Origin Story

The undead flooded every alley and path, tearing through carts…homes…people. Spells were flung this way and that, swords and shields clamored and bashed against flesh and bone, but it didn’t matter. They were too numerous. Those that fought died. Those that ran lived only a moment longer. A cacophony of screams filled the city as chaos ensued. And at its center, the Dreamer approached the giant gilded doors of the Pantheon. They placed a hand on its intricately carved surface, tracing a few of the runic patterns with a finger, reminiscing.

Naive. 

The Dreamer vanished and appeared on the other side of the doorway. A small regiment of guards lined the inner hallway, lulled into a false sense of security in such a fortified palace. Half a dozen seconds passed before one finally looked in the wizard’s direction.

“In-intruder!” the guard yelled. The rest stood at attention, weapons at the ready. The Dreamer snapped their fingers, and the room went dark. Terrified, the guards shouted at each other in panic.

“Do you see him?”

“Light a torch!”

“Hurry up!”

“I’m trying, I’m trying! It won’t light!”

Glowing purple runes appeared and encircled the Dreamer’s hand.

“There he is!” A few of the guards let loose their crossbows, but their bolts found no purchase.

The runes flared wildly as dozens of runic symbols and patterns weaved their way around the gears and metallic beams along the backside of each door.

“What the hell…” mumbled a guard.

With a slight twist in the hand, human-sized levers shifted within the doors, their echoes reverberating throughout the hall. A sliver of light suddenly bisected the dark room; the Gate was opening. With enough light to finally see the outline of their attacker, the guards stepped forward to engage. But their attention shifted to the massive horde behind the wizard, purple eyes glowing brightly, scrambling to enter the hall. The undead mob rushed forward and quickly overpowered the guards leaving nothing but stained tapestries and a slick floor.

By the time they were dispatched, the Dreamer had already made their way to the branching hall that would lead to the Alchemical Lab. [flashback to being dragged in chains, no one daring to help] Still walking, the wizard closed a fist. Cracks tore through the marble and stone of the hall, small shards falling from the ceiling and smashing to pieces below. Onward the wizard walked until finally stopping before a set of unassuming wooden doors. It had been years since the Dreamer was last here, since they had seen this room. A slow tear fell down the side of one cheek, but that was all. They were here for a singular purpose, one that would prevent many other tears from falling. Home at last.

But upon the door was a different name plate than they expected:

Creation Chamber.

In a wisp of black smoke, the wizard teleported into the room. Expecting to see a large alchemical workstation and a board of old notes, drawings, and books, the room was anything but. The Dreamer’s items were gone. In their place were thirteen cut gems each measuring two feet in diameter, carved with familiar runes, and embedded into the floor in a perfect circle. Leading to the center were patterns and rings depressed into the floor that increased in detail until they reached an empty inner ring devoid of any design.

Stepping closer to the circle, the Dreamer recognized some of the patterns. [flashback to the wizard’s research on the Psychic Leap, the tree clouds, the vial of Bloodfalls. Sketching a mechanism, something missing, a central focus]  

Suddenly a voice pierced the silence of the room.

“You know not what you are delving into, heretic.”

Recognition. Turning toward the voice, the wizard appeared calm and collected; internally, they were seething.

“You have made it quite far, but we have yet to determine whether it’s through bravery or foolishness. Clearly you’re capable. Tell us your name, and perhaps we can…help each other.”

The Dreamer took a step forward.

“Tsk-tsk, a grave mistake.” The mage waved a hand and chains appeared in the air, snaking their way around the wrists and ankles of the wizard with lightning speed.

With a quick motion of the head, the Dreamer dispelled them. The magical chains disintegrated.

“Impressive,” said the mage, slightly taken aback. He began chanting a spell while drawing runes in the air, but before he could finish, a rush of purple and black smoke cascaded over his face and then faded.

“You’ll need more than parlor tricks to–” The mage collapsed to the floor, having been put into a deep sleep.

[Fade to black. Pull out slowly from a smooth obsidian floor to see the mage lying down.]

Aliiiisssstairrrrrr…

The mage stirred slightly.

