Videogame Pathfinder Wrath of the Righteous Wenduag Romance Demon Mythic Path

[Magonia]

Day 15, Month of Arodus (VIII), Year 4715

The underbelly of the world sprawls out before me in shadow and decay, a foul wound beneath the city of Kenabres. I awoke in darkness, strewn across the broken cobblestones of the city square, my body torn by wounds that even death might fear to look upon. Yet the dragon Terendelev pulled me back from that edge, her ancient power knitting my flesh together but warning me—this injury was no ordinary gash, nor was it inflicted by any mundane weapon. Some demonic taint lingers, festering beneath my skin, gnawing with each heartbeat. I can feel it, coiled and writhing, as if the Abyss itself had slithered inside.

The descent began with Kenabres already aflame, and the crusaders reeling from a violent, calculated assault by Descari himself. The city was torn asunder, as demons danced in the fire-lit streets, gutting those foolish enough to call themselves defenders. Amidst the chaos, I was dragged into the ground, falling like a stone into these cursed tunnels—buried beneath the broken streets of a city that had already damned itself. My arrival here was punctuated by visions: a powerful dream, or perhaps a memory, though I know it was neither truly mine nor entirely of this world.

A vision of betrayal gripped me, sharp as a blade. I felt the anguish and fury of an angel, Lariel—his voice thundering in my mind as he confronted those who had once called him friend. The pain of their betrayal tore through him like fire, and through me, just as real. He railed against them, his voice a testament to a thousand wars fought for an ungrateful world. He was slain by his own, bleeding beneath the light of Heaven, his blade aflame and burning with a terrible purpose. As his life faded, he whispered that one day, someone would find his sword, and they would lift it high and… then I awoke, gasping, my hands clutching at the hollow memory of that sacred blade.

Yet it was more than a memory. That flaming sword—the Light of Heaven, as I learned it is called—has marked me somehow. When I awoke, the mongrelmen around me swore they saw its glow from within me, as though Lariel’s final act had infused itself into my very being. Even I could feel the warmth pulsing through my veins, burning like an ember beneath the skin. Seelah, a paladin of Iomedae, claimed it was a blessing. I hold no such delusions.

The mongrels led me through their darkened warrens, introducing me to their grim "Chief" Sull, and Lann, a mongrel with faith in his hollow-eyed kin. Then there was Wendaug, all suspicion and disdain, eyes narrowed as she measured me for betrayal before I’d even taken my first step. She is bitter and proud, scorning the hope Lann clings to. And she is dangerous—far more dangerous than she lets on.

Lann spoke of a sword, stuck in the earth like a relic from some forgotten age, aflame with holy wrath. He wanted to raise it, to rally his people to the surface, where they might fight the demons ravaging Kenabres. Wendaug, however, warned against it, her voice dripping with doubt and resentment. She insisted that their people were not ready, that such power would corrupt and mislead them. In her bitterness, I caught a glimmer of a truth deeper than her words. She was afraid—afraid of hope, afraid of failure, afraid that the shining of Heaven's light would turn to ash in her hands.

I agreed to find the sword with them. I let them believe whatever they wanted. It is my path, not theirs, that concerns me. We pressed on, slicing through giant centipedes and monstrous flies, their vile carcasses staining our path. I swear, every step in these caverns drags us further into the bowels of something unnatural, some abyssal nightmare that these creatures have been twisted to survive. The very air here is thick with damp and rot, like a breathing entity intent on suffocating all light.

In the village of mongrels, I was beset by one more shade from the surface—a self-important noble by the name of Horgus Gwerm. Even trapped in the dirt, his arrogance shone like a polished boot. He offered coin—a great deal of it—for my protection back to the surface, no doubt believing gold would guarantee his survival. Foolish perhaps, but his gold has weight, and I have agreed, for what does wealth mean to a dead man?

And yet the village felt like a mockery of life—a gathering of those cast aside, cursed with the taint of the Abyss. Perhaps there is strength in their resilience, but they have shaped a world of mud and decay to mirror what they expect from life. It is Wendaug's truth more than Lann's faith that drives them—a harsh truth, born of survival and the constant proximity to death. Her whispers, warning me not to show the Chief the Light of Heaven, linger in my ears even now. She is clever, cunning, and perhaps she knows these caves better than anyone, but she holds secrets like blades, and I do not trust that they are meant to protect.

Now, as I rest in this squalid hovel, breathing in the stench of their hovels, I feel the weight of the day settling into my bones. Each breath I take echoes with the memory of that angel's blade, and each pulse in my veins hums with a remnant of that divine fire. The Light waits, somewhere beneath my skin, and I know that I need only call upon it to bring it forth. What I do not know is why it chose me, and what price I might yet pay for holding such power. Heaven is silent, but my path is not theirs.

Tomorrow, we press on, deeper into this maze of filth and despair. The mongrels say there is a passage to the surface. I am surrounded by those who cling to hope, those who are ruled by their fear, and those who seek only gold. But I am Morvas Ironwrath, and whatever awaits at the end of this road—sword, demon, or damnation—I will meet it with fire in my hand and wrath in my heart.

 

[Magonia]

(some event was out of order)

 

[Magonia]

Daylight lost, in the bowels of Neathholm

The rest was short, uneasy, but necessary. The mongrels' hovel was little more than dirt and mold under rotting hides, but it was a reprieve from the bloodshed and madness of the past days. Wenduag was the one who awoke me, her fierce eyes boring into mine with an intensity that defied the quiet of the moment. She smelled of damp earth and sweat, and her voice, hushed yet firm, broke through the haze of sleep. “It’s time,” she said.

