The Void Knight is a defensive Warrior who uses eldritch techniques to counter magic-wielding foes. Spells that would bring another Warrior low are shaken off by a Void Knight, reflected back at the caster, or stored in pacts the Void Knight can unleash to devastating effect.
Void Knights empower themselves by absorbing hostile spells, becoming terrifying foes for any wielder of the arcane.
Enemies using mundane weapons and force of arms can ignore a Void Knight’s enchanted defenses and give them no fuel with which to charge their attacks.
As the hovel door burst open, the three wizened crones within let out shrill screams of pain. A stout Dwarven Warrior stood in the door, silhouetted by the sunlight that streamed in to burn their withered flesh.
“Lay down your sacrificial tools, hags!” said Rasmolov the Void Knight. “Your sick devotion to the fell dragon of magic won’t save you now.”
“Fool!” cried the eldest sister. “You dare to interrupt the ritual of Estrode?”
“Little vermin!” hissed the middle sister, and with a wave of her hand, Rasmolov shrunk until he was small and furry, with a bushy tail.
“We will make a stew of you!” The youngest sister licked her lips and stooped over to grab the squirrel that now crouched on the floor. Before she could grab him, the rodent tugged on its fluffy chin, which became a beard, and with a burst of energy an angry Dwarf stood before them again. “A spellbreaker charm!” cried the youngest hag before his axe sunk deep into her chest twice or thrice.
“Sisters, we must flee—” her warning died as the air rushed out of the room and all three witches fell silent.
Rasmolov swung his axe wildly. Desperate for escape, the three sisters clawed at the mud walls. The older two managed to force their way out. They looked back in horror to see Rasmalov grasp their youngest sister for a moment before she burst into flame, her energies igniting in her veins. The Void Knight turned his attention to them.
“The coven is broken!” wailed the eldest.
“He must pay for this!” shrieked the newly youngest.
They unleashed upon him every spell they knew, but the Dwarf shrugged them off as if they were an apprentice’s cantrips. Rasmolov advanced upon the eldest, a new pact charm held before him, pillaging the witch’s soul. She felt her power waning, and in moments she slumped down, empty as an upended wineskin. The Dwarf’s axe, however, glowed with might.
“My power…” she croaked.
“Right here!” Rasmolov struck a mighty blow. For every spell he’d thwarted, every bit of energy stolen from the sisters, he had sealed an arcane pact, converting the magic into wicked force, which he unleashed upon his deserving victim.
Rasmolov had studied techniques for fighting spell-casters since his daughter had perished upon an altar to Akylios. While this slaughter would never bring her back, he could finally deal justice to those who fueled their dark arts with the blood and tears of innocents.
“Now, damnable witch,” he told the final sister, “do you give up? Or must I do this the hard way?”
She did what any powerless sorceress would do when facing a raging Warrior. She ran. Rasmolov was ready with another charm. He yanked her back to him, dragging her bodily through the planes.
His axe cleft deep, disrupting her spells, leeching her very power with each blow before discharging it upon her. With her dying breath she rattled a mighty curse upon him, which rolled off his shoulders with a fizzling, sizzling sound.
Rasmolov wiped his axe off on her robe. “Bloody witches,” he muttered, stalking out of the hut.