Mirror of Doom (magic item showing cursed futures for your players... add your own!)

[rferries]

Mirror of Doom
This 4-ft. tall enchanted mirror is oval-shaped and set in a frame of wrought silver. Its polished surface reflects only swirling luminous mists. When not carried or packed away the mirror suspends itself in mid-air (as if via levitate). The item may also be crafted as an (un)holy water font, a particularly large crystal ball, or any similar scrying device.

When a creature approaches within 5 feet, the mirror turns to face it and the mists within clear to reveal a brief and horrifying vision of that creature's future. After viewing the vision, the creature must save against bestow curse, confusion, crushing despair, fear, lesser geas, or a similar effect (Will DC 16 negates). The vision and the effect are determined by the DM (see below for suggestions).

Once the vision is complete, the mirror clouds over once again. It never functions more than once for the same creature. If multiple creatures look into the mirror at the same time, they see only their own personal vision.

Although the mirror's visions are indeed of the future, they are only the worst possible futures. Creatures may be able to avoid (or ensure) their reflected fates through their own actions.

Moderate divination and necromancy; CL 7th; Craft Wondrous Item, bestow curse, scrying; Price 52,000 gp; Weight 45 lb.

Suggestions
The mirror shows visions tailored to horrify a creature according to its class and alignment.

Good-Aligned Arcane Spellcaster
The pale mists within the looking glass are swept away to reveal a eerie spectacle. You see an alchemical laboratory filled with dusty glassware, decaying tomes, gruesome specimens preserved in jars, and other spellcasting accoutrements. It must have taken many lifetimes to accumulate all these sordid supplies, and just as long for them to fall into ruin.

Your hear a distant wailing, as if from an infant.

The mists briefly return, then part again.

You see a great chamber of obsidian, with a tremendous golden pentagram inlaid in the floor. In the centre of the room a writhing halfling child wails, conscious but bound helplessly to an altar and clearly in agonising pain. A figure in tattered robes is hunched over the child, its back to you. You realise with horror that it is slowly drawing out the child's entrails!

The figure straightens and holds up a collection of extracted viscera with bloodstained arms, while the child breathes its last. You see from the creature's bony arms and fleshless visage that it is a lich - an undead spellcaster of great power and malevolence.

Suddenly, as if warned through some preternatural sense, the lich turns from its murderous haruspicy to meet your gaze. An unholy radiance flickers within its empty eyesockets.

You feel a growing horror. Somehow, you are certain that the mirror is showing you the distant future - your future. The lich... is you. You scream.

The mists return again. Your allies rush into the room, having heard you cry out. Once they see there is no threat, they try to reassure you...

...but you keep screaming. (Save vs fear.)

Bard
A vision of the PC with their beauty long-since faded and their voice raspy with age. The PC succumbs to a deep ennui over the futility and transience of their Art (save vs crushing despair).

Druid
A vision of the PC as a convert of an evil god of slaughter and fire, laying waste to the forests and wildlife they once protected. The PC finds themselves cursed to lose their kinship with the wild, in a self-fulfilling prophecy (save vs. bestow curse that drives away their animal companion and inflicts a -20 penalty on Wild Empathy checks).

Martial Character
A maddening vision of the PC wizened and weakened by the passage of time, bereft of the strength of arms upon which they once relied. The vision drives the PC to lash out at anyone in their vicinity, trying to prove to themselves that they are still young and vital (save vs confusion).

Paladin
A vision of the PC as a blackguard (duh!).

Rogue
A horrifying vision of the PC with their hands having been amputated for theft, reduced to begging for alms on the city streets they once ruled. The enchantment terrifies the PC into avoiding unlawful activity (save vs lesser geas to avoid making Bluff, Disable Device, Disguise, Forgery, Open Lock, and Sleight of Hand checks).

[GunbladeKnight]

Paladin:
The character is tied up and their allies lie around them, horrendously murdered.

[Lvl45DM!]

Barbarian: The clang and clamour of battle begins to ring out as the mists in the mirror begin to swirl. You look across a blood-soaked field. Truly a sight of marvellous carnage! The mirror moves closer and you see that many of the dead are orcs(/appropriate villains) rent and torn. Hah, serves those swine right!

