Chronicles of Kas

I. The Sword Without a Master

In the waning years of the Sixth Age, when the Towers of Sorcery still cast their long shadows over a fractured Erenth, there lived a warrior of uncommon fury and even rarer silence. He was born Kashtar-Mor, called Kas by the world, the son of no tribe and heir to no crest. He fought in the border wars of the Shattered Marches and earned his name through relentless service, wielding a sword he had forged in the fire of his own will, quenched in the blood of his enemies.

In time, Kas became known not merely as a soldier, but as a blade seeking a purpose. And purpose found him in the form of a hooded emissary from the Dweomersecte, who spoke of power, deathless life, and the war behind all wars.

II. The Pact of the Undying

The one who summoned him called himself Vecna, Archmage of the Dweomersecte, Master of the Hidden School, and bearer of ancient truths. But this was no mere wizard. His voice held centuries, and his eye burned with a hunger older than the kingdoms. Vecna saw in Kas not a servant, but a blade to be sheathed in shadow.

The pact was sealed not with ink, but with blood. In a ritual lost to most necromancers and forbidden by all known orders, Vecna poured into Kas the essence of undeath—not the mindless rot of the ghoul, nor the decaying soul of the wight, but something older. Kas became a true vampire, bound not by his thirst alone but by oaths older than the sun. In return for eternal service, Vecna gave him a weapon unlike any other: the Sword of Kas, forged in secret, inscribed with runes known only to the Archmage and the Grave.

With it, Kas became the Right Hand of Vecna, his voice in war, his fist in punishment, and his shade in diplomacy.

III. The Long Silence

For centuries, Kas served without hesitation. He hunted rebels who dared oppose the rule of the Dweomersecte. He razed libraries that spoke too freely of the Vastirah. He led legions of the dead through the gulfs of time and returned unaged. Some whisper he walked beside his master in the folds of time, others say he sat with forgotten kings and watched their lines fade into ash.

He did all this and asked for nothing, save the right to kill in Vecna’s name.

But the silence grew heavy. For even undeath has its weight, and though Kas knew no hunger, he knew loyalty, and loyalty twisted into doubt as Vecna grew more remote, more desperate, more obsessed with escaping the weave of fate.

Kas watched as Vecna hunted his former identities, erasing traces of them. The Archmage had become a tyrant, not a guardian.

IV. The Betrayal

The breaking came not in a single act, but a thousand unspoken thoughts. Kas began to believe that Vecna had not failed in stopping the gods—that he had invited them, birthed them in his paradox, enthroned them in his paranoia. He whispered rebellion to himself in empty chambers. He plotted in dreams, though vampires dream only rarely.

Then, one night that was also a century, he struck.

The Sword of Kas, once kissed by Vecna’s own blood, found its mark not in the neck of a heretic but in the heart of the Undying King. Some say he slew Vecna. Others say he only scattered him. But Kas was never seen again in the Tower, and the eye and the hand of Vecna have been hunted ever since.

V. The Legacy of the Liege-Breaker

The name of Kas is now spoken in two tones: as a traitor and a liberator. To the faithful of the Temple, he is the Blasphemer. To those who fear the return of the Vastirah, he is the secret hope—that even in death, Vecna was not beyond reckoning.

Some believe Kas yet lives, wandering the timefolds in penance, seeking to undo what he once enforced. Others say he builds an army in the hollow moon, of undead not bound to necromancy, but to truth.

But one thing is known. The Sword of Kas has not rusted. And it is said that should Vecna rise again, so too shall the Liege-Breaker return.

The Oath of Kas

Upon the Blade and the Shadow

Let this be spoken in the vault of silence.

Let no star hear it, no flame remember it.

I, Kashtar-Mor, forsake the sun.

By blood freely given, I bind myself to the Lord of the Final Sigil,

He who bears the Name Forgotten,

He who is now and evermore Vecna,

Archmage Eternal, Mind Between Worlds, King of the Unburied.

I give my sword.

Let it be no longer mine, but his.

Let it strike as he wills, where he wills, against whom he wills,

Whether kin or god, wizard or beast, living or dead.

I give my voice.

Let it speak no lies except in his service.

Let it cry war, treaty, silence, or command,

As the Undying bids from the throne beyond time.

I give my soul.

Let it be remade in shadow,

Let the blood of life run cold,

Let the hunger sharpen but never overcome.

I ask no reward.

Not kingdom nor crown, not love nor memory,

Only this: to be his Right Hand until the end of Ends.

And if I should falter,

If I should forget the hand that raised me from dust,

Let this blade return to him and strike me down.

By blood, by blade, by will — so do I swear.

And Vecna answered: "Then rise, my Kas. And be unto me what death cannot undo."