It was bright, beautiful, spring day outside. Birds chirping, sun shining, almost storybook in it’s perfection. Inside General Narsius’ tent however, it was anything but. It was dark, foreboding, and it seemed cool, despite not actually being colder. It was silent, except for the steady, measured breathing of the general as he poured over reports.
It had been three months since she died. Twelve weeks since the folly of man had caused the flame of his immortal love to be snuffed out. Ninety days since he took her life. Every day, every hour, every minute since, his hate, his wrath grew. It was their fault, they had summoned her, goaded her into battle against an unstoppable foe. Now she was dead, and he vowed he would have his revenge, no matter the cost.
The war against the Whispering Tyrant was at a stalemate. The hordes of undead clashed time and again with the allied forces arrayed against them, but neither side would give. Thus, his battalion of the fabled Knights of Ozem was essential to turn the tide in their favor. Six hundred battle hardened soldiers, ready to help defeat the greatest threat to mankind. A veritable legion of attendants, blacksmiths, weapon and armor smiths, cooks, boyers and fletchers. Scores of wagons, laden with supplies, replacement gear, tools and more. As every able bodied person was needed to win this war, wives and children beyond counting accompanied their men, tending to the myriad needs of an army on the move.
Suddenly the temperature in the room drooped, as did the ambient light. Narsius could feel a presence enter and looked up. Before him was a ghastly sight. A skeletal man with skin stretched tight across its bones, draped in regal apparel. A sort of twisted crown was atop his brow and a wicked, warped staff was gripped in one hand. Red pinpricks took the place of his eyes. Power, dread, and evil emanated from him in waves. When it spoke, it was in a hollow, ancient voice, that seemed to echo from ages long past. One could do nothing but listen to such a being as a lich.
As it spoke, it laid out a vile, terrible plan of deepest betrayal and horrific consequences, regardless of the choice Narsius made. Yet should the general comply, unimaginable rewards would be his; vast incredible riches, immense untold power, and most important of all, immortality. All the means he would need to exact his revenge.
The cost would absolute, and final. There would be no coming back from this act of treachery most foul. He would be turning his back on his people, and would forever lose his humanity. Bards would tells stories of the great betrayer of man for countless generations, and people the world over would curse his name, and his very existence.
While Narsius’ hatred burned hotter than the noonday sun, what was being asked of him was no light task. It would rightly go down as one of the greatest betrayals in all of history, if not the greatest. Several thousand would be slain, and many would be raised as undead, turned on their brethren, and being denied their final rest in the Boneyard or beyond. Their souls would be trapped in dead, decaying bodies, until they were destroyed. He would need time to think. To consider if the benefits truly outweighed the drawbacks, as both were great indeed.
Throughout the day, as he went about his daily routine, the general pondered the offer. As he sat with his inner circle of advisors, he wondered if he could consign them all to death, and worse. While he ate with his lieutenants, he contemplated the tremendous power and wealth he would be awarded, should he allow his men and their families be lead to a slaughter. Deep into the night he thought of all of this and more.
When the lich returned several hours past midnight, Narsius had made his decision. The deal was struck, the bargain made, and the contract signed, ensuring his damnation, but also his revenge. For what was the cost of several thousand lives if their end brought about the destruction of those who had wronged him, destroying his life and his love.
The trap, once sprung, was insidiously evil in its genius, and coldly calculating in its execution. After being on the road for five days, they came upon a large, abandoned town. Unbeknownst to all save Narsius, the night before the lich had come to the town and murdered all its occupants, raising them as undead. It then hid them in the various basements around the town, waiting for the caravan to arrive.
Arrive it soon did, several hours before sunset the day after the town wide massacre had occurred. As they were deep in the heart of enemy territory, the general ordered the wagons to surround the town, to serve as makeshift wall. He split his soldiers, half on the outside to guard the majority of the non combatants, half on the inside to get proper bed rest for the night. Then, they would switch, and those on the outside would sleep in beds during the day, before setting out again after lunch the next day.
Of course, none of that happened. Just after midnight, the lich lead its forces from their underground hiding spots and began the systematic extermination of all those within the town. Meanwhile, it’s vampiric second lead another horde of undead to slaughter those on the other side of the wagons. At the height of this brutal carnage, skeletal archers rained down flaming arrows, igniting all the wagons, creating a wall of fire that cut off the two halves of the army, and preventing either side from assisting the other.
As Narsius walked through the center of the town, murdering his former friends and allies, he came upon the dying archbishop of Sarenrae, a middle-aged man from the town he grew up in. Then just a priest, the Sarenanite had become a sort of secondary father figure to Narsius, more so after his real father died. Begging to be saved, the general kick him away. Summoning all the divine energy he had left, and evoking his deity’s name, he laid a powerful death curse on the man who he had once considered a son with his last breath.
Immediately, a transformation began, as all the vile wickedness within Narsius’ dark heart welled up and started to warp his body. Gone was the once handsome, striking face who features marked him a pure-blooded Azlanti, replaced by the countenance of a fiend most foul. When the terrible process was complete, no longer was there a man who had been the embodiment of goodness and righteousness that was a former leader of the Knights of Ozem. In its stead stood a being so evil Hell itself spat him back out. At that moment, Narsius the mighty general died, and the great betrayer was born.
Soon after, he met the lich, who bestowed upon him a crown of blackest night, and dubbed him Gathroc, champion of the Whispering Tyrant.