And darkness and decay and death held dominion over all

[Pseudonym]

It has been suggested to me, as a criticism ... AS A CRITICISM?? ... that I lack humility.  How can this be considered a weakness? How can one possibly perceive this might be a fault that needs to be remedied?

To embrace the notion of humility suggests that we, as discrete mortal entities, are dependent on some arbitrary notion of luck and are wholly subject to the whims and cruelties of capricious Gods and Goddesses. To embrace humility suggests that we need love. That we all share the same existential condition. To embrace humility suggests that, despite our differences, be it race, be it colour, be it gender, be it form or function, we, at our core, are all the same. It is a fanciful story fit for children before they are tucked into bed for the evening.

I reject humility. I embrace vanity, pride and hate. To embrace humility is to reject the importance of our strength, power and intellect.

Humility is a weakness.

Humility is a crutch. Humility is the crutch ... the prop ... of the man who will never ascend from his primeval origins. I do not pity those weaker than I. I do not accept weakness. I do not accept that we all share the same conscience ... I do not accept that we all spring from the same source. I once read a book written by a man of supposed great learning and intellect. He wrote,

"Isn't it true that the one who you indicate as a slave was born from the same seeds and enjoys the same sky as you, and breathes, lives and dies as you, and that you can see the master in him and the servant in you?"**

I remember closing the book shortly thereafter, my scornful laughter earning me disapproving looks from the others in attendance at the Great Library. To embrace hate, to reject humility is to place one's feet on the path to greatness. It is only right to feel hate and contempt for those who are weak. It is Corath's word and more than that ... it is logical. To think otherwise is a nonsense.

One must realise that power and strength are the mandate of Corath. It is a sign of favour when a strong man is more than a weaker man, a hungry man, a powerless man. I have been granted an entitlement to dominate, devour and destroy the weak, the hungry, the powerless. This essential truth of what constitutes strongest, fastest, fittest and most deserving among ourselves has led to accusations of a lack of humility?

It is a ridiculous statement made by weak observers that seek to perpetuate the artificial moral framework that does not apply to their betters. I reject humility.

Lack of humility allows man the clarity of perception to see his adversaries as undeserving and unworthy and leads one to proclaim the right to dominance. It is a fundamental truth.

I reject humility.

** // RL quote - Seneca, Letters to Lucilius

[Pseudonym]

Love.

For something that is meant to be one of the most powerful driving forces in the cosmos, I have never had anyone adequately describe to me exactly what it is. An allegedly wise man once theorised that love could be used to account for the causes of motion in the universe. 'Love' was said to intermingle with the classical elements, those of earth, water, air, and fire, in such a manner that it served as the binding power linking the various parts of existence harmoniously together.**

Lust I can understand. Performing a service with the purpose of earning a reward or favour. Absolutely logical. But love? It is a suffocating hood by which the foolish and the misguided blind themselves. It is a desperate search for meaning in a world that offers little meaning for those who cannot grasp greatness with their own hands.

It is weakness. It is deception. It is the foolish idea of placing of another's wellbeing over that of one's own. WHY?? What can someone hope to achieve by such? Is there a belief that there is some omnipotent being watching, approving, nodding their deific head over such selfless behaviour and reserving a special place in eternal paradise as a result? More children's fairytales.

I reject love.

It is not that I am intellectually incapable of grasping the concepts of which the fools speak. It is the notion that you value someone over and above the value you place on yourself. This is utter foolishness. We proportion value and worth to someone by what they contribute to our own betterment. If someone contributes more to my advancement than another ... I value them more highly. However, it all come back to self. I do not love another as a result of what they contribute to my advancement. I recognise their contribution. We have but one life to live. We cannot live anothers as well.

Is this where the notion of love originated? We have but one life to live so we search for this mystical and magical union of souls so that we might know an awareness and presence greater than otherwise is afforded us? There is only self. At the end of all things there is only self. No-one holding your hand and whispering that it will all be fine. This life is all about what we can take and hold with our own hands. There is no mysterious satisfaction to be garnered by observing what a loved one has achieved.

Love is an unnatural submission of intellect, will and self. We, as mortals, cannot place conviction in this foolishness that must remain intangible and unseen. As mortals we have inherited a propensity to sin yet the misguided masses fight it constantly as wrongdoings against which they must fight. They seek to live by unnatural and externally imposed standards of morality.

I reject love.

My desire is no obscure paradise beyond this mortal realm. I trust in self. Ultimately, strength and sustenance can only reside in one's own will.

I reject love.

** // RL quote - Empedocles,  4th century BC

[Pseudonym]

Mercy.

Another supposed virtue. An attribute, a quality that one exhibits that makes them a good person? And I suppose the lack of it makes ... what? an evil person? Yet another fallacy.

I reject mercy. I reject mercy for two irrefutable reasons.

One.
Essential to life is the taking of other life. Killing and eating is how a creature survives. Dominance of another species is essential for the continuation of one's own. There is no justice, or injustice, in this natural law. No morality. It is nature's way, nothing more or less. Nature's supposed cruelty is a meaningless observation. The fittest are those that survive. The fact that one man is able to kill a lesser man is not a moral judgment in favor of the the greater man. It is not a judgment at all, it is a truth. The man killed the other because he could and nothing was able to prevent it. It is a consideration that one must either be the master or be the mastered. To show mercy is a weakness. Mercy did not exist at the origin of all things, the intial point of all truth. Mercy is fear and such misunderstandings make for death. Kill or be killed, eat or be eaten, rule or be ruled, it is the law since the origin of all things. Mercy spawns weakness.

I reject mercy.

