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Tell a Tale Winners: Entries

Posted on March 10, 2013 AT 03:36pm

Here you will find the full entries of each of the winning contestants below! Each has done a wonderful job in creating amazing characters, some I would personally love to DM for! Some of them are a long read but I encourage you to fully read every last one! There’s a reason these were chosen as the winners!

Mordacai Vincelian


5’11 150lbs

Red scales with black splotches running down his neck and black lines running back from his eyes. He has long black hair tied into a shoulder length ponytail and greasy hair falling into his eyes. Scar running down his left cheek and covering his chest and back. He is wearing a set of old and ragged scale armor and a thick black cloak with a hood with an effort to cover his horns. When he smiles you see a set of cracked yet frighteningly pointed teeth. On his back is a scythe that seems to crackle with an arcane energy.

Mordacai was the bastard son of a whore named Trisha and an outsider of unknown name. Seeing that her son was a demon, Trisha quickly dropped him in a gutter where she hoped he would die quickly. Unfortunately, he was found by a local orphanage who took him in. While in the orphanage, Mordacai was always fighting as his appearance caused quite the commotion. In an effort to gain power over the children, he made a pact with Nureul and gained the abilities of a warlock. The cost was the soul of the tiefling and the powers be used to cause pain and death. Mordacai quickly used his newfound abilities to wreck havoc on the orphanage, earning a place on the streets once again.  On the streets, Mordacai made a meager living as an assassin or a thief; it was this way that he gained quite a disdain for the life’s of mortals.   After many years he was able to buy meager armor and supplies. He then set out on a quest to cause as much pain and suffering as he could.

The Sphinx

He is simply known as The Sphinx, a quiet halfling assassin that stands 3 foot tall and weighs 33 pounds (he always said he weighed 3 fruit tree stumps since he grew up in the forests). He has solid brown eyes, black hair, a five o clock shadow complete with a slim trim; basically he looks like me minus the slim trim.

Usually, The Sphinx wears light clothing. A brown cloak with a hood to cover his face complete with a kilt-looking bottom and sandals. One time an NPC told The Sphinx he looked like a bitch, to which he got an arrow to the throat from his crossbow. Usually, The Sphinx carry around a crossbow and a dagger – however, he’s been known to be proficient with a scimitar when things get a little too messy.

The backstory of The Sphinx is a little murky; nobody knows if it’s stuff of legend or if it’s all true. Add to the fact that The Sphinx rarely speaks unless he has something of importance to say, and all of this seems like a bunch of hearsay. Still, The Sphinx has been known to talk about his past from time to time, so who knows…..

It has been said that The Sphinx was simply “found” in an unknown river by a camp of assassins. This guild was consistently fighting a nearby thieves guild, and for the first few years, the assassins trained The Sphinx as one of their own. One evening, a member from the band of thieves stole The Sphinx, and into his adolescence, The Sphinx proved to be the best thief in the guild. However, The Sphinx never forgot that he was actually stolen, to which one evening, when invited to dine with the leader of the thieves guild after their biggest heist to date, he murdered him despite every member being present that evening. Legend has it, he murdered every one of them, stole their most precious possessions, and walked into the assassin’s guild, threw a dagger through the throat of the leader, and claimed the throne all before the age of 13.

The years that followed seen much success for the assassins. They killed some of the most prominent members of society all across the countryside. Kings, princesses, actors, even a famous jester all fell to the hands of The Sphinx. Everyone feared the assassins, yet no one knew what they looked like or even a member by name. People became paranoid, people were fearful, and people would panic all because they never knew if they would be the next person to be assassinated.

Unfortunately, something happened to the assassins guild. No one knows why, but they suddenly disbanded. Assassinations stopped happening so frequently, to which people went on with the rest of their lives. No one knows what happened and why the assassins were disbanded, that is, except The Sphinx himself.

Now a lone wanderer, The Sphinx roams the countryside and perhaps the world searching for something or someone. roams due to instinct; it’s his only reaction to what has happened. Many state that he seems to have a mission: a mission that seems to span years and nations. What is his mission? He’ll only confide in one person he trusts the most; a person he has yet to meet…..

Xevdarii Do’Ana

The Drow’s eyes widened slightly and he leaned back as the innkeep almost loomed over him. As if he wasn’t self-conscious about his height, his five-feet-three-inches made him look like a halfling compared to the half giant at the other side of the counter. Bright red eyes quickly glanced over the much larger man that could very easily break his small frame in one of those monstrous sized hands.

