But in the darkness beyond comprehension, a shadow stirred - a remnant of a broken demon lord. Orcus, once Prince of Undeath, was cast down by the treacherous Drow goddess Kiaransalee. His name was erased from memory; his dominion crumbled into ruin. Yet even death could not hold him. Through vile rituals and the prayers of his mortal thralls, Orcus returned as Tenebrous - a hollow shade driven by vengeance and hunger for lost divinity.

This panel shows Tenebrous as a spectral figure wreathed in necrotic energy. His form is barely solid, a shadowy mockery of life. Around him lie the shattered symbols of Orcus' former power; a broken skull scepter and a crumbling throne.

1. Release: Releases a partially transformed subject from its pod, creating a violent thrall driven by residual psychic agony.
2. Insert Aggression Gene: Floods the pod with adrenaline-like compounds, accelerating physical mutations while eroding the victim's sanity.
3. Recycle: Dissolves failed subjects into nutrient slurry for recycling into the central psionic amplifier.
4. Complete: Completes the transformation process, creating a fully matured Mind Flayer.
5. Neural Resequencing: Overwrites residual host memories using psychic imprints.
6. Symbiotic Acceleration: Introduces additional tadpoles to create hybrid creatures.
7. Psionic Sync: Links multiple pods to share psychic trauma, creating hive-mind bonds between emerging Illithids.

You are being hunted by the one based on the most zen of your party.

Why are you still here, Architect? You already know that your family is not in this domain any more.

With Maanzecorian destroyed, Rictus collapsed into ruin. The Great Library was plundered by scavengers; its secrets scattered across planes like ash on the wind. Our god's petrified remains drift now upon the Astral Plane - a monument to what was lost.

His death sent tremors through our kind: some turned back to Ilsensine for guidance; others abandoned her altogether. Yet we remember. We remember how even gods may fall before powers greater than themselves."

This panel shows Rictus crumbling into darkness while Illithids mourn beneath its ruins. In the background floats a shattered fragment resembling Maanzecorian's petrified form adrift in the Astral Plane.

As a young rabbitfolk kit, six-year old Horus stands transfixed beneath the observatory dome in his village, watching the village elders manipulate a miniature orrery. Time itself seems to dance before his eyes as the planetary model spins. A wizened elder notices his fascination and places a small brass timepiece in his paws. "Some are born with time in their blood," she whispers. "Remember this feeling." The memory pulses with childlike wonder and the first spark of his chronomantic calling.

The memory pulses with pink light as young Rusty hovers unsteadily above the luminescent fungi that carpet the hidden colony caverns. Hi parents float nearby, their tentacles gently guiding his movements as he learns to control his air jets for the first time. The rush of accomplishment floods through his as he successfully navigates around a stalactite, his body glowing bright pink with joy. The colony elders observe from a distance, their soft telepathic encouragement warming his consciousness.

"Remember, little one," his mother's thoughts whisper, "always maintain awareness of which side is up. A flipped flumph is a vulnerable flumph."

The memory shimmers with salt spray and fear. A young halfling balances on the bowsprit of a merchant vessel, rain lashing his face as pirates board from starboard. When the pirate captain corners the ship's owner, the halfling leaps between them, rapier drawn.

I challenge you for this vessel," the halfling declares, his voice steady despite standing barely above the pirate's waist.

Laughter erupts until his blade flickers like lightning, drawing first blood. The duel spans the entire deck, the halfling dancing between attacks with uncanny grace. With a final flourish, he disarms the pirate captain, who yields with surprising respect.

"What will you name her?" asks a surviving crewman amid the aftermath.

The halfling gazes at the ship, feeling its weight and promise. "The Dreadnaught!"

The memory swirls with muted greens and browns as Louie huddles beneath a worn table, watching wide-eyed as their parents argue in hushed, desperate tones.

"The child must be given to the temple for cleansing," their father croaks, fear evident in his bulging eyes. "Yagno's inquisitors search every home - they know divine magic manifested in this district."

"They will kill our tadpole!" Louie's mother counters, her throat sac pulsing with emotion.

