And darkness and decay and death held dominion over all

[Pseudonym]

// This post is kinda half in jest .. though it does sum up Virtue's experiences in the crafthall over the last few days. //

There is something about the crafthalls when you first walk in each morning. It is the initial darkness, slowly dispelled as Dalia the caretaker first lights the lanterns and stokes the forges. If you squint your eyes, it is like the sun cresting the horizon on a new day. It is the natural colours, the verdant greens and browns, the dappled light created by strategically placed braziers. I am reminded of a an earlier time. A time of youthful innocence and exuberance. It is reminiscent of a walk through the forest in an age when nature's majesty was unsullied by the hand of man. My emotionally susceptibility is heightened with all the promises of a new day crafting in Layonara. My sense of wonder and goodwill to fellow man is at a peak. In the morning all feelings are heightened: fear, sadness, joy, love and expectation. I am a vessel waiting to be filled with the nectar experience of the day. The doors open - I am filled with love.

It deteriorates rapidly from there.

As a wise man once said (// Samuel Johnson //) there is nothing like the prospect of execution to focus the mind. Similarly, the prospect of having to work another day in the crafthalls of doom, sharpens one's sensibilities to a fine edge. In this circumstance a day at craft becomes an exquisite torture.

Like people facing death, I find that I pass through a regular set of emotional stages when crafting.

Optimism. I stand behind the tinker's toolbox, the fletcher's bench, the hide rack, as the day commences. My mind is open, receptive, curious. There is still a slight thrill of excitement about what I am about to experience. Maybe today is different. There is potential. I am filled with love.

Bemusement. Although the first hour I craft doesn't yield more positive results than 3 in 19 nuggets with a 45% chance of success, I am still optimistic. I am sure today is going to be different. Something favourably statistically amazing is going to happen any minute.

Anxiety. Still no success matching the text box's allegations. The crafthall that had seemed so full of promise by dawn's early light now seem uninspiring and devoid of life and light. Life's plan is now obscure. Everything seems to take forever. Long silences. Limbs motionless. Silence. Lots of staring.

Guilt. I blame myself. I obviously have the wrong mindset about how the crafting process is progressing. I must rid myself of prejudices. It may be not be the ideal, but I must try to judge this crafting experience on its own merits. Where is the love?

Panic. I desperately try to enjoy the repeated failures at 70% chance of success. I look for meaning in every failure. Is this meant to make me a better, more patient person? A kind of hysteria sets in. I remember a slightly humorous comment someone made three weeks ago and I laugh out loud. Clutching at straws.

Paralysis. A numbness sets in. The mind fights to retain its sanity. I feel like an entombed miner trying to stay calm while rescue teams dig their way through a thousand metres of granite with teaspoons; like being strapped in the chair while a geriatric dentist with a severe case of the shakes painstakingly drills and fills every tooth in my head.

Hatred. I start to plot revenge on those who have brought me to this point of my life. I devise elaborate tortures for my friends, mentors, teachers, acquaintances who have in some way been responsible in inflicting this horror on me. I plot obsessively. My loathing ranges over the mayor of Hempstead to the goblins guarding the ore, to the potential customers for whom I craft, those pusillanimous, encephalically challenged traitors who refuse to hand over their money to at least make this financially, if not intellectually and spiritually worthwhile. The net of hatred spreads far and wide. There is no love anymore.

These vengeful thoughts occupy and soothe my mind for the last, what seems like, forty hours of the crafting day. The shadow on the face of the sundial seems frozen in time. It is as if Corath has stopped the march of time, He is determined to prolong the day until I have given up hope of it ever ending. I pray for death's sweet numbing embrace.

I wonder what I might have done with my time today instead of what I actually have done. Were I a doctor, how many people might I have cured? Were I a teacher, how many young minds might I have expanded, nurtured? A noble paladin, how many wrong-doers might I have smited (or is it smitten?)?

Suddenly it's over. I stand blinking; stunned as the time to escape is finally here. The last nugget is gone, the last tailor's needle broken, the last imbalance of raw ingredients recognised. It is like dawn after a night of griffon air raids. I stumble out the doors of the centre into the chill evening air. The street torches are beautiful in the fog; people are chatting, laughing, going places. Life, normality, sanity return.

[Pseudonym]

Virtue sits at ease in the mahogany panelled great library of the mansion in Leringard. A summoned skeletal warrior fans him with a branch of an exotic palm tree, specially transported from far Audira. If the skeleton resents the mundane nature of it's assigned task, it gives no sign. Virtue scans another book ... searching and seeking the lost and forbidden lore of the Pale Master.


Selected passages of Dark Path of the Pale Master by Mesannas Beranesev ...

**********************

Within the chapter on History of the Pale Masters ...

... the path of the Pale Master. The refined and perfected art of summoning undead, the minions of the realm beyond, do to one's bidding. Creating, ordering, mastering undead through channels 'arcane' as opposed to the more traditional channels 'divine' ...

**********************

Within the chapter on Origins of our summons ...

... In the depths of the unimaginable hells, things ... entities dark and powerful have been biding their time for centuries, millenia. The corpses are buried but their usefulness is not at an end. The Pale Master can make his crusade, his goals and motivations theirs again. The tormented souls are not free yet. Using the twisted and malignant powers granted by the Mad God, created out of the hate from the deepest bowels of the earth, the summoned undead shoulder the burdens of the mortal plane once more at our bidding. That which dies does not die, but remains, decays, and returns in horror ...

