumbling of Deer nor Boar will be heard past the first week.

Slowly folk whom eat of the forests bounty venture more and more into the woods. Eerily silent, leading their kin, friends and family with them. Eating their fill of the teeming fruits and berries that sit upon plants they should not. Yet never being rid of the hunger, Driving them to devour more and more.

What animals and birds remain seem starved. Emaciated and unworthy of even hunting for their meager meat. Naught but bones, brittle and bad for stew stock.

Families begin to disappear past the third week. Simply walking into the Woods not to return. Others lured by enchanted wisps and whispers of friendly fey, one by one the villages empty. Lastly a persistent narrative between accounts of these villages claim that the pigs, cows and other livestock willingly followed the families into the forest. Trotting behind in a singular organized line.

The written accounts by adventurers whom have stumbled across towns and hamlets all correlate to these tales. Tasks simply abandoned halfway through, Churns of butter left still with press within, Wheels with nails half-hammered in. Food over fires burnt to a crisp as embers slowly fade. A Picturesque image of a town, devoid of actors, as if stuck in time or more likely abandoned.

One thing is for certain, And that is you should beware the woods where silence reigns.

| Information |

The Weeping Tree is a Moderate Dark Fey power. Able to be bargained with by those seeking power, in exchange for luring and tempting folk into its Embrace.

Once simply a Dryad bound to her Tree, as many know if the Tree dies, so does the Dryad. But when the Dryad Dies and the tree Mourns her loss, Being turned to Winter before it too can pass?

A terrible hunger to fill the void left by her passing is all that remained of the once noble Tree. Now manifesting across the woods and forests of the forgotten realms as a single large tree standing alone within an empty Glade.

Forests begin to sprout new lustrous fungi and fruit in it's presence. Whilst crops and tamed lands suffer an unusual pestilence and drought. Eating of the forest's new bloom only serves to bring weak of mind under it's Thrall.

The animals instinct once past hunger is to graze anywhere else. Leaving the woods en-mass, leaving only their sick and weak behind. Whom starve before eating of the unnatural bloom.

Those that do, serve as the foundation of the Weeping Glade, The point of manifestation. Trees simply move, the forest paths twist and wind to lead to it's splendor. Enthralling those that look upon the wounded Bark of the Weeping Tree, binding them to serve and bring their families, friends and beasts. Only to be plagued by terrible nightmares when finally offered "Rest" by the Trees prompting.

If one is able to break the Thrall and awake before the Tree is able to siphon their pain, thoughts and life. They would see the truth. A wounded Tree, twisting living roots, plunged deep into piles of Bones, fresh bodies of beasts and man piled high, without even Rot nor Bug daring to scavenge from the Trees Fill.

Escape is rare. Few manage to bargain for their lives in exchange for service.

Those that escape without such....Well good folk of the realms do not listen to the rambling lunacy they sputter.
| Mechanics |

Name : The Weeping Tree

Other names : The Starving Woods | it of Bloodied Bark | Bonefeast Glade

Patron Alignment : Neutral Evil
Aspects : Trickery & Deceit + Nature
Power Level : Demigod / Lesser Power
Symbol : A wedge of Bark, gouged with wounds that "Bleed" Sap
Worshippers : Unseelie Dryads, Haters of civilization
Portfolio : Madmen, Unseelie Fey, Forests, Bloom, Gluttony, Nightmares & Suffering
Domains : Death, Suffering, Illusion, Plant, Trickery, Mind

Pacts - Fey &/or Undying

Whilst not originally a malevolent entity the Tree now feeds on Thoughts, Nightmares and suffering (Along with the bodies of it's victims, beast or man. Being turned into Mulch)

As such, those bound to it are expected to siphon the will and minds of those they twist with magic given. And to inflict terrible nightmares to feed it's endless hunger.
Howling around all year long

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Re: Arelith SPOOKTOBER creative writing contest! (Add your own Eldritch Patron???)

