Harlsreen Phlegethon the Acquisitor of Iniquitous Armies, Elite Imperial Warlock

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Role

Chapter 13

If he wins? I rise. If he loses? My efforts with the other sects will pay
their due, and I will rise. If the Emperor retains his seat? We all lose;
and thus such an eventuality is in the best interest of all concerned to
avoid.

When the time comes, I cannot lose. I MUST not lose.

Just one person needs to be dealt with first. The last loyalist. The one
person I do not have a good angle on. Just one, dear reader.

The War Master will need to die.

What a shame.

Role

Chapter 12

Few things truly bring me satisfaction in life, dear reader. There is
momentary delight at the harvesting of a potent soul, but it is ever
overshadowed by the knowing of what lingers behind and ahead on the path.
That dread robs the joy from much that might otherwise bring it, and it is
a thing I have grown to accept.

But watching the jaws of the vice close about Sandborn day by day is
certainly one of those few things which can rouse that rare emotion in me.
You see, dear reader, there is a thing about the rule of violent men and
women. Subjects will suffer much beneath an iron fist, but they will suffer
it with resentment if they do not believe the ruler is deserving of their
obedience. And resentment is a weapon I am all too happy to sharpen in this
endeavour.

It is better to be feared than loved, but it is better to be loved than
hated; and Sandborn is neither feared to any great degree or loved at all
by his citizenry. Meanwhile, the blades love me. Both elites seek me out
and at great length, and these are bonds I shall only strengthen. A gift
here. A kind word there. All minor inconveniences, and they are what will
bind the next War Master to me even as I poison the well from which
Sandborn will think to drink.

The divines? A more difficult proposition in some ways, for blades are
simple creatures at heart. They speak the language of violence, and it is a
tongue I know well. My endeavours into faith have been less successful, and
so I must ever tread with care. However, my relationships with the rising
stars of the divine sect are strong bar for one shaman, and I will see that
one falter and fail without great issue. One young divine has even offered
overt alliance, and while this is truly promising, it must be taken in the
knowledge that said divine may never amount to anything.

The shadow is a coin toss at this juncture. The Shadow Lord is one who I
gave the oath to, and I suspect he will remember me fondly. Yet I have not
seen much of him as is the way with shadows, so I must take opportunities
as they arise to strengthen this relationship.

And so we come to the black.

I consider myself a good judge of character, dear reader; how could I not
be, when I am so gifted at everything else? The Dread Lord clearly values
me, but his efforts to strengthen our relationship clearly transpired after
his ascension. Now, of course this could simply be that he no longer
considers me a potential adversary for his ambitions. Impossible, of course.
He will know that I covet his position, and so his efforts to placate my
ambitions are evident.

But the Dread Lord has nothing to fear. Oh no. I have something else in
mind for him, after all; for why alienate such a useful ally when his
ambitions for now can only be benefitted by my own. When the time is right,
I will nudge him to take the throne.

Role

Chapter 11

By now, dear reader, you must understand that I am not a man given to
emotional outburst. Reason is a cornerstone of success. I have believed
this all of my lives. It was well reasoned to seek undeath, for it is a
power to set other powers to trembling. It was well reasoned to seek the
Empire in both cases, for what the Empire offers is a worthy ambition.
Control. Dominion. Power. And most of all: Salvation.

So the first wound to my pride was one I did not allow myself to dwell on.
I was unproven then, after all. A young black servant, and the Empire was
in dire straights and under siege on all sides. Perhaps my Dread Lord's
funds were simply running low, or perhaps he believed I would not be worth
an investment. Understandable. I did not begrudge paying for my own
promotion to black magician.

The second wound to my pride was one that festered, though. A long and
tortuous wait where the Dread Lord stewed, and where I had earned promotion
thrice over; and then he twisted that knife by telling me, despite my
triumphs in the sects name, despite my efforts, I would pay for my
promotion to warlock as well.

This I did begrudge him, and it was reasoned. I knew he had the funds,
after all. I knew I was worthy, and I knew I would pay it anyway.

So yes, dear reader; the second wound to my pride is one I did hold against
the Dread Lord. Yet again, a small slight, in the grand scheme.

The third wound of course is his choice for Dread Lord after his ascension.
Does he think me a fool? I know that he never had any intention of raising
me up, and his little contest was an attempt to compell my beautiful
collection from my personage. In truth, dear reader, I am unsure which
wounds my pride more; the assumption that I am that devoid of insight or
the Dreadlord selection proper. I rather think it might be the former, and
such pains me, for that is not reasoned.

