A God for All Season
I sold my soul and all I got was some eldritch magic.
Wyran [Lastname] the Warlock.
Patron to the Dweller in the Gulf.
HP – (remember to add)
AC – (remember to add)
Spells known: Eldritch Blast, Minor Illusion, Thaumatergy, Arms of Hadar, Dissonant Whispers, [The new one I took, Shocking something or other]
Invocations: Eldritch Blast does +Cha mod damage, Detect Magic at will
Izzuna, a country to the east of Thalassa, shared much in common with where Wyran found himself now. Fear and hatred of magic and racism against Tieflings felt almost common place to its citizens, that was, of course, if you were a Tiefling mage. Growing up poor, Wyran would help wherever he could with his magic, helping his family scrape by, constantly looked down on.
Even when he came of age, the College of [fill this in later] rejected him because of his race, in not so few words. Wyran was furious, vowing revenge against the staff, or at least have them cowering in fear (whichever was easiest). Once his angers cooled, he decided it fortuitous to study magic on his own.
The local, non-magic library had a few old arcane tomes, here and there. Nothing expansive, but it would do. Wyran was there day and night, pouring over the texts. The old, halfling librarian, knowing the discrimination Wyran felt, took pity on the student, and allowed him into the basement, where books deemed forbidden by one authority or another were kept.
With a promise of secrecy, Wyran began his explorations of the cellar. Through the days, he couldn’t help by shake a faint whispering. It seemed everywhere, but nowhere, all in his mind. After days of reading, he found the source of the calling. A large black book, bound in leather, with a large, bronze lock, as if the whispers weren’t ominous enough.
As Wyran touched the book, the whispers grew louder, and audible.
The power swirling within the book enticed Wyran, who pried at the lock, eventually using a spare quill to help pick what he couldn’t break. The whispers grew louder and incoherent again as Wyran flipped through the pages, as if guided by some other force.
Wyran read with ferocious curiosity, not understanding much of it’s ancient script, until he arrived at the near center. A large symbol had been scrawled in what looked less like ink and more like ichor, with words in what Wyran could determine were most languages and some even he could not parse.
THE DWELLER OFFERS POWER TO THOSE BRAVE ENOUGH TO SEEK IT. SPEAK THESE WORDS AND FACE IT
The Common was basic, but the message was clear. Wyran thought on this for days, not finding any mention of a Dweller with this symbol.
After careful consideration, Wyran in the darkest reaches of the library, read from the book. As the words left his lips he fell into a deep slumber, but in his mind, he was in a plane of unending darkness.
The words echoed in Wyran’s head, and to be honest, he doesn’t remember many of them; pure terror will obfuscate anyone’s memory.
The Dweller in the Gulf introduced itself, and informed Wyran that it would offer power, as long as Wyran obeyed it.
Wyran wasn’t sure what it wanted with him, or what it’s endgame was, but the powers brought before him were too amazing to pass on. Powers to control minds would surely show the racists at the College that Tieflings were worth something.
The Dweller gave Wyran his first task, go to Patrida (a nearby city in a nearby country), and he’d know what to do. Unceremoniously, Wyran awoke, new magics etched into his brain, his head slightly sore from the meeting.
He seemed to have been passed out for hours; the sun was already set and the town asleep. He could never face his parents, saying why he was leaving or where he was going, so he left a note;
I’m sorry for the short notice, but I have to leave. It’s a task possibly more important than you, or I, or anyone, and it is very important to me. I’ll come back, someday, and I promise then I can provide for you. For now, take all the money I had on me, and please, please, be safe.
Gathering his belongs, Wyran set off for Patrida…