The memory centers on the moment Louie's mother kneels, pressing a small carved stone amulet into their hands. "Run to the eastern swamps," she whispers. "Follow the water. Never use your gift where others can see."

The crushing weight of farewell saturates the memory as Louie looks back one final time from the window - knowing somehow they would never see their family again. The small grung's chest tightens with abandonment, even as they understand their parent's sacrifice.

During a training session with Van Richten on trying to keep Dennis's blood lust in check.

A courier delivering a shipment of specific herbs to Van Richten.

Found their way coming downstairs.

As she made her way down the narrow passage, her hand caught on a rusted nail, drawing blood. The metallic scent immediately reached Dennis, triggering something primal within him.

His eyes darkened. In an instant, he slammed Van Richten against the stone wall with inhuman strength, snatched the key from the man's pocket, and bolted toward the door. His hands trembled as he fumbled with the lock, desperate to escape the overwhelming hunger building inside him. Beyond the threshold, the courier stood frozen in shock. Their eyes met for only a moment before Dennis lunged forward. What followed was pure carnage-his rational mind submerged beneath waves of bloodlust as he tore into the unfortunate messenger.

Richton finally managed to pull him away from the courier's mangled remains, but it was far too late. The damage was done.

Now huddled on the cold floor, Dennis rocked back and forth, overwhelmed by guilt and disgust. The horrific scene replayed in his mind-the blood, the screams, his complete lack of control. He looked up at Van Richten with pleading eyes. "Please," he whispered, "either stake me through the heart right now or brew me something to make me forget what I've done."

Horus, now a young wizard of twenty-two, bursts into the Council Chamber, disrupting the elders' meeting. "I've seen them in my scrying!" he shouts, charts and calculations tumbling from his arms. "Mind flayers approach from the north!" The memory stings with the acid of dismissal as the Chief Elder pats his shoulder condescendingly. "Your prognostications grow more fantastic each season, young one. Return to your studies." The bitterness of being right-yet powerless-permeates this memory.

Rusty follows his father to the edge of their territory where crystalline formations create a natural barrier between their world and the domain of the Fae. Hidden behind a cluster of glowing crystals, they observe a gathering of fey creatures dancing in a ring of mushrooms.

"Observe, but never reveal yourself," his father's thoughts caution. "The emotions they radiate are nourishing, but their attention can be dangerous."

For the first time, Rusty carefully extends his psychic feelers to taste the emotional energy radiating from the celebration. The memory glows green with curiosity as he experiences the intoxicating flavors of joy, mischief, and wonder-so different from the measured calm of his colony. It's his first feast of pure, positive emotion, and it leaves him dizzy with delight.

What he doesn't notice in this memory, but is visible as he revisits it now, is a shadowy tentacled form watching him from the darkness behind.

Rain pours across this memory as the halfling stands on deck, watching his first mate row away with the ship's strongbox. Crew members shout for pursuit, but the captain raises his hand.

"I knew," he says quietly, watching the distant figure disappear into the storm. "I saw it in his eyes three days ago."

"Why not stop him?" demands the quartermaster.

"Everyone deserves a chance to choose their path," the captain answers, revealing a false strongbox. "But choices have consequences."

The memory shifts to the same mate months later, destitute and ashamed in a portside tavern. Instead of vengeance, the captain offers him a mop.

"Redemption starts with clean decks," he says. "Everyone deserves a second chance-but never a third."

The memory glimmers with dappled light filtering through cypress branches. After two years of solitary survival, Louie discovers a hidden pond with the clearest water they've ever seen. As they submerge themselves, an overwhelming sense of peace washes over their small form.

Rising to the surface, Louie extends their hands over the water experimentally. Divine energy flows unbidden, causing the pool to glow with soft radiance. For the first time since fleeing, Louie weeps openly-not from fear or loneliness, but from the profound relief of connection to something greater.

The memory crystallizes around Louie's decision to make this their sanctuary-a place to practice their forbidden gifts away from judgmental eyes. Here, surrounded by nature's embrace rather than G'henna's cruel austerity, they begin to understand that their power comes not from Zhakata's wrath, but from compassion itself.

