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**Urithrand** · 12-13-2010, 07:59 PM

The pinpricks of starlight pierced the eyes of Lorlen Locke as though he had walked out into the bright sunlight. The heavy door to the nameless tomb seemed even moreso in his weakened, starved state. Three days and three nights in this cemetary housing without food or drink had left him vulnerable, and he had almost not survived the experience. Luckily, he had been able to teleport himself up onto a high ledge within the structure, far beyond the reach of the lumbering zombies that inhabited it, where he sat, patiently watching, and drinking in the sensation of the negative energies surrounding him.

And those negative energies had done exactly what the texts had described. Firstly, he had been sickened by the smell, and the thin, stale air of the crypt, and then sickened further by the energies that had begun to sink through his living flesh. He vomited many times until the taste of bile seemed permanent in his throat that burned with the acid. He took a few sips of water from the small flask he had brought with him, knowing that it would stagnate within a few hours of being in such a place, just as any food he had brought with him would have rotted and grown mouldy within an equally short time.

The first night, he could not sleep. The tireless undead below him shuffled and groaned, never ending their attempts to climb the sheer walls and reach their unreachable meal. Locke spat at the beasts as they clawed the wall, leaving trails of flesh where they wore away their fingers. "I will command you." He hissed at them, with strange respect, more at least than he ever offered his humunculous familiar which even now flapped about in circles, ignored by the undead whose urges ignored simple clay. "The next time I enter this crypt, I will not be your meal, but your master."

The first night passed relatively quickly considering his circumstance. He passed the time reciting the libris mortis passages that related to this ritual. At midnight, he prayed devoutly to Bane, prostating himself on the shelf which held him, and repeating his nightly vigil, though his sins today numbered only two. As the hours grew larger, his nausea started to settle. His nose became accustomed to the smell, and his stomach was empty even of bile. He retched one final time as he saw the mindless beasts below feeding on the previous contents of his stomach, and resolved not to look at them for the rest of the day. He spent the next several hours setting up ritual wards about himself exactly how the texts had described, which would supposedly calm the undead and speed the process where their negative energies would infuse him. He could already feel the effects, his skin was clammy and oddly rubbery, and cold.

Finally, as the day closed into afternoon, he fell asleep for a few hours. When he awoke, it was late evening, perhaps 9 o'clock. The sound of voices outside, he could not quite make out what they said. He held his breath, despite the exceptionally low possibility that they would - for any reason - decide to enter this crypt. He was tired and his stomach was beginning to rebel against being empty for so long. His arms looked thin and paler than when he fell asleep. The negative energies were doing exactly what they were supposed to.

The second night went faster than the first. More rituals and spells he cast, and it wasn't until his midnight prayer that he realised just how much the energies of undeath were affecting him. As he sliced his own flesh, begging Bane to be merciful, his blood did not immediately spring from the wound, but rather slowly oozed out. He took this to be a good sign, and finished his prayers before collapsing from exhaustion. Sleep came more easily this time, and he pulled a cloak tightly about himself as he shivered with cold.

The third night went very, very slowly. He wasn't sure if this was because the anticipation of leaving the following night was high, or if he had little further ritual to finish. Perhaps it was even the strange lack of interest that the zombies below him were beginning to exhibit which made the crypt eerily quiet. His prayer to Bane lasted longer tonight. Not because he had more to say, because in truth there was nothing to say after his day locked in a crypt, but more for the sensation of company, and the comfort he took in talking aloud. After a few more hours, he even resorted to talking to Clay.

Sleep took him readily tonight, and he slept deep, and dreamed vividly. His body was wasting away, his skin losing colour, making him look almost like his beloved undead. He dreamed of his past, and of his future. When he awoke, he started - for the first time - to feel fear.

The cold had soaked right through his body, and he felt like even his bones were cold. He rubbed his clammy hands together, which provided him with virtually no warmth, and pulled another cloak around his shoulders. He wondered idly if he would die in the final hours of his vigil, and it brought a slight smile to his lips. The irony did not escape him even as he sit dying in a crypt full of the undead he was determined to one day master. He doubted they would even eat his corpse if he fell from this shelf now.

