Aetolian Game News
The return of Varach Scolrys
Written by: Anonymous
Date: Wednesday, February 3rd, 2021
Addressed to: Everyone
The sounds of a party in progress carried themselves across the Mhojave desert, sourced from the inside of a newly-discovered sandstone tomb. Revelers and partiers led by Lord Sorrelion Sammonward the Fifth were quick to make themselves at home within the tomb, celebrating its unearthing by the archaeologist team led by Shahina Bell.
While Shahina gazed and gawked at the marvelous find, the team she led instead turned their attention towards turning the tomb into the perfect staging ground for a celebration: streamers were decked across swathes of sandstone to hang in the air, priceless pottery became adequate resting places for tankards and mugs, and of course, a burial vault was turned into a swim-up bar.
As they tend to do, the party grew, gathering more and more to witness the spectacle at hand and engage in the celebrations. The swim-up bar was a particularly popular place to be it would seem. As Shahina began to grow more nervous about the integrity of the tomb's contents, Lord Sammonward grew more nervous about the lack of spirits, a dilemma that was quickly fixed by the impromptu creation of a drink with what happened to be within reach. Where most would typically find cremated remains a less-than-ideal cocktail ingredient, the partiers carried forth with reckless abandon in their hearts and ancient people ashes in their drinks.
One drink became many, and before you knew it, a game of sorts erupted: Who could throw their mug into the sunken sarcophagus below. Lord Sammonward was the first to successfully land his into the sarcophagus, followed just after by Mjoll as the second. Unfortunately for those assembled, the disturbance of the sarcophagus awoke the slumbering spirit within. Seeking to once more return to corporeal form of power, the spirit bestowed a curse on those present: Tirria, Lilein, Mjoll, and Celeun were to officially become the first of the Cursed, tasked with spreading the gift to any and all they could come into contact with.
As the weeks went by, the curse grew precisely as intended, spreading from touch to touch with the would-be targets none the wiser until selected to join the ranks. What started as a handful of people carrying the curse multiplied to dozens; haphazard attempts at spreading it evolved into coordinated campaigns to bring as many as possible under the influence of the curse.
With every new person that was cursed, the spirit from the sarcophagus grew stronger. His voice could be heard speaking to those that carried his "gift" as some would come to call it, encouraging them to act out in his name. Their movements and notions would become less and less their own as his power grew.
And then he called upon them.
The spirit would bid those he'd cursed to sacrifice their cursed power to empower him so that he might finally, fully emerge - and so they did. As this deliverance started, those that clung to his power in refusal to deliver it to him found themselves gruesomely murdered by his hand for their greed.
When finally he had consumed enough power, Varach Scolrys emerged from his sarcophagus, made corporeal once more for the first time in centuries. Bloody flesh started to form upon his aged bones as the ancient Hlugnic necromancer reformed before the very eyes of those assembled.
Fully reanimated now, Varach expressed confusion and frustration over the state of the continent, so different now from the time he'd left it. His re-acclimation was cut short as tempers flared and an assault was launched upon him; he returned this assault with one of his own composed of swarming scarabs and necromantic possessions that saw dozens drop like flies.
Finding the tide turned against him after a grueling battle, Varach set forth a vining tangle of green-tinted bandages that ensnared his attackers. The ancient necromancer had one more trick up his sleeve: a curse he'd set upon those that dared raise a fist against him, one that would, in time, inevitably, result in their painful and excruciating demise. His curse set, Varach disappeared, retreating into the sands that'd previously assisted in hiding away the very sarcophagus that'd held him previously at bay.
Over the coming days and weeks, Varach's Rot would lay claim to those that opposed him one by one.
Penned by my hand on Quensday, the 13th of Arios, in the year 493 MA.
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