Two.
What is mercy exactly? It is sympathy for another's suffering and distress, it is a shackle compelling us to offer succor if we are able. What causes this pain for the other? Happy is he who has whatever he desires, and desires nothing amiss.** Hence, it follows that unhappiness belongs to the man who should suffer that which he does not wish. Why should I care that another possesses that which makes him happy or that he does not? How does that affect my happiness? Linked to the flawed concept of mercy is the flawed concept that another's happiness is relevant to mine own. How might this be so? reason of love? I reject love. Another's distress is not relevant as long as I remember that I would only offer mercy and pity if I allowed that person's grieving  cause to affect me. This can only happen if I look upon their ills as my own which again can only happen through a union of affection. As I have written in my journal previously, Love is an unnatural submission of intellect, will and self. As one concept falls so must all the others that use it for support.

I reject mercy.

I want to see the suffering of the masses.
It affirms my strength.
I want to see the streets of the cities choked with the poor and the hungry, where the threat of death is thick as a summer storm. I want to see weeping parents bury their dreams by the roadside as they flee forces too powerful for their comprehension.
It affirms my power.
I want to see where children are too weak to cry, the bounty of Prunilla denied them, where the laws of Rofirein are mocked for the illusions they are, where Toran's mercy is a weakness, where life and death do battle on the ragged fringes of humanity.
It affirms why I was chosen.

I reject mercy.

// ** RL quote - Augustine (De Trin. xiii, 5)

[Pseudonym]

Death.

There are innumerable metaphors and allegories that have been made throughout history, across cultures and religions uncounted in order to understand this ... state. Despite the fact that it remains a great unknown for all but a select few ... the realm of the dead and the existence of undead in this realm is treated with peasant-like fear and loathing.

Sometimes, in lands far distant to Mistone, the symbol of one's passing is that of a wall. Looming, gigantic, impenetrable. The great divide between the living and the dead. Oftentimes the symbol is that of a river. The dark waters are cold and numbing ... much like the feeling the masses believe they will suffer when the soul mother finally calls for their essence. On one side is life, the mortal realm. Full of light, joy, music, love. Affirmation of the belief that the best that can possibly be resides on this side of the river bank. On the other side is the cold wasteland of death. Nothing but endless darkness and suffering.

I have recently heard of the symbology of the wheel. A great wheel that cycles endlessly ... part of the wheel is this land ... this life ... this existence. The wheel turns and then there is death ... the wheel keeps turning.

I have heard Aeridinites, Toranites, Roferienites speak their childish philosophies of the importance of maintaining the cycle. I have heard tell how we must ensure that entities that have ceased their allotted time in this realm must move onto the next. They speak of those that do not as abominations that must be cleansed. They spit the names of those who cling to this realm even in death as a curse. Unnatural. An affront.

Those who embrace the word of the Black Sun learn otherwise.

There is no wall. There is no river. There are those that for the duration of their pitiful lives will know naught else than the ephemeral offerings of this mortal realm. Then they will die and there will be no more. Their flesh will rot. Their bones turn to dust. Their influence at an end. Some few ... the learned ... the enlightened ... the blessed have the clarity of vision to see that there need be no great divide between the living and the dead.

There are those that seek the knowledge and have the will to bring the eternity, the power, the darkness from one realm into another. The power that can be drawn from not just one existence ... not just one reality ... but two. The potential that is offered in the corporeal realm along with all the potential of the boundless hate and malice that exists in the realm of the dead.

There need not be dichotomy. One can embrace the potential  of an existence that has one foot in the realm of the living and one planted in the realm of the dead. It is the path of the Pale Master. What better way to seek His will and spread His influence?

[Pseudonym]

Greed. Greed and the lust for wealth and power.

I embrace these virtues and the rewards that surely follow and in doing so am raised above all judgement.

Power and true is the procurer between a man's desire and that which he desires. From these things are all satisfactions met, all needs filled and all desires granted. When one possesses wealth, the power inherent within that true becomes mine. With true, and the power that it gifts, we can be all powerful, all consuming and all honest. Walls crumble. Sins forgiven and loves forgotten.

I may be possessed of no great beauty ... but with true, the greatest beauties are mine to enjoy. It turns fidelity into unfaithfulness. Prudishness into lasciviousness.

I may be possessed of no great strength or speed ... but with true, strong arms and willing swords can be mine. It turns weakness into strength. It can bring the strong man to his knees.

I may be possessed of a nature abhorrent, dishonest, evil incarnate ... but with true, I am greeted with smiles and sympathy. It turns vice into virtue. Good into evil and evil into good.

I may be possessed of no great intellect ... but with true, I can purchase the finest minds of Layonara to answer my questions and solve my riddles. There will be nothing hidden. No secrets.

"Do not I, who thanks to money am capable of all that the human heart longs for, possess all human capacities? Does not my money, therefore, transform all my incapacities into their contrary?"** If the pillars of virtue, love, faith are rendered so insubstantial so easily before the relentless tide that is wealth, what true worth have they? Money, and it's brother in arms Power, can break any shackle and can heal any rift.

Greed, the all consuming desire to possess this empowering wealth, cannot be unworthy. The very concept of worth, right and wrong, morality can be bought and sold like any other commodity. Men's souls are for sale, the price being the gift of enabling the otherwise impossible. The divine power of money. I desire something, true creates it for me, it takes my desire and turns it carnate. The divine power of money.

Methinks the Rofireinites are somewhat mistaken when they bow down before the Great Gold. Methinks an ancient manuscript must surely have been transcribed incorrectly in ages past and there was no dragon ... there was true.


