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[DnD 3.5] The Lesser Evils

"I will be the last creature when I am done. The cosmos will then be perfect, free of the braying abominations that are all other living things."

—Orcus

That is the pure, unending driving force behind the Lord of the Undead. A hatred of all life, and everything that the living accomplish. Were his will done, all the cosmos, every Plane, would be a silent mausoleum, stacked high with the bones of the denizens that once dwelled there. So far, The Shadow That Was has been thwarted at every turn, in every Plane.

But there is one world that has weakened to the point that the Blood Lord might find a way to sunder the walls between dimensions, and lay waste to all the living.

The world of Atrion is a lush and vibrant world. It's ecosystems a varied and vast, it's continents grand, and it's oceans rich with life. But on the western continent of Istror, a vile contagion has spread unchecked through the centuries. The Cult of the Goat's Head has flourished in these lands. Partially due to the near four centuries of war between the largest kingdoms, but also because of the five year long outbreak of Deathsong. One of the worst diseases known, this terrible plague has laid waste to entire communities in less than a week. Victims of Deathsong can do nothing but shriek and howl as their bodies wither and blacken. Once the incubation period expires, the progress of the disease is so fast that a victim can hear his skin crackle and his bones grow brittle and break.

And while the combination of war and plague lead to eventual peace between the kingdoms, the damage had been done. The Cult of the Goat's Head was a powerful cabal indeed. Able to direct a vast network of cultists that consisted of everyone from lowly urchins to a few heads of state. Unwilling to let peace and life blossom once again on Istror, the Cult of the Goat's Head sought to pool all their knowledge and resources into actually allowing the Lord of Specters to cross over into Atrion. While many became aware of this sinister plot, they could do nothing to stop it. There were too many cultists, placed in too many positions of power, to allow armies to be raised and brought against these agents of darkness.

That is why in their most desperate hour, the powerful and rich that still retained their sanity scoured the kingdoms for powerful and mighty heroes to band together to stop this vile ritual before it was completed. It was a near thing, but men and women of conscience and ability did arise from the goodly races of Istror. These nine champions were dubbed the Silver Concord, and they set themselves against the vast numbers of the Cult of the Goat's Head with all the powers of the gods behind them. Eventually, they assaulted the tower of summoning that the Cult had constructed. Despite the legions of fanatical followers, hordes of wicked Undead, and other even more unspeakable horrors, the  Silver Concord managed to ascend the Ebon Spire and confront the High-Priest in the midst of the grand summoning.

The battle was titanic. The battle was legendary. The battle was cataclysmic...

And in the end, everybody died.

The High Priest, the Silver Concord, and even the Ebon Spire itself fell.

And for a time, good seemed to have triumphed. The survivors rebuilt, honored the Silver Concord, and purged as many of the Cult as they could find. But such a thing was not to last. A year and a day after the battle at the Ebon Spire, whispers began of the Cult flourishing once again. Of new leadership bringing them renewed life and stoking their passions to dangerous heights once again. Every patrol of Wardens, every platoon of soldiers that went in search of these gatherings vanished. It was only after an exceedingly skilled Elven scout returned from her own private investigations was the truth brought to light, even if she did succumb to her wounds afterwards.

While the Cult had failed to bring Orcus himself through during the grand summoning, one of his Exarchs, Elder Arantham, had managed to barely slip through the dimensional rift. For that year of recovery, he too had been regaining his strength that had spent breaking through the dimensional barriers. But now he was strong again, and building up the Cult again so that they might finish their great and terrible work.

When the Cult of the Goat's Head had been governed by a mortal, things had been bad enough. But now they were lead by a Demigod. And now there was no last desperate alliance of good, honest heroes to meet them. And so, the reluctant decision was made to go for the next best thing. Maybe if no paragons of virtue could be found, powerful individuals of a less reputable nature could be found instead. Those that might be shunned in polite society, and possibly even dangerous, but certainly didn't want the world destroyed, even if only because they were one of the poor fools who lived there.

And so these Lesser Evils have all been summoned to the private yacht that is currently docked on the River Reyneke, to attend a meeting with a mysterious benefactor who has made you all offers you cannot refuse...