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Spike

Jehoram's Journal
« on: June 18, 2009, 09:44:23 am »
Jehoram twisted and turned, unable to sleep. The ship creaked and groaned around him, the rough seas battered it like a cat with a mouse. The lone light of a solitary lamp barely illuminated the underbelly of the cargo ship. What little light there was glinted in the eyes of the nervous farm animals. The stink of their fear was lost in the smell of human filth, neither of which bothered Jehoram anymore as he had been copped up with it for weeks now. He coughed and shifted suddenly causing the hammock to rock alarmingly. It was still dark outside from what he could tell, his stint at the ores had yet to start. He rolled over and drifted back into uneasy sleep.

**********


He was a child again running hollering through the streets pursued by guards. They were no match for him, weighed down by their chainmail and shields. Deftly he dodged down an alleyway and leapt over a pile of refuse. He shouted with glee at their muffled curses as he pulled ahead. His haste became his downfall however. A stray mongrel darted out in front of him causing him to slide and trip. Pain shot up his leg from his ankle. He looked down to see it twisted at a strange angle. The shouts of villainous delight came from the guards as they saw their fallen prey. Fear paralysed Jehoram as he saw his fate coming for him. But his elder brother had other plans. Running up behind he had seen what had happened and had taken a shortcut to over take them. Now he stood at the side of the road and casually pushed a barrel into their path causing them all to trip and collide into each other, ending up in one giant pile of metal, bodies and cursing. Jehoram tried to hide his tears as his brother half carried, half dragged him to safety.

Now he was a few years older and sat at the dinner table swinging his legs. They almost touched the ground which he was very proud off. His brother sat to the left and was looking with concern at the three adults on the other side of the table. They were all talking very loudly and occasionally pointed at him. His mother and father were both speaking fast and aggressively at his uncle, which was strange he thought, as his uncle did not come round anymore. His brother turned to him and whispered,
“ Watch out for uncle, he's not allowed around here for a reason”.
With a start his uncle jumped up, and swept towards the door with a single backwards glance at Jehoram.

It was autumn now and he sat in a rickety chair with a slate and a piece of chalk in hand. His mother had sat him down a few weeks ago and explained to him that they would pay for lessons in writings and such as she new he had the potential to get a real education.
“Education will set you free” she had told him “you're the first in our family to have a talent for words and numbers, you'll be able to make a good life for yourself and your family”.
His brother now worked with his father on the docks to pay for his lessons. Guilt made Jehoram work hard.

The next year he was thirteen. He remembered his birthday more vividly than any other day in his life. He remembered walking home from his tutor, cursing at his shoes which were falling apart. He opened the door to their small house in the slums. He remembered it was cold inside, so cold. He saw his mother hunched in a chair, crying. He saw his brother trying to comfort her, his face drawn. She looked up at him.
“Jehoram! My son, come to me”.
Cautiously he walked over to her and asked what was the matter.
“Your father...he's left. Jehoram, my child, my son. You are the only one now who can save this family”.
He never saw his father again.

The sound of racking coughing came from the room next door. He sat there, quill in hand staring at a blank piece of parchment. When the next fit of coughs came he cringed at the sound and stepped outside. His brother was walking slowly down the street, he looked tired now, older. A wave of greeting was exchanged between the two. They both sat down on a nearby stone bench. His brother yawned and stretched out his worn arms and callused hands to the evening light.
“I spoke with a few people today, down at the counting house. They say that they may be willing to take you on next year.”
Jehoram said nothing. The sound of horse coughing drifted out of the house. His brother looked up with surprise.
“She's sick again then?” He sighed. “Farther's departure has been hard on her.” He sighed again and looked down on Jehoram's expressionless face.
“I know the feeling Jehoram, the feeling of being powerless. Just don't let it lead you to do something stupid.”
He playfully punched his arm and walked inside.

He remembered now why Arnax had such a fearsome reputation. This wasn't like when his father left, as he had taken his things with him. His brother's possessions were still strewn about the house when he never came home. They held a small wake for him, though of course there was no body. Even his uncle was there, his mother not having the strength to send him away. She was worse now, a husk of the women she had once been. Jehoram could no longer stand to look at her. His uncle could though and winked at her then at Jehoram. After the service he walked up to him with a grin.
“Jehoram my boy, I would have a word”.

**********


He sat up suddenly bashing his head against a low hanging rafter. He swore loudly causing shouts and curses to erupt from those still trying to sleep. He wiped the cold sweat from his face and rolled over sighing. Drearily his eyelids slowly closed , his last vision, the worn dark wooden ceiling.

**********


He was sixteen now, older, wiser in the ways of the world. He didn't understand why his parents had disliked his uncle so much, in his time of need he had taken him under his wing. Hallucinogenics and the like were dealt to him so that he could sell them on for a profit. He was grateful to his uncle, this was a good source of income. The counting house was a long distant dream now, a relic of a happier time. He still told his mother that that was where he worked, bedridden as she was she had no way of knowing. He gave her this one small gift, and smiled sadly at her foolishness. No one from the slums had ever gotten out to make a better life for themselves, he had gone the way that most went at his age.

“Jehoram my boy, come over here for a moment”.
He walked swiftly into the room where the voice had come from, eager to please his uncle. It was a bare whitewashed, cramped affair with a steel table in the middle. A man whom Jehoram had never seen before was held down there by two burly thugs. His uncle welcomed him with open arms.
“Jehoram my son we have a slight problem here that perhaps you might be able to solve”.
Jehoram raised any eyebrow quizzically, unsure of what was to be asked of him. His uncle grinned.
“This man here” he pointed to the one held on the table, “has brought dishonour to me and my brothers. This is the third time he is late with payment, something which is unthinkable. Do I, no we, not have to eat? To feed our families? Yet you deny us even that”.
He pointed a long delicate finger at the man, who struggled violent. His eyes swivelling madly.
“He is such a sad, unhappy man, never smiling. But perhaps we can change that”.
He produced a rectangle shard of metal, about an inch in width and one and a half in length. The two thugs grinned and forced the mans mouth open. His uncle walked slowly over, as if savouring the mans fear and anguish. Carefully he placed the piece of metal in the mans mouth.
“Jehoram, come over here if you would”.
Jehoram jumped at being mentioned. Slowly, reluctantly he approached his uncle. He knew what was being asked of him. His eyes became moist, sure he had ruffed up a few people before, gotten into a few fights. Who hadn't? But this, this was to much. The man looked at him pleadingly. His own vision shook, the only thing he could see now was his uncles brilliantly white teeth.
“Jehoram” his uncle whispered, “make him smile”.

It was winter when his mother died. She had been sick for so long, but it still came as a shock. They were all gone, he was alone. As if reading his thoughts, he felt the cold touch of his uncles hand on his shoulder. Strange, he thought, how a man at the peak of his health could be so cold.
“You are not alone Jehoram. You are one of us now, god's forgotten children.”
Jehoram looked up at him, his eyes dead, emotionless.
“Jehoram my child, my son. No...his son. You are an agent of his power weather you know it or not. I saw the potential when you were but a child. Why do you think you parents tried to keep me away? The feared what I would tell you, show you, make you into. It gets easier with time, the killing, the torture, you know that now, I can tell by your eyes. You think everything I asked of you was to do with simple drugs? No, you served a higher purpose”.
Jehoram turned to face him. Should he be feeling something? Betrayal? Resentment? No, he didn't care, he stopped caring a long time ago. When his father left, when his brother disappeared, that man's face...his mother's death. He had felt so powerless, but not now.
“You're a changed man Jehoram, for now you are indeed a man, no longer a child. His man”.
His punch came swiftly and unexpectedly, taking his uncle in the jaw sending him flying. He looked back at him with dazed shock, then smiled that smile of his.
“Good, there is still some spirit left in you, come, you have much to see”.

The temple was strange. Everyone know of it of course. It was spoken about in hushed whispers. Few that entered left. Jehoram coughed as the incisee entered his lungs, blurring his vision and thoughts. The led him down dark twisted corridors, these dark cloaked women. The only light was the gleam off his uncles teeth. Soon they entered a chamber, similar to the one he had been in over a year ago. Though this one was built with stone that conveyed a feeling of ancient pain eternal. A women lay bound to the table. She was dressed in rags, her once blonde hair now knotted and grimy. One of the dark cloaked women handed him a curved ceremonial dagger silently. Then they began to sing. Their voices where angelic, beautiful. His uncle weeped openly. Jehoram just stood there looking at the blade. The bound woman began to moan in fear. His strike was swift, precise, efficient. His uncle was right, it did get easier over time.