// ** RL quote Karl Marx - Economic and Philosophical Manuscripts of 1844


Great RL quote that inspired the direction of this entry ...

Shakespeare in Timon of Athens:

"Gold? Yellow, glittering, precious gold?
No, Gods, I am no idle votarist! ...
Thus much of this will make black white, foul fair,
Wrong right, base noble, old young, coward valiant.
... Why, this
Will lug your priests and servants from your sides,
Pluck stout men's pillows from below their heads:
This yellow slave
Will knit and break religions, bless the accursed;

Make the hoar leprosy adored, place thieves
And give them title, knee and approbation
With senators on the bench: This is it
That makes the wappen'd widow wed again;

She, whom the spital-house and ulcerous sores
Would cast the gorge at, this embalms and spices
To the April day again. Come, damned earth,
Thou common  of mankind, that put'st odds
Among the rout of nations."

[Pseudonym]

Religion.

No-one worships Corath out of love.

He is a God that demands ... that rips ... that tears worship and reverence from your very soul and leaves His followers broken and bloody. For many, this would beg the question, why worship such a Power? Why worship a God that does not love you ... promises an eternity of suffering if you fail Him ... demands obedience yet promises nothing in return?

Why indeed? At first glance to the ignorant it must seem an enigma.

Yet, the answer, as most answers to life's essential questions tend to be, is simple.

Power.

Corath is the dark embodiment of power at any cost. The Dark One says to his followers, Go out and take what you can by whatever means are at your disposal, don't be daunted, don't fear ... the right to take and hold what you desire is yours by strength of will and arm and not constrained by false bonds of morality and ethic.

The Black Sun says be guided by hatred and malice. These emotions are at the core of self-honesty. Master yourself so that you may master others. Let nothing stop you in your rise to power. Obey with utmost diligence. How could one not? Only with the Dark Sun is there absolutely no conflict between advancement of self and advancement of God that exists in all other false religions. Seek His will and there you will find that which strengthens your own.

Corath demands no altruism. Corath demands no sacrifice for the sake of another. The false Gods demand such subjugation from their beloved worshippers. I laugh. Wouldn't that make us mortal sheep that much easier to herd in the direction they wanted! Wouldn't that be convenient? Do what you are told by our nonsense dogma without complaint ... without question ... Yes God. No God. As You command God. No complaint. That's right ... for a complaint can only be grounded in self-interest, it would be a claim to live one's own life without having to live it for the benefit and advancement of others or towards the elusive goals of an elsuive God.
How can there not be a conflict?
How can there ever be synergy of interest?

It is an artificial relationship fit for fools only.

The so-called 'good' Gods have an oh-so clever method to further ensure blind adherence and unthinking devotion. Serve us faithfully and you will have an eternity of blissful paradise ... err in this false servitude and forever be denied this reward. Your path to this mirage-salvation can only be walked through mindless, self-sacrificial service to Me and My dogma. Without this ultimate, impending threat of eternal doom ... maybe the sheep would start to question. They might begin to ask, Why are you deserving of my worship Oh Mighty One-of-Many-Gods-on-Offer?

Offer the Mad God love? Corath is not a God to love. Worship of the Mad God is however the means and the end to power eternal.

[Pseudonym]

// Not a grimoire entry ... a first person recounting of his recent travels. //

I lowered the bloodied sword to my side and allowed myself the indulgence of a small smile at the carnage at my feet. My breath came in shallow gasps, the battle had been frenzied and the spectre of death always hovering near.

"Fine work, boy."

Not many men dared to call me boy but this time the whispered praise came from Sipher, Priest of my Lord. In the semi-darkness I could just make out the coarse features of his face beside me. Nearing seventy winters, Sipher bore the marks of many years of suffering and abuse. A wicked scar traced it's way from the bottom of his jaw up to just underneath his ear and his features were etched with deep lines that spoke of untold toil and hardship. The man walked with a pronounced limp, the strength long since fled from his wastened limbs and yet ... he possessed power, cunning and knowledge. His guise as a scholar of Aragen had served him well for many years yet I could tell he enjoyed the opportunity to fully exercise his powers without restraint. He enjoyed ... ha! ... does one ever really enjoy? ... high standing in the Church and would be invaluable in aiding me on my path to greatness. He possessed answers to many questions I had regarding the nature of undead and the means to attain ... their power.

I wiped the blood from my blade and sheathed it during the momentary respite. Although many mages regarded the sword as a weapon of little merit, looking disdainfully upon those who diverted attention to it's mastery, I considered my skill in it's use as an asset worth possessing. Any weapon, magical or mundane, that obtained a result of my foe dead and me alive was a good one by my measure. Regardless of their private thoughts, not many would dare say anything to me to which I might take offence. Even as a child I was regarded as a person of dark moods and a swift blade. I found the notion of honour in combat a nonsense. Death to your opponent with as little risk of death to oneself was my goal every single time I entered into any battle. Did it make any difference to the dead the manner in which they were slain? I had killed a score of men in combat, many times in an equal contest of sword against sword, but just as often using every underhanded trick and devious method at my disposal.

