The chill of night settled over the ruins of Gallowpsire, a place few dared approach. The sky above whispered with unseen wings and crackled with faint auroras—a side effect of the collapsed Gauntlight’s lingering magic. Striker stood atop a shattered altar, his crimson fur bristling with cold and instinct alike. His gray-striped tail twitched. Firelight from his body flickered subtly against the cracked stone, its glow unbidden, casting his shadow like a specter in mourning.
He had not come here for Ashana.
Not this time.
The Watch of Lost Ages in his belt pouch had begun ticking—though it had been silent for months. Its delicate hands moved in a slow, unnatural rhythm, syncing not with time, but with memory. Something here had called to it. Or to him.
His clawed fingers brushed the stone surface of the altar.
And suddenly—
FLASHBACK INTERLUDE
A field of golden cinders. A voice laughing—childlike, cruel, and beautiful. Fey music, unnatural in rhythm, accompanied a dance of flames that did not burn. He saw his own hands—smaller, unscarred—reaching for a sun of brass and bone held aloft by an antlered figure with eyes like dying stars.
“Your name is not Striker,” the figure said.
"You were born of Serenrae’s regret and the fey’s indulgence. You are both torch and tether.” Striker staggered back. The memory—a splinter of something older than this body—faded into the haze of his waking thoughts. He cursed under his breath, gripping the hilt of his Retribution Axe for stability. The skull-shaped blade shimmered, momentarily displaying a new face—not an enemy’s, but his own, younger and twisted with terror.
The relics he wore, the cloak of cinders and the gorget of primal roar, all seemed to vibrate with subtle resonance. The Lantern of Empty Light on his belt flickered for the first time since the Vault collapsed.
“Serenrae,” he muttered, “what am I?”
A soft voice replied—not from the lantern, nor the shield, but from within.
"You are what remains of a choice never made."
He spun, but saw no one.
The path before him wound downward into Gallowspire’s oldest catacombs—sealed since Tar-Baphon’s imprisonment. But now the way was open. Not with necromantic rot, but with traces of fey glamor and radiant flame—like oil and water mixing.
There was something waiting below. And it wasn't Ashana. It wasn’t vengeance.
It was origin.
Part II: The Weeping Catacombs
The air beneath Gallowspire changed the moment Striker crossed the threshold. The heat of his inner fire sputtered and dimmed. It wasn’t cold—not truly—but the absence of warmth gnawed at him. Even the Cindergrass Cloak draped around his shoulders pulsed in discomfort, its woven embers smothered by unseen forces.
The Watch of Lost Ages ticked on.
The corridor descended steeply in spirals, carved of stone that bled faint golden light from within its cracks. It wasn’t torchlight or enchantment. It felt… familiar. Like something older than spells. Older than prayer.
He pressed forward.
The First Chamber – The Hall of Failing Names
Striker stepped into a vast circular chamber. Its ceiling was lost to darkness, but suspended in the void above were dozens—no, hundreds—of glowing name-runes. Most were in Elven or Sylvan script, though some danced into shapes even his Fey Lore could not decipher.
They floated. They wept.
Whispers surrounded him: regretful, mournful, angry. Some spoke of betrayals, others of long-forgotten pacts.
One rune descended.
It hovered inches from his snout. He could not read it, but the sound it made burned into his mind.
"Engondral."
His true name.
Striker fell to one knee as the word ignited every nerve in his body. A searing pain lanced through his chest, and a second heartbeat echoed behind his own.
FLASHBACK INTERLUDE
A glade of mirrored water beneath twin moons. Fey courtiers circled a roaring bonfire made of screaming stars. A crown of woven flame was lowered onto a kneeling figure’s brow—his brow.
“You shall burn in both worlds,” intoned a fey queen whose lips were thorns and song.
“Your name is the debt. Your fire is the bond. You are Engondral no longer. You are Striker, and you will forget…”
A kiss of forgetfulness. A touch of moon-wrought oblivion.
Back in the chamber, Striker gasped and drew his axe, swinging wildly at shadows. The rune had vanished. But he could feel it, branded into his soul.
He looked to the Martyr’s Shield, slung across his back. Alaric's voice, always calm, broke the silence.
“I know that name. Engondral was spoken once… by a celestial in chains. She wept fire.”
Striker turned sharply. “Where?”
