Reylendor

Reylendor Aspenmorrow

Relatives	Adyra Aspenmorrow (mother), Ilican Aspenmorrow (father)
Languages	Common, Elvish, Abyssal, Deep Speech
Affiliations	Servants of Att-Annalo (former)
Aliases	None
Marital Status	No Spouse/Partner
Place of Birth	Fallhorn City
Species	Wood Elf
Gender	Male
Height	5’5 ft
Weight	115 lbs
Eye Color	Green

Life Domain Cleric. Pronouns: He/Him.

Physical Appearance

Reylendor has tan skin, dark brown hair that’s quite disheveled, and emerald eyes with bags beneath them. He appears quite thin, even by elven standards, and has a frail stature. Reylendor wears green, cloth robes held together by brown leather straps: they appear average in quality. He carries a buckler shield in one hand and an amulet in the other. There’s also a spell scroll fastened to his right side.

Personality

Reylendor is agreeable in conversation and will work towards the general good of any party he ends up in. He has a tendency to get lost in anxiety-riddled thoughts, leading to the occasional bout of spaciness. At times, he lapses into paranoia and closes himself off or breaks away to think. Despite everything he’s experienced, he still loves learning and is ever curious about strange arcana and alchemy.

History

Fallhorn City, with its abundance of mixing races and cultures, was probably a great place to live for those who weren’t relegated to the slums. Reylendor wasn’t so lucky; when he was born his parents were in the depths of poverty, and another mouth to feed didn’t make life any easier. His mother and father worked any jobs they could get their hands to provide for him. When he was too young to work he begged, and he took to work as soon as he was able. Reylendor did everything from cleaning stables to sweeping chimneys to holding signs for street-side magic acts, but he didn’t see actual magic until he was 60.

After Reylendor’s sixtieth birthday, a religious group called the Servants of Att-Annalo took root in Fallhorn’s slums: they healed the injured for free and pooled their funds to open a soup kitchen for the hungry. Obviously, the city’s poor quickly became big fans of them. Five years after establishing themselves, the Servants offered to take in children to train in the ways of their God, Att-Annalo. Many families jumped at the opportunity and Reylendor’s parents were no exception: they wanted him to have a chance to make something of himself. And so, he spent the next several decades training.

Reylendor originally thought the Servants were clerics, but learning they were warlocks who used healing staves made little difference to him. Despite many others who began training after him being allowed to make pacts with Att-Annalo within 5-10 years, the Servants kept Reylendor in his role as an apprentice and scribe; he didn’t mind much since he enjoyed the work. During this time, Reylendor learned Deep Speech and Abyssal as they were the primary languages the Servants used to communicate. Eventually, at age 115, he was deemed ready to become a true warlock and make his pact.

During the Pact Ceremony, the unthinkable was revealed: Att-Annalo was no God, but a Far Ream dwelling Great Old One looking to create an avatar and manifest on the mortal plane. Unfortunately for him, Reylendor was deemed an ideal host. The Great One managed to latch onto a portion of Reylendor’s soul, but he was able to break away before it could fully corrupt him. Reylendor ran from Fallhorn as fast as he was able, not allowing himself to think of what might become of his family/friends in his absence.

While running from the Servants and just barely surviving on the road, Reylendor bumped into a roaming group of clerics. Feeling sympathy for his apparent plight, they took him in. Fascinated by authentic healing magic, he was quick to cast aside his warlock lessons and take to the studies of a healer. However, his experience with Att-Annalo rendered him thoroughly unable to trust any entity claiming divinity, and Reylendor shocked the clerics by learning their skills while remaining a staunch atheist. Sensing that they were put off by him, he left the group in search of a way to rid his soul of Att-Annalo’s influence.

Currently, he’s 121.

On the Servants of Att-Annalo

“The Far Realm is filled with forces utterly incomprehensible to those not born into it. Some of the entities dwelling within it might be older than time itself. Those who seek to meddle in the affairs of that realm are either naive—desperately searching for purpose since they’ve found none within the Material—or arrogant: fools who would claim understanding where there can be none. I was once both. I write this so, should something unseemly become of me, others will know of the danger in pursuit.

