Unexpected visitors

(I would like to clarify some things to make more sense at least in my own eyes. firstly the drop for claimant crystals is extremely rare... think base rate shiny in Pokémon levels of rare. This means that not every monster has access to them and can create their own dungeon.

The second being it is not normal for monsters to be able to change other monsters, this was done to our current no-names protagonist due the the *gods* wanted to create a few more varied monsters in the latest patch that only lasted for an hour before being removed. It can still be done but not quite so easily in future.
The third being if not already clear that the protagonist won't always be so wimpy, but i wanted to show the juxtaposition from origin to end product.)
thanks to those that have liked and bookmarked

A week had crawled by since that fateful encounter, the one that shattered everything he knew about himself. The basement room had been his world, its stone walls closing in on him with each passing day. The wooden door that had sealed him in finally creaked open, letting in a beam of light that pierced the darkness, blinding him. He recoiled, scrambling back on his hands and knees, fear gripping his heart as he shielded his eyes from the sudden brightness. The light was a stark reminder of what he had lost, of the purity that was now forever out of reach.

A gasp echoed through the room, feminine and filled with shock, drawing his attention to the figure standing in the doorway. His voice, weak and cracked from disuse, barely managed a feeble “hello” as his eyes adjusted to the light. The silhouette sharpened into focus, revealing a woman dressed in golden robes, her long, straight hair cascading over her shoulders like a waterfall of spun gold. Her eyes, a deep ocean blue, held a mixture of fear and confusion as they took in his appearance.

Beyond the doorway, the sounds of battle raged—screams, the clash of steel, the guttural roars of demons. Another invasion. The Abbey was under attack once more. But this woman, this hero, was unlike any he had seen before. She rushed into the room, a look of panic in her eyes as she sought refuge from the chaos outside. Heroes, or PCs as they were sometimes called, were supposed to be the epitome of bravery, the chosen avatars of power. Yet here she was, cowering in the dark, just like him.

Curiosity piqued, he instinctively opened her stat sheet, the information popping up before his eyes.

Byzantine, Level 3 Priestess of Lathander

Half-Elf, Hero, Explicit

Time played: 4 hours

She was a fledgling, new to this world, and that explained her fear. But it did nothing to quell the strange sensation stirring within him as he studied her. Her golden robes were simple, the standard equipment of Lathander’s faithful, but they did little to hide the slender curves of her frame. The tiredness in her eyes, the slight tremble in her hands, spoke of recent battles. She was low on health, low on mana, ****.

He decided to speak, to break the tension that hung heavy in the air. “Than—” he began, but the word barely left his lips before she shrieked, her voice trembling as she raised a staff he hadn’t noticed before. She took a defensive stance, fear masked by a thin veneer of courage.

“Stay back, demon, before I smite you where you stand!” Her hands tightened around the staff, her knuckles white.

It took him a moment to realize his mistake—his horns, small but unmistakable, marking him as corrupted. Panic gripped him as he raised his hands in a placating gesture, trying to appear as non-threatening as possible. “Please, I need your help,” he pleaded, taking slow, careful steps toward her. He didn’t want to fight, didn’t want to harm her. That was not the way of Lathander’s servants.

But his words fell on deaf ears. With a cry, she swung the staff, the heavy wood connecting with his head in a sickening thud. Pain exploded in his skull, and he stumbled forward, crashing into her as his vision swam. They fell together, a tangle of limbs, her body pinned beneath his own as they hit the cold stone floor.

He groaned, dazed, as he struggled to regain his senses. The softness of her curves beneath him sent an involuntary shiver through his body, a natural reaction he couldn’t control. He found himself straddling her, his hands pinning her wrists to the ground, his body pressing down on hers. Her legs kicked out in a futile attempt to buck him off, and a scream tore from her throat, echoing in the small room.

Desperation clawed at him. He couldn’t let her alert anyone to their presence. Without thinking, he leaned down and captured her lips with his own, silencing her scream with a forceful kiss. Her body stiffened beneath him, but he held her there, waiting for the sounds of footsteps, for someone to come and end this nightmare.

