The Fire of Life

A shining amulet, protecting it's bearer even in death

The Fire is an amulet made from the blasted stones in an Abyssal demiplane. A polished circle, like a riverstone, smooth and hanging on a steel chain. Once attuned, the wearer is protected from death itself by a powerful Fiend. Should the wearer drop to 0 HP, they are (without choice) transported (for the purposes of things that force saves against planar travel, the Fiend’s CHA save is +15) to his tiny hell. None of his equipment comes with him and stays where he left (unless picked up by others). Once there, they may spend a few days (out of time) convincing him they should go back. Roll 1d20. On anything but a 2, the PC is allowed to return to the world of the living. On a 2 (only a 2), the Fiend is unmoved and turns his great mind to other things–the player is trapped in that hell forever. Once returned to the world, though, the wearer is no longer attuned to the Fire. It requires another short or long rest to re-attune to the item.

Wyatt died on that bridge. He felt his bones snap and the weight of the giant club crushing him against the stones like you’d crush a beetle under your thumbnail. The pain was real, and the echo of it in his mind was more torturous than the original impact.

He saw, for a moment, his friends rushing forward to attack the giant… and then nothing. Black, smoke, hot, fires, stink, grinding and roars in the distance. The black gave birth to a wasted and blasted outcropping of grey and black stone crushed under a red and acrid sky.

“Hello Wyatt…” the grumble and grind shaped itself to words, “You trouble again?” the grind turned into a low cackle like dropping gravel into a pond. Deep, round, and chaotic.

“You trouble. I give you back?”, it asked. It always asked. It just wanted him to beg. To Plea. And so he did. He lamented his fate, he squeezed out insincere tears, he spent days beating his breast and wailing for help. And, as always, it came.

After days in that hellscape, Wyatt returned. Appearing out of nowhere, naked, just moments after he left, watching his friends attack the giant and force it back on the bridge to the other side. He knelt over the polished grey amulet laying on the ground right where he’d vanished, his clothes and arms surrounding it as though they were afraid. Every time was worse… to the others, he seemed to be the man that never dies–but he remembers finding the Fire in a pile of clothes, untouched for decades. He often wondered why that man had never come back.

The Fire of Life

Can I play with Madness? Vosenbergen