Session 25 – Dark Gifts

7th Day of the 4th Quarter of the Moon of Songs, Season of Wines, Year 766.

Days in Barovia: 10. The moon is full.

What Is Dead May Never Die

The Bullingdon Boys stepped into the chamber in the bowels of the Amber Temple, amongst the ruins of burned ghouls, scattered bone and between the three amber blocks. Their lights- Corenlius’ glowing holy symbol and Paris’ floating orbs- cast weird light across the room, stinking now of burned flesh as well as fetid decay.

A voice spoke in Paris’ head.

“Knock knock.” It was Van Richten, speaking in Paris’ mind from the ring on his finger.

“Who’s there?” Paris said aloud.

“I don’t know, but they’re trying to get into your mind. Something is trying to reach through to you.”

And something was. The other Bully Boys, not shielded by the ring, heard dark mutterings, whispers on the edge of hearing, mutterings of power that enticed and encouraged them to reach out to the blocks of amber…

“Bully boys, listen up!” Paris said, oblivious to the dark whispers his companions could hear. “I’ve just had a message from old Van Richten, he says there’s something trying to get in my mind- I guess it’s trying to get in yours too. Anyone hear anything suspicious?”

“Something does feel a bit off about this place,” Dickie said nervously.

Clarence shrugged. “Nothing more than usual.”

“It’s full of cannibalistic monsters and strange amber blocks full of flickering darkness?”

“Seems pretty par for the course for old Barovia, my ,” said Cornelius blithely.

 “Paris,” Clarence said, “I only hear whispers on the edge of consciousness promising power and immortality. Nothing unusual.”

Van Richten quizzed Paris about where they were and how they were progressing vis-à-vis finding the hag’s needle, getting the blood of Barovia’s royal line and finding him a suitable body to transfer into. Paris assured him that those were their main priorities, and as a concerned Van Richten continued to press him Paris pulled the ring off his finger… and the dark mutterings reached into his mind as well.

Among the whispers in Cornelius’ head a discernible voice arose, and in hushed tones it promised to grant him the bearing of a king, and that a king he would become if he accepted its gift.

 “Now listen, one of these voices is telling me I’ll become a king if I accept its gift,” Cornelius said, “and I don’t see anything to lose in a deal like that.”

“You don’t need that to become a king!” Paris protested, “We’re all going to become kings anyway, we already decided.”

“Or you might end up like Strahd,” Dickie warned.

“I know how I can resolve this problem,” Cornelius said with a twinkle in his eye. “Hello, dark powers!” he spoke to the chamber, “What is your gift?”

A moment’s pause. Then he heard in the same stilted tones, “I am Zantras, the king maker. I will make you a king, should you accept my dark gift.”

“But what is your dark gift?”

“Touch the amber block, and you shall see. Touch the amber block and accept my gift, or be forever a peon.”

“Now it’s telling me to touch the amber block!”

Paris put the ring back on, explaining the situation to Van Richten and asking his advice. Van Richten was bemused that he even needed to be consulted- did it need to be spelled out that they should absolutely not follow the instruction of unknown dark mutterings in this mysterious temple of ancient evil dedicated to a faceless god?

So Cornelius touched the southern block. “Do you accept my gift?” the voice muttered. “I will grant you the bearing of a king, and a king you shall become.”

Cornelius accepted. The point of darkness flickering within the block seemed to alight upon his finger for a moment, and then retreated. Cornelius seemed… unchanged. Maybe his noble bearing was a little more noble, but he but he had always carried himself regally.

Dickie wasn’t paying close attention to his master, as a voice in his head was offering him a gift- to go where the spider goes, to walk as the spider walks. Paris had slipped the ring off again, and he and Clarence were being offered may lives; to cheat death itself. And then Paris was being offered to be made a king, Cornelius to cheat death, Clarence to walk as the spider, and all of the offers were muttering in all of their minds.

Clarence was concerned that he had an existing arrangement… he sat upon the floor, opened his book and started to cast his scrying sticks.

“What does Van Richten know?” Paris said confidently. He touched the southern sarcophagus and accepted the dark gift of the hushed kingmaker.

“Hang on, you can’t be the king,” said Cornelius. “King Cornelius Pfeffil Bullingdon the First is not going to co-rule,” he spat.

“We can have separate kingdoms,” Paris said.

