Transcript
Dan Casey (0:01)
Greetings, adventurers. This is Dan Casey from Sagas of Sundry Goblin Mode. Now, we know you love immersive storytelling and presumably tabletop role playing games. So this week we're going to bring you an episode of another show that we love, D and D Legends and Lore. Legends and Lore brings to life the stories that D D's decades of lore has to offer, as well as deep diving into said lore and presenting it in a digestible manner perfect for inspiring your own game of Dungeons and Dragons. Whether you're a dungeon master, a player, or just someone who enjoys learning about and experiencing great fantasy, D and D Legends and Lore is the podcast you've been waiting for. Wondrous magic, terrifying monsters, gods, demons and unnamable horrors from beyond time and space, all brought to life in detail in a podcast that runs on the imagination. Join them as they venture from the deepest pit of the Nine Hells to the enchanted forest of Arvandor, telling tales both valiant and villainous. DD Legends and Lore can be found on Spotify, YouTube, Apple Podcasts, or anywhere you get your podcasts. And now onto the show.
Unknown Speaker 1 (1:02)
Bingo Blitz rules.
Unknown Speaker 2 (1:05)
If your bingo has ads in it.
Unknown Speaker 3 (1:07)
That'S not a bingo.
Unknown Speaker 2 (1:08)
If it doesn't have the coolest tournaments, minigames and the most breathtaking design, nope, not a bingo. If your bingo moment makes you feel so excited that you just want to burst in joy and scream out loud, bingo.
Unknown Speaker 1 (1:20)
Sorry.
Unknown Speaker 2 (1:20)
So you're playing Bingo Blitz.
Unknown Speaker 3 (1:22)
Now that's a bingo. Cover a world of excitement with Bingo Blitz, the number one free bingo game. Download Bingo Blitz and play for free.
Unknown Speaker 2 (1:31)
Now that's a bingo.
Unknown Speaker 1 (1:34)
Monsters. Those creatures, both strange and grotesque, that represent the most primordial of human emotion, fear. Fear of the unknown. Fear of danger, of violence, of death. And so often we attach physical abhorrentness to these monsters. We imagine teeth that tear, claws that rend, scales, fur, feathers, horns, strange inhuman appendages, sickly hues, putrid smells, and eyes that shine in the dark. The bizarre, deformed and otherworldly, embodying all that is wrong and evil in the stories we tell. Dungeons and Dragons is no exception to this. Creeping down in dungeons deep or stalking by the dark of night, countless monsters lurk in, wait, waiting to snuff out light and life. Dragons, demons, eldritch aberrations, undead horrors and other monstrosities are not mere myth, but very real, tangible dangers to the lives of those who dwell in the realms of D and D lives, where dark gods conspire for their very souls. Fiends gleefully Attempt to sow destruction and death, and monsters hunger for flesh and bone. Woe to thee who ventures here, for here there be dragons. And so who then can blame the denizens of such worlds for missing the truth we so often forget? In our own, much more mundane world, we fear the monsters of our imagination. The beasts and boogeymen, the shadows and specters, those abominations born of our nightmares and dark fantasies, born of all we fear. But the truth of it is that both our world and the worlds of Dungeons and Dragons have one particular thing in common. Monsters. True monsters, the ones most vile and horrifying are not born. They are made. I am Omar Timsaw, and this is DD Legends and Lore the city of Fleeth, Jewel of the East. A city of shining white. In sheer juxtaposition against the wild lands that surround it. The white walls of Fleeth stand proudly upon the eastern plains as a stronghold of civilization and order. Here the divine power, Foltes, God of light, law and order, rules. And his clergy, dressed in silky white gown and cassock trimmed with gold and silver and embroidered with suns and moons, are the body of law. The the Fultons teach that it was their God that set the sun and the moon in the sky and maintains them in their rigid procession to show all creatures the one true way, a strict path which allows no deviation, but absolutely assures rightness. Others say that Foltest's order is not but tyranny. Dressed in robes of white and the words of the righteous, whether through tyranny or divine enediction, for nearly 1,000 years, Fleethus sparkled on the plains of eastern oeric. For nearly 1,000 years, the tribes of Flanas, the native people of these lands, have bent the knee to the clergy of Foltes and their shining city. For nearly 1,000 years, Fleeth has profited and prospered. But on this day, Fleeth was on the brink. The city was under siege. On all sides of the holy city was encamped an army like no other. For this army was composed of both the living and the dead. For centuries now, a dark tide had been growing in the west. A tide that had seen the tribes and settlements of the plains fall one by one. And now the tribes of Flanness had been wholly conquered and united under a single banner. They had all come to heal under a new