The innkeep cleared his throat as politely as he could to urge the Drow to speak.

A cocky grin came to his face. “What will the bards sing of me?” He leaned closer, keeping eye contact with the much larger man. “They will sing hymns.”

It sounded so good in his head. Clearly, by the look on the innkeep’s face, the half giant was a non-believer.

“Hymns? Really? Y’don’t look like much,” the innkeep said, eying him. He had a small frame, though he probably had a decent set of athletic muscle under his clothes. He couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred pounds… Soaking wet and naked. Long, pointed, and pierced ears broke through the shaggy, slightly disheveled white hair that partially hung in his face, stubbornly returning each time the Drow tried to push it away. He had a goatee, though it was pretty clear he’d gone a few days without trimming up. The silver snake bite styled piercings in his bottom lip stood out against his dark grey skin. And there was something in his red eyes that hinted at a suppressed chaos. “Certainly ain’t impressive enough to be singin’ hymns about.”

“Well, not yet. But they will.”

“Sure.” The half giant turned, grabbing the emptied mug as one of the tavern wenches put it on the counter. The Drow winked and flashed a playboy smile at her. She was amused. Her father was not. “You even got a name, dark skin?”

The Drow huffed. “Yeah, I do. Xevdarii Do’Ana, of-”

“That Menizobarren place that Drizzt guy is from?”

Xevdarii visibly tensed, more than a hint of rage. “No! Why the hell does everyone think that?! Oh, there’s one semi-famous Drow up here on the surface and suddenly every other Drow on the damn surface is from the same city he’s from! Now I know this might be a bit difficult to penetrate that thick surface dwelling skull of yours and get in to your sun baked brain, but there are other Drow cities! And you know what? I could kick Drizzt’s ass!” He slammed his fist on the counter and turned away, as if to prove his point.

The innkeep stared at him.

“And it’s Menzoberranzan!”

“Are you done?”


Several moments of silence passed.

“I’m from Ched Nasad,” the Drow said, picking at his nails.

“Why’d y’leave?”

“Shit happened.”

The innkeep gave him a look, waiting for an explanation.

Xevdarii rolled his eyes. “Okay, so, these bunjiro* duergar mercenaries attacked the city. The city collapsed. Literally. It was supported by webs. But before that happened, I got the hell out of there. I ain’t stupid, I’m not stayin’ in a death trap. I still got things to do.”

The barkeep raised an eyebrow. “Really. And those things would be?”

“Well… Bard things.”

The half giant looked him over again. Leather… Lots of leather; a form fitting, high collared, strapped leather vest and pants (not to mention the knee high, heeled boots that probably added two inches to his actual height) with plenty of daggers, probably more than were visible, something that looked like a lock picking set stashed hastily in to a pocket under a strap, two whips attached to the belt on either side of his hips, and a pair of red-lensed goggles sitting on top of his head.

Definitely a rogue.

“Bard. Sure.” He finished wiping down the mug and put it aside, grabbing the next one. “So, you ran away, no second thoughts about where you grew up?”

“It was more of a tactical retreat of survival,” Xevdarii replied, turning to face the man again. “And yeah, I grew up there, and I kind of miss it… But you’d do the same thing if your inn was on fire.”

The innkeep rolled his eyes. “What about your family? You just left them?”

“Uh. Yeah. And I’d do it again. There’s the whole thing about our families sticking together and such out of loyalty, but screw that! They were stupid enough to stay and get themselves killed. Besides, do you have any idea what it is like to be the middle child with an older brother with an superiority complex, and a younger sister with a Goddess complex? And should I repeat that I was the middle child? I would purposely do things just to get my parents to look at me. No wonder I’m up here trying to get attention!”

“Wow. Middle child. Never would have guessed,” the innkeep said, voice completely dead panned. “And now you’re here.”


“And looking for work, it seems.”

Xevdarii huffed again. “Yeah… The lady that runs the tavern I’m staying in is threatening to charge rent if I don’t be more productive. Apparently busing tables and taking food orders isn’t enough anymore.”

“How long have you been there?”

“Three years.”

The innkeep managed to stifle a laugh. He cleared his throat again. “So… Hymns, huh? Good luck with that.”


