Imp / Dalren's Familiar
In combat Dalren often shares Draconic Polymorph with Astirox. His preferred forms are advanced Maraliths and Pit Fiends
Astirox no longer remembers who he was in life. All he knows for sure is that he agreed to a bargain with a devil, and after a short time a lemure on Dis, the 2nd layer of the Nine Hells, was promoted to an Imp. Dispater, the ruler of Dis, despises Imps and their cunning trickery, and so dispatches most of them back to the Fugue Plane to attempt to lure more souls to the Nine Hells.
It was here he encountered the spirit of an enraged Dalren Dlardrageth – a recently slain soul of a man who was somewhere in between a fey’ri and an elven half-fiend. Astirox could see the power of the man as he fought to tear his soul free from something that was trying to hold it back. He was perplexed – how did he end here anyway? This man clearly had a large amount of fiendish heritage, he should have been sent directly to the Abyss – but he wasn’t quite chaotic enough for that place – Astirox could see it in his soul’s aura. Like his clan’s progenitor – Malkizid – this man truly wasn’t suited to either the Hells or the Abyss.
What was this blue power that kept pulling at his soul? It was powerful…ancient…ah, an artifact.
Astirox spoke to the man:
“That blade seeks to keep your soul, fiend. Your will is strong, I can see the fire in your eyes as you fight it.”
All he heard from the man was a stream of curses that would make a mortal cringe.
“Normally I’d be here tricking you into bargaining your soul, but I have a better idea. You’re not as strong as that blade – I can already feel your will waning – but you are quite strong. Allow me to serve at your side and leave this drab place.”
The man gave an angry glare that Astirox took as an aknowledgement.
“My truename is Astirox’imalli’frot.”
That was all he could say before the blue flame consumed the enraged man and he was gone.
Several days later, Astirox found himself being pulled through the Astral Plane and into a room – deep in a dungeon, somewhere in Cormanthyr, inside a Circle of Protection drawn for planar binding. There, a cambion stood, holding that blue blade that took the man’s soul. Another elf lay on the floor, writhing in pain as he shed his elven skin and grew that of a demon. And the ghost of that man – Dalren Dlardrageth appeared before him and spoke.
“Let us discuss the terms of your service to me.”