Many of you that have been following this Journal may have found yourself wondering just what fucking Class am I? What the shit is a Dark Lord? Why isn't it covered in the 13th Edition rules?
Everyone, good and evil, falls into one Class or another. Eighty-some percent of those can be lumped into one of the following four Macro-Categories: Warrior, Magic User, Cleric, Thief.
There are obviously nearly endless sub-classes of each of these specializations, and when a Hero or Scumbag gets serious in their levels, they can split Class and learn skills from multiple disciplines, thus becoming Multi-Class entities, like me.
For those of you who may be curious, my current brand of the Dark Lord class can best be described as a Warrior/Assassin with some basic magical ability, a keen sense of character, a gift for unorthodox tactics and a fucking massive budget. In the big leagues I'm referred to as a Dungeon Mogul/Adventure Visionary with a Master Class Specialization in Death Park Management and a Minor in Mass Slaughter/Burnin Shit Down.
I had the advantage of being handed down a very substantial and lucrative Empire by my Father*1 which had been established and handed down to him by my Grandmother, a Village Witch possessed of an astonishing sense of ambition coupled with an utter lack of morals or mercy.
My father expanded this Empire in his own right, crushing a whole bunch of peoples under his boot heels, old school style. Lots of butchery, public torture-killings and random baby-throwing contests. He was from a different generation, my Dad. He didn't really see the big picture and how one insanely powerful but progressive thinking Dark Lord could link all the facets of the trade into one unified money making machine and virtually eliminate the need for genocide in the bargain.
Unless one becomes suitably annoyed of course.
When my Pops decided he was ready for me to murder him and assume the mantle of command, I was merely a party-addled, spoiled twat with no idea of what I was getting myself into. I still remember him criticizing me in between blows to his head as I tried to succeed him.
Which is why just under 3 years after I took control, my entire army annihilated itself in spectacular fashion on the Plains of Sorrow following years of discontent and opposition to my idiotic and shortsighted agenda. Slaying itself to a man, fortunately for me.
There was no one left to chase me down.
Long story short, and as you've read many times over dedicated reader, I walked away and started my evil career over at very nearly the bottom of the Bad Guy food chain, a Village River Bully.
I harassed folk when they tried to do laundry or wash their cooking pots. The river is now mine I declared and I charged them to do their menial, water-related business. When they sent stout men and village tough guys to drive me away I beat their asses and left the riverbank studded with their teeth and adorned with blood puddles.
Then, after all the willing and able men had been smacked silly, they goaded the miller's hulking slave, Dermott Krullbjorn, to eject me from the premises.
Dermott was and still is a motherfucking huge Northman with the overdeveloped suborbital ridges and protruding lower mandible of someone with more than a bit of Troll blood in him although he's really touchy on the subject. Conversations on the topic never last long for the unfortunate that brings it up.
Being a slave, chained to a gristmill and doing the work of two mules everyday since he was 10, Dermott wasn't particularly thrilled to help his captor defend the village from anyone, much less a determined man handy with his fists and possessing a sword. But he decided his Master could make his life more difficult over the long run than some guy punching people if they didn't give him two copper shards for washing their loincloths.
So he attacked me.
We fought for about ten minutes, although because of my PR department, the official history says we fought from sunup to sundown, which is patently ridiculous. The miller's slave was insanely strong, but slow and untrained in fighting. He'd been pushing a two ton gristmill around in a circle for eleven years. Doesn't do much for your footwork or hand speed, but it will make you exceptionally robust and single minded.*2
So we duked it out, hand to hand, de mano en mano. I knew as long as I didn't let him get his calloused mitts on me, that I could take him apart with precise strikes followed by evasion and I'd not have to use my sword. I repeated this over and over, all the while suggesting to him that even if he beat me, he'd be locked back up again to power the gristmill as the slave he was.
