Guiding Gregor Pendergrast

In the spectral haze that follows the demise of Gregor, HIM, the eidolon, approaches the essence of Gregor now, an ill-defined spiritual storm of rage and despair. It floats before him unhinged and seething with unresolved ambitions as tumultuous and fractured in death as it had been in life.
 
HIM: “Was it worth it, Gregor? All the pain you caused, all the souls you tormented—was it truly worth it?” 
 
Gregor’s Soul: “Worth it? My pursuit was grander than mere mortals can comprehend! I stood on the brink of unrivaled power, ready to unlock the deepest secrets of the cosmos alongside the King in Yellow and Ossoyo, the Black Dust Whale. I was destined to traverse the dreamlands and gaze upon the Black Lake of Nod. If not for those meddling souls—a machine dreaming of boyhood, a soul split in twain, a shadow masquerading as light, and your charge—I would have succeeded!”
 
HIM: “Yet your supposed greatest triumph—the opening of the first Gate of Slumber—was not the result of your dark rituals or ingenious calculations. It was an accident, a product of rage, not reason. You threw Bessenne through the Lich Gate in a fit, and the gate swung open. Was that truly mastery, Gregor, or merely fortune?”
 
Gregor’s Soul: Simmering with rage yet touched by confusion he responds in distraught tone “It cannot be… My rituals, my sacrifices—all for naught?”
 
HIM: “You danced with powers beyond your comprehension, never truly mastering them.”
 
Gregor’s Soul: “An accident, yes, but it was I who turned the first key, even if by chance. That act alone set everything in motion!”
 
HIM: “And yet, you failed to open the second Gate of Deeper Slumber. Why, if it was your destiny?”
 
Gregor’s Soul: “You seek to muddle my thoughts, to cast doubt where there is certainty. I see it now… my approach was flawed. Xonthar’s lessons were clear, yet I misinterpreted them, blinded by my biases. The true key wasn’t to mark something both living and not, it wasn’t the undead, but to harness and put the sigil on those who exist both dreaming and awake, already marked by the realms of dreams! “
 
HIM: “It is time to lay aside those ambitions, Gregor. The clarity you claim in death serves no purpose now.”
 
Gregor’s Soul: “The irony! The keys came to me of its own accord, while I spilled blood in shadow. If only I had understood sooner—I needed them not as subjects of my experiments, but as partners to unlock the gates!”
 
HIM: “Such realizations are futile now, Gregor. You are severed from the world of the living and the dream. The gates you so desperately sought—the path of Giants, the Black Lake of Nod—are forever closed to you. The dead cannot dream, cannot walk those paths. Your journey concludes here, at the river of souls, where all ambitions must finally rest.”

As Gregor’s soul contemplates the harsh truths revealed to him, his inner turmoil begins to settle. But as “Him” guides him toward the tranquil banks of the river of souls, the reality of his eternal fate becomes too much to bear. Standing at the water’s edge, where the river reflects a peace that Gregor never knew in life. HIM, reaches out to assist Gregor in crossing over, but is met with a violent backlash as Gregor recoils with a sudden, fierce denial of his impending doom
 
Gregor’s Soul: “No! I refuse to end like this! Not forgotten, not powerless!” Gregor’s voice roars across the spiritual plane, his form writhing in desperation. In his panic, Gregor cries out into the void, “Xonthar, Herald of Ossoyo, the Dream Eater! Aid me! Do not forsake your disciple in his hour of greatest need!”
 
The air around them begins to crackle with a dark energy, and a chilling, supernatural presence manifests. A cyclone of swirling black dust, thick and oppressive, erupts from the ground, enveloping Gregor. The winds howl with the whispers of the forgotten and the damned, a maelstrom of dream and nightmare made manifest.
 
HIM: Caught in the sudden tempest, HIM struggles against the force that seeks to expel him. “Gregor, this path leads only to further torment!” he shouts, but his words are lost in the storm.
 
The cyclone intensifies, its dark sands piercing the veil between the worlds, and with a force as sudden as it is powerful, it casts HIM back into the waking realm. The last sight he beholds is Gregor’s soul, now a dark silhouette within the black maelstrom, disappearing in shadow and dust, spirited away by forces beyond comprehension.