They say that he rides in full black garb, even during the hazy midsummer months when the moon brings no coolness and the sun a baleful warmth. He is not armoured save his head, where he wears a dull grey helmet from some vanquished principality. He arrives always in public, during the day, when there are children playing in the town square and merchants hawking their wares in the market. None know where he retires once his work is done.
They say that his order is dead or dying, that no new initiate will replace him when he is gone, because his nation has been wiped from the earth and the adherents of his secret faith burned at the take. They say this and half-believe it, regardless of any evidence for or against these rumours, because they are terrified of him.
In the hidden isles they say that some mystics learned to commune with a nameless god. The domain of this god is most peculiar. The god does not rule over any element, or symbol, or land, or bequeath any form of magic. Instead, the domain of this god is the inner realm of a person's heart, their private moments, their whispered self-admonitions, the thoughts they think in the quiet hours of a very cold evening. The mystics called this god the Lord of Silence, and in communing with the Lord they learned to detect the innermost secrets of any whom they laid eyes on.
Wisely, these mystics kept to themselves, and mostly used their art to further their studies of the psyche. They did this in the hopes (some say) of ridding the world of shame and guilt, a noble goal indeed. Unfortunately, they came to admit a student to their ranks, who learned their arts and fled in the dead of night. The student, proud and cruel, used his skill to become a spymaster for a kingdom. Eventually he rose to absolute dominance within the kingdom, and became feared and loathed by the king and the nobles alike. Using his terrible knowledge he kept each angry party at bay, and spent their secrets to play them off against each other. His power was absolute... Till at last death, who accepts no gifts and fears no threats, came for him.
But it was too late, death was too patient, the spymaster (whose name men swear never to speak) had already trained students of his own. These students learned lesser techniques, more crude approximations of the true mystic communion, but they were no less feared. They formed an inner cult to the Lord of Silence and kept a death-grip on power for four generations until the whole kingdom was annexed by the Empire in some war or another, and the flag suborned beneath the Cloth-and-standard Throne of His Revealed Excellency the Emperor at the Capitol Mount where He was borne. The cultists were scattered, the cult disbanded.
They say that he is one of the cultists, or someone who took on their mantle. He rides into town at midday and whispers secrets to men, secrets they would die rather than see revealed. No matter rich or poor, noble or citizen, each pays his dues to the herald of woe. Those who refuse to give in to blackmail are destroyed with a sentence, or a phrase, and often flee their homes never to be seen again. Sometimes he need not even say the phrase in public.
Some who hail from the isles themselves say that the Lord of Silence is not a figure of terror. They say that the Lord is a benevolent god, who sought to relieve the burden of torturous secrets and self-deceptions from those who had to live with them. How the Lord can then empower such agents of misery is unknown. Surely he would know the darkness of their innermost thoughts?
Then again, they say that after his death the king of that long-forgotten principality ordered the spymaster's head cut open to see what brain spawned such wickedness. They say that when he did so, he found his skull an empty shell.
Herald of Woe
2 HD, AC as leather, longsword (1d8)
After 1d4-1 rounds of observation he can whisper a secret to anyone in sight of him as an instantaneous action. Only they hear this secret. They must immediately make a morale save (or equivalent) or take 2d8 psychic damage. If he is allowed to speak in an uninterrupted manner for one round to a target, they must also make a morale save or enter a panicked fight-or-flight response. Depending on the number of secrets a person carries, he can keep doing this indefinitely. Those who are resistant to Fear take half damage and get advantage on such morale saves.
On death, drops a wooden idol. Attuning with the idol over a week allows a trained cleric or magic user to commune with the Lord of Silence. The Lord, of course, will not offer any response, but perhaps if he is made aware of how his gift has been misused something of this terror will end.
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