Once upon a time, long before the world of Elderforge fell into an uneasy peace and the varying lands knew communion, there was the Illithid Empire. An Empire of vile Mind Flayers built on slavery and tyrannical rulership. The tale of Pentergost, the first Lich takes place during this era, when the Illithids were at the height of their power and were inclined towards total world domination, before catastrophe struck. This is his tragic story, the beginning of his fall.

A splatter of spilled blood arced across the arena and splashed down into the dusty ground. The crowd roared in approval, a hundred Illithids of various stations all gathered to watch the monthly gladiator fights. A vicious sword flashed out in a stabbing motion from the figure who just suffered a wound across their shoulder, and was deftly batted aside by a small wooden shield wielded by the other. The two fighters took a couple steps back and took a second to carefully watch each other, both getting ready for the next engagement. The wounded warrior, an Elthine of medium build with mottled green and yellow skin and fiery red hair braided back out of their face, was panting heavily, eyes darting around looking for a way out. The two fighting Elthine wore the features that made up the race of slaves, an elongated face, prominent high cheekbones and a curved cavity making up their nose. Their skin ranged from yellow and greens, to dusky grays, darkening with age, and often containing a mottled pattern similar to the patchy skin of a horse. The challenger wore leather straps of minimal armor and a small shortsword and wooden shield, same as his opponent. His combatant, the reigning champion of the ring, stood taller, with a powerful build and lean muscles covered in smooth yellow skin. She was beautiful, both primal and elegant, with delicate facial features and blue hair that flowed down to her lower back, where the small leather armor revealed her powerful and curvaceous butt, bouncing with each thrust of her sword and... Pentergost shook himself. What in Bane was wrong with him, he could not look at a filthy slave like that, he is above such things. He forced himself back onto his original task, habitually stroking his face-tentacles with a long, gnarled hand, as he surveyed the arena. 

The lower sects making up his nobles were all transfixed on the fight, and he investigated each noble in turn from his vantage point atop the throne. Trok, a loyal underling with wet, pink skin and short tentacles, was holding himself on his right leg a slight percent more than usual, his condition was worsening, Pentergost set a mental note to begin looking for a replacement, he believed Trok would be dead within three weeks, maybe four. Beside him, Slegchen was sitting her lanky form upright with perfect posture, as usual. Her slimy, purple complexion appeared to be fixed on the fight, but Pentergost noticed she occasionally flicked her gaze upwards, every… eight seconds by his count. He tracked her gaze, found it locked on to one of the Ring Masters, a large Illithid with missing face-tentacles and a muscular exterior covered in a profusion of sweat. A dry sense of pleasure bloomed within him, one that only came from the enjoyment of having power over others. So, she had bet on the fight, illegal in the Empire for any noble to do as they were considered too powerful and could easily sway the fight. That was good, this new knowledge could be used as leverage to help in a future council meeting if she dared oppose him. Pentergost continued this process for each of his nobles, analyzing even the smallest details about them and finding various ways to use this information. He noticed a small scuff on one of their jackets denoting a problem within their dwelling, and a slight look of dehydration on another, showing the amount of time it has been since they had feasted on a brain. Must be financial problems. 

Pentergost's attention was snapped back to the ring when a thunderous cheer erupted from the onlookers. Standing tall surrounded by bloodied bodies was the beautiful shape of the female Elthine gladiator, truly the reigning champion. Blood caked across her form as she breathed heavily from the exertion, having defeated eleven warriors in succession without suffering any wounds. She raised her blood-spattered sword high above her head with a triumphant expression to another chorus of support and stood there for several seconds, her chest heaving up and down with her heavy breaths. Sweat glistened on the soft flesh of her breasts, occasionally a bead would roll down the crack between and disappear from sight. Pentergost pushed himself up onto his splayed feet from his stone throne, and immediately the entire arena fell silent. All eyes locked on him. He gathered his delicate black robe up and swirled it around him, then turned his eyes to the arena. He turned his silky blue head, sitting prominently over his dark, flayed robes adorned with medallions, slightly downward, and for the final time the crowd cheered, spurred on by their Emperors approval of the victor. Pentergost turned to leave and caught the Elthine gladiator's eyes for a second, but in which he swore she winked one of her glittering orange eyes at him and his breath caught. He turned away quickly, but still felt like he had suddenly forgotten how to use his body. He stumbled up the stone slab steps to leave the arena, suddenly forgetting all the valuable information he had gathered from his nobles and instead focusing entirely on staying upright in front of his people. Where was he going again? Right, back to his Spire for a meal. He thinks that is correct, but it takes him many an hour walking through the streets of his Empire's capital city before he is sure.