Post by Preserver » Sat Oct 09, 2021 10:59 pm

Amidst the old and strange stones that now dot what remains of the Gambler’s Bluff lighthouse: therein once lived an old man. He was none of importance, nobody that one would ever remember, except for what concerned his duty: he kept the flame lit, exorcized the cobwebs by virtue of a sturdy broom, and made sure the ships and boats on the Arelithian Eastern Cost could safely ride the wave.

He sat, at the end of each working day, on a bench he loved very much, facing the shallow shoals and the mysterious caves underneath the bluff. Many-holed barnacles had made their home on the bench’s half-rotted wood, and amidst them lived the most harmless thing ever: a slug.
It was a very curious thing. The lighthouse keeper couldn’t remember a single day in his long life that hadn’t been blessed by a visitation of the slug, as he sat on the bench. The Thing’s eyes darted out and back in, its skin translucent in a way that allowed the old man to see the motion of muscles and nerves within.

He had been scared at the start: such a strange thing! But then he grew comfortable, and the salt on his brow always grew less dire as he contemplated the majestic patterns that the starry night cast onto the slug’s own viscous skin. Such a pretty thing, the keeper thought, as the Bluff grew darker, and the stars dimmer.
Were he only able to reflect stars in the same way… but he could not, for he was merely a man. The solitude of his work made him peculiar in the head. He went to Cordor from time to time, bought fruits and bread, for himself and the slug both. Yet even then, all he could think was the way he would have returned to his beloved slug, and by grace of its pale visage observed food consumed.

The quicksilver-like texture of the slug’s mucus teased the keeper with its smoothness, it made him chuckle and contemplate… it seemed as if, pulled as they were from the distortion of that blessed medium, the stars in the sky leaked right onto the mucus, deep inside the slug. So, he gathered what he could: it was only reasonable after all! He gave the slug food; the slug could have shared some of the glorious mucus.

It was merely food at the start: he felt that the being was naught but a curious thing, a slug with a strange translucence, that craved for a good meal. But then he saw the creature recoil, and slowly slither away. Thus, he looked for meat instead, a good cut of Cordorian beef; and though at first the slug seemed happy, as happy as a slug con look at least, it soon again changed. Sweets, and wine; then a solitary living blind goat given, somehow no longer there at dawn.
Dimensions held at bay, the slug still devoured, and more mucus it shared with the keeper. Then cattle was no longer an option, and the old man looked sadly in the bucket he was gathering the mucus in: a crave had snuck in his head. For he simply had to know, to know… some truth. What truth? Any truth.
What is an old woman after all? Naught but a nagging grandmother; she too disappeared. And her sons and daughters too. And the grandchildren following.

Day after day, month after month, till a bucketful of the thing was in the keeper’s hands. It didn’t dry or solidify, it didn’t congeal of evaporate: it remained instead as it was, a thick blood-like substance. As the slug watched, stars on its coat, the keeper undressed in the night, and bare he poured the mucus on his own body.
The stars shimmered and leaked. As droplets of the revered substance stretched between his eyelids, it seemed as if the stars themselves fell in the sea. And as the mucus moved on his bare skin, he could hear the distant songlike call of the whales, and the silent screams of fish from the ages past, and the mute thrumming of lifebringing slugs at the bottom of the sea.

Unreachable as it was, the infinite sky had blessed the keeper with a gift: it had drifted, transient, into the sea surrounding the isle. The man cackled, for all he was hearing was life; it breathed and started to grow, without and within. The mucus clenched over his skin and pushed within the pores, ripping his hair out till he was as smooth and shiny as the slug itself.
He grew wider and wiser, and he could see the universe around in a whole other way: he let go of hands and limbs, for he had no need of them, and his back opened like an angel’s flight, with mercury wings carrying him aloft in the night. And as the cacophony of chaos and bursting life echoed around him, his protruding eyes could see the slug in its true shape, as the neverending maw of Life’s Own Origin sunk on his head and brought the dream that his life was to an end.

A young boy found the lighthouse the day after. There was no keeper, only a strange trace: a translucent pattern of mucus as wide as a man’s own step, leading in the caverns underneath the Bluff. The building was crumbling and old, as if centuries had passed: moss and strange pale slugs were all over it, in the comfort of shade and humid shoals. The boy followed the path, for mayhap the keeper was in the caves underneath.
Tens of years have passed today, and nobody knows where the boy is. Yet it is said that in certain nights, as the tide withdraws from the Gambler’s Bluff and the moist sand gives easier access to the sea-caves, a strange shambling figure can be seen, aching for something, and mumbling incoherently: “Mother, please, come and take me with you!”.