**********************

Within the chapter on Strengths of our summons ...

... Ghoul ... can cause a wasting disease to debilitate one's enemies ...

... Shadow ... can steal the strength of the most powerful warrior with their touch ... an opponent's blade can pass through harmlessly ...

... Ghast ... The stink of death and corruption surrounding these creatures can be overwhelming ... weakening ... more virulent disease ...

... Wight ... attack using their clawed fists in mindless rage ... can steal the very life energy of our opponents ...

... Wraith ...Can weaken the sturdiest of fighters ...  incorporeal creatures born of evil and darkness ... existing only to destroy at our command ...

**********************

// Dark Path of the Pale Master by Mesannas Beranesev ... is just a made up tome! I'm sure something like it must exist somewhere. :-)

[Pseudonym]

The Church of Corath.

It amuses me that a Church that is dedicated to the worship of the Mad One, the deification of Chaos, Death, Lies and Hatred has such a rigid hierarchy. That it demands such blind obedience from it's followers to the Dreap Priests and Priestesses. How does one advance in such a hierarchy if one is always obeying one's ranked superior? By natural attrition? Does one have to wait until his or her master or mistress dies of old age before one can advance to the next rung of the ladder? Surely the Black Sun, the Master of Murder, the Lord of Lust, the God of Deception finds such a peaceful, ordered and structured process an affront and an abomination?

I am unsure as to Alandric's intentions. He panders to The Dread Priestess' every whim and desire. He laughs at her jests, every word that come from her mouth is naught ever but the unarguable truth. What does he hope to gain by such blind adherence to another's word? Why does he perceive that the rise of his own star is best served by linking it to that of another?

I do not fawn.
I do not flatter.
I shall be no Priest or Priestess' sycophant.

I have determined my path. I know the way that shall lead to greatness and power of which few even dare to dream. The Church of Corath, and their toadies and lickspittles, can either aid me ... or I shall step over their broken and bloody corpses as I continue my journey.

[Pseudonym]

I dare to think that I am becoming the most popular and well regarded man in Mistone! I am friends with Rofireinites, Aeridinites and Toranites! A little courtesy goes such a very long way. I am continually asked by people that I meet if I am a paladin, one of these false and feeble God's holy warriors. Why? Because I wear shining silver platemail and I speak with a civil tongue. It is laughable. There is nothing I am unwilling to do, no crime too great, no sin so unspeakable that I will not undertake without a moment's hesitation to achieve my goals. I have embraced the word of the Lord of Madness, the Black Sun as my soul's path, but ... but ... because I am clever enough to remember my manners in company, I am embraced with open arms!

People will believe what they wish to believe, regardless of the circumstantial evidence that is presented to the contrary. The horrors and potential terrors of the great wide, dark world around them are so great that people search for any light to embrace and which to cling. People will see only what is pleasing to the eye and hear what is pleasing to the ear. It is the nature of humankind. A clever man sees this and can do as he pleases, act as he wishes ... as long as he continues to present the face that people wish to see. All I need do is maintain an air of polite meekness. Maintain an air of civilty. Yes Milady. Yes Sir. A little bit of bowing here and there. A polite request will very often yield far better results than the threat of pain and suffering.

I have had the great gold wyrm of Rofirein painted onto my shield. I hang the oak leaf of Aeridin from my neck. I call out to Vorax, Father of Battle before I engage in melee. It is enough for the fools. I dare say I could sacrifice a child to the Mad God in the square of Hempstead and get away with it because I am fair of form and fair of face and I speak the words that people wish to hear. Captain Trent, grateful to me since I assisted him with his kobold menace, might very well hold the child down for me as I raised the sacrificial dagger if I asked him politely enough.

I have been spending time studying the ... there is a small inkblot at this point on the page of the grimoire as if the author paused in thought for a moment or two* ... relationships of the Gods and Goddesses. It occurred to me that there are Priests and Priestesses who might be able to see through the illusion of a man's presentation and see to the core of his beliefs, no matter how bright his smile and smooth his tongue. The intrigues, enmities and favours of the pantheon are such that I should be able to cloak my true devotions. I will claim no single God or Goddess as my own. If a Priest of Toran casts a divination upon me and it is revealed that I am not his soul's brother - I will claim I light a candle to Lady Mist prior to a sea voyage. Be it a cleric of the so called Lifebringer - I explain that prior to battle I offer up a prayer to Vorax to guide my sword true. A Rofireinte? I burn incense to Deliar to bless my trade dealings or offer a cup of wine to Xeen so that I might know love.

It is laughable. People will believe what they wish to believe. You just have to give them even the slightest of excuses for doing so.

[Pseudonym]

*written in Virtue's angular, yet neat, handwriting ... further explanations and explorations on the path of the Pale Master*

... the hallmark, the stunning power ... the tool of power of the Pale Master is the ability to reanimate the dead. The magnificent and awe-inspiring transformation of an inert corpse into a fearsome minion, wholly subject to the summoner's whim and desire. There exist many mages who can summon mighty golems, those that can cast a rain of fire from the heavens, bend the most stubborn will to match their own, however, in our dominance over the awakened dead, the Pale Masters are unparalleled in all of the lands of Layonara.

