Editing Ilsenhoon the Mind Flayer Ministrel (section)

===Chapter 5===
Ilsenhoon remained at the town for a few days. Although many shunned contact with him, largely due to his appearance, the barman had said, he had won several over. He regaled them with tales of heroic adventurers, descending into the Underdark for fame and glory. Truth be told, he really didn't know where those stories came from... they just popped into his head. Sometimes when he'd describe the heroes, he'd get flashes, blurred memories of slaves in cages... but those thoughts were too indistinct.

He even played several songs for the bar, without a telepathic commentary. Oddly, he'd thought, more people seemed to enjoy those segments. Perhaps they didn't like the telepathy... no, that couldn't be it. He'd just have to find better stories later.

On his fourth day in the town, Ilsenhoon met up with a small group of so-called adventurers. Two humans and a dwarf. They said they had heard of his bravery and decided to invite him along as they looted a mage's tower. Perhaps this would serve as decent story material, Ilsenhoon thought, and promptly agreed to go.

The journey there took well over a day, during which time the dwarf constant expressed its disapproval of Ilsenhoon. He didn't care, of course. Duergar were inferior in every way to the mighty Illithid. And from what he'd heard, surface dwarves were inferior to even duergar. This furry-faced creature was little more than a noisy annoyance, but for now he was necessary. There were no thralls to be had, so willing allies would do.

They reached the tower, and began to make their way up, fighting off all manner of foul creature as they did. Ilsenhoon kept back while the three warriors carved a path through them, even encouraging them with bits of song now and again, keeping their spirits up. It definitely seemed to help, they often ignored their wounds and kept fighting, beating back skeletons, and generally keeping everything away from Ilsenhoon.

Eventually they made their way to the top of the tower and came face-to-face with the dreaded master mage himself... naught but a shriveled old man upon his deathbed. As we entered he rose his head ever-so-slightly, blind eyes searching in the dark for intruders.

Ilsenhoon glanced at the others, who shrugged, “We'd heard he was dying... Usually a place like this would be a death trap... but a dying mage doesn't pose much of a threat, eh? C'mon you guys, lets loot this place and head out. The old geezer can sit here and die for all I care, he ain't gonna bother us.”

The other three began rooting through desks and tearing apart shelves. Ilsenhoon casually looked through one bookcase, hoping to find a tome on spells, or even tales of old... but alas, there was nothing. He approached the old, sick man and sat on the bed next to him, his thoughts reaching out to touch the mage's thoughts.

YOU HAVE MAGIC. WHERE ARE YOU MYSTICAL TOMES?

The mage gave a stuttering cough, and a slight chuckle, “I cannot see you. I can barely hear you. Soon I will depart this world. You may loot my tower, take a few potions... maybe a cookbook or two... but you see,” he fell into a coughing fit for a moment, flecks of blood splattering his already dirty bedsheets. “But you see... I am no wizard. Everything of magic I know,” he raised a wrinkled, almost shriveled finger, to his temple and tapped it, “is up here. The draconic magics are not learned... they are inherited, you filthy brigands... Now leave me be. Let an old man die in peace.”

Ilsenhoon considered it a moment. There was no history here. No tales of epic adventure. Not even a book of magic he could use for himself... All of this for naught? No... there was something else to be gained.

NO, SORCERER. INHERIT IT, I SHALL. YOU WILL DIE, BUT YOU WILL LIVE ON.

Ilsenhoon descended upon the old mage, his tentacles wrapping around its head, constricting its windpipe. The illithid's beak bit into its skull with a sickening crack and began draining its contents. Blood seeped from around Ilsenhoon's mouth, down the old sorcerer's head and pooling on the bed.

The mage gave a final choke and went limp in Ilsenhoon's tentacles. He let the head drop, the hollow skull resting peacefully on the bloodsoaked pillows.

Ilsenhoon's mind raced with the new information. Now he had magic... now he had history. And more importantly, now he had a story to tell.

Ilsenhoon wiped the blood from his tentacles with mild disgust. Some chattel age like... what did humans call it? Right, fine wine. But this one was more like milk. It was old and sour... but he got what he needed out of it. His mind filled with adventures, songs and tales to be sung and told.

He turned back to the party, who were looking at him aghast. Ilsenhoon quirked an eyebrow, WHAT? DO I HAVE SOMETHING IN MY TEETH? He inquired and opened his maw wide. The group shrunk away, looking thoroughly sick.

The furry-faced dwarf was the first to speak, “I told ye, that flayer was trouble! Goin' off and eatin' brains! Let's just kill it an loot the body!” It brandished an axe and took a step forward.

SILENCE, Ilsenhoon commanded. I HAVE FOUGHT YOUR BETTERS, THE DUERGAR. THEY ARE WORTHY FOES, BUT YOUR KIND... YOU SURFACE FOLK ARE WEAK, DWARVES MORE SO. A RACE SO USED TO THE DARK, THE MOUNTAINS, AND YET HERE YOU ARE, SCUTTLING ABOUT IN THE DAYLIGHT.

The dwarf's face went red with anger, its fist clutching the axe white with strain. Its face contorted, mouth spewing words like a plague victim spew sickness, “And wot does that make ye, then, flayer? Yer even more out of yer element!”

Ilsenhoon's eyes narrowed with anger. True, he never thought of that... banished he was, no memory of how to get back... The humans began backing away from the dwarf, content not to get involved in this scuffle. That was all he needed. No slight goes unrewarded.

Ilsenhoon reached his thoughts out and blasted the dwarf's primitive mind, sending searing pain throughout its body. It was certainly no pushover, however, and charged forward, swinging its axe towards Ilsenhoon, narrowly missing him.

Not liking to be so close to a foe, Ilsenhoon gripped his foe's thoughts and twisted, sending the dwarf reeling backwards several steps. It shook its head and charged forward again, swinging its axe furiously, catching him in the shoulder with a deep cut.

Ilsenhoon had it, none should be allowed to touch him... he was after all, Illithid. Illithids were superior. Though he was no longer of the Empire, he was still superior to all other races. YOU WILL STAND DOWN, his thoughts boomed, slicing into the dwarf's head like a hammer into a melon. It shook its head again, and again, and then slumped to the side, eyes rolling back and forth in their sockets.

Ilsenhoon waved a hand to the humans and strode towards the door. HE WILL LIVE. YOU WILL NOT FOLLOW ME. YOU WILL NOT BOTHER ME AGAIN. AND YOU WILL KEEP HIM FROM DOING EITHER AS WELL, OR I WILL NOT BE AS GENEROUS NEXT TIME.