Phiyruhk Duskshroud the Sardonic Provocateur, Anathema to the Empire

Role

Phiyruhk was born to a well to do family, and with the struggle of where to
find his next meal and how to afford a proper education well behind him he
was able to aim for more lofty goals. He took to science and maths like a
fish to water and this was smiled upon by his family, especially his mother,
the prominent professor of Arkham - a true intellect of the age. But alas,
whether it was through the rather pedestrian nature of teens coming of age to
be rebellious or a genuine interest which he had so fortunately discovered
early, his true passion was unanimously shunned among his ken. The arts,
specifically painting and sculpture at this time. He sought out every tome,
class, and tutor on the subject and began to paint in his own style from a
very early age, or so his mentors told him it was early at least. His dreams
would guide his hand and translate these serene visions to the canvas or clay
or metal or whatever else he could sculpt with. And each work was brought
home only to be ridiculed. Eventually he went to university for magic as his
parents had asked, seeking the arcane touch that they surely promised he too
would possess. But study of invocation surely fell by the wayside, and the
most he did at school was gather shattered stone to cast new clay and
sculptures with and shirk his responsibilities. Today, one might not say for
sure whether it was these failing grades or an actual lack of quality in the
art he created, but each month he would return home with new creations and
each month he would be told he was a fool and that his art was not only
ridiculous, but awful. But today is indeed far removed from this story of the
past for many...

The school eventually suspended him for poor grades, saving his family some
money but surely not embarrassment. The generation before him had received
top marks and surely this boy would be a black mark on their name if he never
shaped up. Oh, but if they only knew what we might know today, how right they
would be about this! He returned home without sharing any of the gloomy
attitude of his parents, still focused on his work. But his dreams became
darker, as if something itching at the back of his mind...something forgotten
yet he had never known it. He would try to translate this to his work and be
met with failure, destroying the piece in a rage every time. He had a full
time tutor which he afforded with his own trust, and confided in him this
sentiment as vaguely as he could without giving away the underlying principle
that allowed his work to come to be. His internal muse, as it were, he would
not reveal yet. His master had very standard and poorly thought advice, but
asked him to bring his next work to the studio and not destroy it. And so he
did, and his master commented that it did not seem so bad, but this still
infuriated Phiyruhk, and he destroyed the statue fantastically with an iron
pipe and the zeal of a madman. A shard of the clay and glass creation broke
free and sailed across the room to cut his master right under the eye, and
fearing a worse injury he informed the boy he'd have to find another teacher.
Weeping in to the ruined sculpture, alone, he took up the bloodied shard and
cursed his fate. Had his best years gone?

That very night he fell into a fitful sleep. His dreams were again filled
with that feeling, but in these he wandered through a wasteland of darkness
made physical in his tortured mind. Thoughts of those that denied him, his
family, and his tutor made the dreams even more fevered. Flashes of the past
mixed with this macabre dreamland terrain. At once he came before a door with
a tentacled eye surrounded by nothing but darkness. A serene but frightening
guardian stood before it, appraising him with his gaze, and stepped aside
slightly. He stood a meter from the door now, and it towered over him,
several times his height. A tear of blood came now and fell down but when it
impacted the floor was gone. He looked again and now there was a cut beneath
the eye. Blinking, the cut vanished, and another tear... As he looked down to
the floor to see it it again came that there was no evidence. But now he
could see his hand, and in it the bloodied shard that had caused his masters
departure. He lifted his hand, and set down one stroke upon the door as if he
painted and a searing red line appeared as if the clay were an inkwell of
blood...and then he awoke to the dawn covered in sweat. 

That day he went to the butcher and acquired as much blood of pig, cow,
camel, and whatever he could, and set to the canvas. A new tutor had been
summoned but not yet arrived by carriage, and so over the next few weeks he
kept to himself only stopping his furious painting to eat and drink and
sleep, and even then only barely. His dreams were rewarding as each work drew
towards completion but as he finished each piece he would have an utterly
dreamless night, as if his muse had done enough to point him in the direction
but that he had not come to find the crux of the meaning behind the nagging
suggestions left in the deepest recesses of his mind. Finally, a few weeks
later, a new tutor arrived prepared to stay within the halls of the studio
Phiyruhk had built for his teachers, complete with a sleeping loft and
private study, and let him settle in. He asked the man not enter the studio
though, and began to set it up as an installation featuring his blood
paintings. Finally, upon a small dias in the center, he placed the remaining
bloodied shard, atop a pillow of silk and velvet. Satisfied, he asked the new
mentor to view his work in the sunset light so they could be gauged and his
work and tutelage continue. This new master gave several grunts but mostly
appraised the body of work in reflective silence. Finally, he came to the boy
and said that his work was decent, but the choice of blood as a medium
confused him, and he thought it pretentious and simple minded. That very
night, he walked in his sleep. To the dias first...then to the bedchamber
where he used it to slash the throat of his new master. He awoke in his own
bed, shard in hand, thinking he had another dreamless night...but when he saw
the painting on the canvas of his mentor's back skin stretched over canvas
board in blood, he remembered everything...and smiled.