“Fine. But I get Bullingdonovia- you’ll have to find your own kingdom.”

“Pff, I’ll get a better kingdom than Bullingdonovia,” Paris replied nonchalantly. “I think I’ll found a new city, and call it… Paris.”

Meanwhile Dickie sidled north. Some things were just too useful to pass up… He didn’t need to be a king. He reached towards the northern sarcophagus. The voice whispered in his head, “Do you accept the gift of Drizlash, the nine-eyed spider?”

“Sure. Why not.”

The flickering of darkness touched his finger and then, on the back of his outstretched hand, the flesh writhed; a milky eye formed, lazily looked up at Dickie, clouded over and shut. As the thief recoiled in horror, another formed on the flesh of his wrist, and he had the horrible sensation that was not the limit of them. His breath caught ragged in his throat, and he squeaked “Mendax!” changing his glamoured armour to form gloves covering his hands and arms.

Paris put the ring back on to shut out the voices as Dickie and Cornelius and Clarence continued to be bombarded with muttered offerings of dark power.

Clarence stood, his augury done. Whatever influence his Patron had on his prophesising, he saw weal and woe in his future should he accept the offers at hand. That was good enough. He stood, and strode to each sarcophagus in turn: south, then east, then north, accepting each gift, giggling as he scampered from dark gift to dark gift among the bones and charred corpses of ghouls. No physical changes seemed to overtake him, any extra eyes or other alterations covered by the illusion over his true self Clarence permanently wore.

Not to be outdone, Cornelius too accepted the gift from the sarcophagus offering him many lives; “Accept the gift of Dhalver-Nar, he of many teeth, and you will live many lives.”

“Just get it over with! Make me live forever as a perfect king!”

And it was done- again, without a change to Cornelius.

Van Richten spoke again in Paris’ head. “Nobody accepted any of those mysterious offers, did they? I hope that’s not why you took the ring off.”

“Well… I only did one.”

“Oh gods above.”

…

They left the charnel chamber, at the front, Dickie, surly that his dark gift had backfired where his companions’ appeared free of consequence.

Through the collapsed corridor, and up the stairs, onto the balcony next to the gargantuan statue of the god, its face wreathed in darkness, past the destroyed amber golem, back along the cracked corridor and past the closed lecture hall doors, back into the chamber where the flameskulls had risen from a well in the floor and attacked them.

Dickie investigated the well. He stuck his head down again into the hole. Previously he had only been able to see the floor, but he felt he could stretch a little further, a little further, and his vision was just clearing the lower lip; and he was clinging, suspended, head down, to the vertical wall of the hole, walking as the spider walks.

“Well, this is strange.”

The chamber he looked down into had a red marble floor, and a closed amber door to the north. To the west, south and east were alcoves, each holding a large block of amber, with shimmering points of darkness in their centres. As he stuck his head into the room he heard dark whispers once again. Watch his enemies wither and die… Become the tempest… Never lose another comrade, friend or lover.

“What do you see down there Dickie?” Clarence asked from above.

“Oh, nothing much, just a few bits and pieces- I’m going to have a closer look, I’ll be right back,” the voice rose from the hole.

Suspended from the ceiling of the chamber, Dickie reached out and touched a block. “Accept the gift of Zrin-Hala. Become the howling storm, become the tempest.” Dickie accepted, and scuttled back up to the room above. As he reappeared the Bully Boys saw one half of his face had fallen slack, mouth and eyelid drooping, all the muscles dead.

“I, I think Dickie’s had a stroke!” Paris cried.

“What’s wrong?” Dickie asked, slobbering.

“Your face, Dickie, it’s gone all…” Cornelius pantomimed, pulling the flesh on one cheek to demonstrate. Dickies fingers probed against his face, but he didn’t feel them- there was no sensation.

“Did there happen to be any more of those sarcophagi down there?” Clarence enquired.

“You got lucky once, you got one gift for free, but you thought you could get away with another one?” Paris accused.

“What did you touch, Dickie?” Cornelius asked sternly. “Don’t lie to me, I can tell when you’re lying!”

Clarence was upside down in the well, crawling along the wall just has Dickie had. “There are three more of them!” he cried gleefully. He touched every sarcophagus, and accepted every gift.