“So it is done” his uncle sighed, “ I shall miss you nephew”.
Jehoram just shrugged.
“My heart swells with pride when I think that our family continues this fine tradition, though it pains me to see you go. Remember the priestess's words”.
Jehoram nodded then turned to the dock without a backwards glance.
A scruffy sailor worked on tieing knots in a thick piece of rope. His was unshaven and bare footed, moving gracefully about the piles of rope. He looked up when Jehoram approached.
“Ahh, you the oarsman?”
Jehoram looked back at the city. Dusk was settling in now, illuminating the trails of smoke drifting up form a multitude of chillies. He imagined all those families gathering round the warmth of the fire.
“Yes” he said.

**********




*A battered journal bound in worn red leather lies before you. The pages are made of a faded yellow parchment and consist of drawings, letters and journal entries. Written on the inside of the front cover is the crossed out  word, “Morsus” followed by the new word, "Raven".*


I


I write this now not so that those who read it may judge or understand me. There is nothing left for that. It is merely a means to clarify my own thoughts. A gift from my uncle.

I have been staying in the port town of Fort Vehl plying my trade as a mercenary. Its a stinking cess pit of human suffering where the strong prey on the weak...just like home. The followers of Rofirein make their home there to try and impose their will on the lawless town. They have their uses.

I met a strange pair on the outskirts of Haven. I believe they called themselves Duchess and Nastor, judging by their dress and hidden faces I can guess that they were elves of  a particular variety. I travelled with them for a while, entering a series of caves infested with Umber hulks. The sickening crunch of their chitin exoskeleton under my great sword was almost musical. Like typical elves their choice of fighting was cowardly. One stood  from afar and flung spells of magic, the other chose the backstabing approach. I guess a certain amount of respect is due, they were effective. Though the knowledge that I could snap their weak spines with one hand makes me smile.

I left them when we reached Hlint to make my way south again. The roads are dangerous these days, infested with bandits. I would have thought that fully armed I would not have been a target. I thought wrong.

They came at me like bloodcrazed animals, their pitiful scraps of armour glinted in the light. I have found that the beauty of the great sword, my adopted weapon of choice, is its reach. A single roundhouse swing finished them off with ease. All but a single archer who seeing the fate of his comrades wisely chose to flee, that is in till a crossbow bolt to the leg spoiled his plans. I took my time walking up to his sprawled body. With the tip of my boot I rolled him over. He stank of fear, tears falling freely from bloodshot eyes. Very slowly I brought my face close to his and whispered softly in his ear, “and you will shed tears of scarlet”. My blade did the rest.


*A number of blotches and crossed out words follow*

Mercy is for the weak.
 

Spike

Re: Jehoram's Journal
« Reply #1 on: July 03, 2009, 01:46:24 pm »
II


I have finally discovered the temple, my new home. It is calming to be there, there is no illusion. I am not Jehoram of Vehl or Vincent of Wayfare, simply Morsus. This constant need for deception wears thin on my patience, I have always been one to solve my problems with a weapon. As well as tithing I also help the tortures in their task. I take no pleasure in it as they tend to do...*He pauses then shrugs* I am simple good at it.

I recently ran into Duchess again. Along with her associate 'Big Man' (a dwarf, the irony is not lost on me) we headed north to Krandor. There I became embroiled in some sort of botched assassination attempt. When both their backs were turned upon the corpse I carved a rune of undeath above the heart as is the custom among some of us. Though I am not skilled in magic I am in words and letters, and picked up a few of such runes in my latter days in Arnax. The one known as 'Big Man' then chose to dispose of the body by kicking it into the nearby river. I chose not to comment on the fact that unless the authority wishes the body to be made a example of (crucifixion is a favourite of mine in that situation) then it is best to remove the head, hands and feet of the corpse before burying them and disposing of the torso elsewhere. However, each to their own. A map was discovered on the body and a venture into the Krandor crypts followed. When we emerged a small troupe of guards had discovered the body. 'Big man' chose to hide behind the crypt entrance, for which I do not blame him being so unsavoury looking. But the usually charismatic elf clung to the shadows like an unsure child. I took it on my self to pacify the guards. They would not have allowed three armoured individuals to leave the crime scene otherwise.

A few days ago I arrived at the temple again, this time to be confronted by an Oraculum Stipatio who may have even been the Oraculum Mortis, it is said that they dwell on Mistone. He accepted my presence with limited questions though many threats. Again it is their way I guess. I have noticed that for a religion so inward facing there is little there besides the squabbles and political manoeuvrings of the 'higher ups'. There is little mention of what came before, only of the now.
I have always had an interest in history and I wonder now how our great faith came to be. Now that our traditional enemies are solely concerned with this invasion of a green dragon cult it may be time to stretch our hand forward a reclaim our past. I am only a simple Morsus of course but...*shrugs again*.

The cult dose have me partially concerned. The clergy do not speak of it and the implications for us.


*He sighs*

War will make copses of us all.
 

Spike

Re: Jehoram's Journal
« Reply #2 on: September 13, 2009, 10:53:32 am »
*A sharp kick took him behind the kneecap sending him to his knees. This was quickly followed by a roundhouse punch to the jaw that caused the floor to enter his vision as it collided with his face. He had no strength left to even mutter a curse, only enough to spit out a gob of blood on the ground.

The Proeliator Stipatio grabbed him firmly by the collar and dragged him roughly to his feet.

“This is why you fail. Your dreams, your apparitions, your life, it is all dust to him. If you learn to understand that before he claims your soul, be grateful.”

He threw him to the ground and stalked out of the chamber, his armoured boots clinking on the rough flagstones as he left.

What felt like hours passed there in the cell. He rolled over onto his back to stare vainly into the darkness. All was silent except for his own laughter.*



III


It has been a while since last I wrote here. I chose, perhaps against better judgment to return to Arnax. I felt a homecoming was in order to get in touch with my 'roots’. I remember walking the streets upon arriving, my mind lost in thought as I journeyed unforgotten routes that eventually brought me to the graveyard. It was a grim affair, overgrown with tombstones falling over each other due to lack of space. Befitting of the slums I guess. I remember climbing across broken paths to reach my brothers empty grave. Strangely it was well tended with fresh flowers laid across the tiny plot. Clearly I remember a twig snapping behind me, causing me to do a round about turn, my Blade of the Morsus in hand. The frail old lady I saw before me was none other than Mrs. Tarrot, an old friend of my families. I remember her words as clear as day, as cold as ice.

“Jehoram?! Is that you? Its been years! Last I heard that dreadful uncle of yours got his hands on you and...and...it looks like he did. What became of you boy? You used to be so young and carefree and now look at you! One of them. I won’t ask you to leave but I would ask of you to leave your family in piece. Your 'kind' have no respect for the dead.”

She spat those last words at me and then stalked off. It made me realise that there really was nothing left for me here so I made my way to the temple. I did not visit my mother’s grave.

They welcomed me with cold silence when I showed up. I asked of my uncle but received no reply. I was led in quickly to what was I guess to be my Sancti. I did not know a fraction then of what I do now.

His name ( I call him 'him’ when 'it’ would perhaps be better) was Kurgen Splinterbone. He was either a stunted human or deformed dwarf. Completely hairless, he possed elongated canines (no doubt from some twisted experiment), beady eyes and a hunchback. He dressed in black robes and hood like all his kind, but strangely enough had lengths of rusted iron chain wound around his wrists. He seemed all to happy to see me. It is hard to forget what he said in his disjointed chaotic tone.

“Ahh ahhh! So this is the one! An ugly slab of muscle he is yes, but he will do.”

He cackled at that and led me outside and through an endless labyrinth of winding streets.

“I take you to dinner yes? My wife, she cooks for us...very beautiful...very...warm.”

I was taken into a small dilapidated house and sat down at a rickety table for a meal of vegetable stew. The girl who served us but did not join us could not have been more than nineteen and seem absolutely terrified of Kurgen, who spent the meal leering at her. He then leaned over to me and whispered,

“Pretty yes? A gift from the dark lord. However all is not well. Come.”

As we entered the kitchen where the unfortunate girl was cleaning up, Kurgen began to sob. She turned around in surprise only to be greeted by the dwarf throwing himself at her, knife drawn. I jumped back in shock as the scene unfolded in front of me. It was bloody, too bloody to write about, even here. He stood there when he was finished, blood splattered, above the mutilated corpse moaning and gnashing his teeth. He then turned to me (and I would be lying if I said I did not feel a little fearful), and quoted,

“He who githeth, can taketh away.”

That was the first of many lessons I learned during my time in Arnax.