The Pale Master walks his path learning of a great differentiation. This does not happen of itself, though, and only comes with increasingly perfected knowledge of the unliving flesh. When one would seek to dominate and command the walking dead, it is essential to understand all there is to know. Their abilities, their limitations, their origins, the dark weave that animates them to do our bidding. Everything.

Whilst basic necromantic power is easily capable of rending soul from flesh and consigning enemies to despair, the essence of that power is Death, and living beings cannot long endure its presence before succumbing to that dark and cold embrace themselves. For those who would bring this power to the battlefield in betterment of self, this presents a problem: How does one contain death without dying?

The solution to this problem, I believe, is a simple one to grasp, harder to follow. First, a vessel is acquired to channel the power, a lifeless corpse being the natural choice as the very embodiment of death. To this end the Pale Master invokes the dark weave and summons a body from its place of rest, animating and controlling it with a continuous flow of power. Once the link between the master and the servant is forged, the full force of darkness may be made manifest through the now-undead vessel. It is the Black Sun's gift.

Yet, how does the Pale Master channel the dark power to the minion in the first place without suffering? I believe the answer to this is the second key - the dark weave is channeled very slowly and only in small amounts, just barely enough to maintain control of the undead servant.

To be certain, there are elements of this arrangement which are less than ideal. The thread of power that binds the deceased to the reanimator is tenuous, making control of the minion imperfect and only possible for short periods of time. Additionally, the might of the summoned undead is limited by the experience of the Pale Master, such that the summoned one always possesses slightly less vitality than the summoner, up to the capacity that a particular frame may possess. One must seek a continuous improvement of self in order to obtain a like improvement in power of their summons ...

[Pseudonym]

// Timing of this entry is slightly out of whack - it is meant to be his reflections on his first DT loss which actually happened a week or so ago RL. //

I had dreamed of this moment for so long and yet still I did not realise immediately when it finally happened. One moment I was battling something? Remembering something? Imagining something? and the very next, my spirit self and my physical self were torn apart. I think I should be able to remember the nature of my last thoughts before a piece of my very soul was torn from me ... but I could not. The shock, a week later, remains as one of the most significant moments of my existence. There was no flash of light, no clap of thunder, no puff of smoke and no pyrotechnics of wizardry. There was only darkness, within which I had dwelled for so long, and then, as if no time had passed at all, I was once more cloaked in my physical form, returned to the world of the flesh.

I was dressed the same, my steel breastplate and greaves still splattered with the ichor of the elementals I had battled only minutes ago.

Minutes ago. Centuries ago.

I gasped and exhaled a breath, the night air was cool, refreshing yet though I knew not why, also a little acrid. My lungs expanded and then emptied in an action simultaneously innate and alien. I was still breathing hard from the frenzied efforts of my combat. My right shoulder ached from the weight of swinging my sword, my legs trembled from the tension of the battle. My sword dropped to the grass covered ground upon which I stood, the fingers encircling the hilt suddenly nerveless.

It was dark, but straight away obvious it was not the impenetrable darkness of the void. Although I immediately determined it was some time after the moon's zenith, the illumination from the moon and stars overhead was such that I could see my surroundings clearly. In my briefest eternity of banishment from life, never did I, never was I able, imagine the night sky as beautiful and as awe-inspiring as it was at this moment. In the distance, a spear cast away, I could see a number of tall poles stretching off and around a small copse of trees. Atop each pole was a lantern burning brightly, the pool of light cast by each flickering in a light breeze. Further, in the distance, more winking torchlight could be discerned through the screen of the surrounding trees.

I inhaled deeply, savoring the taste, the sweet sensation of each breath. There was a hint of the sea upon the soft breeze. The smell of the earth in my nostrils, rich and loamy. Dew on the grass. A faint charge in the air - a storm, yet unseen, approaching in the distance. A heavy rain would surely be falling before dawn.

Amidst the sensory overload, I barely noticed the weakness in my limbs. Looking down, I clenched my fist, the muscles of the bicep bunching and a trickle of blood oozed from a jagged, though recently healed, slash. I had no recollection of how I received this wound but knew that often in the frenzy of combat a warrior could pick up scores of cuts and bruises, the pain of which he would not feel until the battle's end. I licked the few drops away, the blood tasted salty and strange upon my tongue.

My movements, the sword dropping to the ground, the creak of my harness, my ragged breathing, the soft breeze causing the branches of the trees nearby to rock and sway. Sounds, their source known and unknown, filled my ears with a strange and alien cacophany. In the distance, a hound barked and howled.

[Pseudonym]

Corath

Blessed in Unholy fire,
row upon row of offered corpse.
harsh cry of raven over the field,
screams of the dying, torn from throat hoarse.

Black Sun

The Mad God saw me fresh from womb
and claimed his dark soul's son.
claiming me for purpose warped and foul,
heir to the Dark Gift my sacrifice had won.

Death Lord

Lowest and Most High of the Gods is He
pain, death and power the gift is given
heavy blood price is demanded,
orphan's cry, maiden's wail and soft flesh riven.

Mad God

Who cares for fair favour offered me?
Seat of honour in Aeridin's Halls,
Shade and succor of the Great Oak tree,
Refuge and safety behind Toran's walls.

Light's Bane

In darkened room these promises I rend
And count the wrongs that I have borne
I wait and dream for this World's end,
Listen! Is that the harbinger's horn?