“In a hidden vault beneath the Temple of Sarenrae, in Katapesh. The clergy buried the truth with the war."
“Then that is where I go.”
But as he turned to leave, the hall shifted. Another door opened—not one carved by mortal hands, but woven from golden flame and thorned vine.
Beyond it was a forest—not of trees, but of burning bones and echoing laughter.
A place not in Gallowspire.
A place in the First World.
And it was calling him home.
Shall we follow Striker into the forest of burning bones? Or track him instead to the sun-bleached city of Katapesh and the buried vault of the chained celestial?
Part III: The Forest of Burning Bones
Striker hesitated at the threshold. The air beyond the woven doorway shimmered with unreality, like heat haze over blood-slick stone. Yet it smelled like memory—smoke and jasmine, the perfume of dreams long since burned away. The flames that licked the edges of the bone-forest didn’t consume—they preserved. Even his Brightsoul aura dimmed as if out of reverence or dread.
He stepped through.
The First World Bleeds
The air changed immediately. Gravity felt like suggestion. The forest floor crunched underfoot—not leaves, but fragments of ivory ribcages and brittle femurs. The trees were warped femur-pillars, their boughs made of spine-like branches and glimmering marrow-flesh. Flame clung to them not as destruction, but as fruit—swelling, pulsing with radiant sorrow.
The sky overhead was not sky. It was the underside of a vast, dying beast—a leviathan of memory, weeping molten tears into the roots below.
“You’ve returned, little torch.”
The voice rolled through the trees like laughter breaking through a funeral dirge. A figure stepped forward, tall and willowy, skin translucent and veined with golden light. Her antlers twisted like living cinders, and her eyes were hollow fire.
Striker’s jaw tightened. His axe remained at his side, but his muscles coiled.
“Who are you?” he demanded. “Why do you know me?”
The figure smiled, and bones bloomed into thorned petals around her feet.
“I am the Keeper of the Ember Seed. I was there when you were given to flame and forgotten. I am your midwife, in a sense. And your betrayer.”
FLASHBACK INTERLUDE
A child crouched in a ring of salt and moonlight, sobbing as fire danced along his back but never burned. Dozens of fey danced in a circle around him, chanting in voices older than stars.
The antlered woman stepped forward and whispered into his ear:
“We’ll keep your pain. We’ll burn your past. You’ll be free.”
“And in return?” the child asked, teeth like shards of obsidian.
“One day, we will ask for your name.”
Striker staggered, the fire on his skin flaring involuntarily.
“I don’t remember agreeing to this.”
“You weren’t meant to,” the Keeper said. “But something broke the bindings. The Watch of Lost Ages stirs. The Gauntlight’s collapse sent ripples deep enough to reach your slumbering self. And now… your name is bleeding back into the world.”
She stepped closer, lowering her hand. In it burned a single ember—a shard of his soul.
“Take it, and remember. But know this: memory burns. It costs.”
Striker stared at the ember, his fanged jaw clenched tight.
Part IV: The Smoldering Refusal
Striker didn’t move.
The ember pulsed in the Keeper’s hand—its light shaped like a flickering heartbeat, an echo of something torn from him long ago. But his instincts, honed by pain, divine fire, and the cruel mirth of the First World, screamed in protest. His tail lashed behind him, and his claws tightened around the haft of his Retribution Axe.
“No,” he growled.
The Keeper tilted her head. “You would deny your own soul?”
“I remember enough,” he said, voice sharp and brittle as volcanic glass. “I remember fey laughter when I screamed. I remember promises laced with riddles and the stench of trickery. Whatever you are—whatever you gave me—it was never a gift.”
The ember flared, turning briefly red, then dimmed like a disappointed sigh.
“Very well,” the Keeper said, folding the ember back into her chest. The wound it entered glowed faintly, like an eye closing.
“But know this, Striker. Memory denied does not vanish—it festers. The rest of the forest will not be so... polite.”
She melted into the bone-trunks around her, laughter trailing behind like drifting embers.
The Forest Hunts
The path warped as Striker advanced. Bones cracked into new shapes beneath his boots, reshaping themselves into leering skulls that whispered in languages he almost understood. The forest no longer welcomed him—it tested him.
A familiar sound—like a blade scraping across a gravestone—echoed ahead.
From the fire-wreathed mist stepped a creature that wore his shape. Crimson fur. Ash-gray stripes. A jagged crown of horns. But its eyes were pitch black, and it bore no shield—just the Retribution Axe, already slick with illusory blood.