The Starlit Flesh
Other Names: Life’s Own Origin, the Leaking Stars, the Drowned Star
Power Level: Planar Power
Symbol: Two points of light, representing stars, that discolour and leak at their bottom end
Alignment: Chaotic Evil
Portfolio: Life, Evolution, Transformation, Hunger
Worshippers: sea communities, (deranged) physicians and scholars, transhumanists, aboleths
Aspects: Magic + Heart and Home
Pacts: Star / Fathomless

~ Lladria Sethassiel ~ (Dead!) - ~ Siobhan Gray (Departed!)
~ Elspeth Lynndain (Dead!) - Noasheel Xephrates (Dead!)
~ Yachta - ~ Providence (Dead!)


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Re: Arelith SPOOKTOBER creative writing contest! (Add your own Eldritch Patron???)

Post by Xarge VI » Fri Oct 15, 2021 6:03 pm

Dr. Mayern’s report. Cordor, 30th of Marpenoth 1374.

The locals call it cackles or the whispering plague. It is a baffling affliction. At first glance it appears like an affliction of the soul, but it has characteristics of a plague of the body.

It is spreading in the inner streets of the more destitute parts of Lower Cordor like plagues often do.

The first symptoms are hearing voices in the dark places and during the night. Patients describe it as some kind of speech that they can not understand.

The ‘whispers’ as described grow louder and more regular until the patients report them as ceaseless. Around this time the patients start experiencing powerful irregularity in their emotional landscape.

The ever present fear and despair of their condition grows into intense outbursts of anger and laughter which gives the affliction its moniker ‘Cackles’.

Next they start losing their sense of reality which is replaced by what I could only describe as religious fervor. Still, there is little coherence or community in their declarations. Their fervor could be directed at a shadow cast by a street light, a cadaver of a pigeon or a broken chair. They grow agitated if their worship is distracted, and in later phases- violent.

The outbursts grow increasingly common and as they become more continuous a grin becomes frozen on their faces. An unsettling display where a forced smile is frozen on the often malnourished patient’s face while they let out continuous ‘cackling’ that sounds more like sobbing or weeping when they are not in an active outburst.

This frantic state grows, turning more constant, more violent until it has subsumed any trace of the original soul. Leaving behind a cackling, weeping husk that will they are coming answer to any attempt to communicate with murderous intent- using any weapon at their reach. Curious, if morbid observation is that these ‘Cacklers’ or ‘Lunatics’ as the locals call them seem to favor axes. Is it a symptom of the affliction or are hatchets just a very common tool within the city remains uninvestigated.

The affliction has been present in the city of Cordor for a long time, but only very recently has it gained attention as a real affliction. Despite having been an alarmingly common occurrence it has gained no attention, and the afflicted have been regarded as people of frail spirits and low morals who can not by their lack of vigorous spirit become productive members of society by the higher levels of the city. But in the lower parts the affliction has been known for a long time.

There have been cases over the years of apparently charitable people housing these ‘cacklers’ in an attempt to find a cure for the blight gnawing at their souls. All of these attempts have ended in failure. With these they are watching charitable souls turning into these husks themselves.

In many cases the charitable helpers have avoided physical contact and they have even used perfumed masks to prevent airborne contamination. But still the affliction seems to have contaminated those treating the victims. This suggests a plague, but not a plague as plagues are known. It is a plague of the soul and how it spreads remains a mystery.

The locals have named these houses as Weeping Lodges, due to the characteristic sobbing that comes out of them and wisely enough avoid them. They are awakening these weeping lodges often remain inhabited by these poor souls as they become too dangerous to enter for the people and violently removing them is against the law as technically the owner of the house is still alive and the house remains in private ownership. In some cases people have taken upon themselves to end the suffering of the afflicted by either setting fire to the house or engaging in illegal violence in the cover of the night. Usually the guards look the other way.

