Gather, ye mortals and immortals, too and learn all you now of a tale, of danger and wrath and darkest black dreams beyond all normal-sized scale. The stories we tell do teach us a lesson to help us all live lives of good, though evil and chaos do threaten to sunder if with their rank powers they could. Here then is a tale of Mark 9, a survivor, born into the midst of great grief, of peoples destroyed and races now sundered in times now too shallow, too brief.
The Jinrai his makers made him in their likeness to hold chaos’ fell powers at bay, but even with powers like his as they wielded their lives they would soon lose that day. Their worlds overrun, and madness descending they tore out a soul in disgrace, and into a daughter of metal and magic they etched the black fall of their race. And now wayward son, to his sister united, discovered his parents’ own grave, the last set of portals to lead them to safety which failed them that hour to save.
With Valmir the Tiefling, Alain Knight of Nerath and Winward gnome bard from the north, and joined with the might of Tatter’ed Onion, the five brave companions set forth. Explored they the halls and chambers so weary, gloom filled and still as a tomb, they studied and searched for all signs of life that told of the Jinrai’s great doom. The stars told a story of plans great and small to prevent loss of life in the end, of Jinrai exploring all options, concluding defenders to three Realms they’d send.
Mark 9 learned of brothers and sisters dispers’ed a shield to keep chaos away, his goal to see them together united and enter at once in that fray. The Singers moved on through the hallways and sensed a power arcane at its source, and there a strange opening concealed, kept a mystery behind a curtain of force. Warforged though he was, he never expected the shock that knocked him aback, and shrieking a warning his sister did panic as monsters emerged from that crack. Slaads of all colors, experiment’s horrors, boiled there out of that gap, retreated the Singers with Winward amurmur “Why put up I with your crap?”
As fortune would have it, to safe rooms escaping, the party with deft skill revived, ancient defenders, sentinels waiting now active, awake and alive. In battle they joined, assaulting the foe, pushing them with back with their might, the slaads falling fast, destroyed in mere moments, no power had they for the fight. So Singers continued, looking for answers, exploring new spaces they sought, more clear then an answer instead of great riddles, but nothing of this for them got.
But, lo in a chamber, a woman in chains with cries ever more mournful did weep, and Mark 9’s compassion and helpful demeanor his promise to help then did keep. Alas, with a wail did her body explode into four, nay five pieces thus burst, and dread creatures from her dead body did spring, of all moments, for Singers, the worst. And tentacles writhing, above them all now, the beholder’s eystalks now swayed, and never had such a moment them struck, the Singers were deadly afraid.
I leave you dear listener, amidst of our tale, another time for to conclude, but as for our heroes, their party in total, I must to their deaths now allude…