Indignity stacked upon indignity, and it does not end here, for the tableau
I have described dictates that something more is inevitable.

The Emperor desires my collection, and he has failed to obtain it through
what passes for subtlety where he is concerned.

So soon he will command me overtly, or make me anathema when he believes a
chance is at hand.

There was a time, dear reader, when I would have yielded them to him. As a
young black servant ready to serve my Empire and sect, and play the game of
politics until the throne was mine. When I would kneel before the titanium
altar and pray to serve. When my pride was not a web of fractured glass
unwilling to suffer another casual stroke.

Now? If this Emperor commanded me in such a manner? This uncultured
embarrassment to the word cunning?

Well, dear reader. Every man has his limits.

I think that I may have found mine.

And thus, I do declare:

I will destroy you, Kareloth Sandborn. From within the Empire if you let me.

And as an Anathema if you make me.

Role

Chapter 10

It is safe to say, dear reader, that events are transpiring in a manner
that is not according to plan.

Oh, its not all bad. Indeed, my personal growth has surpassed even my high
expectations in many respects. I bind those souls that will not serve in my
future empire to me day by day, and even Akkabal has taken notice of my
frenzied harvest.
On the other hand, my political ambitions have stagnated, and in a manner
which leaves limited options open to me for proceeding; the emperor that I
so admired has vanished from the public eye, and the Dreadlord has likewise
seemingly lost the stomach for the work at hand. Thus I languish as a
humble black magician watching those of lesser breeding and ability rise in
their sects to be named so called elites. Vexing, yes. Quite vexing. Either
one of these individuals succumbing to torpor would be a thing that could
only benefit me, but both at once? A problem, and one without an
immediately obvious solution. A curse upon that most disruptive force:
coincidence.

Yet no matter, dear reader, for these matters are small in the grand scheme
of things. My inability to commune with the Holy Overseer is a larger
problem, but that will also resolve in time, of this I am sure.

No. Of far greater concern is a recent development, one not of the waking
world but wrought in a dream turned nightmare. Or at least, so I believed.
I remember walking a barren shore, a riverbank devoid of light or life. A
burning spray upon my face and that dread thundering in my ears. Of course
now, in the clarity of waking, I know this can only be the Phlegethon; that
dread beast which haunts my steps now and forever, and yet in slumber I
walked in the haze of the blissfully unaware. That fog of confusion so
common in dreams and yet here: so dangerous.

For I was so thirsty in that dream, dear reader. A craving as of a man who
has walked long in the desert and at last seen the salvation of an oasis. I
did not care that as I knelt beside the dream wrought Phlegethon and dipped
my face the boiling waters burned my dreaming skin twice over, or that it
was as iron and ash upon the tongue.


I slaked my thirst in the dream and woke suffused with infernal bloodlust,
though I cast no spell that I recall. I am familiar with the feeling by now,
dear reader. That unholy strength, that dreadful lust for battle; and I
can say with certainty that something has changed. My belief was born out
twice over: upon looking in a mirror and upon my next victim's futile
struggles when battle was met.

The question remains, is this blessing or curse: and what does this mean
for my grand ambition?

Time will tell.

Role

Chapter 9

I have gained a deep appreciation for the followers of the Holy Overseer.
The Emperor in particular exemplifies this group, and the one rising divine
I have less than indifference towards earned such by his immediate violent
rejection of the presence of a chaos spawn when we were both young. This
enlightened view seems to not be shared throughout the Empire, some even
tolerating these filthy disruptions to the point of allowing them in their
expeditions. In the matters of subjugation however, they seem unparalleled.
There is no subtle control, only obedience and the enforcement of said
obedience: and nothing else can possibly suffice for my goal.

Thus it is only proper that I seek the divine Asylum in the days to come.

Role

Chapter 8

My ascent through the imperial ranks has been a fairly smooth affair to
date. The Emperor himself promoted me to black magician in recognition of
my contributions, and thus I have become a full member of the black sect.

So what of my associates?

The Emperor is a dangerous man. Personable, certainly, and perhaps even
gregarious at times; and yet I am never in doubt of our difference in
station. That is real power, and it is a thing to be observed and studied
for the cultivation of it in myself. Perhaps it would be preferable if the
Emperor had been weak and lacking for my ambitions, but this is an
opportunity not to be squandered.

