Oakfiend

Oakfiend

I – Background

Ever since the first Grand crusade, clerics have known that Fire is the least effective Element for disposing of practitioners of the Forbidden Arts. Occultists and Necromancers have little to no difficulties dealing with invocations of Fire. Even the greatest of pyres, even the most tremendous of conflagrations are but a transparent smokescreen to an experienced Cabalist, a cloud of fog to be dispersed with no more than a single gesture or incantation.

Thus, crusaders and witch hunters alike have turned to other Elemental invocations in order to combat the Enemy. Invocations of Earth and Water have their unique limitations, though. Drowning works flawlessly but requires a major body of water – preferably running, for the deathly forces lurking in stagnant water only strengthen the Enemy. Burying a Necromancer alive is an excrutiating effort, even if it be the safest invocation to use – dirt turns to ashes the moment it touches the tainted flesh of the deathcaster.

Through centuries of trial and error, crusaders have established the invocation of Air as both the most widespread and easy to use – asphyxiation. Specifically designed gallows are a rarity, though. When a Nethermancer – a practitioner of the Forbidden Arts, dies an unnatural death, a powerful surge of otherworldly energy is released, causing a twofold effect – direct spellburns to everyone in the vicinity, and a lingering taint, slowly pervading the surrouding area. A paladin of sufficient Faith can repel the surge and cleanse such a corrupted area, but should his Faith prove insufficient, even he will not be spared the grim effects of the unholy taint.

Through assiduous research, and with significant aid from Druids, the Grand inquisitors have discovered that hanging the identified Nethermancer on a tree of adequate age is the best way to avoid the unwanted aftereffects of the humanoid abomination's death. Nature, they argue, is the Second Force of Tranquility apart from Faith. Furthermore, Nature's equilibrium is near-constant, perpetually maintained by every living being of this world. Even the most potent of otherworldly forces cannot match the combined power of Faith and Nature – the crusader leading the punishment and the elder tree that becomes the fiend's last shelter.

There is undeniable logic to this. Nether magic – the infernal and undead energies Nethemancers use is indeed inferior to the Forces of Tranquility fused together.

What somehow managed to elude the elder Crusaders is the sad, but unquestionable fact that Faith is quick to wither away. Not long after the cleric leaves the site, residual Faith swiftly fades away.

Nature on its own is powerful enough to negate the direct effects of Nether magic.

It, however, quickly falls victim to corruption. Only the staunchest of Her creations can resist the permeating energies of nether taint.

The Underworld has its own champions. Humanity lives in dread of them, but occasionally, a crusader of great Faith can bring these unnatural abberations to its knees, and end its life through an invocation of Air. When such a seemingly fortunate event occurs, there are effects, which are often underestimated in the bliss. The aftershock of the Nethermancer's death, for one, is immense. Both in power and ... residual taint.

II – effects

Maybe you ventured too far from your familiar grounds. Maybe the sunset settled in before you could find the shortcut to the neighbouring village. Perhaps you were in too big a haste to bring home the herbs the visiting Druid gave you to try and cure your child, and you somehow missed the pathway.

Whatever the reason, you are lost. Wandering around in circles, staving off the sticky, icy tentacles of fear. Nervously casting glances behind your back, struggling to remember whether you have already been here, past this bush, through this meadow, across this ditch...

And suddenly, a most surprising emotion settles in. An aura of warmth inundates your tired mind. The thick, blackened wall of fear rendering you incapable of any sense is gone, burned down in this single swift eruption of courage. Suddenly, you are stronger than terror – its clutch is no match for you! The unexpected, but oh so welcome new emotion forces a change in you. Your previously hunched back is now straightened. The cold shivers creeping up your spine disappear as you slowly realise – you are the master here! Your stride quickens, as your mind dismisses the anxiety. Maybe a minute trace of bewilderment whizzes through your head, but the newly acquired sense of safety erases it almost instantly.

As time goes by, you realise from where does this amazing sensation stem – the grounds you traverse look familiar. You, you've been here before, so many times! Your home, you're certain, lies just behind that foothill. After all, this is the territory of you and your fellow villagers – the same woods you've walked through every single day of your life – with your family, with your neighbours, with your friends. Much to your relief, you start noticing familiar landmarks – there lie the old blueberry bushes your son likes so much. There, on that same mead your beartraps caught a predatory wolfling. Your mind slows down, wallowing in the constantly increasing sense of security – after all, what could possibly happen to you so close to home?

