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You just have to reach for it. Oh, I see… I can feel your lifeline. Unless you accept this gift, that is. I can offer you a sample of immortality. They named me such because I hold the power to give you the influence and aura of a king. But if you accept, never again will you surrender yourself to others. Or from you if you accept this deal.

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Do you crave to know all that which lies beyond your mortal perspectives. You would do well by accepting the gift I offer. No secret will ever escape you. All knowledge will be in your grasp. I offer you the strength of fire.

The Dark Gift | Chicken Soup for the Soul

You will then show your friends how stronger you are! You appear healthy but I offer you the resilience of Yog the invisible. You sure need this blessing if you are to succeed. It flows red but it can easily bring death, I say it ought to be black. My gifts confers you the power to make this judgment. All you have to do is accept it, and you will have to power the judge anyone in your way.

I must swiftly return to my amber cell, but first, would you like to take my gift? None shall ever find you thereafter. Or I could answer a question for you, I promise not to answer truthfully…. I have a special affinity for those foul beasts. See, they come to me when I so wish it.

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The Amber Vault features the three main sarcophagi. These hold the most sought of powers. This is actually where Strahd himself got his powers from. While the vampire and lichdom gifts do not have immediate benefits, until the conditions are met, I advice you to let any PC make the deal with the dark god.

The PC would immediately get the personality trait that comes with it. Which actually suffices for roleplaying purposes. A PC will never be a lich in this game since it requires a level 17 th spellcaster, but a PC might be able to meet the vampire conditions and become a vampire. If that is the case, you should plan this situation with the player before hand, since his PC will abandon game when this happens. It is curious you are that interested in acquiring what he has. Are you trying to fight fire with fire? You must know this gift is not free to take, like so many others in this place.

No, there is a price. The price is blood, flowing red and fresh from a recent kill.

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But not just any blood. It must be the blood of one who loves or reveres you, slain by your hand. If you drink that blood the deal is sealed. Only then shall you achieve the glory of immortality. Nothing else interests me more, and you should feel the same. I can hear your thoughts, did you know? You are mortal and shall never know all arcane secrets. But there is a way to abandon mortaldom and advance.

A way to achieve immortality. I can feel your knowledge of magic is very far from achieving this goal, you are not useful to me. But I feel potential. Do you accept? No limitation with time dead. Just like many others you come seeking the power over life and death. I am Zhudun, the Corpse Star.

I am the master of death.

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  • However very few know there is a price. Now, she was sitting here with a broken ankle.

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    It all happened so suddenly. This was the first time Alex had collided with an indifferent world. Everything else had been negotiable, arguable. Everything else up to now could be avoided, escaped, bought off, laughed away. I tried to comfort her and tell her it would be all right.

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    But this was real; this was hers. No one could change it, make it right, make it fair. It was life—an absolute without explanation—that was indifferent to her plans and dreams. Just consider this one of those dark gifts. A bad circumstance can teach you something valuable, maybe even change your life. Suddenly, I remembered the time several years ago when I, too, had broken an ankle. It was March. The streets were slushy paths, and corners were precarious hard-packed trails, through mounds of ice and snow. I struggled on crutches, trying to balance on uneven surfaces of ice.

    People pushed past me, muttering about how they had to get through, about how I was taking so long. I tried gingerly to make my way up over the snowpack without slipping or letting my cast drag in the slush. My arms ached from the tension, my shoulders were rigid and numb from the digging pain of the crutches. I tried to block out the others around me, not to feel them brushing brusquely past me. Crutch by crutch, I made my way down to the street. Cars flew by, splashing slush on my cast. I hobbled into the street. The approaching cars were not slowing. I tried to hurry, but the icy ground was too precarious.

    Cars slid to a stop, and drivers leaned on their horns. I looked across at the snow bank I would have to negotiate on the opposite side of the street. There, making her way down through the small uneven pathway of ice, was an old woman with a cane. People were standing behind her muttering. She was feeling with her foot, trying to find solid ground.

    No one could help her; there was not enough room for two abreast. I saw her frantic look, her shaking hands. Then, for an instant, she looked up. Across the distance of that icy, slush-filled street, our eyes met. The fear, the sadness, the frustration, the utter aloneness of our respective plights, were mirrored in our respective gazes. I wanted to help her, but I could not. I could barely make my way across the street myself. The other pedestrians rushing past us were no help either.

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    To them we were impediments to the necessary pace of daily living.