master. Those who resisted or stood against this master were first to die, only for their bones and corpses to be raised to serve in death. And what was once a far flung territory became a fiefdom which then became a kingdom, and now, some whispered, was an empire. An empire that had finally come to lay its claim on the shining city of Fleeth. Spanning the gap between the enemy army and the white walls of Fleeth was the carnage and death of a great battle. Fleeth had suffered tremendous loss. In their zeal, they had thought to meet the enemy in open battle. Now the only thing between this vile and dark enemy and themselves were the city walls and the protective shield of pure, radiant light maintained at all times by the priests of Foltess. Hope was wearing thin. Time was running out. The city was surrounded. And amidst the teeming hordes of ghouls, zealot tribesmen, ruthless sellswords, dark necromancers and blackguard knights that threatened the safety and sanctity of Fleeth. Only one name dominated the minds of the denizens of the besieged city. Vecna. Vecna the Undying King. Vecna the whispered one. Vecna the Lord of the rotted Tower. The people of Fleeth dared not speak his name above more than a whisper. Such was the legend of his dark power. He had subjugated the Flann tribes and carved out a kingdom in the Sheldomar Valley through fear and conquest alone. And now he was at their doorstep. If not for the shielding light of Foltes, maintained by constant prayer and ritual from the Fulton high clergy protecting their borders, the city would have been conquered days ago. For now, the siege lay in a stalemate. The forces of the Undying King found themselves sealed out of the city. And the defenders of Fleeth, though safe, were sealed within upon a throne of corpses and skulls. Vecna the Undying stared down at the city, shielded by the light of Foltess suspended above in the dark night sky hung low. The two moons of Oerth both were nearly fully occluded in the darkness. And a knowing smile crept across the taunt flesh of the undead wizard's face. The time for his plan was soon to come with the changing of the moons. But his smile did not reach his eyes. For in his eyes burned a seething, depraved hatred. A hatred so potent it would not be quelled save by fire and blood. A hatred so uncompromising that allies closest to the undead king knew that this was more than mere expansion of his empire. This was personal. Mazel walked with her son down the streets of Fleeth. She refused to acknowledge or notice the hushed voices or looks of unease that followed them as they made their way. She was used to them. Her people The Irflan were shunned and feared by others even before the colonization of Fleeth. They were mystics, druids of the old faith known as the Irflani. The Flan feared her people's association with dark powers better left alone. And with the coming of the Fultons, this ostracization only continued. Called the Untouchable Clan, the few remaining Irflan were designated to a job that befit their station in the eyes of both Flann and Fulton alike. They were made handlers of the dead, embalmers and undertakers. And how those who worshipped and prayed to the God of light and life so hated associating with those who worked in the dead. Dark and with the dead. Disdain and denigration were all Mazel had ever known. The fools, all of them. What did they know of her people or their ways? Nothing. They knew not of the old faith, of her people's chosen status in the eyes of the serpent, the personification of magic itself. The serpent who bestowed upon the Earl an inherent connection with the arcane and through them performed great wonders. No, they knew nothing and for the better. For in the city of Fleeth, practice of the arcane was strictly forbidden. Only divine magic was permitted, for all else was considered anathema to Foltess. Mazel looked at her son, who followed her closely. She was proud of him. He had taken to the ways of the serpent naturally. His potential was great. In secret, she instructed him, and his prowess greatly surpassed her own when she was his age. In secret, she taught him, and he had proven quite gifted at keeping the secret. Good. It would serve him well for their lot in life. Being handlers of the dead was not enough to keep food on their plates. Like her, Mazil's son would have to be creative to keep them fed and sheltered. Mazel dreamed of a day the serpent might bless them so mightily that they could escape this life. But until then. Mazel saw the drop off point for the delivery. A dark alley off the city walkway. There were those in the city who needed her services and would pay for them, if only by dark and in secret. Mazel was surprised by the appearance of a rendezvous. A woman in fine silks waited in the alleyway. Whoever the client was, if even their servant was dressed in silk, it only meant one high nobility. The transaction went accordingly. Mazel handed the woman a slim vial in exchange for silver. She gave her instructions on dosage, when to take it, and the