*bunjiro = asshole, in Drow

Repth Dawnflash

Her name was Repth Dawnflash. She stood around 5 foot 5, usually with a confident stance. She had a pretty face, her bright blue eyes shining as bright as her smile when greeting customers. Repth had a habit of flipping her bright blonde hair to the side in a flirtatious manner when trying to close out a deal haggling with a customer. If her looks didn’t pull in money her quick wit and fast-paced bargaining did.

She was no simple merchant however, but a skilled thief as well. While her traveling store was a legitimate business, the real money came from relocating the money from her customer’s pockets outside of a sale.

She learned all she knew from her father, her mother passing from illness while Repth was still a baby. Whether her father’s occupation changed from merchant to thief because of the financial burden of raising Repth alone or had he always done this she didn’t know. But once she was old enough he let her in on the secret.

“You’re not one or the other, you’re both equally. Remember that.” Her father’s usual plan was to build up business relationships with those with the fattest wallets in whichever city they found themselves at, finding out who had the most to take. His own quick tongue and flirtation landed him many business deals, selling high priced goods while learning a few secrets thanks to his clients feeling a sense of security and comfort. Deceitful, yes, but they had plenty of money to share he always told her.

Of course there were a few panicked nights when her father came back to their camp bleeding, having run into guards and being forced to defend himself. Each time, however, he managed to escape his pursuers, avoiding enough injury to not leave a blood trail.

“The money is the goal, we aren’t murderers. Never draw your weapon unless you’re attacked first. But no money is worth your life or another’s.” Her father was not one for violence if he could help it, despite others in their profession, and Repth took that to heart. The only items she ever saw her father taking with him were his cloak, a well-made dirk, and of course his mask.

The mask was painted to look like a clown’s face, with near slits for eyes and a large, exaggerated smile. Repth was never sure if it truly had magical properties, but something about that mask seemed to simply transform him from his smooth-talking merchant self to a nigh uncatchable master thief. Once the reports of a thieving jester in town bubbled up, they knew it was time to move on from their current camp.

“Then you’re gone just as fast as their money is, never stay in the same area for too long once you begin thieving.” Repth had gotten used to traveling, never putting her roots down too deep in any one place knowing what her father was doing. She loved to experience the larger cities, particularly because they could stay longer than the smaller towns, where a single theft could put everyone on the watch for the thief in the unique mask.

Things went smoothly for years, Repth learning the tricks of both trades and becoming a skilled apprentice to her father, but one day she awoke alone in camp. Her father had seemed to disappear without a trace, unusual for him even as a thief. All she found was his cloak folded up in his usual resting place, his dirk and mask resting on top of it with a hastily written note telling her she was old enough to handle herself from now on. Something about this wasn’t right, she thought. There were too many things out of place for him to simply have abandoned her.

Repth took up her father’s place, the merchant people loved during the day while the thief everyone wanted to catch at night. Only she had another goal: find out what happened to her father. Was he kidnapped? Was he killed? Did he leave to save her? She wouldn’t rest until she found out, using all that he had taught her, keeping the thieving jester alive.

Vahcivent Uldross / Vahcivent the Pure

> The following journal entry has been translated from elvish by Professor Heldrik Festus, an Archmage of Sembia <

Sunday, November 9, 1384

To Whom It May Concern:

I know not where, when, or to whom this letter will find itself once I am gone, but I feel it necessary to write these words, for tonight could be the last night my thoughts are my own.  I do not expect to wake in the morn, the man I am at this moment, so let my last will and testament be known here and now.

