| 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.”
On an Unnerving Dream (8/30/22)
“Elves are not supposed to need sleep. For some Fey related reason, we usually go into trances instead. What I know of the logistics is rather fascinating, but it’s hardly relevant. The fact is that I’ve never slept in the traditional sense. I’ve never had the time to. That is to say, I slept last night, and it unsettles me deeply. I was assisting with medical needs in Seglock—as I have since I arrived—and at some point I nodded off. Thankfully, I wasn’t assisting anyone when it happened. I’m particularly put off by the dream I had.
It began with me wandering through the woods, which I’ve been increasingly inclined to do as of late. The scenery was familiar, but it was really too familiar. The trees and flowers were blurring by, which tipped me off that I was running. I saw people up ahead and finally realized that I was reliving my encounter with Tordek, Violet, Varryn, Boros, and Siohbhin. Despite that realization, the people I saw didn’t have faces. In fact, when I asked for their help, they didn’t respond at all. An Eldritch Blast hit me, just as it had back then, and everything went black.
When I awoke, though I was still within my dream, I was struck by the strangest sensation. I was awake and I could see everything around me, but my body seemed to be moving on its own. I went about my typical routine: checking in with the hospital efforts in Seglock and assisting sick and weary refugees. Despite my commitment to being a cleric, I could tell that the day’s efforts were exhausting me. No, rather, it was more that they were boring me. I was upsettingly dismissive of an old woman who’d had her legs cut off and I outright ignored a man complaining of a terrible stomach ache. Though I now know it was entirely my imagination, it was horrific to see myself act so callously.
Then, the world around me ceased to be, and I saw strange glimpses of stardust scattered on the wind. The stardust swirled and exploded, creating little gleams of light that resembled constellations. It should have been beautiful, but I was struck with a sense of horrible vertigo. When I looked down, I was falling. I fell for ages without actually moving and all the while the constellations shifted and changed: they seemed less and less like stars and more like writhing black masses trying to break free from the light. Eventually, I could make out images. I think I saw Father Netheroe Mel in one of them. He was holding a scroll, and though I couldn’t make out what it said, it felt like it was a story of some sort: the tale of a young being raising themselves within a confusing world. I can’t remember ever reading a story like that.
I hit the ground, but felt no pain. My body was still no longer my own. I wandered through a field, observing the tall grass and roaming animals. By the time I left that field, they had all died. I was heading toward some towering building that looked to be facing the sun. The building was melting: I could see bits of walls and windows splattering against the ground.
After this, I finally awoke, but I couldn’t shake the scent of smoldering rubble. I am not entirely certain of my purpose in writing this down. Perhaps this is my attempt to make sense of my dream as I have been too tired and occupied to give interpretation an honest try. I feel strangely compelled to see if the scroll I claimed from the Servants can provide answers, but I dare not come into communion with… that thing. If I have a shred of luck, and I sincerely doubt that I do, maybe these words will always be nothing more than the ponderings of a restless mind. If only my Fey ancestors would lend me some of their fortune for the future.”
On the Future (8/31/22)
"Recent events have made it evident that I have been far too lax. I fear my incessant trembling shall render my penmanship shaky at best. My situation is far worse than I previously thought. Not only has Attianlo Att-Annalo latched onto my soul, but it has also apprently apparently grown strong enough to possess me. I know not what I did to encourage this surge in strength. Perhaps it has to do the machinations of the Servants. I can only be thankful that nothing horrific has happened as of yet.
Is it even safe for me to continue my work in Seglock? I shudder to think of what could happen where that being to take control while I was tending to someone. What about the research university? If it were to acquire the knowledge on display there, the results could prove disastrous. How much of my conscious mind has the abomination already probed? Can it see what I write at this very moment in time?
I do not know what will become of me. More than that, I worry about what will become of others, especially those who know more than they should. That fellow I met with, Boris Boros, tried to talk to the damned thing when it took over. Thannkfulll Thankfully, he said it was uninterested in him, but that supposed disinterest could have just as easily been disdain. If it decides to pursue him, there is nothing I will be able to do.
I must leave. I shall inform Ensign of my departure and hope that they find another cleric to take my place. It will be a terrible risk to travel alone in the wilderness, but I see no other oppti option. If that thing were to hurt someone using me as its avatar, I would never forgive myself.
Perhaps I should fully explain my situation to Nsiddn Ensign or another advebturr adventurer I am familiar with. There are many men, women, and people far wiser than I; I could gain insight into how to cleanse myself of this corruption. Then again, I may very well risk alerting the Servants. They appear unconcerned with me at the moment, but that could easily change. I should be remiss to burden others, anyway.