*A rough sketch follows.*

 

Spike

Re: Jehoram's Journal
« Reply #3 on: December 07, 2009, 03:34:19 pm »
*An open letter to the Sanctus Stipatio, the Oraculum Stipatio, the Proeliator Stipatio and the Ereptor Stipatio of the Ire mountains temple, stuck inbetween two pages.*

My lords,
by now we are sure you have heard about the incident in the Forest of Fog and the poor attempt by the dark elves in question to place the blame on the followers of the Grave Lord himself.
We are not familiar with the sects that exist on Dregar so we come to you instead hoping that the work we have done for you in this temple will grant our words some weight. Our greatest concern is this, have we fallen so far from grace that we have become the but of a joke played by the dark elves and their kin?

Normally we would respect our place as simple clergymen and warriors of the faith, and leave such 'delicate' issues to those in higher authority. However, it has now been a number of weeks since this incident became public knowledge and we have yet to see blood. Of course it is understood that such an occurrence must be kept from the general populace of layonara's knowledge as much as possible, as though we may know of the nature of this fraud, others may be quick to point the finger at the Mad One, causing seroious repercussions. That is indeed an excuse why nothing has happened, however it is not an expectable one.

But this is not all. There is a rumour going around that the leader of this 'debauchery' is one Daralith Del'Mar, a follower of the Prince of Hate. We feel that we do not need to specify the consequences should this prove true. The Bone Lord and the Lord of Spiders have long been allies, so for this Del'Mar to come between this alliance is...a grave matter indeed, and should highlight the severity of this issue and the need for action.

Finally my lords, we do not feel that we need to add this as you know this well already. The dark elves were caught wearing cloaks with the mark of Corath on them. No clothing bearing the mark of the Dark Lord is ever to be worn outside of holy ground. So it is written.

Tenets have been broken, insult given and actions left unanswered. There is a common feeling here that if the current authority cannot deal with the issues with both swift retribution and subtlety, then perhaps new blood is needed.

May the Dark Lord guide your hate,

*signed*

The concerned
 

Spike

Re: Jehoram's Journal
« Reply #4 on: December 27, 2009, 09:46:51 am »
IV


I have not seen Kurgen in quite some time now. It's a relief to say the least, even in my line of 'work' there is something about him that unease's me. However saying that, he is not without his uses.

Originally I had no desire to return to Mistone, Aranx is my home after all. There I have no fear about being persecuted for who I am, there I can openly exercise the will of the Dark Lord. Like all others I played the great game that is Tower Veroer, working my way up the ladder, clawing my own little bit of power. I was resented for it of course. Morsus are usually considered to 'stupid' to fully take part. They say that we lack the cunning of the Furax, the intelligence of the Veneficus, of the pure dark will of the Sanctum. They are fools. The simple fact that they underestimate me because of my profession will be their undoing.

But I digress. Though the tower is our spiritual home it had grown stale for me. Besides the internal politics, nothing much happens. So I had resolved to return to Mistone, and taste the thrill of walking amongst my enemies once again. When Kurgen heard of my decision he was not happy. At least that is what I gauged from his response, though it is always hard to tell with him as he seems to refuse to follow the normal rules of social interaction. After he had finished his ranting and raving, he spoke to me in an almost normal voice and explained that in order to succeed there, I had to become a lie. I did not understand him till recently, but now I do. I have worked very hard, and succeeded at joining the 'ranks of adventures' that infest Mistone and Dregar. There is a certain thrill in travelling with your enemy, knowing that they trust you, at least enough to walk with you and your weapon.

All the while planting the seeds of corruption as the face of their peers, their friends, their family.

I sometimes wonder how much they need to be pushed. Not to long ago I travelled with a small number of adventures who allowed a group of dark elves, followers of the prince of hate no less, to remain unmolested. The irony is that it was me, and only me who stopped the elves from taking the others into slavery. I had to bargain for their aid as a number of the party had fallen. I would normally have been happy to have left the for dead, but I wanted the still beating hearts of those dark elves for my own use, and needed all the allies I could get to defeat them. You can imagine my discomfort my 'allies' betrayal my trust in refusing to attack the dark elves after the deal was struck. Still, there was some joy to be had. One of those raised was a Toranite, I can only smile as I imagine his disgust at being touched by a follower of Baraeon Ca'duz. Perhaps before the end, when I show this Toranite his own intestines, I will tell him that he was saved by a Corathite. It is a thought.

But why would a follower of Corath be seeking the hearts of a follower of Baraeon Ca'duz you might ask? Of course you might, but it is a mark of of your own stupidity if you do. The events that took place in the Forest of Fog will not be forgotten, and have yet to be resolved. I do not know what the consequences of this will be, But I know that I will not rest until they have taken place.

Though it is not all dark, Dr. Vensk has finally become the Oraculum Stipatio, defeating a rival that had held the position for over a century. I was there, and it created a new found respect in me for just how powerful some of us really are. There was never any doubt in me but now, there is only respect.

I shall end this entry here, with the thought that there is more power to gain, within the temple and without.
 

Spike

Re: Jehoram's Journal
« Reply #5 on: January 24, 2010, 11:40:44 am »
V


Only one thing in this life is certain...death. It is this understanding that gives us strength, by embracing our own oblivion we gain power over those who don't.

I'm worried. This may sound like fear, but I disagree. The last person to ask if I was 'scared' was back when I still worked for my uncle. It was to be my first hit. I can't remember the details but I remember my response. I broke his nose, his left arm, his left ankle, his spine and finally I put out his eyes with my thumbs. I dislike being questioned.

No this is not fear, you need to have concern for your own well being to feel fear. True devout members give that up at the beginning. I gave it up before even that. There is a tension in the air, like before a storm. Veneficus, Morsus and Furax refuse to make eye contact, Sancti ignore my questions. I am worried.

I don't think they are planning to dispose of me, if that were the case I would not be putting pen to paper right now. Though, about a month ago an attempt was made on my life. I had bested a fellow Morsus in training, humiliating him in front of the others. He muttered foul curses at me, but I disregarded them like one disregards a fly. Perhaps I shouldn't have. He came cloaked in shadow during the night, a poisoned dagger in hand. I guess he considered me easy prey as I don't sleep with my great sword close too hand. I do however always carry a short sword. In his excitement he failed to land a fatal blow, but I didn't. I picked up the arm I had removed and cast it aside, the dagger still grasped in its dead grip. I sat there, at the edge of my bed for a while watching him writhe in pain, like a snake thrown into a fire. Slowly I stood and removed his skull like mask. His face was completely hairless, one eye a milky white and the side disfigured and covered in scars. I asked him what I should do with one who sneaks around like a rat in the night. He spat in my face. I dislike being disrespected.

Suffice to say he was disposed of appropriately. As my mentor Kurgen would say "Those who will not embrace the madness are too weak to lead it”. I bound him and threw him in the sewers to join his rodent 'brothers'. The rats that exist in the temples sewerage system are particularly vicious, they can be counted on to dispose of the remains. I am not so foolish though as to not take the hint. An enemy should never be underestimated or discounted, no matter how weak they may appear. I dislike the thought that I may have displayed as much arrogance as a dark elf. That will not happen again.

Speaking of Kurgen, I have not heard from him in some time. Normally this would be of no consequence, but the lack of his letters of teachings, and the other members attitudes to me adds to my uncertainty to what the future may bring. Though Kurgen may be a member of the Excrucio, a glorified Xeenite, I still respect his teachings and can't help but wonder what has caused his letters to cease. Now more than ever I feel separated from my brothers. But doubt will never cross my mind.

The Ram goes well. Construction has finished and all that remains is the dreary task of stock taking. Obviously from my upbringing I have some knowledge of business so I have no fear that we will be able to gain a strangle hold on our particular target market. Perhaps if all goes well we will be able to expand into other ventures, such as slaves or narcotics. The good doctor keeps going on about selling souls, but that would be his field of expertise. Anyway, this just goes to show that control can be gained through more than just strength of arms. I have other plans for the Ram, but I shall not detail them here yet. The puppet master hides the strings he uses to control.

I've been having... dreams recently. Not an unusual occurrence for you I am sure, but for me... I have never dreamt before, not since...

I see an old man. He sits by a lake, fishing rod in hand. He has no face. Always I walk up to him, and ask him what he seeks to catch. He never looks at me, but always points to the lake. I stare at the water and my blood freezes. The lake is black, not the black of dark water, but the black of the abyss. A voice whispers in my ear, the voice of my father.

“He who fights monsters should look to it that he himself dose not become a monster... when you gaze long into the abyss the abyss also gazes into you”
(//OOC: Friedrich Nietzsche).

I look back at the old man, he's standing now, the rod at his feet. Though I hear his words his mouth never moves.

