Ebon Downs: Undead Roastery


Shav and I worked out an impressive method of relying on each other in fights. He would beat his shield, attract the attention of the enemy, and once they thronged him, I let loose with the elements. Shav was never harmed by the elemental spells, for the elemental spirits and I had an agreement. I would, as I matured in the ways of magic here in Neverwinter, eventually choose one elemental force to specialize in. Winner takes all.

We took this tactic to the crypts in Ebon Downs.

Hoards of skeletons and all manner of haughty wights fell to our device. I especially liked when the brighter undead minion occasionally caught a glimpse of my true self–a vampire. The look is something in between hatred and surprise. You, the eyes said, should be helping us, not hunting us.

What can I tell you? The minions have always served the more intelligent being, be that lich or vampire (and you can probably guess which of the two I deem the better). And so it went. I created frosty beds for the foe to sleep eternally in, reserving the firey infernos for their bosses.

At the end of a hunt, we always diced up the treasure between us–easier to carry this way. At any moment in those dark dens, I could have revealed my true nature to Shav, but he was doing so well. A down on his luck fighter suddenly adding up to something. I would have to find my source of nutrition soon though. If not Shav, then someone else, and that leads me back to poor Fryyd. Would the first tavern knave I grabbed at midnight become the next hapless Fryyd? How many Fryyds am I allotted?

Could I be that type of undead?

I was a bit weaker, and the sunlight made my eyes blink the next day, but I had refused to take a life to keep mine going–so far. Shav rousted me from my tavern bed, pointing out toward the tavern commons with an insistence. I didn’t question the silence, but welcomed it. I would have to sink into the darkness of a crypt soon or grow weaker by the hour. Blinking away the light, I made my way to the bar and grabbed a chair, trying my best to seem as though I had no idea.

And it wasn’t hard to achieve that look.

“I tell ye,” a tavern swain said at his table, “I saw the dragon down by the great mire. T’was as plain as the nose on me face it was!”

Shav shot me a raised brow, his particular way of saying, “seeeeeeee.”

“Flapping his great wings, he was, hav’en his time in the sun like a preening sparrow. Well, I snucks out of there fast as you please and will never go back. Never, I say!

And with that, the swain drained his cup.

I gave Shav my typical smirky look in exchange. Dragons. They usually aren’t that hard to beat for a student of the arcane just as long as they were a mountain. And while I had no particular grudge against this particular dragon, this Vartilingorix.


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