Not that he needed it, but it delighted him how cheap tutors became when you
simply killed them the first time they didn't recognize your genius in art.
Eventually he decided he had surpassed all masters and had found his own
style and would need to hone and perfect it over time, but he did still order
three more tutors from different regions and they became sculptures,
paintings, and artistic objects. A particularly obese one had enough skin for
him to create a three section dressing screen, for example. Eventually,
though no convictions were made, it was suspected that entertaining this man
as a tutor was possibly a death sentence as so many had vanished. A new
studio had to be built in secret beneath the old one, and he used all that
money he saved paying yearly stipends to hire a construction crew to do just
that. As you can imagine, he essentially paid for only construction material
and tools for this project, and had half a dozen brand new sources of
material for a paint and sculpting medium. His dreams became ever more vivid
as he delved deeper in to this dark style, and he eventually drew the
attention of members of the black sect. When his father vanished under
mysterious circumstances, he thought little of it. It wasn't him this time.
But his mother began to see that his mental state must be deteriorating from
a lack of study and structure and so attempted to have him committed.
Clearly, the treatment would benefit him. A member of the Black Sect, working
with that of the Shadow and Blade as spies and mercenaries to fulfill the
deed, intercepted the two who would collect him and slew them. Seeing through
the eyes of the dead provided them the knowledge of the next step needing to
be taken, and finally a Divine was bribed with holy relics to replace the
doctors aides and collect him. That night, a spirit woke him from his dreams
and informed him his art would be valued if he would simply agree to the
first three things asked of him when two robed men arrived the next day. And
when they did, they asked if he would come with them peacefully to the
asylum. He did. They informed him of the truth, and asked if he would take up
the art of Necromancy so that his art could be perfected truly. He agreed.
And then at the guild, he was asked to take the oath. He swore to it once he
could raise the dead, and so...he did. Now he would seek out one he learned
of in the lands to finish his tutelage and become what he was destined to.

any case he would be pleased with the result, so long as he kept his title of
course. Bribes and lies were handed out, and his dreams became less fevered.
But as the election closed, some symbols began to re-emerge in the dreams of
a dark place, a world not unlike this one but of a darkness in such stark
contrast it would be appalling to those not so clearly psychotic. He
continues his work in his quiet time, during rest, and gathers his 'medium'
abroad from the bodies of the countless slain. While he himself is surely a
mockery of creativity, he seems only to lean in to this with zeal. He spends
the immense wealth that he both inherited and has amassed on his travels to
fund any artistic endeavor he can, but the depth of the mysteries he sought
to plumb from his dreams remain just beyond his grasp for some reason.
Through exploring the mysteries of death, he seems to be rewarded in his
dreams, but in his life he is a facade of shallow wealth and bloodlust,
managing to be only a patron and not a conduit for any expression of value.
While it does truly begin to corrupt him towards darker ends, on the surface
he is entirely unaware of it. Unaware of the quivering horror that would
speak to him if his dreams are as the Dark Lord said, nothing special. The
words of his mentor and now his lord haunt him, but only in his
subconscious...for now.

Work upon work lay in the sect hall of Black these days, mostly paintings of
a macabre nature. Surely abstract. Offal and dried flesh clinging tenaciously
to the canvas. Sculptures of carved bone, some of shattered pieces held
together by spools of stretched gut. The stench is more overwhelming than
usual. As the days pass, Phiyruhk DuskShroud has been slaughtering the masses
opposed to the empire and using their remains, as well as the remains of
those falling to the rest of the army, for an ever increasing body of work.
He began a tour of each city, hosting small galas and offering SUBSTANTIAL
donations to the arts, showing off his work in the mean time. To his face,
the museum curators politely decline. But behind his back the word of the day
seems to be 'hack' or 'pretentious nobody' or 'We'll take his money, sure,
but the art is ghastly.'

Yes it's quite true, his dreams seem to continue to inspire further cruelty,
mystery and yet...the words of his old mentor ring in his ears often. 'This
is...nothing but pretentious. It's been done, Phiyruhk.' And so this seems to
ring true, but not to his ears. And given that he builds his reputation
almost solely upon fear, outside of the art world, taking up the name of
Dread Lord with a bit more glee than one might expect, he rarely hears such
criticism himself.

He spends about as much time upon self reflection as any narcissist might,
but very little seems to be actual creative work. More...attempts at it. An
interest. But a fire? It remains to be seen, surely, and as time drags on his
awareness of his faults seem to go unnoticed.

An absolutely ancient canvas, stitched together of the tattered remains of
paintings from the High Lord's keep and whited out with starch and white
paint, then a layer of black paint holds a mysteriously abstract piece. The
canvas looks raised, and it is not an illusion of light or the paint held
there, but rather that the canvas has been built up with some other medium.
It appears to be fat, glue, and papery bits of thin stretched skin all mashed
together to give the illusion that the canvas is a blackened void with
seeping wounds. Dried blood pools at the base of the frame, fed by certain
pieces of flesh deep within these cuts and gashes of weird gore that pulse
with negative energy and ooze ichorous, black tinted blood. The smell of
copper and rot fill the air near the painting, and from such a close vantage
no signature can be discerned. At the risk of gagging, one might get close
enough to realize some of the cuts are in fact painted and give a shockingly
realistic interpretation of the real cuts on the rest of the canvas, showing
the artist may be hitting his stride here. The rest of the art in the room
could just as easily be the result of a series of gruesome sword fights being
held in close proximity to the canvases. Little else draws your eye.
Disappointing really. Several bolts of canvas lay in the corner, perhaps more
will be stretched and painted in the future, as this does appear to be a very
active studio, albeit one filled with rather blase works for the most part.

