The Masks of Vyn Morrad



With the chaos over, the heroes begin discussing their theories with Alyssas to who might be behind the attempts on the Mask. Telthoris brings up their questions about Dengar, however at the very mention of the Governing Chair Alyss is visibly shocked, and can scarcely believe the accusation. “I have personally met with Alvus on many occasions, and he has always been a kind and compassionate soul. The citizens of Klaenth adore him! How else could he have gained their love? How could he change the very structure of our government if he were not so loved?”

As the players begin to share their story, a thin voice like crumbling parchment pierces through the temple chamber.

“All good theories, my friends.”

Standing silhouetted against the light of the doorway stands a tall, thin figure in gray robes hemmed with black runes. His arms, hands, and fingers seem almost too long, and he moves with the fluid grace of a snake. He casually tosses onto the marble floor two heads, faces frozen in a rictus of pain and surprise; the two stormpriests who left only moments before to guard the door.

“Now,” the man says, “you will will hand over the Mask, elfling, and we will end this game.” Gumbo notices the sheer arcane power radiating from the figure as he advances, looking worried for a change.

Until now the figure has had his face hidden by the hood of his robes. Using his too-long fingers he pulls back his cowl, revealing a gaunt face with pointed features, set with milky white eyes. His head is completely bald, and he has a feverish look to him. His very gaze is jarring at this distance, and Alyss grabs her head in pain as she tries to withstand the effects. She raises her mace high and utters a prayer in elven to den Morrad, breaking the spell that had begun to take hold.

“I have been watching you grow powerful, elfling, but you cannot possibly think to withstand me. You know what I am.”

Alyss looks hesitant for just a moment, then snaps back to her radiant resolve, defiant. “I care not what you are, Blank, I only care for that which you will not have!” At these words, which end in a shout, she tosses the Mask to Kamesh. ”RUN!”

Her eyes flicker to the secret door in the floor, and then she lifts her mace high to face the Blank. With a wave of his hand, the mage summons a band of skeletal warriors, clad in bits of plate and chain armor. They appear in a rush of black smoke, and immediately their eyes, glowing black orbs, focus on the party and being to click-clack their way across the marble floor, weapons at the ready.

Alyss, still poised with her mace held high, is now yelling with the incantation she prepares. The Blank drawn a slim staff from his robes and begins chanting. As the last hero drops into the secret trapdoor, they see Alyss charge forward, screaming wordlessly with her stormrage. The Blank, grinning, raises his staff in time to catch her blow, and when the weapons strike the pair erupt in a ball of crackling fire. With a silent prayer for Alyss, they seal shut the door and begin running downward towards the ancient temple below.



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