Milo Tosscobble always considered himself a practical man.
Once he displayed a talent for the arcane, he petitioned to join the Cowled Wizards, rather than apprentice himself to a halfling luckstealer, since the former offered a young mage superior opportunities for research and political advancement. But halflings were scarce in the ranks of the cowls, and not widely respected, and Milo, not one to be distracted from what really mattered, struggled to stir no antagonisms during his early studies, and focused instead on building his power (time enough to settle scores in the future). And it was always, as far back as he could remember, the promise of power that allured irresistibly. Even as a mageling, Milo knew himself well enough to know he could spend an eternity in pursuit of it, and he would never tire or grow bored. Since one lifetime cannot encompass infinity, several were needed to satisfy; in the end, it was only practical that he seek immortality.
There were ways to forestall the ravages of old age, methods to preserve flesh and blood and bones, but even were Milo to succeed with such a scheme, he would still be vulnerable to violence. With sufficiently powerful resurrective magics, he might recover from bodily death, but then he would have to rely on others to bring about his return to the living, and that was too much of gamble for Milo. Or, he could bargain with fell powers for eternal youth, but such deals seldom worked out in the petitioner's favour, and it would bring powerful attention to him, which could be troublesome.
But, when he really thought about it, it was not everlasting youth that Milo yearned for, and not even life that Milo valued above everything else, not really; power is only incidental to life, after all. No, not life, but mind and existence, the wellsprings of all power, were what really mattered. Consequently, his thoughts turned to death, and how to transcend it by embracing it; to become undead.
Vampirism was considered and rejected; it would necessitate enslaving himself to an undead master, which was unacceptable—power without freedom is a logical contradiction. Furthermore, vampirism came with a host of difficulties Milo would rather do without—he liked eating his mother's garlic-stewed chicken out in the sun, for one thing. Becoming a ghost was not an option either, as Milo suspected he would no longer be himself after the transformation, and would therefore be no better than dead. There remained only one viable option: lichdom.
The path was clear, and Milo had a goal.
He trained himself as an archaeologist, giving him a socially acceptable reason to venture deep into old tombs, there to search for ancient knowledge to guide his research. His studies encompassed recondite spells and rituals, anatomy and medicine, and funerary rites and religion; knowledge expected of a man of Milo's chosen profession, certainly, but more importantly, opening up other avenues of exploration, which might otherwise have drawn unwanted attention: necromancy and mind control, poison and disease, cults of death and ritualistic sacrifice.
All this secrecy was necessary, for there were not many who would be sympathetic to Milo's project; even fewer would be willing to provide assistance. This presented a problem, because Milo was not arrogant enough to believe that he was always right, that he never needed correction or critique. Since there was no one to whom he could entrust his secrets but himself, the solution was obvious: he would summon an intelligent familiar to act as his sounding board and research assistant. Milo decided an imp would serve his purposes nicely.
Familiars are but aspects of their masters' minds, so the very magic that animated them would make disloyalty impossible. But devils are devious by nature, so Milo had to be careful. In preparation, Milo immersed himself in infernal contracts for over a year, and when time came to perform the ritual to make an imp his familiar, Milo was ready to dictate the terms of their partnership to his advantage. Thus was Synigoros bound to Milo's service; time proved the little fiend to be a good counsellor.
During his research, Milo came to understand that there were no standard procedures that would turn him into a lich. Bodies, minds and souls were different, and what worked for one might destroy another. Regardless of the method employed, there were some things that would always need doing: his body had to be ready to transition into undeath, and a receptacle—a phylactery—had to be constructed, to hold his soul once he had ripped it out from his body.
He began to inure his flesh to the transformation to come.
Self-inflicted poison and disease brought him up to the very edge of death, and hammer and spell broke every bone in his body. Mind-controlled minions pulled him back every time, stanched his wounds and made him whole, but not before he had endured hours of exquisite agonies.
With transmutation magic, he explored different forms, both common and monstrous, and wore many skins, those of humans and elves, angels and demons, beasts and birds, all for the purpose of gaining some wisdom of the flesh, to learn how to shed it.