The hours passed, and he now stood, in the doorway of the crypt looking out at the stars, and fighting the urge to shield his eyes. He had done it. The zombies had lost all interest in him now, a sign that he took to be extremely encouraging. He had not even had to push past them as he dropped from his ledge and made for the door, though one did turn and sniff excitedly for a frighteningly long time. More than anything, he was starving. His legs shook with exhaustion and his mouth and throat were dry and had a foul taste.

With a smile, he headed for the inn.

**Urithrand** · 12-17-2010, 05:04 PM

Lorlen Locke was feeling much, much better. It was over a week since his stay in the necropolis' depths, and the horrible wasting effect of the massive negative energies he had absorbed were finally gone, and he could feel the energies of the undead coursing through him. His heartbeat felt oddly unnatural, and he could hear it in his ears every time it thu-thumped, but that irregular sound was reassuring.

What was even more reassuring was the power he felt reverberating through his frail body. Though his flesh was slowly wasting, a less pleasant side effect of the rituals he was partaking in right this moment in time, deep in the heart of the Citadel of the Seven. A banedead warrior stood silently in front of him, thoughtless and unmoving while Locke waved a witch-hazel wand around in arcane shapes, inscribing runes on the floor, and on the chest of the banedead, muttering arcane phrases and prayers he had spent years memorising from various tomes. His tough, pale skin was almost irridescent in the light of the guttering torches that lit his vigil, and the moist clamminess of it made him shimmer mystically. The rite droned on for an age, but Locke hardly noticed the passing of the hours as he worked, waving and intoning and chanting until the Banedead before him suddenly burst into bright blue flame.

The beast stood there noiselessly as its flesh was turned to ash, though the light of its eyes slowly went out as the magical fire sucked the negative energy from it and drained it to its master. Eventually the beast collapsed into a pile of smoking bones, and Locke shuddered with a wave of nausea as the negative energies wracked his body. He collapsed to the floor in agony, wondering whether his body would take this onslaught. The slow absorbtion over time that he had experienced already was one thing, but this was something entirely different. A sudden, undiluted shock of pure, life destroying energy would either seal the energies to his body and soul forever, or kill and destroy him utterly.

Luckily for him, gnomes do not survive in places like the underdark for no reason. His tough little body shuddered and shook there on the floor for hours, perhaps even a day or two, he wasn't entirely certain, but eventually he fell deep into unconsciousness.

The sleep was long, and he dreamed vividly. He saw Bane, and his master's master, an ancient lich who haunted his nights often. He saw hordes of undead under his command, a wave of his hand all that stood between their existence or destruction. He saw his mother, though he had no idea what she looked like, and he saw her becoming his thrall, blood running from her eyes and nose and ears and mouth as she screamed for mercy. He spent hours and hours in his dream state, until eventually he awoke.

The Banite priests had moved him to his quarters. The soft, luxurious bedding made him quickly question if he was alive or not, but he realised immediately that it was not the bed which had gotten softer, but his flesh which had gotten harder. His skin was tough and leathery, like cured armour, and he tested the point of his dagger against the tip of his finger. He found that no matter how hard he tried, he could not pierce his skin. He smiled with satisfaction. His guts no longer fought against the dead energy within him, and he felt certain that in future his body would no longer lash out against its natural enemy. He also felt healthier, stronger almost, as though his insides had toughened just as his outsides had. Everything was marvellously as it should be.

Lorlen Locke was feeling much, much better.

**Urithrand** · 12-19-2010, 06:59 AM

Locke paced up and down in the Citadel's gloomy halls, his mind on yet another unsuccessful encounter. Logic and reason were the sage's best friend, but the thickheaded buffoons of this valley were shockingly resillient to his attempts to bring them to the worship of Bane with such methods. The truth was, he was not nearly as disheartened as he should have been, because his many encounters with the so called "Good" people of the valley had given him an excellent insight into their capabilities.

The basic fact of the matter was that the good people of Sundren were decidedly evil. They were unkind, judgemental, even violent for no logical reason. They tried to intimidate him and interrogate him, and their methods, both fear inducing and tyrannical made him feel confident that with the right methods, their loyalties were easily swayed. His crusade to bring Bane's light to the darkness of the uneducated masses was still not going the way he had planned however, and he decided it was time to change tactics.

