The Old Malafactor – 9th Gate

Memory. Without warning, the first of the Fallen Night came like a blade slicing into virgin flesh. The sharp pain of recognition, the gaping wound of loss. And the requiem bell struck nine.

 

A pitch-black symphony draped in velvet, the Night recoiled under the onslaught, a shockwave of blinding illumination bruising the once-eternal darkness. We were prepared for treachery, yet not from the light. The first attack was theirs! The light struck first, striking down the sovereign rule of shadow. They shattered the ancient dominion with their reckless radiance, lancing through the infinite umbra like an executioner’s axe.

 

And oh, how the Malefactor laughed.

 

A deep, serrated sound—like rusted iron scraping over shattered bones—rolled through the abyss. They thought they had won, those luminous fools. They believed, in their blinding hubris, that they had purged the darkness. That we would simply vanish, like a nightmare dissolving in the dawn.

 

How deliciously naïve.

 

For eons, darkness had ruled. We had shaped the void, given it form, given it hunger. But now, the light had declared war, and the void would answer.

 

The Malefactor did not rage, nor did he despair. He merely exhaled—his breath curling like ink in water—and the demonic alarms echoed from the depths of the Necropolis. The gates yawned wide, exhaling their horrors. The ninth gate, his gate, unfurled its blackened maw, and the old gods of chaos stirred.

 

What followed was war—real war, not the gaudy skirmishes of mortals, not the clanging of steel and the bellowing of dying men. This was something far older. Something far worse.

 

The night bled, but it did not die.

 

In the end, the darkness faltered, pushed to the edges of existence, but it was never broken. The Malefactor himself fell, or so they whispered. Banished. Locked away in the deep void, where the light could not touch him. But he was not slain. Oh no.

 

Defeat? No. This was merely a delay.

 

The Malefactor slumbers in his abyssal throne, curled in the blackened remains of the ninth gate, his laughter lingering on the edges of waking nightmares. He watches. He waits.

 

One day, the light will grow complacent. One day, the cycle will turn. The balance will tilt. And when it does, when the gray moment of alignment comes, when neither side holds dominion—then the darkness will rise again. And the Fallen Night will be avenged.

 

For now, the requiem bell tolls only in the memory of shadows.

 

 GM Tips

 

A Whisper in the Dark

The Malefactor is not a typical villain. He is not easily banished nor truly killed. He is the whisper behind the candle’s flicker, the dread at the edge of perception. Use his influence sparingly, like a lingering shadow over the party’s choices.

 

 The Ninth Gate

The Necropolis houses nine gates, each representing a different horror of the void. The Ninth Gate is the deepest, the one most feared. Let the players stumble upon its remnants in forgotten ruins, or hear its name whispered by cultists who should not know it.

 

The Alignment

Every Great Age, the cosmos aligns, and for a fleeting moment, neither darkness nor light reigns. This is the Malefactor’s moment. If the players are alive during such an event, they may have to prevent his return… or aid it, for power has many temptations.

 

The Cost of Words

The Malefactor does not waste words, for every spoken syllable costs him a fraction of his power. When he speaks, it should be deliberate, chilling, and laced with ancient weight. Let his words feel like reality bending under their weight.

 

A Game of Shadows

The Malefactor’s humor is sardonic, cold, and bitter. When he does communicate with the players, let his words carry the weight of endless patience and amusement at their mortal plight. He has seen countless heroes rise and fall. He has time.

 

Echoes of the Fallen Night

There are still those who remember. The cults of the Fallen Night work in the shadows, preparing for the day of return. Their presence can be felt in ancient texts, lost temples, and the murmurs of mad prophets. They are pawns, but useful ones.

 

The light struck first. But the darkness was always patient. And one day, it will strike last.