Lyrinthea the Night Weaver

"As you venture deeper into the subterranean labyrinth, the air grows colder, and the echoes of your footsteps bounce off the aged stone walls. The passages, marked by the vestiges of an ancient civilization, lead you to a vast chamber where a raised stone dais dominates the center. The air is thick with an otherworldly glow emanating from the heart of the chamber, and a sense of ancient power hangs palpably in the air.

Before you stands the Forge of the Maker, a once-majestic structure that has weathered the tumult of countless centuries. The dais supporting the forge rises like a solitary island in a sea of shadows. The surface, worn by the passage of time, is marbled with intricate patterns that seem to pulse faintly with latent magic. At its center, the forge itself, an awe-inspiring construction of unknown metal alloys, radiates a soft, undying light. Streams of molten metal cascade in perpetual motion, weaving a mesmerizing dance of liquid fire.

Yet, a new element has intruded upon this sacred space. Lyrinthea the Night Weaver, an ancient and malevolent deathweb, has chosen this hallowed ground to enact her dark purpose. The chamber's ceiling is now a vast, ethereal tapestry of silver strands, carefully woven by the monstrous arachnid. The webs catch and reflect the ambient glow of the forge, casting eerie patterns that dance across the walls.

Lyrinthea herself rests upon the dais, her bulk cloaked in shadows. Eight long, spindly legs extend outward, each ending in razor-sharp points that pierce the stone beneath. Her eyes gleam with an otherworldly intelligence, and as you approach, the weaving intensifies, the strands vibrating with an unspoken threat. Clutched in one of her many legs is the Red Stitched Gauntlet, a dark artifact pulsating with malevolent energy, its purpose clear: the destruction of the ancient Forge of the Maker."
After fighting the normal deathweb Lyrinthea emerges from the husk, she has the same stats as the Deathweb but has several additional abilities

she can cast 2 spells/round

instead of 1 bite attack she has 2 (her giant legs)

she naturally has the spell whip of spiders as a constant effect, as well as the web spell at will (DC:17)

she has 11 temp HP from gloves of stolen unlife

Lv.1 spells (DC:17, CL: 6)

grease

burning disarm

cause fear

long arm

vanish

ray of enfeeblement

Lv.2 spells (DC:18, CL:6)

boneshaker

limp lash

create pit

haunting mists

Loot:
gloves of stolen unlife, mossy disk ioun stone (flawed), veil of attentiveness, kyton ring, Arachnid Harness
a felandris bloom (+4 to saves against spells and spell like abilities), an evil looking web covered spellbook (contains all her spells above +1d10 1st and 2nd level necromancy spells), a destroyed ring on her hand.

Her diary entries:

Day 1:
It is as if I have awoken from a long slumber... and yet as if I have opened my eyes for the first time. I feel my past life slipping away rapidly as a dream fades from memory upon waking... perhaps it was a dream. Skull Lord Nocturnus, my creator has entrusted me with vast knowledge and I seek to record this strange process as it unfolds. I am told that I am a predator, that when I come into my power I shall be feared by all. I am curious.


Day of the dark sun:
I know not how long it has been since I last touched this book, I take it once more because Lord Nocturnus has come to me with my purpose. Tonight, I stand at the precipice of a new existence, surrounded by the gloom of the Blackwood. The Skull Lords of the Midnight Court have blessed me with their vile spellpower and cunning. These new gifts fill me with a cruel delight, and I revel in the power that courses through my being.
The task laid before me is daunting. I must seek out a powerful magical artefact: the Forge of the Maker, yet I am crawling with anticipation. The Red Stitched Gauntlet, an artifact of dread, shall be my instrument of destruction. Lord Nocturnus promised that I would be anointed by Kane's own hand should I succeed.
To bind me to this harrowing quest, I now carry an hourglass filled with my own life's blood, a concoction born of my master's sangromancy. The sands within this sinister relic threaten my existence, for should the blood run dry before I complete my task, I shall be obliterated.
I am to delve deep into the heart of the Blackwood, and the dark forest will cower before me. Old enchantments and treacherous creatures will bow to my malevolence, knowing the wrath I am capable of. They will fear me, and rightly so.


Day of the Moonless Night:
The Blackwood submits to my dominance as I progress further into its depths. It is a realm of my own design, twisted and corrupted to serve my dark purpose. The moonless night shrouds me, and I relish in the suffering that awaits those who dare oppose me.
The Red Stitched Gauntlet, now a part of me, pulses with its magic rending power. Its touch sears my flesh, but the pain is a reminder of the power it wields, and I take pleasure in the agony. As I move forward, the mortals hope I let them keep their pitiful lives as they tremble, lurking in the shadows.
My resolve unyielding, I hunt for the elusive Forge, the hourglass ever ticking down, tempering my delusions of grandure. Yet I revel in the torment and chaos I sow, for it is a testament to my mastery over the forest and its denizens.