Aliiiiissssssstairrrrrrrrr…

The mage’s eyes shot open at the mention of his name. Disoriented but slowly regaining focus, he got to his feet and saw nothing but a purple-black fog filling the space. Suddenly a shift in the air, a swirl of fog following a rush of movement. Alistair echoes around him. The mage turned quickly and readied himself, but the air settled. Another shift to the right! The mage snapped his head in the other direction. Panicked and paranoid, he began looking all around unsure of what to expect.

Alistair.

Suddenly an ethereal figure formed from the fog with a faint humanoid outline and what appeared to be devilish features that blended and shifted. Beneath his robes in slow, subtle movements, the mage began a series of rune drawings marking the beginning of a defensive spell.

“Who are you?!” Alistair demanded, trying to stall for time.

I am a pariah. Betrayed by my fellow brethren. Cast out of the world I loved. I have come to finish my work.

“Your work? You have no idea of what you speak.”

The council has been busy furthering work in secret they forbid in public, but no matter. I am well versed in this chamber’s purpose; it was born of my designs after all.

Fear shot through the mage. “...the Dreamer. You’re alive…but your voice,” Alistair felt for the capsule still on his belt.

Anything is possible within a dream.

“So that’s what this is…” the mage was nearing the end of his spell weaving, hoping it remained undetected.

I am happy to see you have finished what I started. But new magic requires…a willing subject…and a spoken word. Both are before me.

The mage had stalled long enough. Hidden beneath his robes, the spell was in its final state ready for release.

“After all these years, all these skills, and you still need the Pantheon to do your work. Pathetic.”

The Dreamer rushed Alistair, but the mage was ready for it. In one swift motion, he finished the spell, released a blinding flash, and shouted the final word, “DIMITTIS!” A blast of psychic pain and then darkness.

The mage woke up on the stone floor just outside the circle. The Dreamer slowly stood, stepped forward, and stumbled, clutching their head. Fearful, Alistair quickly cast a telekinesis spell and with a secondary flourish, he split the spell in two. One half bound itself to the Dreamer while the other bound itself to a mechanism adjacent to the entrance. He strained and twisted one hand and watched as the Dreamer’s limbs went taught and his body shifted to the center circle. Sweating and straining, Alistair maneuvered the controls, a magical aura pushing a series of buttons and levers. With a sigh of relief, he then turned his attention to the Dreamer.

“Accept it, Dreamer. The Pantheon are master craftsmen in this Runiverse. And you are but a speck of clay in the way of progress, something to be molded and forgotten.” Clenching his left hand into a fist, the final lever was pulled. The floor suddenly lurched, dust raising from the cracks between each stone. Turning gears could be heard below the floor while steam began pulsing into the upper portion of the chamber. The gems all around the circle glowed and began rotating in place. The machine roared as the wind began to whip around the room, the patterns on the floor slowly lighting up from the outside and moving inward to the center in a mesmerizing fashion.

“Your work was but a scratch on the surface of what we have created,” yelled Alistair. “You and the rest of those here in the city are pawns! Nothing but tools to use as we see fit!” 

Sparks flew from the controls as pieces of stone began to fall from the ceiling. The gems began rotating faster and faster, generating electricity which jumped between them. The Dreamer would scream as they found their place in the path of these jolts of magical energy. As each bolt struck, the runes on each gem shone a brilliant blue that blurred from their rapid movement. Alistair released the telekinesis spell, the magical apparatus now holding the Dreamer aloft on its own. He slowly approached the outside of the circle of gems wishing to see what became of this wizard up-close. The Dreamer screamed in pain as the arcs of electricity passed through him with increasing frequency and intensity.

“You have done this city a great service, cleansing it of its mediocrity, allowing us to start anew. And for that, the council thanks you!” screamed Alistair, the chamber nearly deafening with the roar of the gears, the sound of electricity, and the rushing of steam and air all around.

“You always were quite inventive, creating fun and whimsical things. It’s a shame, really. Your final trick will be one for the ages!”

But where he expected to see anguish, pain, torment…he saw a focused brow and a slight smirk. Confused, Alistair peered closer looking for a miscalculation. The arcs of electricity grew thicker and connected each gem magically locking them in mid-air and nearly forming a solid ring of light. Alistair backed away slowly.

Something is wrong…this is wrong, he thought to himself.