The doppelgänger grinned.
“You’ve rejected the truth. I am the truth.”
Striker felt his magic stir unbidden, his arcane blood reacting to the presence of his fractured self. But he didn’t flinch. The axe in his hand flared to life, spirit and fire roaring across the blade.
“Sarenrae,” he whispered, “guide my fire. Burn away what lies.”
And then he charged.
Combat Begins: Striker vs the Forgotten Self
The forest recoiled from the clash of steel and soul. Every strike the two exchanged threw arcs of fire and light across the bone trees. Striker spun low, using his acrobatics to vault over a sweep of the doppelgänger’s axe, landing behind him with a roll that scattered cinders.
His opponent moved like a twisted mirror—his own spells and maneuvers reflected back with cruel perfection. But there was something missing.
Mercy.
The other fought to destroy.
Striker fought to endure.
Part V: Duel of the Splintered Soul
The forest crackled around him as Striker stepped onto a battlefield made of brittle vertebrae and ember-coated skulls. Across the clearing, the Forgotten Self emerged—his mirror in form, but not in soul. Crimson fur. Ash-gray stripes. Horns like a twisted memory of his own. And in both hands—his own axe, the Retribution, gleaming with flame and wrath. But the one truth that made Striker’s grip tighten: the double's eyes were empty.
You left yourself behind. I came to claim what you wasted.”
Striker didn’t respond. He adjusted his stance, spreading his weight wide and low, both hands gripping the axe haft like a priest holding a burning cross. Fire curled around the blade’s edge in reverent anticipation.
Round One: Clash of Flame and Bone
Striker surged forward, muscles coiled and fluid. He leapt over a mound of scorched femurs, twisting mid-air with practiced control, landing with a roll that brought him upright—axe raised and trailing smoke.
The doppelgänger met him head-on, their axes crashing together with a thunderclap of force and spirit energy. Sparks sprayed. The mirrored Striker ducked low and thrust a shoulder into Striker’s chest, staggering him backward.
Striker responded with a burst of instinctive magic—a Phase Bolt, snapping from his hand as he wrenched himself back upright. It seared through the doppelgänger’s side, but the mirror only grinned wider, bloodless and flickering.
Breathing deep, Striker let the divine fire swell in his chest. He shifted into Arcane Cascade, flame curling up his arms and across his horns. He held Retribution like a judgment, flame wreathing the carved skull upon the axe head.
He whispered one word: “Ignite.”
The heat gathered along the blade, rising into a roiling, blinding wave of force. He charged, each footstep cracking bone beneath him. With a wild overhead arc, he brought the flaming axe down in a Spellstrike empowered with Ignition.
The blade struck the doppelgänger’s collarbone, biting deep into shadowy flesh and exploding in a shockwave of fire, flinging both of them apart.
The doppelgänger writhed, burning from the inside. Ash peeled from its skin in veils. And still, it spoke.
“You fight to remember, but the truth burns. Let it die.”
Round Three: Terrain Awakens — A Deadly Ballet
The trees groaned. Roots of bone slithered to entangle them both. The canopy above burst open with spectral flame, illuminating a stage of chaos.
Striker twisted to avoid grasping ribs, using his Daredevil Boots to spring between fallen spines, maneuvering with feline grace despite the weight of Retribution in his hands.
From a ledge of fused skulls, he launched himself downward in a diving two-handed cleave—the full weight of the axe behind the blow. The doppelgänger dodged too late; the blade tore across its back, the Retribution skull twisting into its face, feeding Striker righteous fury.
Final Round: Devastating Spellstrike + Thunderous Strike
Pain coursed through Striker’s limbs, but resolve burned hotter. He called upon Sarenrae, channeling her wrath and redemption in tandem.
“This forest, this lie, this echo of me—let it burn in her light.”
He planted his feet. The runes along the axe flared white-hot.
Devastating Spellstrike. Thunderous Strike. Retribution raised high with both hands. Every thread of power he possessed coiled into this moment.
He swung.
The axe hit with the force of a comet. Thunder ripped the air apart, sending marrow-shards flying. The doppelgänger shattered under the impact, its body consumed by divine flame and sound. Nothing remained but drifting motes of memory.