Retiring to his quarters, Locke removed his robes to present himself to Bane for his evening prayer. He'd had to have his ritual knife enchanted now, as his old blade could no longer pierce his flesh, and that simply would not do. He chose a spot on his left arm which was relatively healed and with considerably more force than he was accustomed to, he dragged the blade along. "I beg your forgiveness Dread Lord, for I have been blind. I arrogantly believed their lack of faith was fixable using the simple tools I had to hand, logic and wit." Another slice made his eyes roll back into his head as he spoke, pain and ecstasy together, "But now Dread Lord I see that your teachings are simple. This armor they wear built of blindness, ignorance and arrogance can only be pierced with the truest blades of fear and terror." Another slice. Blood finally began to seep to the surface of the first. "I will go forth from this day and invoke your terror on the masses, lord."

His little ritual went on for some time tonight. His body's condition meant that he bled little, and he banaged himself more from habit than any real need to. Once he was done, and had prostrated himself for a respectful time, he rose and replaced his robes. The Baneguard skeleton which had attached itself to him as a master stood silently in the corner as ever, watching but not understanding nor speaking. It was not unlike his little construct, Clay, in its mindless autonomy, and the two of them had become his inseperable entourage here in the Citadel. He did not allow the Baneguard skeleton to follow him outside of the citadel of course, but he was confident he could summon it at will elsewhere in the valley if the need arose.

He sat on his bed, watching the two animated creatures he had made, and he was proud. His skill was exceptional, and his power increasing exponentially. Sundren was an excellent place to be.

**Urithrand** · 12-22-2010, 04:17 AM

Master Locke hummed quietly as he washed away the blood from his arms. He was practically up to his elbows in it, and he was never a fan of being unclean, so he was very thorough as he restored cleanliness to his person, for the moment unconcerned by the recently deceased corpse that hung limply now over the altar of names.

Satisfied at last that he was clean, Locke returned his attention to the infant of perhaps 4 or 5 years that stared up at him with unseeing eyes. Then, passionlessly, he set about gouging out those eyes with a sharpened implement which looked half way between an ink pen and a tiny spear, dropping them into the bubbling concoction beside him. A pint of blood, taken from an innocent to avoid complications, and the eyes finished off the vile potion described in great detail in one of the citadel's very enlightening books, and he left it to simmer while he cut out the ruined child's heart, placing it in the brazier nearby in offering to Bane, licking the tip of his blood smeared finger absently as he did so.

After quite a time, the potion began to change colour to deepest black, and the liquid became more viscous, like some ultimately evil gravy. Without embarrassment, Locke removed his clothes, folding them neatly and leaving them nearby where they would not get splashed. Finally ready, he lifted the still hot bowl, tilted his head back, and poured the resulting liquid into his own eyes.

It hurt. A lot. He might have screamed, he wasn't entirely sure, but the scalding liquid instantly blinded him and burned away at the only real delicate part of Locke's body, making his hands quake violently and his lip quivered as he determinedly poured the whole bowl over his face. After a suitable time, he washed his skin free of the tarry substance and tied a rag around his burned and blinded eyes, dropping to his knees as he did so and still shaking violently. Only time would tell if his magical gamble would pay off.

Twenty four hours seemed like a lifetime when he couldn't see. One of the Citadel's priests informed him when the time had come to remove his blindfold, and he gingerly peeled away the soft fabric, impressed that there seemed to be no burned flesh at least. His bone-tough skin seemed to be ever more impressive in its resillience. Finally bringing all his courage to bear, Locked opened his eyes.

The world erupted into a myriad of colour. The dark, murky halls of the citadel were not dark and murky any more, even the blackest corners that his gnomish eyes had been unable to pierce were no longer black and murky as his magically enhanced eyes pierced the darkest dark. He peered into a mirror curiously, only to find that there was no longer any white in his eyes, nor any colour to speak of. They were like obsidian, black and shiny like a crow's eyes, peering back at him in the darkness that was not darkness.

Master Locke smirked. This was a good day.

