Kain Hace Lore

Long ago, Kain Hace was considered the most powerful warlock in all of the Belurocian Empire. It was rumored that he had forged a dark pact with a greater archfiend to gain his immense power. Others believed it was Yzaos himself, God of Death and the Lower Planes, through whom Kain channeled his magic.

Yet in spite of his awesome power, Kain sought neither conquest nor control. Instead, he used his magic to serve the Belurocian Empire and its people. He was the hero of the Onyx Wars, decimating the Silver Shield’s armies outside the gates of Beluroc. When drought and famine threatened the empire, he called upon the shadows and the darkness to blanket the land in thunderheads; torrential rains fell and crops rose high in their fields once more. He tamed the eruptions of Bren Ha, keeping the volcano dormant. He stood against the eldritch monstrosities of the Dark Oblivion. He feared nothing… well, almost nothing.

Kain Hace was afraid to die.

He told himself it wasn’t death itself that he feared. He had lived a full and meaningful life with few regrets. Instead, he feared what would become of his fellow compatriots without his presence and protection.

But if that were true, he wouldn’t have done what he did.

The years passed. The lines on Kain’s face deepend. His jet-black hair became streaked with gray. His joints ached in the morning, and his hands developed an almost imperceptible tremor. Sometimes he woke in the night from some nightmare he couldn’t remember, breathing hard and knowing that someday one of those breaths would be his last.

If he were to join the Dark Eternals as a revenant, his dark pact would be broken and his unmatched powers lost, perhaps forever. Who would stand between the empire and his enemies then?

So he spent more time in the libraries of Beluroc, studying ancient and dusty tomes, searching for a spell, a song, a ritual, a prayer, anything that would unlock the secret to immortality. When he couldn’t find what he was looking for in Beluroc, he searched Utopin, scoured the Desert of Dugazi, and delved into the Pit of Roch-Sah. It was there he discovered the ancient rites that allowed him to extend his life by centuries.

But it wasn’t enough, so his search continued. As the years marched inevitably onward, his jet-black hair was no longer streaked by gray but entirely a silvery white. The ache in his joints became constant, and his gnarled hands shook visibly.

When word reached Kain that the Silver Shield had sailed once more across the Primordic Sea and was marching on Beluroc, he was in the port city of Galzur. Instead of returning to protect the capital, the once Hero of the Onyx Wars boarded a ship and cast off in search of immortality.

Centuries passed. Where his journeys took him during all those years between then and now, no one truly knows. He arrived in Praetoria not long after the Chaos Legion’s conquest of the Splinterlands. His hair was no longer white, his hands no longer shook, and his joints were arthritic no more.

Kain Hace had unlocked the secret of immortality, trading his aches and pains for the rotting and soulless body of a lich, kept alive by the souls of others. Now, he seeks to take up the mantle he cast off so long ago: champion of the Belurocian Empire.

“Please, gods, no

The woman was crouched in the far corner. She trembled, her feet skidding across the floor as she pressed herself back against the stone walls. She was dressed in the robes of a priestess. Her hair was blonde, and her eyes were blue. She was pretty.

She had to die.

Kain Hace’s hands trembled as he lifted the lid from the phylactery: a purple vase trimmed in gold and covered in arcane runes and symbols. Inside, glowing spheres of red, blue, gray, green, and orange swirled around each other. The phylactery stood on a round, wooden table. Next to the phylactery was a glass vial filled with a purple liquid. It was poison, but it wasn’t for the woman.

“Just let me go,” she said, sobbing. “I won’t tell anyone. I promise.”

Kain turned toward her. His eyes were cold, his expression impassive. His first collected soul had been that of a young elven boy. He had thought about the life the child might have led, the adventures and loves and heartbreaks that might have been. Kain was the one who had sobbed then.

It was terrible, but it had to be done. And each time, it got a little easier.

Now, it was nothing. He pointed at the woman, and a bolt of dark-purple magic erupted from his hand and slammed into her chest. She collapsed against the corner. Her robes smoldered. Her head lolled, and her eyes stared sightless back at him.

Kain chanted the words of the ritual, and the woman’s soul lifted from her body. It was pure white. It drifted across the chamber toward the table and descended into the phylactery to join the others.

Her soul was his now. Bound to the material plane, it and all the rest would be his life force.

Only one thing left to do.

Kain reached for the vial of poison, lifted it to his lips, and drank. Speaking quickly, he recited the final words of the ritual. As he finished, he began to cough. Blood spattered the stone floor. He could taste it in his mouth. His chest seized. He staggered, dropped to one knee, and fell onto his side. There he lay, breath hitching, the time between one and the next growing longer, longer still, until it stopped, and he stared as sightlessly as the woman in the corner.

A black, cloudy sphere emerged from his chest and drifted up over the table and down into the phylactery.

Kain Hace opened his eyes and grinned.