Lirieleth the Grand Master of Changelings

Role

Chapter 7

Spittle drips from his cracked and crusted lips, spread wide in a malicious,
fang-bearing grin of ecstasy alloyed with insanity. His breath comes hot and
heavy as he stalks his whimpering, petrified prey. Calling upon he innate
strength of the truly wicked, he bunches his muscles and springs upon her
lithe, half-starved elven form.Chained as she is, with nowhere but small
circles to run about the stake that anchors her within the grimy cell, she
cowers, shuddering not unlike a mouse hearing the shriek of an owl overhead
at the darkest hour of the night. He pounces upon her, his human weight
lending force to his maniacal rage. Her face is masked in terror, though the
tenancy of that visage quickly fades into a defeated, expressionless
resignation before her eyes roll back into her head and she fades into the
welcome embrace of nothingness.She will know what happened, but will never
remember it. The fates are unusually kind, this time.

Heavy footsteps echo down the dark corridor, rousing her from fitful sleep.
The rattle of keys and the turn of the lock cause her to open a swollen,
blood-crusted eye. She stares warily towards the entrance, feigning sleep
even as her body begins to convulse in abject terror. The termagant shaking
causes her chains to rattle, belying her awareness of the intruders within
the small, dank cell. The muttering of the beast, for he is certainly that,
escalates into screams of rage and fear as the forms that have entered the
cramped space remove his chains and utter the indecipherable incantations of
the arcane, bending him to their will. As he is lead away, his face a mask
of terror even the strongest magics cannot constrain, a smile spreads across
her lips. Murmuring quietly to herself as the door closes and the lock
turns, her hand settles upon the growing lump of her belly, gently stroking.
Slowly, the pains ease into a constant throb. Soon, she thinks, this
aberration will be drawn from her. If it does not consume her, first.

Pain. Dark rivers of undulating, unrelenting and unremitting pain course
through her lithe body, culminating in backbreaking, jaw clenching, teeth
crushing convulsions. Her cries of agony do not go unnoticed. Even as the
last throws of agony erupt between her legs, crowning in a pool of mucous and
blood, she feels something break within her. As the placenta encased form
slides out from within her, a wave of darkness, interminable eternity, slowly
consumes her consciousness. She will never be aware of the dark, distinctly
feminine form standing over her cooling body, uttering unintelligible phrases
that lift the still form from between her wretched thighs. She will never
know the road her progeny will travel, that its twists and turns will be more
vile, by far, than her own deplorable existence. Standing over the corpse of
her recently expired slave, the newcomer nods her head with a smirk of dark

Role

Chapter 6

satisfaction, turning to exit even as the small form begins to wriggle in the
cool, damp air, carried out before her on the winds of magic. "Perfect," she
thinks to herself with a wicked smile. The fates have swung to new lows, the
depths of evil saturating the beginning of another miserable life.

Role

Chapter 5

A serpentine hiss whistles throughout the room, ending in an anticipating
slap of braided cord upon unprotected flesh. White light fills his vision as
agony courses throughout his being. Cries of anguish spill forth from his
broken form, eliciting a laugh of pleasure from the female form behind him.
He tugs helplessly at the chains holding him aloft, tears of resignation and
pain streaming down his scarred, olive colored cheeks. Despite the pain, his
body responds to his expectancy of the next flesh-rending slap.Instead, he
feels the warm heat of breath upon his neck, and hears the drowish whisper of
promised pain. A wild, absurd thought forms within his mind. Pain? Can
there possibly be any more pain?

Arcane words follow the whispering. With a wince of pain, he cranes his neck
to look over his shoulder, fear of the unknown momentarily dominating the
pain coursing through his frail form, subduing the intensity of his torments
to allow him brief control. The air beside his tormentor shimmers and
twists, slowly culminating in the form of a bestial, devilish imp. With a
shudder of recognition mixed with revulsion, he knows instinctively that
everything that has come before will pale in the face of the impending
torture.

Rough, seemingly scaled hands run across his flesh, raising the small hairs
on his neck and acidic bile to his mouth. Try as he might, he cannot escape
from the image of the devilishly grinning beast, appearing before his minds
eye even as his body clenches reflexively, his eyes clamped shut in complete
repulsion. The hands behind him caress the recently opened wounds, pinching,
poking, prodding and pulling. It elicits further cries of anguish.
Breathing heavily, insanity threatens to overwhelm him.His legs are forced
apart, and he feels the last of his youth ripped away as the archfiend
penetrates his body, piercing him to the heart of his being. He collapses
into the depths of his mind, his formerly cohesive thoughts disseminating
into incomprehensible wails of misery. Oddly, no further sound escapes from
his lips.

He will only recall in the darkest of nightmares the events that followed the
rape of his entire being. Spells further bend and break his body, but he
knows no pain. Tortures are visited upon his entirety by fiend and drow
alike, but he will recall only in fractured dreams. When his body offers no
further sport, dominance of his mind and spirit no challenge, he is discarded
like the remnants of a feast, thrown among other refuse and left for whatever
scavengers happen upon him first. Hours pass by unnoticed. Slowly, one
eyelid opens. A broken finger bends. The belly growls. A hunger has come.
A hunger no mere food could ever sate.

Role

Chapter 4

Dark whispers echo within the heavy black cloak of darkness, murmured
promises of seduction commingling with veiled threats of wickedness and
depravity, one crackling, rustling winged beast as nearly indecipherable from
the next in a cascade of unseen telling. Slowly, as if crossing the vastness
of a desert, another sound emerges from the shadows. The steady drip of
water echoes within the lightless tunnel, carried upon a cool, steady breeze.


