Introduction
An old tree sat upon the high mountains of Icewind Dale, the harsh and cold winds of the land ravaging it's naked branches. How it was still living, the tribe of barbarians, living nearby, did not know. Yet they looked upon it as a symbol of endurance and survival in the harsh and ruthless mountains. Some even went so far as to worship it, though their ideals were most certainly frowned upon by the Tempus-worshipping barbarians and the heretics were immediately put to the test of their religion of the tree's survival, being thrown out to die in the cold. Those few who were so foolish to admit to their worship found themselves cursing the tree as they slowly froze to death. Little did they know, however, that it was in fact these same curses that kept the tree alive. For this tree was Rakshe, the pit fiend in disguise. Hidden under such a powerful illusion that the illusion could only be dispelled by the daemon himself. Long ago, in days of old, Rakshe had led his horde of daemons against the humans when a wizard had opened a portal to the lower planes, allowing hordes upon hordes of daemons to attack a combined army of barbarians. Rakshe's horde had been slain, and he had escaped only barely, hiding himself by spending his final strength in creating an illusion around himself. The pit fiend fed his powers from hatred and death, and it was while war ravaged the battlefield still, that the daemon had enough strength to live. However, the portal had soon been closed. The battle had ended, and he had no strength to even dispel his own illusion. Rakshe was trapped, slowly dying in the freezing cold of the Dale. He had almost died, had it not been for the dying and hateful curses of the tribesmen that had died because of him. Their curses sustained him, kept him alive, though the curses alone were not enough to grant him enough power to free himself. And so Rakshe waited, biding his time and waiting, hoping, for a new battle in these lands. He would not wait long, daemons had exceptionally long lifespans, and a few hundred years would mean nothing to him. Another tribesman had come to him, looking upon him with spite and anger. The barbarian spat upon the base of the tree. Rakshe smiled wickedly within his illusion. Even if he waited, he enjoyed the death of the barbarian scum which had dealt him this misfortune.