The World of Layonara
Character Development => Development Journals and Discussion => Topic started by: Pseudonym on April 25, 2007, 08:46:10 PM
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It has been suggested to me, as a criticism ... AS A CRITICISM?? ... that I lack humility. How can this be considered a weakness? How can one possibly perceive this might be a fault that needs to be remedied?
To embrace the notion of humility suggests that we, as discrete mortal entities, are dependent on some arbitrary notion of luck and are wholly subject to the whims and cruelties of capricious Gods and Goddesses. To embrace humility suggests that we need love. That we all share the same existential condition. To embrace humility suggests that, despite our differences, be it race, be it colour, be it gender, be it form or function, we, at our core, are all the same. It is a fanciful story fit for children before they are tucked into bed for the evening.
I reject humility. I embrace vanity, pride and hate. To embrace humility is to reject the importance of our strength, power and intellect.
Humility is a weakness.
Humility is a crutch. Humility is the crutch ... the prop ... of the man who will never ascend from his primeval origins. I do not pity those weaker than I. I do not accept weakness. I do not accept that we all share the same conscience ... I do not accept that we all spring from the same source. I once read a book written by a man of supposed great learning and intellect. He wrote,
"Isn't it true that the one who you indicate as a slave was born from the same seeds and enjoys the same sky as you, and breathes, lives and dies as you, and that you can see the master in him and the servant in you?"**
I remember closing the book shortly thereafter, my scornful laughter earning me disapproving looks from the others in attendance at the Great Library. To embrace hate, to reject humility is to place one's feet on the path to greatness. It is only right to feel hate and contempt for those who are weak. It is Corath's word and more than that ... it is logical. To think otherwise is a nonsense.
One must realise that power and strength are the mandate of Corath. It is a sign of favour when a strong man is more than a weaker man, a hungry man, a powerless man. I have been granted an entitlement to dominate, devour and destroy the weak, the hungry, the powerless. This essential truth of what constitutes strongest, fastest, fittest and most deserving among ourselves has led to accusations of a lack of humility?
It is a ridiculous statement made by weak observers that seek to perpetuate the artificial moral framework that does not apply to their betters. I reject humility.
Lack of humility allows man the clarity of perception to see his adversaries as undeserving and unworthy and leads one to proclaim the right to dominance. It is a fundamental truth.
I reject humility.
** // RL quote - Seneca, Letters to Lucilius
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Love.
For something that is meant to be one of the most powerful driving forces in the cosmos, I have never had anyone adequately describe to me exactly what it is. An allegedly wise man once theorised that love could be used to account for the causes of motion in the universe. 'Love' was said to intermingle with the classical elements, those of earth, water, air, and fire, in such a manner that it served as the binding power linking the various parts of existence harmoniously together.**
Lust I can understand. Performing a service with the purpose of earning a reward or favour. Absolutely logical. But love? It is a suffocating hood by which the foolish and the misguided blind themselves. It is a desperate search for meaning in a world that offers little meaning for those who cannot grasp greatness with their own hands.
It is weakness. It is deception. It is the foolish idea of placing of another's wellbeing over that of one's own. WHY?? What can someone hope to achieve by such? Is there a belief that there is some omnipotent being watching, approving, nodding their deific head over such selfless behaviour and reserving a special place in eternal paradise as a result? More children's fairytales.
I reject love.
It is not that I am intellectually incapable of grasping the concepts of which the fools speak. It is the notion that you value someone over and above the value you place on yourself. This is utter foolishness. We proportion value and worth to someone by what they contribute to our own betterment. If someone contributes more to my advancement than another ... I value them more highly. However, it all come back to self. I do not love another as a result of what they contribute to my advancement. I recognise their contribution. We have but one life to live. We cannot live anothers as well.
Is this where the notion of love originated? We have but one life to live so we search for this mystical and magical union of souls so that we might know an awareness and presence greater than otherwise is afforded us? There is only self. At the end of all things there is only self. No-one holding your hand and whispering that it will all be fine. This life is all about what we can take and hold with our own hands. There is no mysterious satisfaction to be garnered by observing what a loved one has achieved.
Love is an unnatural submission of intellect, will and self. We, as mortals, cannot place conviction in this foolishness that must remain intangible and unseen. As mortals we have inherited a propensity to sin yet the misguided masses fight it constantly as wrongdoings against which they must fight. They seek to live by unnatural and externally imposed standards of morality.
I reject love.
My desire is no obscure paradise beyond this mortal realm. I trust in self. Ultimately, strength and sustenance can only reside in one's own will.
I reject love.
** // RL quote - Empedocles, 4th century BC
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Mercy.
Another supposed virtue. An attribute, a quality that one exhibits that makes them a good person? And I suppose the lack of it makes ... what? an evil person? Yet another fallacy.
I reject mercy. I reject mercy for two irrefutable reasons.
One.