The Dread Lord is a fellow diabolist, though one that I have mixed
impressions of so far. I find his mental acuity to be rather lacking,
though such is the way of his race. Doubtless his arm is strong where the
mind is not, and that has its place. Perhaps he can be directed with a
delicate touch, though caution is required. The way of brutes is to use a
hammer when a scalpel would suffice, and so if he feels I am overreaching
his reaction may prove extreme.

The one elite of the black I have encountered is one of these newly
emerged vampyres. Laisren by name, and a creature of few words. Of him I
worry little, for though he is poised in better position to take the Dread
Lord's seat I also do not believe he will be difficult to cast down when
the time comes, for even among the newly rising imperials he seems
distinctly unpopular for some reason. Perhaps it is his nature, or his
indifference to imperial matters at large, but even rising blades have
mentioned there disdain to me in private. I will cultivate the Emperor's
favour, and monitor this particular situation carefully.

Murrezk is a young blade performing a rather meteoric rise. Highly capable
and an impressive combatant, we have formed a good working relationship.
This has proved to my benefit, as he sells me wands at reasonable prices;
but more to the point I strongly suspect he shall be the next War Master if
he continues as he is. Perhaps he will stumble and fail as so many seem to
do, but if not: the seeds of a potent political ally have been planted. He
has expressed his dislike for Laisren to me in private, which is only
better for my ambitions.

Of the Shadow I have seen little, though the Shadow Lord seems like an
efficient man. The divine I find unimpressive as of this time; none of
their rising priests have struck me as particularly noteworthy. The lone
acolyte that abides at the height of his training is a priest of that
thieving adventurer, so must be watched carefully. No doubt there is some
plot a foot, for all the smiles and offer of prayers.

And so I move to the last subject. The matter of religion.

Role

Chapter 7

- Has crafted himself a new identity. He has taken the name harlsreen
(danger from below in drow) and lastname Phlegethon. The reason for this
lastname is a weird querk of his terror: he's terrified of the Phlegethon,
but he also can't help but be facinated by it. Very much moth to the flame
kind of deal. The first name is again for intimidation, and because he
really has far too high an opinion of himself.

- The concept of fear is something which deeply facinates him on a visceral
level. This is born out of his trauma, but it will be a huge part of the
character's outlook on life - fear is the most powerful motivator, the most
powerful mechanism for control, the most deadly weapon for it is self
perpetuating.

- Sphere: order. A close second to his fear of the Phlegethon is a loss of
control or not being able to influence events. This is all tied up in his
psychosis, but he'll be murderously and uncompromisingly anti chaotic
people as a result. No room for unknown variables! Considered Death, but
though the fear of death is the chief motivator Order embodies his approach
to life much more.

Role

Chapter 6

- A Trib necromancer (basically themed on the stereotypical memetic necro
who guild sits and then rolls the dice and hopes for the best) fails the
becoming. He thought he had prepared himself for the eventuality, but when
the river Phlegethon comes to sweep him away into eternal damnation he
tries to run for it. By some strange confluence of events (I'm going with
the Hallows Eve being the reason in my head but leaving it open ended) he
manages to overcome and eject the soul of some poor necromancer student in
the guild, and the Phlegethon takes that soul instead and leaves him in his
now very newbie and diminished state.

- This event fundamentally changes our poor(?) villain. He is consumed by a
constant existential dread about the thought of the Phlegethon, hearing it
in both the waking world and his dreams, going so far as to personify it
(this is a coping mechanism to make him believe he can fight it). He is
resolved that he cannot suffer that fate, so hatches himself a somewhat
more ambitious plan than the last one.

- He dares not pursue necromancy again. Having failed the becoming once and
not even being in his natural body any longer, he feels the chance of a
successful becoming is less small and more basically impossible (whether
he's right or not, that's his assumption). More to the point, he's
generally a realist and knows that even most forms of undead are just
stopgap measures, and they too will eventually be going off to hell the
hard way.

- His plan is to study diabolism (AP, not conjurer for the following
reason) and attempt to bind as many souls' loyalty to him and ensure they
end up going to the same circle too. He hopes that with an army of his own,
he might be able to beat the system and overcome (or join) the denizens of
the seventh circle when his time finally comes. How is he going to do that?
Become Emperor of course! Who else has so many souls slavishly loyal to
them?