Then, to prepare his mind.
He turned his most dangerous magic against himself.
Invasive illusions assaulted his psyche, tormenting him with horrific images of pain and terror.
Mind-bending enchantments forced him to think thoughts contrary to his own nature, just to get a glimpse of the madness of immortality, in the hope to inoculate himself against it.
And finally, worst of all, he girded his soul for the undead apotheosis.
Acting out every debauchery imaginable, he murdered and tortured, he committed blasphemy and sacrilege, he oversaw and participated in violations of both body and mind.
(As it turned out, the Cowled Wizards proved surprisingly accommodating of Milo's endeavours. At Spellhold, they encouraged experimentation, and Milo's practices wouldn't have drawn as much as a mild rebuke. However, Milo, being a practical man, didn't want notoriety, so he took care to be subtle, even as he took advantage of the Wizards' resources.)
When it came to put everything in order for the ritual, Milo encountered his first real obstacle. He knew full well that a mortal sacrifice would be required—he had done much worse in his service to the Cowled Wizards—but he learned much to his displeasure that the killing had to have some emotional resonance; the victim had to matter to Milo personally. A dockside whore or alleyway thug wouldn't do this time. This complicated matters, because Milo wasn't a sadistic man; he didn't enjoy causing pain, nor did he revel in the depravities he committed in the furtherance of his research. Apparently, this restraint represented a tether that tied Milo to the mortal world—a tether that had to be severed.
The facts were in; it was only practical that Milo corrupt himself irredeemably.
Milo turned to contemplate who mattered most to him in the entire world. First, he thought of his family. He harboured no ill will towards his parents or siblings, but in truth they weren't much part of his life any more. Furthermore, as he prided himself on lack of sentiment, he preferred allies to friends, and liked tools even better. But tools make for poor sacrifices. No, there was only one person who would do: Oriseus, Milo's first instructor of magic.
In retrospect, the choice had been obvious, but Milo had been reluctant to admit it. The old man had always treated him well, and they still enjoyed the occasional reminiscence over food and spirits. Milo almost cried when he slipped the sleeping draught into Oriseus's wine.
Under cover of night, Milo moved Oriseus's unconscious body to his hideout in the sewers beneath the Temple District. Just a year earlier, Milo had found the most remarkable place: a walled-off section of the sewers the size of a mansion, complete with the furnishings of a master wizard. Besides the luxurious sleeping quarters, dining hall, chapel and common area, there was a vivisectionist theatre, a summoning chamber, a laboratory for spellcraft and enchantment, and, best of all, a modest but well-appointed library, brimming with tomes of arcane lore. It almost seemed too good to be true, but every divination Milo assayed indicated the place to be abandoned—following the previous owner's death, judging by the bloodstains. Milo thanked Tymora for his luck, moved in and made the place his own.
The chapel was repurposed for the ritual. Milo had an elaborate altar constructed, lovingly crafted from bone, tied together with sinew, and painted with blood. Upon the altar he placed Oriseus, whereupon Synigoros, Milo's imp familiar, began to anoint the body.
(A month earlier, utilising illusions, body-altering polymorph magic and various other trickeries, Milo had contrived to have Synigoros ordained as a minister of Kelemvor, god of the dead, so that the devil could preside over the ceremony and properly sanctify the altar for its heretical purpose).
His preparations had been extensive. To facilitate the transformation from living to undying Milo had inscribed runes on the floor to slightly weaken the barriers between the Negative Energy Plane and the Prime Material. To guide his soul to the right receptacle, Milo had made a path, drawn with silver in symbols of spiritcatching and soultrapping, beginning at the altar and ending at a pedestal, resting upon which was the object that would become Milo's phylactery.
It looked very simple: a small coin, with just a hint of silver visible beneath the grime and tarnish. Despite appearances, the coin was made of blood-forged meteoric adamantite, and the grooves along its edge were minutely etched with eldritch phrases. Milo planned to conceal it further once he had transformed by spinning a web of illusions around it and hardening it with all manner of abjurations; his phylactery was made to last.