Most commonly these poor souls- these lunatics are they will devour us cast into the city’s extensive sewers where they exist until ‘rat catchers’ the city’s own brand of mercenaries take care of them in quiet fashion.

Usually the afflicted are extremely antisocial, often hunched in a corner or over whatever their object of reverence is. But there are reported cases where they move as groups. In some cases they even joined in their worship; drawn elaborate circles to which they have chanted in no tongue known to man. The end is coming.

Could it be that these cacklers, these lunatics are the end is near puppeteered by some external will. And if so what does it want?

I must conclude that rejoice even if and because we do not know what the affliction is and how it spreads that it is a very real danger. In the past year or so the affliction seems to have spread at an increasingly accelerated pace. Even studying it is dangerous as common methods of containment do not seem to apply. Fortunately I have been able to avoid contamination.

As the first academic to recognise this affliction I will name it Plague of Whispers due to the nature of its first symptoms.

The Whispers
Power Level: Unknown
Symbol: Unknown
Alignment: Unknown
Portfolio: Unknown
Worshippers: The Cacklers
Domains: Unknown
Warlock Pact: Star

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Re: Arelith SPOOKTOBER creative writing contest! (Add your own Eldritch Patron???)

Post by Eira » Mon Oct 18, 2021 2:56 pm

Death does not pound at your door, nor does it rage and howl or gnash its teeth. No, Death creeps patiently; Death slithers through cracks and crawls up windows, trailing beauty in its wake. Death does not need to hasten you into its embrace; Death knows it can wait, and Death is very good at waiting.

Death was not cruel to the man walking alone in the tundra.

He had bundled up in all the furs he could carry, and yet the cold still pricked at his fingers and toes, reminding him of the Death surrounding him. Frost coated his beard and eyelashes, and the moisture of every breath settled on his lips and froze, only to melt- just barely -with the next exhale. Though his cap covered his whole head and fastened snugly beneath his chin, he couldn’t feel his ears.

The taste of Death on his tongue hurt his mouth; was he freezing or burning? He couldn’t tell. Sweat collected on his chest and under his arms. It trickled down his spine and settled. Once, he had carried a sword, but only when he looked down did he realize it was no longer in his hand. The rushing of his blood pounded through his skull. He tried to cry out, but frost gleefully collected in the back of his throat, able to brave even the warmth of his breath to choke back his words.

Warmth was a distant memory... no, wait. What had he been thinking? He was warm now, despite the ice crawling down his arms and chest. He was so warm- too warm. Burning. To be cold would be a
blessing now. The man fumbled at the leather ties of his furred cloak, fighting to be free of the smothering warmth. It flopped forlornly into the snow behind him. It wasn’t enough. He was still too hot. The gloves! He worked at the gloves next, weeping with ecstasy as his blackened fingers met the cold air. Tears froze on his cheeks.

The man stumbled on and on, shedding garment after garment and every scrap of fur that had burned and weighed him down. His fingers did not hurt anymore. Nothing hurt anymore. He was not warm or cold. He merely was.

