Table of Contents

Roadkill

Session Date: 01/10/2026
Game Master: Rew

Player Characters

Proclamation of the Shadowfell Fascists

Narrator:
In a great courtyard that was once the forum of Gloomwrought, Ashriel stands atop a spire of jagged obsidian. Below him, the fascist Shadar-kai legions stand in tight silent perfection, their blades dull grey. Beside them, the undead “Eternal Servants” remain motionless, their hollow gazes fixed upward. Ashriel’s voice is not a shout. Instead, it is a resonant, icy calm that cuts through the howling winds of the Aether.

Ashriel:
My Chosen. My Bound. My Eternal.

The work in this province is done. We came to The Blight with a singular, sacred purpose: to feed the hunger of our philosophies. We have nearly stripped this province of its Shadow Shards, pulling the very essence of the Aetherverse from the rubble to build our very own Demiurge. We have harvested the restless dead to give it muscle.

Look upon our work. Look upon the Dark Messiah.

Narrator:
Ashriel’s voice rings out over the grey square. Standing just below and behind the spire, draped in the tattered remnants of a traveler’s cloak, is the broken silhouette of Dane Shadowstrike. The Tabaxi is a horrific sight. The left side of his head has been partially caved in leaving his skull fractured and matted with dark, tacky blood that refused to wash away in the transition to undeath. His left eye is a hollow, dark crater, while his right eye burns with a cold, slaved violet light. On his hip is the cursed fascist blade Vesperfang.

Ashriel:
This is no mere engine of war. It is a vessel of the Primordial Furnace, a crucible of creation itself. Within its core, controlled only by the volatile torrents of the Monster Energy, it carries the power of the beginning and the end. It possesses the divine right to destroy the obsolete and create the absolute. With this furnace, we shall burn away the frantic, disordered noise of the ‘Whimsicals’ and forge a civilization of order and devotion that cannot be broken.

Narrator:
Dane jolts with a sudden realization. His one remaining ear—notched and frostbitten—twitches. His nostrils flare, catching a scent on the thin, biting Aetheric breeze. Beneath the metallic tang of the Monster Energy and the sulfur of the Primordial Furnace, there is something else. Something warm. Something familiar. Something near. He excuses himself from the address.

Ashriel:
The prophecy is no longer a whisper in the dark, but rather a map. Guided by the careful eye of the Spawn of Chaddrus, as foretold, our path is unerring. We do not guess. We do not hope. We execute a vision that was written before the first star was born.

Now, we turn our gaze toward the Welmet and the soft, drifting realms beyond. They will see our Dark Messiah hurtling through the Aether and they will call it the end. They are correct. It is the end of their era of accidents.

Narrator:
As Ashriel speaks, the right limb of the titanic Dark Messiah swings slowly down toward an approaching shadow shard. A great dark obelisk of onyx rising from the shard that was once Voidhaunt tears through the shard. Green bolts of Monster Energy pull bits of rock and ice into the Dark Messiah’s shadowy form, empowering it even further. Ashriel breathes a heavy, satisfied sigh at the great destruction his will has wrought before continuing.

Ashriel:
We bring a choice to the mortal realms, though it is a simple one. Accept our vision of a world of structure, service, and unwavering stillness – or face the total extinction of your light. We will grind the Hospice of Eliac into the dust of the void and use the ruins of Welmet Station as the first bricks of our new temple. March forth and let the Aether tremble as we bring it to heel.

Named People and Places

Major Plot Points