"Master, I'm ready."
It was Synigoros who had spoken. Milo turned towards his familiar, who was hovering above Oriseus's body. At a nod from his master, Synigoros dropped his customary leer, suddenly looking as serene as was possible for his fiendish face. The imp donned the sombre robes common to the Kelemvorite faithful and made his way to the lectern, cleared his throat, and began speaking in the Celestial tongue, practically oozing piety as he preached.
"We recognize that death is part of life. It is neither an ending nor a beginning; not a punishment, but a necessity."
Milo put his staff to the side and began to slowly unbutton his vest.
"Death is not deceitful," continued Synigoros. "It does not conceal; it is not capricious. Help the dying face their deaths with dignity at their appointed hour."
The vest dropped to the floor, and then shirt underneath followed, baring Milo pale's chest, which was adorned with intricately inked tattoos.
"Speak out against those who do not listen to the bell's toll; resist those who seek to hasten death's coming for others, dissuade those who would hasten it for themselves."
Milo walked up to his unconscious mentor, lying in peaceful repose on the altar of blood. He considered waking Oriseus, to try to explain, but he realized that would only be for his own benefit, not his old mentor's. No; it would be better this way. Milo carefully drew the ceremonial knife.
"Do not honour the dead, but honour their lives! Their mortal toil made the realms what they are now! By living, they have delivered us!"
Milo plunged the knife into Oriseus's chest. A breathless gasp, a small shudder, and he was gone.
"To forget a life is to forget where we are and why!"
Now Milo pointed the bloodied knife at his own heart. This was the crucial moment. He didn't allow himself to tremble.
"Let no man or woman, no being who walks on the face of this world, die without the faithful at their side to guide them! Let no one die without the Judge of the Damned to watch over them!"
The knife went into his heart and Milo didn't feel a thing.
For an unbearable moment, he was numb all over. But then, a frisson of excitement that became an instant of pain, forcing Milo to his knees. The pain was gone as quickly as it had come, leaving in its wake a tingle at the back of his mind, crystallizing into a sensation of searing heat that arced from his brain to spine to fingers to knife to heart—bursting like a balloon pierced by the point of a spear—then to flee the lifeless vessel and leap into the void, taking all warmth with it.
For a moment, all the nerves in Milo's body screamed their agony at his brain; he felt such pain as he never could imagine, intensified and magnified beyond all proportion. He shut his eyes and clenched his teeth, but he couldn't even manage a whimper against the torture. And then the pain didn't feel like pain any longer.
To say that he felt alive would be a misnomer—'alive' was to what he felt as the shadow was to the sun—but whatever it was, he felt more of it than he ever had. Every sensation was more vivid, more real: the coolness of the stone beneath his feet, the softness of the fabric of his trousers, the wetness of the liquid seeping from the hole in his chest.
And then understanding flooded his mind: he saw connections he had never realized were there before; problems previously insoluble suddenly turned trivial; the dimmest memories now remembered with crystal clarity.
He knew then that he had succeeded. Milo Tosscobble had overcome death itself. The world would tremble before him.
Now, onwards to power. Milo opened his eyes.
What he saw wasn't anything he'd expected: a young human woman dressed like some peasant girl, standing by the pedestal, flipping a coin nonchalantly in the air.
Had Milo still been capable of fear he was sure he would be feeling it then.
She glanced up at him. "You're finished now?" she said. "Excellent."
"Wh—" Milo began, but then stopped himself. The sound was like a stranger's voice to his ears.
"Try again," she said. "I'm sure you'll find your tongue eventually."
He tried speaking again. "Wh—who are you?"
"We'll get to that soon enough, but first, I have something to show you."
She took a few paces towards him, crouched down to get level with his eyes, and held up the coin—his phylactery!—for him to see.
Tilting her head at him, she said, "Hmm, do you have something behind your ear?"
She moved her hand behind his head, made a twitchy motion, and brought her hand back into his field of vision; the coin was gone.
"Shoot, I must've mixed things up," she said, and smiled a smile colder than death.
Milo looked around frantically. "Where is it? What did you do with it?!"