“Those who will not embrace the madness are too weak to lead it.”

I understand what he is about to do and I shout for him to stop. He ignores me and plunges into the lake. In my last dream filled moments I see his hand sinking below the surface... beckoning me.
 

Spike

Re: Jehoram's Journal
« Reply #6 on: February 10, 2010, 02:27:10 pm »
VI


You must excuse my shaking hand, my sight is not what it once was.

It has been an interesting time. It began when I was informed by the mercenary Steel that he would be travailing to Arnax to speak with the Temple there. Not wishing to lose a valuable ally of the Ram to a misunderstanding of social conduct, I joined his small party as an adviser. They were an... interesting group, I am still surprised that none of them were taken captive, the way they were acting. But who am I to judge the inner workings of the Santus Mortis herself? For that is who we were introduced to, an honour. Six human sacrifices were asked for. Originally I thought that it would be a simple matter of purchasing slaves, but the city has changed since I was last there. The merchant whom Steel's contact led us too proved to be uncooperative. It saddens me that our church as fallen so far that a simple merchant refused to acknowledge me. Still, this may prove to be a useful opportunity for us. Since slaves can no longer be purchased at will in my home city (I was unable to contact my uncle in time), then perhaps the Ram can fill that niche. The temple always requires sacrifices after all.

But I digress. After the black wizard had his say, the commander of the Ravens took me aside for a private word (his armour confirmed his identity). Orders form the Santus Mortis herself, I am to continue to follow the actions of Steel, and report back. The work it self is trivial, but the honour is great.

Then things got complicated.

On behalf of one who called himself Bali, I was asked to cause a distraction in the Silkwood. It turns out that a number of our own were causing trouble, summoning pit fiends and such. These monsters were aggravating the local bandit population, and the two combined aggravated a response from a large number of paladins and undead hunters. I was asked to remove these factions so that 'Bali' could peruse an artefact hidden deep inside the forest.

The day came and I was aided by a number of Naster's Legion, along with Duchess, an assassin and 'Dogboy'. The Oraculum Stapatio and a Sancti also saw fit to hep me. The ensuing battle was brief and chaotic. The three factions tore into each other, with us caught in the middle. During a lull we were the attacked by a number of Corathite cultists, the ones who had been causing the trouble. We slew them all, except one who bore a striking resemblance to me.

*The writing becomes a little shaky here*

I stared into the face of my father.

He got as much mercy as he had shown me and my family.

I am still unsure of what happened next. We moved onwards, finding the tomb that my master had been seeking. We entered, slaying hordes of undead to reach the central chamber, guarded by a demilich. Everything went black.



Hal : [Party] The voices tell me to hurt him ... to hurt him bad
Alandric Vensk: [Party] Pain is purification
Hal : [Party] To give him pain .. to teach him that life is pain ... service to the Mad One is pain
Hal : [Party] *almost gently, reaches down and prises open one dead eyelid*
Eleandilethessa Quil'lyn: [Party] *makes a pointing motion at her temple with a finger*
Eleandilethessa Quil'lyn: [Party] * at all this talk of pain and madness*
Hal : [Party] *the point of his skinning knife hovers over the glazed eyeball for a moment as he considers*
Eleandilethessa Quil'lyn: [Party] *looks at Alandric, but then back to Hal*
Hal : [Party] He has his eyes on that which is unimportant ...
Leisa Margreve: [Party] *nods and steps back waiting patiently*
Hal : [Party] I give him this gift *plucks Jehoram's left eyeball from it's socket with a soft, wet plop*
Eleandilethessa Quil'lyn: [Party] *grins*
Hal : [Party] *holds up the point of his skinning knife and regards his grisly trophy thoughtfully*
Eleandilethessa Quil'lyn: [Party] He'll keep an eye oot fur ye frae noo oan
Hal : [Party] *caresses Jehoram's cheek tenderly*
Alandric Vensk: [Party] Two eyes caused him too much confusion. Perhaps with one he will see more clearly now
Eleandilethessa Quil'lyn: [Party] *belly laughs at that*
Hal : [Party] *brushes Jehoram's hair back from his forehead*
Leisa Margreve: [Party] *remains silent*
Hal : [Party] Remember .. when you awaken .. the hurt .. the anger .. the pain .. the confusion ...
Hal : [Party] In these things you hear His voice
Hal : [Party] *softly whispering to Jehoram's corpse*
Hal : [Party] He speaks to you child ... with this gift you will learn to hear
Alandric Vensk: [Party] *bows his head*
Hal : [Party] *holds out his Unholy symbol with one hand and chants softly*
Hal : [Party] *places the other hand on Jehoram's breast, raising him to this resonance of pain and misery*
Jehoram : [Party] *He awakens with a scream*
Jehoram : [Party] *He then staggers about the room in pain and blindness, smashing open a number of healing potions and pours them on his face*
Hal : [Party] *drops the eyeball to the ground from the point of the knife and grinds it into jelly underneath his boot heel, nodding to Jehoram as he does so, again with quite the amiable smile*
Jehoram : [Party] *his one good eye radiates hate at Hal*
Hal : [Party] *gives Jehoram a look in return that perhaps says "That's it, now you're getting it"*



An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. I need to repay my debt to him.

The item my master was seeking was already gone form the tomb, taken by another. After returning to the surface he confronted me, claiming that I had failed. No, he had failed. When he put his own personal gain for power over the pursuit of oblivion and chaos, he had failed. I killed him for this failure. Power is nothing if it is wielded by the foolish. I see clearly now. I was like him, following the pursuit of power. No more. My right eye sees the present, reality as it is seen by the indignus. My left... it sees the abyss, the nothing. I will bring the two visions together, I swear it. ALL SHALL SUFFER! I do not care what happens next. Beli told me that the Ravens were watching my actions, but he was a fool. Let them come.

I had the dream one last time recently. Except that when the old man threw himself into the lake that was the abyss, I followed him.

Laugh and the world laughs with you. Weep and you weep alone.
 

Spike

Re: Jehoram's Journal
« Reply #7 on: February 11, 2010, 07:24:39 am »
*This entry is short and pondering and a poster is attached.*


VII


A painting?

One was missing from the tomb. The dwarven hall I was just in, there was a note, a fair well song. The dwarves were slain a while ago, by the cultists I encountered even earlier. From what I could tell, they knew of the painting. It seems like these cultists wanted it bad, as did Bali. Still, I managed to destroy the note before any other got to read it. No Toranite or servant of Vorax will know now. All else has been quite. I feel that blame for the chaos caused may have successfully been shifted to the dark elves. I am considering seeking these cultists out. There seems to be a lot of blood being shed for this painting so I've circulated a notice, in case something shows up. It's a long shot but perhaps I might find out more if those seeking it contact me. Its is no matter if they do not. I am content in the chaos I have caused... for now.




 

Spike

Re: Jehoram's Journal
« Reply #8 on: February 26, 2010, 03:49:46 pm »
VIII

I'm tired.

I've been unable to sleep, the past events still fresh in my mind. However I think things have come together.

As is the way of Mortis Mentis my own exploits have emerged as part of something much larger. I originally thought that my slaying of Beli and the execution of the events in the Silkwood as simply a test for the Ravens, I was wrong. Events have come together, I have been given a chance. I will not squander it.

After my destroying of the dwarven document I thought my task finished, secrets kept safe. I decided to travel to Alindor for reasons I will not discuss here. At the border to Milara's domain I was approached by a stranger, who I later learned to be named Ikol. A strange individual, he seemed fearful of coming close to me. After the typical banter I have come to expect from his kind, he offered his services for a price. Interested, I asked him for information regarding the painting which so many wished to own. He knew nothing himself, but I left him with contact information to the Ram if he should see differently later on. It proved the right move.

After a short amount of time, I revived word from Ikol detailing a little more of the painting or should I say paintings. It seems many hundreds of years ago a Corathite taking residence in Haven commissioned an Ilsarian to paint three works, detailing Corathite lore, for a necromancer named Mechidil. It makes me smile to know that the Ilsarian later fell from grace. Ikol's not also suggested that if I wanted to know more, I should seek out a bandit named Socha in the Silkwood.

I proceeded to do so. Socha proved allusive however so I decided to send a clearer message. I searched for any random group of bandits and destroyed them, taking one prisoner. I treated the survivor to all that Corath has to offer to the unfaithful, though making sure that they could still walk and speak (harder than it might sound). I then sent them on their way, telling them to send Socha to me. Some had not heard of him, and even more died of blood loss before they could get to far, but my message reached him eventually.