Corath

[Pseudonym]

// Inspired by the numerous times Virtue is mistaken for a paladin in-game! //

I leaned back on the cool, damp earth and closed my eyes. Sarkus was holding court and telling another of his not-particularly-amusing tales. After a night such as this, when the ale purchased fromm stole true was running freely, I invariably found the little rogue to be annoying and all too rarely even slightly amusing. It was a concept that he just didn't quite grasp - the ability to recite joke after joke did not make someone funny. Quite the opposite, it made them ******* annoying. Someone is either funny or they are not. Sarkus was not. Despite me, and others, telling him this on a regular basis, he was a constant assault on my ears with his whining, nasal voice. Joke after pun after quip after gag after wise-crack.

This time, Sarkus had another of my crew, Karlin 'Bull' Faocci, in his sights with some story, the details of which were lost on me as I let my mind wander.

The boys roared with laughter at the end of the tale, none louder than Sarkus himself. Another tip for any would be bard - don't laugh louder at your own joke than everybody in your audience. With an effort, I opened my eyes and surveyed my crew. Karlin Faocci - nicknamed 'Bull' as a result of his solid physique. Broad shouldered, thick waisted, short but powerful legs and arms. Always a moment or two slower than the others on the uptake, he was chuckling nervously, not entirely sure whether he was painted in a positive or negative light as the subject of Sarkus's joke.

The comedian himself, Sarkus Sanders. Standing 5' 9" in his leather boots and weighing in at nine and a half stone when dripping wet. Every crew has their 'yes-man', their rodent, their runt, someone who becomes something of a mascot if you like, and Sarkus was ours. He had introduced himself, a couple of years ago now, as 'Cutter' but, not surprisingly, the self-appointed appellation never took. I could tell he desperately wished to be referred to by that nickname, mayhaps thinking it sounded fierce. I decided right then and there he would thereafter only ever be called Sarkus.

The other lads, the brothers, Mykan and Maste Cowan. Although separated in age by a couple of years, they might as well have been twins. Before their hair had been shaved to a stubble, they both had sported a mass of curly ginger locks. Solid, reliable fellas, good in a fight with either their fists or a knife, I trusted them both.

Steppe Roge stood in silence, piglike eyes squinting balefully out as Sarkus had completed his joke and the others laughed. With a surname of Roge, a host of nicknames would normally follow a person for their entire lives. However, Steppe decided he wanted to be called Steppe and nothing other than that. When Steppe spoke, people listened and, if they knew what was good for them, people obeyed. He was, quite simply, the largest and scariest man I had ever met and every day I was glad he was part of my crew and not against us. Although he must weigh upwards of twenty stone and most of it muscle, Steppe was fast. Fast and tough, a lethal combination. I had once seen him struck across the back of his head with a club swung with full force by some ogre outside a Krandor. Steppe hadn't even blinked. Blood streaming from the gash, he had whirled around and stuck that ogre with his knife, gutting him right quick. It had been like the rest of us were frozen still.

Last night had been much like many others before it - drinking at one of the local taverns, brawling, drinking more at a different inn, more brawling. We had eventually ended up in this forest after chasing a couple of merchants we had come across about an hour ago.  We were heading back to Mykan and Maste's hovel to lay low - one of our gals had reported a crew of Toranites due to pass through in the next couple of days - when we had seen the two little halflings. They had copped one look at us and immediately set off at a run. Steppe has a large tattoo of - we think - a dagger inked upon his forehead and that alone was probably a fair clue that if we managed to catch up with them on one of the deserted streets that night they were going to be in some deep, deep trouble. The two had about a fifty yard start on us but we had set off in quick pursuit. Down numerous streets and alleyways, they had led us on a long and winding chase. At one point, Sarkus had almost brought one of them down when he had thrown a glass bottle that had hit the ****** on the shoulder. The half-man had staggered but managed to keep running.This was decidedly lucky for him as chasing his fleeing form for a half an hour had not improved our mood nor our intent for violence. After a further five or ten minutes - and a sprained wrist for Mykan as he attempted to jump someone's fence - we had finally given up and collapsed in the woods, ranting and fuming.

Sarkus had been trying, with varying degrees of success amongst the boys, to improve our mood with his hilarious jokes but I decided to call it a night. With a nod of my head to the lads I got up and we all started back. I could tell Steppe's blood was up and he was still angry at the halflings having given us the slip and I decided it would be best if we got back before Sarkus inadverdantly said something that set the big guy off. We cut through the woods, off the deer trail, in the direction of our destination.

It was then we saw the paladin, on his knees in the darkness, muttering some prayer. He was dressed in shining plate and a white surcoat emblazoned with an oak leaf, ****** paladin's clothes. If there is someone we hate more than halflings, gnomes or elves - it's a ******* paladin. I grinned at the lads, this one was about to enter a world of hurt.

We approached in a horseshoe formation, Bull darting around behind the ******* in case he tried to make a run for it. Our unsuccessful chase of the halflings through the night was still raw in our minds and we were determined not to let this prize get away. Sarkus, perhaps emboldened by the positive response to his joke earlier, must have decided he was going to be our spokesman tonight.

"Hey ********."

There was no response. He had not moved from his original position at our approach, kneeling and muttering some incantation loudly and seemingly completely oblivious as to our presence. Upon his knees as if in prayer, I thought we'll have him praying for his God's favour all too soon. Ignoring us was not going to make us disappear.

"Hey ********, I'm talking to you."