Some of the dead are your tribe(/allies) but that is well, they died fighting.

The mirror moves on. Less and less orcs now, more of your tribe. Numbers perhaps taking their toll. A sense of dread fills you.

But then, hope! You hear your war cry, see the flash of your steel! The mirror moves faster, passing dozens of your tribe with only scattered enemies.

The blood red haze clears and you see yourself standing atop a pile of bodies, roaring in fury as you cleave an elder of your tribe in twain. He was too old to fight properly and you cut him down nonetheless.

A group of orcs surround your next victim and prod them with spears towards you...this is (someone dear to them)! They are battered and weary, but they raise a broken blade and charge.

Your orc allies trip them, and with another war-cry you hew their prone body apart.

You cackle and lick the blood from your weapon, before you turn to face the mirrors eye. You are a monster, without honor or courage, nothing left but bloodlust.
(Will save or go into berserk fury)

Bard: You see a vision of yourself, not much older than you are now, only 10(or 100 or 300) years perhaps. Grey in your hair, and a comfortable gut. Your resplendent clothes are drab and plain. But you seem happy enough.

You pull some bread out of the oven, plain but respectable fare. You seat yourself at a table and wait for a (appropriate gendered) person, to sit beside you, a ring on both your fingers declaring you spouses.

Then the children come in. Young, hale and hearty giggling as they rush for breakfast.

A happy, though mundane life. As your youngest starts to rip apart their bread they begin to hum. Ahhh they inherited your music skills. So young, but marvellously on key!

The mirror focuses in on their face, and their song. Then your hand, delicate skilled fingers worn rough by hard work, comes into frame and strikes the child down.

They fall, bleeding and weeping. You stand over them, howling in a broken voice how frivolous music is, a waste of time, useless, barren, foolish. There is no music in your house...there is no more music in your heart.
Save vs Silence for the rest of the day.

Cleric: You are laying on an altar, body wizened and withered by time. You are draped in the regalia of the Highest priest of your religion. The altar is part of the largest and most beautiful temple to your god you have ever seen. Soaring arches and stainglass windows, or a blood soaked floor with spiked iron walls, a garden, a home, whatever.

One by one dozens of weeping faithful approach your body and pray over you, your weak but serene benedictions, or firm orders, or giggling jests, or vicious snarls having such impact, you know exactly what to say to each person.

Then you sigh, and your eyes close. And you begin to rest. The vision distorts and you can see into the Etheral plane. All that was real looks misty and ghostly and you see your spirit rise.

Carried by etheric winds you drift into a starry void, the Astral Plane, the way to your final resting place.

You soar upwards, your just reward no doubt just ahead, peace, happiness, a chance to scheme or kill, whatever. There is a flash of light and then...
The mirror goes blank.

Wait, you can see something. You can see you...your soul. Nothing else but black. You drift alone in an endless void.
Alone.

Sv vs Crushing Despair

Druid: You sit, old and wise, wearing simple garb, cross legged in a beauteous garden. The flowers are blooming, and the wind rustles through your hair. Birdsong flutters about.

The garden is perfect. Not a blade of grass out of place, not a tree with a twisted limb. The window blows pollen and seeds about draping you in nature.

Perfect.

The mirror follows one seed, daffodil by its appearance. It drifts and floats and lands in a bed of roses.

Time passes and a daffodil sprouts. It is like nothing you have ever seen. It is beautiful, a shimmering silver and blushing pink! A rare hybrid pollinization has created something so wonderful.

You see it grow and bloom, and begin to bud new seeds.

Then a shadow falls across it. You stand over it, sickle in hand and you reap the flower without emotion. "This is the rose bed" you hear yourself mutter as you crush the daffodil in hand. A squirrel leaps from a tree and you smite it down with your shillelagh. In the morning you visit the birds that are caged. One does not sing with its brethren. You take it from the cage and smother it.

You are not a keeper of a druid grove...you have built a garden. Nothing wild, nothing real, nothing natural.

The mirror flies back and shows you more...your garden, your paradise lies in the centre of a city that spans for miles.

Bestow Curse or no wild shape

[rferries]

I like 'em!