#but it's imagining ascended vic and “chosen” vespin as final bosses in some undefined hypothetical campaign

[malurged]

as the flood of light fades and you recover from the momentary blindness, you open your eyes ... to an idyllic scene. greenhouse garden with beautiful, diverse flora from all seasons and continents. sunshine spilling through the skylight. soothing sounds of water trickling down the marble fountains. in the middle, a small glass top table with golden accents. a porcelain tea set with equally refined details. by the table are two humanoid figures, a man and a woman. the woman's crimson eyes calmly scan your group. if she is at all perturbed by your unexpected arrival, you cannot read it from her perfectly sculpted face. intricate lines of pale tattoos cross her nose and chin. she sits perfectly still in her dress of red and platinum gold, like the perfect picture of a noblewoman in a portrait –– or every noblewoman in every portrait, from every epoch and every age.

“ i'm sorry, vic @victo1re. this should not have happened. ” the man stands. his presence next to her is like a smear of shadow, not as dazzling but no less striking. the silver and grey fabric of his robe ripples against his lanky form like silk or liquid mercury. “ you don't have to be here for this. -- i will take care of them. ” he turns toward you all, and you see that he is wearing a half-mask over the left side of his face. on the surface of the mask are golden threads forming a strange, geometric shape. the symbol hums with arcane energy as he raises a hand.

snap.

in that moment of urgency, you don't know what is going to happen. your instincts and trainings kick in: the wizard remembers the artifact with the strange marking -- the invert of the symbol on the man's mask. you touch it and channel your arcana. the artifact hums to life with a pulse of energy and boon. whatever the man did was neutralized, the weave twisted out of his hand to your favor and you are imbued with magic and vigor. but the paladin, you stumble to your knees –– as your divine sense is suddenly activated and holds you open to the world like a wound you hide but cannot numb.

you are overwhelmed with the vile, odious fume of the hells and distant memories of a long forgotten childhood slotting into place: this man before you, the same man you saw stalking the halls of the parliament, darkening the steps of your lords and ladies' estates as the esteem chosen of the goddess of strategy has been an infernal fiend.

you stand before the house of cards as it starts to crumble, layers of glamour and deception fade away. you realize that in this elaborate theatre of falsehood and mimicry, nothing is genuine -- not her promises, not her divinity, not her peace treaties or vaults of wealth ... not even her chosen.

you clutch to your sword. the family crest the last vestige of your fallen house. decades of power struggles, espionage and political assassinations engulfed your homeland, reducing you to this: orphaned in a barren world choked on manipulation and strife.

in anger and grief, all fade away from your heart but vengeance -- your oath to avenge your house against whoever brought their downfall, even if gods. even if a false goddess or her devilish prophet -—–— ( before any of your companions can stop you, you raise your ancestral sword with a thunderous roar, pumping all of your hatred and wraith into the strike to smite the foul creature. he whips his arm up to create an arcane shield but you get there just before it can cover him entirely. the blade of your sword makes contact with his mask, knocking it off his face and cutting into his wretched flesh. blood barely spills before your smite sears his open wound. )

“ YOU FOOLS!! ” the devil shrieks as he stumbles back, holding his injured face and letting out a strangled curse. “ how did you- ? how DARE you bring that THING into her house! ”

his visage changes, growing taller as his silken robe begins to corrode from the bottom up. flames burst out the side of his face, not from the paladin's smite but seemingly burning through from underneath his skin. his teeth become jagged and black. each time he heaves and curls his lips there seem to be more and more teeth crowding and bloodying his gums. he lets out a hiss. the scent of sulfur fills your nose as you are surrounded by a wall of fire, caging you in with him and separating you all from his goddess' avatar. the fire begins to spread out toward the plants populating the greenhouse. two bushes light on fire and are immediately engulfed; in their place, the flames writhe and grow into two fire elementals.

as the battle commences, you get one last glimpse at the chosen's face, before it is twisted into something unrecognizable. you see his eyes dart between his goddess' avatar and the artifact in the wizard's hand. in his face you read the whirlwind of emotions: anger, surprise, protectiveness, fear, and a complex set of pain.