As he returned an awful, fetid, rotting, acrid, noxious stink accompanied him. His companions gagged. “What on earth is that?” Paris gasped, near retching. “Clarence, is that you?” He threw his hand out, and magical perfume sprayed over Clarence but it the stench permeated through.

Cornelius approached his brother, splashing him with holy water, but the blessed liquid has no effect; as he got closer he felt sicker as the reek of filth grew nigh unbearable.

“I pity you having him as an heir now, Cornelius,” said Paris. “It’s going to be awfully embarrassing for the Bullingdons, to say the least. So I hope you feel proud of yourself, Clarence.”

“I think at this point we should leave the dark gifts alone,” Dickie suggested. “These have not strictly gone well.”

“Clarence is not touching anything else!” Paris declared.

Cornelius agreed. “Clarence and Dickie have both made bad decisions.”

“You should have done what Cornelius and I did,” Paris chastised, “and come out of this a glorious, handsome king-“

“Immune to death,” Cornelius added-

“Rather than smelly, strange looking… whatever you are.”

“There are... Advantages and disadvantages,” a thoroughly chastised Clarence mumbled.

“The disadvantage being, you stink of shit!”

The Balance of Power

They moved on, Clarence bringing up the rear, a good ten feet behind everyone else. Back on the balcony above the main temple floor, Clarence suggested they clear out the flameskulls they suspected lurked to the east before exploring the main chamber. This meant going back to the room where they had fought the Terg barbarians, which they found to be empty- even the corpses they had left, ceremoniously dressed, were gone.

The lights flickering through arrow slits visible from the balcony would be in the corridor to the north of them, beyond a closed set of amber doors. Cornelius stood by the portal as his companions readied to strike whatever lay beyond.

He threw the doors open to reveal a corridor, a mirror to the one with the cracked floor.  The southern half of the hall was sorched by fire, and a charred corpse lay on the floor here, in burned robes and lacking a head. It clutched a staff of white wood, miraculously untouched by the fire. Several amber doors led from this hall, to the west and north, and three arrow slits were cut into the east wall. Floating in the middle of the hall are three skulls weathed in green flame- flameskulls, as they had expected.

One simply disappeared with a faint pop as Clarence banished it. The Golden Bully Sword appeared beside the closes skull, and as it struck true arrows flew from Dickie’s bow and blasts of energy from Clarence’s fingers joined to destroy the undead construct, bits of bone scattering across the marble floor.

Clarence and Dickie retreated after this initial assault. Paris, sneering at his companions’ cowardice mocked “Hey, stop skull-king around back there!”… As a fireball launched from the skull to engulf Paris and Cornelius. Eyebrows once again singed, Corenlius launched himself at the skull and between his fists, the Bully Sword, Clarence’s eldritch blasts and Dickie’s arrows, the skull was swiftly destroyed. Clarence arranged his companions in anticipation of the third skull reappearing; when he ended its banishment, it was destroyed as soon as it rematerialized.

They splashed the last of their holy water on the skull fragments, and Cornelius began to bless some mundane water in anticipation of needing more: “Oh Morninglord, blesseth this thy water, blesseth it, so it may perisheth thy enemies, and they may falleth, into the realms of eternal darkness…eth…”

Paris approached the burned, headless corpse with a suspiciously unburnt staff. He picked up the white-birch item. Van Richten’s voice appeared in his head again. “Are you accepting more dark gifts? There’s someone- something, trying to get in again.”

“Well I better take the ring off and have a listen then.”

“What? No, that-“ and the voice disappeared as Paris removed the ring… To be replaced with another voice, low and powerful.

“Ah. Hello. Yes… You’ll do quite well. How would you like to be the most powerful mage to ever have walked the earth?”

“Um… Well, I’m already the most powerful mage to walk the earth,” Paris replied aloud.

“Ha. Ha. No. But you could be.”

Clarence asked if it was talking to him. Paris told him the offer. Dickie wasn’t impressed- he can’t be that powerful, he’s dead.

Paris asked the staff, “Well, what are you getting at?”

“My purpose is to be wielded by the most powerful mage there ever could be, and I would mould you to that purpose, so you would be worthy to wield me.”

“Er- I’m, uh, I’m already very happy with my skills as a mighty powerful wizard, thank you very much, so-“

“What’s it saying to you?” Clarence asked eagerly.

“Nothing, Clarence!”

And Clarence heard the staff as it spoke to him: “I’m offering this fool the chance to be the most powerful mage to walk the earth. He seeks to decline me- maybe you would do better?”