The gems began to vibrate, overcharged by the magic. The arcs of electricity turned from white to blue to purple, casting dramatic shadows throughout the room. Without warning, the ring of purple light became unstable, filaments of energy branching out in destructive arcs scorching whatever they touched. Alistair watched as some of the arcs would extend outward but pause, struggling to be free, and then turn on themselves and rush back to the Dreamer. Flare after flare of wild purple energy was forced back under some control directly into the wizard’s torso. The mage ran back to the controls to shut it down, but there was no response; the system had been leached of its magical energy.

How…what…?

As the Dreamer’s robe began to disintegrate, a few small items fell to the stone floor below their feet: a small vial of Bloodfalls elixir and a black obsidian stone. The vial shattered, blood pouring across the glowing runic patterns on the floor and the stone landing within it. Still hovering, the Dreamer looked down at the stone, its glassy black surface reflecting his image in a grotesque, devilish form.

Alistair spotted the items while bracing himself on the ground, the wind threatening to shove him into the surrounding chamber wall. His eyes widened at the rarity of such mythical items.

A stone of the Spike… 

He began crawling forward on his hands and knees fighting against the force of the magical conflux before him. The Dreamer took notice but did not stop him. He only began to smile. Alistair, unable to satiate his greed, reached a hand over the circle, his fingers only inches away from the stone. The filaments of purple lightning flared wildly while the gems began to pulse, their runes now glowing a deep purple, almost black. Waves of energy began to drift and swirl outward. Just as Alistair’s fingertips touched the surface of the stone, a black flame erupted all around it. The stone slowly melted and pooled on top of the blood. Some of the liquid stone remained on the mage’s fingers; he pulled back and screamed in excruciating pain as the inky black began to spread down his fingers and into his hand. He ran and sank against the wall, his hand shaking in pain as he looked toward the circle.

The Dreamer began to laugh. The stone and blood bubbled and mixed and filled in the grooves along the floor. Shapes began to form from the mixture, moving, undulating, rising and falling, like something pushing up from beneath. The wizard’s laughter grew louder. A face appeared then disappeared. A hand. Another face. Then another. More hands. A torso. More and more. Figures within the blackened ooze coming into form and sinking back down. One black glossy hand grabbed the Dreamer’s foot. Another grabbed the back of the wizard’s calf. More and more hands latched on and all began to pull downward.

The Dreamer’s laughter was now maniacal as he sank into the black puddle below. Alistair was frozen in fear, terrified of what was to come. More and more souls pulled onto the wizard until he was no more. The laughter ceased. The purple ring of energy flowed outward and disbanded. The runes of each gem turned a dull gray; they cracked as each hit the stone floor below. The gears stopped churning, the steam ceased, and air died down.

It…it’s over…

Breathing heavily but with sighs of relief, Alistair stood to his feet. The blackened liquid stopped at his forearm and where it had spread, he could no longer feel it. The exit lay across the room past the circle. He slowly shuffled himself across the floor, overwhelmed by what had just transpired. Passing the blackened sludge in the center of the chamber, Alistair looked for any remnants of the wizard. Nothing remained.

Like I said Dreamer, you will be forgotten.

Turning to exit, Alistair took a few steps and then abruptly halted. The doors to the Creation Chamber were wide open. Before him was a deep hallway full of undead, each with purple glowing eyes. Exhausted and unnerved, the mage took a few steps back bringing him closer to the circle. The horde did not proceed. They only stood there outside the door, some shifting, others breathing heavily.

Alistair shifted his cloak, the air growing hot around him. A bubble formed in the sludge. Then another. And another. Beads of sweat began to form across the mage’s forehead. He did not know how to proceed. He didn’t have the energy to fight this horde, and the chamber was designed to have only one point of entry. Flustered and panicked, Alistair didn’t know which way to turn. The bubbles in the circle behind him went unnoticed. He began running through his cloak for any items he had remaining, something, anything.

The capsule!

He fumbled around his belt until he loosened it from its clasp. He held it between his fingers, a tiny round glass case capped with gold ends. Inside was a small swirling miasma.

“With enough time, I may be able to channel th–”

He stopped mid-sentence. The black sludge was now a roiling mass, bubbling and spewing blackened ooze, smoke, and heat. Alistair took a few steps back. An ominous, otherworldly  sound could be heard…devilish creatures…evil things…wings…screams. It grew louder with each bubble burst. The mage covered his ears, the sounds too terrifying to endure.

