It was not the first time she bolted upright from her feather bed with a gasp. Her toned body beaded with sweat and her long black hair was damp from the exertion of yet another prophetic dream. Myrena's hands were involuntarily clenched in tight fists. Looking down, she opened them to reveal that her fingernails had rended her own flesh and now bled freely from her palms. Gracefully, she rose from her bed and strode naked across to the window in her inn room. Peering up at the night sky, she found icy comfort when she gazed upon the Ebony Stars, the stars that were highlighted by their darkness, not their luminance... My visions of service to the Mad God are coming more frequently. I will need to undergo the trials soon or I will never sleep. I might as well do something constructive while I am awake... As she had been taught by High Priest Himlark, her mentor, she began to move and sway her body with precision in a series of exercises. Her movements were catlike and snakelike at the same time, beginning slothful, but slowly increasing their speed. Myrena's conditioned body repeated the movements with ease and confidence. Often, they required her to rise with all her weight on one toe or to hold herself up with but a hand planted on the floor, but it didn't matter--the pain drove her. She became a bit light-headed from the loss of blood from her gashed hands, but she simply let her weakness push her even farther. Precise, quick hand strikes were delivered with power that belied her diminuitive feminine form. Sudden lashing out from her smooth legs were purposeful with power yet elegance. To an outsider with no background in the arts of war, the whole routine would have seemed to be an intricate, exotic dance. If an onlooker were to be schooled in combat, they would understand her movements were not that of some exotic dance, but precise punches, kicks, elbows, knees, blocks, dodges and headbutts--her entire body a weapon. I am not weak. I am a master of my body, my mind and my soul. Corath grants me these gifts. I am not weak... This mantra repeated over and over in Myrena's head. She knew that her trials would be coming soon for the Hands of Death. Despite the lack of sleep from the past few nights, Myrena continued her drills for hours. With physical exertion, sleep deprivation and blood loss, she was beginnging to feel herself being lulled into unconsciousness. I am not weak. I am a master of my body, my mind and my soul. Corath grants me these gifts. I am not weak... The Priestess increased the fervor of her movements for a few more minutes until she understood her body well enough to know she was about to lose consciousness. She stopped and quickly gave a prayer to Corath to bind her hands. As they mended over, she fell to the floor meeting blackness... To Be Continued...
JOURNAL ENTRY 601
The years in seclusion, away from society, away from Mistone was a time for prayer, reflection and reconnection with Mortis Mentis. Dark whispers have come more frequently, my dreams more intense. I find myself bleeding when I awaken. I am walking a path that only one has walked before me. Priest Himlark has not lived this life though. He does not understand the dedication that goes into this sect of the Grave Lord.
I have come back to Mistone to walk among the masses once again. The secrecy of this sect is paramount for the goals of my Lord. It is the sect that brings true unpredictability to our clergy. The most renowned scholars of Corath will always be at a loss when it comes to us. You see, even my fellow worshippers do not understand fully the gifts that Mortis Mentis has bestowed to the Hands of Death...it must continue to stay that way.
But I must cultivate the gifts he has given me or it will be for nought. The forces of order are dominant in the known world. Chaos has been stifled and evil has been corralled. It is imperative that they continue to feel this security and comfort in their accomplishments. This allows the darkness to grow around them without notice, like dusk creeping to twilight...
I am not weak. I am a master of my body, my mind and my soul. Corath grants me the strength. I am not weak. I am a master of my body, my mind and my soul. Corath grants me the strength…
The mantra continued for hours. Blood pooled on the floor from dozens of flayed wounds inflicted by the ritual dagger in her hands. Sitting with her legs crossed in the small temple to Corath, Myrena’s body began to sway from dizziness. Her vision became blurry as she focused on the bleached white skull in front of her. Her eyes began to roll in the back of her head as the world began to spin. But a resurgence of strength came from within and she formulated the prayer to the Mad God, mending her self-inflicted lacerations.
Visions had often came to the priestess. Especially being one whose mind was not entirely stable. However, since she had become a Hand of Death, her mind had begun to process in more logical ways. She was able to force herself to sort through the undisciplined impulses that plagued her for years and simmer the spontaneous impulses to something akin to “control”.
Her naked form stood from the pool of vitae and strode where a large linen cloth waited. Smoothly and methodically, she wiped away the bulk of her own blood covering her. As she exited the small temple, an unnatural figure stood motionlessly next to the entrance. A skeleton, complete with armor and a bladed weapon, turned and looked at her with his unnatural, glowing red eyes.
Without even looking at the undead servitor as she strode past, she commanded, “Clean the blood with water and cloth…” Dropping the heavy shield and longsword to the ground with a thunderous crash, the skeleton entered the temple and did the Priestess’ bidding. Padding down the hallway, she brushed past the sheer black draped covering a doorway and stepped into a small room housing a bathing basin. With the grace of a skilled warrior, she made a small leap to the lip and went over, sliding her body into the fluid. Instantly, blood began to slide off her athletic form. Reaching over to a thick tome covered in stretched black leather where the semblance of a face could be made out, she opened it, revealing the many pages of handwritten entries. Myrena dipped her quill in the inkwell with just her head, neck, shoulders and arms out of the tub, she began to write…
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JOURNAL 611
Rumors swirl that Daralith has returned to Mistone. While the arrogant drow has his faults, he is useful. I have nearly mastered their tongue. Despite his shortcomings, the priest is an excellent teacher of the dark elf language. It also answers a vision I have had in regards to forming a dark alliance with followers of Grand, Baraeon Ca’duz, Pyrtechon and the all-powerful Corath. Followers of these gods are being hunted and slaughtered by the “righteous”. Our mantra will be quiet strength in subtle numbers. I will take this sign and proceed forward without Mistone priestess oversight. We are at war and I will treat it as such. But I must now understand our enemy. I must understand where the strengths of our enemies lie so that I can reach for that observed weak spot and rip the throat out of it.
Mortis Mentis works in ways I cannot begin to comprehend. Often, my dark lord will usher his priestesses to do his work across the far reaches of this world. With that being said, I have not seen Chanda in years. I do not know if she lives or has gone to Corath. It does not matter. As my mind has slowly been able to process the clutter that distracts me, the visions I have been given come more frequently with more lucidity.
We are under attack. We have been for some time, but as a whole, we have been too arrogant to recognize the slow knife writhing towards our heart. The forces of “benevolence” have won the war, but they have not done a good job of finishing their task—I live. As long as I live, I will not declare those around me the victors. It simply urges me to push forward with renewed vigor. In fact, I have sent requests to temples across the continents for additional support here in Mistone. I make this request not because I am incapable. On the contrary, I ask for assistance because I am capable. I have requested those who are not regimented disciples of Corath. Indeed, I have requested those who can blend in with the local populace and seep into the pores of society. I am quite sure the regimented, rote priestesses reading my missives scoff at my requests. It doesn’t matter. I am the ranking priestess here in Mistone in the absence of Chanda, so they will do what I ask, despite my position within the priesthood. I am a Hand of Death, I do not function as traditional priestesses. When a spark needs to turn into flame, it is me who is called. And I will answer this summons from my Black God...
((Myrena continues her slide from Chaotic Neutral to Neutral Evil. She has been working on this shift since character creation. The shift comes much more "natural" now that she is a member of the Hands of Death. Also, Daralith has been teaching Myrena the dark elf language. This began in 2009. Evidence of this can be seen in Journal 409, for the record.))