Mero stands against a metal pole, his hands tied together with the same kind of chains that keep his new body in place. His precious hat lies on the table.
“I’m sorry we have to do it this way”, his uncle says as he waves his hands through the air to move the chains. “I don’t want you to run away or something like that. I don’t know what will happen to you if we disturb the ritual. You need to stay within the circle.”
(Arcana 15)
The puppet looks down and sees the dark red and purple markings on the floor. They are made of powders and pastes used in many rituals, but the glyphs drawn at the edges of the circle are new to him.
“What does the circle do?” He looks up and stares Oanoa in the eyes.
“It prevents your soul from leaving when your body disappears. Souls normally don’t go anywhere on my plane, but I just want to be sure.”
Dargothoth takes a few steps towards them and inspects the symbols.
“Why is it that the souls don’t go anywhere?” Oanoa doesn’t look up when the priest speaks. “Can’t we die in your pocket plane?”
The Beholder laughs loudly, but he feels his reaction isn’t the socially acceptable one. He stops.
“You can die here, of course. Normally, on any other plane your soul is collected. On your plane a soul is directed to one of the planes of the afterlife. In Abaddon, it is collected by the Reapers and brought to-” He shakes his head. “I digress. Souls don’t leave my plane, because there is no one who collects them. Still, I would rather skip the hunt for someone’s essence if I can just keep it trapped in here.”
“And you said it always works?” Bruq looks at him with his eyebrows raised. “It has never failed?”
Their host shakes his head.
“Never. Every time I perform this ritual, it always gives the desired result.”
“And how often do you transfer souls from one body to another?”
The tone is Oslando’s voice is filled with suspicion.
“Well”, Oanoa says as he scratches the back of his head, “not too often, but I did it more than once! Maybe two or three times… You aren’t question my capabilities, are you?”
Even though his face stays friendly, his words sound stern, almost bitter.
“I don’t”, the half-elf responds calmly, aware that he might be walking on thin ice. “I just want what is best for Mero.”
“So do I”, Oanoa says immediately. “I want my nephew to live. I have no other relatives I can talk to. I have my brother Iavolof, of course, but we can’t see each other while he remains in Abaddon. It will work. Trust me.”
The loudness of his voice subsides.
“And even if you don’t”, he adds, almost whispering, “this is going to happen. It needs to happen. His current body would be destroyed in just a few days, hours maybe, if he enters Abaddon, a plane where fire is the dominant elemental that rages through the realm.”
(Intelligence 15)
“So, if I summarize everything correctly, you are going to transport his soul into an object to keep Mero alive and keep his body going?”
Oanoa answers Dargothoth’s question with a firm nod.
“As I mentioned, yes.”
“Well…” The cleric squints his eyes and looks at the puppet. “Doesn’t that make him an undead creature? Or, even worse and more specific, isn’t he a lich? I think your answer to my question is almost the exact definition of a lich.”
(Wisdom 13)
The Beholder’s jaw drops. He doesn’t know what to say, neither does Mero.
“But undead have no soul, right?” Oslando walks up them and puts his hand on his small companion. “Mero has one. And, more importantly, undead are evil beings. They’re corrupted, mindless and seek destruction of all living things. He’s nothing like that!”
Oanoa raises hand to silence them. His gaze doesn’t move away from the ground. He opens his mouth slowly, but doesn’t speak immediately.
“Undead don’t have souls, cleric.” He sounds like he’s choosing his words very carefully.
“Liches do”, Dargothoth responds immediately. “They store them in phylacteries.”
“What are phylacteries?” Bruq tries to mingle himself into the conversation.
Oanoa answers before the priest can do it for him.
“When a ritual is performed to prevent someone from dying, basically to become immortal, their souls can be stored into a magical object, like an ancient heirloom or an enchanted weapon.”
“Or a magical gemstone to power a constructed body.”
They all stare at Dargothoth after he finished his sentence.
“Puppet”, he says without paying attention to the others, “do you have any idea how you were brought back into this world? How this ordinary body can hold a soul that should have passed to the realm of Nerull?”
“I… I…” Mero shifts his gaze from his friend to the Beholder. “I don’t know. The halflings brought me back, but they… Uncle, am I really undead?”
Oanoa shakes his head quickly.
“Of course you’re not! You are, how should I say this, ‘differently alive’? You have a will of your own, you are not evil. You lack all the characteristics of the undead.”
“Except that I don’t breathe, need to eat or drink, bleed when I get cut… I can go on. What is wrong with me? I don’t want to be a lich, uncle.”
“You are not a lich!” Oanoa’s voice echoes loudly throughout the entire room. A vein bulges visibly on the side of his bald head.
“Let’s just stay calm and think about it”, Lyssa says. “Mero, what do you think? What do you want?”
“I don’t-”
“It doesn’t matter. This is going to happen. Right now.”
The Beholder turns his eyes towards the circle on the ground. It ignites into a bright and colourful flame.
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