The Shadow of Malechor
by Reverend Dungeon MasterAlright, let’s start with the obvious: you messed up. Big time. This isn’t a hero’s tale, it’s a cautionary onew, a reminder that when you go poking around cursed artifacts and undead tyrants, you’ll always regret it. Welcome to Gloomfen, the kind of swamp that even roaches avoid. The air tastes like mildew and regret, the ground is one giant mud puddle, and every shadow feels like it’s ready to eat you alive. This is where Malechor’s been hiding. Or, more accurately, planning your demise.
You can blame the blood ruby. The thing’s been humming in your pack for weeks, a pulsing reminder that your last encounter with Malechor wasn’t a victory. It was a delay. And now you’re here, slogging through the swamp to stop him before he pulls another apocalypse out of his bony sleeves.
The ziggurat rises from the muck, all black stone and bad vibes, radiating the kind of malevolence that makes you want to turn around and call it a day. But no, you press on, because apparently, “common sense” wasn’t on the adventurer prerequisites list. The entrance is guarded by skeleton ogres, giant, shambling monstrosities that hit like siege engines and explode into necrotic shrapnel when you finally bring them down.
Inside, it only gets worse. The air grows colder with every step, and the walls hum with an energy that’s both ancient and wrong. You see symbols etched into the stone, glyphs that burn your eyes if you stare too long. This place isn’t just Malechor’s lair, it’s a temple, a shrine to something even worse than him.
The main chamber is a scene ripped straight from your nightmares. Malechor stands at the center, draped in tattered robes. Around him, spectral warriors hover, their translucent forms bristling with weapons and malice.
“You return,” Malechor sneers, his voice dripping with disdain. “Brave, or stupid? No matter. You’ve saved me the trouble of hunting you down.”
The fight starts before you can respond. Malechor raises a hand, and the room explodes into chaos. The spectral warriors descend, their ghostly blades slicing through armor like paper. Malechor’s spells rain down, each one designed to make you regret your life choices. Delayed Blast Fireball, Finger of Death, Death Spell. He’s throwing everything he’s got, and it’s clear he’s not interested in letting you walk out alive this time.
You fight like hell. One of your party hurls a fireball that disrupts the spectral warriors, forcing a momentary retreat. Another manages to land a hit on Malechor, and for a second, you think you’ve got him.
Then Malechor laughs. It’s the kind of laugh that makes your blood run cold, a sound that says you’ve played right into his hands.
“Maybe you think breaking the ruby will stop me?” he says, his hollow eyes blazing. “Fools. The ruby was never the source of my power. It was the key to something greater.”
With a gesture, he shatters the ruby. The explosion is blinding, a wave of crimson energy that knocks you off your feet. When the dust settles, Malechor is gone. No corpse, no ashes, just an empty pedestal and the lingering stench of necromancy.
The ziggurat begins to crumble, the walls shaking as the magic holding the place together collapses. You barely escape, dragging your injured teammates out into the swamp as the structure sinks into the mire.
Here’s the thing: you didn’t kill Malechor. Hell, you didn’t even hurt him. All you did was free him from whatever limits the ruby had placed on his power. Somewhere out there, he’s alive, or undead, or whatever liches are. Stronger than ever and probably plotting his next move.
The swamp is quiet now, the ziggurat swallowed by mud and water, but the unease lingers. You can’t shake the feeling that Malechor let you win, that this was all part of his plan. The ruby may be gone, but its power has shifted, and Malechor’s still out there, biding his time.
THE STATS
Malechor the Lich
HP: You’ll never find out (95+)
AC: Don’t bother (-4)
Damage: Anything he wants
Special: Immortal smugness
Spectral Warriors (6)
HP: Too much (60 each)
Damage: Life-draining weapons, constant regret
XP AND THE PRICE OF FAILURE
XP: Yeah, you earned some. The skeleton ogres, the spectral warriors, they’ll pad your total. But Malechor? He’s still out there, which means you didn’t really win.
The question isn’t if he’ll strike again. It’s when. And next time? You’ll wish you’d stayed in bed.