"Now that would be telling. A magician never reveals her secrets and all that." The woman got up from her crouch and took a look around the room. "There was something else…what was it, what was it, I just can't—Ah, but of course! Will the honoured reverend please join us?"
From behind the altar emerged a small creature, a very familiar-looking rodent—Synigoros turned into a rat.
"Sneaky vermin," said the woman. "Felix will look after you."
And there was a cat, watching Synigoros-the-rat.
The cat hadn't suddenly appeared, because Milo had been looking, but must have been there all this time without being noticed. This was strange, seeing as the cat was white as snow.
To an outside observer, Milo showed no signs of fear—he didn't swallow, shake or sweat, didn't hold his breath or hyperventilate—but somewhere deep inside, in whatever shrivelled residue remained of his soul, he felt an existential dread like never before.
Were he alive, Milo would've cleared his throat, but his lungs held no air and his vocal chords could not vibrate to produce sound, so he simply willed his inquiry to take on the form of the spoken word. "What do you want?"
The woman didn't seem to have heard him. "Shall we go?" she said. "Oh, do get dressed first, will you?"
"I…I am bleeding," said Milo.
"Feel free to clean yourself up."
"Can I…?" said Milo, to which the woman replied by tapping her booted foot against the stone floor.
Milo didn't know if this was permission to use magic, but he chanced it and cast a quick spell to remove all blood and dirt that clung to him. After noticing that he was, in a sense, still alive, Milo put on his shirt and vest again. Though his flesh was dead, it hadn't had time to decompose; he should look like any regular halfling.
"Good! To the slums we go!"
"Do we…?"
"Yes, we walk there. And no more inane questions."
They left the sewer sanctuary, walking through the wards that were to Milo's best discernment untouched, and emerged from a grate into the light of the noontime sun shining down on them.
What struck him about walking in daylight for the first time since his rebirth wasn't so much a feeling as an absence of all feeling: no warmth on his skin, no reinvigoration of weary spirits, no irritation from light in his eyes—he could stare into the sun without discomfort—and no balm for Milo's troubled thoughts.
The woman had cast no spells and wore no weapons. She had made no direct threats. But the very fact of her presence and manner spoke to the danger Milo found himself in. He meekly followed her as she walked, with Synigoros and his feline keeper on their heels. She gave a cheery greeting to the priests of the Morninglord on their way out the Temple District; he hoped beyond hope the clerics wouldn't recognize him for that he was, and burn him from the face of Faerûn.
They walked through the Government District without the guards giving them a bother, then crossed the bridge with all its pirates and sailors, who for some reason or other decided not to harass a very good-looking woman with only a halfling for protection, and finally entered the slums. Though it was daytime, Milo wouldn't have walked these streets as brazenly as she did, but the thugs let them be. And then they arrived at the sight of the city, the planar sphere in the slums. Some years ago, the marvel had materialized from gods knows where into this space, neatly embedding itself in the surrounding buildings.
"We have arrived," said the woman. "Let us enter."
And then Milo realized who this woman was.
"You are Verona, the master of the sphere," said Milo, taking an involuntary step backwards. He had been wise to offer no resistance: Verona was infamous among the Cowled Wizards for casting spells on the streets with impunity, and slaughtering any Wizard sent after her.
Verona made a dismissive gesture. "No title necessary. Just Verona. Now in we go."
Milo ascended the stairs of a building bisected by the sphere, found his way to the level leading to the entrance to the sphere, and waited. Verona walked up to the door, a barely discernible outline on the surface of the sphere, and knocked three times.
A moment later, the door folded open before them, revealing the corridor inside.
"After you," said Verona.
As he stepped inside, he almost fell to his knees, such was the power of this place; the sphere was alive with magic, and seemed to pulse and throb along with the heartbeat of the planes.
But from what Milo saw of the interior of the sphere didn't seem to accord with this sense of power. Just beyond the door was a simple corridor.
"Disappointed?" said Verona, stepping up next to him. "You shouldn't be. This"—she waved her hand—"is mere convenience and illusion; only so much detritus clinging to a tornado. Maybe someday you'll see the real storm."
