Prologue
When a wizard grows tired of mortality, each seeks a balm. The ritual to amend life is well-known: the last spell of the Arch-Imago, a moth-priestess turned first lich.
You must burrow like a graveworm beneath a meadow of moonflowers. Seal yourself with the wax of spells within a crystaline cocoon. Let the moonflowers bloom above you for ten thousand nights. Then pour upon your tomb wine honeyed with the work of bees fat from the moonflower’s nectar. When the work is complete, the seal is broken and you awaken from the dream of life.
Just as well-known is the sheer feebleness of a newborn lich. Easy prey for any creature hungry for magic. A mundane hazard; any aspiring immortal must be equipped to raise the dead, and thus stock their tomb with skeletal soldiers to defend.
But the better equipped the soldiers, the more tempting the tomb grows for the merely materially greedy. A prospective lich can scarcely hope to hide their ambition, and thus they contest their architecture against all who might raid their emergence.
To adventurers, a lich’s great work is no more than a dungeon ripened for plunder.
A thousand years lichdom raided and strangled in the grave, and who would dare attempt the ritual but those with coffers to construct a grand labyriths? The scale dwarfs cathedrals, and cannot go without widespread knowledge. A tomb modest enough to stay secret is but a gift to bandits.
Lizardfolk dwell in the wretched swamps of the south. The riches of their kingdom are but polished bones and obsidian tools. That a chieftan, ahem, king of theirs would attempt lichdom said spoken with a wink, a nudge, and a pause for laughter.
It grows all the more racuous when one clarifies that yes, he really tried it. Swamplands were dredged for moonflower gardens, bees raised in wicker baskets, wine brewed in clay pots.
When the seals broke, only washed up failured of adventures even made the attempt at raiding — what could possibly be the fruit?
The king’s tomb had yawned open one month ago. The moonflowers are blooming again, and no would-be raider has emerged with the king’s shattered soul-gem as prize.
This lecture was delivered to you in the sibiliant whispers of crimson-scaled snake. He’s nestled within the bones of saber-toothed wildcat where, in place of a spine, metal rings loop round a cushioned, serpent-laden sleeve. Runes glimmer athamé-etched upon the bones, and scintilating red lines dances like starly filaments or muscle-strands, each twisting with undulating grace.
The snake’s smile consists of two fangs and a mouth stretched rictus-wide.
This, of course, is where you come in.
The empire at large deemed the lizard-king’s emergence of such little note that few have truly reckoned at what this means. Bandits and feckless adventures have tested themselves against the lizard’s burrow and broke like ships upon a glacier.
What lay in its depths?
And how much gold would it fetch?
The snake grins, and there is a gleam in his unblinking eyes. You glance away, and catch for a moment, a glimpse of the hooded figure sitting beside the snake. They haven’t yet spoken a word.
The proposition — the quest, if you must — is simple. Delve the lizard-king’s tomb, retrieve the treasures of the kingdom, and split the procedes with your serpentine benefactor.
But how? You’re no rookie, but nor are you legendary adventurer. You didn’t live this long raiding tombs whose body count has already stacked taller than you are.
Simple. Adventurers are stupid, the snake insists. So ready to charge into tombs with swords held high — but recall what it takes to become a lich. How can you pour the wine upon your tomb if you’re dead? You must have disciples living to carry out your will.
And in what passes for a kingdom in the wretched swamps, do you really expect a lizard’s loyalty to be more expensive than few gold coins?
The snake now compels a cat’s skeleon paw to fall upon its opponent, and taps it with a resounding click, as if in imitation of a snap or clap.
On cue, the serpent’s cowled companion pulls down the hood — it’s a lizardfolk.
This will be your guide. While you personally may not speak the tongue of lizards, but your snake benefactor can, and he’s come to an understanding with the lizard. They know safe route through the tomb, bearing keys to secret passages. It’ll take you right to the soul-gem — you’ll crack it without even facing the lich.
You regard the guide, scar fresh on their muzzle. The lizardman tries a smile, and there’s sharp teeth in it.
So, what do you say?
You consider it. But really, have you found yourself in a dimly-lit meeting with a necromancer snake and a hooded skulk because you’re spoiled for opportunity? No, you’re desperate and both of you know it.
You’ll do it. Why else are you here?
But that begs the question: why are you here? What did the snake see in you that piqued his curiosity?
- You have a strike like fanged cobra.
- You have grace like a python ascending.
- You have fortitude like a boa constrictor.
- You have the cunning of a viper in wait.
- You have the charm of a coral snake.
- You have an eye like a basilisk.
// note: this is all i wrote lmao