My name is Vahcivent Uldross, and I wish to be remembered as I am.  As I was.  I was born on April 17, 1351, in small town called Breece just outside of Arabel, in Cormyr.  Do not bother to go looking for it.  No mapmaker ever deemed it worthy of ink and parchment, and quite frankly, nor do I.  I have not since returned to those horrid grounds since my sixteenth birthday, and so shall it remain.  For all I know, it has been overrun with orcs, goblins, and countless other greenskins.  Good riddance, if such words are true.  Lord, let them be.  Forgive me, I am diverging from my true purpose for recording these words.  I am a man born into slavery.  None else would call it such, but believe me, I know slavery when I see it.  Better yet, when I am thrust upon it.  My parents, Kossic and Helen Uldross, were professors of abjuration at the Arabel Academy of Wizardry.  Though most of the staff were of elven decent, my human parents, brilliant and loving as they were, felt no animosity from their peers.  In fact, they were held with such great esteem, the normally xenophobic elves allowed my parents to gaze upon the Eleaya e’ Alna; the lexicon of elves.  It is an ancient document, woven with magic older than the world itself, that describes the creation of elves in exquisite detail, according to my parents.  Under normal conditions, such text is permitted only to elven eyes.  These are the people my parents were.  But this was all before the Lord of Cormyr drafted my parents, and all their colleagues, to the war.  King Broggun of Impiltur had demanded the nations of Cormyr and Sembia pay taxes on any goods that shipped to their lands through the Sea of Fallen Stars.  The lords of Cormyr and Sembia refused to accept the bully tactics of Broggun, which did not sit well with the barbaric king of Impiltur.  Broggun and his men marched across the Earthspur Mountains and through the Dalelands to wage war upon us.  The soldiers of Sembia and Cormyr are no stranger to blade, which is why confusion and fear swept over our people when it was the wizards of Arabel who were called upon to defend our lands.  Our wise and cunning lord felt that a frontal assault with martial warriors would be exactly what Broggun expected.  To maximize his leverage, it was decided that an assault team of experienced arcanists would meet Broggun and his savages at the edge of our kingdom, for that would be the last of his expectations.  While my parents and their colleagues were profound in ways that would shatter a normal mind, they were simply no match for an army of brutes, armed with iron and steel.  Nearly the entirety of Cormyr’s forces were destroyed.  Those who survived, fled like cowards to the wilderness.

I was but a boy when this happened.  Barely six years old, and I don’t mind saying, not much to look at.  Though I suppose that has not changed much.  I still possess the muscle mass of a man sick with the plague.  My pale, damn near translucent skin does not help my thin, sickly image either.  I digress.  This is not important, and my current condition does not reflect the man I am.  After my parents were gone, I was sold into labor by the nation of Cormyr.  My once bright future of attending the Arabel Academy of Wizardry was over, and all the positive influence in my life with it.  I was removed from my home by brainless thugs, whose jobs were to destroy lives while making petty copper from the nation.  I stood in the street and watched as they gutted my former home.  I recall in that moment, I imagined they were the ones who had killed my parents.  As they blindly ravaged through my parents’ personal belongings, I recalled the first time in my life I ever felt hate.  Days later I was sold, as I already mentioned, to a couple of half-orc city workers.  To this day, I never learned how to spell their names, so I shall not immortalize their pathetic lives in this entry, but know this:  they existed and I am glad they met the fate they did.  Upon the scroll they signed in front of me, the words, “LEGAL GUARDIAN” could plainly be seen, but these horrible monsters never intended to treat me like the son I could have been.  It would have been too easy for poor Vahcivent to be accepted into a loving home after the tragedy that befell him.  My new guardians took me into their home, so that I could be their personal servant.  As they explained to me on many occasions, their days were spent with sweat and grueling manual labor, for the good of all the people of Breece, so it fell to me to upkeep their home and prepare their food.  Forcing a child like myself into a world like this was bad enough, but I could accept my fate, knowing I had shelter.  But it did not end there.  “The soup is too spicy!” they’d yell.  “The pots were not scrubbed!”  “My chair creaks!”  By days end, I was physically exhausted, but I pushed on, day after day.  One unfortunate night, while cooking supper, I became distracted and fixed upon a canary just beyond the window sill.  I lost myself in it’s song, but was quickly forced back into reality by the smell of burning meat.  The peppered pork I had been instructed to cook was black.  That night was the first night I was struck.  It would be the first of many nights.  Upon learning I would not fight back, they deemed it reasonable to lash out at me in fits of violence when my work did not meet their standards.  It was their senseless attacks against me that would spell their demise.