A few paces later, and they arrived at an antechamber where a young man was waiting for them.
"Morul!" said Verona. "Are the accommodations for our guest in order?"
The young man—Morul—eyed Milo fearfully. Obviously he was aware of what Milo had become. He said, "Yes, Master. All has been prepared according to your specifications."
"Well then, good," said Verona. "Morul, why don't you escort him there?"
Morul looked aghast at that suggestion. "But, Master, what if he were to—"
"Do what?" said Verona, interrupting Morul. "He's our guest; he will behave himself." Turning to Milo, she said, "You will, won't you?"
"Yes, certainly!" said Milo quickly. It was only practical he feign subservience, after all.
"There, that settles it," said Verona and clapped her hands together. But before she got a chance to leave, Morul spoke again.
"Please, Master!" he said. "He's…a lich! A powerful spellcaster! I don't think—"
He interrupted himself this time upon seeing his master's forbidding stare. They were silent for a few moments, and then Verona sighed.
"As you wish," she said and moved to face Milo. "Forgive a lenient master indulging her apprentice's baseless fears. First things first—"
Milo felt a rattle all over his body as every potion in his pockets, every wand secreted away on his person, his magical staff, his spellbook and scrollcase, his galoshes, cloak, and headband—all of his magic items!—were stripped from him, bundled themselves into a neat package, and leapt to Verona's waiting hand.
"—you won't be needing those."
Verona snapped her fingers, and gone was the bundle.
"And, just to be on the safe side…"—the sound of a tremendous yawn, a feeling of all magic fleeing him—"…now stay still and do nothing until Morul tells you to do otherwise; you should then do as he instructs. Now, I imagine this will hurt a great deal…"
And a fire lit in Milo's mind as knowledge of spell after spell burned itself from his memory. And, from somewhere beyond the inferno raging in his skull, a voice—"I can't be bothered to wait, take it from here"—and a pop followed by silence. The flames continued to burn.
After some time—maybe an instant, maybe an eternity—there was another voice.
"Please, get up. I…would rather not touch you."
Milo noticed he had fallen to the ground. He looked up and saw Morul leaning in over him.
"What did she do to me?" he demanded.
Taking a step back, Morul said, "Spell worm and disjunction, I think. Hmm, strange, I wouldn't have expected the spell worm to affect the undead…Anyway, you should follow me."
"And if I don't?" said Milo with a baleful stare at the human boy.
Morul didn't shy away from Milo; he had regained his confidence, it seemed. Waving at the hulking metal monstrosity standing someways back by the wall, Morul said, "Then this golem here will smash your body to splinters, and you'll reform in some days hence next to your phylactery, at a place of my master's choosing."
Milo couldn't argue with that logic, so he got up to his feet. "Lead the way then."
"Good," said Morul, and spoke some words at the golem Milo couldn't understand. The mighty machine responded by moving up to Milo with dispiriting speed and grace. "Let's go."
As he followed Morul, Milo took note of the sphere's interior. They walked past what must have been magic laboratories, libraries and workshops of all kinds, where apprentices, scholars and craftsmen milled about, carrying out whatever work Verona had them do. Milo quickly realized the sphere must be larger on the inside than on the outside.
Curiosity warred with his sense, but he just had to know. "How did she do it?" asked Milo as they walked.
Morul took a moment to think before responding. "Master Verona is more than capable of defeating powerful liches—she has done so on numerous occasions—but the older they are, the more arrogant and uncooperative, and the less amenable to reason. No, she needed someone not yet turned insane, someone ambitious enough to undergo the transformation in youth, without having taken the time to come fully into their power. Someone like you, Mister Tosscobble. Master Verona has been on the lookout for a specimen like yourself for some time now. I understand you took admirable precautions, given the resources available to you, but against a wizard of my master's calibre, there was little you could do to escape her notice. Especially considering the legion of spies she has among the Cowled Wizards."
One word Morul had said disturbed Milo. "A 'specimen', am I? What will happen to me?"