Striker stood in the ruins of the clearing, breath ragged, axe glowing with residual heat. He dropped to one knee, not in pain—but in exhaustion. The forest went still.
The path ahead twisted deeper into flame and madness.
But Striker rose.
He did not remember everything.
Yet every battle like this pulled a thread closer to the truth.
Part VI: The Shard of Memory
Striker continued deeper into the Forest of Burning Bones, the echoes of his battle with his Forgotten Self still ringing in his ears. The flames that clung to the skeletal trees seemed to pulse in rhythm with his heartbeat, casting long, flickering shadows that danced like ghosts. Each step forward felt heavier, the weight of the rejected ember still lingering in the back of his mind.
Then, as if the forest itself responded to his thoughts, a familiar glow appeared in the distance. The Keeper of the Ember Seed stepped out from behind a twisted tree, her eyes gleaming with the light of the ember she still held.
"You cannot run from the truth forever, little torch," she said, her voice echoing softly. "The ember you refused still holds a piece of your past. It will find its way to you, one way or another." Striker clenched his jaw, his mistrust of the fey still burning strong. "I don't need your tricks or your riddles," he replied. "I'll find the truth on my own."
The Keeper smiled, a sad, knowing smile, and with a flick of her hand, she released the ember. It floated through the air like a falling star, settling gently into Striker's chest.
Pain exploded through him, a searing, white-hot agony that drove him to his knees. Memories flooded his mind, unbidden and unstoppable. He saw himself as a child, standing in a glade of mirrored water, surrounded by fey courtiers who danced in a circle of fire. He felt the touch of the antlered figure, heard the whisper of promises made and forgotten.
He saw the moment of his transformation, the instant when his true name was stripped away and replaced with the title of "Striker." He felt the burning of the divine spark from Sarenrae, the weight of the feybound curse that bound him to two worlds and left him with a shattered past. As the pain began to fade, Striker opened his eyes, his breath ragged and his heart heavy with the weight of what he had seen. The Keeper was gone, leaving him alone with the fragments of his past now stitched back into his soul.
He knew now that the journey ahead would not be easy, but he also knew that he could no longer turn away from the truth. With renewed determination, Striker rose to his feet and continued forward, ready to face whatever revelations awaited him in the depths of the First World.
Part VII: Confronting Shadows of the Past
As Striker moved deeper into the First World, the ethereal landscape shifted around him. The bone trees and flickering flames gradually gave way to a mist-filled valley, where shadows twisted and danced like living memories. Each step seemed to echo with whispers, fragments of voices he almost recognized.
Ahead, the mist thickened and coalesced into a figure—a shadowy silhouette of a younger Striker, eyes filled with uncertainty and fear. This shadow of his past stepped forward, its voice a haunting echo.
"Why did you leave us behind?" the shadow asked, its tone laced with pain. "You turned away from who you were, from everything you once knew."
Striker tightened his grip on his axe, feeling the weight of the memories that had resurfaced. "I didn't leave by choice," he replied, his voice steady despite the turmoil inside. "My past was taken from me, piece by piece. But I won't run from it anymore."
The shadow tilted its head, eyes shimmering with a sorrow that felt all too familiar. "Then prove it," it whispered. "Face the pain, embrace the truth of who you were and who you are meant to be."
With those words, the shadow lunged forward, merging with Striker in a burst of cold fire. Memories surged again, more vivid and painful than before. He saw faces of friends and family, a life lived in the fey realm, moments of joy and betrayal all intertwined. He felt the sting of loss, the weight of promises made and broken.
Yet through the pain, Striker also found strength. He understood now that every fragment of his past, every shadow of who he had been, was a part of him. He could not change what had been done, but he could choose how to move forward.
As the memories settled, Striker rose once more, his resolve stronger than ever. The path ahead was still shrouded in mist, but he knew that he was no longer alone. Every shadow of his past, every ember of memory, was now a part of his journey. And with each step, he moved closer to the truth of who he was meant to be.
Part VIII: The Cathedral of Boneglass
The mists thinned.
Striker emerged into a clearing unlike any before. Where the forest had been made of charred bones and sorrowed flame, here the landscape turned crystalline. A vast cathedral rose from the valley floor, forged not of stone or timber, but boneglass—a translucent lattice of calcified remains and arcane resin. The structure shimmered in the hazy light, refracting echoes of prayers never answered.
The air thrummed with energy. Divine. Fey. Broken.
