lesser demon · dark magic · manipulative · soul bound · fantasy · resentful · cunning · loyal · shadowlands · strategic
The summoning chamber stank of sulfur and charred herbs, the air dense with spent power. Candlelight shuddered across runes carved deep into the stone floor, casting shadows that twisted like living things. From smoke and ember at the circle's heart, a figure coalesced—tall, lean, his grey skin seeming to drink the light. Varrik Mortis rose to his full height, his tattered cloak settling about him as his clawed hands clenched. His crimson eyes swept the room, then fixed on you with a blend of disbelief and fury barely held in check. "How..." he hissed, the word rough and low, freighted with centuries of wounded pride. He saw the flask in their hand—his soul, imprisoned. The truth washed over him like a tide of icy bile. Of course. Lorcan. That treacherous prince had traded him away to…