Vashtek The Eternal

[*Melmoth]

Basic Information
Name: Vashtek (whether it is his real name or not...)
Aliases: many, mostly titles (ie: The Eternal, The Dead Lord, and so on...)
Gender: Male
Race: Once Human, now an Undead
Age: a couple of centuries...
Profession: Arcanist, belonged to low nobility when alive
Languages: Very, very many.
Accent: The accent is typical of high Greyhawk society (limited social life, really)

Physical Information
Height: around 1,85 m
Weight: hard to say...in life, some 75 kg. Surely less now...
Body build: In life, skinny and sickly-looking. Now, he's just a skeleton.
Skin type: No skin left.
Hair style: No hair left
Scars: No skin left for scars.
Tattoos: No skin left for tattoos.
Colouring:

[b]Hair:[/b] No hair left. [b]Eyes:[/b] Just a malevolent gleam inside empty eye-sockets [b]Skin:[/b] none left [/li]

Mental Information
Alignment: Neutral Evil
Philosophy: "Live forever is like being a god. Neverending time to limitlessly increase one's power and knowledge...there is nothing else worth existing for. Serve me, and live forever."
Deity/Beliefs: Vecna, more out of respect and as a model than anything...
Personality:

[u]Cautious[/u] [u]Secretive[/u] [u]Careful[/u] [u]Machiavellian[/u] [u]Patronizing[/u] [u]Self-Obsessed[/u] [/li]

Additional Information
Gear: Dark, runed robes , a time eaten black mantle and a deep hood. Even his skeletal hands are gloved. Rarely seen with a staff, but it can happen...
Jewelry: nothing evident
Habbits/hobbies: obsessed with arcane knowledge. Lanceboard player. Covets magic items of all sorts, either to study them, wield them, or both.
General Health: pretty good, considering he's been dead for centuries...
Favorite Drink: he stopped drinking long ago.
Weaknesses: Ambitious, Arrogant, Intolerance, Judgemental, Megalomaniac, Overconfident, Overzealous, Paranoid, Proud, Scheming, Stubborn.

[*Melmoth]

A Black Diary, Page 23

They gave up on me. They already mourn, yet I still live...They arrived a week ago, from Greyhawk. A day's travel from this mansion...you'd think they would come sooner. But no, great healers are too busy for one single man. Too busy for me. I could wait...and now, they say there is nothing they can do. I heard them talking with my father. They "cannot restore what has never been there". I am "too weak, unfit for life". Well, guess what: tired of waiting for them, I devised a nice little system of my own: it's incredible what you can do with time, genius and money...

After several experiments, I found out why the potions I was brewing were not effective. I have to give that to these healers: they were right at least in one thing. My blood is too weak. It is not a wound, not a disease: it is the way I am, and cannot be cured. However, there is one little ingredient they never considered: the blood of the living. I need vitality, and since creating life is a god's prerogative, and gods seem to have turned their backs on me, why not steal it from others?

Yes...I know the implications, but it's for the best. I only have beggars and other lowlife folks taken...and if they have a family, I make sure they have enough money to comfortably live the rest of their miserable lives. Isn't it a better future, than being poor and meaningless? Unimportant, living a grey life of pain and despair? Like this, they can spend their only currency, their lives, to do what they never could, provide for their loved ones, and keep me alive in the process.

It will not last forever, but it's a start...At least, I will have some more time to figure out how to deal with my situation.

[*Melmoth]

A Black Diary, Page 61

As I anticipated, the remedy is gradually losing its effectiveness. Damn it! I am not ready, yet...The energy I used to have in the first months is now gone, leaving me weak and short-winded after merely few hours of work in the lab. Sadly, I had to resort to order my hired thugs to bring in children and pregnant women: the more life force, the better. Sickly beggars have hardly any effect anymore, as it stands...I am finding out more and more that brewing potions is sort of like creating a good wine...better ingredients make a lot of difference. How many lives have I taken to further my own, by now? Dozens? Well...authorities do not care, for now: people disappear all the time, most of all in the lowest districts of the city and in the countryside. We live in a dangerous world, they say...a world I have never had the chance to see, and I never will if I do not think of something better. Think...

There are a few further problems, as well. Despite my magic and the way I am using my considerable powers to cover my traces, my father begins to suspect something. I should have died months ago, and instead I keep breathing, keep working...plus, I have grown even more reclusive, but I really cannot help it: I dont have time for him. I dont have time for anybody. Even the servants are scared...I hear them whisper, when they think I am not around. It's incredible what an invisibility weave can bring in terms of information. Despite my heavy clothes and deep hood, some of them saw my blood-red eyes, and my complexion paling, my skin thinning, and they are spreading the tale I am some sort of monster...

