Helm’s Hold slaughter

saireth

Weeks had flown by, and the question of Fryyd’s death had long left me. He was a weakling, and as we all know, the many worlds that sit upon the one have absolutely no love for a weakling. To continue thinking about Fryyd would lead to instability.

I moved as the magic moved. At first I was little use in combat except as some kind of arcane dead eye. See the enemy. Time the attack led by the fighter, and punctuate it with a piercing cold beam of wizardry. But then it came to me: If ice was good, what about fire? Devil’s used it, why not an undead sweetie like me?

So I meditated on it in the moonlight down at the local graveyard. I invited the element to bring its presence before me if even in a dream. During the day, I investigated festering dungeons, overran towns, and battlefields. Some of the creatures recognized my vampyric nature, but I showed them no fidelity. I killed them just as my cohorts killed them, would flame do any less? It burns the target and the caster if the that caster is not paying attention to the ebb and flow of the arcane poem being written even before a single spell is cast. Like Eberron, so Neverwinter.

The flames came as I plundered Cragmire yet again with a group of nobs who couldn’t think their way out of a closet. Charge, charge, charge, kill, kill, kill was the philosophy of the nob. They felt nothing from the shadows as I do. Run, run, run in a vain search of renown and fame. I wish they could have seen old Fryyd die instantly from a blade out of the dark. But then again, even if they did witness Fate’s hand, they’d not recognize it even as it killed them.

I grew to be much a punctuater of the arcane. I now could summon a searing wind and a flaming turmoil from the very hair. Elementals, subtle beings most cannot see, look for fame and renown just like my fellow explorers. The one difference: the elemental spirits are much more useful.

I investigated where one might find a fair body guard to watch my back. Apparently they are as many as the leaves on a oak. But I was looking for a bit more. You remember how I am, right? I must drink either blood or spirit, and I rather know the keg I’m taking into to.

Shav, a robust fighter, seemed to fit the bill, so I took him for a tour of Helm’s Hold and slaughtered the Hellfire Warlocks. They fell in droves of course, their eyes questioning how a mere mortal could outcast them in fire. Problem was, as you know, I wasn’t an average mortal at all.

I took on over to the tavern on the hill where we discussed tactics and how to kill even more relentlessly the next time out. As we were discussing these matters, I noticed the tavern keeper, or who I thought to be the tavern keeper edge over toward us.

“I am looking for a little help,” the elven woman said out of the blue, “cause it looks like what we have is a succubus out of control, doing her worst to pervert the citizens of Helm’s Hold.”

“Tell you what,” I said, “pay the tab and we will listen.”

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