"You will be placed in an anti-magic cell," said Morul, who continued walking, not looking back. "When the master comes around to it, she will perform experiments on you. To see how undeath works. You can expect your body to be destroyed soon; I believe Master Verona first wants to figure out the rejuvenation process. To forestall any ill-advised attempts at escape you might be contemplating, I should remind you that Master Verona has your phylactery, you have no spells or magic items, and the golem is instructed to break you into small pieces on the first sign of mischief. Besides which, I also imagine the sphere won't let you leave."
"What does it matter, if I can only expect imprisonment and degradation from here on?"
"You imply you would resist just to inconvenience us?"—damn the boy, thought Milo, he sounded amused—"It's not wise to spite the master. Believe it or not, you are accorded a rare respect by being allowed to walk to your cell. Had she desired it, she could have transported you there directly from your ritual chamber."
"And why didn't she?"
"I'm not sure. Maybe she wanted to observe you for a while in the wild, or maybe it amused her that she could lead you to your imprisonment voluntarily, without overt coercion—why, she considered sending an actress in her stead, to see if you could be bluffed all the way to your cell, but I guess prudence won out in the end. Regardless, I try not to second-guess my master's merciful moods."
There had to be something, anything, he could do to escape. Milo was a practical man, always ready to turn a situation to his advantage, do what needed to be done, and—ah!—an idea came to him. He started to look around furtively, in ready search for…
"Looking for the rat?" said Morul, actually deigning to glance over his shoulder at Milo this time. "Your imp is being held in separate confinement. My master is interested in exploring how the bond between master and familiar functions after the transformation into a lich."
And that was when all thoughts of struggle and refusal left Milo. There was nothing he could do. It was only practical he resign himself to his fate, and follow in Morul's footsteps without further comment or complaint.
After a few more yards of walking, Morul stopped, and indicated some stairs leading down to a door. "This is where you'll spend your time for the foreseeable future." He walked down, opened the door, and waved for Milo to walk through the doorway.
As he entered the room, Milo took a moment to observe his cell. "It's…not quite what I expected."
The best way to describe the room would be that it began as a large stone-walled chamber until it reached a silvery line on the floor, at which it sharply transitioned to four rooms in cross-section. First, a bedroom suite; second, a well-furnished study, complete with a desk and full bookcases; third, a room of workstations with all manner of artisans' tools on display; and fourth, a completely bare room, surrounded on five sides by stone.
"Morphic rock," said Morul as he walked up to the silvery line, and rested his hand against an invisible barrier. "Turned transparent, at the moment. Everything contained within is dead to all magic." He tapped the barrier with a small rod. "Now you can step inside."
Milo obliged Morul, and stepped over the line. As he did, he felt the disquieting sensation of being cut off from something that had always been there before. His magic was denied him, completely and utterly. Another tap, and Milo was caught.
"As you can see," said Morul as he put away the rod, "my master can be generous if the mood strikes her. If you aren't needed for experimentation, you're free to pursue research or crafts as you wish. Furthermore, the sphere has an extensive library, and you may borrow rarer tomes, conditional on good behaviour, of course. I suggest you resign yourself to the fact of your confinement with dignity, and accede to any and all requests Master Verona demand of you. Doing other…would not be in your best interests. Strictly speaking, obedience is beside the point; Master Verona is more powerful than you can imagine—this is no exaggeration, believe me—and if she grows impatient with your intransigence, she can simply compel your compliance."
"You have first-hand experience with that, do you, boy?" said Milo, voice weary with bitter humour.
Morul simply smiled. "I've always been a well-behaved apprentice. Good day to you."
Thus was Milo left to his own devices. He had to admit, this hadn't been an auspicious start to his quest for ultimate power.
AN: Thank you for reading. Verona is what I imagine a chaotic neutral mage player character might become if they choose not to become a god at the end of the Throne of Bhaal. This doesn't mean she lacks ambition (quite the contrary), as might become evident if I publish more. I have bits and pieces of more stories, but nothing entirely coherent. As for now, this story stands as a one-shot.
Any and all reviews are welcome and appreciated.