The dark mage sat alone, save of course the cadre of undead, drinking and
wallowing among the burnt picture frames and shattered sculptures in his
sect. As the hour drew to midnight, his ceaseless babbling and drunken and
otherwise intoxicated musings ended with a macabre conversation with the
Skull of a Painter. Begging and pleading, but in the magical tongues and
rites of necromancy, he bargained with the skull. Offering the idea that he,
holder of the Amulet of Sehktan Rah, was this pitiful soul's new master,
finally a voice of barely a whisper leapt forth at the appointed hour, and
the darkness of the Sect kept it there to answer his questions on art, the
creator's inspiration, and finally his muse. By and by, a spirit formed and
told his tale, and in the end with it's secrets plied in good faith, the
necromancer began to understand something of the being's perspective. Once
satisfied, he destroyed the skull with a stomp of his booted foot and a
magical utterance.

This would mark the beginning of a series of midnight callings to the dead.
Boxes, caskets, urns and other shipments to the sect began to increase in
volume and strange voices could be heard from within the sect ending only
after the witching hour. Secrets of undeath and art were being pried, and
cemeteries were being emptied of both their most famous and obscure alike.
But while the necromancer's will was strong enough to pry them, his depressed
and oft drug addled mind was beyond anything but cataloging them in a more
scientific fashion. While this was his art and obsession for the better part
of a decade, it led to no new artworks among the shattered ruins of what had
been.

Then in the dead of night, after a chance meeting with yet another damned
soul, sleep and dreams came to him. Dreams of his former works once again,
the same dreams that had caused him to crush, tear, and burn the works
previously. The same visions that saw his artwork as nothing more than
drivel. And the same ones that saw his own hand smear in his lifeblood new
works of worth. But this time, the dreams did not simply end in a cold sweat.

A voice from the shadows asked a price: "Offer up what none would, a living
piece of you, and you will have an instrument. Continue to, and you will gain
the mastery you so desire." What this voice was, he did not know, but he
awoke days later in a fever, attended by lesser sect members asking curiously
of his disfigurement. Unaware of the pain and scarring they so casually
referred to, he sent them away citing that he was fine and needed no such
fuss. He came to find something unremembered: his brush set among a leather
pack. Two new brushes and a chisel lay in a leather pack he did not remember
seeing before. As he reached for them, he noticed with some horror his
shriveled forearm. A long scar, still fresh with blood and new stitches, ran
from his elbow to his pinky finger, and the radial bone was missing. He sat
staring, unblinking, and unraveled the pack to reveal bone handled brushes
that had looked absent of flesh and sun bleached as if for a century. He
grasped them dimly and let his gaze lift to see a canvas of immense size
covered with a bloodied bed linen. Clutching the pack of brushes in one hand,
he draw down the cloth with his free hand and upon seeing it began to laugh.
A pain shot through him as blood seeped from two wounds where a rib had been
removed on either side in a similarly macabre and only loosely surgical
manner. But he did not care. For nearly an hour the madness of laughter
gripped him as he stared upon a canvas he knew to be painted in blood, but
that appeared to the eyes of the living as only a black void. It was as if he
saw something more in it, saw to the truth of it. Later as he cleaned black
blood from his brush tips and under his fingernails, he let out little
chuckles to himself, and as the days pressed on it was as if he was inhabited
with some spirit of humor. The skulls of the Black Sect's sigils were fitted
now with jester's caps, and the brushes were kept on his person at all times
from that day forward.

His art began as imitation of his imagination, but of late some truth has
managed to squeeze through some barrier. As if the fraying of the edges of
the fabric of reality, he has learned only through practical application of
new black magics the beckoning of this Kreth'ka. Certainly there is some cost
associated with both it's use and even the mere learning of it, but it is an
itch he scratches as often as he can despite that foreboding feeling. Unable
to find any resources to cite such a name, besides similar feelings near the
Khar'zhur trees about Thera, he is instead resolved to pure research and
discovery. His own blood doesn't feed this mistress as it has in some of his
recent works through which it was discovered, but he has begun in those same
places, delving in to the blood of those living and more importantly long
dead to try and gain visions beyond the veil of death and find his place
among the eternal. Certainly, any sacrifice that it may entail to his mortal
soul and even indeed his career go unnoticed in his fervor for discovery.

And so, through the ritualistic boiling of blood through his rituals upon the
substance he has created a new line of art. Gathering up his radial and rib
bone paintbrushes, newly fitted with discarded ropes upon Gallow Hill, he has
been seen painting away in the dead of night in the black sect. That is,
between contacting spirits of the dead with remains imported with his vast
resources as Dread Lord. And such is Law, in his eyes, to delve in the black
magics. That it benefits his art is his true goal, but he has at least
considered it to fall within the scope of sect law in his mind given recent
events and his piercing in to new realms of magic.

The usual reddened and black paintings have taken on a different quality, and
even those WITHOUT the power of discernment of experienced black magicians
might see threads of the same tear in the fabric created by the power of
Kreth'ka. He began first with a performance piece: Sunlay, a potential
recruit of the Empire in his eyes, offered a small measure of power for a
sacrifice. As it was at an immortal lord's shrine, and it would catapult this
other necromancer in to new knowledge and facilitate his becoming, both Black
Magic in the land and his art would be satisfied. As the necromancers met
beneath the desert, Phiyruhk set out a mat of canvas, unstretched, to catch
what certainly would be a fair bit of blood, and his fallen body. A form of
ultimate sacrifice, thought in Sunlay's mind to benefit himself more than
Phiyruhk. Gathering it up for later use he has since stretched it over a
frame and holds it at a high point in his latest art offering, on the east
wall of the Sect.