The memory begins with disorientation-being pulled from a realm of swirling colors and ethereal music. Dennis finds himself materializing in a perfectly circular chamber with towering windows of stained glass. Before him stands a slender high elf with piercing silver eyes and midnight-blue robes adorned with celestial symbols. The elf's expression shifts from concentration to delight.

"It worked!" the elf exclaims, his voice musical yet commanding. "Welcome to Thaan, little one." Dennis feels simultaneously afraid and drawn to the elf, whose name hovers just beyond recall- something beginning with an S. The memory is saturated with the wonder of first consciousness, of being seen.

"I need a companion," the elf says, kneeling to meet Dennis's gaze. "One who will witness and record what is to come. The illithids grow stronger each day, and I must preserve our knowledge."

Though unable to speak yet, Dennis feels an inexplicable bond forming-the first thread of a connection that would define centuries of his existence.

Atop the hills overlooking his burning homeland, Horus pauses for one final look. Through a gap in the smoke, he witnesses an Elder Brain being installed in the sacred grove, its psychic tendrils already reshaping the land. In that moment, hatred crystallizes within him-no longer abstract fear, but a tangible, driving force. The memory pulses with the solemn vow he whispers: "I will unmake this moment, whatever the cost."

This memory differs from the others-flowing and insubstantial like water. Rusty floats in darkness while a soft, compelling voice speaks directly into his mind.

"You are special among your kind, little observer. Your psychic sensitivity surpasses theirs. You could learn so much more..."

The dream-memory pulses between curious green and cautious blue as Rusty responds hesitantly, "Who are you?"

"A teacher. A guide. Someone who sees your potential. Return to the edge of the Citadel tomorrow at moonrise. Watch. Learn. Grow stronger."

Upon waking, Rusty had felt drawn to follow these instructions without questioning their source-a subtle compulsion now plainly visible in the memory as thin purple threads of psychic manipulation.

Sunset bathes this memory in gold. The captain stands on a pristine dock beside a beautiful woman dressed in finery.

"The manor has room for a retired captain," she says. "You've had enough adventures for ten lifetimes."

The halfling looks between her and the Dreadnought bobbing in the harbor. His hand touches hers tenderly.

"The sea isn't something you retire from," he answers softly. "It's something you surrender to, eventually."

Tears well in her eyes. "You're choosing death over life with me."

"I'm choosing the life I can breathe in," he corrects her, kissing her hand. "Some belong to land, some to sea. Pretending otherwise would drown us both in regret."

As he walks back toward his ship, the memory captures his face-torn between longing and certainty.

Trading Outpost, Swamp Edge, Age 18

The memory burns with crimson betrayal. After years of quietly helping lost travelers, Louie has developed cautious relationships with a few trusted outsiders who bring supplies in exchange for medicinal swamp plants. One such trader, a gaunt man with kind eyes, has visited monthly for over a year.

The memory centers on Louie's shock when this same man returns with three of Yagno's inquisitors, pointing directly at their hiding spot. "The heretic frog-creature lives there-now fulfill your promise of food for my children."

The memory freezes on Louie's eyes meeting the trader's-seeing the man's shame beneath his desperation. In G'henna, betrayal for food is not merely understandable; it's practically inevitable.

Dennis clutches his first journal-bound in blue leather with silver clasps-as he follows S through narrow passages glittering with illuminated crystals. The memory pulses with excitement and danger.

They discover an ancient illithid outpost, abandoned centuries ago. While S examines strange mechanisms embedded in the walls, Dennis documents everything with meticulous detail.

"Your observations are extraordinary," S praises, examining Dennis's sketches. "You capture details even I miss."

The memory glows with validation, but darkens when S removes a pulsating crystal from a sealed chamber despite Dennis's hesitation. When questioned, S's normally warm eyes flash with something cold.

"Some knowledge requires sacrifice, dear Dennis. Remember that."

As they return to Thaan, Dennis feels the first faint shadow of doubt about his master's methods.