- He's also concerned about the state of his own soul. His new body became
somewhat burned and disfigured upon him acquiring it due to his exposure to
the Phlegethon, and he's hoping that he'll be able to assess any damage as
his studies progress in the AP guild. Not understanding how he is bound to
this new body is a constant state of worry for him, along with the rest!

- False backstory: aspiring Diabolist from the dread lands of Corte. Much
left up to implication as part of his plan to make himself seem more
intimidating than he actually is.

- Its safe to say in his passed life he was kind of lazy and unmotivated.
In this one, he will be extremely driven and have little patience with
those he perceives to be slacking, since he now knows the stakes.

- If not obvious, he thinks a lot of himself and is very selfish, even for
a drow.

Role

Chapter 5

I could not remain in Hamsah Mu'tazz. I did not realise quite the extent of
the damage to my new body; I suppose my attack had put it into shock, but
the pain soon came. Seeing my reflection in the fountain was unpleasant,
and also infuriating. Though it pains me to admit it, this new body may
have been even more fair of feature than my last one - thank goodness I had
not ended up in one of the lesser races - but now it was both marred, and
worse: it was still recognisable. I had to depart swiftly to avoid any
unfortunate questions.

I chose to head west. Galadon is a city under Tribunal protection, and I
know well the benefits of living in such a place. My other option was to
head east to Arkham, and what fool would wish to live there? No, the heart
of the Tribunal's power was the logical destination, and knowing the city
well as I did, crafting myself a new identity was simple enough. The
mysterious Harlsreen Phlegethon hails from the dread lands of Corte, an
aspiring Diabolist with grand ambitions and a ruthlessness befitting that
most dire of crucibles. An implication there. A suggestion here. Let them
draw their own conclusions.

Perhaps a less brilliant man in my place would pick something more
nondescript. A minor merchant. Some lesser noble from Teth Azeleth. But,
dear reader, all of these things can be investigated, and with relatively
little fuss. Corte though? Noone will wish to dig too deeply into that hive
of madness and brutality, and such an origin is befitting of the dread
legend which I shall weave.

With the lie being so ominous, noone will seek the truth. Am I not a genius?

With my false backstory complete, all that remained was applying to a guild
to begin my quest for salvation.

Diabolism is the only choice, of course. The denizens of the Inferno are
both my adversaries and my greatest chance at salvation. If I may
ingratiate myself to them then perhaps it will make the difference when the
time comes whether in part or in the whole.

If not, then the knowing of them can only serve me well for the conflict
that must arise, and it is for that conflict that I will prepare.

You may judge me once again, dear reader, for yes, to damn as many to the
fate I fear so deeply is my design, an army vast and with loyalty to he who
wears the crown. Obedience so great that it will transcend the touch of
death itself, and they will march with me upon Hell in spectral ranks. If a
conquerer of the damned I must become, then a thousand times and more it
will be done.

This is my plan, and less the burning river take me: I must succeed.

I will be Emperor, and all of Thera will kneel to spare my soul its
scourging.

Role

Chapter 4

You must understand, dear reader, that I hear it always.

When the world grows quiet, in those moments that would otherwise be
peaceful: I hear the Phlegethon roaring. As I slip into slumber, in dreams
that are never silent: I hear it bubbling.

I don't know if I am imagining it. I don't know if it is psychosomatic. I
don't know if when I feel the faintest burning sspray upon my back whether
it is a delusion, for my skin neither blisters or cracks.

But I know I cannot let it have me. To go unknowing to that doom would be a
thing of dread; but now? Now I know, and I cannot unknow.

Undeath is closed to me, and I would not now pursue it if I could. A
temporary reprieve is no reprieve at all, and with my unconventional state
the chance of failure would be doubtless magnified besides.

No.

I need another plan. I need an alternative.

I told you already that I had planned to join the Empire if my
transformation had succeeded. Every necromancer knows the value in numbers,
and the Empire's armies are typically cut from a superior cloth. Doubtless
with my power, we could have imposed an age of order unlike any seen in
generations - but now?

That is no longer enough.

I have felt the touch of the Phlegethon, and no one man can hope to stand
before it.

I need an army.

One that I can take with me when I perish.

Role

Chapter 3

The first time I heard that terrible roar was the moment I knew the true
nature of my folly.

There is a river, dear reader, deep within the Inferno. A boiling torrent
within which the damned do scream, and Phlegethon is its name. Some say
Cocytus is a fate most dire, and perhaps they are right: but the burning
waters thunder was a thing to set my soul to trembling in a wind as cold as
the Prince of Darkness' breath and more besides.

