Devil's Pawn

What do you mean, those cultists seemed to know me? I don’t know what you’re talking about.

Throughout Faerun’s history, the North has ever
been a breeding ground for cults, whether they serve
devils, demons, or any of a thousand other dark
masters. The last decades have grown progressively
darker, presenting a great opportunity for cultists that
promise protection from the terrors of the frontier-at
the comparatively small cost of eternal loyalty and
secrecy. Or so the stories and tales go.

In reality, most of the cults that operate in the
North have no deific connections, but are composed
of indolent noble scions using the threat of darkness
to gain romantic favor or to intimidate business rivals
into closing up shop and skipping town. In such cults,
young nobles claim to supplicate devils for the sake of
their own jests, then drink themselves into oblivion
while waiting for their servants to clean up the mess.

You used to belong to one such false cult- or at
least you thought you did.

It seemed like a good idea at the time-allying with
powerful individuals in Waterdeep in the mutual pursuit
of authority, pleasure, and coin. Now, however,
you’ve made a terrible mistake-one that you might
end up paying for with your eternal soul.

Although you come from a noble bloodline, you’ve
never been particularly wealthy or influential. In the
cult, however, you could rub shoulders with powerful
and wealthy noble heirs who are excited to delve into
the dark. You saw the potential in making important
connections to your fellow noble scions, in the hope
of securing a good marriage when you finally decided
to settle down.

p.(( At your infrequent rituals, celebrants would gather
around braziers of white-hot coals and invoke the
power of strangely named beings. Chanting would
ensue, along with tedious and false religious mummery.
Nothing ever came of these rites, of course, and
each secret conclave would eventually devolve into
the more important business of drinking, scheming,
and hedonism. It all seemed harmless.

Then one day, you were late for a meeting. When
you arrived, it was to discover a ritual chamber
covered in blood and gore. Your fellow cultists had
been brutally dismembered as by a storm of ravaging
claws and fangs. The central brazier burned with
an unbelievably hot flame, drawing your attention.
Enraptured, you stepped toward it, unable to resist.
Fire flared, driving into your chest like a lance as it
burned you, body and soul.

When you awoke, it was in your own bed, far from
the scene of the cult’s massacre. You were happy
to dismiss the memory as a nightmare- until you
glimpsed a mark on your chest that made the nightmare
real. You bear a crimson brand now-a sigil that
you somehow recognize as the mark of Asmodeus.
What it means, you have no idea-but the implications
terrify you.

Tricked, confused, and scared out of your mind,
you fled Waterdeep for a place where you might hope
to hide from those who know you. In Neverwinter, you
have spent uncounted days looking over your shoulder
and dreaming of treachery, violence, and fire.

You seek to gather allies to your side, fearful of
what the power that binds you has in store. However,
you hesitate to share your dreadful secret with them and
the dark dream that has begun to haunt you,
wherein you betray those closest to you.

Devil's Pawn

Neverwinter mencavage