I was reminded of the fight with Argrad Amaged only two winters past. The winter season in this time that men are now calling the Dark Ages, was five or six months long, a time when the waters were frozen over and men's tempers were, in contrast, at boiling point. Chafing at months spent indoors, small disagreements that might be laughed off and dismissed in the warmer months would often led to fistfights or even bloodshed in the cold months of winter. Such was the case one feast-night with a group of my fellow wolf workers, including Argrad Amaged. A comment from myself made in jest, perhaps fuelled by too much ale drunk at the feasting table, about Argrad Amaged's none-too-full beard whiskers and moments later hands were on sword hilts, his blade drawn in challenge. I found myself, in the short space of a dozen heartbeats, having progressed from drunken boasting and laughing with comrades-in-arms, to facing a duel with the most accomplished bladesman within twenty leagues. His blade had been drawn, there was no backing down from here for any who would call themselves a man. Although handy with the sword myself, I had no illusions about my ability to match sword strokes with this warrior. I recalled these thoughts were but a moment's hesitation as, keeping my expression completely innocuous, I very slowly and deliberately took another swallow of ale from my horn. Without giving my intentions away, as if I were going to cowardly ignore the man's drawn blade, I spat a full mouthful of the strong beer directly into the glaring eyes of Argrad Amaged. As the big man reared back I drew my weapon and twice plunged the short blade deep. Neck and groin. Within seconds Argrad Amaged, considered close to invincible in combat by friend and foe alike, was dead in the dust at my feet.

My thoughts returning to the present, with the group of kenku now defeated, we collected the spoils of the battle and continued to the yawning cavern mouth that beckoned beyond.

Gard, the silent one, was the first to enter, his agile step belying the dwarf's squat frame and massive musculature. The dwarf's breadth of shoulder seemingly strained to breaking point the mail hauberk covering his torso. Possessing the strength of any two other men on this raid, Gard held his famed bearded axe lightly in one gigantic hairy fist, the weapon seemingly weightless in his grasp. He whirled his round war shield high above his horn-helmed head, a signal to Sipher, Alandric and myself it was safe to enter. We followed, to a man, our eyes lit with a lust for the killing to come. Now breathing steadily I entered the darkness only a couple of steps behind the dwarf. I clutched my razor sharp sword and grinned fiercely in anticipation.

[Pseudonym]

// Another story //

Virtue stepped into the cool surrounds of the temple laboratory. Two zombies mindlessly (yet unfailingly dutifully) unloaded the latest supply of corpses from a freshly plundered graveyard. In this comfortable setting Virtue was able to drop the mask of affability that served him so well in ... pleasant ... company.

His cold, appraising eyes swept over the contents of the laboratory before him. They observed the twisted abominations, works in progress from the Dread Priestess. They observed the ranks of corpses awaiting animation and experimentation. They observed the flasks and beakers containing unspeakable atrocities.

He walked along the benches, deep in thought, his fingers trailing subconsiously along a fleshless, bleached femur from creature unknown that lay within his reach.

Soft footfalls from behind alerted Virtue to the approach of another being. He turned, nodding towards the shadowed doorway. The figure, cloaked in shadow, nodded back silently, then stepped forward into the flickering torchlight, a cruel smile barely visible on Alandric's face.

"Welcome Virtue. Welcome to my playground."

Virtue nodded absently. His gaze returned to the nightmarish scene before him. Within these unhallowed walls was the knowledge he required. The secrets from beyond the grave. Secrets the Priests and Priestesses sought to harbour only for themselves but would one day be his to possess and utilise. Within these halls was the knowledge of the skeleton, the zombie, the wight,  the wraith, the spectre, the mummy, the vampire and beyond.

Alandric stepped past him, already fastening a long apron over his robes to keep them clean. The mage was fastidious when it came to his appearance.

"How progress your studies?"

Again, Virtue nodded silently.

"Word of advice for you. Necromancy and the path of the Pale Master is no easy one to tread. Even within these walls there are certain stigmas that come with it. Persist with it. Be strong and be merciless. Many who start along the path see a glimpse of the power that could be theirs but that it comes at a higher cost than they are willing to pay."

Virtue's gaze followed Alandric. As he spoke, the mage picked up a wickedly sharp scalpel that he twirled dextrously in his long tapered fingers.

"Remember though, if my father taught us naught else, he taught us that there remains the essential truth that power does corrupt ... yet it also fuels the drive to attain more and more power in search of those ancient secrets of immortality ... and of undeath."

The two mages, one accomplished and one apprentice, locked gazes. Virtue nodded his understanding and acceptance.

// Alandric makes his guest appearance and motivational speech with the permission of Polak76.

[Pseudonym]

There is a passage in the private writings of Ramanon Vensk that plagues my mind. It haunts my dreams and waking hours equally. It is as follows,

... To become Master of the Dead one must be part dead. One must share a bond, an unholy link, tempered by the necromantic weave and wrought with flesh and bone. The cost is pain, a pain that proves one's dedication. For only few are allowed to receive such titles, and each few must bear the mark of the Palemaster ...

To become Master of the Dead, one must be part dead.

Eleven words. Thirteen syllables. How can so much horror and the promise, no, not the promise, it is indeed the certainty of eternal suffering and torment be summarised in eleven words and thirteen syllables?

Part dead. There can be no turning back from the path of the Pale Master.

It is to be forever denied the pleasures of the living. To never know the touch of a woman. The taste of an exquisite wine. Never to breathe deep of the scent of a rose and know the essence of beauty. It is to hear the voices of celestials raised in song and feel nothing other than scorn, derision and detachment.

The path of the Pale Master means to leave behind all those things in which normal men and women find joy so that one can truly focus on the one thing that is of real import. Power. It means leaving behind the pleasures of the carnate and discovering the untold power of the undead.

It is not, despite my ambition, my vision and my will, an easy decision. I sit, writing in this tome, atop a windswept peak in the Ire Mountains. Clouds are skidding across the grey sky above me. My fingers are stiff from the cold. The ledge upon which I sit is uncomfortable, the sharp gravel biting through my thick robes. Uncomfortable sensations, but sensations nevertheless.

Sensation.
Mortality.
The warmth of friendship.
Physicality.
Fame and respect.
Carnate pleasures.