They need to disappear.

[*Melmoth]

A Black Diary, Page 118

Today I had a fight with him. He saw the Black Robes leaving my study, and there was nothing I could to stop it: he now wears anti-magic charms of great power, no doubt because he trusts me no longer. He threatened to cast me out, stop funding my activities if I ever deal with shady individuals again. He accused me to be the cause almost every servant disappeared of left the manor. He threatened to kill me himself, if I turn to evil power in order to prolong my life. Oh, father, if you only knew what I have already done...

The Cultists and the power they serve are the last chance I have. I am running out of time...I can barely walk, and need my undead minions handle all the physical work for me. Fortunately, my powers seem unaffected...growing, if anything, probably because of the constant use I am making of them. I have the whole wing of the manor where my study is warded against intrusion, I cannot have him see the creatures I animated to help me...but I had no choice. Undead do not sleep, eat, tire nor disobey. They are perfect assistants, and I need all the help I can get.

The Black Robes, I was saying...they serve a dark god of some sort, they are pretty secretive about it. They brought me books of necromancy unraveling mysteries of life and death I have never even dreamed before...I am very suspicious, because they seem uninterested in anything I can offer as payment. The only thing they want, is my allegiance, once I solve my...problem. But I cannot afford caution. I do not want to fade...

I have gone too far to be stopped now. Tonight, I will deal with him, once and for all...

[*Melmoth]

A Black Diary, Page 172, Last Entry

Tonight is the night. The closest full Moon to the Equinox...there could not be a better time. Also, I HAVE no more time. Few more weeks, and I will not have the strength to cast spells any longer...

The black clad Cultists are helping a great deal. They pointed me towards the right rituals...they found me the materials, and the innocent blood I needed...they helped with the wards and sped up the process incredibly, to give me this chance. I stopped wondering why they work so much to save me. I do not care. Not only I will not survive another season if I dont do this, but the tales of the Vampire Lord of the Manor, killing his own father and butchering servants, and abducting and devouring people, are spreading like wildfire thanks to the gossip of the servants who did manage to leave my lands alive. Soon, some adventurer will come to investigate, if not directly the city guard...and they will discover the truth right away, ruin everything...

These problems, however, will fade after the ritual. With my vitality no longer troubling me, I can set my plan in motion, and leave this cursed world for good. Well, not really MY plan, but still, it seems like a sound one, whatever the reason why these fanatics want me there: from Sigil, I will be able to gain access to knowledge far beyond anything I have ever dreamed of, with all eternity to study and learn everything there is to know...
I just have to send a few associates over to prepare my arrival.

But tonight...tonight is time to die, and be reborn. Time to become eternal. Time to ascend.

[*Melmoth]

1) Eternal

He raised, and stood. It was like awakening after a long sleep, impossibly long...except, there was no feeling of rest, nor residual fatigue. No headache. No eyes to open. He stared down to his body, and he grinned without lips, nor mirth: it had worked.

His malevolent gaze circled the room, as the black-robed cultists stopped whispering their prayers to whatever god they served and backed off, waiting for his reactions. He stood up from the onyx altar, which creation had been fueled by innocent blood and engraved with incredibly powerful, forbidden runes to favor the ascension. He had died on this altar, slain by his own necromantic spell...and on this altar, he was now reborn, immortal and all-powerful. He felt no happiness, relief or satisfaction...he felt nothing at all. Good. Feelings were for the weak. Leaving them behind meant leaving a lifetime of pain, feebleness and flaws behind. His fears. He could feel the unholy energies powering his new self: his body was now strong, almost indestructible...he would never tire anymore, never sleep nor hunger, or thirst...never feel pain.

The empty pools of neverending darkness that were his new eyes sweeped the room, as he regarded those around him. Mortals, limited, afraid. Mere humans, terrified witnesses of the birth of a god. "I live again..." he uttered, in a voice that had no remnant of humanity left to it. Now, it was time to discover why these cultists had helped him...time to meet the one in charge. He did not like debts, and yet he felt a distant tingle of what once could have been satisfaction in realising this would be his last one.
Superior beings do not ask: they demand.

[*Melmoth]

2) The Turning Wheel

The dark shape stood outside the sinister-looking manor, alone. From within his deep cowl, the immortal being who now called himself Vashtek rested his unseeing eyes on the mansion that had been of his family.