The third time I knocked him down I offered him a hand to help him back to his feet and told him point blank, "If you join me now, you'll never be a slave again." A well timed breeze blew my hair back and away from my face at the precise moment and that looks comic-book cool no matter who you are. Dermott was impressed not only at the perfect timing of the favorable breeze, but more importantly that I had knocked him down three times already.
He accepted my hand up and we proceeded to whup village ASS.
And the rest is history as they say. Dermott pledged himself to my cause and all opposition to my authority in the village ceased. We got drunk afterwards and burned the gristmill down, but only after we'd sent the owner and his entire family through it. Looked like we'd tried to make flour from pomegranates.
From there I planned a raid on the traditional enemy; the Next Village Over. Why should they have more sheep than us?
This continued incrementally as I decided that I needed to honor my heritage by acquiring really nice things for myself at the expense of other people. And since they weren't smart nor resilient enough to resist me, I was rather successful at it if I do say so myself.
Soon enough and due mainly to my own semi-sober brilliance, I had an army worth mentioning. Still weak compared to the level I'm at now, but very respectable for a former River Bully. I feinted East while I stuck to the West, smashing a pocket Elven kingdom and using their Holy Trees as lumber for my siege engines to topple the human kingdom that lay beyond them.
Economy of movement and resources, my friends.
This trend of stomping the fuck out of anything and everything continued for several years. My footgear grew ever so crusty with the blood of fallen opponents and my army grew more impressive with every victory. Before too long my empire had surpassed the one I inherited from Pops and I was swimming in gold.
This was the era in my life where I decided it was time to give my boots some time to dry out and to look into the Adventurer-Luring side of the business. I was a complete novice in this regard, I had always taken the fight to others, now I wanted to see how the other half lived. I wanted the fucking Heroes of the world to come swording for me.
What can I say? I've always had a profound lazy streak in me and I was growing tired of living out of a tent while on endless campaign.*3
Thus was born The Canyon of the Arachnid King, probably my first real hit destination. In truth it didn't net me much money because of the ruinous fees the Guild of Giant Spider Wranglers charged me for maintenance and various arachnid herding expenses. But it did smoke several up and coming Heroes and against all odds became an overnight sensation.
At the time, anyone who was Anyone in the Level 4-6 community took their shot at the Arachnid King*4. Everyone failed and left me lots of cool stuff to sell but enough came close to victory and lived to tell of it, cementing it's reputation forever.
To this day, The Canyon of the Arachnid King ranks #59 on Dungeon Parade Magazine's 'All-Time Top 100 Dungeons, Ruins, Citadels, Deathmazes, Labyrinths and Places to Loot' list.
Not bad for my first real attempt at an Adventure Destination.
And since then I've pretty much covered the jist of my career direction in past installments of this free advice column. I could write a book on the topic, but that's not going to happen.
Next time I'll talk about the evolution of my Hero-magnets and list my top ten successes in this demanding and competitive market.
Until then I remain,
Your Humble Overlord
Hurderoth
*1 This automatically gives my Dark Lord class a split option with the Lost Scion sub-class which I mainly branched into so my biographers had more to talk about and I got a free subscription to a monthly newsletter called "Assuming Heirs".
*2 Like Conan. But let's face it, Conan was an idiot. The epitome of the furry-jockstrap wearin, sword twirlin, shaggy haired fucking moron. Believed in Crom for fucksakes.
*3 Sure my 'tent' is 10,000 square feet, features 16 bedrooms with as many bathrooms. It has 2 hot tubs, a game room, three taverns and a dining area that could seat 500 people and it takes a team of 100 tent setter-uppers six hours to erect. But do't let that diminish, in your mind, the hardships I have to endure while campaigning.
*4 The Arachnid King was a female freelance Elder Giant Spider Mystic** who agreed to star in my death trap provided she didn't have to come out of her palatial web network more than once a week to slaughter some dumbfuck Adventurers and was allowed to lay eggs in anything she captured no matter how much it screamed.
**Her name was Octavia
