At first glance, the room appears empty.

A roaring fire crackles away in the hearth, and

dim candles glow softly at the edges of the room. A large, comfortable arm chair sits in
the middle of the room, across from another, smaller, similarly upholstered chair. On a
small table between them, a few small things sit out: a bowl of grapes, their skin
gleaming in the mild light, a crystal pitcher of water, with matching glasses, a few papers,
a quill and an ink pot. The light from the fire illuminates cozy little room, glowing in the
softly polished wood of the floor, causing odd shadows to fall from the bookcases which
line the room. The room is cozy, snug or at least it ought it be. Despite the best efforts
of the fireplace, though, the room is still permeated by an unearthly cold a slight
tingling under your skin nothing is observably wrong, but something is simply off.
Your palms start to sweat, and your hairs stand on end, raising small goose bumps on you
arms as you look around the room
Please, have a seat. Ive been awaiting your arrival.
There he is. You hadnt noticed before. At the junction where two bookcases meet stands
a boy. He finishes replacing the book he was reading, and turns to face you. In that
instant that he turns you could swear that a thin fog sweeps away from his body as he
turns. And the instant he locks eyes with you, just for an instant, you could swear that his
eyes burned red
The boy approaches you, and holds out his hand to you. You take his outstretched hand,
and even though his hand is sheathed in a glove of fine, soft leather, you cant help but
get the impression that his skin is ice cold
He stands back now, and your higher mind attempts to shout down you instincts. What is
there about this elven youth thats so terrifying? Hes just a boy No more than four
feet tall, clad in the simple, elegant clothing that elves favor, a suit of the same soft
leather as his gloves, which does seem a bit heavy for a room with this high a fire
burning, but thats nothing to be afraid of you survey him again. His fine, black hair is
cut short, his bangs ending just above below his eyebrows a childs haircut. Now that
the red seems to have gone, his pleasant blue eyes seem to hide the trace of a smile. His
pale skin and frail build, even for one so small, reveal him an elf, even if his ears are a
little less pointed than most. Even by human standards, he is young, possibly as young as
twelve, no older than fifteen, surely He beams pleasantly at you, and again gestures
you toward the chair. As you take your seat, his narrative begins, in a surprisingly light,
conversational tone
My name is Azazel. And my life has been a strange one. I wish I could tell you that I
was born cursed, and that my destiny has been shaped by the whims of some far off star.
But Ive seen enough of the world to know that that is never the case. Do not
misunderstand be, I do not doubt the gods for the gods are the movers and shakers of
our very plane of reality I do not doubt they exist. I have had enough traffic with the
gods in my days to be able to affirm that. I merely doubt their intentions. But that is
neither here nor there. I was born the only son of a town guardian. My mother was one

of the leaders of our city, a fine and respectable woman with duties most grave. My
birthplace was one of the great tree cities, in a land far to the South of here. Im sure
youve heard of them. If you recall, the tree cities are often under siege from outside
forces, and for much of my youth, a marauder brigade, a horde of barbarians, if you will,
traveled at will throughout the forest floor. The tree cities are self-sustaining, and had no
need to interact with the barbarians. When they came near, the tree was simply locked
down, and the mighty natural defenses of the trees allowed us to survive a siege of any
length virtually unscathed. It was common practice for cities to have small standing
armies, or militia to repel the hordes, should they overstay their welcome. However, in a
community such as ours, were every person has a part to play in the survival of the city
itself, sparing even every hundredth person for guard duty made things tight. Food
became short, and with it, temper. It was clear that having these little armies around was
not a viable long-term option. Something needed to change, and quickly. They prayed for
weeks to Corellon Larethian to send them some sort of answer, some sort of saviour.
My mother was the answer to their prayers.
One day, as the city was under siege from a raiding party, my mother stumbled into the
midst of the battle. She had a few short words with the barbarians, and they ceased to be
a problem.
My mother was a powerful wizard, you see.
After her annihilation of the raiding party, the city elders begged for her to stay on, and
protect their city from future attacks. My mother, who had just finished several years as a
freelance adventurer, and had been looking for somewhere quiet to settle, accepted. As
the years went by, she became a pillar of the community, using her magic to help the
seeds and the growing things when not warding her home. She met my father there, a
good person, the town woodcarver, and fell in love. They had to reconvene the militia,
briefly, so that I could be born, but the people of the town so loved my mother that they
did it gladly. She was theirs, after all, and it was the least they could do for one of their
own.
Years passed, and I grew. I spent most of my days with my father, playing in the shop
while he attended the forge, or helping him carve a chair, or some other such thing.
Im sure I was more of a hindrance than a help, but he loved to see me smile, and took as
good care of me as he knew how.
But my favorite days were the ones I spent with my mother. She would take me to the far
corners of the city, and we would walk around the outskirts. She would touch a vine, and
a make a flower sprout, much to my delight, or perform other little tricks for me. She
told me about her job, about how she protected the people of the city, and how someday,
she would teach me all she knew. It would be my choice whether to continue in her
footsteps and protect the city, or whether to strike out on my own, and be an adventurer
or a hero. But no matter what I did, she told me, I had to go on protecting those who