Clarence cackled. “Paris, if you don’t want to use it, I’m perfectly willing to.”

“Do not give Clarence that staff!” Cornelius demanded. “I don’t think your magic ability is quite on point to be wielding a weapon like this,” Paris replied to the younger Bullingdon.

And as he spoke, against his will, beyond his control, his hand reached out and passed the staff to Clarence. “No, no I didn’t mean to!” and Paris’ arm jerked as Cornelius attempted to intercept, and the staff was passed safely to Clarence. “I didn’t mean to do that! It made me- eurgh!” Paris gagged, almost vomiting as he was engulfed by the Clarence’s fetid stench.

Cornelius looked concernedly from Paris to his brother. His eyes narrowed. “Clarence, you be very careful about what you do with that staff,” he said, as holy light shone over his heir, Clarence’s words granting a divine blessing against posession.

As Clarence took the staff it spoke to him- “Good. Don’t listen to them- they’re simple fools. You, you could be something powerful and amazing.”

Clarence replied telepathically. “Yes, they are short sighted, and easy to fear. What shall I call you?”

“In life I was called Jakarion. There is much power that can be found here… You’re going to need it.”

…

Three doors led west from the corridor. One held hundreds of dusty bottles containing the dried up remains of potions, their efficiacy long since lost. The second room held a twelve-foot-tall model of a dark castle, with high walls and dark spires. They had seen this castle looming over them in the village of Barovia- Castle Ravenloft.

“This is Strahd’s residence!” Corenlius declared. “We should study its every detail for when we invade it.”

And study it they could: the model lifted apart in large segments, cleverly deconstructing to reveal the layers within. They saw the tallest tower where lay the Heart of Exethanter, the enchantment detailed in the Tome of Strahd; and in the bowels of the castle, the catacombs, with three particularly grand tombs. One of these had a window carved out looking east, over the village of Barovia, from some seven hundred feet up the stone pillar on which the castle stood. Could a creature fly, or be transformed into an eagle, or take the form of mist, or walk as the spider walks, that door may provide entrance to the catacombs.

Studying the model gave the Bullingdon Boys some familiarity with the lay of the fortification, and they took what notes they could. Then Cornelius placed the pieces back in order and crying “Look upon this, Strahd! See what we shall do to you!” slammed his fist into the centre of the model. His hand came away bloody- the model, it appeared, was made from magically sculpted rock, and weathered his assault rather better than his fist.

The third westward door led to a descending stairwell, which led to a broad corridor running north to south. Set into the far wall were ledges holding alabaster statues of toads, snakes, weasels, crows, owls and other creatures that may be seen among wizards’ familiars. On the near wall, and at the north and south end of the corridor, were amber doors. The northern door was ajar; the others, closed.

Cornelius tried to open the closest door of amber, to their south; it was shut, sealed, unmoving where previous doors had swung open easily. When Cornelius and Dickie pushed together it did not budge. Two unsealed doors opened to reveal runined bedchambers. The next was again sealed, so Paris moved to the final, open door.

He saw once again a chamber holding three amber sarcophagi; the floor here purplish black marble, and one of the amber blocks shattered upon the floor, with no trace of flickering darkness.

“Cornelius, don’t let Clarence come in here,” Paris called back, slipping the ring off his finger. Cornelius moved to his muscular frame to fill the doorway as dark whispers filled Paris’ mind. A promise of cold fury to be released upon the world from one sarcophagi, and the gift of knowing all secrets from the other. “Definitely not a room for Clarence!”

“Why do you not want me to go in there, brother?” Clarence asked Cornelius as he blocked his entry, “is it because you’re jealous of my power?”

“No, it’s because last time you came back stinking all filthy! Who knows what will happen if we let you touch these. Come on, we’re leaving.”

Cornelius began to muscle his little brother back down the corridor. The staff whispered in Clarence’s ear, telling him to ignore the jealous fools. Clarence slumped, conceeding to his brother, as the staff hissed “Fool!” in his ear. “I will return,” Clarence reassured it telepathically, “do not worry.”

The Arch-Mage

They went back to the corridor above, and north there through the final set of unexplored doors. Lit torches in sconces illuminated a large dining table in the centre of the room beyond, and the table was covered by a maginificant feast that filled the hall with rich smells of cooked meat, vegetables, piping hot gravy and wine- the sweet scents quickly soured by Clarence’s fould stink.

