Role

Chapter 17

Azhelak settled into a camp just outside the Refuge. The air felt strange, almost still. His training in
observation told him that the wild's often sense trouble before he. Were the Imperials coming? He thought.
But he sensed none walking the realms. Perhaps it was simply a calm before a storm? He curled up into a
ball under his makeshift tent and was sucked into a sleep faster than usual. He found himself plunged into
the dreamplane, though not like usual. He was far more conscious to his surroundings than usual. He fought
to wake but with no success. What kind of sorcery is this? He thought.

Then he found himself pinned to the ground by stakes that impaled various parts of his flesh. Standing over
him was a figure who smelled of death and rot, clothed in familiar furs. He knelt next to Azhelak in the
dream and Azhelak made note that he held a broken shaft of a spear with Runes that reminded him of home.
The Lich warned him that his freedom from the urges that the curse produced was also a freedom from the
protection of the Ancients which held the Lich from the true essence of the Tul'vharun. As he spoke these
words he took a vial of Azhelak's blood. He then warned, or perhaps promised, to destroy all that Azhelak
holds dear. The Refuge, the Sun, Andira... The Lich told him that the only way he could save them is with
his sacrifice.

And with that Azhelak was awake. Sucking air as though he'd been hit in the chest by a deadfall. It was warm
outside, though he felt cold to the bones. He now knew that the Lich not only still exists, but that he is
the cause of the curse, not the Ancients. Armed with this knowledge he is prepared to move forward. To free
his people at all costs.