Still nothing. To my left, Maste reached down to the grass by his feet and retrieved something I could not quite clearly make out in the semi-darkness. He handed it to me, provoking a whistle of surprise and amazement. It was similar to the knife I carried in a sheath underneath the waistband of my pants but double-edged and substantially longer. It was probably three feet in length from the hilt guard to it's point and absolutely razor sharp along both edges. It was also coated in sticky, semi-dried blood. I handed it back to Maste, wiping the blood from my hands.

"********* - that yours?

The praying continued.

"You'd better start talking *******. What're you praying about *******? You kill your ******** priest with this thing? Is that it ****? You crying 'bout killing your ******* ***** ******? Don't worry ******, you'll be joining him soon. Yeh, that's right ******, I think we might cut you up real bad. What do ya say *******?"

No reaction.

I motioned with a nod of my head to Steppe - he understood. We were far enough away from anyone else that we could have some fun with little risk of being disturbed. Two steps forward and, with stunning force, Steppe propelled a kick into the ******'s ribs. I expected the ****** to crumple and fold - when Steppe kicks someone, there are certain expected things that generally happen. Things inside the person on the receiving end will break, they will cry out, there will be blood and pain. This time, nothing. The ******'s praying continued uninterrupted, neither increasing or diminishing in intensity as a result of the massive blow he had just received.

More violence imminent, excitement turned Sarkus's voice into even more of a high pitch than it's normal whine.

"You're ******, *******, you hear? You're *******."

Emboldened by the lack of response, Sarkus launched his own kick at the kneeling form. Lacking Steppe's incredible power, Sarkus wound up and aimed his kick horizontally, boot flying in towards the figure's lowered head. As if he were guided by some sixth sense, the ******* casually lifted his left arm and, with an angled forearm, deflected the kick high and harmlessly away. Sarkus stumbled and almost fell, recovering his balance and maintaining his footing only by skipping backwards in an ungainly display. Again, almost casually, as if unaware that his life was now forfeit, the ***** paladin rose to his feet and acknowledged my crew surrounding him for the first time.

Sarkus was screaming now;

"You're dead ********, get it? You're dead."

Then, the soon-to-be-dead ******** smiled.

[Pseudonym]

We stood at the edge of the high stone parapet, this fair Aeridinite priestess and I.  We had encountered each other by random chance, I had been wandering north from Lor towards Prantz, still sorely wounded from a battle-gone-wrong with some vicious manticores when I literally stumbled across her outside a temple to Prunilla.

With a kind smile she introduced herself, Mirrim Cade was her name. With a gentle touch she removed the pain of my wounds. Her fair face was creased with worry about my wellbeing - though, until then I had been a complete stranger to her. I was initially suspicious as to her motivations. I had little coin and I must have looked a sorry sight.

Over the next few hours I learnt that what she offered me - aid, healing, kindness - she offered everybody. It was the dictate of her God, the Lifebringer. We wandered over the realms and I listened to her gentle voice for hours. Then, fair priestess Mirrim offered to show me a sight of wonder, a lookout that offered views of the ocean supposedly unmatched throughout the world. A lofty claim yet when we arrived I could see that it was no idle declaration. She did this for no other reason than she thought it would bring me great pleasure. It was a place she loved and she wished to share it with me.

The stairs were virtually endless, I feared my legs would not have the strength to carry me to the top. The spare priestess climbing in front of me surely felt the same though she gave no sign of discomfort. After an age we reached the top. The climb, was worth it, the view was ... unable to be given proper justice with my meagre written word. We felt like Gods.

She noticed me smiling and asked if I was happy.

I dared not to tell her the truth. It was true, I was smiling. I had pictured throwing the strumpet of Aeridin from the edge and watch her plummet to the rocks far, far below. What a sight that would have been! Almost made me giggle.

[Pseudonym]

// Part of a conversation between Virtue and Sasha, text log //

Virtue Kessen - Like my shield? *shows her the shield emblazoned with the Dragon symbol of Rofirein*

Sasha Tomyris - *looks at it*

Virtue Kessen - I just had the enamelling finished *broad smile*

Sasha Tomyris - I like it - but does it really mean anything to you?

Virtue Kessen - Indeed Milady, I am most curious as to the nature ... the ideals of the Dragon God. I hope to discuss Him, the tenets of the faith, at length with you one day soon.

Sasha Tomyris - You seem to fancy any God that takes you at the moment Virtue.

Virtue Kessen - You think so? Certainly I am curious. I am curious that the Gods ... and Goddesses of course *inclines his head with a smile* seem to be the deification of certain concepts and ideals. Should we not then address Them for that specificity only?

Virtue Kessen - Take if you will, Rofirein. Law, order, structure, community.

Sasha Tomyris - *nods*

Virtue Kessen - Explain to me then why would a farmer pray to Rofirein in preference to, say Prunilla for a bountiful crop for his family?

Virtue Kessen- Or Mist for a safe sea voyage?

Virtue Kessen - Or Xeen to bless a new romance ... Toran to plant the seed of -goodness- in an -evil- man's heart?

Sasha Tomyris - Well, my father always followed Rofirein so I grew up hearing about him. My dance teacher also paid homage ... well, farmers are a superstitious lot by and large and I suppose like to curry favour with a large number of Gods and spirits.