Then…silence. He slowly uncovered his ears, looking first to the doorway and then to the circle. The horde was still present, and the bubbling stopped.

WOOOSHHH! The black liquid burst into the air, splattering everything around in a burning dark ooze. More stone fell from the ceiling, casting moonbeams into the dark interior. WOOSH, WOOSH! Two giant, webbed wings beat the air and splayed out across the room, shrouding the rest of it in darkness except for the light of two piercing amethyst eyes. A gnarled foot with sharpened bright purple nails stepped forward. Then another. A slender spade tail whipped about before disappearing into shadow. Alistair was frozen in fear as the creature stepped into the moonlight. Before him was a monstrous creature, half man, half devil. It possessed gaunt features with a skeleton-like body of skin and bone, two large webbed and tattered wings protruding from its back, and two massive black horns resting above its violet stare. All in various shades of purple. Alistair scrambled backwards along the floor unable to stand. The creature looked down at him.

“D-dreamer?”

The creature raised a single boney finger, gesturing the mage to approach. The mage did not move on his own. Instead, he lurched into the air and flung forward, stopping just short of the monster’s sharpened smile. With razor-sharp nails, it plucked the capsule from Alistair’s grip and held it in its palm. Staring only at the mage, it crushed the capsule with a resounding crack.

Upon opening its palm, the miasma floated into the air and then rushed into the mouth of the creature. The monster closed its eyes and breathed in deeply.

Muuuuuuuuch betterrrrrrrrrrrr.

It took a deep sniff of the air.

Yourrr fearrrrrrr isss delightfulllllllll. I would love nothing more than to feast upon it, but that’s no fun. No fun at allllllll, hmmmmmm? I’m inventive, as you say, so let’s play a game instead. Trick…or treat.

The creature held out its giant fists before the mage.

Choose the hand with the stone and your life is yours. Fail, and it’s mine forever. 

Hesitant, the mage reached forward, chose the creature’s right hand, and winced. The hand opened and revealed…nothing.

Expecting a vicious death, Alistair felt nothing but pure dread.

That’sssss quite alright, Alistairrrrrr. Your disappointment wassss deliciousssss. No matter, no matter. We’ll go again, you seeee.

The monster closed its fist again; the unchosen hand had remained. No sleight of hand. No switching. No movement of any kind. Alistair hesitated, then finally chose the left one. The hand opened…nothing.

“What? Where’s the stone!?” pleaded the mage.

No treats todayyyyy, I’m afraid. Well, at least not for you…

He looked to the horde and spun the mage around for him to see, as well. The glowing purple eyes of hundreds of undead wizards, warriors, and familiars. Alistair tried to back away but could go nowhere.

“Why are you doing this?!”

You stole my dreammmm and turned my life into a waking nightmarrrrre. Do you protest the charges?

The mage gulped and remained silent.

Very well. My creations shall do the same to you. Thank you for your service…to the Nightmare Imp.

It released the spell, dropping Alistair to the ground. With a heavy beat of its wings, it lifted into the air and glided out the large, open doors and down the hall of undead. As it left the room, the horde shuffled in slowly, stared at their new treat, and rushed in. The sounds of boney foot steps and decayed breathing mixed with one final scream.

The Nightmare Imp flew out from the doors of the Pantheon, its walls now cracked and disheveled. It landed on top of the bell tower with a resounding thud, tiles cracking underneath its feet. The creature looked out over the city, smoke billowing into the moonlight. With the districts overrun by zombie hordes and the tyrant mages of the council dispatched, the Pantheonic empire began to crumble; the High Fall had commenced.

A few more years would pass before the city was devoid of life. The creature would settle in a more…suitable environment, a place of myst and darkness, and close proximity to Bloodfalls. There, it continues its creations, its magic, its research…or so the Maesters say. In today’s Runiverse, locals pay homage to such a tale of revenge by a customary Trick-or-Treat holiday. But this is all conjecture! Myth. Make-believe. A fable as old as the Runiverse, itself. Be warned, however, if you venture to the Vampyre Myst, the Nightmare Imp’s supposed territory the legends claim. Only the bold and brave find its door. You are permitted to knock, but be ready for what answers.

Dream well.