But no one came. The seconds stretched into eternity, and to his shock, he felt her begin to kiss him back. It was hesitant at first, but there was a growing heat in her response, a heat that mirrored the one building within him. The sensation was intoxicating, a blend of fear and desire that clouded his mind. He groaned into the kiss, lost in the moment, the taste of her lips overwhelming his senses.

When the need for air finally **** him to pull away, he looked down into her eyes, expecting to see anger, fear, anything but the smoldering look that met his gaze. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, her breath hot against his face. “What have you done to me, demon?” she whispered, her voice trembling. “Why do I feel so hot?”

Her words snapped him back to reality, and he quickly released her wrists, sitting back on his heels as confusion and guilt warred within him. “I… I don’t know,” he stammered, the weight of his actions crashing down on him. “I’m just a servant of Lathander… or at least I was.” He touched the small horns on his head, their presence a cruel reminder of his fall from grace.

But the moment of vulnerability was short-lived. A flash of movement, and she struck him again, the staff connecting with his ribs, driving the breath from his lungs. “I am Byzantine,” she spat, her voice filled with righteous fury, “and I do not fraternize with demons!”

Fear, raw and primal, surged through him as he reacted on instinct. His hand shot out, summoning a firebolt that exploded from his palm and struck her square in the chest. She gasped, eyes wide with shock, before her form flickered and vanished, leaving behind only a small loot bag.

He stared at the spot where she had been, horror seizing him as the reality of what he had done set in. “Oh no… oh no, what have I done?” His voice was barely a whisper, trembling with fear and regret. Tears welled in his eyes, spilling down his cheeks as he crumpled to the floor beside the loot bag, his hands trembling. He was truly forsaken now, cast out from Lathander’s light, a monster in every sense of the word.

For what felt like hours, he sat there, wallowing in self-pity, until a small flicker of curiosity broke through the despair. He had never looted a hero before, never had the opportunity. Hesitantly, he reached for the bag, his fingers brushing against the leather.

Loot Bag:
Claimant Crystal
Empty Vial x2
15 sp, 10 cp
Lathander’s Teachings (Book)
Take Some/Take All

He took everything, the exhilaration of possessing loot that was rightfully his sending a shiver of forbidden excitement through him. The coins, the vials, the crystal—none of it mattered as much as the book. The teachings of Lathander, now in the hands of a fallen servant. It was a cruel twist of fate.

With no clear plan, he pushed himself to his feet, casting a minor illusion to hide his horns, the spell coming almost instinctively. He needed to blend in, to find a way out of this nightmare. The attack outside had subsided; the heroes had won this time. He could hear the faint sounds of servants moving about the Abbey, cleaning up the aftermath of the battle.

He slipped out of the basement room, his heart pounding in his chest as he stepped into the familiar halls of the Abbey. The altar room loomed ahead, its white marble gleaming in the light that filtered through the stained glass windows. Golden cloth draped over the altar, dividing it into three sections, with a chalice in the center adorned with the crescent cross of Lathander.

The room was empty save for a few servants, diligently cleaning away the debris. They paid him no mind as he hurried past, his eyes fixed on the door that led to the bathhouse. He needed to cleanse himself, to wash away the sin that clung to him like a second skin.

The bathhouse was as simple as the rest of the Abbey, divided into two sections—one for men, the other for women. He stripped quickly, scrubbing himself clean in the warm water, trying to purge the guilt and shame that gnawed at his soul. But no amount of soap could wash away what he had done, what he had become.

Dressed in fresh robes, he made his way to the head abbess’s quarters, his last hope for redemption. The halls were quiet, the echoes of his footsteps the only sound as he approached the heavy wooden door. His heart ached with the weight of his sin, but he clung to a sliver of hope that she could help him, that she could save him from the darkness that had taken root within him.

But deep down, he knew the truth. There was no going back.