<I>Kythorn, Year 442,
Hail Lord Tam,
The expedition goes well. As of yet, I have found one of the holy relics. I have hopes of finding the others in a short time. More to follow as my investigation proceeds.
-Arilin Nydelahar</I>
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A lone mage knelt at an empty altar. Stark white skulls lined the base and all sides, as a withered human hand sat atop the altar with a faint glow around it. A soft murmur is heard as the wizard completed his chant and the hand grew bright then suddenly dimmed.
Cursing, the wizard quietly coughed. “Tymora be damned. Where are the other pieces?” Muttering, he took the withered appendage and put it in a small bag and placed it inside of his robes, which glistened and flowed along with him as he walked out into the noonday Waterdhavian sun.
Sighing, Arilin muttered a colorful term for what plane of hell his workers could be left on for not finding what is demanded. Continuing down the long road through Waterdeep, dodging the crowds, and silently slipping past throngs of people the frail Necromancer cautiously made his way out of the eastern gates of the great city.
Pausing and closing his eyes a moment, a slight smirk played across his lips as a fierce growl was heard from a distance. Bringing a spell to mind, incase the need arises he peered out, and noticed a tall slim half-elf step out from the wilderness around the trail. Slightly wincing as he released the spell from his thoughts he nodded his head slightly to the figure before him. “Greetings Master Darkthorne. I hope you fare well this day.”
Dranix smirked slightly and tilted his head “Indeed my friend. I was out on my morning status check of the surrounding forests in this area and sensed something malign come by.” Shrugging the druid continued, “But, alas. It was only you my old friend. I was hoping for a morning workout.” He laughed softly.
Arching an eyebrow, the wizard nodded. “Yes. I am off on business once more. The next possible location of that which I seek out. Do pardon me, my good druid.”
The Druid raised a single hand to bar the Necromancer’s path, Dranix shook his head. “You should listen to what I have come to tell you friend. I bring a warning. There are those who wish you ill. The church of the dark sun is among those. I do not think they are happy about your secretive plans. Your distaste for them being so apparent as well is not helping things.”
“The church of fools is welcome to do whatever they wish. They will not stop what I have foreseen. My master will rise once more!” Paused, Arilin took a moment before continuing, as if contemplating. “I welcome their atte-“ Coughing and wheezing loudly, the mage steadied himself on a nearby tree and sighed softly.
“Are you alright my friend? Is there nothing the priesthood can do for you?” Dranix inquired as he furrowed his eyebrows. Sighing, Arilin shook his head. “You do not understand. Nothing can be done for this is no normal sickness. This is what comes of carrying the essence of a god with you. Such is my curse”
Blinking and staggering back a step, Dranix began to nervously speak. “Surely you jest! The essence of a god. You’d be a fool to think that. Is that why those fool Cyric worshippers wish you harm?”
Arilin nodded, and opened his robe slightly, drawing out a small glowing sack. Reaching far deeper than the sack appears to be, he slowly drew out a small withered human hand, which caused him to hunch over as he held it.
He held the item high and muttering a small prayer to his god, and spoke. “Lord Myrkul you shall reign once more. You will set right that which has been wrong. Kelemvor shall fall, and Cyric with him. They have both taken that which is rightfully yours!” His eyes’ glowed slightly as he quietly placed the hand back into the sack and put it back within his robes.
“You see Druid. I do carry with me the only known artifact of my lord Myrkul. I seek out three more such relics hinted to exist. Scattered to the corners of this world. Hidden by my patron, incase his demise ever happened. I shall resurrect him.”
Backing away slowly and shaking his head, Dranix stammered out a quick chant, and vanished. Sighing to himself, Arilin continued along to road to his next destination.
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Arilin Nydelahar - Zulkir of Necromancy
Death is a state of mind.
Edit: Grammar. I'm sure I missed more.
[This message has been edited by Arilin Nydelahar (edited 08-18-2002).]
The Coming. Part 1.
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