needed it. That was my duty with the powers I would come to possess, she told me. In
those days, I could think of no brighter future for myself.
The years passed quickly in my paradise. I was fifteen before I knew it, although the
elders told my mother they had never seen a child grow so slowly. I didnt look a day
over the age of twelve, they would tease. It was true, I did look very young. But what
did I care? I was going to be a big brother! Mothers womb had grown large, and my
baby sister was due any day now. My mother had been pulled off of guard duty, and the
militia was assembled for the first time in fifteen years. The marauders sensed it, too.
Their attacks came with renewed ferocity, but the tree city held, just as it always had.
Then, one night, as I sat at mothers bedside with father, watching in eagerness her labor
pains, awaiting my new sister, the captain of the militia came rushing into the room. The
militia was being overrun. The marauders are attacking with their full force, and we
cannot hold. All the elves that can fight were there already, barely holding on.
Something needed to be done.
It isnt a sight Ill ever forget, so long as I live. My mother, sweating, clammy, her skin
red and inflamed, flying over the battlefield, striking down raiders with furious bolts of
fire and lightning. So brave, risking everything for the world that she loved and then I
saw it. The baby. It was coming now. She staggered, buckled in the air, and turned,
flying back toward the relative safety of our city. She lost the flight spell near the stairs
at the base of the tree. I ran down to help her, along with several of the other guard, but I
was faster than they were. As I rounded the last curve, bounding down toward her, I saw
the distinct hand motions of a spell. A man, axe in hand, sped at my mother. I looked
back at my mothers shaking, sweating form, and realized with horror what the spell she
was casting was. Id only ever seen her use it once before. It was one of her most
difficult spells, one that required the utmost concentration to perform correctly but it
seemed as though she was going to make it, it seemed as though she would finish the
spell. I bounded to her side, throwing myself between her and the onrushing barbarian
And and thats when something went horribly wrong
I cannot tell you what it was. Ive spent countless sleepless nights since then wondering
what happened but I do not know. I will never know. Perhaps she was hit with an
arrow, or perhaps the baby did something but all I can remember is that there was an
explosion behind me. I was thrown forward, as the ring of expanding force rushed
outward from my mother. Everyone was the shockwave leveled everyone on the
battlefield.
It was some time before I stirred. And when I did, mother was gone. A blackened ring
on the earth marked the spot where she died.
I crawled to the spot and wept. I had lost my mother. I would never meet my sister. My
world was gone.

I didnt realize just how right I was.