Virtue Kessen - Indeed Milady, quite so. Perhaps you can see my prayers are not quite so random as first imagined. Not really subject to, as you say *smiling*, my fancy of the moment. Instead my prayers are just appropriate to whichever particular endeavour I am engaging at the time.

Sasha Tomyris - I can understand that Virtue - but to carry the symbols of Rofirein so ... I have cause for concern. To truly do Him justice you need to understand his tenets. You don't just carry a nice shield for yourself. It's what others see when you carry it.

Virtue Kessen - Does it not seem reasonable that a man can respect Rofirein for what He brings to society, for what He brings to the betterment of the community as a whole yet still also venerate Vorax prior to an engagement in combat or Aeridin afterwards?

Sasha Tomyris - I don't have a problem with that Virtue.

Virtue Kessen - I very musch do not desire to cause offence to you Milady. Please believe me *bows slightly from the waist*

Sasha Tomyris - You must be aware to carry the symbol of the Dragon God causes people to view you in a certain way and ... expect certain things.

Virtue Kessen - Indeed Milady. I have an understanding of the tenets of Rofirein. To wear His symbol with ignorance in my heart would be a mockery.

Sasha Tomyris - That is all I am trying to say. If you're not prepared to meet those demands, then perhaps you should choose a more common symbol ... however, if you are, then I don't have any issue with it *smiles*

Virtue Kessen - I would hope you would immediately bring it to my attention if I conducted myself in any way contrary to what you might consider appropriate Milady.

Sasha Tomyris - *laughs* Sure Virtue

Virtue Kessen - My humble thanks Milady

[Pseudonym]

// Short prayer whispered by Virtue at the altar of the Temple, deep in the *** *********. //

Greatest of the Gods,
Creator and Destroyer,
Hear my plea.

The sons and daughters of your ememies are slain at my hand.
The innocent blood of their children soaks into the earth.
All that I am, all that I have, all that I will be, I offer you now.
My unworthy lifeblood, spilled in your name, spilled by this slayer of light, spilled within this holy circle, I offer you now.

*takes dagger and slashes palm*

My soul, into your eternal service I offer you now.

Greatest of the Gods,
Creator and Destroyer,
Hear my plea.

I ask of you this service of violence and fury.
I ask of you this gift of revenge.
I ask of you this favour of cruelty and hurt.
I ask of you thisboon of suffering and savagery.
I ask of you this gift of rage and pain.

Greatest of the Gods,
Creator and Destroyer,
Hear my plea.

[Pseudonym]

Toran, Rofirein and Aeridin.
Gods of the nobility.
Gods of the priveleged few.
Gods of those who can afford the luxury of an idealogy that goes beyond basic survival.

We see the well-fed adventurers, dripping with their jewels and gems, bearing the devices of the so called 'Gods of Good'. We see their derision. We see the contempt they hold for us.

What do they know of pain?
What do they know of hunger?
Do they know what it feels like to hold a starving child in your arms and have them suffer while you weep, powerless to do anything?

Is it right that a man is charged and jailed by the Rofreinites for the 'crime' of trying to feed his family? Is it right that the Toranites talk of their noble motives of purity and virtue whilst clad in shining armor that costs enough true to feed an entire village? Aeridinites who are so focused on ensuring the return of abominations to the great cycle yet they forget about the suffering of all those around them here and now.

Have all the Gods turned their faces from us, only blessing those with enough true to fill their church coffers? These Gods and their servants sneer at us - the 'common' folk. Let them sneer and ignore our suffering no longer.

They ignore our suffering, They laugh at our pain. No more shall we fight amongst ourselves as they would have it. No more shall we suffer in silence the indignities of the ruling classes and their uncaring puppet religions.

It is time to take what is rightfully ours. Time to end the suffering of our children. Do not fear my friends, fear is the tool of our enemies that for too long has kept us under their bootheels. Let our hunger, our suffering, our pain, our oppression be not their weapons.

Let them be ours.

It has begun.

The best merchant tells his customers exactly that which they wish to hear. It is far easier to sell something that the customer wants to buy in the first place than trying to convince them of something they really don't want. The very best deceptions are really not so far removed from the truth.  It is unfortunate that I could not risk the scribe to remain alive - he was quite professional and for a little while I almost was going to let him live. His greed far outweighed his morality, and there was the possibility he may have been a useful tool in the future, yet, the price that would be paid for premature discovery is too great to risk. It was best that it ended as it did. Dead men tell no tales, as the corsair's saying goes.

*Virtue ceases writing for a moment, places his quill upon the desk and looks down at the parchment that sits beside his grimoire. His brow is furrowed in thought. After a little while, he resumes writing, the page quickly filling with the details of his next idea.*

[Pseudonym]

The Rofireinites held their trials yesterday for new knights. I was tempted to apply for membership, I know all the right words to say in the order and manner in which they are meant to be spoken. I had spoken to Sasha at length about joining the order and she was excited that I continued to show such an interest in her religion. It was only when I had allowed myself to begin to fully consider the practical and logistical implications of membership when Sasha revealed that all candidates were subject to scrutiny from the priests of the Dragon God prior to admittance.

I had to consider the likelihood of benefit against the potential for discovery. Was further ingratiation within the ranks of the Dragon God going to advance me along my path to power? No, not overmuch. Plan considered, plan dismissed.

