Ebon

A dissonant hum resonates from the Echoist’s throat, summoning the memories of the dead buried beneath Ebon’s streets. Rotting hands claw from the ground to grip enemies’ ankles, their fingers singing in unison with the Echoist’s phantom, causing victims to hear the final pleas of the dead, freezing them in place as their veins pulse with phantom rot.

Lullaby is a subtle enchantment that gently lulls a target into a deep sleep, making it ideal for calming distracted or relaxed individuals. The spell's effectiveness diminishes against those who are highly alert or focused, requiring a greater effort to succeed.

You unleash a deafening sound wave that resonates within a 30-foot radius, causing intense pain and paralysis to those who fail to cover their ears. Creatures within the area must make a saving throw or suffer from debilitating paralysis, with their ears bleeding from the sonic assault. Those who cover their ears are immune to the effects, but the sound can still be heard faintly, creating a disorienting experience.

Veylan’s fingers twitch upward, and the air screams. Two jagged portals, rimmed with teeth-like obsidian shards, rip open on either side of the victim. Through them spills the 6th layer’s cacophony—wails of eternally flayed souls, the wet crunch of infernal machinery grinding bone into mortar. Hundreds of clawed, molten hands surge forth. Some are skeletal, dripping magma. Others are bloated and rotted, oozing pus that sizzles on contact with air. They seize the victim’s limbs, hair, jaw—twisting. Fingers pry into eye sockets, peel ribs from sternums like opening a grotesque gift. The victim’s screams fragment as their jaw is wrenched sideways, tendons snapping like lute strings. Blood sprays in arcs, but the hands keep pulling, until the body is reduced to meat ribbons suspended in a web of demonic fingers. The portals snap shut, leaving a crater of gore and the stench of sulfur-soaked viscera. Veylan’s left eye burns a liquid, volcanic red—pupil slit like a serpent’s.

He flicks his wrist, and a bead of nothing streaks forward. It hits, and the world bends. Black flame erupts—no crackle, no roar. Just a silent, ravenous void-fire that consumes light, sound, hope. It burns at 100,000°C, hotter than a star’s heart. Flesh doesn’t char; it disappears in a nanosecond, leaving limbs sheared off in perfect cross-sections, bones vaporized mid-scream. What remains isn’t ash, but a hollow silhouette of soot, disintegrating at a touch. Stone melts into glass puddles. Metal becomes smoke. The air itself ignites, leaving a vacuum that collapses lungs. When the flame fades, the aftermath is surreal: a frozen tableau of half-melted faces, hands clutching weapons now fused to molten gauntlets, the ground glazed into a obsidian mirror reflecting the horror above. Veylan’s right eye smolders crimson, the iris swirling like a dying galaxy—a silent promise that this was mercy compared to what he withholds.

With a flick of his fingers, Veylan ensnares a target in an invisible grip, lifting them off the ground as they struggle against a force constricting their throat. The target experiences a horrifying moment of panic, choking and gasping as they are held aloft, blood trickling from their mouth until Veylan releases them, leaving them gasping for breath.

When Veylan invokes Crown of Dread, his right eye ignites into a deep, hellish red as reality fractures like glass under a titan’s step. The right half of his body erupts into demonic form—obsidian flesh split by molten veins, a spiraled horn blasting from his skull in a spray of bone and gore. His voice becomes a psychic scream, fifty thousand damned souls funneled through torn vocal cords. The air thickens into rot and iron, lungs sear into blood-slick sacs. Victims collapse into madness—eyes bursting, fingers clawing through their own skulls, mouths frothing with laughter and blood. Some mutilate themselves with ritualistic glee; others shatter bone against stone or gorge on their own flesh. It doesn’t kill. It breaks. Survivors are husks—mindless, whimpering creatures twitching in pools of bile, whispering nursery rhymes in voices that don’t belong to them. This isn’t fear. It’s contamination. The Black Crown speaks—and the mind splits.