"Prologue of an artist and his art" by John Hollands

Sunlight, that previously thrice cursed illumination of that burning orb in the surface worlder sky, yet he had been here for quite some time, another day dawned and his hunger was once more ravenously active, however before he would feast this day..perhaps some recollection and retrospect as to how he came to be here in the first place was in order.

Pain, those dulled slashes penetrating his wrist seeming so customary, so very familiar now, the blackness began to lapse as he gradually returned to full consciousness, his surroundings were..morbid to say the least, his form strapped down upon a wooden table bounded and gagged as monstrous beasts jutted out above him. This was the laboratory where he believed he had spent most of his life when not honing his ‘artistic’ skills, the beasts swathing about in the world above him held one distinguishing feature, one fearsome trait which blemished their visages and instilled fear in all whom knew their identity.., those vicious tentacles sprouting where the average man’s mouth was, the lurid enlarged orbs embedded into their gelatinous craniums, they were Illithids.

As they continued to probe his form injecting various noxious compounds into his system and lavishing his intellect with their increased Psionic ability’s he gradually began to drift back..far back..to that day so long ago when this all had started. He was a young drowen child, around the age of 12, he was one of the few ‘gifted’ among his race, one of those whom possessed the gene which endowed the individual with Psionic prowess. One blisteringly cold morning he had ventured out deeper into the treacherous Underdark with a small group of friends when they had discovered a large cave which just ‘longed’ to be explored, upon entering this strange alcove hewn into the mossy rock their eyes were flooded with bright illumination. Drowen eyes being accustomed to the perpetual darkness within their underground realm they were savagely blinded and then it happened, one by one they fell, he could barely detect the presence of very powerful Psionicist’s within the vicinity harnessing his limited ability. The monsters slew his companions swiftly, their screams ringing in his ears as their minds were shredded within their skulls, his face contorted into an expression of fear as his eyes snapped shut awaiting the end, but it never came.., strong ‘arms’ gripped his shoulders then a high pitched noise nearly shattered his eardrums and blackness ensued.

He awoke within a dimly lit structure, the architectural design was utterly alien to him, arabesque runes engraved into the metallic looking walls encircling him, he attempted to stand up but to his horror found himself bound to the slab of stone he lay on, gradually he became aware of the intense pain in his left hand and let out a cry of anguish, a thousand drills seemingly pierced his flesh tearing deeper and deeper into his hand. Yet he felt different somehow, his body felt stronger than it had apparently moments ago as the pain subsided, whispers plagued his mind suddenly as he was just starting to contemplate what had happened to him, their voices..dominant, repressing his own psionic talent which drove him to struggle harder against them straining his mind attempting to get his own voice heard within the siren’s choir.

Little did he know that this was the start of hundreds of tests and enhancements he would receive at the hands of these self proclaimed malevolent beings, years passed as his body was slowly evolved and mutated into a nigh perfect killing machine. One day at the age of two hundred he was finally allowed to adventure outside of the Illithid compound but they left a distinct trace of their will within his mind as a sort of ‘homing beacon’ should he try to escape, on the outside he encountered a drowen patrol, the old him would have ran toward them and enlisted their assistance and protection from his captors, however a lot had changed over the century’s, his painted lips curled into a sadistic smile as he sensed fresh prey for him to test his newly acquired skills on.

The first fell without a sound his jugular shattered with a swift cleave of the talons encased within his pitch black carapace like armour, the second drew its sword and swung at him with all his might, yet the drow’s agility was no match for his own, dodging quickly to the left and slicing cruelly into the drow’s torso rendering it in two, and so it continued, his own physical prowess now far beyond the pathetic drow’s comprehension as he devoured them one, by one. With his garden of carcass’s formed he returned to the Illithid’s with the sole object of interest he had found upon the drow’s, a particularly curious scroll detailing various poetic individuals within the surface worlder society, one of these was something named a jester or ‘Harlequin’ which apparently were creatures of great agility and concealed cunning. This he decided described his new form perfectly, he was a Harlequin, an artist of death, someone to be reckoned with.

However the Illithids upon detecting this new piece of information within his psyche forbade him to refer to himself as such and attempted to remove it from his mind, but the Illithids had been too over confident and underestimated his own psionic prowess, they had not expected him to actually fight back in blatant defiance of their will, it seemed by this time he was able to shield himself from their assaults whilst viciously shredding their corporeal body’s with his enhanced one.

In his great rage he destroyed the laboratory and stole all their currency deciding to venture upward, toward the surface world and make his presence felt, his chosen art was death, and thus he became an assassin of great merit and skill, awaiting the day someone…dared to challenge him.

This was his past..his ‘history’ of sorts, yet that was enough of that for one morn, now to business.., he ascended from the fabricated bed beneath him and strode downstairs tossing the inn keeper a few gold for the room then striding out the door and down that familiar dirt trodden rode, toward his future, toward adventure, toward his prey..