The barbarians razed our tree-city to the ground. They killed the elders, and those that
might provide resistance. They looted our homes, took what they could carry, and burned
the rest. The survivors, they bound together in a line, and led away from the ashes that
had been our homes.
I dont know how long it was before I became coherent again. We were in a camp
there were children and I dont remember. Everything was a haze for the next few
days. I remember being told that my father had been killed when the hordes broke
through the barriers I remember forced marches down a woodland path and finally, I
remember being made to set up camp at the edge of a river. The barbarians made the
children erect their tents, and, under a watchful eye, erect a holding pen for ourselves.
My hands moved of their own accord. I do not remember how I knew the motions I
needed to perform, but I have no doubt I had performed them countless times before. My
world was coming back into focus. I could see clearly again. The other children in the
pen brought me up to speed: we had been marching, ever since our city was destroyed.
Marching West. Every night, we set up camp. It had been almost two weeks since our
disastrous last stand.
The next few weeks passed much the same as the first two. March. Set up camp. Wait
on the raiders who had destroyed our city. Watch helplessly as the hordes overran other,
smaller settlements. Sometimes, the numbers in the pen swelled. At others, children
would be taken away. I can not tell you what became of them. Life was like this for a
long time. Ive forgotten just how long. I lost all track of time, as the passage of days
became meaningless. Then one night, things changed.
I wasnt sure what was going on then, but, reconstructing the facts afterwards, it seems
that the political structure of these barbarian groups was somewhat different than we had
originally thought. There was no strong unifying power smaller groups banded
together only to destroy larger targets that no one group could handle on their own. The
alliance that had been forged to bring down my city had cracked. Late one night, a group
of five men came riding up to the pen. The two men that were stationed to watch us got
up, and the riders reigned in their mounts near the edge of our pen, dismounting to talk
with our guards. They shared some words, with the jist of the conversation being that the
riders were certain that the slaves were coming with them, and the guards insisting none
too politely that they, sirs, were quite mistaken. The riders drew their weapons, and the
guards responded in kind. The taller guard, wielding a sword as long as I was tall, took a
fierce swing at the riders spokesman. The man skillfully parried the blow, and, with a
flick of his blade, sent the guards sword flying. Two other riders descended upon him,
their billowing cloaks seeming to swallowing him whole. The other guard fell backward,
a short axe protruding from where I was sure his heart was supposed to be. The riders
regrouped, and their leader rode away with two of his subordinates, ordering the
remaining two to round up the slave children. They walked to the gate of our pen. The

door creaked open, and they advanced. The children scattered to the corners of the
enclosure at their approach, save for one tiny elf girl, probably not even two years old,
who fell to the ground as she attempted to run, her toddlers legs betraying her. As the
men closed the gap between themselves and the girl, my eyes fell to the guards sword,
which had landed, almost invitingly, a few paces from where I stood.
Now, I had never been a particularly athletic youth. I was never very strong, or very
agile. As a child, I had always been fairly average. However, as I saw these men
approaching the little girl who could have been my sister, I remembered the words of my
mother and I reached for the sword. It was a huge weapon, something that humans
commonly call a greatsword. However, as my hand found the hilt, I hefted the weapon
with ease. I know that adrenaline can allow people to do things that they normally can
not but this sword was as big as I was. There was no way I should have been able to
lift it, let alone run, full speed, at the advancing humans. I saw my reflection in the first
riders eyes as I charged him and I didnt recognize myself. My black hair flew back
away from my face revealing a terrifying red glow where my eyes should have been.
Then my reflection was gone as was the riders head. The sword glowed faintly red in
my hands as the body fell to the ground. The second rider stood, eyes wide, for just a
second. I could see the tremor in his hand as he gripped his hand ax, and swung with all
his might at my head.
But he was so slow He was moving so slowly I sidestepped nimbly, not at that
moment pausing to wonder why things seemed to be slowing down around me, why as
the rider rushed at me, swinging with great, swift, strokes, how it was possible that a
young elf, who had never been very fast was ducking and dodging his every blow. As I
sidestepped one last time, the head of his ax stuck into the dirt and I raised my sword
I collected the children and ran. Our pen was near the edge of the camp, and the camp
was tearing itself apart, as two rival factions vied for control. I silently led the children
into the woods, disappearing into the night
We made it to the next tree city unharmed, and the city agreed to take the children in.
They offered me a place there too. I decided to stay there, at least for the time being
That was almost four hundred years ago
I havent aged a day in those four hundred years. Not one second has passed for me since
the death of my mother In all the time Ive had to reflect on it, I think I can now tell
you why The spell my mother was performing at the time of her death was the Time
Stop spell it is possible that something went wrong with the casting to produce this
effect. The magic that infused my body at the time of her death is doubtless also
responsible for my increased strength and dexterity. I can lift things that are heavier than
my own body. I can track the movements of the body with extreme precision. I am not
sure if that same magic that maintains this body is also the source of my warlock