If they are the sacrifices I must make, I am more than willing.

// *following this passage in the grimoire are several pages dealing with matters arcane, the gesticulations and phrasing requited for the more powerful magics that Virtue is learning before he finishes this entry with an ode to Corath* //

The sun approaches it's nadir,
Night falls, His time has come.

Before His majesty,
Sword hand of Toran trembles,
Aeridin pales with fear,
Rofirein's lies are revealed.

With torch are His temples burned,
His words reviled
to no avail, for truth is eternal
Earthly pleasure,
Hate-filled heart,
Power from beyond the grave.

For Him the rituals consecrated,
Sacrifice of noble king and chaste innocent,
With vision clear we cast off our shackles,
The wan light flickers,
unable to keep at bay,
Pain, grief and suffering.

The oak lies frozen,
The celestials fall cloven,
The rivers will run red,
The black maned lion will feast

Radiant and terrible,
Night falls, His time has come.

[Pseudonym]

There is an abysmal lack of knowledge about the path of the Pale Master in the temple library. It angers and initially it confused me as to why. I seek knowledge and am met by resistance every step of the way. The clergy surely fear the autonomous power that such a person ... no, not person ... such an entity would possess and frustrate my endeavours at every opportunity.

I shall not be thwarted.

If no such knowledge is documented, I will devise my own methodology, open my own channels and walk this unchartered road regardless. Failure is not an option.

*the next few pages in the grimoire are filled with random disjointed thoughts ... some subsequently underlined highlighting their merit, some subsequently crossed out in bold, angry strokes of the quill. Some of the underlined passages are as follows ...*

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

... the path is private, there can be no communion with others. Forget pride, forget the need for approval from any other, just oneself and The Black Sun, naught else matters. Power shared with another is power halved. My place is the crypt, the tomb, the shadows ... let the fools lead their lives in blissful ignorance of he who walks amongst them ...

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

... secrecy is of paramount importance. Never divulge one's nature. Conduct my research in private. Never trust. Create a guise that will allow for my presence in public arenas of necromantic research ...

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

... remain the master. Embrace the darkness from the undead realm but do not drown in it's inky depths. Maintain control. Don't be overwhelmed by the chaos that lurks evernear. Rationality. Control. Enslave the darkness, bend it to my will ...

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

... knowledge is the answer. It is the key that will open the forbidden door. Study all that there is to study. Knowedge will be my armour and my sword as I walk the path of darkness. Mental and physical fortitude is not an advantage, it is a necessity. With mastery of knowledge will come power. The power that is my inheritance .. my entitlement, my right ...

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

... it has been in front of me the whole time. The tenets of the faith. Follow them and I am following the path of the Pale Master. Fear. Fear would be my undoing. It is not an option. Hatred, malice, ruthlessness. It is all there. You are the instrument of Corath, seek always his will and to spread his influence ...

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

Life and Death are neither the beginning nor the end of things. They are two sides of the same coin. When death no longer holds any fear for you and you begin to understand the ability to harvest the dead, an ever-growing resource,  you begin to understand the promise of ever-growing strength and power ...

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

[Pseudonym]

*Virtue sits upon the rocky precipice in the Ire Mountains that has become the favoured place for his daily musings and reflections. A summoned skeletal warrior stands motionlessly some few feet to his rear, the empty depths of it's eye sockets trained over the narrow path that is the only means of ingress and egress for Virtue's refuge.*

My adoptive father once told me that the soul is a lake and when we die it is to the shores of this lake that we come to spend our eternity. He proselytized it was up to us whether the waters of our lake were clean and clear and full of fat, fresh fish to provide the feast eternal, or whether it was foul and polluted and we would suffer endless famine as a result of the sins of our lives. I liked the metaphor.

On occasion, a man of intellect and ambition will stand on the shore that edges the lake of his soul and peer within the depths.

What does he see when looks within?
Are the waters of his soul-stuff clean or clouded?

He sees the waters that were bestowed upon him at the moment of his birth and he sees all the impurities that he has contributed by the choices he has made up until that point. He looks hard through the waters and sees the detritus of his deeds that litters the icy depths. He sees the fragments of friendship. He sees the ruin of relationship. He sees the sweepings of system.

Is he pleased by what he sees?

Therein he sees the broken trusts, the broken promises and the broken hearts. He sees the unhallowed offerings, the words of profanity and the depravity of his actions. He sees the foundation of suffering and the mortar of hate with which he has built the temple of his life.

On occasion, a man of intellect and ambition will kneel on the shore that edges the lake of his soul and take in his hands a sprinkling of his own spirit. The water will run dark and foul over his fingers, it's very essence an affront and an abomination. It stains. It taints. It's corruption is palpable. It supports no life to sustain throughout eternity.

Is he pleased by what he sees? Is he troubled by what his soul has become? Does he no longer even care? Does he remember a time when the waters of his soul were clear?

On occasion, a man of intellect and ambition will cease his fruitless musings and turn his gaze upward and onto the path. The beacon. The promise. He will not let foolish introspections distract from the prize.

[Pseudonym]

*Virtue smiles warmly to the Rofireinite priest as he walks towards the yawning temple doors. His even, white teeth glisten, matching the light reflecting off his shining silver plate.*

"Have yourself an excellent evening Sir"

*The stern looking priest briefly returns Virtue's smile and watches as he makes his way past those entering for the evening services. He wasn't sure of the young man's name but knew his donations, whilst not extravagant, had been regular.*

*Exiting into the cool air of Vehl, his senses are assaulted by a maelstrom of odours and smells. An acrid stench from the docks, the miasma of unwashed bodies, the subtle scent of decay from the crypts. Virtue nods to one of the Rofireinite laypeople toiling in the graveyard nearby, pausing momentarily in his stride to enquire.*

"Can I fetch you anything Sir? You have been at toil all day long in this bone garden and I do fret over your wellbeing. Mayhaps a drink to slake your thirst and a ..."