Another piece is set within the sect, at the north wall below the laws. A
canvas completely covered with blood collected from his myriad victims was
splattered and spread over the canvas. At first it had the usual look of his
recent works. Plain, yet somehow riveting. Tracing his finger through the
still wet blood and beckoning the kreth'ka the blood boiled away ferociously,
offering him so many visions at once that he collapsed on the floor. When he
returned, only small traces of the strokes of his brush remain in the dried
portions on the canvas, glowing at their edges in a fashion that absorbs
rather than emits light. The liquid blood vaporized and boiled away
completely during his comatose state in this artistic adventure, and he has
set it below the law to represent it's place in both art, for the pleasure of
any who would view such things in the halls, as well as enshrining it as a
representation of proper delving and study in to the deepest reaches of Black
Magic, per Sect Law.

(Cont'd...)

A final piece, a mechanical wonder set in stone, bone and blood on the south
wall of the sect. It is at first a fountain of sorts, a carved mass at its
base that appears to be countless bodies. A shadowy, mosquito like visage
drills down in to the charnel pile of the dead represented in stone with a
clear, narrow glass cone that draws up blood from some unknown source within
the base of the device and vanishes in to the shadowy, carapace and dried
flesh made insect horror's body. Emerging from a stinger is the blood, though
apparently altered by the travel through, is a steam of reddish-black hue,
filling the air with the scent of rot and copper. Rather than simply drizzle
the blood drawn up in to the fountain out, this one seems to boil it away
somehow. Within the abdomen of the creature is the last phalange of
Phiyruhk's own perfectly embalmed index finger, the secret to the boiling,
tempting at all times the Kreth'ka to the halls of the sect. Every few cubic
centimeters that are drawn up causes the eyes of the myriad corpses at the
base to whiten then flicker with color, vaguely describing a vision of some
horror found through the blood. At these moments the insectoid figure loses
its feature as its shadowy stone draws in the surrounding light to be seen as
only a lusterless, black nothingness.

Among the hall are several lesser pieces with similar style, or at least
material composition, on different mediums. They are of a high quality, and
some disappear with time as new ones are added. Perhaps they are sold to
collectors or cycled out in to his private collection, presuming he has
rebuilt the gallery he destroyed in flame after his talk a few years ago with
the dark lord Gaspare Gnazzo.

More temptation, more sacrifice, and more risk. The unknown power of the
kreth'ka isn't known to him to be an ally of his well being, but through risk
and sacrifice have come his greatest breakthroughs. Ancient powerful dead
continue to pour in to the sect hall, and he can be heard speaking and even
hearing replies on in to the darkest hours of night...

The greater lich from beyond the portal and dead vale seemed crazed. So much
of what mortal mind he had had been eroded away by the unceasing passage of
time in solitude in his church, with so few mortal visitors, that Phiyruhk
Duskshroud too was met with this husk of sanity that remained. As the
conversation began to be steered back to lucidity by the aspiring necromancer
and Dread Lord, the lich decided that this mortal being perhaps was in need
of his talents. Of his research, of his cure for this disease that to the
creature was obvious Phiyruhk was afflicted. The disease, seemingly, was
called life.

Finally the lich beckoned with clawed, bony hands for Phiyruhk to climb upon
his altar and examination table. Drawing a rusty scalpel down the length of
it, he eyed the subject inhumanly. He began to dictate to himself, as if some
assistant took note. This, of course, despite the fact the lich had sent all
mortal and dead eyes that could be seen away. His work was, after all,
proprietary. Or so he claimed. "Subject is a mature male. Well nourished... A
malformed arm...hmm, this seems to be self inflicted... Psychological causes
can not be ruled out..." He droned on, then with the casual flair and
detachment one might write a grocery list, carved a jagged wound from sternum
to bellybutton on the hapless necromancer. A cry of anguish issued out
involuntarily.

"Augh!" was the yaulping cry heard across the dead vale. The dead there
stirred only a moment from their milling about, uninterested moments later as
the smell of fresh living from the north returned to their dead senses. Back
in the altar room of the Church, the lich with continued and persistent
emotionless vigor, rifled through the mortal creatures innards as if
searching for a key among a pile of nails. "Yes, this is it..it's clear, you
are sick indeed" said the lich in certain tones as he held up a pale organ
before the clenched, watering eyes of Phiyruhk. He returned the organ
unceremoniously and drew out what appeared a rusted fishhook. After an
uncaring announcement of this next step, he stitched the half-drow up with a
jagged, uneven stitch that barely held him together.


"Surely you will die, this case is terminal. Perhaps I can find an elixir in
time for the cure, but the cost will be great..." Several obvious thoughts,
mixed well with ideas of pure terror at his situation and mildly suicidal
ideations ran through the half-drow's mind. Spitting up blood, and through
clenched teeth, he agreed that he did not care the cost and that he would
find them... Limping out to fight his way back through the veil with his
Warlock, Malgren, he knew his case was now indeed fatal. No matter the cause
was infection, the deranged lich was his best chance at survival at this
point, and having begun down this path, he would have to see it to it's
bloody end.

His dreams after the meeting with the lich priest were fevered for days. The
medics summoned before his arrival at the palace were able only to soothe him
slightly, but so much damage had been done, they explained. After staunching
the bleeding as best they could they were simply employed to change bandages
and monitor his state. As he slept, pillows and blankets beneath him soaked
what must have been a gallon of water a night as he tossed, turned, and
mumbled in his dreadful and restless sleep.

