Updated: Sept. 4, 2024, 6 a.m.
The night sky over Neverwinter was a tapestry of stars, but Obould Many-Arrows, the formidable orc king, had no time to admire its beauty. His eyes were fixed on the ancient ruins that lay before him. Legends spoke of a cursed armor, the Armor of the Dragonborn, which had been lost for centuries. Now, whispers in the wind suggested it had resurfaced, bringing with it a vengeful spirit.
Obould's footsteps echoed through the deserted streets as he approached the ruins. His war axe, a symbol of his unyielding power, gleamed under the moonlight. The orc king had faced many enemies in his time, but this was different. The very air felt heavy with malice as if the spirit were watching him, waiting for the right moment to strike.
As he entered the heart of the ruins, a chilling wind swept through, carrying with it an eerie whisper. Obould's muscles tensed, his grip on his axe tightening. He scanned the area, his eyes narrowing as he spotted the Armor of the Dragonborn, resting on a stone pedestal. The armor was magnificent, its scales shimmering with an otherworldly light. But it was not the armor that made his heart race; it was the presence he felt around it.
"Obould Many-Arrows," a voice echoed through the ruins, cold and haunting. "You dare to claim what is not yours."
The orc king stood his ground, his voice a growl. "I seek to end the curse that plagues this city. Show yourself, spirit, and face me."
A figure materialized before him, translucent and spectral. It was a dragonborn warrior, clad in the cursed armor. Its eyes burned with a vengeful fire, and its voice was filled with centuries of sorrow and rage. "This armor is my legacy. It was stolen from me, and now I am bound to it, unable to find peace. You will suffer as I have suffered."
Without warning, the spirit lunged at Obould, its spectral claws slashing through the air. The orc king dodged, his axe swinging in a wide arc. The blade passed through the spirit harmlessly, and Obould cursed under his breath. Physical attacks were useless against such an enemy.
Drawing on his years of battle-hardened experience, Obould remembered the ancient tales of how to combat spirits. He reached for a pouch at his belt, pulling out a handful of enchanted dust. As the spirit lunged again, he threw the dust into the air, chanting an incantation taught to him by the shamans of his tribe.
The dust sparkled as it settled over the spirit, and for a moment, the spectral figure seemed to solidify. Obould seized the opportunity, his axe swinging once more. This time, the blade connected, and the spirit howled in pain, its form flickering and weakening.
"You cannot banish me!" the spirit cried, its voice filled with desperation.
Obould's eyes blazed with determination. "I can, and I will. Your suffering ends tonight."
With a final, powerful swing of his axe, Obould struck the spirit, shattering its form into a thousand shimmering fragments. The ruins fell silent, the oppressive weight in the air lifting. The Armor of the Dragonborn lay on the pedestal, now free of its curse.
Obould approached the armor, his reflection visible in its polished scales. He knew the power it held, but he also understood the responsibility that came with it. With a respectful nod, he turned away, leaving the armor where it belonged. Some treasures were not meant to be claimed, but to serve as a reminder of the battles fought and the spirits laid to rest.
As he walked away from the ruins, the first light of dawn began to break over Neverwinter, casting a golden glow over the city. Obould Many-Arrows had faced the vengeful spirit and emerged victorious, but the true victory lay in the peace he had restored to the restless soul.