He came alone a full of praise for my work in the Silkwood, redirecting Bandits, Paladins and Cultists into each other, causing much chaos. I still smile when I think of it. He told me more, it seems that this Mechidil became a lich, and was (or is?) the constant bane of Toranites. This raises more questions. It was not this that shocked me though. Socha said these words:

"Man... Lich... Deity."

Could these paintings detail the rise of Corath?! Such a thought...

These words troubled me, I decided to speak with the Oraculum Stipatio about it, himself being a powerful being. We discussed the matter at length, the good doctor posing the statement that these paintings might simply be the phylacterys for the lich Mechildil. But I think not. Socha's words, and the fact that Beli, my... my father, and these cultists wanted the painting from the crypt so badly. But where to locate them? The dwarven document said that they owned one of these paintings, it was why the cultists attacked and killed them, so I think I can say the these cultists have one. The second was meant to be in the hidden crypt. However it was missing when we arrived. But that in itself raises more questions. Whoever took it managed to get past the demilich who was guarding the tomb! Alandric told me that only another lich or a very powerful Pale Master could have done such a thing. I have a notion that the crypt may have connections to this Mechildil (whose name is an anagram for demilich), and that he himself must have hidden it elsewhere. The last is unaccounted for.

Corath has blessed me in this task, I will recover these lost works and continue to champion his cause. My first action? To discover more of the demilich Mechildil. A Sancti once asked me what drove me on in Corath's service, "what made me kill?".

My answer?

"Because I can."
 

Spike

Re: Jehoram's Journal
« Reply #9 on: April 05, 2010, 11:04:48 am »
IX


I dislike dark elves.

I chose to accompany a small group of them whilst travelling through the twisted labyrinth that is Arindor's Demise. It is no wonder that their race has been banished to the Deep, they posses a narcissistic view of the world that inhibits them from ever creating a noteworthy unified force. The four I travelled with reminded me of a gaggle of spoilt children playing with swords. They seem to be more ego than creature, unaware the whole time that it is this very ego that allows others to manipulate them. The truly dangerous ones are those that understand this fact and leave their brethren for greater goals, such as our own Sanctus Mortis. Yet, in their defence it does seem as if hubris is a required trait to be an 'adventurer'. Bind-stones allow this to happen, I only pray that the Quas Discessum finally discovers a means to break them in their quest to destroy the Astral Locks, and let anarchy reign supreme.

My thoughts have been disturbing as of late, words in the letters from Kurgen Splinterbone have been affecting me. He spoke of torment that envelops the soul when true faith is questioned and required. I have been meditating on his words of wisdom.







I fear that this test set by the Mortis Mentis will destroy me, whilst the Ravens wait to feast upon my broken corpse. Only one other truly knows what I am going through... Mechidli. Only he understands what it is to serve the dark lord, not only as a deity, but as the mortal he once was. Past, present and future are colliding and only after the storm hits will the faithful be left standing. I am beginning to understand that to achieve true dominance over oneself, and then others, you must sacrifice everything that makes you a man, a human, a mortal. I need to let go of the past.

Yet no matter how strong I become, how much I master my blade, it seems as if my flesh always fails me. Whilst searching an ancient crypt of a long forgotten Lich in the Sooth Moors with Adder (which may have been home to Mechidli at one point), I was slain by a banshee's wail. Death magic seems to be my undoing, breaking my mortal form. The eye I sacrificed has not made stronger, but the opposite. Depth perception, a key element in my work, is non-existent. To answer this call for power, Lichhood seems to be the answer, but I am no Necromancer or Pale Master. I have been pondering, examining the demons that lurked in this ancient crypt, and wish to see as they do. Soon I think, I will ask the good doctor to remove my other eye, and replace them both with that of a pit fiend. This is my only hope I feel, to solve the problem that is my weak mortal shell. But strength is not the only solution. No matter how strong one might feel, might actually be, there is always one more powerful. I feel I understand now that brute strength is not always the answer, when I look at my own journey it becomes clear. I wish to test it.

The next person that stands against me, I swear, I shall break them.
 

Spike

Re: Jehoram's Journal
« Reply #10 on: May 01, 2010, 06:24:54 pm »
*A bundle of letters enclosed within the journal.*


Oraculum Stipatio,

Forgive my boldness but I have a request that I feel only you can fulfill. If you remember a while ago we spoke deeply on the consequences of the chaos that look place in the Silkwoods, and the Lich Mechidil. It seems that there have been developments. I have tricked the Toranite Quantum Windword to assist me in recovering the paintings, however to fully complete my task I feel that I must know more of Mechidil, and the man he was.

As such I ask of you that you request this information from those that rule our faith. The tomes of history must posses such a thing. The man he was, the Lich he is, his past and current relationship with our faith. That, and the date that our church first came to be. I have a theory. A mere Morsus would not be given such information, but an Orculum Stipatio might.

May the Mortis Mentis guide you hate,


*signed*

Morsus

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

Oraculum Stipatio,

New revelations have come to light. Below is a copy of the summoning text of Michidli, courtesy of my 'allies' or should I say puppets. I have included my own notes.



In the sanctuary of the dark evil men gathered (The first corathites?)
their leader Vorsthurb an irksome city dweller (Vorsthurb=Corath's mortal name?)
He was long in the telling of his wisdom (The words of hate)
First I must tell you what to do (I=Corath)
He explained to the faithless villagers
he needed blood death and mayhem of Gorm
(Gorm=Demipower/demon?)
In those last shortened places below and under my cave stones
he had gathered ill mannered thief and assassin
Vorsthurb might kill nigh ere till Gorm
was satisfied with the blood letting
(Mass death was the price)
The mob hiding below ground to strike
cleaver, sickle hammer the chosen weapons
Even here I hid under black more things black
(I=Mechidli, an onlooker)
For evil and death were gathered there
So finally ready a circle was drawn
Those within with weapon drawn
Those without, without except a candle
each point of mine held candle
This their only weapon then and now
Above Gorm raged and held his cup
contained within was hawthorn
A sign of past and bloody present
In the village well blood was poured
right around the shape was silver
bears a sign of Druidic ways long past
The Kings men would take courage in gold
even though now in powder it took 5 bars
and this pays wages of sin - mercenaries all
?
Gorm had pledged them sacrificed
This was needed then call those named dead
(A mass undead rising?)
A list too long in that village of hate (Village of hate, a metaphor or a real location?)
Surely those in my service would aid you
the cleric of Mist had begged and
(Mist being in reverence to us, which we have contempt for)
of secrets prepared and use my name
no other will prevail he idly boasted
Well he was dead and no loss. I cried not
(He=cleric of Mist?)
for this would bring a shadow of myself
and leave me to face Gorm ill prepared.
(Me=Mechidli, perpearing to follow Corath's footsteps?)
So 3 things had been achieved now and (3=The Three Paintings of ascension?)
fourth is druidic and lost to the living
These foolish men had lived too long
(Foolish men=The Druids?)
None of worth would miss their demise
Wizards were next on my list
it is there higher magic creation
I thought to destroy down our well
But Toran and his men of stupidity
(The following 5 lines are confusing, Note: Need more context)
very much dead and very much under
They must all be before sunset
For then the Rofirein dead marched
even mention of this this march chilled
Almost done now put those titled first
The answer is in the detail I guess
Finally to reverse process turn the name
(The name Demilich=Mechidli)
I would use a mirror then.
For no good would come of it
So instead of summon send see beyond
I dread my end after my ill mannered life
of secrets prepared only use my name
(Secrets of Five?)
?
Take nothing for granted
Read beyond the simple word
(Hidden meaning: See below)
Reach for me in your very heart
for this would bring a shadow of myself
(A way to Contact Mechidli?)


Included in the Message I recived, Jilseponie (ally of Quantum) said this:

This is the excerpt we have. Notice this key: Starting with the line: "First I must tell you what to do" then go down a couple lines to the one that begings with the letter "I", a couple lines and the line starting with the letter "V" ... "E, S E C R E T S, O F, F I V E ... makes its own riddle, then the end .. letters FSOF (Five Secrets Of Five).


*signed*

Morsus

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

Oraculum Stipatio,

As you know my goal, or should I say our goal, is to retrive these relics and return them to their rightfully place. The thought of the unworthy, of an indignus even gazing upon such a holy artifact is enough render me blind with rage, such a hatred that only mass bloodshed can state. Surfice to say once all the works are retrived and moved to safety, I shall personally hunt down and remove the eyes of each indignus that looked upon that which they were unentitled too.

Here's the situation as it currently stands. The Paladin Lance Stargazer, with the aid of Beacon Quantum Windword and the Ranger Jilseponie Kendall, seeks to destroy the Lich Mechidli, who currently is trapped within the rift. As we spoke about, Mechidli is the mind behind these works and as such is the primary source on the history behind them and the subject matter displayed.