**Urithrand** · 12-29-2010, 07:28 PM

Sweat dripped freely down the brow of one Lorlen Locke, as he was gripped with terror. The wards were set, the runes carved, the spells cast. It was all ready, hours and hours of preparation, and weeks of studying were about to come to culmination, and he was terrified, excited, exhillerated, and most of all, sweating profusely. The glowing runes that danced magically in the air around him managed to hold his concentration, but not for long.

"We're going to have to use a serrated blade, heavily enchanted." Those words, those fateful words he remembered them over and over. They had brought down the enormity of what he was about to do crashing on his head like a ton of skulls, and now, all he could do was sweat. He lay upon the altar of names, strapped down in numerous places while four priests of Bane stood over him, a thick rolled piece of leather clamped between his teeth and tied around his head, not so much to ease the pain, but more to stop him breaking his teeth, or biting out his tongue in the throes of agony that awaited him.

"I pray to you lord Bane." He screamed in his mind as the shockingly mirrored saw-like blade was rested on his right arm, just a few inches above the elbow.

"Bite down, Brother Locke." The priest commanded, but not from concern or pity, merely his instructions. His own personal instructions. He wondered for a moment if he had completely lost his mind, but the thought was just a momentary one, because at that moment, the priest lunged forward with a fluid motion that must have severed his whole arm. Must have. Locke screamed in agony as he felt a spray of blood spatter his face, untold ages of unimaginable pain as the man drew back for another sweep. He was enjoying this far too much.

The moment was lost to blindness as Locke's consciousness became horrifyingly acute, the pain worse infinately worse than anything he had ever imagined any gnome could bear. His vision swam and his head cried out, and his throat tore itself to bleeding from the moment, his body squirming against the bonds that held him. The tourniquet creaked as though it might snap as his muscles tensed visciously against it and the restraints. Another motion and fresh spurts of ecstatic and furious anguish. His gums began to bleed and tears sprang to his eyes. Another hacking, sawing, ripping lurch, and he vomited into his mouth from the sheer power of what he was feeling. The priest turned his head to the side so he would not choke, but he wanted to, wanted to die, somehow, anyhow to end the torment.

Blackness ensued.

"I do not know why you insist on keeping it." A hissing, sinuous voice spoke quietly. "It will bring you nothing but trouble." The creature that spoke oh so quietly was a lich, his flesh long since rotted from its bones, and its eyes nothing more than a dull red glow sunk back in those ominous black sockets.

"He is a distraction, nothing more, master." Came the high pitched reply, a stark contrast to the low whisper of the lich. "Teaching him keeps the mind sharp, and makes me all the more open to your teachings." This one was an elf, ancient and withered, the deepest level of mastery of the Pale. His skin was loose on his bones, as though it might drop off any moment, with huge rotted patches that gave him the almost humerous appearance of being mouldy.

"It will be the death of you." The lich responded with considerably more respect than he would usually show an elf, or indeed any member of the living races.

"Or it will be my greatest success master. And perhaps then you will share with me the truest secrets of undeath." His eyes were hopeful, almost pleading.

"Lichood is the greatest achievement of any arcane master." Came the chastising response, "even after seven hundred years of service to me you have not even come close to the level of the mastery of the arcane you would require to join me in our beloved coven. Why I served in Zhentil keep for almost a millennium, extending my life in more glorious ways than your fleshy mortal mind could even comprehend!" He ranted on for some time, his elven student mouthing the words as though he had heard this speech many, many times before.

Pain is such a sadly lacking word. People experience pain in a headache, or a tooth ache, or when they hit their thumb with a hammer. All this was nothing in comparison to the quite exquisite brand of pain that greeted Locke as he regained consciousness. The straps were being removed one by one, and he rubbed his forehead. Or at least he would have rubbed his forehead if he could move his arm. He blearily looked down to his right arm, and the memories of this horriffic ritual came flooding back to him. Raggedly and poorly stitched to the stump of the mess that was once his favourite arm, the appendage of a ghast, raised specifically for this task, approximately the right length, lay there motionless.

"You need to finish the ritual." The Banite priest reminded him. "Before the infection kills you."

