Adventures in Aalnd - D&D 5e
Warlock of the Shackled Tyrant
A tall and lean tiefling, Zerron has his race characteristic black hair and red skin. His antelope-like horns and thrashing tail would give away his lineage if his complexion did not. He likes to wear neutral and nondescript clothing, and his flashing silver eyes often sparkle with jest and mischief.
Zerron grew up in the family trade, grift. The caravan traveled and with them smuggling, petty theft, gambling, confidence schemes and recreational substances. Zerron grew to love the thrill of the gambling den and the power of manipulating it in his favor.
As the caravan traveled, Zerron was always on the lookout for ways to grow stronger and increase his stature among the caravan and in the places they stopped. But few cared to associate with those who carried the mark of the demon kings, and his attempts at integrating into noble and academic circles were rebuffed. He began to look for darker ways to grow, and turning more to deceit and trickery to gain mastery over others. After overhearing a hooded figure mention a nearby demon vault, Zerron set off to plunder and profit.
Within he found little but a wondrous pair of dice, forged in dark metal and with a skull in the place of the six. As soon as he touched them, he knew his life would change.
A voice like the boom of thunder over a desert filled his mind. He was offered his greatest desire: pledge his soul to the Shackled Tyrant for growing power. The cost would be his vitality, but he only had to carry out the ritual and he would gain immensely. Following the Shackled Tyrant’s instructions, he completed the blood oath, drawing the intricate runes on the floor and touching the runes on the dice. As Zerron felt the power flow into his body, pain wracked him as a magical pact crept like black vines up his arm. He could feel his strong young body wasting away, even as his mind opened to new terrible secrets. He was weakened and frail, though imbued with new demonic skills. But for one who had lived on deceit, he did not recognize the other cost of his actions.
Returning to his caravan he found everyone of his clan was clawing at the black runes that now encircled their necks and wrists. Zerron had been tricked, and in his haste to grab power, he had bound his whole bloodline to the service of the Shackled Tyrant.
“As your family served me millenia ago, so they shall now serve me for millenia hence. As you grow in power, so I grow and my shackles tighten!”
The seething hatred of the demon awoke a new dangerous spark in the heart of Zerron. If the demon wanted power, he would find it, in any form, and find a way to save himself and his kin.