As you know there are three paintings. I believe that I have managed to discern some information about their location. Here is an extract from farewell song of the Malkies, a dwarven family who made their halls within the Silkwoods.



It's getting late have you seen my mates
Ma tell me when the Dwarves get out
It's Corathites and I want to fight
Want to get a belly full of beer
My old man's drunker than a barrel full of monkeys
And my old lady she don't care
My sister looks cute with her art and armour too
A handful of paint in her hair
Don't give us none of your aggravation
We had it with you Corathite
Bar-barian Might’s alright for fighting
Get a little action in
Get away as fast as a hasted monk
Gonna set this place alight
'Cause tonight's the night I flight
This night's alright, alright, alright
Well they're Corathites in here tonight
They’re looking for a painting to see them right
I may have fled with what they need
I may sink a little drink and shout out "It’s with me!"
A couple of the sounds that I really like
Are the sounds of a Dwarven - Axe and a Cori - scream
I'm a Malki product of the working class
Whose best friend floats in the bottom of a glass


This identified the Malkies as an owner of one of the paintings. The cultists we encounted destroyed them to gain control of the work, it was why I originally thought they held it. However, new information has come to light. There is a second song.


He gave everything
His heart, his dreaming
Silkwood just spat it back at him
This time he's leaving
This time he's leaving
He walks out and closes the door
I see him in the Whitehorn
latches fall, locks echo
This time he's building
Yes this time he's hiding
Each new day he tries again
Tries to build but, oh the pain
Wonders if he'll go insane
'Cause he's a hunted Malki
No-one really chased him
No-one really can
That's the way he likes it
That he understands
'Cause he's no Corathite
This time he's resting
yes this time he's resting
High above the Orc
dwells the Dwarven Rock


It seems a Malkie escaped the destruction with the painting (and I get the impression that it's driving him mad), and is hiding somewhere. I am currently trying to track him. These cultists though may be more than what they seemed. I heard Quantum reference a Cult called the III, who saught to return Medichli to our world. If these two cults are one and the same then it would be safe to guess that the paintings may infact be phylacteries, or at least linked to Mechidli's prison.

The second painting will be... harder to retrieve. After a discussion with Adder, he pointed out something that makes clear sense. Milara now owns the second. The logic behind this? First, I encounted the necromancer Ikol that gave me the link to the truth on the outskirts to the mountains of madness. Adder said that none operate in that area who are not linked with Milara. Second, you said yourself that only a powerfull master of the undead could have summon the lich that guarded the crypt with the missing painting. I belive that Milara, or at least Ikol beat us to it, and left the Lich as a 'welcoming present'. Third, and lastly if these paintings infact detail Corath's ascension, then Milara would seek to claim them and study their lore himself. It is common knowledge that godhood is what he seeks. It is my guess that Ikol gave me information to use me amd lead him to the remaining paintings. I will have to return his kind favour by removing his spine... while he is still alive.

The third painting is still unaccounted for.

What I am asking from you is wisdom. I am a warrior, not a scholar. I ask of you Oraculum Stipatio to decipher the texts which I have given you and return to me with your results. I am considering that we may have to summon a shade of Mechidli ourselves in order to question him. The secret to his summoning is locked within the first text I gave you. But only a powerful necromancer such as yourself could truely understand what is written. If we succeed in this task we will be remembered for eternity as heroes of the Mad One. If we fail?

*signed*

Morsus

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

Oraculum Stipatio,

I sometimes get the impression that this whole situation is one large jigsaw puzzle. A jigsaw puzzle with to many pieces. Below is a letter I recently revived from Adder:



Morsus,

I Have endeavoured to do a little digging around for you in regard to our previous conversation at the Wild Surge Inn.

I have been able to confirm through various contacts and agents that the stolen painting is not in the possession of Milara. It is likely he has knowledge of it though and is seeking information via his own agents. Be warned, he is a player. A dark elf known to be acquainted with him was recently seen speaking to a Corathite cleric in Mariner's Hold. My agents were not able to provide the identity of either, or any details as to the conversation.

In regards to Mechidli, I have found out only that he was known to travel the crypts of Mistone and was confirmed to have several bases of operation around Hlint and the Silkwood. Therefore there may be several location to broaden your search for.

If you have further leads, let me know and I can put my agents on the trail.

Walk in darkness,
Adder



I had my suspicions about the crypts of Mistone, but this confirms t6hem for me. The Fort Vehl crypt is empty to my knowledge, though while travelling through there I noticed extensive damage to the ceiling, leaving large chunks of stone smashed on the floor. The following documents were found in various Mistone crypts, pages from a diary:


Well he still talks in riddles this time about his precious five. The first four he says are four clues, four of the same that makes five... and as for the sixth does it exist he asked mel me, why me... anyway then he says the answer is written in front of me. Well I nodded sagely, not a clue do I have but I wrote it anyway.


Well I am behind in making dead things undead. It is not as a easy a thing anyway. I thought myself likely for a painful lesson but something new keeps him busy this master of mine. Mr five I call him behind his back yes he has a new fountain to mind his time. He talks about finding a way to bind himself to an object like this, to live forever, or die forever might be more accurate. This particular fountain is not his for the taking unless he can displace another but no doubt one day he will have his own Lichdom in another stone.


These pages could have been written by a follower of Mechidli, in which case they are self explanatory. Or they may be written by Michidli himself, in which case the master referenced must be Corath. This would create further questions, is this fountain a key to ascension? Did Corath have to destroy a former deity to take his rightful place?

This painting was also found, though I am sure it is not one of the three, but another piece in this chaotic puzzle:




I have decided to give Adder a copy of all these letters, he has proved an invaluable ally and will aid the cause greatly. I await your reflections and wisdom.

*signed*

Morsus

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

Oraculum Stipatio,

This was discovered by the dark elf Naster, passed on to Adder, and then given to me. A snippet of a note found within Storan's Crypt, upon Storan himself, or so I am told.



I find the need to move from Silkwood, I have no reason to leave my things for bandits.

I have left my mark and my servants will find me if they need to summon me.



A short enough note but one that is most revealing. Most importantly is implies that the missing painting from the Silkwood Crypt was missing for a long, long time. Taken by Mechidli himself when he left... I guess Bali's information was out of date. I have a hunch that Mechidli may have left Silkwood to take up residence in the ancient crypt deep within the Sooth Moors. I will need to pry the information from Quantum as to when he banished Mechidli to the rift, and if it lines up with when the Lich vanashed from the Sooth Moor's crypt. They may be one and the same.

It was Naster in fact that gave me this new idea regarding the painting already found. It may infact be one of the three, but only a fragement of one. Judging from what is shown it would be logical to presume that there is more that meets the eye. I will endeavor to obtain the original and return it to you for testing. Either way there is the clue of green fire. I have yet to venture into a crypt that has green flames illuminating it, but if you find one in your travels, it may be just what we are looking for.

Darkness keep you,


*signed*

Morsus

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

Oraculum Stipatio,

The time has come I believe to make a decisive move. The events in the Silkwood resulted in unexpected consequences. It seems the bandit population was significantly roused and caused much chaos. Like how a careless spark can start a forest fire, our involvement triggered something unexpected. Such is the way of the Mortis Mentis. It seems as if the bandits attacked the areas around Hlint and Echo, resulting in a people's army being formed of three regiments: Ragrian's Halberdiers, Munny's Foot, Morrison's Rangers and a number of stone-bound indignus. I chose to enlist in this army as I discovered that they would be traveling near the area of Orc's Rift, an area that I was lead to belive contained the hiding place of the Malkie dwarf that possed one of the paintings. It seems I was out of luck, as no trace of the dwarf was found. It is for this reason that I believe the next logical move would be to approach the Ravens who first gave me this task, with all the information that I have given to you. They will know more.

All was not lost though, it seems as if the ever resourceful Adder took matters into his own hands. Whilst on the campaign trail, I recived a letter from him that explained that he had sent envoys and weapons to reignite the orc's hatred for the humans. Unfortunately a few of the wagons were captured by the indignus, and with the drivers failing to recognise me I was forced to slay them all, though I only managed to destroy one of the wagons. Luckly Adder had thought ahead againts such an event and none of the items carried our mark. The orc's have retured to their warlike ways though so all is well.

I will contact you when I plan to speak to the Ravens.

Mortis Mentis guide your hate,


*signed*

Morsus
 

Spike

Re: Jehoram's Journal
« Reply #11 on: June 15, 2010, 11:04:58 am »
X



Revelations come in many forms, and can have many effects. It is the way we deal with them though that show our true character.