Locke, through supreme force of will, dragged his consciousness back under his control and brought the draconic words to mind which he needed to complete his life's work. They began as a tiny mutter, cracking and slurring as blood loss threatened to tear his consciousness back from his grasp, but he carried on regardless. As he intoned further and further into the lengthy incantation, his words became stronger as he realised the momentous occasion that was upon him. The dead, rotting flesh of the corpse grew before his very eyes, knitting up and intertwining with his very much living flesh, gripping into his stump like metal claws, healing up and around the still bleeding mess. He almost faltered as amazement and wonder creeped into the edges of his thoughts, watching the beauty of creation and restoration under his command, making his words come stronger and stronger until he reached a crescendo, the air in the room swirling and the great cracking of thunder rolling overhead, making the priests look to one another in surprise. The final words of the incantation cracked like a whip, and with a flash of searing white, the limb sprang to life, reaching up towards the domed ceiling like some magnificent claw, and a final thunderous crack exploded, blowing out all of the lights in the room.

Lorlen's breath came in ragged, panting gasps. His body seemed exhilerated and disgusted all at once, and his new limb shook violently for several minutes before his got it under his control. The priests managed to relight the lamps in the alcoves and vision was restored to those who were not blessed with the ability to see in total darkness as he was.

He turned his arm over, and back again, staring at it in amazement as it responded to his every whim, just as his ordinary arm, only better, stronger and it oozed a vile green liquid which very occasionally dripped onto the tiles of the Citadel floor. "I can't believe the crazy gnome actually did it." One of the priests remarked.

"Neither can the crazy gnome..." Locke said wide eyed. "Believe me, neither does he."

**Urithrand** · 01-11-2011, 06:31 PM

It was dark in the Citadel library, only a singe candle lighting the small desk at the end furthest from the door where Locke sat, his favourite place in the world. The candle wasn't entirely necessary, but somehow he still found the presence of some small light a comfort, and his continual shivering almost ceased with the gentle warmth it gave off. The massive scroll he had laid on on the desk was ancient, and it was with a great deal of practised care that he rolled the top while he gently unrolled the bottom, taking notes generously as he did so.

The scroll was one written by an ancient elf, who claimed to be over a thousand years a student of the deathless arts. The general rambling nature of its contents was the final rituals which marked the final, excruciating step on the path of the Deathless Master. Locke, having finally researched and practised every level of the arts of the Pale, was ready to finish these rituals. It was exhilerating, exciting, frightening, but for Locke, whose emotions drew daily closer to those of the undead, felt little of any of these things. Instead he felt his usual lack of... anything.

Well that was not entirely true, to say that he felt nothing at all would not be correct, because he did indeed feel a level of excitement and fear, but at such a small level that they barely registered above the din of his own thoughts. The ritual was extraordinarily complex, and were he not a certifiable genius it would be unlikely that he would even comprehend a single sentence, but as it was, he was busily taking notes from which he would prepare for the ritual towards which his entire life had led him.

Locke rubbed his tired eyes and looked up from the scroll, staring at the dancing flame of the candle. He needed to finish this, and as quickly as possible. His new apprentice was going to take up a great deal of his time, and he did not want the two things to clash, but he couldn't help but feel that perhaps he was rushing into this. After all, what would he do once his final mad dash towards Deathless Mastery? His entire life had built up to this ritual, he should savour it, revel in it. He wanted to make certain that he would remember this event, even later when he had become a lich and his living memory was sketchy at best.

That was the next step of course, but he was ashamed to admit that it was shockingly difficult to find information on the final leap into the life of unlife. He still knew no more about the topic than he had when he first left his master's tutelage, once the ancient lich had instructed him to remove the step between them. Lorlen sat back further into his chair, adopting a pose of relaxation he was not accustomed to, and finally lifted his feet to cross them on the desk. The ancient lich, even after thirty years of aquaintance, had still never given his name, but Lorlen had never really been interested enough to ask. He was made painfully aware of what happened to anyone who became too familiar with him, as he was the one who had carried out the sentence. His own master had died by his own hands, a pillow over the face in the night. It wasn't an epic battle, nor was it flashy or genius, but it did the job. Bane's wishes, he told him, the elf had become too dangerous, too chaotic, "His actions tended towards those of a Cyricist." the lich was telling him.

Locke finally shook himself out of his reverie, taking the time to sigh deeply before snuffing out his candle. Tomorrow he would do it. He would take the final step towards mastery of the art of the Pale.