powers it is entirely possible that it is, but also just as possible that I would have
developed them anyway. I cannot say.
In the years since, Ive been driven from my home countless times considered a
monster, both for being a warlock, and for being an ageless youth No amount of deeds
can redeem the jealousy in mens souls, I suppose. Not that I can really blame them. In
the years since, Ive wandered the world, first researching the magics that warp me, and
then giving up on the matter entirely. What magic suffuses my soul is beyond the means
of most to detect. For a while, I tried my hand as a Protector of the Innocent, an
Upholder of Law, and such things, just as my mother had wanted me to be but Ive
come to view her wishes for me in a slightly different light. I have my own answers as to
who is in need of protection, and how to best accomplish it And so I live by my code,
for now, until a better way can be shown to me.
This warped body of mine has, in the long run, almost always been the reason for my
banishment from anywhere Ive attempted to call home. As such, Ive decided to make it
a secret yes, I understand your confusion. Why am I telling you my deepest, darkest
secrets? You, a person I barely even know? The answer is rather simple. The
information youve just been given is unknowable. As soon as you leave my presence, or
as soon as I will it to be so, you will loose all recollection of everything Ive just told
you Vecna has seen to that
The Lich stood before me, summoned by the ritual circle drawn on the floor in front of
me. Having just heard my proposition, the servant of Vecna nodded. The lord of secrets
agrees to do what you ask, he intoned, in a breathless, magical voice that came from
nowhere and everywhere at once, in exchange for a service to be rendered at a future
date. I asked him when I would know what I was to do. What does it matter, to one
such as you? asked the Lich, as he faded from view, you have all the time in the
world
That is why you are here. A few days ago, the lich appeared before me again. I have my
task. I am to find Enifka, a Xeph Soulknife who is wandering the Northern realms,
gathering strength, for what ends I do not know. When I asked the Lich, he simply told
me: Child, your patron is a god of secrets. I am to find her, and join her ranks. Beyond
that, methods are completely up to me. Not unlike the freelance mercenary work Ive
done for you in the past. Thats why Ive called you here today: Tell me what you know
of Enifka?
A frog ninja, in a snowbound region of the north, Hmm? Very well, I thank you for your
time. The boy pushes a bag of coins toward you. I believe that is more or less the going
rate, is it not? You look into the bag, and find its contents most acceptable. Very well
now, I must prepare to depart. Please, take some grapes with you as you go. I have to
leave this place, and they will spoil if they make the trip with me. The boy walks over

to the hearth, and reaches for the titanic sword mounted on the mantle. It almost seems to
jump to his hand. As he turns to face you one last time, youre very certain that this time,
his eyes are not eyes, but orbs of fire. With a smile, he says, Thank you. But I have
much to do before I can depart. Please, show yourself out. And, with a wink, Im
certain you remember the way out
You stand in the street, holding a bunch of grapes in your hand. You always enjoy your
visits with Azazel. For one so young, a mere boy of fifteen, he certainly does seem
mature, and very worldly. As you feel the weight of his money in your pocket, something
seems to tug at the edge of your mind. But just for a moment, and then its gone. Ah
well. Youve had a fine day, and business is good. You wave as you leave the young
mans house. You really do wish him the best

The very least you need to know:

Azazel
Class: Warlock
Race: Wood Elf
Apparent age: 15
Real age: Unknowable
Eyes: Blue
Hair: Black
Skin: Pale
Height: 4 0
Weight: 60 lbs.
Armor: Light (chain or leather)
Weapon: Greatsword
Azazel still possesses a strong sense of right and wrong, and despite his long years of
harsh treatment, will still stand up for those who cannot do so for themselves. Most of
the time. This desire to protect the innocent is especially pronounced for children.
However, he has no remorse for his enemies whatsoever, and will use any means
necessary to remove the threat the represent, and fully expects others to do the same.
Having lived for so long, he tends to see things over the long term, and is not easily
influenced. Even though he has the body of a child, he is very strong and very dexterous.
This is likely due to the same magical effect that gives him his extended life. (Explaining
such high STR and DEX scores for a child) Despite his endless youth, he is still capable
of receiving damage and dying normally. He wears light armor, to allow full use of his
warlock abilities, and wields a greatsword* to great effect. For the most part, he is kind,
compassionate, and shy, although he can have quite an intimidating presence when he
wants to. He is a good friend to those who get to know him, although he can be a bit
jaded at times. He worships Corellon Larethian, and only prays to Vecna out of necessity.
He is presently seeking out Enifka the Soulknife in the northern countries, to fulfill his
contract with Vecna. He knows, through a series of contacts familiar with her, that she is
seeking out unique adventurers, and that she presently travels with a cleric and a monk,
as well as that she is attempting to make contact with a Neriph ninja who lives in a
cottage in the northern wastes. He expects to meet with her there.
*Neither Wood Elfs nor Warlocks are proficient with the Greatsword. I was rather
hoping I could get it as a backstory bonus, but if not, it can easily be toned down to a
longsword, which I am proficient with.