In 735 PR, halfling Mel Netheroe went to a bard’s college to study the lore of the world. He grew uninterested in his studies and dropped out three years later, turning his attention to a local order of wizard scribes; Mel studied under them for six years, but eventually turned weary again and left. I am uncertain of the exact details since Father Netheroe Mel keeps much close to his chest, but I do know that he garnered a few followers in 745. They fancied themselves true scholars—people who refused to sink a lifetime into a single study and wanted to see ‘the truth which connects it all’ or some other nonsense.

At some point in their scholarly meandering, they turned to looking at the stars. It was then that Mel heard The Calling: strange whispers that spoke to him not as voices, but “sight beyond sight”. He started hallucinating having visions about the true nature of the world. He told his closest companions and eventually they started having these visions too. I am uncertain how they procured the funds to build an observatory, but they did. They locked themselves away and, perhaps ironically, dedicated themselves entirely to learning of the Far Realm.

It was then that Att-Annalo finally spoke to Mel. He described it as the height of fulfillment: a culmination of all the philosophy, lore, and science he had ever learned. I think he was likely absorbed by the power it’s pact bestowed him with. Whatever the case, in 764 the newly named Servants of Att-Annalo descended on the slums of Fallhorn City like an asymptomatic swarm.

Despite their strange garb and preachings, they healed our sick and tended to our weary. That was enough for us. I’ll never begrudge my parents for sending me to become their scribe. I spent decades transcribing Att-Annalo’s nonsensical murmurings to its favored servants and stupidly hoping to one day be blessed enough to receive it’s words. Really, I can’t believe I ever thought the abomination was a god.

I remember precious little of the night that was supposed to be my initiation

just writing it unsettles me and there’s a pounding in my head every time I so much as look upon that damnable scroll.” —An excerpt from the journal of one Reylendor Aspenmorrow

~Scroll of Communion with the Great Old One~

Words are scrawled on top of each other. Some are so dark that they bleed through the page. Other words fade in and out of sight depending on the lighting. The language appears to be a distinctive dialect of Deep Speech. One phrase is constantly repeated in the margins between sentences: “speak… life… vessel”.

On the Olympia Magisteria On Why I Continue to Inflict Myself With Such Headaches (8/6/22)

“As it would turn out, it is in fact not a good idea to participate in unnecessary, exceedingly strenuous events when harboring a fraction of an eldritch abomination in one’s soul. It is perhaps even less of a good idea to do so when one has recently experienced stress onset by the knowledge that the cult associated with the Far Realm that they’re hiding from has taken residence in a tower connected to said realm. All of this is, of course, compounded by the fact that the day’s events were broadcast to countless individuals throughout the land. Truly, the level of foolishness I have displayed is astounding.

I, for some unearthly reason, attended the Olympia Magisteria games. I was given a VIP ticket—likely for helping Seglock during the Goblin/Tiamat crisis—and decided that I had nothing better to do than prevent an incoming nervous breakdown by drowning myself in a crowd of fans. Unfortunately, members from both teams went missing, and VIPs were called to fill the missing spots. Despite showing a hint of intellect when I was apprehensive about participating, I lost all shred of caution and agreed to fill in anyway.

I was on a team with Cecil, a rather eccentric gnome, and a dragonborn fellow named Volrac. The latter was one of two among us who looked like they belonged in a sporting event: the other was a tiefling called Igniticus—I thought he was rather full of himself at first, but from what I saw of his performance, his arrogance may have been justified. During introductions, I’m afraid I nearly blinded the cameraman with an Eldritch Blast. It’s disquieting to know the spell still comes so naturally to me after all this time.

The goal of every game was to steal a shrunken version of the opposing team’s mascot and bring it from their side of the field to ours.