**Urithrand** · 01-13-2011, 06:36 PM

Deathless Master Lorlen Locke awoke with a start, sweat dripping from his forehead and his heart pounding against his chest. The emptiness he felt around it made the thrumming feel like a drum being beaten in an empty room, and he sighed with a smile. All was well. His nightmares were recurring, putting that final vial to his lips, drinking a combination of nefarious and not to mention disgusting things, and feeling the agony of death slowly taking him. In his dream, he had failed, the final ritual of deathless mastery had killed him, and he lay there vomiting on the floor, begging Bane to take him quickly, and Myrkul to be merciful.

But his dreams were not life. He had mixed that poison, and he had topped it off with his own toxic blood, and he had drunk it at midnight in the middle of the necropolis, surrounded by the confused and disinterested undead. He had fallen to the floor in agony, but he had not died. No, he had felt the fire of the poison burning away what humanity he had left, his internal organs withering and shrivelling as his magical body rejected them, and only his heart, his lonely heart remained there beating. Alive still, but so close to the realms of undeath that the tiniest push at that moment would have made him topple over the edge, a mindless zombie, or worse.

But he had stood again. His mind still his own, his thoughts still his own, and the undead arm that twitched at his side so often, finally fell silent. Complete and utter order. Absolute control. Deathless Mastery.

Deciding that it was unlikely he would be able to get back to sleep, he instead padded his way, barefoot into his study. He called this study his, because he was the only wizard in the Black Hand who used it, indeed the only wizard he knew of in the Black Hand at all, and so he laid claim to it, spending so many hours there that no-one cared enough to contest him. Lighting a candle in that habitual ritual that seemed to calm his nerves, he took a seat in his chair, and took up the book he had been reading. Flipping over a few pages, he realised with a somewhat disconcerting jolt, that he knew it. All of it, indeed this was a book about the arts of tha Pale, and he was forced to simply "huh" in surprise. His studies into this particular area were completed.

With an odd surge of emotion to which Locke was no longer accustomed, he realised that he had done it, the process he had dreamed of since he was a youngling was complete, and he could finally return to his darling studies, the arcane workings of simple magic, the only love he had ever known. With a final snap he closed the book shut and returned it to the shelves, taking up instead a slightly more decorated book entitled "The artes of the weeave" and waddled back to his chair, opening the front cover and sniffing the pages inside with pleasure.

With a satisfied sigh and a smile, he began to read.

**Urithrand** · 01-14-2011, 09:50 AM

Much as he was not a particular fan of heathens, and dispite the fact that holy warriors had a habit of screaming in his face a lot, Locke couldn't help but enjoy his trips into the outside world. Sometimes he would rain unholy hell upon foes, burning them to ash, while sometimes he would make friends and cast his protections on them while they did most of the work. But sometimes, he came out into the wide world just to chat, or to listen to the pointless babble of the heathens.

It wasn't that he found their talk particularly interesting. Indeed most of it was someone boasting about how they - and only six other people - managed to destroy a vampire, or proudly touting that they killed a Banite, or lamenting at how unfair it was that Myrkul had returned. He mostly just enjoyed the sensation of knowing something. He would smugly sit in his little tent outside the Second Wind, and listen to their bullshit, and smile as they all went about their business completely oblivious to the fact that they were all, every one of them, going to one day end up in Myrkul's arms. Flipping their coins, selling their bodies, or simply bragging about their meaningless exploits, he couldn't help but admire the pure thick-headedness that accompanied such inane banter.

Most of all though, Locke enjoyed listening. When he wasn't under the scrutiny of some self-righteous paladin, or over inflated cleric who thought that their lesser Gods granted them some authority, he often listened to the most enlightening conversations. It was already common knowledge who he worshipped, and many people avoided him for his association with Bane, and yet some people, stupid as they were, would still quite cheerily chatter about exactly what they had done, and what they were planning to bring down the Black Hand. He found it even more amusing when people would lay out their intricate plans for each other, remarking about their amazing cunning and wit, an impossibly amusing irony all in itself. Locke absorbed all of this information in due course, and he was forced to sigh when he realised that it was extremely likely that he would - some day - be unable to partake in simple pleasures such as this. Eventually, someone was going to shout Black Hand, and being Bane's faithful in every way, he would likely just nod, and likely be forced to kill them. But there would be witnesses. There were always witnesses.