“I bet it’s cursed,” Cornelius said warily, “let’s just move on.”

Paris’ eye caught a green copper ewer embossed with images of dancing bears, elks and wolves. “Nice looking piece there, Dickie.”

Dickie shrugged. “Grab it for us and we’ll make our way out of here.”

Paris paused. “Why don’t you pick it up?”

“You found it. I think it’s rightfully yours.”

Paris’ eyes narrowed. He took of his ring, listening for suspicious mental voices... Nothing. “I think… I’ll leave it.”

“You’re all being ridiculous,” said Clarence, rolling his eyes. He conjured a spectral hand that reached to the ewer, as Paris told him to stop, as Dickie’s hand went to his dagger, as Cornelius lunged forward- the mage hand grasped the ewer and lifted it from the table, and Cornelius slapped it down to go skittering across the table. The feast disappeared, and the torches extinguished leaving them in the light of Cornelius’ holy symbol.

In seven of the seats around the table  ghostly black figures appeared and rose moving angrily towards the Bully Boys.

Dickie’s dagger flashed, carving through a spectre; black tentacles erupted over the table, engulfing the figures, followed by a casacding ball of fire, and half of the spectres were gone. The remaining three swept towards Clarence, uninhibited by his tendrils. Cold black hands reached towards him, draining his very life essence, trying to siphon his strength, but wheezing he pulled back as divine flames leapt from Cornelius’ fingers, eradicating one ghost and licking over Clarence’s robes. Dickie sliced through a second, and the final faded under blasts of Clarence’s power.

The tentacles disappeared, and all that was left on the table of the fantastic feast was the copper ewer. Paris picked it up- it had a feel of transmutation magic, and while he couldn’t discern its exact function he felt that it may change a liquid it contained, somehow. Dickie supplied him with water, which he put into the jug; he swished it around a few times, then poured it onto the floor- and a red liquid, smelling like wine came out.

“It turns water into wine! We can make a fortune off this thing. We could open a bar!”

A door lead east from the chamber onto a balcony, a mirror to the other side of the temple, next to the statue of the faceless god overlooking the main temple floor. This balcony was partially collapsed, and Cornelius was immediately aware that it was structurally unsound- liable to collapse should it take too much weight. He informed his companions then crossed carefully, throwing open the door beyond.

It led to a bare stone foyer with a shrine to the west. In the shrine, a faceless obsidian statue stood in a raised alcove. Slumped before the statue were two dessicated corpses in tattered garments, missing their heads. As his eyes locked upon the statue, Cornelius was overwhelmed by a sudden compulsion. He approached the two corpses and sat himself down next to them, eyes fixed on the statue.

Dickie assesed the balcony floor, and decided to use his newfound power and crawl along the wall instead. In the foyer he saw the statue before he saw Cornelius; but he threw off the mental compulsion to go and sit and wait. He walked past a gently drooling Cornelius and cast the statue to the floor.

Cornelius was roused from his ensorcellment, as Paris crossed over carefully while Clarence crawled along the wall. Dickie, having found the secret door leading to the chamber of ghouls in the foyer that was the mirror of this one, on the other side of the temple, investigated where the likely spot would be; and indeed, there was another door cleverly hidden in the wall.

The door opened and skulls clattered out onto the floor at Dickie’s feet. The chamber beyond was filled with skulls- dozens, hundreds, on shelves, in boxes, stacked in piles against the walls. On the far wall of the room was a single amber door. A worktop in one corner held unlit candles, ungents, scalpels and other miscellanea; items required for the enaction of some ritual- such as creating flameskulls.

“Well, I think I’ve found something,” Dickie said.

The bronze hand was pulling at Clarence. “I believe the archmage Exethanter to be on the other side of that door.”

“Seems likely,” said Dickie, “this looks like where he keeps his skulls… Morninglord, this guy’s got problems.”

“Not for long, I think,” said Clarence, unable to contain a wheezing cackle.

They went through the door.

The room beyond contained the trappings of royalty. Ornate furniture. Exquisite rugs and tapestries. Decorative statuary. But the beauty of the décor was undone by thick dust and cobwebs.