Day of the Crimson Eclipse:
An unexpected discovery amidst the twisted heart of the Blackwood has brought me pause. I stumbled upon an abandoned military outpost, a relic of the Knights of Ivory, and briefly hoped my quest was at an end. Alas, the Forge of the Maker eluded me still.
Within the crumbling walls of the small tower, I found spectres and shades of long-forgotten knights, their essences bound to this forsaken place. One of them begged me to give a proper burial to what was once his fleshcage, instead I sought to bend them to my will, to make them my servants, but their spectral ties to the tower resisted my dark machinations. Frustration and disappointment coursed through me for the first time... I could not break their shackles. I told the knight's spirit that if I knew where it's body was I would desecrate it further
I left them behind, their mournful wails echoing in the night, and pressed on in search of the elusive Forge, my resolve unbroken.


Day of the Ebon Desolation:
The shadows draw closer, their relentless pursuit threatens my very existence. The Scrivener Judge, guided by the insidious whispers of my deeds, found my hidden lair deep within the Blackwood.
Our battle was fierce, a cacophony of spells and slashing strikes. As I struck my final arcane deathblow I watched as his gaze turned to one of realization, then despair and then stone. In the end, my cunning prevailed, and I claimed victory over the foolish petrified Judge.
As punishement for opposing me and to add a twisted layer of irony to this macabre tapestry, I raised the Scrivener Judge within his stone casket! To serve as my undead sentinel, a reminder of his futile pursuit.
Yet, his demise brought unintended consequences. It will draw the attention of more Judges my master has said, stronger and more numerous. Trapped once more in a cruel dance with time, for my mission brooks no delay.



Day of the Night's Embrace:
As I roamed deeper into the Blackwood, I stumbled upon a group of hapless humans ensnared within my webs. I reveled in their terror as I questioned them, but when they failed to satisfy my curiosity, I feasted upon their flesh, leaving only their pitiful remains entwined in my sinister webs. They knew nothing of the Forge's location, and my patience waned.
The hourglass continues its relentless countdown, and my journey remains fraught with peril. The Blackwood itself quakes with fear, for it knows that I am the true malevolence that dwells within its heart.


Day of the Bloodmoon:
*A page is missing here, you see the small scraps of paper near the book's spine that indicates a page being torn out*
In my relentless quest for the Forge of the Maker, my pursuit through these accursed ruins and crypts of the Blackwood continues to bear no fruit. My patience wanes, and I grow weary of this ceaseless traipsing amidst the forest. I have found a mausoleum dedicated to Kelemvor, and once more, I believed my quest was at an end. But the Forge eluded me, and I demanded retribution. In a fit of dark rage, I chose to bolster my ranks. I desecrated the tombs of the sanctum, animating the remains within as my undead minions. Their hollow eyes now follow me with loyalty, bound by magic to serve my vile purposes. The mausoleum's once-sacred halls now echo with the mocking laughter of undeath. It seems even the gods are powerless to stop me, my power grows with each passing day.
Nevertheless the hourglass's blood drops draw ever nearer to their final descent and the Skull Lords of the Midnight Court have grown impatient, they expect results. Nothing will deter me from my purpose, the destruction of the forge is my paramount concern.


Day of the Final Drops:
The fury within me consumes all reason. That damned Houndmaster Judge, with her relentless pack of trained beasts, ambushed me when I was at my weakest. The sands in my cursed hourglass run scarce, each grain a mocking reminder of my impending doom.
The hounds tore into me, their savage bites driving me to the brink of madness. The Judge herself, a cunning adversary, stayed at a distance, sending arrows laced with venomous spite that pierced my very essence. She was prepared, calculated, and she reveled in my suffering!
But as the abyssal tide of despair threatened to swallow me whole, a spark of wicked inspiration ignited within. Amidst the chaos, I drew upon one of the potent scrolls I had gathered during my journey through this cursed wood. The power surged through me as I incanted the dreaded final words - Baleful Polymorph.
Oh, the irony! The Houndmaster Judge, once so adept at commanding her loyal beasts, was reduced to a pitiful, whimpering hound herself. I did not grant her the mercy of death; instead, she shall spend her wretched days as a filthy mutt, a mockery of her former self. Whereas before she was a bitch in name only, now she had become one in body and mind as well!
My laughter echoed through the darkened woods as I left her behind, with any luck one of her attack dogs will give her a good rutting. The night has grown darker, and my time short.
The Forge of the Maker awaits, and I shall claim it, even if I must tear this forsaken forest asunder to do so.