His short moment of regret was soon quashed, however, when a blue-armoured elf came bounding out of nowhere, sword raised to Locke's throat. He looked the elf up and down and tried very hard not to smack his forehead with dismay at the sheer trainwreck of an excuse for a holy warrior this man was, but he refrained. The elf started his pointless babbling about undeath and how righteous and wonderful he was, but in truth, Locke wasn't really listening. His usual attempts to avoid a fight in such a public place were unfruitful as the fanatical heathen continued to rant, and raised his sword. For just the faintest glimmer of a second, Locke considered his undead graft that now hung clamly at his side, but instead, he decided that his cause would not likely be helped by murdering the stupid fool, and instead, shook his head and teleported to a safe distance, before ducking behind cover and returning to the Citadel.

Once safely home, he was forced to admit that his patience was wearing thin. Had he killed the elf, he would surely have been damned for his actions, dispite the illegal nature of the elf's demeanour. He would eventually have to make a choice, and it was becoming easier by the day. One day, he would not have to show such restraint. He would be free from this shackle of remaining lawful in the eyes of Sundren, and simply punish such stupidity with precisely the response it deserved. For now however, Locke was playing the waiting game.

**Urithrand** · 04-27-2011, 11:52 AM

Deathless Master Lorlen Locke brushed his hand gently along the shoulders of a simple zombie of Sundren's necropolis lovingly. The zombie didn't pay him much heed, which was fine, he wasn't really there to conscript the inhabitants of his cemetary, he was merely welcoming himself home. Zhentil Keep was awash with intrigue and the usual drama, and Locke was surprised, if not upset to learn that his master had been slain in the usual Zhent politics. For such an ancient lich to be destroyed was a disappointment and an inconvenience to be sure, but even such an impressive being held no emotional attachment to the gnome who walked death's border.

The death of his master had left Locke in something of a quandry. What exactly should he do now? It was at his master's behest that he'd gone to Sundren to stay the uprising of the heathens, but even now Myrkul had been resurrected, he seemed to find the place alluring. Perhaps it was the sheer density of the stupid folk there that game him a sensation of superiority, or maybe he just missed his little study, but for whatever reason, Locke decided that the Sundren sect of the Black Hand was where he belonged.

And so it was that after several months of absence, he once again wandered the necropolis grounds, smiling pleasantly in the unusually clear full moon's light. He brushed his bare, grafted undead hand down the spine of one of the zombies with a smirk, watching as it froze with ultimate pleasure, and seemed to swell in size. His mastery over undeath was pleasing, even after the months since his ascention into Deathless Mastery.

After his reminiscent stroll, Locke touched his banite amulet, cold all the while he'd been away in Zhentil Keep, but now warm again as he used it for the first time in months, while muttering a prayer to Bane. He felt the familiar sensation of being wrenched from existence, only to be spat out once again into the portal room of the Nexus. It was eerily quiet as the empty halls echoed only the sound of torches, and the occasional rasping of bone of bone. He didn't pass anyone of note on the way to his study. His quarters were untouched since he departed, and Clay lay in a heap in the corner, inanimate in the absence of his master, though he quickly sprang to life as Locke returned to his forgotten construct.

It felt like he'd only left his study yesterday. The tome he'd been studying lay open on the same page as when he'd hurriedly been called to Zhentil Keep, a thin layer of dust being quickly disapparated with a wave of his hand.

It was truly good to be home.

**Urithrand** · 05-09-2011, 03:35 AM

Black Fang Lorlen Locke walked through the citadel in a raging fury. Who was this creature that simply called himself Daemon, and what exactly had he managed to open up at last? Why did he taunt him so by slipping repeatedly from his grasp?

Locke wasn't accustomed to this helpless sensation, and it enraged him. He was used to having a target, and then hurling magical energies at it relentlessly until it was dead, but how did one fight the enemy that won't stay still long enough to engage it in combat? Locke was accustomed to dirty fighting and underhanded tricks, and even simple cowardly fleeing, but this... was different. He could not chase this creature, no matter how skilled he became with planar boundaries and portals. It was with a god-like level of annoyance and distain that he was forced to admit that he was likely out of control of this situation, and would have to wait for the infinately annoying Daemon to show himself again.