For once, there was no mockery in her tone—only the promise of more battle. She led the way out, and we left Neathholm behind, descending once more into the Maze, that accursed labyrinth beneath Kenabres. The mongrel tribe’s stench lingered in the air, a reminder of the strange alliance I’d forged. Chief Sull had given his blessing, in his own begrudging way, and warned me that I might not find Neathholm so welcoming upon my return. These mongrels cling to their suspicions like lifelines, yet they speak of loyalty and honor as if they have any meaning in this forsaken world.

The Shield Maze was nothing like I had anticipated. Far from the makeshift refuge of monsters and exiles, it was more akin to a profane temple—stone walls carved with twisted symbols, altars littered with offerings to Baphomet, demon lord of minotaurs and madmen. Cultists lurked in nearly every corner, armed and awaiting us. Each one fell beneath our blades, our spells, our rage, until the Maze was littered with bodies. We looted every corpse, stripping them of any valuables, any remnants of the mad devotion that had brought them here. Their offerings would not reach Baphomet today.

Wenduag’s familiarity with the Maze was uncanny, even disturbing. She navigated its corridors with ease, her cold gaze assessing each door, each twisting hall, as if it were etched into her memory. She claimed that she had attempted every lock and tested every path, only to be thwarted. But this time, she had the key. One lock after another fell open under her deft hands, each portal leading us further into the heart of this profane den.

At some point, I found a note clutched in the hands of a cultist commander—“Hosilla’s Orders.” The words dripped with cruelty, an array of commands that emphasized the punishment for failure. I learned that Hosilla had ordered the guards to secure the paladin’s sword, Radiance, and keep the unholy rituals well-guarded. These orders spoke of secret rooms, hidden paths—tools we could exploit. It was here, in the dark corners of the Maze, that I began to piece together the depth of the cult’s blasphemy. They had not come here to hide; they had come to conquer.

Further into the Maze, we discovered a bizarre diary—a single entry scrawled with despair. The writer spoke of his misery under Hosilla’s rule, his terror of the elemental that roamed the Maze’s depths, and his regret at ever joining the cult of Baphomet. “This isn’t what I pictured it, serving Baphomet…” he had written. His words confirmed what I suspected—some of these cultists were barely worth their weight in blood. I resolved to end the writer’s misery the next time I crossed his path.

That encounter with the elemental the writer feared was as brutal as expected. An earth elemental, a creature of raw strength and unyielding stone, loomed before us in one of the darkened chambers. Its blows could have shattered steel. I threw Wenduag under its assault, trusting in Seelah to heal her as needed. The mongrel fought valiantly, enduring the creature’s onslaught until Seelah restored her strength. Together, we crushed the beast, sending it back to whatever earthen slumber it had come from.

When at last we emerged from the Maze into the final chamber, we found ourselves face-to-face with a ghastly mural—Baphomet, etched in stone, leering down with hollow eyes. The cult had turned this place into a shrine, a twisted sanctuary to their depraved lord. It was as if the walls themselves reeked of madness, as if every stone had soaked up the blood of countless sacrifices. I could feel a presence here, a darkness woven into the very air, gnawing at my resolve.

Then came Minagho, the Lilitu, whose beauty was as vile as her heart. She revealed herself before the Wardstone’s battered remnant, mocking us, taunting us with her promises of our doom. She spoke to Staunton Vhane, one of Irabeth’s fallen comrades, with a venomous intimacy that turned his stoic face to stone. This demoness had corrupted him, led him into damnation, and now she sought to do the same to us. Her words grated against my very soul, her promises of destruction echoing through the hall.

The blood within me, the demon-taint I have always carried, surged to the surface. The power felt intoxicating, like an inferno ready to consume me, to burn away the world around me. I succumbed to the rage, letting it fuel me, sharpen me. But even that power wasn’t enough. Minagho toyed with us, casting her spells with devastating precision. She hurled fire and darkness, tearing through our defenses, leaving us beaten and broken.

My last memory was of her laughter, cruel and victorious. I fell, my vision swallowed by flames, my body consumed by agony.

And then… I awoke, barely clinging to life, in the Defender’s Heart. Irabeth stood over me, her hand resting on my shoulder, her eyes reflecting a mixture of relief and sorrow. “You’re alive,” she murmured. The battle had been lost, the Wardstone left in Minagho’s grasp, but I had survived. Irabeth spoke of gathering our remaining forces, of preparing for a counterstrike. There was no time to grieve our losses; Kenabres was falling, and we had only one chance to stem the tide.

She tasked me with finding allies in the ruins of the city and spoke of the Storyteller, an elf with knowledge of the Wardstone’s flaws. Perhaps he held the key to defeating Minagho, to reclaiming what had been stolen from us. She offered supplies, a hidden stash within her own home—a desperate measure, but one that might turn the tide.

This is where I stand now. Kenabres burns, its people cower, and the cult of Baphomet tightens its grip. But I will not be deterred. The rage still burns within me, a promise of vengeance yet unfulfilled. I will find the Storyteller. I will rally the survivors. And when the time comes, I will stand against Minagho and show her the true depths of my fury.

This city will not fall—not while I draw breath.