dangers of doing counter to her instruction, the magic within the vial would do the deed the partaker so desperately sought thought done. As the client swept out of the alleyway in a rush, Mazel looked down at the coins left in her hand. The glimmer of gold caught Mazel's eyes. She gasped. This was an astonishing amount of money for her services. More than she would ever dare charge. Maybe even enough to escape this city of zealots. Her mind raced. She, in that moment, dared to dream. Her mind a swim with fantasies of freedom and a life without want. It was thus that Masil failed to see the dark, looming figures approach from behind. Before she could react to her son's startled scream, she felt the sharp blow to her head. As she fell, she saw the insignia of the kingsguard on their armor. No, not high nobility. Royalty, she thought. A cover up. Then. No witnesses allowed to live that might attest to the royal family trafficking and illegal arcane activities. She had walked herself and her son into certain death. Mazel awoke to the pungent smell of oil and the sound of a jeering crowd. She was tied to a post atop piles of wood and straw. All around her, the citizens of Fleeth screamed. They called her witch. They called her unclean, a slight to the sun God himself. Arcane magic was forbidden within the walls of Fleeth, and there was only one punishment for it. Death by burning. In the crowd, Mazil saw her son held in bonds. He might very well be next. As the fires went up, Masil prayed to the serpent. In desperation, she prayed for deliverance. She prayed for vengeance. She prayed for death to her enemies. But above all else, she prayed for her son's safety. And when her scream of agony rent the air, the crowd hushed in horror. Not horror at what they had done, but horror at what they saw descending from above. From the night sky descended a great serpent of mist and magic. It came before the burning Mazel and opened its great maw. Her soul then left her body to join with the serpent and become a part of magic itself. Such was the fate of all Irflani who venerated the serpent. Then it turned to the crowd. In an instant there was chaos as the people of Fleeth scrambled to flee before the deific snake. In the chaos, Mazel's son was broken free. But he did not flee. He stared at the serpent that loomed over him. And the serpent stared back. Masil's son was alone in the square as he stared at his mother's now ashen corpse. No tears streaked his face, but upon his heart and soul rested a malediction, a silent swear for vengeance. It had been 900 years since that day. Vecna hardly remembered the boy who watched his whole world burn before his eyes. He vaguely recalled the years he spent honing his craft, until eventually he assumed a mastery of the dark arts of magic. And he eventually achieved with that mastery something that no mortal before or since. The immortality of undeath paired with the preservation of his soul. Vecna, the dark necromancer turned king, had ascended to something more. A Lich, an Archmage that would never die. But even after all of this time, Vecna remembered quite clearly what the serpent had whispered to him on that day. And he remembered the curse of vengeance that he swore. Tonight was the night that vengeance was realized. Under the dark of the two new moons, when Foltess power was at its weakest, Vecna would strike. He would use his magic to hide a siege tower under a veil of invisibility. His ghouls would breach the walls in the dead of night, and he would stride through the shield of light. It would be unpleasant, but with the changing of the moons, it would not be fatal. Once through, he would harness all his magic to twist time and space itself, to open a portal for his armies to penetrate the hallowed barrier and into the heart of the city. By morning, the city would be his. The plan unfolded just as Vecna had designed. The ghoul swarmed the walls of Fleeth, opening a path for the Archlich. Vecna hovered over the wall and up to the barrier of light. He paused for a moment. Then he moved into it. The light seared him. It burned his decrepit form and nearly blinded him. But Vecna endured. He need only push forward a bit more to pass through. But then he came upon something firm and immutable. A hard light construct barred his passing. Something was wrong. Vecna's knowledge of divine magic was not as extensive as the arcane, but this was not the structure of a protective barrier. It was then that Vecna realized that the barrier light of Foltess wasn't a mere shield. It was a trap. The explosion that resulted from the detonation of the Fulton Light Shield was enough to brighten the night sky today. For miles around, the holy light evaporated hundreds of undead and burned shadows into where they stood. The shockwave cracked the walls of the city and sent Vecna's troops into chaotic disarray. The Lich's body was shattered and aflame as it came crashing to the earth nearly a mile from the city walls. And Vecna knew that these next few moments of burning agony would be his last.