It was an exceptionally hot night, I remember.  I was a boy of sixteen.  I laid upon my filthy bedroll, having recently failed to remain as silent as they had wished me to be, and was punished with a strip of rusted chainmail across my back.  The pain abruptly shifted to shame, and then anger.  For months, I had succumbed to their petty ways, but something had begun brewing inside of me.  I had terrible thoughts.  I imagined myself ripping their very souls from their body and tearing them asunder for all the world to see.  I was terrified of my own thoughts.  I feel the fear now, as I write this, that I felt then.  It washed over me, like torrential rain.  As I laid staring up at the leaky ceiling in my room, my ears alerted me to someone at my door.  The wooden creak of the poorly crafted door could likely be heard down the street.  Ugh.  What does he want now?  I sat up, eager to beam a nasty look upon his ugly, scarred face.  I glared at the doorway, but the eyes that glared back were not the eyes of a half-orc.  Its eyes were like an orange blaze, flickering in the dark room from the sharpest red to the hottest white.  It pained me to stare directly at them.  Its skin was like the night sky, a glossy black, mixed with shades of deep violet that shimmered when struck by the stray moonbeams that shone through the window.  It stood just beyond the threshold of my doorway, hunched over to prevent its ridged head from scraping the ceiling.  Its arms were terrifyingly long, stretching down to its knees, and ending in mangled claws on its four-fingered hands.  The oddity of its oblong face was surpassed only by its painfully obvious lack of ears or a nose.  Its mouth was small and featureless.  I was frozen in fear.  I tried to scream, but no sound escaped my gaping mouth.  I tried to flee, but my body refused to obey.  Or maybe the being itself was commanding me to stay put.  Then it spoke.  Not in the way you’d expect.  And not in that way you’d expect either.  Its words came not from its mouth, nor were they projected into my mind.  Its words manifested themselves in my very being.  It could sense my rage, and in that moment…I could actually feel what it was saying to me, without any actual words spoken in any way.  It understood everything, and so did I.  There are no words in Elvish or Dwarfish or any tongue of mortals that can convey what I felt, but my fear subsided a bit when it expressed to me that it was there to help.

To my surprise, it tried to reason with me.  It knew how I felt about my “parents”, and this terrible creature wanted to help.  Imagine that!  This…thing, no doubt a being of evil intention, dwelling from some deep lower plane of existence, filled with damned souls and tortured spirits, was trying to help me.  Laughable, I know.  It is much easier to judge when you are not in its presence.  It told me that it would bestow upon me the power to exact revenge on my “parents”, and free myself from this life of labor.  In turn, my only repayment was that every soul that I set free with my new-found power would become property of Orcus, Prince of Undeath.  And with each of these souls taken, of piece of my own would also be claimed for Orcus.  These pieces would add up over a great deal of time, and when the last piece was plucked from my body, I would be granted eternal life and unimaginable powers.  I knew not of this prince, but even if I had, I sincerely doubt it would have swayed my decision.  I leaped from my bedroll and spoke aloud for the first time since it had appeared.

“Give me this power!” I screamed.  I had not considered anything other than the power to avenge my real parents, and to free myself from this life.  Upon hearing my enthusiasm, it too made a sound for the first time.  It chuckled in a way that forced me back down to the floor.  Its laugh was a haunting, abyssal symphony of stone grinding against steel.  A terrible melody of the screams of men driven torso first against a pointed death.  It was the sound of every horror your mind can imagine, and then some it cannot.

“His will, be done”, were the final words spoken by the creature before it disappeared into the darkness.  His otherworldly voice was overshadowed by the terror that is the image of his outstretched claw, reaching towards me and touching the side of my face.  I fell backwards even further, trying to scurry away from it, but before I could realize what happened, it was gone.  I quickly rubbed my face where its claw had grazed me.  There was no residue.  No scratch.  Nothing.  Then it happened.  The moment that I had been waiting for.  My “parents” emerged into the room, smashing the door  against the wall, demanding to know why I was yelling in the middle of the night.  But he did not care for why.  His strip of chainmail yearned to touch my back, and he began to advance towards me, his chain already in hand.  I recoiled, afraid once again.  I stretched out my arm to defend myself, as a reactionary.  I turned my head, closed my eyes, and braced for the impact…but it would never come.  My outstretched hand grasped onto his arm, and he collapsed.  Correction: he screamed, and then collapsed.  The incredibly loud thud onto the wooden floorboards startled me out of my nightmarish stupor.  I turned and looked upon my handiwork.  My “father” lay before me, cold to the touch.  His she-beast screeched out, and stumbled backwards into the hallway.  I stared at her, then back at his body, then back to her once more.  I could actually see the expression in her face change from shock to anger.  It was fascinating in that moment to see the gears working in her head, as she realized her life partner was no more.  Her anger grew to rage.  It was a common sight, I’m afraid.  Half-orcs are quite prone to losing their temper, it would seem.  She rushed me, arms outstretched to smash me into the wall.  I didn’t know it at the time, but I was never in any danger at all.  She fell just as the last did.  Her flesh upon mine.  How morbidly fascinating.