A landscape of blackness with things of deeper shadow still in the
sky...birds, perhaps, or darkened clouds. He could not tell. He stood upon a
barren plain, lacking wind but dusty none the less. The smell of burn, decay,
and foetid moulds of unknown providence reached his nose. It was so real, all
of a sudden, as his dreams had often been to inspire his art. Further
blackness then...he looked down at his withered hand, and the flesh was
suddenly drawing tight and drying out to complete dessication. As he moved
it, it cracked, and the withered leather of his flesh sloughed off to the
dusty plain as his vision somehow acclimated to this pure darkness. He saw
bone, tendons...nothing more remained of his hands. A voice not his own, but
coming from him none the less spoke..."Death....nothing....are you
death....are you nothing..." He felt detached from this voice, as if watching
from an omniscient point of view in his minds eye. He waited to hear more.
Nothing came.

A letter announcing a new work of art comes to the collegio, brought by some
sheepish messenger. Clearly the mark of the black sect and Phiyruhk
Duskshroud in wax seals the papyrus roll. As he arrives, he is greeted by the
lich Gaspare, and to the discerning canine or deathly senses, a small trace
of urine can be detected in that moment.

Unfurling the scroll and steadying his shaking hands, he inserts the fact
that he is the necromancer's latest student and assistant in the arts, and
unfurls the scroll with some manner of regality. Standing tall, he begins to
speak in a clear and proud tone of voice.

"I am here to announce the latest work of his Dread Lordship, Phiyruhk
Duskshroud. He has been away in dead vales and touching upon the borders of
life in death, both in action and his work. Today he has prepared for your
consideration, Unholiest Lord Gaspare, a piece titled simply: Courage."

Fumbling for a moment, the nervous boy pulls the large leather flat portfolio
case he had been toting and unfolds it, revealing a square frame. He removes
a papyrus covering, and within is a completely blank piece of canvas, poorly
stretched, crumpled, and water damaged. Mold has begun to form on one corner,
and rings of salt as if it had touched the sea dry in the other. The boy
stares at the piece for several moments, lifting it sheepishly to look
beneath it. A silent prayer becomes his internal monologue, as surely this
would anger his master and the lich before him. He lifts the frame out,
calmly walking over to a nearby easel, and places it upon it for all to see.
A blank canvas with no plaque. He offers a deep bow to the lich and turns a
lovely shade of putrid. As he bends back to stand straight, the blood leaves
his face, he urinates himself, and loses consciousness. The work stands
there, clearly never touched by a brush. The papyrus blows with a slight wind
to land at the lich's feet. The letter is signed,

"Medical conditions prevent my presence for now, but I will arrive soon
enough when I can walk.

For your consideration,
An emotional piece no doubt.

Phiyruhk Duskshroud"

Year 187
Month of Dark Shades
Day of the Great Gods
I've chosen myself as a muse, letting my satire and despair run the show. It
seems to have been yielding the type of results I desire. The type of life I
want to live. I've taken bones already for the art, and with the death of my
parents I've come up with a new idea. Images of my source, my roots, marked
upon my skin. I've shattered their bones in to splinters and taken the best
candidates as needles to push ink into my skin. The markings as it stands are
beautiful, and the feeling is addictive. Surely, this modification will
continue as ever. Given the state of my health, it's not as if any risks
associated with it are relevant.

Year 187
Month of the Ancient Darkness
Day of the Bull
This infection from the visit with the lich beyond the vale of death is
spreading. I'm not sure if it's purely the fever and fever-inspired dreams
that is beginning to take it's toll on my sanity or him rooting around in my
chest cavity like looking for a lost key in a dark crevice. But I'm sure it's
getting worse. My health fades quickly, and it won't stop bleeding. That's
fine...there are hosts for the black sect I can draw blood from as I beckon
the Kreth'ka.

Year 188
Year 188
Month of the Winter Wolf
Day of the Moon


It's like solving a mechanical puzzle but without having fingers. Not that I
have all of them left, but the metaphor stands. The lich slips in and out of
lucidity seemingly, speaking to me and then forgetting who I am. Then calling
me by a different game. I've taken to simply trying to play along, but I'm
quite sure it is to no real effect. As if I can only push the puzzle of his
wants and needs with one finger at a time, just moving the angle of the
puzzle but solving nothing. I've gathered what he asked, but I know given the
quantity and quality of the items it can't be relevant to an elixir.

XXX Unlabeled Entry XXX
To hell with him then. I'm done. If he contacts me, I'll give him these
damned items. But at this rate, even if it's a test, I'll simply die to
consumption from whatever fell disease wastes the flesh of my thorax after
his 'diagnosis'. The horrible cur, if I do become I'll be carrying his skull
at my side for the next millennia.

Year 188
How appropriate. I've just finished dating this entry and noticed I hadn't
bothered with the last. I even had a plan for what to write now, but now the
irony of the month is too much. I think I'll cut off another toe today and
tattoo my face.