It has been over two years now that I have searched tirelessly for these artefacts. I chased mad dwarfs though Whitehorn forest, battled demi-liches in their lairs, deceived Toranites into doing my bidding, sacrificed both my body and my mind to this cause and now? Now that has finished. Was it time wasted? Perhaps, perhaps not. All paths lead to death, but those that writhe in chaos are most pleasing to the Mortis Mentis.

It saddens me to know that such a work could be destroyed by a Gold Dragon lover. An insult to all involved. But the irony of being betrayed in turn by the Toranites? Now that is amusing. I had always thought that the Toranites would hold true to their weak ideals, but it seems we are more alike than I first thought. There may be hope for them  yet. But, unfortunate, it seems I have failed in my task. One is destroyed, the others unreachable. In our walk of life there are no second chances, failure is met with death.

Yet it's not over. I have spoken with him, I have spoken with Mechidli. He is a twisted creature, raked with pain from his imprisonment on the planes. He has not forgotten what Quantum did to him and seeks retribution, something which, perhaps I can provide... for a price. Socha, after revealing his true nature has taught me well of the path of the Raven. I have been awarded the full black plate and a Nightmare steed from the city of Arnax. My work is beginning to pay off, but for the moment it must be put aside.

The Doctor calls, it is time.
 

Spike

Re: Jehoram's Journal
« Reply #12 on: August 04, 2010, 06:21:33 pm »
Sanctus Mortis,


As per your request, here is my account of the events that took place regarding the events after my last message (I trust you revived it).

The reason for the request of the Black Wizards has become clear, it seems that the artefact which they sort was not discoverable by any means magical (more on that later). I mentioned in my last report a shaman named Fengil, it was he who led us onwards along our path at the request of the Paladin Lance Stargazer. The party numbered several of our enemies but at the unspoken request of Steel I remained unmolested. Fengli led us deep into the mountains and for a number of days we walked in silence in a vast circle until he deemed us worthy to peruse this 'dream of rebirth'.

We were led to a hidden cavern entrance deep within the mountains and bade enter. So began a journey deep under the earth's crust, and according to a dwarf, under the sea bed as well. The tunnels were long, twisting, winding, ad full of death. Undead roamed freely, earth elements attacked without warning, but still we pressed onwards towards an unknown goal. Eventually we came upon dwarven  territory, a mining expedition centuries old. Rusted tools littered the floor, yellowed bones were scattered at random and at the end, a well leading to a second level.

It is here that the truth became apparent. We entered a gigantic series of dwarven halls, filled with rotting animated corpses. Finally Sanctus Mortis, this 'dream of rebirth' showed its true form. A blood pool.

It appears that the Black Wizards knew this well, as there were remains of a former expedition of theirs. A nearby ruined statue of our lord had this inscription carved upon it:



“Lord of unliving shells, see the blood flowing oven the alter and know that I kill for you. I beseech you to grant me the power to raise this husk to be my servant, you who know my true name. In the name of your corruptions, pain and power”


These were the words of the Black Wizard Logan Shofield.

The indigni, after learning of the nature of Steels agreement gnashed their teeth and whined pathetically as is their way, but they complied and accompanied Steel to inform the Black Wizards (the area around the blood pool its self was protected from discovery by magical means, which explains a lot). It was myself and the Aeridinite Razeriem who remained to oversee the pool itself. A week passed ad we were forced to band together  against the constant attacks of the undead. I am surprised that Aeridin looks with favour upon this one after the things he has done. Still I like to think the seeds of doubt have been planted if not by myself, then by his own actions.

Finally the wizards showed themselves and we were taken aside for 'questioning'. Me, a Raven of the Grave Lord treated like some common indignus? I assure you, if my path ever leads me into a similar position but with myself as the 'power' I will treat our allies with as much respect as they gave me. They 'allowed' me to leave (such a thought!) and as such I have returned here. The alliance between the Black Wizards and the aptly named 'Big Red' as now set, their target the Green Dragon Cult. I must return soon to aid Dr. Vensk, any other requests must be sent soon before I return to Mistone.


Your humble servant,

Raven
 

Spike

Re: Jehoram's Journal
« Reply #13 on: January 21, 2011, 04:33:54 pm »
*He stood there unmoving, like an ornately carved statue watching all who passed by with a weary glance. Hooded acolytes rushed by, eager to complete unknown tasks and not to draw attention from the faceless helm of the armored giant. Other dark figures marched pass clad in similar dark plate, saluting the statue like man before continuing down the dimly lit corridor. Silence descended, and what seem like an age passed before a new presence emerged. The skeleton warrior approached slowly, methodically, the clacking of its heels on the stone floor marred by the sound of scraping metal made by the large blade dragged behind it. A blade that seemed like an exact replica of his own. In its left claw like hand a roll of parchment was clutched, sealed with wax and embossed with a mark he knew all to well. Eventually its skull stooped a few feet from his own face, its hollow eye sockets somehow conveying a look of anguish. Slowly it raised the parchment for him to receive, how own armored gauntlet almost crushing its hand as he took it.*


Raven,

Have you forgotten the bargain you maid so long ago? He grows impatient, every second that passes here is an eternity of torment for him. Finish what you started. Shed the traditional black, discretion is far more important than tradition in this matter. Nightmare waits for you outside.

~S~



*He moved forward, allowing the skeleton to take up his former position. Resolutely he made his way up the corridor, to a sun he had not seen in many years.*
 

Spike

XI Return to Mistone? A year
« Reply #14 on: December 24, 2013, 05:16:10 pm »

XI

Return to Mistone? A year ago I would have scoffed at the thought. The war consumed me willingly, I felt alive for the first time in years. To not have to tolerant the assistance of indigni is a rare pleasure, to see them flee before you, to taste their fear... I never dreamed of such power. But the war ended for me, as all things are want to do, and now other paths call me. I should not dwell on what once was, but look to the future of what will be. Already my influence grows, the Black Wizards gifted me a token of their benefaction which I hold close to me for when the time comes. Also the destruction of the Razerback Syndicate, and the ensured death of their leader as earned me more favour amongst the Wizards. I have been making friends in other camps as well; The dark elf Nastor has called upon my services one again. We must respect our allies, to build for our future. And so the Lord of Spiders has seen these events come to pass, and I will aid his follower to achieve his goal, so that our faiths might become closer through the result. Nastor seeks to establish his own house, making many pacts with creatures both mysterious and sinister. If he succeeds, we will have a powerful ally in the Deep. My true concerns lie along different paths however, to begin with there is the discovery of the Leringard Undercity to dwell upon. An excavation into its depths has revealed a coven of Vampires that have rejected the word of the Mortis Mentis. They will have to be brought to heel, I despise undead that have forsaken their father as much as I despise indigni. Payment, where payment is due. To further examine this occurrence I have purchased property nearby and am currently in the process of assembling barracks, in the hopes of making a more... effective move into the depths, after more excavations of course. The path of the Raven leads me onwards. Visions come to me frequently now, promises of untold power in reward for service. I will not list this true goal here, in case these writings ever fall into the wrong hands. These will not be an easy path, but the end of this journey is the only end I can dream of. I now have the favour of the Sanctus Mortis, the Black Wizards, the Mad Doctor, the spellweaver Nastor, speaker of spiders, Adder and his associates, and the Dread Blade. Rumours have reached my ears of the return of perhaps the most important ally I need, the demilich Mechidil, former apprentice of the Marquis Morgue himself. To follow this path I need the knowledge he possess, of what came before, both the history and the relics. I must temper my mind with knowledge and steel, to combat that which has yet to come. All paths lead to Silkwood.

 

Spike

XIIAgain I have been used as
« Reply #15 on: December 24, 2013, 05:21:10 pm »

XII

Again I have been used as a pawn for the Black Wizards, and again I have turned the situation to my advantage. Days spent in my youth pursuing the demi-lich Mechidil paid off in the form a unique discovery, a ritual dedicated to Corath. This ritual was unique in that it required not just mortal blood (an aspect not unusual in itself), but the blood of a follower of Toran. I was not fully sure what the results of this ritual would be, only that a blessing would be placed upon he who made the sacrifice. With this in mind I began to plot my objective.

