Thurmonbrue Eisenwald the Broken Spectre, Maimed by a Cautery Iron

Role

Chapter 7

I feel I need to submit an explanation here. So here is the OOC Version and this will be the only
time I go OOC to breech this tale I've taken so long to devise.

This is my third necromancer. The first two were an experiment to get comfortable with the class.
The goals I have in mind are:

-Ride a necromancer to the end whether its good or bad. Becoming death, con death, age death.

-Become a lich. I want to do it just to say I did it. Kinda the last great endevour kinda dealie.
Picture me with a lich or bust tramp stamp on my back :P!

-Become a member of the Cult of the Scarab and gun for a leader position.

-Try to control my anger a bit better (which I feel I've been doing with more success that any other
previous character.)

-Write a role y'all find entertaining enough that you want to see more and not just go "Bleh, he tried."
So I tried to even make a description that weaved in elements of my role. I hope you all find it to be
a good read atleast even if it doesn't merit much good grace.

-To make a Scarabaeus follower that actually doesn't dead end itself. (I find I stall out on characters
quite frequently and they just putter out and die, but I admit this is the most fun I've had in quite
a long time.)

Okay I'm done! More to come after I think my next chapter or two out a bit more throughly.

Role

Chapter 6

The maiden looks to Thurmonbrue and beckons him closer. "Kneel here and be still." she says. With deft
fingers she begins to weave the beads into a long braid out his shaggy white mane. When she is finished
she slashes a barbed fingernail across the half-drows cheek drawing droplets of blood. Smearing each of
the beads with it she says now you will know the masters will and feel his desires as if they are your
own.

Stiffening and shuddering the half-drow begins to go into a fit of seisures as visions dance inside his
mind. A rotting and skeletal lich with tentacles drooping from his face cackles with rasping laughter
beckoning your forward and opening his arms almost looking as if you embrace him. So burns the desire
to see this come to light. The master shall become this being. You sense the half-drow's jealousy at
this revealed vision.

You see men and women all donned in robes of black and red doing battle with paladins, priests and
warriors atop the battlements of a burning fortress with the lich spearheading the assault shouting
"For the Great Father Scarabaeus! Pile the corpses of the profane so he might bask in their demise!"
So burns the desire to see this come to pass. You once again sense Thurmonbrue's jealousy. Those robes
shall be mine! You hear the flicker of thought for a brief moment.

You see the illithid lich kneeling in a darkened mausoleum with corpses of the profane piled around
him. A presence of unimaginable awe and power standing next to him smiling with detacted amusement.
"You've done well lich." booms a voice shaking like the crumbling of mountains making you break out
into sweat as if you stand within the sun itself. "Rise and take your place as the instrument of my
wrath." So burns the desire to see this come to pass. You sense an burst of jealousy so strong it
almost overwhelms you and saddens your soul.

"So this is what the master desires." muses the half-drows thoughts. "I shall obey and see that....
his?..... desire comes to pass." You still sense the emmense feelings of confusion and jealousy
glaring forth.

Role

Chapter 5

Striding foward the illithid paces around the shackled dwarf, then stops placing several small beads
embossed with tiny red scarabs on the dwarves chest. Closing its milky white eyes he goes through
a short series of complex geastures. You see a swirling black bolt of energy leave his hands and
swirl about the beads before being absorbed into them. "That will let you know your purpose, they
will set you upon the path to the fathers embrace. You will see the truth of all men and know your
most secretive inner desires. Now begin!" booms a mental command.

Suddenly the eight undead brute stride forward plunging eight ebony ceremonial daggers deeply into
the dwarves flesh. Eyes snapping wide in agony the dwarves life begins to wane with thick gushes of
his lifeblood. The air fills with barely precievable ghastly groans and ghostly wails, it may well
be your imagination, but you think you see a black door of shadows rise up behind the altar it doors
swinging open allowing the groans and wails to be heard loudly and with blaring clarity accosting
you ears. Tendrils of black shadows jut from the doorway seeming to blast into the corpse of the
dwarf and begin to reel themselves in pulling the ghostly form of the dwarves spirit into the dark
recesses of the Realms of the dead.

Looking toward the wicked maiden the illithid commands "Now, quickly before it closes!" Grinning
maliciously the maiden strides foward and trails her fingers palm faced upward like a bowl along
the dwarven carcasses chest stopping just above the heart. A black shadowy energy pooling in her
waiting palm, dripping like jet black water. Gazing intently at the beads the suddenly flare
brightly drawing the negative energies in. With a boom and a flesh it is done, the doorway is now
gone and the maiden holds the beads above her head in triumph. The beads now glare a malevolent
red hue and pulsate like a heart beat.

"That is how it should be performed. Well done. Now finish the ceremony." echoes a mental demand.
With that the master turns and begins to leave pausing only to echo. "Do not fail me Thurmonbrue.
You shall be the instrument that allows me to rise to greatness... and perhaps one day your self
as well." lies the Illithid.

Role

Chapter 4

***The vortex of memory clouds once more before your gaze. Reaching out you snag a shadowy
tendril and yank with your mind causing it to snap into focus once more.***

The boy Thurmonbrue has now grown into a man. A long unkempt beard hangs drooping from his face
like a snarling snowy white mane. Dressed in a mages realia you see many wands and even a few
embalmed appendages attached to the sash cinching his robes closed. The scars of the the finger
grafting have long since gone a glossy pale white against his dark skin.