And as your steps take you even nearer, you sense a subtle change in the night air. The feeling of confidense is still there, this is still your land, but there is something else here, something not of here. Something you cannot quite put a finger on... Is it something dangerous, you wonder hectically? No, comes the slow answer, it doesn't feel like it, but can you be sure? You curse your sluggish mind – and just when you need all the sharpness of wit you can get! But still, the warm blanket of safety and familiarity still clouds your thougths, there is nothing wrong ... but there has appeared a slight undercurrent. But what is it? Maybe it would be best if you took a closer look...

And as you tumble phlegmatically towards the supposed location of this strange new thing, a mental spike pierces the stagnant swamp your mind has become. AWE. That's what it was all along. Something majestic, something imposing and grand is this close to you, and ... and it has chosen YOU, you suddenly realise, stricken with reverence. You can't seem to quite make out what it is, or what it has chosen you for, but these things are of so little concern... Your thoughts have drained away, leaving an empty husk, a greyish void incapable of any sensible action, just enough reason to allow you to place one foot before the other, one step at a time, movements as inevitable as time itself, towards your unseen benefactor. Odd objects crush under your pigskin boots, giving off sharp cracks, but you cannot look down. Not now. Not ever. It might notice the distraction. It might choose somebody else.

III – Appearance

In the next few days, people will start to notice your disappearance. Whether it be your family, worried, for you have never been gone for so long, or the mayor, because you still owe him those 50 silver coins for letting you postpone your son's service in the royal army for one more year, it does not matter. An experienced hunter will be called to track you, and it won't take him too long to find your hectically scattered footsteps.

When the search party discover your lifeless body, it will not be a pretty sight. Someone, preferably two people, will immediately be sent back to the village, to search for the local cleric. The rest will remain at a distance, motionless, staring at the eerie scene before them.

Your distorted carcass appears drained, but no evidence of vampiric involvement is present. Your raven hair is now grey, thin and sparse. Your skin has taken on a disturbing bluish-gray hue, and has become dry and fragile, like a piece of parchment left for too long out in the sun. The web of veins is blackened and thinned. Your clothes look untouched, there is no trace of any wounds or physical damage to your flesh.

Your friends won't dare take their eyes off of what used to be “you”, but when the cleric finally appears, after what has seemed like an eternity in hell, his face will express shock far worse than that of the villagers who first discovered your corpse. After a short examination of your body, his careful, studying gaze will sweep the surrounding area, but that will not put his mind to ease.

The spot exactly where your body lies appears black and charred. The soil is lifeless, and crumbles into dust at the slightest touch. The odd blade of grass still standing bears the same unnatural colour as that of your ghastly skin.

Repugnant as this sight is, far worse things await them.

Just a few yards ahead is a cleared meadow, a single tree reigning there.

In stark comparison to the macabre surroundings, the majestic oaktree towering in the very center appears in perfect condition, a proud display of the dominance of life over death. It looks almost primeval, a monument of Nature's grandeur – the trunk too thick for even three men to envelop, the lush crown dwarfing any petty human construction.

When the search party overcomes its initial awe, and slowly approach, some rather worrying details will be unveiled.

The dirt here is charred too, the ash-like cinders reaching all the way to the trunk of the oak. There is little to none vegetation, apart from tiny patches of grass, and none of it appears healthy. In fact, the grass here looks even more damaged than the few blades under your body. The ground is so well beaten, the meadow is practically flat. Hundreds upon hundreds human footsteps scar the dirt and seem to form a radial circle – as if none of the mysterious visitors could walk away. What appeared as a flawless brownish bark from the safe distance is now a rotting black mass, forming a crude armor plating around the trunk, in which thousands of nauseous marks are carved. Deep furrows run along the trunk, coated with a thick, viscous crimson liquid – coagulated blood? - and bits of dried up skin, giving the bark an even more dreadful appearance, as if thousands of rotting fingers have hopelessly scratched it, clawing at the very heart of what was once a sublime symbol of life.

The ashen meadow is clean. Several tiny skeletons can be seen, half-buried in the beaten dirt, seemingly intact.

The cleric won't spend too much time pondering the grim scene. He will slowly gesture for the party to fall back, not daring to take his eyes off the macabre oak. That is not really needed; the villagers are perfectly safe.

It is not hungry yet.