Instead, I purchased for Sasha a potion (of great expense brewed by a surly dwarven monk) that I handed over as a gift from one friend to another upon completion of her trials. She was truly moved by my most caring gesture. Thus is the alliance of a person so easily bought and sold. Everything, including friendship, is merely a commodity, traded and bartered, able to be won or lost. Sometimes you have to dress it up in a pretty wrapping paper but the fact it is only a commodity remains the truth.

Of my old friend Alandric, I have not seen much at all of late. My inquiries into his whereabouts yield either blank or veiled looks from those around the temple. Unfortunate, a useful tool lost.

[Pseudonym]

*The grimoire is filled with dated entries that fill the pages. All facets of Virtue's travels, research and interactions are recorded in meticulous detail. One entry in particular stands out, the brush strokes are heavy, almost scarring the page as if written in great anger.*

I grow weary of my own endless civility.

I smile like a buffoon until my jaw aches and I nod vapidly at the supposed words of wisdom provided by others until I fear I must look like the village idiot.

How long must I wait? How long until I am powerful enough to shed this mask and show my true worth and indeed the true worthlessness of those around me? The answer to this is too long. An ambition, an intellect, a ruthlessness, a right to greatness such as mine ... it is unnatural that it be stifled any longer. How I long to take my blade and plunge it through the lies, the mediocrity and the foolishness cloaked in the fragile flesh of those who surround me.

I am no fool. I recognise there are far more accomplished swordsmen and swordswomen, mages and priests than myself.  There are warriors who can fell opposing armies singlehandedly. There are those who are able to shape the weave with the same alacrity as the dog Goddess Lucinda Herself. However, they lack something which very few possess but that which I am fortunate enough to be gifted.

What is this mysterious gift?

The ambition to rule all and the willingness to do all necessary to achieve this.

Everything and anything that is necessary.

No boundaries.
No limits.
No regrets.

[Pseudonym]

Paintings of Virtue commissioned Wedlar, Jular 4, 1419 for persons unknown.

// Mucking around in Photoshop, many talents I have, Photoshop artistry unfortunately is not one of them. //

[Pseudonym]

The cramped confines of the hut were thick with the smoke of incense and the reek of his body, which I guessed had, for far too long, gone unwashed. I breathed shallowly through my mouth in, I think, a truly valiant attempt to keep the stench from overwhelming my sensibilities. Glancing at Alandric, I noticed his dark hair was in even more of a stark contrast to his pale complexion than normal, his fair skin being at least a shade or two whiter than normal as a result of breathing in the base odours that wafted around us.

Prior to his arrival I had conjured a vision of this shaman as a man of mighty stature, a man able to command the forces of nature to do his bidding. Perhaps he would be bedecked in a crown of feathers and brandishing a staff of mysterious power. I had pictured him, standing before us and commanding the elements of Wind, Earth, Fire and Water in a show that would be remembered by all in attendance as the grandest display of weave-work ever witnessed. Such was his reputation.

As such, I considered it a heroic effort on my part to not only remain conscious, but also to appear impressed and interested in the words of the small, wizened figure seated before me. Even were he not hunched over with advanced age, the shaman would barely stand five feet tall. Clad in partially cured furs, his scrawny limbs were encrusted with dirt and other vileness I dared not look at too closely. His left arm from wrist to shoulder was covered in hundreds of small, raised scars. I assumed they must be wounds received in a disease-ridden past from a pox or plague of some description. I dared not let my imagination conjure up too many explanations for his disfigurement lest I, by chance, guess at a horrid truth. It was difficult to imagine this was the man about whom I had read so many tales. This was the great shaman whom had turned back the army of Skorgan Babd with a summoned storm of lightning and fire? This was the mighty magician who had struck the cairn-thief Gragnar stone-cold dead with but a glance and a few muttered words? Looking at him now I could scarce believe that these stories could be, even in part, rooted in truth.

I gathered my full powers of attention for it was important that I remembered his instructions. In a thin and scratching voice, barely audible, the shaman outlined the events as they would occur on the morrow. I strained forward to hear his words, it was as if his voice had gone unused for many months and was he trying hard to remember it's function.

"Four candles will be lit to appease the Denizens of the North, South, East and West. Often times, angry and vengeful Demons they are, but by lighting a candle in their name they shall be appeased."

His description of the ceremony was interrupted as a wracking cough seized the shaman's frail body, ending only after several long moments when he hawked and spat a wad of phlegm to the dirt floor in front of him. I couldn't help wrinkling my nose in disgust but managed to maintain my smile. I feared my jaw might crack as my teeth ground together.

"I will ring the bronze bell of Vodoun three times to indicate the start of the ritual and to ward away the gaze of any small demons present who may have wickedness in their black hearts as they watch our deeds. I will also have to make offerings tonight to curry their favour and prevent their wrath."

I hid a smile at his warning. Fear was no enemy of mine, it was a companion to which I held quite the fondness. An ally and a friend.

I glanced out of the corner of my eye to make sure Alandric was also listening, I wanted him to test my memory and ability to recite what he said later that evening. Although I had rehearsed the words of the rites scores, if not hundreds of times, I wanted to ensure that I was able to recall and announce them perfectly tomorrow.

The shaman intoned;

// specific instructions not mentioned here //

The shaman eyed me sharply to make sure I was concentrating on his words. I nodded encouragingly for him to continue and my knuckles whitened underneath the hem of my cloak. It galled me to have to 'play nice' to this insignificant toad. Yet, play nice I would. There was nothing I would not endure to walk the path.