Was it posssess possession that overtook me during the Olympium Olympia Magisteria? It must have been. My memory after we entered that eldritch abyss is spotty because it wasn’t me who was there in the end. The danger I put all those watching in…
Maybe the scroll holds answers. I hate to think it may be so, but the scroll of communion is the only way I can think of to understand this thing’s aims. After departing Settlock Seglock, I will endeavor to decipher it."
To Whom It May Concern,
I, Reylendor Aspenmorrow, will be leaving Seglock for the foreseeable future. I apologize to those who depended on my clerical abilities for the lack of notice, but I assure you all that my decision is for the best. I do not know when, nor if, I will return, but if I do I will go out of my way to repay the immense hospitality I was given.
Until we meet again.
-The letter appears hastily scrawled and the ink bleeds through most of the page.
Communion (9/20/22)
~Scroll of Communion with the Great Old One~
The words squirm when looked at, as though they might wriggle off the page. Glancing at the parchment, one might feel their eyes glaze over and a headache tap at their forehead. Whether fluent in Deep Speech or not, certain phrases evoke a sense of wrongness.
Reylendor clutches the scroll between trembling fingers. He’s far from Muso—far from anyone who could suffer the consequences of this going horribly wrong. He chases off any wildlife that comes sniffing in his direction. Animals run off when he shouts for them to get back, but they always seem to loop back around before leaving for good.
“What do you want?”
He wakes before an answer finds him. Reylendor wakes on a threadbare bedroll in the center of decrepit wood. The walls around him creak so much it’s a wonder that a gust hasn’t blown them over. Outside the room, something falls over and Reylendor jumps, reaching for his amulet. Then he remembers the glyphs upon glyphs circling the cottage and calms himself: any non-animal would have stepped into quite the nasty surprise. He lets himself wonder if it’s the same rabbit that from the past few days.
Stepping into the living room confirms his suspicions. A familiar, brown and white form hops from a leg-less tabletop to a dusty wooden bench. It stares at Reylendor for a few moments, then thumps. He huffs a laugh, walks to the little kitchen, and cuts the leafy top off a leftover carrot. The rabbit happily munches on its morning snack while Reylendor makes himself eat the orange half of the carrot.
He tells himself it’s been a good few days since he left Muso. There haven’t been any blackouts and his world stays green instead of fading to inky purple. He hasn’t heard any voices… Reylendor fights the urge to spit up his meager breakfast. Thinking about what happened won’t help him. The only things he needs to think about are out in the forest, waiting for their daily care.
Reylendor tugs on a pair of old gardener’s gloves, pulls his satchel over his shoulder, and shuts the wobbly wooden door behind him. Before stepping any further, he deactivates the glyphs of warding he placed the prior night. If someone breaks in, they won’t find much worth taking. He might have worried about someone seeing the ramblings in his journal, but that fear had burned in the same flames as the notebook yesterday. Now was not the time to leave traces behind.
The rabbit’s shape appears in the opaque, cobwebbed window by the door. Reylendor thinks they look like a little guardian. Maybe he should give them a name.
The path he treads differs everyday. It would be confusing if the woods didn’t feel like an old friend. He’s learned to remember little things, like a flower blooming around a bent root and a tree hole that’s spiked around the edges—he sees a squirrel scurry into it with stuffed cheeks.
Maybe it’s because wood elf has wood in the name, but finding his footing in the forest comes as easily as walking; well, so long as he isn’t running around in an absolute frenzy. Reylendor pats his cloak down, ensuring it hasn’t caught on anything, and turns the corner into a grove. Nestled between two interwoven oak trees is a patch of oleander that he’s been nursing for at least a week.
On the opposite end of the forest, behind a bunch of moss-ridden logs lurks purple nightshade.
Daffodils sprout near his cabin.
Angel’s trumpets announce themselves in front of a weeping willow.
Reylendor doesn’t think any of this is some sort of divine sign. He knows there’s only one person who has any hope of bisecting the eldritch shard clinging to his soul, but he plans to get to him soon enough. He doesn’t deny that his plans are at least somewhat self-centered, even if he hopes they keep others in poverty from putting their faith in a man like Mel: in a man like the Baron or hundreds of nobles bleeding the people under their care dry.
He’s never been entirely averse to killing. Reylendor chose the path of a healer to pay genuine kindness he’d experienced forward. Sometimes, kindness can only be born out of blood. Reylendor is grateful his mother taught him how to make tea out of anything.
Tending to all the different plants doesn’t take long. The rabbit is still there when he returns and the name Watcher comes to mind. Watcher hops down from their window perch when Reylendor opens the door and sits at his feet. Gloves long since removed, he reaches down to pet the rabbit’s head. Watcher nuzzles his hand and bounds onto the sofa, settling in for what looks like a nap.
