It isn't that difficult to convince the average adventuring party you're a wizard. It's all in the acting and clothing, and I became rather adept at that tidbit because when a mob hears the word warlock, someone will wind up hanging from a noose. Of course, you can't keep that kind of secret forever, so the eldritch sort of magician seldom lives to old age. It's usually a case of running till you can't any longer. I’d been out in the farthest recesses of civilized society, so I didn't think it was possible to run any farther when I ran into the company. A memory of that moment plays itself back in my mind as I sidestep a glimmering bolt of lightning. The trace sparks and winding spider webs of the flash sparkled with the impromptu meeting while avoiding the gangly fingers of the inquisition. That alleyway would be piled with bodies before they gave up. I knew I would have to throw in with the friends who saved my life. The brilliant beam of the blinding bolt’s passage fades, allowing sight of the narrow cavern and horde of bandits pouring out of every tunnel around our group's modest three-tent encampment.

They’d need the numbers if they hoped for anything other than buying time. A sweeping arch of blood traces the air as an ax cracks open an approaching bandit’s jaw in a vicious assault from somewhere in the shadows opposite the cave. I can’t see Disappearance, the team rogue, aside from a dim shimmer in the distance, as they lurk like a damn predator behind the horde, decapitating stragglers back to front. A distant howl of rage heralds the fleeting sight of the savage Jim the Brick, Kane, and his towering longsword deep amongst the cyclical hellscape of the party’s frontline. In a broad arc, that clever cast-iron metal rips roughly halfway through a red-cloaked hooligan’s rib cage. The dying criminal clings to the wound as the mighty barbarian places a leather boot against their chest and pulls the sword free with the sound of warped flesh as it passes along the jagged blade. Nopparage, the party druid, tends to the flock of charging raiders as the stone beneath their advance sharpens to rip the heedless men and elves’ feet to ribbons in the deadly trap.

The sharp crack of a black-powder musket breaks the din of battle from the bandit’s line as the party's glorious leader Dunalong’s Chi-wrapped arm swats the bullet into a bandit who’d been sneaking up behind Nopparage. The foreigner’s visage is set with a grin as the combat drags onward in a flurry of spraying blood, decapitated heads, and chaotic violence bent from lances of purple magic originating from the scroll in my hands. And yet, as the engagement continues, the number of bandits is seemingly endless, as the moderately sized cavern floods with hundreds of poorly armed, exiled knights. I wouldn’t be honest if I said; they appeared to be confident; instead, they seemed to be utterly out of their minds, smiling with unhinged glee even as their head was cut from their neck with an open-palm chop and thrown into a warrior’s chest with enough force to cause an explosion of gore.

Amidst the chaotic din, communication becomes impossible as the purple spirit running the length of my plate-mail flickers with an unnatural vacuum that swallows all it touches. The distant scream of Dunalong’s pained yelps prompts me to act as all other options remain to spend one after another, keeping the horde at arm's length. All light within the cavern is slashed away as a void of rippling tendrils extends from with the slightest beckoning of one sweeping arc along the corrupted magical conduits of my plate. This Holocene of gathering energy passes, the brim of the right shoulder plate demonic laughter echoes through the canyon as lashes pick off the bandits. An enemy's quarterstaff breaks over that same pauldron before shattering into a bloom of wooden shrapnel as the cackling madman rips towards the roof before being disfigured by the horrific abyss of eyes and jaws hanging to the ceiling.

This abyssal horde doesn’t care for the number of enemies as the ambush turns into a slaughter as blood rains thick as a waterfall. The mangled excellence overtakes my being, and I can’t help but scream in ecstasy from the carnage as the rest of the party looks on in horror. I’m not myself as Dunalong sprints across the divide, dodging between the falling bodies of dying dissected body parts. A peal of unhinged laughter rips through my extended jaw, irrespective and uncaring of my attempts to regain control of my carcass from the partial possession of the demonic servants of my god. “The Great Unmaker Shall Claim The Souls Of This World; Death To The Mortals; All Will Die In Zorg’s Firey Embrace!”

This bout of horrific nightmare fuel rages as the tendrils, now deprived of targets, slither along the walls toward the party, mere feet away before a flaming fist shatters the fragile hold of the demon. The pain is immediate as the ground dents the brim of my Sallet. The trailing moments are a blur in tandem with lingering anguish as I return, cradling my head as the group argues overhead. Their speech is impossible to hear what they are saying but judging by the amount of aggressive gesturing, it wasn’t anything good. I’d either be dead or done with the situation in the next few minutes, so I can’t honestly be bothered to care much. After a brief contest of vomiting, I rose irrespective of the ongoing argument; Once more, my boots touched the cavern floor, staggering slightly before slurring my words. “I’m fine, just a demonic mild possession.”

Disappearance (if that was even his real name) hooded form grabbed my shoulders and began shaking my already failing stability while screaming, “What the hell? You were a fucking warlock this whole time!”

The group erupted into another chaotic discussion, worsening my mind-bending headache. In no moment, I’m entangled in the half-brawl and half-part conversation. “I assumed it was obvious!”(Warlock) “Why didn’t you tell us? That’s awesome! Dude, who’s your god!”(Barbarian) “Everyone stops; calm down!”(Monk), “You thought it was obvious, you dress like a damn arch-mage; fake badge and everything!”(Rogue), “Hey why don’t you sit back down.”(Druid) A small dribble of blood runs from my right eye as I break the grapple and gain some distance from the party. The group's general composure turned melancholy as I made the ground. “Okay, so you will not kill me, right?”

“What the hell kind of question is that? Bro, you’re one of us!”(Barbarian), “Are you planning to go traitor, if not we're good?”(Monk), “Do I look like I care about the kingdom’s laws, I don’t have many friends as it is!”(Rogue), “What, why?”(Druid).

Without a thought, I leaned over and wrapped a hand around the small spell book on the ground before throwing the useless chunk of paper into the corpses piled in the center of the chamber. “Just checking; if I’d known, I would have told you all earlier. Alright, I think I’m good; what’s the plan now?”

The sound of squelching flesh wreaked the silence as Dunalong set his still bloody arm, hand, wrist, and shoulder onto my left knee; “We’re going to track down that bandit chieftain, and you’re going to lead him to the deepest layer of hell for us.”