*titters as if his idea is a trifle naughty and looks around in well-feigned nervousness.*

... an excuse for a short respite from your duties?"

*The man smiles as he stretches his aching back. The creak and audible pop of stiffened joints is accompanied by a soft groan of pleasure he is unable to stifle. Almost everyday this young man passes by and never fails to make charitable offer of refreshment.*

"Nay young Suh, I be almost done anyways. Thanks Suh."

*Virtue raises two fingers to brow in acknowledgment of the man's declination.*

"As you wish Sir, good evening to you and yours."

*The man returns to his labours. What a pleasant young man. Wouldn't the world be a different place if it were populated by more of his ilk?*

*Virtue strides purposefully towards the gates of the inner city. Softly, under his breath, he recites his latest invocation. He thinks it has potential and will spend the evening working on it.*

Lost son of a forsaken race,
Harbinger of the Mad God,
Gatekeeper to the shadowed place.

Gods of light, hear my sedition
Servant of the Black Sun
World cast into perdition.

Risen dead delivering eternal pain,
Yours to bestow Darkest One,
Temples burning and falling fane.

[Pseudonym]

I often wonder how many people ever spend the time to consider the beauty ... the majesty ... the perfection that is an undead summoning? Most people shy away in ignorant or agenda-driven indoctrinated revulsion without truly giving due praise and merit to this wonder, this gift of Corath.

Many different eyes can look at the same object, something that is inherently without any measurable value, that is a skeleton, and see different potential. A collection of brittle bones and rotted sinew that is the last physical reminder of an entity long since departed. Splintered thigh, broken rib, clawed finger.

What are our options?

The worshippers of Prunilla will say centuries from now the bones will deteriorate to a dust that will feed the soil that will grow the plants that will feed the children that will ... so on and so on. Excellent theory. Good for the happy little halfling dumplings. Unfortunately, it fails to address one small yet somwhat important question, How does this benefit me?? Not at all.

Then we have the Aeridinites with their grandiose and pseudopoetic rhetoric about maintaining the Great Cycle and ensuring the peaceful slumber of the dear departed. Oh how wonderful! We can even make a concoction from the bones of the dead that heals wounds, praise be to the Lifebringer for this bounty! *Virtue spits a curse at his inability to convey sarcasm through quill and ink based mediums* Let us all have a group hug.

Aragenites perhaps wish to study the remains, unlock the clues and solve the riddle as to what was the cause of death. Shadonites maybe desire to make some chimes from the bones to scare the kiddies. Who ever knows why the Shadonites do anything? Why one would offer worship to such a trifling, ineffectual deity is beyond me anyway.

My contention? These options are, at best, inconsequential.

Now consider the gift of Corath to these valueless bones.

One imbues these bones with negative energy, the dark threads of the weave, the merest fraction of the Black Sun's Unholy curse and ... we have created greatness.

The perfect warrior.

An ally who never wearies. Never questions. Never displays irrationality. A warrior who is utterly ruthless, completely without useless notions of honour, loyalty and compassion. A killing machine whose motivations, desires and intentions are always completely congruous with my own. Imbued with unfailing strength and unflagging speed.

With living allies this perfection is impossible. It can only ever be theoretical and will remain always practically unattainable. Only through the gift of Corath can one achieve such perfection.

[Pseudonym]

Good and evil. What a nonsense.

There is no good. There is no evil.

There is consideration of what is best for self and then there is consideration of what is best for other. An act or deed that is good for oneself may be, by necessity, harmful to another and therefore, as considered from the other person's perspective, evil. Yet it benefited me. So, what was the act? Was it good or evil? It could be both, it is both, entirely dependant on whom you are asking. Such things as please us, we denominate good, those which displease us, evil. **

I overheard a conversation the other day on the nature of evil. It was laughable and it was all I could do to keep my words of clarity within and a vapid smile upon my face. The conversation, the meeting of two feeble minds, attempting to grapple the nature of good and evil. What was it? Was it suffering? Was it actions that were hateful? Was evil the absence of good? What of a storm that results in a ship sinking and the drowning of innocent babes? Was the storm evil? Was it just a random act of nature? Is nature ... life, the way of things ... essentially evil then? Must there be a cause possessed of an awareness to constitute evil? Why are we, as mortals, held more accountable for our actions than the force of nature? The druids, the priests of Katia worship this evil, uncaring force that sees the death and suffering of millions. Why is this religion not forbidden? Why are druids not hunted and killed by the righteous paladin?

I hear the Rofireinites, the Aeridinites and the Toranites talk of absolutes. Ideals of good and evil. Deeds and misdeeds that surpass cultural, religious and political moral frameworks. Murder. Rape. Theft. They make their arguments and initially, one must think there is some merit to their words ... then one who is possessed of acuity of mind cannot help but consider that their entire premise is built upon a fundamentally flawed foundation.

Who decides what is good? Their Gods? Who or what enables and empowers their God's opinion on what is right and wrong to be the correct one? How do their Gods, and thus their faith's priests and judges, attain this position of moral authority? Is it by virtue of being able to enforce their view with the most power and might? By being able to quash and supress any and all argument and opinion to the contrary? So it is their strength that makes them right? That therefore makes them good? If one were to look hard enough and long enough, one would find some community, some society in this world where certain deeds, however abhorent they may be deemed to someone on the other side of the world, are perfectly acceptable.