First, the field we played on took the appearance of an alchemist’s set. There were so many different formulas being diluted and diffused onto the ground around us. I even saw acid that had been thinned enough to retain an irritating, sticky quality without causing any actual damage. I wish I had taken samples. I was so occupied by the equipment that I hardly noticed the game playing out around me. By the time I took stock of what was happening we were already losing rather badly. Cecil ran into a wall. I probably should have healed him when all was said and done. The poor man looked concussed.

I believe we may have fared better in the second match. The field turned to layers of dirt filled with ant mounds and tunnels. There were even massive ants for us to ride on. Once again, I found myself distracted, though I was hardly the only one. Wren, an elven druid on the opposing team, also began the game by doting on her ant. We chatted for quite a while. Honestly, talking with her has made me seriously consider taking up druidcraft. Eventually, we both went on to assist our respective teams.

Pum, the opposing bard, took on the appearance of an enlarged Cecil for much of the match. Unfortunately, when trying to grab our mascot, she knocked the man right out of his polymorph. I’m no expert, but that probably should have counted as some sort of foul. Despite that, I may have gone a bit far by projecting an image of her violently kicking a ram to the crowd. She forgave me for it, so I suppose there was no harm done. That Igniticus was constantly flying around with what I believe was a modified version of the spell Hellish Rebuke. Rather impressive.

While laying explosive glyphs for the other team to stumble into I spotted Cecil crawling around, his mount nowhere in sight. I have no idea what he was doing. I set him up with my mount and he charged into the fray. He has spirit, I’ll give him that much. Despite our efforts, we lost the second game as well.

I thought that would be the end of it, but an old gnome lady ran out with five veteran players and challenged the six VIP players to one last, winner takes all match.

Whoever was in charge of the field must have been privy to my nightmares. I can think of no reason for why an eldritch, tentacle-marred landscape spread out before us. I would have collapsed into a heap of not for the others doing their best to keep me grounded. Wren turned into a dire wolf for me to ride on. If the world survives whatever the cult has planned, I hope we become good friends.

I remember Igniticus telling me he killed his demons and that I could do the same to mine. The rest of the final game is spotty at best. I was in the air at some point and… the tentacles were flailing? Something must have happened, because I received quite a few strange looks after we won. I worry about what this memory loss might indicate. I worry more about my actions having been broadcast.

When I see Ensign again, it may be best to fully disclose my circumstances. If I were a religious man, I’d pray for all of us.”

Languages

He picked up Common and Elvish from his parents and uses them most. He tries to avoid speaking Abyssal or Deep Speech without reason, since they’re a reminder of his time with the Servants, but will occasionally slip and mutter under his breath in one or the other, usually when stressed or paranoid.

Powers and Abilities

Cantrips: Eldritch Blast, Mending, Minor Illusion, Spare the Dying, Toll the Dead, Word of Radiance.

Always Prepared Spells: Beacon of Hope, Bless, Cure Wounds, Lesser Restoration, Revivify, Spiritual Weapon.

Other Currently Prepped Spells: Aid, Comprehend Languages, Detect Magic, Glyph of Warding, Healing Word, Guiding Bolt, Inflict Wounds, Sanctuary, Zone of Truth.

Channel Divinity: Preserve Life, Turn Undead.

Other Skills: Mask of the Wild.

Though he studied arcana for years, he’s very new to actual combat and prefers to hang back with healing or support spells. Recently, he’s learned to attack when the opportunity presents itself.

Attacks and Weapons 

Despite having a mace, Reylendor never uses it: he was never particularly strong, and being exposed to a cult ritual certainly didn’t help his physicality. Reylendor also still has access to some warlock spells: he learned Eldritch Blast, Minor Illusion, and Comprehend Languages during his time as an initiate. He’s willing to use Minor Illusion to cause distractions and Comprehend Languages to aid communication or text deciphering, but he’s sworn off ever using Eldritch Blast again. To him, it’s far too directly connected to Att-Annalo’s power.

He also has a spell scroll detailing a ritual to achieve communication with Att-Annalo (he acquired it during his time as a scribe).