Tis but a scratch, send the guards and make sure they capture that joke of an assassin
He stood before me, a freankenstien of a man beast that towered twenty feet tall or more. Its rigor colored flesh stunk of eons of decay both sickly sweet and of putrescence beyond what the mortal mind could fathom. I tried to gag it from my throat but my stomach refused to relieve its contents and for that made me more uneasy.
Former Cult Leader who outlived his usefulness
The true depths of darkness travel far deeper into the hearts of mortal man than the darkest and deepest cave I have ventured in. What once could have started as an innocent trek into the unknown for the sake of curiosity I have seen lead to the blackening of the soul and the withering of all those around it. All in the name of innocence and knowledge.
The following are my findings on the subject, as horrible as they are. I just hope I can finish this before my mind is lost to me. I feel the ebb and flow pulling inside me, no that is to simple an explanation. I feel my soul losing its hold on me. The more knowledge I gain, the more I know I am lost.
Kormak Cabeaza, Scribe and Scholar to Lord King Vyrkril the Just of Camerial
“You know that saying that man made god? No, of course you don’t. But we didn’t make god. We made the Devil, and god is just a word the frightened cling to, to protect them from their own creation. And you? You are my creation. You are my devil.
“Malghoul Etra Galad Morta, Malghoul Etra Galad Morta!” This booming chant repeats itself over and over; I clutch my head wishing it to end. Physically it doesn't cause me pain, but my brain seems to want to explode from some unseen pressure. Wait something is happening, the bloodied mist has finally settled and I feel refreshed from my hard days. I wonder what this bloodied chalice has in store for me.
-Torren Wayhon, Adventurer, lost soul
Forget the rickety, fragile skeletons. Remove all thoughts of the limping, weak zombies. Shrug off thoughts of blood-dependant vampires. Whereas the former are reflections of necromatic magic, the Mogrolyth is a creation derived from the pure essence of unholy power - namely pain.
The call to Him is unnerving. The power He gives is unmatched. He is the reason why I turned my back on my God and now worship Him. I will live eternal for the trade of my Soul to a God. I can live with that.
-Rakeos -Follower of Sethalis, fallen Priest of Aduivo
‘I told Sir Ursus not to take the amulet, to leave it be in it’s resting place. But he would not listen. We now trek to his place of hiding to remove the amulet and return it, and to destroy that which Ursus has become. ’
- Arch-Danath Maccalas of the Dark Step Tribe
Nearly every primitive culture has had rituals and celebrations to guarantee the proper passage of the seasons and to ensure the fertility of crops and animals. Oversight of these ceremonies was generally the provenance of local kings or priests.
Suppose that the adventurers dispatch one of these fellows. The local peasants may become hysterical, fearing famine and death will stalk the land. Alternatively, they may want one of the new heroes to become king. For a while, this can be a good thing, but the first time that the crops fail, the superstitious locals will want to sacrifice their new leader.