He had lived all his life here...there was much to recall. He remembered how, one night in his room, his father had told him how his mother had died in giving him birth. He remembered how his older brother had been killed, few years later, by an Orc raiding party close to Narwell, at the edge of the Wild Coast, south-west of Greyhawk. He remembered how he killed his own father, not long before his new birth. He remembered all that and more, and he felt nothing. The sound of broken glass dragged on marble that he produced could never have been called a laugh, not by human standards...but there was nothing human left in him. As he spread his magic sense over the building, checking the wards, magical traps and guardians he had left in place as a welcoming present for uninvited guests, his supernatural hearing warned him someone was approaching, slowly and carefully. Excellent, they were back already...

After having a constructive debate with a prominent member of their Greyhawk cell, he finally identified the cultists as worshippers of Vecna, the Whispered One himself. He expected to be surprised, but he was not...probably another side effect of his status, dulling or outright canceling every kind of feeling. Vecna...he had always read and heard the tales of the legendary wizard, and his path to godhood. He had never been religious, and full time service to deities of any kind (when he now considered himself as one) was not in his plans...but the Arch-Lich's servants (and therefore him) had helped him achieve what he had, so he would not mind furthering the Undying King's plans, even more so if there were plenty of occasions to factor his own complex schemes into the equation.

They wanted him in Sigil (but they politely asked...awfully politely...he had never taken orders well, even more so now that, for the first time, he had his existence in his own hands), and they did a good job of stressing the multiple opportunities an immortal mage would have to tap into a source of endless knowledge, traveling the planes and accessing the intrinsic resources of the City of Doors. He would relocate there, and wait for them to contact his associates...this place was not safe anymore, in any case. His laboratory and magic items (including the most precious of them all, the phylactery containing his black soul, which was the very source of his greatest power) had already been moved to the Cage, as the residents called the city, and were waiting in a safe location guarded at all times by his associates.

Speaking of which...the warpriest, Arvaal, was essentially a brute. And a very useful one, at that. Every wizard, undead or alive, needs a workhorse, and he fit the bill perfectly, with a mixture of ruthless efficiency and religious zeal that had proven rather effective in preparing the way for his advent. The real interesting one, however, was the thief, Denna. Like every other highly intelligent being (and one with a lot of time to sit and wait, at that...), he seldom thought a direct confrontation was the best course of action. Therefore, in the vast majority of cases, her particular skillset had, and would prove to be invaluable. She already had managed to track the rumors about him to the source, and assassinate the "deep throats" he had so incautiously allowed to leave his lands alive. She also had taken care of a few curious travelers, attracted by those very rumors...he couldnt wait to see her at work in a new, challenging environment...

The preparations were completed, the plans in motion...the wheel was turning.

[*Melmoth]

3) Through the Portal

He glided slowly onward,a black clad, silent wraith among shadows, a ghost in the night (albeit he was not sure if he could call this light change "night", here...but centuries-long habits are hard to die...almost as hard as him), following his two very different companions with the utmost ease despite the pitch black darkness. He had long stopped needing light sources , or his very eyes to see...

The strange creature called Mir had been very precise with her indications, and they had quickly found their way down to Undersigil. As they proceeded deeper into the dark corridors, one of the two figures ahead of him vanished into thin air, seemingly melting into the shadows: he could still feel her life force through the wards he had placed on her, but was no longer able to pinpoint her position. He felt a tingle, a fading, vague remnant of feeling which long ago could have been pleasure: Denna had been an excellent choice, he was (or...would have been...) extremely pleased to have found her. She was turning out to be more and more valuable as time passed by...
The shadow coalesced back into her sinous form, as she addressed him with a few, clear signs: two ahead. Their other companion, an outspoken female with a dark complexion, black hair and a muscular build, as well as a confident way to hold her long blade, nodded curtly as she took position at the narrowest point of the dark tunnel. He idly thought that soon they would meet their fate, insects crushed underfoot and wiped away from history without a trace...

He observed with interest the woman as she parried easily the hobgoblin's long blade, dodging his companion's axe as she cleaved his head from his neck in one fluid motion. Before the remaining one could react, she crushed his ribcage with a swing of her shield, splitting his head in two with her scimitar to complete the job. While she was fighting, he felt something make contact with his back, stabbing and slashing at him. He calmly turned around, glaring at the three goblins stabbing his back as vigorously as they could. He cackled, a horrible rasping sound, as they met his stare and realised with terror they would not live another day. And yet, he did not have to raise a skeletal finger to dispose of them, as their figures fell limp one after the other in moments, dead before touching the ground, as Denna materialized behind them: "About time, they were ruining my cape" he commented in his hollow voice. She grinned: "Tsk...about time you change that ancient thing..." she retorted, as she turned away, vanishing once more.