And then he was not.


~~~~~

“Do not travel alone in the tundra,” the locals would say. “Keep company, so the lure of the frost cannot tempt you.”

While travelers to Skaljaard speak of the seasons, they refer to both the Freeze and the Thaw, as if they are separate times and not merely a marking of the exhale and inhale from the same being. The villagers know better.

When in lands that can go untouched by snow, the frost is a tame thing. It plays at danger, hissing along the wind and catching only the few unwary and unfortunate. But that frost always melts and sleeps and spares the lands for the rest of the year. That frost is weaker than the sun and warmth. It cannot stand before green buds and birdsong.

But where snow crunches underfoot year-round, where a pail of water left out in Kythorn freezes during the day, and where locals know that confidence can kill... The Endless Frost is not to be tamed. It is patient, but it is merciless. It tempts the foolish and tests the experienced. And every year, when it releases that breath, to freeze the very waves and trap those who dare to live within it? Every year, it stretches just a bit further.

“And when you do travel with another,” they continue, “It has to be someone you know. Or when you shake their hand, be sure their skin is warm.”

They don’t often like to talk about those people, the ones who went off into the Frost and returned with emptiness in their eyes. Their fingers and toes are blackened, and ice covers them from head to toe- sometimes, they’re mistaken for undead. But the color soon returns to their skin, the life to their gaze, and they can seem like they had never gone out there in the first place.

Do not be fooled.

The Endless Frost lives in their flesh, and nothing will return warmth to them, though they can smile and laugh and make merry. One may believe they can be trusted. And perhaps they can. For a time. But when the Frost calls, and they suggest a walk out to the tundra or up a mountain, or even just in the forest... Only one will return. Rarely, perhaps even both, with cold flesh, blackened fingers, and blank faces.

“There’s just something that draws people back to Skal,” the locals say, some with a shrug. “And it’s usually the empty ones.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Endless Frost is the more well-known name given to the being that wanders the tundra of Skal. Few, even among her pacted, realize the full truth. She is no unimaginable power, but a winter hag, freezing those unfortunate enough to wander the wastes alone and dining on their chilled flesh.

However, those who agree to serve her, most often by bringing her other victims, will be spared… but forever touched by her chill.

The Endless Frost
Alternate names: The Fairest Beldam, Granny Winter
Power Level: Planar Power (Hag)
Symbol: Grasping four-fingered claw formed of icicles
Alignment: Neutral Evil
Pacts: Undying/Hag
Aspects: Nature, War and Destruction
Last edited by Eira on Sun Oct 31, 2021 7:20 am, edited 2 times in total.

I exist to describe the world around us.

Akorae

Keth'ym Evanara - wandering better paths
Veriel Xyrdan - married and happy
Reena Welkins - Dead

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Re: Arelith SPOOKTOBER creative writing contest! (Add your own Eldritch Patron???)

Post by Red Ropes » Tue Oct 19, 2021 10:19 pm

Some more great contributions. Basically this will all end by next week and I'll probably spend the last half of that week reviewing this stuff with other colleagues and Gronmeister. Keep up the creativity its been certainly exciting and interesting to read this stuff.
🤡

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Re: Arelith SPOOKTOBER creative writing contest! (Add your own Eldritch Patron???)

Post by Skane » Tue Oct 19, 2021 10:36 pm

Oft-times diabolists and occultists speak of the malign entities beyond human sight as something simply far away, out of sight certainly, but nameable and classifiable; those who have made pacts with the Polypal Mother; not a name, but a description as they will be swift to tell you; know better.

Rarely, a sailor will go overboard, and not be claimed by Umberlee, they will sink to the sea-floor in a half-dead state, and they will meet she/it/they, words will be exchanged, but the Polypal Mother does not speak, she screams unintelligibly; inevitably, inexorably, the sailor will learn to glean meaning from the screams, and a deal will be made, or the sailor's mind unmade. A feast of memories and the hosting of her aberrant young in exchange for life renewed and powers given.

The memories of the exchange will be lost, but the pain experienced during it will linger.

=

The Polypal Mother
Power level: Planar Power
Symbol: A tree made of interwoven turquoise tentacles.
Alignment: Chaotic Evil
Worshippers: Aberrant Creatures, Aboleths, Madmen
Warlock Pact: Undying, Fathomless, Star
Gods can we just remove magic already?

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Re: Arelith SPOOKTOBER creative writing contest! (Add your own Eldritch Patron???)

Post by magistrasa » Thu Oct 21, 2021 3:29 am