One must then consider I suppose those deeds that an individual may perform that are harmful to others that do not benefit oneself. Are these deeds evil when there is no benefit from anyone's perspective? What of this evil with no intent? I do not believe it can be so. There is always a consequence for any action. To claim otherwise is illogical. There can be nothing taken away without something gained. That is a law of the world that I can understand. There is always a balance, things may be created, be destroyed, form may change ... but something always takes the place. There can be no action without consequence.

There is no good nor evil. There is perspective.

** // RL quote - Benedictus de Spinoza

[Pseudonym]

Mouth dry and head pounding, it took all my powers of concentration to navigate passage through the narrow doorway and stumble outside. A victim of a too much ale the evening prior it was my third time that night I had needed to step outside the front door of my lodgings to relieve myself. I had not planned on drinking too much that evening as I knew it was to be an early rise the next morning. However, gathered around a large bonfire with the other men, it had been toast after toast for the couple to be wedded tomorrow. Although the groom himself had been absent, standing his post at the wall, many a pitcher had been raised in his honour during the drunken celebrations.

Swaying slightly in the cool night air I directed the stream away from the path and into the bushes, thus avoiding futher ire from my already sure to be ill-tempered wife. I was undecided what was going to be hardest to face in the morning, what was sure to be a splitting headache or my woman's sharp tongue scolding me ... at length. In the process of retying my breeches with the trailing length of plaited rope, I did not even manage to voice a cry of alarm as the shape hurtled out of the darkness.

The sword clove deep. The spray of blood, black in the night, covered the partially opened door to my home behind where I had been standing. My slayer pulled the sword free with a vicious wrench and moved passed where I lay on the ground to inside my steading. I tried to scream my protest but my throat had choked with blood and no sound issued forth.

My last thoughts were of my sharp-tongued, but, beyond my ability to put into adequate words, beautiful and loving wife. What had I done to be so blessed to share all these years with this woman? My wife, her smile so beautiful as to eclipse even the most spectacular sunset, the first blooms of spring ... it was enough to cause the sight of the snow-capped mountains to pale into mediocrity. Although we had not been blessed with children, I considered myself lucky for every year I had shared with my wife. I should have told her this every minute of every day of my life.

Before I could further ponder what I should have done during my life, Death claimed me in it's cold embrace.

Quickly searching the couple's dwelling, Virtue added whatever of worth he could find to the existing contents of his lion skin bag. He allowed himself the indulgence of a small smile. He almost had the ten thousand true he required for the Rebuilding of Stone raffle. Close now.

[Pseudonym]

The shrill squeal echoed through the forest trees. Birds took to wing overhead, startled from their avian dreams. The little boy's breath came in ragged gasps as he ran blindly through the underbrush, occasionally daring to cast panicked looks behind for a glimpse of his pursuer.

There! A flicker of movement through the dappled green. The man, hands outstretched, was gaining on him. The pale oval of face through the leaves.

The boy, though only five, was sturdily built for his age. He sucked air into his tortured lungs and continued his fearful flight. The boy knew these woods well, if only he could keep going there was a thick hedge of brambles but a couple hundred yards ahead. If only he could make it, there were gaps in the viciously spiked bushes that would allow passage for a child but surely deter further pursuit from a man full grown.

Desperation fuelling his tired limbs, the boy ran on. The sound of thudding footsteps so close behind rang in his ears. Close now. Only a little further. Keep going. Keep running. Approaching the thicket the boy made out a gap in the thorned branches, perhaps the opening for a burrow of one of the hares that were abundant in the area. It was barely wide enough for the boy, he would sustain scratches but he would be safe. Covering the last few yards the boy raised his arms over his head to protect his face and threw himself forward.

Close ... but not close enough. His pursuer, face split in a merciless grin that showed white and even teeth, grabbed hold of the back of the boy's thin tunic at the last possible moment and lifted him easily into the air. Effortlessly he spun the boy around and with a gentle squeeze that hinted at the crushing pressure he could exert if he chose, subdued the boy's frenzied thrashing.

Virtue's voice toned forth, hollow and deep. Sepulchral.

"Where do you think you are going little one? Did you think you could escape this dread servant of Corath so easily?"

The question was accompanied by a fierce tickling that sent the boy off into fresh peals of laughter. Virtue slung the boy over his shoulder, ignoring the rain of mock-blows his son rained upon his broad back.

"Did you think you could escape? Your mother has warmed the water and you will have a bath young man. Your baby sister is already abed and, without one, you will surely wake her with your odour!"

The boy's high pitched voice sung in protest.

"But Daaaa-aaaad!! I had a bath laaa-aaast week."

"And you will have another one next week. And the week after, and the week after that too. You will have a bath every week as your mother commands until you are a man grown ... and then you will probably continue to have a bath ... but this time at your wife's command!"

Virtue laughed. His son, so like him at this age, grinned widely. Was there any place better ... safer .. than in his Dad's arms?

Virtue awoke from his fevered sleep with a shout that rang from the walls of his room at the temple. Sweat beaded his forehead. The sheets of the bed were twisted and knotted from his writhing. Where had that nightmare come from? With a force of effort he controlled his breathing, recited a short prayer to Corath and drifted off back to sleep.