Reylendor sighs and heads back to the room that’s quickly become his. Something he misses about Seglock is all the noise. There was so much to be done and seemingly little time to do it. His time was occupied by patients, not errant thoughts.
Surrounded by woodland quiet as he is, the attack at Muso steadily creeps back into his head. He had wandered aimlessly for days when Oxan spotted him. Then Flame reared his terrible head and, perhaps foolishly, Reylendor abandoned every apprehension to make a break for the town about to face fire and death. He hardly offered any help: the only spell he managed to cast against the dragon missed. It was Ona, not him, who held a crumbling tavern together and convinced civilians to flee for their lives. At the very least, Reylendor had healed the injured when everything was said and done. That, if nothing else, is something he’s always capable of.
Reylendor shudders when he remembers blacking out. He had almost grown accustomed to it by then, but it had never been forced onto him. Yet, Silent had merely said the word and his body was ripped away from him, thrust into the hands of that thing bubbling beneath the surface.
If Silent had the power to set Att-Annalo loose… the threat of ensuring that Flame lived through the battle was venomous. He accepted their terms not for himself, but for the townspeople who were having their homes razed right in front of them.
Still, it was inarguably, absolutely, sheer idiocy. One would think a former scribe should possess more sense than what he constantly put on display. Silent’s voice hasn’t come to him since he signed the contract, but Reylendor has no doubt that they’ll be back.
He has flashes of what the being within him did as it took control. When Reylendor closes his eyes and stretches a hand toward its presence, he can see Flame, the mayor of Muso, and a contract with Deep Speech scrawled on it: it reads… The letters shift in his mind, but he can make out the way Mel always spelled Att-Annalo.
Reylendor laughs. He doesn’t particularly trust this fragment of memory. Att-Annalo is unknowable, but the idea of it binding itself to a God of Death is too hilarious to be true. Though, perhaps it was. Perhaps they would both spend their lives as Silent’s tools.
“What are you thinking about?”
Upon opening his eyes, Reylendor is greeted by the sight of Watcher, well, watching him from the doorway. He blinks and looks around. Then he looks inward for the voice, worrying that yet another entity has taken root in his head.
“Hello? I’m down here.” He looks down. Watcher tilts their head and thumps in what must be frustration. “I’ve been trying to talk to you for ages now!”
It should be shocking how easy it is to accept that he’s simply gone insane. He supposed it’s comforting, in a strange way, to know that this voice is merely one of his own creation. Watcher thumps again.
“You know, most druids don’t take this long to catch on.”
He stares at the rabbit and frowns. “I’m a cleric.” Reylendor knows there’s little point in conversing with a hallucination, but it’s not as though he has any sanity left to lose.
“Are you sure about that?” Watcher asks. “The only ones who ever find this place are druids.”
Offhandedly, Reylendor tries to Detect Magic: to see if there’s a chance that this is, in fact, actually happening. He can see a steady, passive aura of verdant green flowing from him and wrapping around Watcher. Reylendor stumbles back. “I- I’m not-,” he trips over his bedroll and collides with the back wall. Thankfully, though there’s strained creaking from the impact, the cottage doesn’t completely collapse around him.
Watcher hops over to him and sighs. “Do you get it now?”
Reylendor nods ever so slowly. One million thoughts, all entirely his own, flood his brain all at once. How does one become a druid without realizing it? Is it really a skillset you can acquire simply by submerging yourself in the woods? If he could speak with animals now, what other abilities could he tap into? Was this why it had been so easy for him to start cultivating all those plants?
“Anyway,” Watcher interrupts, “there’s something one of the others left behind. I tried to tell you before, but I don’t think you could hear me.”
“The others?” Reylendor shakes his head to clear it. Obviously, he’s not the first person to stumble into this place.
“I think it was the woman who was here before you. She was a gnome. Spent a lot of time thinking, like you do.” Watcher rubbed their face, looking much more like an average rabbit in the process. “She left her ring behind. It’s somewhere in the kitchen.”
“Okay.” He never would have guessed that he would spend his free time truly talking to a bunny. Reylendor had adopted the habit of speaking to animals, but conversing with them was another thing entirely. “Thank you for telling me.”
“Thank you for feeding me.”
Ah, he thought, an exchange.
Searching the kitchen provides a good enough reason to get around to dusting. Reylendor plucks out some of the particularly thick cobwebs and uses a rag to wipe off countertops. Watcher follows him around. They don’t say anything else, but they still make for pleasant company.
Eventually, he finds a wooden ring tucked into the back corner of a cabinet. It has etchings, but they’re worn with age and Reylendor can’t quite tell what they are. He detects very faint traces of magic from it, but nothing strong enough to have a palpable effect. Reylendor secures the ring in his satchel. In the future, he may have the means to restore it.
That’s if he isn’t executed for the crimes he intends to commit.
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).