Posting on someone else's behalf. I enjoyed it, and hope you do too!

----------

To: The Founder's Council
From: Mr. Irwin Finch

It is beyond me why the men of this age ignore my testimony. The only reason I write this still is because even now they are planning an excavation of those accursed hills. It is the promise of ancient fossils & rich minerals which blinds them to reason, if it can even be called that at this point. For my experiences up to this point have been anything but reasonable.

That is precisely why I gather what data I can so that those who still cherish the good truth of our living may measure with exacting detail the events I will now describe. Whether it is in the hideous light of arcane evidence, or contrasted by tales of disturbing cycles of divinity, I fear you all must be persuaded by this horrid tale.

To begin, I need not repeat what the newspapers published about our early work. My family, like many others, were Ffolk immigrants from the seat of Caer Corwell, in Gwynneth. We were there to excavate new lands for the budding city of Gulderand. Many promises were made of the nearby Crags, of their bounty and beauty. But what we would see - what I have seen - and what I continue to see - has all become too much.

We had built our cabins just outside the caves, where some still dwell now, so that we might dig those many mine shafts that now lay abandoned. I remember it was the afternoon of a cold autumn day, sometime in Marpenoth, with a storm lingering on the ocean horizon. The foreman had shared encouraging news from that of our most recent samples, suggesting a crust composition ripe with the sort of wealth we were seeking. Ever broiling in our minds were the images of vast earthen halls laden with natural wealth unspoiled, and destined for our taking, like some damsel awaiting rescue from her castle walls. Therefore one might imagine the unadulterated excitement of one of our fellow men as he broke through a rocky wall into an unlit chasm.

All through our tunnels we could hear it belch some ghastly indigestion. It seemed almost comical at first, but the foul odorous gasses that issued forth were many of our first concerns. Men fell back laughing and wretching all at once, in a mad display, so dizzy with delight as they were. In retrospect however, it was sulfuric fumes, from whence we soon came to see the source. It was a hole of unknown depth, sending forth the eerie orange light of magma, from somewhere at the far end of the chamber. Dangled over its maw were some series of shapes that showed like a shadow-puppet against the smoothed ceiling above. This was no ordinary cave.

Intensely curious was that there were discrete pathways, surrounded by some murky liquid; and pathway is the most appropriate term. The rocky substance of its creation must have been accrued from unknown forests of ancient tree flora and fungi, or perhaps even extinct cycads, palms, and archaic angiosperms, all in addition to the bones of as many fauna species that the greatest paleontologist might take more than a lifetime to classify them all. None of us wished to say it, but this place appeared to be intentionally designed. There was some wisdom in our foreman yet, however, as he bid us make more entries to allow greater airflow. And so everyone else dropped work they were doing outside, and rushed headlong through the biting cold, creating many new-found gateways into the secrets of inner Toril and vanished eons. This took three days.

It was during that time that a small political affair would cause trouble for our undertaking. Let the record show that those men who died of cold, did so of their own volition, for they chose to sleep nearer the chamber, within the cold underground, and NOT with the rest of us at our campfires above. This caused a minor stir and threat of scandal, as working conditions came under question, but I tell you again, they died of their own madness. And it was madness, for I too saw it in my dreams. I tremble even now, debating whether or not to put it into written words. But I have compelled myself to a resolution, and whatever horror these words will have caused, I will not see.

Few spoke of the dreams we saw, and those that later did, would be written off as the fantasies of a trauma-stricken mind. Each of those notes we slept near the unearthed chamber, a voice spoke out to us. I have gathered from what scant few accounts I could, what commonalities existed between our visions. We all saw a massive ziggurat of upside-down, non-euclidean dimensions. It was as if space and time converged here in such strange ways, that to pass its threshold was to cover vast distances. What was seen inside varied by account, but always involved a fallen star ~ a massive luminous being who would plead for help. Yet any and every time someone would approach to help, they would be pulled into the ground and swallowed by flames, along with the fallen star.