*** The journal seems to reiterate a focus on his art, his worsening health,
both mental and physical, and general frustration with life. How so troubled
an individual could be bothered to lift the quill is a miracle in and of
itself. ***

A painting with a distracting abstract background catches your eye, set upon
a canvas stretched over long thin strips of fine teak. The canvas is several
meters tall, but only about one wide. Shapes and patterns disappear and
reappear, jumbling in to little more than chaotic noise, though it provokes
thought at every glance. The paint is very thick in some places, lending a
dimensionality to the work as a whole, casting shadows here, and catching
light there. Two thin golden lines remain a constant from top to bottom of
the painting, at the highest end of the painting they seem to vanish together
and in to a blood red and abstractly fractal cloudy sky. Tracing their path
down through the painting, where oddly bent buildings of a great city twist
and curve into strange shadowy creatures and whatever else your imagination
conjures in the moment, they eventually form a regular repeating pattern with
horizontal curved lines. Continuing down, it is clear that they are meant to
represent coins, stacked in two high columns. At the base of the painting is
a strange perspective: it seems as if viewed from a fourth spacial dimension,
but you're sure when you stare at it long enough that you're staring out
through empty eye sockets wrapped in tight bandages in to two imperial marked
gold ducats, heads side down. 

Another strangely abstract painting stands here, with a myriad of strange
mediums incorporated in to it. Pieces of rotten linen bandages, swollen with
paint to jut out from the canvas nearly an inch. Sticks and hair and stones.
At the top, where one might imagine a sky, sand of ground lapis lazuli mixed
with black beach sand appears. A rolled out bale of cotton, cloud-like but
stained brown and black with blood and what could very well be stool serves
as terra firma in this work. At the center is a weirdly angular bird like
form: the feathers of a dove can be seen, but the ring of dark feathers that
is normally the collar on a dove is instead a blood red slit. The head is
peeled backwards so that its beak juts right through it's own back. Stranger
still is the face, beak aside, appears to be that of a drow that is somehow
familiar to you. In his eyes is both pain and concentration, and gripped in
his black-gray beak is an olive branch. Two daggers are clutched in his
claws, one foot a dark skinned drows with long toenails, and the other
birdlike in aspect with short dove's talons. You really must look at the
painting for a while to gather this, and each time you notice a new detail
you feel as if you've missed another before it. The mark of balled up
handprints, as if one beat upon the canvas while it was still wet, can be
seen upon the right side of the work. The words "War Master" can be seen just
below this in a hand as if made by a child, and the material has a jagged rip
through the word "War", and below it is written "Peace".