I was free of biological imperative, dear reader. No chemicals which course
through my veins, no impulses to set me shuddering in that thing we name
fear.

But the terror I knew in that moment is a thing transcendent of such
physical trappings. I have not known its like since, and pray with the
fervour of a thousand priests to never know its like again.

The Phlegethon came for me, a raising wave to sweep away the damned.

And I did not go quietly.

Up through sandstone halls I fled. Beneath graves of long dead kings and
over uneven stone I drifted. The ghouls gave me no mind, for I was of their
like now. A thing of death and decaying, though without the bond to tie me
to this world. No boiling waters to send them fleeing, no roar of a beast
as old as time.

Into my guild did I run, the heat of Phlegethon at my back. With phantom
spray that burned as fire upon my remnant did I fall upon the lone student
within the crypt in a moment of abject desperation, and though I know it to
be so I know not the confluence which manifested.

Perhaps it is the Hallows Eve approaching, that time of strongest death.
Perhaps it was simply luck, an abberation of chance and nothing more
besides. Perhaps his soul was weak, or perhaps the hand of some higher
power was at work, for I know only that as my spectral remains fell upon
him with the desperation of the soon devoured his soul was thrust free of
living flesh, swallowed whole by the monster at my back.

I opened my eyes. I breathed the air.

I lived. Diminished, yes. Hollowed out, yes. A pale shadow of even the
lackluster thing I had been before, yes.

But I lived.

And the beast retreated, sated.

For now.

Role

Chapter 2

I suppose it all began on the Conservator's slab.

That's reductive, of course. I will not trouble you with the trivialities
at length; I skulked my way through my necromantic training, a Magistrate
without distinction and uninterested in its obtaining. I was going to leave
to join the Empire soon enough, after all. A tried and tested tactic, as
all aspiring necromancers know. Judge me as you will, but I had been
assured at length that upon my success my elevation through the black sect
would be swift and without complication. I had it all planned out, you see.

I believe it began to truly sink in when the Conservator's knife made the
first incision. To this day I do not know if something went wrong so early,
or if rumours that I would slumber for the process had been just that -
rumours. I can tell you though, dear reader, that it was a pain unlike
anything I had experienced in my relatively short life. I felt him removing
my organs one by one. Unable to move, unable to scream, I felt the heat
leech from my limbs and my heart stutter in my chest for the final time.

I felt myself die. For that most fundamental bond, that between the flesh
and the soul to be severed.

I despaired, of course. Who wouldn't? My dreams? My plans? My ambitions?
All for nothing. Yet I had of course prepared myself for such an
eventuality, or so I believed at the time.

I rose from my flesh, a spectre still and a spectre changed. The
Conservator gave me no mind, for surely he has seen it all before a
thousand times.

I waited. It would be Hell, of course. But it wouldn't be so bad, I was
sure. My sins were not so great after all; the legions of the innocent I
had perfected my craft upon not withstanding.

I waited, and prepared for my descent.

Role

Chapter 1

When people talk of fear, it is so easily quantified for most.

Ask what one of the lesser kin, those elves of the Darsylon provinces might
fear, and a litany I could declare. All quaint things, of course. Small
meaningless fears for those chained by the bonds of moral guidance, the
death of pragmatic progress and the enemy of advancement everywhere.

Perhaps one or two might name a thing of note, a thing to fear in truth.
Statistically, this is probable. But the vast majority will doubtless
labour beneath the dread of small things to satisfy smaller minds.

But then, fear is such a tepid thing. A man may fear the rain. May fear he
will be late. May fear all manner of meaningless trivialities. Certainly, I
have feared many unimportant things in my life.

So let us dispense with fear.

Let us talk of terror.

Now that's much harder. Terror is a word with weight. With purpose. With
implication. A man might fear the rain... but terror?

That's something else. Terror keeps you up at night, that sour and most
dread promise that sleep shall be no salvation. That the insidious poison
that has crawled into your mind will not spare your dreaming slumber.

Hold a person's terror, and you control them. You will be ever in their
thoughts. Ever a long shadow within which they walk.

But really, dear reader. There is only one thing which can inspire such
dread in the enlightened mind.

There is but one possible seed for that most malign malaise.

It is the knowing of a thing you cannot forget.

And that most awful wondering, in a place between helplessness and hope:

What can I do?

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