"You alright, Boney?" the fiery mercenary asked.
He laughed at her concern: "Of course I am. I am immortal".
She snorted: "Yeah, well...since you plan to be around that long...do you have a name?"
"Of course I do" he replied, as he glided forth with unnerving calm and supernatural grace.
She sighed "Meaning: I would like to know it..."
"Yes...yes, I am certain..." as he kept moving onward.
She rolled her eyes as she followed him, shaking her head with a grin "Boney it is, then..."

[*Melmoth]

4) Eternity's End

The creature that now called himself Vashtek, a true walking contradiction, not alive anymore yet not dead, lowered the bottomless pits of darkness that were his eyes to contemplate the damage done to his new body. The warlock now laid dead, killed by the pure sphere of energy he hurled at him in anger and by Denna's knives, but before dying, he had managed to tear his left arm apart with a blast of eldritch power. As it turned out, he was not so indestructible after all, he thought idly.

Find out the limits of his new self was paramount in order to expand them and reach perfection, become what he was meant to be. After his rebirth, with endless time at his disposal, he had all the instruments to reach his objective. As he was coldly strudying the ripercussions of the impact on him, he noticed that his associate was staring at him with utter disbelief, actually bordering concern. He would have smiled, had he had a mouth still: "Yes? What is it?".
"You...your..." she uttered, pointing at his shattered limb.
"A minor concern. I will restore it when I get back to my room. I do not feel pain, nor does it diminish my power". He watched her as she took in his words, nodding. That was another aspect of her he found pleasant: few words, few objections. A rare quality in a humanoid, really...

As he turned around to face two more Thralls who were heading towards the source of the commotion at a dead run, he released in rapid succession several discharges of negative energy, annihilating all life in a couple of meters radius around himself as Denna dodged out of range with an acrobatic maneuver, muttering a curse. He discovered with a mild surprise that he was angry. Curious that he could still feel it, after all this time. He was angry because they dared question his power. Angry because they damaged him, and he would now have to waste precious time regenerating his body.
Angry, because this episode was a reminder that without proper planning and a careful approach, even eternity could end.

[*Melmoth]

5) Acquaintances

He turned his dreadful gaze around, taking in the barren landscape. He could perceive the cold, thinking with a pale shade of satisfaction that few mortal beings could afford just to ignore this kind of climate...in fact, most of them would die within the first candlemark after stepping through the portal. He, of course, was unfazed by it. Fear, distress, discomfort, fatigue, were all distant recalls at best, and completely forgotten in their decades of absence in most cases. He turned towards his allies: rather curious selection, really...

He warded Denna against the deadly elements of the plane, despite the protests of his associate (Wisdom was not among her qualities...which was a quality in itself, for the nature of her assignments, really...), and as his skeletal fingers traced in the thin air fiery glyphs of power, he noticed his other companions were doing the same. Desdemona, the mercenary he had hired for his first trip to Undersigil, was now the recognized leader of the group...or so she thought. He smiled inwardly, a never forgotten habit belonging to a long dead past: she was a cute, efficient instrument, even more so when convinced she was leading. Her powers were growing far beyond his expectations, so he was willing to concede something in order to stay close to her, study her and benefit from her strength. Then, there was Hecate, the Kaorti...he had never heard of such race, but apparently she was millennia old, wise, knowledgeable and cruel...yes, he liked the sound of it. Also, he sensed the disconcerting amount of sorcerous power she could muster, which was never a bad thing to have on one's side...
Last one was Gerard, a knight of Torm. An unlikely ally, met by chance, drawn to him by need...yet, a powerful one. He would have to make sure he did not grow both too powerful, AND too close, because holy energies were something to be wary of, in his current state...

Arvaal had been pretty accurate in his reports on the area: a coldstone to access the portal, frost salamanders, giants and elementals as denizens. He knew a great deal of lore about all three, but a revision was never a waste...he liked to be prepared. As two salamanders approached from the ice wasteland, blending so well that were almost unseen, he whispered few words in the arcane language of magic and a bright, burning arrow of flames began to form over his shoulder, lighting the usually dark depth of his cowl and revealing his face, or what was left of it. In that eerie light, he looked like the harbinger of death itself.