Somewhere far from the macabre wonders of the Night Market, nestled in the arid hollers at the foot of a mountain range, lay a tribal village of gnolls. Hyena-like beastmen by nature and tradition, they had carved a hard life from harder land.

  And not that long ago, this tough to till soil bore witness to the shedding of blood between rivals and a change in leadership.

  The previous high shaman, a respected mystic and spiritual guide among his people, met his unfortunate end when a rival challenged him for succession. It was a complete mismatch, but this was the way of their people. The old defeated by the young, and the young would lead until age and weakness led to their end as well. The victor, once a rival shaman, claimed the mantle of the high shaman, and with it took command of the village. His rule was law, and his will stretched into every den and fire pit.

  Only one loose thread remained: the slain former high shaman’s son, barely of age.

  He was not strong enough to challenge, but also not young enough to be harmless. A dangerous in-between that needed to be dealt with, but in a way that no one would fault their new ruler. The high shaman was cunning, and though the boy’s coming-of-age ritual was months away, he saw his opportunity.

  He called the young brave into his tent and tasked him with a sacred errand: to retrieve three reagents from the Night Market to prepare the father’s burial rite. Unbeknownst to this young brave, one was simple, one was deadly, and one was impossible.

  The first was desert ghostroot, rare but attainable. Perhaps the young boy would be able to haggle the price down, but the shaman made sure he didn't carry enough coin.

  The second, the scale of a virgin obsidian drake; which was nearly suicide to hunt alone. Not because of the young drake, but due to its mother which was never far.

  The third? Bottled essence of “The Folly of the Father”. A poetic fabrication and a cruel joke, one that the young brave would never find, even at the Night Market.

  The brave accepted the task with bowed head and steady heart. He left that night with nothing but his father’s dagger and a paltry sack of coins.

  Months passed. Seasons shifted. The High Shaman had nearly forgotten the errand altogether until, against every expectation and possibility, the brave returned.

  They tried to stop him at the village gates. Two guards, loyal to their high shaman and seasoned warriors, lunged with spears aimed at young brave's chest – hoping to take him by surprise. They didn’t make it three steps before the chill of death blew forth from the brave's outstretched paw. The shadows beneath guard's paws expanded greatly with an ominous thrum and black tendril-like paws reached from the earth and grabbed hold. One dropped mid-stride, life ripped from his eyes in a sudden flicker of light. The other turned to run, but you can't outrun your own shadow. He fell lifeless as well, an empty husk and nothing more.

  What was once this innocent young brave stepped past their bodies without a second glance.

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  He found the shaman meditating in the old village circle, just outside the bone and tanned hide huts. The high shaman opened his eyes slowly, sensing the change in the air. The hairs on his muzzle twitched.

  Something had returned but it was not what he’d sent away. The brave came forward, his furs now blackened by dark magic, radiating an ominous energy. His eyes glowed faintly, powered by some dark force and fueled by revenge. From his shoulders hung a cloak of stitched human-hide, and from his belt, a glass talisman filled with a violet mist and a tiny cracked skull. When he stepped, the ground dried and cracked, plant life wilted, insects fled or died by his sheer presence.

  "Stay.” the brave commanded, with a strength not entirely his own.

  The high shaman stood defiantly if not slowly, mouth opening in protest, but then his knees buckled. Not from age but from the brave's force of will. Something unseen pressed against the shaman's spine and folded him to the ground like a dropped cloth.

  The brave circled him once, the way hyenas circle a carcass. “Aren't you going to ask me,” the brave said, voice low and vicious, “what I brought you from the Night Market.”

  The high shaman growled. “You would dare mock-"

  “ASK.”

  The old shaman choked on the magic curling through the air, the scent of undeath and fresh rot.

  “What... did you bring me?”

  The brave knelt before him, just enough to whisper it close.

  “Exactly what you asked for.”

  He stood again, dropping a bag of dried roots in front of the shaman. “The ghostroot I found the first week. Couldn't afford it, no. Somehow, I didn't have quite enough coin. I should have realized then, but I was naive. I stole it, and the shopkeeper caught me. Had to kill him, and then lay low.”

  Another thunk as an object landed in front of the high shaman, this one reflected the moonlight on its shiny armor like exterior.

  “The scale, oh yes, the scale. I hunted the Virgin Obsidian Drake along with a couple greedy hunters. Tore it from its corpse while the magma still cooled in its veins, lost a hand to the burns. Barely escaped with my own hide when his mother came looking.. but I survived. The hunters weren't so fortunate.”

  He stepped closer.

  “But the third item?” His grin twisted sideways, a slight cackle slipping as he spoke. “The Folly of the Father. That was never real.”

  The shaman’s ears flattened.

  “Oh, I didn’t realize it at first. I was so proud, so eager after passing the first two trials. But by the time I bled for the second item, I knew.”

  The brave produced his skeletal hand from beneath his human-hide cloak, tightly gripping the talisman with violet mist and a small cracked skull inside. The vial pulsated as the shadows gathered from all around.

  “You sent me to die.”

  The shaman tried to speak, but his jaw clamped shut as if by invisible threads.

  “So I made... other arrangements,” the brave whispered.

  Behind him, something moved, emerging from the gathered shadows. A ripple in the air, the potent reek of death and decay. A figure stepped forward: a thing half-robed, half-rot, glowing softly from where its heart should be. A lich, no longer bound to its phylactery and free to roam the physical realm.

  “He offered me the power I needed for this moment. In exchange for something simple.”

  The brave’s smile turned toothy.

  “We have no need for the soul, consume or scatter it, I care not. But as promised, this vessel is yours now.”

  The lich reached forward. A whispering scream echoed from its bones as the hand drew dangerously near the high shaman.

  The high shaman's body stiffened. His eyes dimmed sharply. His mouth sagged open, breath escaping with a thin thread of smoke.

  Empty and ready.

  The lich’s withered hands cradled the corpse as if inspecting the new vessel.

  The brave turned to the villagers watching; a crowd silent, horrified, but curious. “Let it be known,” he said, his voice booming like thunder on the wind. “We return to the old ways. We will be feared once more. Our howls mean death, and the bones of our enemies will march to our drums.”

  The lich cackled, a dry, haunting sound.

  Together, they turned toward the horizon. And far away, forgotten under the wide sky, the brave’s father lay half-buried in sun-baked dust. His bones exposed to wind and bird, unblessed, unburned.

  No one came to claim him.

  No one had remembered to look.