Horus corners a lone illithid researcher in an abandoned outpost. It cowers before him, telepathically pleading that it was merely a scholar, not a warrior in the invasion. For a breath, compassion flickers in Horus's heart-until he notices the creature reaching for a hidden psychic beacon. The memory freezes at the moment of decision, his staff raised high, mercy vanishing as he chooses vengeance over understanding. The killing blow carries the weight of his soul's darkening.

The captain is in a underbelly fight ring fighting a giant woman, he is quick and nimble, but she pulls a move with her battleaxe that stops him in his tracks as he slides in a gorey two pieces. As his consciousness slips away from the mortal realm, he hears the whisper of waves against a phantom hull and knows the Dreadnought awaits him in another form.

Abandoned Manor, Western Borderlands, Age 20

The memory pulses with nervous energy as Louie clutches a silver-tipped spear, following Van Richten through the shadowed corridors of a decaying manor house. Months of training have prepared them for this moment-their first hunt alongside the legendary monster hunter.

Their quarry: a nosferatu that has been feeding on the already weakened population of a remote G'hennan village. Van Richten's whispered instructions compete with the pounding of Louie's heart.

The memory slows at the crucial moment-the vampire lunging from darkness, Van Richten knocked aside, and Louie suddenly alone against the snarling creature. As razor-sharp claws descend, Louie instinctively channels divine energy not into healing but into their weapon.

The memory captures perfect stillness as the energized spear connects, the nosferatu's expression of surprise mirroring Louie's own. In this moment of triumph and terror, they discover that their forbidden divine magic-always used for healing-can become a weapon against unnatural darkness.

The memory ends with Van Richten's approving nod and sly grin.

Dennis watches from the shadows as S stands before the Elven High Council. The memory thrums with tension as councilors with ancient faces regard S with increasing concern.

"Your experiments push beyond safety," says the eldest, her crown of silver leaves catching the light. "The barriers between worlds are not to be trifled with."

"The illithid threat grows," S argues passionately. "Conventional magics will not save us!"

"Your familiar documents everything," another councilor notes, gesturing toward Dennis. "Ask him what he's observed about your changing nature."

The memory freezes on S's face turning toward Dennis-expectant, commanding-and Dennis's first significant choice to speak truth rather than loyalty: "The magic is changing you, S. Sometimes you speak to voices I cannot hear."

The betrayal in S's eyes burns like acid, but beneath it lurks something worse-a flash of inhuman calculation.

Starlight illuminates Lyra's face as she packs her belongings. After years as Horus' companion and fellow chronomancer, she can no longer follow his darkening path. "Your hatred has become a temporal anchor," she says, touching his cheek one final time. "You're no longer changing time - you're becoming trapped by it." She bends down and pets Gary. The memory aches with the moment he chooses his vendetta over love, watching her walk away rather than abandoning his quest.

The memory begins in disorienting fragments-the sensation of falling, then weightlessness. Colors drain away as the halfling captain finds himself standing on misty shores beside a spectral version of the Dreadnought, its sails tattered yet somehow more magnificent.

A figure waits on the gangplank. Her face remains hidden behind a white porcelain mask, revealing nothing yet somehow conveying both solemn purpose and ancient wisdom.

"Am I...?" the captain begins.

"Yes," the figure answers. "But your journey continues."

The captain sees if he is still sliced in half from where the fatal blow landed, feeling only wholeness. "My crew?"

"Live still, mourning you." The figure gestures across a vast gray sea where drifting lights move like lost fireflies. "But these souls need a captain more."

The halfling studies the phantom ship, understanding dawning. "The Dreadnought sails even here?" "It sails especially here. Vessels of purpose transcend realms."

The mists parted as the Raven Queen guides the halfling captain deeper into her realm. They walked along an obsidian path that materialized beneath their feet with each step, luminescent particles drifting upward like inverse snowfall.

"Your vessel knew many storms," she said, her voice echoing from everywhere and nowhere at once. "And you never abandoned those in your care."

The captain nodded, still adjusting to the weightlessness of his new form. "A captain serves his ship and crew."

They reached a circular platform where other spectral vessels were moored-ships of every design from across the ages, their captains standing at attention as the Raven Queen passed. Some nodded respectfully at the halfling, recognizing a new addition to their solemn brotherhood.