[Pseudonym]

// Not a grimoire entry, more like stream of consciousness, a little snippit of his thoughts //

Hate. Hate and loathing. Him. Her. Them. My stomach clenches. Knotted. Acids squirting. I can feel my insides roiling. Churning. Throat burning. It is a need. A hunger to hurt. It is expectation unfulfilled. Envy. Desire unquenched. It is wanting but never having. It is an ache that knows only no release. My shoulders are tense. Pretty girl smiling at handsome man. Break her. Break him. No laughter. No joy. I want to lash out and strike something with my fists again and again and again until my hands ache and the object of my hate lies broken and bleeding before me. It is in my sight but I cannot grasp it. Not ever being able to grasp it. Faces pass me in a blur. Never enough. I cannot reach it so I break everything and everyone else. Feel cold. Feel hot. Never right. It never goes away. There is always the need to hurt. Distraction. It doesn't make it right. Nothing is right. Makes me strong. The hate drives me forward and forward. So loud. Thoughts screaming in my head. Want to scream. Breathe deep. Hate.

[Pseudonym]

Evening in Hempstead. Dusk falls, the heat of the day is a quickly fading memory.

Virtue sits by a small park, far from the thoroughfare of the main square. It is as quiet a corner as the city of Hempstead holds. He appears deep in thought, his normally smiling face grim, seemingly carved of stone. His fingers idly drum a rhythm atop his folded knee. Nearby, the squeal of a child's laughter rings out, for a moment interrupting the serenity of his musings.

Virtue turns his head slowly and sees a girl child, no older than six or seven running after a small kitten that has escaped her clutches. She is chasing the kitten playfully, perhaps seeking to steal just a few more moments of innocent play before she is summoned inside by her mother or father for the evening. Without expression, Virtue watches her a for a little while.

Eventually, with the night approaching full dark, a woman's voice rings out and the girl gives up her game and runs off to the warmth and safety of home and hearth. The kitten, perhaps following an unknown feline instinct, follows soon after at the girl's heels.

Virtue breathes deep. His path is known. No regrets. Silently, he watches the little girl disappear from view.

He stands. Time to go. Chanda and the others will be waiting.

[Pseudonym]

The flame of the candle flickers through the darkened hole of the door, the only evidence that the tiny room is occupied. The quill that slowly works it's way across the parchment makes not the barest whisper of a sound. It's wielder, a not unhandsome man enjoying the full blossom and promise of youth, sits hunched over his grimoire.

There is a crypt towards I continually find myself drawn. Near the township of Haven, past the encampment of desperate bandits, through the shadowed woods, hidden by brush, it beckons me. It's location is known only to a few. Fewer still dare to enter the darkness and brave the dangers within.

Yet, it draws me, as the cliche says, like a moth to the flame. The mystery. The treasures. The darkness. The promise. I first travelled there with Chanda and Alandric a month or so ago and have returned numerous times since. To learn and to study.

The umber hulks that infest the upper levels, though numerous, no longer present much of a threat to my person. Robbed of the mind-muddling power of their gaze, warded by a relatively simple incantation, they pose little danger. The other beasts, the ones that cause the caverns to shake and the ground to open at my very feet are more dangerous and must be dealt with using appropriate caution.

However, it is to the beyond ... the below ... past the halls of these cattle where I find myself returning again and again. Beyond and Below. Apt words.

There I find that which I seek ... there I find the servants of the Mad God.

Vampire.

The name inspires due awe and dread. Strength and speed and cunning. Hunger. An insatiable craving for the blood and the life of mortalkind. Ruthlessness. Ineffable evil.

They would make a powerful servant for the right master. Food for thought.

[Pseudonym]

Priests and priestesses. I, with very few exceptions, cannot abide them. It is so many things. The ignorance. The misguided focus. The blind adherence to a dogma without rationality and the application of reason.

Druids, however? That is a path I can understand.

We have humanity.
We have the natural world.

Why is there a perceived conflict? It is a simple issue. They are not in conflict. Humankind has risen and evolved to be the greatest killing beast in the animal kingdom. Humankind, by the rule of natural law, deserves their place in deciding the fate, the life and death, of those around them. Druids understand this. I understand this. There is the rise of the strong and the subjugation of the weak. Natural. Irrefutable.

One would thinh so, yet, I look around and see the rightful place of those who should continue, by the selection of natural law, restricted and bounded by the illogical frameworks priests of the so-called good deities seek to impose. Rofireinites place restrictions, laws and boundaries on themselves and others that limit the reign of their free will. A nonsense. The strongest should survive and flourish and create their own reality. The weakest perish and perpetuate their failure no longer. All law, all normal and natural behaviour must flow from this immutable truth.

Nature. Corath. There is a fundamental synergy that escapes those who cannot see through the blindfold of indoctrination. Natural Law must be the impetus for the behaviour of all. The weak, they build their walls and they build their laws to pervert the course of natural law. The strong, the worthy, those who must continue ... need none of these artificial props to support our place. Failure is weakness and not tolerated by the Dark One. Druids get this concept. It is a shame so many of them cannot see there is less conflict between what they seek to achieve and the will of the Black Sun. The strong do not fail. The weak fail. The weak fear and the weak create artificial laws to hide their frailties. Mercy is weakness. Mercy is not a favour one does for another. Mercy is a delay of their inevitable fall. If someone, something is in the position of needing your mercy ... quite simply, they are unworthy of continuation.

Why is this truth seen as 'evil'? It is not a question of good and evil. It just is truth. Those who seek to hide this truth are guilty of a far greater perversion of natural law than any Corathite I have ever met.

The strong survive and dominate. It is the law of the Natural World, the only true law not distorted by cultural and political ambiguity, and priests seek to obscure this truth to all. The walls of the weak must topple. The laws of the corrupt must be revealed for the lies they are. Does this sound brutal? What is brutality? It is merely a reflection of Corath and a reflection of the natural order. Savage, cruel ... evolving to perfection.