Standing in the centre of the room was a skeleton, clad in tatters of once splendorous robes. A spectral, ghost-blue mage-hand hovered where the left arm ended at the wrist. Red pinpoints of light burned in the eye sockets of a skull holding just enough tatters of desicated flesh to be pulled into an expression of faint surprise.

“Hello?” the skeleton asked with faint bewilderment, “do I know you?” The voice was distant, a faded whisper.

“I am Clarence Bullingdon. I have come here… Following this.” He held out the bronze left hand taken from the tower on the shore of Lake Baratok. The skeleton looked at it in puzzlement- and then the hand itself animated, wriggling free from Clarence’s grasp, scuttling over the floor on its fingers to tug at the robes of the skeleton.

The stump reached down and came back up with the bronze hand in place, fingers wiggling in front of its face. Exethanter frowned at Clarence. “I don’t think this is quite right.” His other hand began to move over the bronze right hand in arcane gestures.

“What do you mean, not quite right?” Paris asked.

“I’m not sure. I… I don’t quite remember,” came the reply, but even as it said so the right hand finished its motions. “Ah, that seems… better, I think? Does that look right to you?”

“Not much about this looks right to me, old chum,” said Cornelius warily.

The blue mage-hand extended out to return the bronze hand from the stump to Clarence, who accepted it. It looked the same but it felt… Different.

“Do… Do I know you?” Exethanter asked again. “Can I help you?”

“Why don’t you tell us who you are, old man?” asked Cornelius.

“I… don’t remember.”

“Exethanter?” Paris offered. “Does that ring a bell to you?”

“He sounds just like grandfather, Clarence!”

“Exethanter… it could have been… but then, maybe not. Was I Khazan, or Kummerek? Or Exethanter?”

“Does the name ‘Strahd von Zarovich’ mean anything to you?”

“I don’t think so… I can’t recall…”

“Have you ever invented for anyone a giant heart?”

“I don’t remember. I’ve forgotten a great many things,” the skeleton said sadly. “Have you come here for the dark gifts?”

“Yes!” said Clarence.

“Not on purpose!” said Paris.

“I assure you we have not accepted dark gifts from anyone,” lied Cornelius.

“There are ancient powers trapped here, with ancient knowledge.”

“We’ve met some of them,” said Paris, “But to be perfectly honest I haven’t learnt anything I didn’t already know.”

“We learnt about Castle Ravenloft,” Clarence pointed out.

“Pff, I’d already deduced it.”

“One of the stones lies broken,” Dickie said to the doddery skeleton, “one of the powers is… free? Or destroyed?”

“A sarcophagus of amber, broken? A great shame. They hold ancient power, with ancient knowledge.”

“If I recall correctly,” Cornelius said, “we came here looking for a sword. Know anything about that?”

“I… don’t remember. Do I know you?”

Paris frowned at the figure. “I was expecting something a little more… impressive.” Something about this skeleton, if Exethanter then once a powerful arch mage, was tickling his memory.

“I’m sorry I don’t impress… Maybe you would be impressed by the dark gifts of the sarcophagi? I could show you. The vaults are locked- I know the passwords. No, I… I don’t recall… I think I knew them once.”

Lich! He was a lich! The remains of a great wizard who had undergone certain processes to become inured to the grasp of death, Paris recognized it now. How many stories did he know where heroes went to slay the evil lich? Or told of evil wizards who rose again generations later at the head of undead hordes? There was something else, a wrinkle in how they escaped death’s clutches- they needed an object, a focus, a horcrux, a phylactery; they were creatures of such vile reputation because the phylactery needed to be fed, and it fed on souls. And if the phylactery wasn’t fed, the lich would start to decay, slowly losing its body and mind…  

Exethanter, the arch-mage, the lich, had gone senile.

Paris turned to his comrades. “So my thought it- I hope you’ll excuse me- quite clearly this fellow is a lich, and he hasn’t fed his phylactery in some time. I’ve seen it many times before. They often go like this after a period of forced starvation.”

“I have a scroll of heroes’ feast,” Cornelius offered, “maybe that could feed his phylactery?”

“We could feed him Van Richten. I’m joking!”

“What is it that liches consume?” Dickie asked with some concern.

“Souls.”

“Oh. I see.”

The Bullingdon Boys decided not to feed the lich any souls, for the moment. They politely excused themselves and moved beyond the lich, to the door on the other side of his chamber, leading deeper into the Amber Temple.