In the years following his tenuous survival at St. Amaranthine University, Gaspard’s life became a relentless cycle of bargaining and deception. Each success, every accolade won through fraud, only deepened his reliance on the spirits that propped up his crumbling façade. At first, the prices seemed small—mere slivers of his soul, traded away like loose coins—but as Gaspard rose in reputation, the spirits’ demands grew ever steeper.

Upon graduation, Gaspard was hailed as a rising star of the mystical arts, a master shaman whose prowess could rival the greatest sorcerers. His family welcomed him back to the Crescent Dominion with open arms, their faith in him renewed and their pride swelling. Grandmother Seline, though silent, regarded him with sharp eyes that seemed to see through his charade. Yet even her gaze could not sway him. For Gaspard, there was no turning back—only forward, deeper into the darkness he had willingly embraced.

To maintain his charmed life, Gaspard descended further into forbidden rituals, learning secrets the spirits had once withheld. He built a secluded manor on the edge of the bayou, its halls filled with arcane symbols and the smell of smoldering herbs. Here, he conjured darker and hungrier spirits, entities with names that had been forgotten for good reason. They whispered of power untold, promising him the illusion of magic no longer—true dominion over life and death. All they asked for was more of his soul.

Piece by piece, Gaspard obliged. His days were spent crafting elaborate rituals, summoning ever-stronger spirits to perform dazzling feats of magic on his behalf. His evenings, however, were lonely and bleak. The shards of his soul taken by the spirits left empty hollows within him, slowly eroding his sense of self. He no longer laughed or cried. He barely slept, for in his dreams, the spirits danced and howled in triumph, taunting him with glimpses of the man he used to be.

As the years wore on, his body began to betray the truth he had long hidden. His once-vibrant skin grew pale and tight, his aristocratic blue suit hanging looser as though his form itself were shrinking. His eyes, once bright with confidence, sank deep into shadowed sockets, glowing faintly with a spectral light. Gaspard took to hiding behind a gilded mask, claiming it was a symbol of his authority as a master shaman, but the truth was far grimmer—he feared his face might give away the horror of what he was becoming.

Rumors spread across the Crescent Dominion. Locals began to call him Gaspard of the Bottomless Grave, whispering that he communed not with spirits of ancestors but with something far more malevolent. They claimed they saw him wandering the bayou at night, red staff in hand, his once-polished obsidian orb now cracked and dripping with an unnatural black ichor. The orb pulsed with an unholy light, a reflection of the spirits’ unending hunger, and it had begun to whisper to Gaspard in voices that no mortal man should endure.

It was Grandmother Seline who first confronted him. Her arrival at his decaying manor was unannounced, the sharp clack of her staff echoing through the empty halls. When Gaspard greeted her, his voice was hollow, and the mask he wore could not hide the skeletal form beneath. The confrontation was short but brutal.

"You have shamed us, boy," Seline hissed, her gaze no longer piercing but mournful. "You have bartered away the one thing that made you human. Your soul."

"Humanity is overrated," Gaspard replied, though his words rang false. "I have power. True power."

Grandmother Seline shook her head and left him there, her footsteps growing faint as she disappeared into the swamp. Gaspard did not chase after her; he could not. Instead, he turned his gaze to the cracked orb atop his staff, his lips pulling into a rictus grin. He told himself that this was destiny fulfilled, that he was now beyond the frailties of the mortal world.

Years later, no living soul saw Gaspard again. His once-grand manor fell into ruin, reclaimed by the swamp and strangled by moss. Travelers spoke of a figure that lingered near the marshy waters on nights when the moon was full—a skeletal corpse clad in tattered blue and gold, its crimson staff glowing faintly in the dark. The spirits whispered his name still, though now in tones of reverence and dread.

Houngan Necromancer Gaspard of the Bottomless Grave. A creature bound to the will of the spirits he once controlled, now their eternal servant. His soul was long spent, and what remained of him was neither man nor ghost, but something in between—a hollow shell cursed to roam the bayou, forever seeking a power that had already consumed him.

It is said that those who venture too close to the ruins of Gaspard's manor can still hear him—his ragged voice carried on the swamp breeze, pleading with unseen forces to restore what he so foolishly gave away. The spirits laugh in response, their cruel mirth echoing through the bayou like the tolling of a funeral bell.

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