perverted acolyte - DECEASED


Blasted to flinders by an eldritch trap’s energies.


The foundling, “Blessing”, was readily accepted by the small mountain enclave dedicated to Aurwane. A beautiful and engaging child, a Samsaran, he was clearly a living token of Aurwane’s favour. As the baby grew and matured it was clear to all that he was meant to be there. He was loved, he was taught and he flourished. Childhood ended, adolescence ensued and the enclave grew and word spread of the living miracle that walked the mountain pathways, herded sheep and singing so beautifully in his worship of the Great Star.

Blessing’s decision to transition from lay brother to cleric came as no surprise. He poured himself into his training, exercising mind and body as he prepared himself to spread the Holy Light of Aurwane.

Blessing’s second birth came upon him the very evening after he took up his Lord’s holy symbol and spoke his vows of obedience. He woke to the smell of rot in his nostrils and the keening wail of the dying in his ears. Beaten bloody and bound tight by cold ghoulish hands, the young cleric was dragged into the sanctuary where he witnessed abomination. Tied to the pulpit, he bore witness to the wholesale desecration of the holy relics and hallowed ground that had been the tangible centre of his home and the rape, torture and defilement of all of the people he knew and loved. He prayed and he screamed as he beseeched Aurwane to intervene… to stop this… to end the suffering. His prayers went either unheard or answered. Babies died, children were devoured. And there was laughter. Great peels of laughter from the black mail covered Priest who came to Blessing, all groping hands moist mouth and leering eyes. “Where is the light pretty one? Where is The Great Star? Where are his minions, his paladins, the glorious and powerful abbot of this pathetic midden? Yonder lies the Abbot, fucked by a stake. Do you know why they don’t answer? Because you don’t believe enough… you don’t pray hard enough… try, pretty one, try!” Blessing was offered a holy symbol, blessed water, censers of incense and prayer beads, he was given obedient supplicants in the form of the newly animated corpses of his fellow parishioners… the mocking, profane cleric coached and cajoled him to seek the assistance of Aurwane, to call down fire and light, to purge, to save… Blessing prayed — he screamed for succor — he renewed his vows, he cried for his people. “We came here for you pretty trinket. These worthless ones died because of you! There will be no more talk of Aurwane walking amongst the people. That nonsense will cease! It is night. The children of Light sleep fitfully, they cower, they pray their empty pleas waiting for the light of day. It comes whether they pray or not. It always comes. And is always followed by night.”

The ravaging and feasting slowled as the undead company, partially sated, watched their master begin something special — something twisted. Guttural words, whispers in the dark, the blood of children, The desecration of treasured relics.

Blessing was born again.


Night Eternal slarge