"Odd, winds here," crosses the mind of the tortured being slowly
regaining his faculties. One thickly scarred eye opens, blurred vision
slowly finding the definition of his strange surroundings. He begins
crawling up the slight incline, reaching desperately towards a bend in the
rocky tunnel.

The other eye snaps open as a small pinprick of light at the end of
the tunnel reveals tiny dancing motes of dust. With an agony he knows will
remain with him forever, he crawls to his feet, staggering towards the
lambent glow.

He approaches the pinpoint, animosity slowly growing into a cry of
feral rage as he realizes he cannot escape through the narrow opening before
him. As his anger builds, something in his mind begins to draw upon the
unspent energy of a lifetime of torment. With a final shove of anger and
hatred, the build up of energy explodes from him, directed towards the small
hole.

With ear shattering force, the tiny hole explodes, casting debris in
every direction. Where the small pinpoint once penetrated the bowels of the
land, a gaping, jagged tooth hole the size of two men stares openly,
unblinking into the depths.

Unnoticed by the unconscious form lying prostrate at its feet.

Role

Chapter 3

As he limps among the city streets, meandering aimlessly around the
myriad market stalls, taverns, and brothels, he marvels at the uniqueness of
it all.His hitched step leads him towards a fruit stall, leaning into it to
pluck some food for his grumbling belly, but he stops short. The weight of a
hand, made heavier for the trepidation it instills within him, slowly turns
him away from his task.He turns to meet the penetrating gaze of an elderly
man, jauntily garbed in the trappings of a versed mage.

'You appear old, but you are not. Your eyes betray an awareness that
does not meet with your appearance. And I sense something within you that
can be cultivated into worth. If you are willing to make sacrifices.'


Astonishment and curiosity threaten to overwhelm him. He works his
thickly scarred tongue about his suddenly dry mouth, afraid hell be unable
to respond.

'Do not answer me yet, child. Simply nod if you wish to learn more
about yourself, and perhaps, in time, escape from the tortured frame that
contains your spirit.'

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, he nods, daring against all odds of his
existence, everything he knows against hope, that some truth can be found
within the words of this capricious stranger.

Weeks and months pass, each day bringing with it trials and pains.
They are readily dismissed as Lirieleth, named so by his master for his epic
poor luck, continues to grow in his abilities, despite the haunting and
daunting history resulting from his many tortures at the hands of planar
beasts and the malcontents of the Underdark.

It quickly becomes apparent that his grasp of the magics will never
permit him the control of a true mage. Instead, like his guildmaster, he has
grown enough in his proficiency to become adept in shifting into the myriad
forms of the shapeshifters guilds.

On a rainy day, his body dripping sweat and trembling with
exhaustion, threatening to collapse, his guildmaster turns to him, the gleam
in his eye reflected in the knowing smirk upon his lips.

'Your day has come, and it is time for your sacrifice,' he utters
with no small hint of malice.

Craning his tortured, misshapen neck to observe his master, Lirieleth
ponders his words, offering no immediate response.

'I told you that you would make sacrifices. That time has come.'

'I have not taught you thus out of some sense of compassion. No, you
have been molded to fit my own designs, and the designs of a faction many
only speak of in fearful whispers.'

It crosses the young mages mind to prepare to defend himself, but
morbid curiosity compels him to remain and hear out this man who has given
much. How much will he demand?

'There exists a cabal of sorts, known as the Scions of Eternal Night.
have been chosen to serve the goals of this cult. You have no choice in
the matter, yet must strive to gain their acceptance.'

Role

Chapter 2

'You will give up your life to the Scions of Eternal Night.'

'That is your sacrifice, and payment to me for the teachings I have
offered you.'

'Go forth and learn of them, then find their members and prove to
them that you have enough value to warrant their attention and teachings.'

'Do not fail me, Lirieleth.'

All things considered, with hatred and anger running rampant in
his blood, Lirieleth silently revels in the task at hand, though
His face never betrays his glee.

'Very well then.'

Role

Chapter 1

Long past are the lightless subterranean days with the seemingly unending
tortures that simultaneously crippled and molded a young half-breed into a
ball of hatred and anger. Despite the passage of time, and the dissemination
of harbored hatred upon the innocent and foolhardy, Lirieleth's capacity for
anger has not diminished. If anything, those that have stepped before him in
opposition have added fuel to a fire that will burn eternal, merely
furthering his drive for the obliteration of everything that is life on this
world.

Often, he thinks back to the stranger of his past. A guildsman who took him
under wing for no other reason than to further the ambitions of his fold of
sordid, maniacal demons of apocalypse. Well, perhaps a few proved merely
fodder, meat shields from behind which the true workings of dark magic could
be properly woven. He thinks back to the education he received, of the
powers innate, and of the prophecy he was to fulfill.

Something remains lacking. The irony of this notion is not lost upon
Lirieleth, who smirks when considering that he should want for anything
beyond exacting revenge upon a world that scorned him from birth. But the
taste of power has a way of changing things. Just as the rape and pillaging
of a youth sparks the first molecules of hatred deep within the recesses of
his consciousness, the fine wine that is power tickles the roof of the mouth,
sends a shiver of delight through the body, and curls the toes in ecstasy.
Unlike hatred and anger, power remains frustratingly ethereal, tangible and
retainable for only fleeting moments of time.

Among the fold, carrying always his sinister and dark purpose, Lirieleth has
found a way to gather that power. With the addition of powerful new spells,
and forms from which to temporarily escape the confines of his tortured body,
now even permitting him to truly take flight as he visits his pain upon
others, life has offered new options. Where many would find hope for
something better, anger annihilates the notion, not unlike a wall of razing
fire erupting over and down a hillside, eradicating everything living in its
path. No, this new power, which must grow, must ever increase, will bring
about the nightmares this cruel, unfair world deserves and serve as a conduit
to the rage burning within this tortured soul.

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