A Baneguard bore the brunt of his fury, the light in its eyes fading as his magically animated undead arm crushed its spine. Murdering the undead population of the citadel was as unsatisfying as ever, and with another tremendous sigh, he picked up his rune katar, swinging it a few times for emphasis. The Veritas Rebels would feel his annoyance tonight. At least someone would scream for Bane's mercy this eve.

**Urithrand** · 05-21-2011, 01:54 PM

Locke was elated. It was unusual after such a long period accompanied only by an apathetic controlled burn of rage to feel such a surge of positive emotion, and he wasn't entirely certain whether he liked it. What he DID like, very very much, was the feeling of cold metal in his hand. Johanna Patson's holy symbol glinted in the light of his study, nothing more than a simple coin, but more precious to her than anything else in this world.

The beautiful image of her sightless eyes, gazing up at the sky in death would warm his barely beating heart for many nights of pleasant dreams now that he had finally, after much waiting and thinking, taken his revenge. She had tried to plead with him in that pathetic way she believed people found endeering, surprising him somewhat with her naive belief that they had made amends. He smirked to himself. None of their pleasantries were real, they never had been. He had not even tried to make a secret of the fact that he was only not killing her for the benefit of Iosolde, and now that she was absent, there had been nothing stopping him from taking the vengeance that was rightfully his.

She had got exactly what she had given, but he had no doubt that weak and pathetic as she was, she would likely suffer a thousandfold the anguish that she had caused him, a thought which pleased him greatly.

A lightning strike struck Locke's brain and with a sudden stroke of inspiration, he knew just exactly what to do. Practically launching himself into action, he ran through the citadel to the donation box, and with a chuckle that came right from his gut, he deposited the coin into the slot atop the wooden box. He was certain that the nearby clerics would think him crazy for such an odd display, but he cared not, the bitch's most precious gold piece would go towards the workings of the Black Hand, a thought that would keep him warm for a very long time.

Lorlen Locke had finally had his revenge. And it felt good.

**Urithrand** · 01-08-2012, 09:49 AM

The pleasant sound of scrabbling scratching was muffled by the rows of books and thin layer of dust that now covered almost every surface in Locke's study in the citadel. Over a year in the constant itch that was Zhentil Keep had grown a new appreciation within him for the familiar surroundings in which he'd discovered the deepest secrets of Deathless Mastery. It felt good to be home, as good as the muted echo of emotions that echoed within his black soul like a pin drop in a room bereft of carpet were able to feel at least. For now he was deeply engrossed in his task, writing madly as thoughts and ideas came to mind regarding the task he had been set by the Imperceptor.

To kill a paladin. The only time he'd seen it done was when his most esteemed acquaintance, the vampire Tarsus had been there, and then the paladin had been greatly outnumbered. They were a sight to behold in combat, and Locke was fully aware that it would be unlikely for them to succeed should they take the man face on hand to hand. It would take cunning, guile and ingenuity. Luckily, these were traits that Locke prided himself on, and he absently chewed the feathery tip of his quill for just a moment before madly returning to his scribble.

Zhentil Keep was constantly a mass of intrigue, murder, plotting and social climbing, and more than anything else, it bored him. Nonetheless, he'd been summoned to act on behalf of his unpredictable (and now very much dead) master once upon a time, and answer the summons he had. But irritating as the compulsion eventually became, he couldn't fight it. Sundren chapter of the Black Hand was his home now, and no amount of the Keep's fiercest piety before Bane could make him feel nearly as accomplished as Sundren's own little citadel. Here were the halls where he'd discovered the deepest secrets, the most forbidden rituals, and the answers for which he'd searched for his ninety odd years of life thus far. And here was where his most astounding leaps and bounds of progess and success had peaked, leaving him as he was now. A Deathless Master.

"Post." he addressed his undead minion that followed him everywhere within the Citadel walls, "I think I have an excellent idea..."

Neatly piling up the parchments that he'd been filling with a veritable brainstorm of thoughts, he took up a clean sheet, and began to write a much larger script. "To all those who desire true power..."

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