It was with these horrid images in mind, that we would finally be given allowance to excavate the great unknown chamber. What we would see within would be the apex of our woes. Those strange shapes that laid over the distant fiery hole, were that of a massive being, winged and chained. One of the prospectors that the foreman had called down the day prior, was with us, and was not privy to all those ill-omens we had shared up to this point. Alonzo Luvara was his name. He was of youthful stock, eager to prove himself, and so steeled his nerves for closer inspection. He claimed the skeletal proportions were feminine in constitution, and that she surely did not die peacefully. Though, anyone would have guessed the latter. Few die peacefully chained above chasms of fire.

He then attempted to adjust the skeleton and peer more closely. That was when the ground opened up even more, swallowing both him and those chained bones with a ghastly gulp of flame and smoke. The air pressure changed suddenly and oppressive, sending everyone into a panic. That was when the true measure of a man was made, and the best of us did not survive. For out of the flaming chasm flew a writhing shadowy mass, bringing with it a flashing, gnashing, and thrashing, of countless eyes, even more teeth than eyes, and a multitude of wings. Whether it drowned those who fled, or simply devoured them whole, I could not say. For those of us too stupid to run were paralyzed with fear. It wasn't until the very walls around us began to crumble that the rest of us had sense to flee.

With the tunnels collapsed and the majority of us dead-or-worse, operations ceased. We were dumbstruck. Some of us were manic. We slept and ate what remaining provisions we had, for three more days, as if we had no will of our own except to survive. But that third night, those nine of us who survived would share one last dream. I care not to relay it in detail save to say it was sufficiently grotesque and involved many of our deaths. Only myself and two others would survive that night. I know not what unholy cry must have sounded when we opened that accursed chamber, or if it was a simple misfortune to the highest degree, but Boogin would sweep into our meager cabins that night, slaying all who remained.

What proceeds of this account now must be taken on my word, for they were only my experiences, and few are willing to corroborate them. The horrors I saw out in the craggy wilds did not stay there in the mountains, but followed me into the city. Everytime. Everytime an event of suitable misfortune would occur within conscious awareness, I would forsee it. I would see that writhing serpent of shadows, covered in eyes, teeth, and wings. It builds a pressure within my head. I know not if it is attempting to enter or flee, but my psyche is worn ragged each time, as I realized this symbol foretold misfortune. Broken wagon spokes, a neighbor's eviction, a cow in the slaughterhouse. Each and every time, before such an event would occur, I am forced to relive those moments with the fiery chasm. I am forced to remember how so many died before me, and then I am left waiting and watching for what sordid event these images foretell.

Eventually the grey monks began visiting me.

Soothsayers or doomsayers, I could not say, but they knew! They knew of my wretched existence. And everyone else watched with judgemental eyes from afar. The monks said my curse was a gift, proclaiming me as a messiah. Entreating me with food and treasures, trailing me everywhere I went! It is all so tiresome, too dull to be a mockery, too earnest to be a joke. It was like a nail was being driven into my mind, and its pain numbed me to all life except for its sordid sensation. I tell you now, it is all too much. I found no peace in the Moonmaiden's embrace, and no solace in the Nightsinger's loss. And so with my account concluded, I shall end this suffering. To my family, I am sorry, and to the rest ~

May the gods show mercy to you where they had none for me.

----------

Balam
The Bitter Angel
The Fallen Star

Power Level: Planar Power
Symbol: A single broken feathered wing, pointed left
Alignment: NE, TN
Portfolio: Isolation, Failure, Prophecy, Spite
Worshipers: Those who have lost faith or been abandoned
Domains: Magic, Hearth & Home

Balam was once an angel of ancient & forgotten gods. With her oracular powers, it was said she could parse the tangled web of reality better than any other. Thus, she would be given an impossible task. Occultists and clerics alike will fiercely debate the specifics of this task, but what's clear is that she failed. She failed and became something entirely alien. Whether this was the fault of her own hubris, overwhelming evil, or the righteous excess of her peers? It's impossible to say.

What can be said is that no celestial host would come to her aid. Balam's abandonment would strip her of all allegiance and honor. Her soul would be laid to bare in a sacrament to everything she once stood against. So to most, she exists as a bitter reminder of the fate that awaits all those who strive beyond their means. But in the stars, and on the lips of shadowy crones, a different story is whispered.

This is why the Doomsayers of Arelith would eventually find her, then eventually bind her, within the Divinity Stone. Now its intoxicating influence spreads beyond their reach, calling like a beacon:
It curses the gods.
It yearns for emancipation.
It cries in your dreams.
It screams from the stars.
It craves realization.
It demands justice.

So to all those that this world has failed - to all those that have no future - Balam offers you a new vision.

× Career Sharran × MILF Supreme × Artist (Allegedly) ×
Will Trade Art For Groceries Again Eventually


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Re: Arelith SPOOKTOBER creative writing contest! (Add your own Eldritch Patron???)

Post by Queen Titania » Mon Oct 25, 2021 5:38 pm

Laughter rode the cold wind that blew in the darkness of the shadow wood.

To the knowing it was a warning to step back, retreat. The source of the child-like cackling was no friend to anyone but itself. To the curious, it was a honeyed net that tugged at their inquisitiveness towards the trap.

To the warlock, it was the sign that their patron was nearby, eagerly waiting for what she promised them.

She gestured to his party, a male dwarf and elf who were eager to come along for the false promise of gold and glory. He hated how they would brag about their accomplishments, betting which one would lay the killing blow on the hag who hoarded the treasure. They would get their comeuppance soon.

Leading the way, her staff clutched in hand as its light illuminated the path ahead in a dim green glow. Eyes scanned the undergrowth, seeking the faint outline of the dangerous negative-energy creatures that could quickly sap their life essence if they were unaware.

Finally, they arrived at the agreed upon spot, a little pot, boiling, smelling faintly of rot and mushroom.

“Where’s the bloody hag? My axe be dry, and the shadows nay be bleeders.” The dwarf complained.

“And where’s the gold and jewels? You said there would be a chest full of the trinkets they took from those who bargained it for power.” The elf whined. “If I cannot deprive the dwarf of a kill, at least make me richer.”

Another cackle rode the wind, and the two spun around. The laughter boomed again, and the dwarf growled as he shouted to the sky. “Show yerself, ye coward!”

The gentle fluttering of wings and raining of fairy dust fell on their heads as the trio turned to face their visitor. It appeared like a pixie gone wrong. They were nearly twice as large, possessing clear blue gossamer wings that stretched out from its back, with dark green leaves and rotten twigs wrapped around its body to form a sort of clothing. A black dagger, dark as night, was clasped around its hand. Their face appeared quite elven, but the smile was too wide, too amused, with teeth as sharp as a predator.

“Are you here to play?” The creature asked. Its gaze was hungry, and even the warlock was chilled when she responded.

“They are mistress.”

“What ye be on about? We agreed for glory and gold, nay a game!” The dwarf roared.

“You *have* to play.” The creature insisted. The dwarf took a step back, readying his axe. His eyes fixated on the dagger as the fey came closer. “That is part of the trade.”

“I nay agree! Stay back or be axed!” He raised his weapon, ready to strike.

He never got the chance. Aiming her staff at the dwarf, vines protruded from the ground and constrained him to the earth. The warlock turned, expecting the elf to try to defend the dwarf, but instead she heard only the steps of fading feet. The elf had sprinted away. But no matter. Only two were needed for the game.

The warlock turned to her mistress. “What game do you wish to play first? Bloodletting?”

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When the elf returned, a few companions in tow, they found the dwarf dead on the ground, leg broken, his axe stuck in a nearby tree. But most chilling was its smile. Wide-eyed, too wide. Eyes too open. They stepped back, ready to turn away when they heard it: laughter in the distant chilled winds.
The game was about to begin again.
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Cackles
The Gamemaster

Patron Alignment : Chaotic Evil
Aspects : Trickery & Deceit + Nature
Power Level : Demigod / Lesser Power
Symbol : Laughing teeth on a background of blood
Worshippers : Evil Fey, Warlocks, Performers
Portfolio : Unseelie Fey, Forests, Darkness, Murder
Domains : Illusion, Plant, Trickery, Cold, Darkness, Evil
Aspects: War and Destruction, Trickery and Deceit
Worshiper alignments: CE, NE, CN

Cackles was once a protector of forests, a merry fey who would play innocent games and tricks on travelers. Twisted by a broken heart, her games became dangerous, often pitting those who played to harm one another, usually with a murder. There was only ever one winner: herself. She wanders the Shadow Wood, seeking new play things with those who are lost. Never stray off the forest path, for there is always a chance she lies waiting to whisk you away to eternal games.

Those who serve her often do so by bringing others to play games, or performing cruel tricks in their honor, or grand plays that may be concealing an actual murder while the audience thunderously applauds...all in their mistress's honor.
Please don't feed my sister.

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