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Who among mortal kind can know the thoughts of the divine. How can that which is omnipotent and omniscient be deciphered, predicted, and really understood. Perhaps Their scions and avatars might come close, yet in the end they are still mortal kind, and their minds often clouded with egotism and selfish desires. Even altruism can be a blinder that leads ones steps astray. Yet there often is, among the religious, an epiphany that comes as if a gift from the Gods. A moment of clarity and deep understanding that one might have actually found their chosen path, their fate, their destiny.

It was one such moment that struck the young acolyte Phastian. It was the aftermath of yet another beating the young priest endured for his preachings on the streets of Haven of the wonders of Larethian, Issaries, Molodin, and Pelor. It stuck the young man, as he lay holding his sides and coughing up blood, just as sure as the fists of the ruffians who beat him.

What benefit is there to worshiping the Gods who had so readily abandoned the world? They do not hear his prayers, do not stay the attacks of the unrighteous, and care not for virtuous and sinner alike. His mentors would tell him that they walk the path of redemption for all mortal kind.

Then the darkness came.

Phastian left the temple of liars and traveled into the wilderness, braving the creeping shadow that swallowed the world. He would find that he is brave and strong. Raiding deep ruins, uncovering powerful magical artifacts, and gathering supporters to his cause, Phastian realized that those deities in exile, who choose to doom and forget the world, their creation, were not worthy of worship. Yet there was one whose power loomed in the deepest of shadows, in the dark corners of ones mind, uttered in the last gasp of tortured life to the sweet release of death. It was Nerull, God of Darkness, and the only God to pull the world to his embrace.

Phastian was cautious, studious, and relentless. He wielded the awesome power of shadow magic, and all trembled before his might, that is before the Heroes of Haven. He had been so close to his goal, to his life's ambition. He was in the closing moments of a ritual that would bring Nerull to this world. He believed he was Nerull's chosen, his scion and champion. Indeed he was important to the God, but again he was mortal. How could he begin to understand Nerull's true plans for him.

As the flesh of the sacrifice was cut, and the blood dripped onto the shadow rune upon the stone floor, the heroes of Haven burst into the chamber prepared for the toughest fight of their lives. The heroes had vanquished the goblin hordes protecting the ruin, navigated the traps throughout the decrepit corridors, and slew the cultists and undead that barred their path.

A valiant effort, but all for nought, thought Phastian. All their toil merely to come just in time to witness my glory, my ascension to immortality, and the coming of Nerull.

To Nerull, however, Phastian was but a vessel. A means to obtain the true prize, being the heroes themselves. Nerull's scion felt he was on the cusp of some great victory, that the power coursing through his veins was his, but alas, he was but a mortal. Nerull, on the other hand, is eternal. Phastian's weak body contorted and twisted, his bones breaking and shattering within the weak sack of flesh that encompassed it. Within moments, before the eyes of the heroes, it erupted, and demons came pouring forth from the lump of gore that remained.

The heroes fought valiantly, indeed their victory had come close, but the Shadow God would not be denied, new vessels to add to his army.

Phastian had got it wrong. What would a god want with a dying world when a far more tempting prize lay beyond.

Days later, rangers dispatched from Haven would walk the same ruins as their heroes, yet there would be no sign them, save for the lump of rotted flesh that was once Phastian.