With their deaths, a mighty weight was lifted from my shoulders.  Suddenly I was burden-free.  I must have sat there, staring at their lifeless bodies for hours.  Certainly seemed like hours anyways.  I would go on to be confused about that nights events for days.  Weeks.  Probably months.  I don’t recall when it happened, but sometime after that night…the monster returned.  I had been sleeping in an abandoned barn I stumbled upon while fleeing Breece.  With their deaths, I was sure the authorities would come looking for me.  I shouldn’t have been surprised, but apparently they were equally disliked by the rest of the city.  No one ever came for me.  As I said, I had been sleeping in an abandoned barn.  I assumed I would spend my life on the run, but I was determined to discover what happened to me that night.  What it did to me.  I discovered very little on my own, but the night it returned, I was officially informed of my new gift.  It came to me like an old friend, and explained in great detail what was to come.  It told me about the dread necromancers.  I had never heard of such a thing.  They were a cabal of powerful sorcerers, instilled with a charnel touch, that drew the very life out anyone it touched.  The dread necromancers were among the living, but their thirst for destruction was the undoing of their life.  They were cursed to an unlife.  While counted among the living, and still requiring food, shelter, air, and water, they had an excruciatingly slow decent into a life of undeath.  It came little by little.  The hardening of flesh.  The disdain for flavor.  The rotting of eyes.  I demanded to know…why me?  I am not an evil man.  I never asked for this demonic power to thrash the living and thrust their souls to a pit, so that a demon of death could gnaw at them for all eternity.  It made the intentions of Orcus very clear to me.  This gift is offered only to those who would give their life to take another.  The anger, shame, and pain I had erected in my heart was enough for ten men.  I was told I was an “exceptional candidate”.

“So what not?” I demanded to know.  “What becomes of me now?  I have no intention of murder again.  Initially, I would have loved to take revenge against that silly lord who sent my true parents to their deaths, but not like this.  I will not allow my soul to be shred to bits, as scraps for some hell beast.  What’s done is done, and now I would put it in the past.  It glared at me, then pointed to the barn door.

“They are your new lineage”.  It said.  “Wait for them.  Wait in the night”.

Then it was gone.  Again.  My confusion, while lessened, seem to be even less focused now.  The history of dread necromancy was fresh on my mind, and while the very thought of it conjured images both exciting and frightening, the most interesting part of the evening was still to come.  Well, I can dwell upon it now, with misty-eyed nostalgia and say “interesting”, but as with most of these events…it was horrific at the time.  I was awoken from my slumber by the sounds of the barn door creaking open.  I sat up, rubbed the sleep from my eyes and drew a rusted dagger from my waistband that I had found while rummaging through a carriage, wrecked and left on the side of an old, barely used road.  I waited for the intruder to draw nearer.  I called out to them, but there was no answer.  The manner is which this being presented their abrupt presence was not the same as the creature who had visited me earlier in the night, and once before.  I waited and waited for them to step into the candlelight that shone next to my sleeping area.

Skeletons.  Skeletons.  Two of them, to be exact.  I had never seen such a thing.  Their jaws hung agape, like loose chandeliers.  Their expressionless faces sat upon their muddy skulls, slightly tilted to the right.  They swayed ever so subtly, but they made no motion to approach me once they stepped into the light.  As expressed earlier, I was terrified, but I kept my resolve.  I clutched the dagger even more tightly, and I questioned their presence aloud.  I was foolish.  At the time, I had no clue what a skeleton was and was not capable of.  Speech eluded them long ago.

I would like to pause here for a moment, if I may.  This letter is getting quite long, and honestly, I am not sure I have enough ink to explain every inane detail of my life.  I shall instead do my best to address the events leading up to this day as briefly as possible.