I began by documenting the movements of Toranite troops in the Fort Llast area, calling upon a few favours owed to me by the Proeliator Stipatio and Ereptor Stipatio of Ire Mountains to provide manpower, with the Doctor also agreeing to send two Oraculis to aid in the ritual itself. With the preparations made a small Toranite company was chosen as the target, numbering ten soldiers lead by a Paladin of the Longsword. Three followed me, and I sent them scouting around the back of the company to wait for my signal to ambush. At a crossroads I met with the company, and telling them I was a weary traveller I convinced them to set up a brief camp and sit for a moment with me. I offered spirits as refreshment, having poisoned the bottles beforehand. Though slow acting, it would give me the advantage I was seeking. With that I gave the signal, the summoning of a pit fiend that cut down the first man before he had a chance to stand. The men sent by my 'allies' however proved to be less effective, being killed shamefully fast. Fortunately I managed to capture four of the Toranites alive, including the Paladin who's blood was the most valuable. Raising one of the fallen as a ghast to assist me, I bound the prisoners and escorted them to where the ritual was due to take place. Two of the Doctor's Ocaculis (or so I thought at the time) were there waiting by a circle of blood red runes on the ground. And with that, the ritual began.

One by one I killed the first three Toranite soldiers, shedding the blood of the indignus on the circle whilst reciting the unholy words. However, in my eagerness to perform the ritual I had neglected to properly bind the Paladin. Breaking free of his bounds even as the last of his men died, he charged the Ocaculis and myself in the hope of disrupting our work. This could not be tolerated. But then another unforeseen event happened. Even as I brought my bade up to finish the upstart of a Paladin, time froze and my two 'Ocaculis' revealed their true intentions. With the Paladin and myself locked in our savage dance, one of the Black Wizards, for that is indeed who they were, pushed my hand to finish the ritual and kill my victim, and with that I knew no more.

I awoke in in the lowest of the Planes, where Negative energy is at its strongest, though I knew not where I was at the time. Endless sands lay before me, its dunes however lay unchanging as no wind blew there. The only sign of 'life' were the rambling corpses of lost souls, and the emotionless sand elements that prayed upon them. Cutting down both kinds in an attempt to understand my situation, I discovered that the undead carried vials of a strange liquid. In my time there I came to understand that I too was one of these lost souls in the making, as food and drink no longer sustained me and my body began to decay. In desperation I consumed a vial of the strange liquid and found to my great relief that it revitalised me where food could not. So this was my fate, to roam this endless desert cutting down these lost undead to sustain myself on these vials, forever. Or what seemed like forever, for eventually I could find no more of the undead to prey upon and my vials diminished, allowing the lower Planes claimed one last victim.

And yet, I write this now, from beyond the grave. The Mortis Mentis works in mysterious ways, for it turned out my ordeal was an experiment of the Black Wizards. As I said at the beginning of this account, I was a pawn of the Black Wizards. As I also said, I have turned it the situation to my advantage. My ordeal in the lower Planes has left me... changed. I can sense them now, when they are near, the spawn of the lower planes, for I became like them. The ritual worked, though not in the way I expected. And when the ordeal was complete, the Children of Amisit were born. My purchase of a large house in Leringard a number of years ago was in preparation for this event, and even now small groups of the faithful have come, seeking the origin of the last night. My former mentor from Arnax, Kurgen Splinterbone, is ship-bound for Leringard to act as a shepherd for my inquisitive flock. The last night is indeed coming, and the Inanis Viscus draws closer.

 

 

Spike

THE CHILDREN OF AMISITThe
« Reply #16 on: December 28, 2013, 09:26:37 pm »

THE CHILDREN OF AMISIT

The 'Children of Amisit', or the 'Cult of the Lost' to the indigni, emerged in the city of Leringard during the early half of the 16th century. Attracting followers from across central and northern Mistone, the cult focuses on the teachings of a prophetic figure named Amisit. Amisit claims that he visited the realm of Corath, and returned foretelling of an approaching 'Last Night'. It is unclear what the Last Night refers to, though some theorize that it may be the belief of a coming apocalypse to the indigni. This is just speculation of course, as the cult members are known for their refusal to comment on what the Last Night truly is. What is known however, is that the cult is obsessed with the acquisition of lost relics of the Mortis Mentis and His allies, reportedly already having possession of a number of the Demi-Lich Mechidil's writings, and a blade of Tsaryn.

The symbol of the Children of Amisit is a white raven skull on a black background, and it is rumoured that the cult possess a tome with this symbol on the cover that contains esoteric knowledge. Only one extract from this tome is know outside the cult:

 

On the first night there was no life. The sands dunes of oblivion lay frozen in the stale air. Cracked and yellowed bone that had remained undisturbed for aeons lay scattered throughout the sands. Rusted swords and broken shields spoke of battles fought long ago, the memories of which had since joined the surrounding sands. Time stood still like it had never begun, for this was a realm not of mortal concerns, of desire for gold, of lust for flesh, of fear of the inevitable. But a realm of Corath.

On the second night came Corruptio and Insaniam, returned to a land they had never left. On the rivers of the world they travelled, for all rivers ran dry here. Under Corruptio's guiding hand did the dead then rise, and dance to the tune that Insaniam played. The skeletal fingers of thousands clawed at the mortal world, searching blindly for the spark of light that might reignite their cured resurrection. But the blade of hatred blocked their path, that which is called the talon of Chaos. Bone shattered and flew in its wake, skulls flew from the heavens, and no disciple was left unchallenged. Until again Corruptio wove, and again Insaniam played, and again the dead came. For this was the end of realms, and the end of things.

On the final night hatred lay cooled and Chaos lay still, for there was no spark left to fuel them. Mortality lay tempered in the face of decay, and the sands of time again lay still. Until the hand of the Mortis Mentis did move, and the void in the heavens did beckon to the silent realm.

And on the last night, there was no dawn.

 

~Garrick the Red, Sancti of Fort Vehl

 

 

Spike

XIIIIt is time.Over five
« Reply #17 on: September 16, 2015, 05:57:55 pm »

XIII

It is time.

Over five years have passed since my fateful meeting with Daneth. As soon as I escaped that hole in the ground I sent word to Kurgen through a twisted pit fiend. I had broken the creature well, so I knew it could be trusted to deliver the message in a timely fashion. From there, I hired passage north to Krashin to escape civilization. The lands there have an unusual aura about them. I am certain that He once walked there, many centuries ago. There is a cave there, north-west of the Coldfinger manson, that I had prepared for this very day. Inside lies a great stone sarcophagus, built with my own two hands from ice and stone. Kurgen was already waiting for me inside, his passage from Leringard swift. He was the only living creature I ever allowing enter that tomb, and only because he was needed for what was to come next. I have long been aware that the Sanctus Mortis had been watching my actions, but when I confronted Daneth I knew she had underestimated me. For I now know her for what she truly is. A servant of the mother of shadows.

I laid down to rest in the tomb of my own making. It was time to leave this world for a time and enter His. I could feel the warmth leave my body before the lid was even fully closed and the last wisp of candle light vanished. I closed my eyes and slept. And drempt...

The Realm of Dust has never left my mind since I first travelled there, its sands infested my conscious thoughts and actions. I saw there what must pass before the Truth can be birthed. The ascended realm of man in the Empire of the Mortis Mentus. But to understand how to achieve this, I had to travel back there. If not in flesh, then in mind, in spirit. I did not hear the incantations being cast upon me. I was already gone.

The cliff of jagged stone that rose before me greeted me like an old friend.. I felt as a druid returning to its grove. This was my home and I am its guardian. I descended from the heights and began to wonder amongst the dunes of ash at the base of the mountains. I had tread these paths before, I remembered them well. But soon my path lead me elsewhere, into a vast and foreboding desert of apathy. No thirst parched my lips, no sweat touched my brow, for I knew I was already dead. I do not wish to guess how long I wondered there, for that blood red sun never moved and I quickly left all landmarks behind me. But eventually, eventually I saw something in the distance. A single spear of indomitable black rock, Tower Vereor. A cry would have escaped my throat, but there was no air in my lungs. I hurried forward and reached out at the familiar black stone, only to draw my hand away in revulsion at the organic matter that covered my gauntlet. I looked up at the tower in horror to behold its majesty covered by a sticky cocoon. Franticly I tore away at it to free the temple beneath, this was my city! My tower! Arnaxian born! But it was too late. By the time I exposed the stone it was already turning a deep shade of violet. In disgust I turned away and returned to the endless desert of my wanderings. That was the first of many dreams.

I had no concept of how much time had passed when I finally awoke. Kurgen explained later that my tomb had been stumbled upon, defiled by the living. He had to move quickly to return me here, and not without a little blood along the way. And here I finally am, returned to this home in Leringard after all these years. The house had been gutted, the the structure stood still with little damage. The temple inside was the only room unfouled, perhaps they had not found it. Perhaps, or perhaps it was a message directed at me. Either way it begins now, the Black Sun rises.