The Raven Queen stopped before a pool of still, black water that reflected not their forms but countless faces-souls adrift in the spaces between worlds.

"There are many who die far from home," she explained, gesturing toward the reflections. "Lost at sea, in forgotten caves, on distant battlefields. Their passage is interrupted, their journey incomplete." Her mask tilted toward him. "They require someone who understands what it means to be lost, yet found again."

She extended her hand, and a silver coin materialized on her palm, its face bearing a raven in flight. "Will you serve as one of my ferryman in my fleet? Guide the lost to where they must go? Some to judgment, some to rest, some to become something new."

The halfling studied the coin, then looked to his spectral ship. The Dreadnought's sails caught an unfelt wind, as if eager for its new purpose.

"I've sailed treacherous waters before, my lady," he said, taking the coin. As his fingers closed around it, the metal sank into his palm, leaving a silvery mark like a sailor's tattoo.

The Raven Queen placed a hand upon his shoulder, and the captain felt a surge of connection-to the ship, to the souls waiting passage, to the very currents of death itself.

"The living mourn what they've lost," she said, "but we honor what remains. Remember this when the mists grow thick and the way seems uncertain."

When the captain steps aboard, the ship resonates with recognition. The deck beneath his feet feels more real than the world around him. Running his hands along the spectral wheel, he whispers, "Well old girl, seems we've got a new route to chart."

The memory captures his first command in death-"Unfurl the sails!"-and the surprising joy in his eyes as the Dreadnought responds, cutting through the mists toward souls in need of passage.

The memory swirls within the orb, shimmering with golden light that mimics the merciless sun of Har'Akir's endless deserts. As Louie touches the smooth surface, the fragment comes alive... Har'Akir, Western Burial Grounds, Two Years After Meeting Van Richten

The memory begins with Louie's webbed feet burning against the scorching sands outside an ancient, half-buried tomb. His amphibian skin, normally slick with moisture, feels painfully dry despite the protective salves Ezmerelda had applied that morning. The grung stays close to the shadow of the Vistani hunter, who moves with practiced stealth along the weathered stone walls. "Stay alert, little friend," Ezmerelda whispers, her eyes scanning the horizon where heat ripples distort the landscape. "The guardian will sense us soon."

The memory pulses with Louie's mingled fear and determination. They had tracked a soul-devouring mummy across three settlements, following a trail of desiccated victims.

Ezmerelda pauses, pulling one of her hidden daggers from beneath her colorful scarf. She looks down at Louie with rare vulnerability in her eyes.

"The hieroglyphs mention a curse of thirst," she explains, gesturing toward symbols carved into the doorway. "Once we enter, water becomes poison until the guardian is defeated."

The memory trembles with the weight of this revelation. For a grung, whose very survival depends on moisture, such a curse is practically a death sentence. Ezmerelda kneels down, her usually stern face softening.

"I would understand if you wait here," she offers."

Louie weighing the situation decides to continue forward. The memory follows them into the stifling darkness of the tomb, where ancient traps and animated guardians test their combined skills. Ezmerelda's brilliant tactical mind and combat prowess complement Louie's divine magic. When they finally confront the mummy lord in the central chamber, Louie's radiant energy shields them from its death curse while Ezmerelda executes the precise ritual needed to bind the creature.

As the mummy falls, crumbling to dust, Louie collapses from dehydration. The memory swirls with feverish images of Ezmerelda carrying his small form back through the desert, her normally stoic face etched with worry as she whispers Vistani healing charms.

Days later, recovering in a cool oasis tent, Louie awakens to find Ezmerelda documenting their encounter in a journal reminiscent of Van Richten's famous guides.

The memory ends with Ezmerelda placing a small silver amulet in Louie's webbed hand-a token bearing the symbol of Har'Akir's ancient river goddess.

"For your bravery," she says simply. "Van Richten would be proud. I know I am."

In this moment, Louie realizes he's no longer merely Van Richten's student or Ezmerelda's temporary companion, but a monster hunter in his own right-one whose unique nature and divine gifts make him not a liability, but an irreplaceable ally in the endless battle against darkness.