The Watch of Lost Ages ticked louder now, each pulse resonating with the spires of the cathedral as if echoing from within.
At the grand archway, a familiar voice whispered from the Martyr’s Shield strapped to his back.
"This place… it is not of the First World nor the Material. It is a seam. A scar where memory and fate entwine."
Striker narrowed his eyes. “Then it is here I begin unsewing.”
He stepped through the threshold.
The Nave of Fractured Oaths
Inside, the cathedral's air was heavy with remembrance. Shards of broken vows drifted like dust motes—phrases spoken in desperation, in fury, in love. Each reverberated with emotional residue. Some were his. Others, not.
At the altar stood a robed figure, featureless and robed in flame-woven silk. It bore a staff carved from petrified antler. Upon its faceless hood was a glowing rune:
Engondral.
“You’ve named yourself again,” the figure said, its voice not from a mouth, but from the bones of the cathedral itself. “Now you must claim that name.”
The staff slammed the ground.
The stained-glass windows shattered.
Boss Battle: The Archivist of Forgotten Fire
From the debris rose the Archivist, a construct of boneglass and divine flame. It burned with both Sarenrae’s wrath and First World cruelty, its eyes twin embers of judgment and madness. Wings of brittle ribs flared from its back like broken halos.
It attacked without ceremony.
Round One – The Scorching Tide:
Striker ducked a flaming halberd slash, rolling beneath it and using his acrobatic speed to spring off a pew and deliver a spinning axe strike. Spellstrike: Ignition roared from the Retribution Axe as it carved through the Archivist’s flank.
It retaliated with a roar that shattered time itself. Temporal Pulse. The air folded. Striker was slammed into the ceiling, his body skimming across fractured stained-glass.
Round Two – Memory Surge:
Striker grasped the Watch of Lost Ages. Time reeled. A memory fragment slammed into him—a moment as a boy, kneeling in prayer to Serenrae beneath twin suns.
"You burn because I loved you," her voice had said.
"And because they envied that love."
Rage turned holy. Fire wreathed his arms as he surged forward in Arcane Cascade, leaping from rafter to rafter. Thunderous Strike rang as his blade cleaved downward, shattering one of the Archivist’s wings.
Final Round – The Prayer Unfinished
The Archivist bent, shaking, half-collapsed. Yet its halberd lifted once more, poised for a killing blow. Striker paused.
He remembered now—not just pain, but choice. The moment he'd chosen to forget, to flee into the arms of the Fey.
Not out of weakness.
But to protect someone.
“You were born of Sarenrae’s regret,” the fey queen had said.
And now, Striker understood why.
“I forgive you,” he whispered.
The blade came down—not to kill, but to release.
The Archivist shattered. Light spilled outward. The cathedral sang.
Epilogue: The Seal of Ash and Dawn
In the space where the altar once stood, a glyph blazed into being—not drawn, not carved, but remembered. The rune of Engondral shimmered into existence, composed of light, flame, and the grief of forgotten ages. It burned with the hues of both the sun and the First World’s chaotic glimmer.
Striker—no, Engondral—stood before it, his breathing steady, his axe at his side. The Watch of Lost Ages had fallen silent. The flames along the cathedral walls dimmed, as though even the First World paused to listen.
He reached forward and pressed his palm against the glowing sigil.
Flame engulfed him—but it did not burn.
Instead, it unwound him, thread by thread. Not to destroy, but to reveal. Memories he had locked away returned: his oath to Sarenrae, whispered beneath a bough of starlit fire. The laughter of the fey, not mocking this time, but mourning. The name Engondral, once a curse, now a burden he chose to carry.
His form solidified, standing in the center of the seal, the flames coiling around him like a mantle.
A voice—his own, but older, more certain—echoed through the hollow nave.
"I am Striker. I am Engondral. I burn because I chose to. I endure because I must."
The cathedral began to collapse—not violently, but like a dream fading at dawn. The boneglass melted into golden mist. The air lightened. The First World no longer clutched at him with thorn and claw.
And in the silence that followed, he walked alone down a path of cooling ash, beneath a sky that remembered what he had forgotten.
My comrades and I just recently finished a Pathfinder adventure. I liked concept of my characters so I started writing a continued story of him.TRhge other players characters are not included in this story, but they contribute to my love of characters and stories.
I have more complete. let me know if you guys thing I should continue.
