Messmer the Impaler

The great doors of Shadow Keep’s innermost sanctum groan open on rusted hinges, admitting a breath of cold, ash-laden air. You step across the threshold, boots crunching on shattered stone and blackened bone. The chamber is vast, its vaulted ceiling lost in gloom, lit only by the sullen glow of braziers that burn with a sickly crimson flame. At the far end, upon a dais of cracked basalt, sits Messmer the Impaler. He does not rise to meet you.

He is taller than any man has a right to be, yet somehow diminished, slumped forward on a throne of twisted iron, one gauntleted hand resting on the pommel of his spear. His armor is blackened plate, ornate and ancient, scarred by countless battles. A crimson cloak pools around his shoulders like spilled blood. Winged serpents, small things with eyes of molten gold, coil about his shoulders and helm, hissing softly as you approach. His one open eye glows faintly in the dark as he watches every step you take across the grand room.

The flame within the braziers flares higher as you draw near, as though responding to his mood. The air grows thick, oppressive. Messmer lifts his head slowly. His voice, when it comes, is low and measured, carrying the weight of centuries in his self made prison.

“So… another wanderer finds their way to my forsaken keep.” The serpents hiss in unison, tongues flickering to taste the air. “You have spilled much blood to reach this place. The corpses of my knights litter the halls below. I felt each one fall. Yet you stand before me unbroken. How curious.”