The half-drow kneels before his illithid master. The illithid is dressed in a ornate black satin
robe emblazed with red scarabs and his bulbous head is crowned with a black crown. A jet black altar
sits in the middle of the cavern carved with multiple tiny red runes acrossed its surface. Eight
massive undead zombies stand in a circle around it remaining absolutely still. Strapped to the altar
in shackled is an old dwarf, his eyes glassy and fogged from the destruction of his mind by the
masters innate mental prowess. Pacing around the altar is a beautiful red-haired maiden wearing a
a wicked smile as she looks at the altar and the dwarf.

"Ten years have past since I found you. You have proved to be most troublesome, but atlast your mind
as well as your body belong fully to me. You have learned much of the craft under my lash and have
proved you are the most worthy of my thralls to become my champion on the surface." burbles the
liquid like voice of the illithid in your mind. "The time has come for you to know your purpose, to
know the desire of ours to be shared. These tokens will reveal your path and instill my fervor about
you."

Role

Chapter 3

----->(This chapter previously lost to Role Bug)<-----

***The whirling vortex of the fog of memory clouds for a moment, parting
again on a different scene as the swirling aether clears once more***

The Child is slightly older now, baring new scars and the buds of lengthening
beard stubble starting to show blazing stark white against he deeply hued skin.
Laying sprawled out on the floor of a dark caverns shelf filled storeroom,
wiping blood trickling from his nose after the Master's latest mental lashing
for once again failing to reanimate the arm of a young human child set upon a
onyx and ebony altar.

"This just won't do my pet. How can you serve me if you are too oafish to even
perform the most basic spells of the craft." booms a burbling liquid voice inside
your head as the Illithid taunts the child. The revolting creature tosses a set
of barbed flesh clippers at the boys feet.

"Go remove the fingers at the tips just below the first knuckle, then go back to
corpse and to the same to the remaining arm. Make clean cuts!" boomed and mental
demand. "I've an idea on how to improve you. I cannot have you bumbling about
giving me a bad reputation. Now hurry up! the digits must remain in... somewhat fresh
condition."

***The fog closes once more before you visions. Suddenly you jolt as searing
agony races up and down your hands. Shaking your head to clear it, the fog parts
once more.***

As the young half-drow wiggles his now strangely long fingers through a complex
series of gestures, the now rotting fingerless arm suddenly lurches to life seeking
a throat to batter with its now ravaged fingers. "Much better my puppet, the grafting
seems to perform flawlessly as I expected. Now your work towards my glory shall begin."

Role

Chapter 2

----->(This chapter previously lost to Role Bug)<-----

***You are caught in a whirling vortex of images and color as you blink
in confusion. Focusing and closing your eyes you see shattered fragments
of memory of times past snap into focus and clarity.***

Visions of a half-drow toddler sitting on a mushroom shaped rock formation
gazing glassy eyes, seemingly looking at nothing. Next to the boy is a
creature born from an underdark dwellers nightmares, a creature known as an
Illithid. The creature is thin and tall with blackish-purple looking skin the
color of a deep bruise. The dark illithid necromancer known as Croh'Mantigan,
formerly of the Mantigan hide of the Illithids, now branded rogue. The creature
is burrowing two of his octopi-like tendrils drooping from is bulbous head in the
the childs brain. One slithering its way up the childs right nostril the other
ramming itself into the left ear. The remaining blackish-purple tendrils wrap
about the boys head locking it into place. The suckers attached popping against
flesh. Seeking the dense nerve clusters located within the creatures milk white
orbs roll slightly into his head as he attempts to enslave the boys mind. You
feel it speak more into your mind than hearing it with your ears.

"A bit young yet for me to fully ensnare you, but with the right mental nudges
to guide you and a few years of my tutilage you will make an excellent thrall
young one. Forget the life you once knew, you belong to me now."

Role

Chapter 1

----->(This chapter previously lost to Role Bug)<-----

***A tattered and yellowed, ancient scroll is open before you. It is covered
with diagrams, spellsay wording, and a short paragraph at the bottom inked in
blackened and crumbling blood.***



No mortal need have a fear of death. That is not to say they should throw their
lives away wantonly, but each death whether your own, those you hold dear, and
those of all around you present an opportunity. Death is inescapable even great
cities rise and fall, men live and die, even the dead eventually give way to time
and crumble into the ashes of creation, but those who hold the teaching within
close to heart are given a unique view of death. Every death opens a doorway, a
doorway into the negative infused plane of the afterlife itself. Follow these
teachings and with each death you shall learn to capitalize on the passing of
each soul. Learn to capture the shadowy negative energies of a crossing and devour
them for your own use. No death should be wasted, no passing is trival this is the
the One-Truth of this world. Fear not death, for each death brings you closer to
to seeing the truth of men and brings you closer to the Unholy Fathers everloving
embrace. Those embraced by the Father are most welcomed into death. Not as a spirit
of the dead, but a being who has conquered their fear of it and shall find comfort
in its embrace forevermore.

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