The instructions for the ceremony continued.

// specific instructions not mentioned here //

The instructions for my role in tomorrow's ceremony now imparted, I breathed a sigh of pure relief and bowed low to the shaman. The air was a marginally cleaner and easier to breathe with my forehead pressed to the ground.

"Thank you, holy one."

I placed the offering at his feet, bowed once more before exiting the hut. There was still much to do before the ceremony tomorrow.

[Pseudonym]

His hoarse cry is loud against the silence of the night. Virtue sits in his bed, sweat pouring from his body despite the chill in the air. The woman whose  name he has not bothered remembering, whose affections have been bought with a handful of true, murmurs something unintelligible beside him. Her voice is thick with sleep, her breath thicker again with the scent of cheap wine. With a muttered incantation Virtue brings into being a soft light that barely caresses the far wall of the small room. Not knowing whether his dreams hold any special significance, it has become his habit to record their details in his grimoire.

It is chasing me, close now. I can hear the menacing promise of my eternal damnation in it's heavy footfall. I turn, there is nothing there. Wait! There! Off to the side of my vision. A glimpse of something terrible in the darkness. Something that threatens to blast my sanity to shards. I am haunted. I am haunted by something. Something unknown. Something wonderful and terrible at the same time. Is it a something? Is it a someone? It ... it .. it takes the light out of things ... it fills me with longings ... Is it a sign from my God? Does Corath seek to send me a message? I am sur-

A giggle interrupts his flow of thoughts and writings. Virtue turns sharply, his companion, sheets clutched up around her bosom with a modesty he finds amusing, is now seated upright beside him, looking over his shoulder at his grimoire.

"Corat' M'lord? In't that tha' name o' one o' them Gods o' the dead?"

Virtue's hand slides to the sheathed dagger hidden under his pillow. A paranoid habit of his youth, it has saved his life on more than one occasion. His even white teeth shine bright in the broad smile he offers his companion.

"Indeed. You are right, how very clever you are. The ability to read must be quite the rare skill for one of your chosen vocation."

His expression is mild, his movements smooth, reassuring in their casualness.

"My da' did taught me how t' read an' write M'lord."

She was accustomed to surprise and disdain from her customers. Many of her clients who spoke with their fancy airs and graces couldn't read nor write themselves and oft times their natural reaction was to belittle and humiliate. Little men with their little egos she thought to herself. This one was no different with his pretty way of talking and his oh-so courtly manners.

"Really? How wonderful ... "

Subtle movement. Bland expression.

" ... yet a terrible irony that such a gift from your father leads not to a betterment of your existence in this realm ... but instead ... to be the cause of your death."

Before her face had the chance to register understanding or surprise at his words, his dagger flashed an arc in the dim light. For the warrior who could fell a giant in single combat, an inquisitive woman-for-hire, barely twenty years of age at his guess, needed no second blow.

[Pseudonym]

*folded and tucked in between pages in Virtue's grimoire is one of the scribed posters recently hung on walls throughout Fort Vehl.*

Bloody and brutal times.

Drakes rain fire from the skies and goblinkin ravage and pillage without fear of reprisal. The innocent, the starvelings, the children are the victims of the madness. Unbenownst to most, we are mere pawns in a cycle of violence perpetuated by the church of Rofirein and it's rivals. It is not our misdeeds that have brought this trouble upon our homes.

How do we, the so-called common man, resist such treatment of our person? That of our families? How do we cast off the shackles placed upon us by this church that cares not at all for us.

The church of Rofirein and it's high and mighty knights, do they hear our plea? Nay. They deal in violence. They deal in punishment. They build their glistening temples of marble and gold while we starve in the dirt at their feet. Beneath notice. They lack any mercy for those not of their order and we can no longer show them more compassion than they give us.

Let any who bear the device of the Dragon God know fear. Let them know the fear that has been their weapon for far too long strikes both ways. The knife in the hand of the child can bring low the mighty knight when it is wielded with righteous fury.

Bloody and brutal times. No longer just for us.

Another poster, opportune timing given the incident with the drakes yet unfortunately much less outrage this time. I stood nearby to hear newly knighted Sasha's impassioned plea to those peasants who were gathered at it's appearance and had hoped there might be a violent incident ... but no such fortune. If only one of the craven fools that had gathered attacked her, forcing her to take up arms in defence of her person, then things might have got interesting in a hurry. I was tempted to throw a stone at Sasha from my hidden vantage to try to provoke something but dared not.

No matter, I have other ideas. The posters might very well have run their course of effectiveness anyway. I dare not seek assistance for their funding, I am surrounded by loose lipped fools, and the two thus far have cost me over thirty thousand true for their scribing and .... cleaning up of loose ends. Additionally, the longer I persist on one course of action, the greater the chance that those who do not appreciate my efforts draw closer to me.

No matter, I have other ideas.

[Pseudonym]

"Stand"

grating sound of bone upon bone

"Sit"

clatter

"Clap your hands"

dry cracking, harsh and jarring to the ear

"Stand up and turn around"

scrape of bony heel on stone

"How delightful! *the voice deepens with purpose* Now ... bow down before me, your creator and your master"

rasping sound, almost lost under the chuckle of he who commands

"Perfect ... and so it begins"

[Pseudonym]

// Snippits of his CDQ. //

CDQ Pics