After that night, I would never see the beast again, but the dead…the dead followed me everywhere I went.  More and more, they rose from their earthly graves just to serve me.  To some, this sounds incredibly appealing, I’m sure.  The idea of a servant who requires neither food nor payment.  Let me assure you, one who associates with the dead such as I do, does not appeal much to anyone else.  The stench they carry with them.  The bits of flesh that tear from their bodies as they mistakenly bump into something.  The vile fluids that drip from them and stain the floors.  You would do well to pray to be sheltered from this monstrosity for all days.  I learned to value the companionship of the dead over the living, for every living thing I touch, dies.  Since that night, I have enjoyed the company of dead men and women, and only dead men and women.  I have gone through great lengths over the years to learn of what I’ve become.  The more knowledge I have of this affliction, the better suited I am to fight it.  I feel myself slipping.  Even as I write this, my hand trembles.  I have ascended, or rather I should say descended, to a horrible place.  I have done the research.  I know what awaits me at dawn.


Part of me welcomes it.  Ha.  Amazing.  I managed to write that with a straight face.  ‘Tis an awful thing.  Awful, because it’s true.  I am surrounded every day by the dead.  They are there when I awake.  They are there when I drift asleep.  Some of them mumble to themselves.  Yes, they provide a great deal of protection, but one does not know the meaning of madness until they have spent the time I have engaging their company.  I write this letter as a last record of my sane thoughts.  If I am never seen again, let it be know that dread necromancers are out there, and that they wield a power too dangerous for this world.  Trust them not!  I do not want this gift.  The dead are gathering around me now.  Their presence draws the very blood from my body!  They scratch at the door.  They bang against the windows.  Their mutterings and moans can drive the most brilliant mind mad.  I can take it no longer.

My name is Vahcivent Uldross.
I was born in Breece, in Cormyr, of Kossic and Helen Uldross, the only human wizards of the Arabel Academy of Wizardry.
I am between 5’6″ and 5’8″, depending on what shoes I am wearing that day.
I am thin and pale, as I have learned to keep indoors, away from the living who would like to destroy me.
My hair, though mostly fallen from my skull now, is a rich red, just as my fathers was.
My eyes are a pale olive green, though I doubt the color of my eyes will matter much in the future.
This day I find myself wearing white robes, adorned with the etchings of creatures I do not recognize.  It is filthy and made with a material of no value.

I make this information clear because tomorrow…I do not know what will happen.  Should I return to this world, with a newly acquired body…I want it to be known that I will be unstoppable.  I have spent the last several years as what some would call an adventurer.  Such a dull name.  What I did was far more than adventuring.  I aligned myself with unsavory beings in hope that with their help, I could learn all that was available to learn about dread necromancy.  The others welcomed me because of the dead that followed me, and because of the plethora of supernatural powers that manifested in me when I got angry.  I tell you this because it needs to be known that I wanted none of this.  I did many things while adventuring that I am not proud of, but it was all in the quest for knowledge, and now…now the time has come.  The skills I have acquired while aligning myself with others are most impressive.  Tomorrow, when this affliction strikes, these skills will be too terrible for anyone to wield.  I made powerful friends in my search for power.  These friends are not the kind most would keep.  There are drow and svirfneblin who would call me “friend”.  Those who would keep the company of a lich are arguably worse than the lich itself.  That is no friendly troupe.  I promise I will seek them out, and we will be fueled only by the evil desires of our black hearts.  Your worlds adventuring parties of dwarven paladins and halfling rogues will pale in comparison to the might of a dread necromancer and his allies.  I weep for your fate.

Lastly, I have decided to write this letter in elvish, in hopes that it will find its way to the hands of someone who can spread the truth of what happened to the elves who fought and died alongside my parents.  I fear that once I am no longer myself, I will not care to spread the truth.  I am nearly out of ink now.  I shall take my leave, as it were.  I can no longer feel my right foot.  The numbness is spreading quickly.  May your gods save you all.

There is no mercy from the servants of Orcus.  His will, be done.

Vahcivent the Pure
Sunday, November 9, 1384

> The writing ends here.  This letter currently resides in the archives of the Library of Arcanists, in Neverwinter.  It serves as a glimpse into the last words of a madman.  Most alarming, was that the house this letter was found in, was completely empty, including all food and clothing.  However, “Vahcivent the Pure” was etched with a knife or dagger of sorts into the wall of the room in which this letter was found.  There have been no successful scryings to locate the man known as Vahcivent. <

As a gamer for life, I've watched many things come and go. My controller has changed color and shape many times, along with my console. A fan of action RPGs and the like, I'm always willing to give a good game the chance to impress me. || Editor-In-Chief || @GamingMistress || GamingMistress@DigitalNoob.com

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