Low-Fantasy Occultist

Nick had always known that Gaelen had been harboring a lot of malice. He had to have forged such a blade, and even his purification couldn’t have done much to weaken it.

Yet even he was surprised by what happened when it all came out at once.

The years of accumulated darkness from betrayal and the destruction of his House, the despair at seeing his family home profaned, and the raw anger at seeing so many of their people killed or turned had all pooled within the blade and were finally finding release.

Black veins spiderwebbed across Ephor’s neck and face in a matter of seconds, stark against his pale skin. The tainted magic devoured him from the inside out, eating his organs, his muscles, and his bones with ravenous speed. It was, after all, a curse meant for him, and him alone. Brewed and coaxed for over a decade, nurtured into something useful even beyond its scope, but always angry about it.

Now, it sang.

Ephor’s mouth opened wide, pulling in a breath that produced no sound. His eyes, which had burned with power just moments before, turned a dull gray as more and more of himself was devoured.

The man had been powerful; there was no doubt about it, but even being a Prestige class had its limits, and he’d hit them a long time ago, sustained only by his patron’s will and by the Forge.

With those gone, there was little he could do to counter such malice, having already spent his own power in the ritual.

Gaelen twisted the dagger once, severing the last threads of the Patriarch's life, then ripped it free.

Ephor Ultimer went still, and his body sagged against the altar, reduced to a hollow husk.