Immortal Comments

Timeline

Level History

Title History

PK Wins

Jan 14, 2019|Lv 24|Hidden Forest|Lineas vs 1: [24] Phiyruhk (0%, crushing force) Jan 20, 2019|Lv 25|Forest of NoWhere|Bildor vs 1: [25] Phiyruhk (100%, punch) Feb 10, 2019|Lv 33|The Outlander Refuge|Wyndir vs 4: [30] Ryrzual (7%), [33] Phiyruhk (49%), [33] Graitel (38%, cleave), [36] Drosof (4%) Feb 10, 2019|Lv 33|Ayr'Trinil, the Arial City|Tangu vs 2: [33] Graitel (23%), [33] Phiyruhk (76%, magic) Feb 10, 2019|Lv 33|Ayr'Trinil, the Arial City|Anzidore vs 2: [33] Phiyruhk (100%, poison), [36] Drosof (0%) Feb 14, 2019|Lv 34|Graveyard|Jhoberr vs 1: [34] Phiyruhk (100%, deathly touch) Feb 15, 2019|Lv 34|Graveyard|Jhoberr vs 1: [34] Phiyruhk (100%, claw) Feb 18, 2019|Lv 35|Galadon|Kharrankudo vs 1: [35] Phiyruhk (100%, magic) Feb 20, 2019|Lv 35|Galadon|Malmos vs 2: [33] Vorutix (13%), [35] Phiyruhk (86%, deathly touch) Feb 22, 2019|Lv 36|The Imperial Lands|Kharrankudo vs 1: [36] Phiyruhk (100%, magic) Feb 22, 2019|Lv 36|The Imperial Palace|Kharrankudo vs 1: [36] Phiyruhk (100%, claw) Feb 22, 2019|Lv 36|The Redhorn Mountains|Vahnia vs 1: [36] Phiyruhk (100%, smash) Feb 22, 2019|Lv 36|Arkham|Castig vs 1: [36] Phiyruhk (100%, crushing hand) Feb 22, 2019|Lv 36|Bramblefield Road|Vahnia vs 1: [36] Phiyruhk (100%, smash) Feb 24, 2019|Lv 36|Hamsah Mu'tazz|Alyviel vs 2: [30] Kevessu (4%), [36] Phiyruhk (95%, punch) Feb 25, 2019|Lv 36|Mount Calandaryl|Uskul vs 1: [36] Phiyruhk (100%, smash) Mar 1, 2019 |Lv 38|Bramblefield Road|Alyviel vs 1: [38] Phiyruhk (100%, punch) Mar 1, 2019 |Lv 38|The Imperial Palace|Alyviel vs 1: [38] Phiyruhk (100%, slash) Mar 1, 2019 |Lv 38|Hamsah Mu'tazz|Kharrankudo vs 1: [38] Phiyruhk (100%, punch) Mar 1, 2019 |Lv 38|The Citadel of Ostalagiah|Kharrankudo vs 2: [38] Phiyruhk (41%, punch), [40] Graitel (58%) Mar 9, 2019 |Lv 38|The Ruins of Ostalagiah|Echarl vs 1: [38] Phiyruhk (100%, KB) Mar 13, 2019|Lv 40|Galadon|Echarl vs 2: [40] Jeie (0%), [40] Phiyruhk (99%, punch) Mar 13, 2019|Lv 40|Galadon|Jeie vs 4: [37] Czorzhinka (20%, disruption), [40] Phiyruhk (14%), [35] Echarl (0%), [40] Pangenoot (64%) Mar 17, 2019|Lv 40|The Aryth Ocean|Alrion vs 2: [40] Phiyruhk (16%, punch), [35] Sunlay (83%) Mar 20, 2019|Lv 40|The Eastern Road|Echarl vs 1: [40] Phiyruhk (100%, smash) Mar 20, 2019|Lv 40|The Eastern Road|Buk vs 1: [40] Phiyruhk (100%, deathly touch) Mar 20, 2019|Lv 40|The Eastern Road|Alrion vs 1: [40] Phiyruhk (100%, punch) Mar 21, 2019|Lv 40|Voralian City|Shamel vs 1: [40] Phiyruhk (100%, poison) Mar 21, 2019|Lv 40|The Eastern Road|Echarl vs 1: [40] Phiyruhk (100%, slice) Mar 21, 2019|Lv 40|The Eastern Road|Shamel vs 1: [40] Phiyruhk (100%, punch) Mar 21, 2019|Lv 40|Mausoleum|Buk vs 1: [40] Phiyruhk (100%, claw) Mar 21, 2019|Lv 40|Galadon|Echarl vs 1: [40] Phiyruhk (100%, punch) Mar 21, 2019|Lv 40|Graveyard|Yulian vs 1: [40] Phiyruhk (100%, punch) Mar 21, 2019|Lv 41|The Imperial Lands|Echarl vs 1: [41] Phiyruhk (100%, word of death) Mar 22, 2019|Lv 41|The Imperial Palace|Naria vs 1: [41] Phiyruhk (100%, poison) Mar 22, 2019|Lv 41|The Buried Battlefield|Ilunizir vs 1: [41] Phiyruhk (100%, poison) Apr 6, 2019 |Lv 42|Fortress of Light|Grennmar vs 1: [42] Phiyruhk (100%, punch) Apr 7, 2019 |Lv 42|The Outlander Refuge|Nhargibargm vs 2: [42] Phiyruhk (35%), [40] Malgren (64%, frigid chop) Apr 11, 2019|Lv 43|The Imperial Lands|Stetcho vs 2: [43] Phiyruhk (83%, punch), [40] Malgren (16%) Apr 11, 2019|Lv 43|The Imperial Palace|Stetcho vs 1: [43] Phiyruhk (0%, ) *Power Word Kill* Apr 29, 2019|Lv 43|The Aryth Ocean|Masino vs 1: [43] Phiyruhk (100%, slice) Apr 29, 2019|Lv 43|The Outlander Refuge|Mohzon vs 2: [43] Phiyruhk (59%), [40] Malgren (40%, lightning bolt) May 5, 2019 |Lv 43|The Ruins of Ostalagiah|Pangenoot vs 1: [43] Phiyruhk (100%, KB) May 23, 2019|Lv 46|Ruins of the Deep|Jondir vs 1: [46] Phiyruhk (100%, word of death) May 23, 2019|Lv 47|Forest of Prosimy|Nhargibargm vs 1: [47] Phiyruhk (100%, burning, weeping sores) May 25, 2019|Lv 47|BattleRager Village|Bendegoh vs 3: [51] Lyeine (16%), [47] Phiyruhk (16%), [50] Vohl (67%, savage feeding) May 25, 2019|Lv 47|The Imperial Lands|Pangenoot vs 2: [45] Shryker (26%), [47] Phiyruhk (73%, punch) May 25, 2019|Lv 47|The Eastern Road|Pangenoot vs 1: [47] Phiyruhk (100%, punch) May 25, 2019|Lv 47|Hamsah Mu'tazz|Pangenoot vs 1: [47] Phiyruhk (100%, punch) May 25, 2019|Lv 47|The Imperial Palace|Pangenoot vs 1: [47] Phiyruhk (100%, pound) May 25, 2019|Lv 47|The Imperial Lands|Pangenoot vs 1: [47] Phiyruhk (100%, word of death) May 28, 2019|Lv 47|The Imperial Lands|Jondir vs 1: [47] Phiyruhk (100%, burning, weeping sores) Jun 2, 2019 |Lv 47|The Imperial Lands|Jumbel vs 4: [51] Graitel (6%), [51] Michke (15%), [47] Phiyruhk (50%), [51] Cuoi (28%, claw) Jun 9, 2019 |Lv 47|The Dragon Sea|Wudrac vs 1: [47] Phiyruhk (100%, pound) Jun 9, 2019 |Lv 47|Forest of Prosimy|Metelo vs 1: [47] Phiyruhk (100%, poison) Jun 16, 2019|Lv 47|Fortress of Light|Kadzin vs 1: [47] Phiyruhk (100%, punch) Jun 16, 2019|Lv 47|Fortress of Light|Gallidyr vs 4: [51] Graitel (10%), [47] Phiyruhk (19%), [51] Cuoi (56%, claw), [51] Tegerek (13%) Jun 17, 2019|Lv 47|The Imperial Palace|Revalor vs 1: [47] Phiyruhk (0%, slash) Jun 18, 2019|Lv 47|Hamsah Mu'tazz|Blunde vs 3: [51] Shryker (20%), [51] Graitel (33%, dispel evil), [47] Phiyruhk (45%) Jun 18, 2019|Lv 47|Outside Hamsah Mu'tazz|Kolta vs 3: [51] Malgren (10%, flaming bite), [47] Phiyruhk (26%), [51] Shryker (63%) Jun 19, 2019|Lv 47|The Coral Head|Kolta vs 2: [47] Phiyruhk (7%), [51] Malgren (92%, flaming bite) Jun 21, 2019|Lv 47|BattleRager Village|Kolta vs 5: [51] Malgren (46%), [51] Cuoi (0%), [47] Jilfvi (43%, imperial vengeance), [51] Shryker (4%), [47] Phiyruhk (5%) Jun 21, 2019|Lv 47|Hamsah Mu'tazz|Kolta vs 3: [51] Malgren (68%, iceball), [47] Phiyruhk (0%), [51] Cuoi (31%) Jun 21, 2019|Lv 47|The Imperial Palace|Kolta vs 2: [51] Cuoi (87%, poison darts), [47] Phiyruhk (12%) Jun 23, 2019|Lv 47|The Ruins of Ostalagiah|Bendegoh vs 3: [47] Phiyruhk (0%), [51] Tulhiz (43%, bone-shattering blow), [51] Graitel (56%) Jun 23, 2019|Lv 47|BattleRager Village|Blunde vs 3: [51] Tulhiz (94%, parting blow), [47] Phiyruhk (3%), [51] Graitel (2%) Jun 24, 2019|Lv 47|Hamsah Mu'tazz|Emmalise vs 3: [51] Malgren (62%, cleave), [47] Phiyruhk (15%), [51] Graitel (21%) Jun 24, 2019|Lv 47|Keep of the Righteous|Emmalise vs 2: [51] Malgren (29%), [47] Phiyruhk (70%, punch) Jun 24, 2019|Lv 47|Hamsah Mu'tazz|Emmalise vs 3: [51] Malgren (30%, cleave), [47] Phiyruhk (1%), [51] Graitel (67%) Jun 24, 2019|Lv 47|The Imperial Palace|Aurew vs 4: [51] Graitel (6%), [47] Phiyruhk (33%), [51] Malgren (29%, cleave), [51] Cuoi (30%) Jun 24, 2019|Lv 47|BattleRager Village|Jumbel vs 4: [51] Graitel (9%, slash), [47] Phiyruhk (3%), [51] Cuoi (63%), [51] Malgren (22%) Jun 29, 2019|Lv 47|The Aryth Ocean|Sekpak vs 2: [51] Graitel (64%), [47] Phiyruhk (35%, numbing grip) Jun 29, 2019|Lv 47|Khalid River|Sekpak vs 2: [51] Malgren (57%, shocking bite), [47] Phiyruhk (42%) Jul 2, 2019 |Lv 47|The Basilica|Alfoghurlin vs 1: [47] Phiyruhk (100%, stab) Jul 11, 2019|Lv 47|Spiderhaunt Woods|Draelis vs 1: [47] Phiyruhk (100%, punch) Jul 26, 2019|Lv 47|The Imperial Lands|Kryndillya vs 2: [51] Graitel (44%, noxious mist), [47] Phiyruhk (55%) Jul 28, 2019|Lv 47|Hamsah Mu'tazz|Jullos vs 1: [47] Phiyruhk (100%, punch) Aug 4, 2019 |Lv 47|Fortress of Light|Tanyl vs 3: [51] Oniflond (52%, double spin kick), [47] Phiyruhk (42%), [51] Jilfvi (5%) Aug 21, 2019|Lv 47|Valley of Veran|Hocnec vs 1: [47] Phiyruhk (100%, poison) Aug 21, 2019|Lv 47|Grinning Skull Village|Hocnec vs 2: [51] Tegerek (71%, blast of flame), [47] Phiyruhk (28%) Aug 22, 2019|Lv 47|The Tower of Sorcery|Borwyndre vs 2: [51] Oniflond (38%), [47] Phiyruhk (61%, smash) Aug 25, 2019|Lv 47|The Eastern Road|Dormond vs 1: [47] Phiyruhk (100%, punch) Aug 31, 2019|Lv 47|The Ruins of Ostalagiah|Morok vs 2: [47] Phiyruhk (6%), [48] Ilmryn (93%, claw) Aug 31, 2019|Lv 47|The Imperial Palace|Hocnec vs 2: [48] Vaskiira (0%), [47] Phiyruhk (100%, claw) Sep 16, 2019|Lv 47|Bramblefield Road|Bronswor vs 2: [47] Phiyruhk (8%), [51] Oniflond (91%, burst of energy) Sep 28, 2019|Lv 47|Ar'atouldain|Ralshamar vs 2: [51] Oniflond (0%), [47] Phiyruhk (100%, poison) Oct 5, 2019 |Lv 47|The Battlefield|Oteerlet vs 1: [47] Phiyruhk (100%, punch) Oct 12, 2019|Lv 47|The Imperial Lands|Astina vs 1: [47] Phiyruhk (100%, smash) Oct 12, 2019|Lv 47|The Ancient Road to the Wastes|Ralshamar vs 1: [47] Phiyruhk (100%, poison) Oct 20, 2019|Lv 47|The Imperial Lands|Wotburd vs 2: [51] Graitel (35%), [47] Phiyruhk (64%, punch) Nov 8, 2019 |Lv 47|The Outlander Refuge|Kresqol vs 6: [47] Phiyruhk (2%), [51] Inaj (0%), [50] Okoej (19%), [51] Jaco (3%), [51] Farghol (28%), [51] Aztezul (45%, slash) Nov 18, 2019|Lv 47|The Grove|Oipnut vs 2: [51] Jaco (63%, punch), [47] Phiyruhk (36%)

PK Deaths

Mob Deaths