Essential to life is the taking of other life. Killing and eating is how a creature survives. Dominance of another species is essential for the continuation of one's own. There is no justice, or injustice, in this natural law. No morality. It is nature's way, nothing more or less. Nature's supposed cruelty is a meaningless observation. The fittest are those that survive. The fact that one man is able to kill a lesser man is not a moral judgment in favor of the the greater man. It is not a judgment at all, it is a truth. The man killed the other because he could and nothing was able to prevent it. It is a consideration that one must either be the master or be the mastered. To show mercy is a weakness. Mercy did not exist at the origin of all things, the intial point of all truth. Mercy is fear and such misunderstandings make for death. Kill or be killed, eat or be eaten, rule or be ruled, it is the law since the origin of all things. Mercy spawns weakness.
I reject mercy.
Two.
What is mercy exactly? It is sympathy for another's suffering and distress, it is a shackle compelling us to offer succor if we are able. What causes this pain for the other? Happy is he who has whatever he desires, and desires nothing amiss.** Hence, it follows that unhappiness belongs to the man who should suffer that which he does not wish. Why should I care that another possesses that which makes him happy or that he does not? How does that affect my happiness? Linked to the flawed concept of mercy is the flawed concept that another's happiness is relevant to mine own. How might this be so? reason of love? I reject love. Another's distress is not relevant as long as I remember that I would only offer mercy and pity if I allowed that person's grieving cause to affect me. This can only happen if I look upon their ills as my own which again can only happen through a union of affection. As I have written in my journal previously, Love is an unnatural submission of intellect, will and self. As one concept falls so must all the others that use it for support.
I reject mercy.
I want to see the suffering of the masses.
It affirms my strength.
I want to see the streets of the cities choked with the poor and the hungry, where the threat of death is thick as a summer storm. I want to see weeping parents bury their dreams by the roadside as they flee forces too powerful for their comprehension.
It affirms my power.
I want to see where children are too weak to cry, the bounty of Prunilla denied them, where the laws of Rofirein are mocked for the illusions they are, where Toran's mercy is a weakness, where life and death do battle on the ragged fringes of humanity.
It affirms why I was chosen.
I reject mercy.
// ** RL quote - Augustine (De Trin. xiii, 5)
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Death.
There are innumerable metaphors and allegories that have been made throughout history, across cultures and religions uncounted in order to understand this ... state. Despite the fact that it remains a great unknown for all but a select few ... the realm of the dead and the existence of undead in this realm is treated with peasant-like fear and loathing.
Sometimes, in lands far distant to Mistone, the symbol of one's passing is that of a wall. Looming, gigantic, impenetrable. The great divide between the living and the dead. Oftentimes the symbol is that of a river. The dark waters are cold and numbing ... much like the feeling the masses believe they will suffer when the soul mother finally calls for their essence. On one side is life, the mortal realm. Full of light, joy, music, love. Affirmation of the belief that the best that can possibly be resides on this side of the river bank. On the other side is the cold wasteland of death. Nothing but endless darkness and suffering.
I have recently heard of the symbology of the wheel. A great wheel that cycles endlessly ... part of the wheel is this land ... this life ... this existence. The wheel turns and then there is death ... the wheel keeps turning.
I have heard Aeridinites, Toranites, Roferienites speak their childish philosophies of the importance of maintaining the cycle. I have heard tell how we must ensure that entities that have ceased their allotted time in this realm must move onto the next. They speak of those that do not as abominations that must be cleansed. They spit the names of those who cling to this realm even in death as a curse. Unnatural. An affront.
Those who embrace the word of the Black Sun learn otherwise.
There is no wall. There is no river. There are those that for the duration of their pitiful lives will know naught else than the ephemeral offerings of this mortal realm. Then they will die and there will be no more. Their flesh will rot. Their bones turn to dust. Their influence at an end. Some few ... the learned ... the enlightened ... the blessed have the clarity of vision to see that there need be no great divide between the living and the dead.
There are those that seek the knowledge and have the will to bring the eternity, the power, the darkness from one realm into another. The power that can be drawn from not just one existence ... not just one reality ... but two. The potential that is offered in the corporeal realm along with all the potential of the boundless hate and malice that exists in the realm of the dead.
There need not be dichotomy. One can embrace the potential of an existence that has one foot in the realm of the living and one planted in the realm of the dead. It is the path of the Pale Master. What better way to seek His will and spread His influence?
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Greed. Greed and the lust for wealth and power.
I embrace these virtues and the rewards that surely follow and in doing so am raised above all judgement.
Power and true is the procurer between a man's desire and that which he desires. From these things are all satisfactions met, all needs filled and all desires granted. When one possesses wealth, the power inherent within that true becomes mine. With true, and the power that it gifts, we can be all powerful, all consuming and all honest. Walls crumble. Sins forgiven and loves forgotten.
I may be possessed of no great beauty ... but with true, the greatest beauties are mine to enjoy. It turns fidelity into unfaithfulness. Prudishness into lasciviousness.
I may be possessed of no great strength or speed ... but with true, strong arms and willing swords can be mine. It turns weakness into strength. It can bring the strong man to his knees.
I may be possessed of a nature abhorrent, dishonest, evil incarnate ... but with true, I am greeted with smiles and sympathy. It turns vice into virtue. Good into evil and evil into good.
I may be possessed of no great intellect ... but with true, I can purchase the finest minds of Layonara to answer my questions and solve my riddles. There will be nothing hidden. No secrets.
"Do not I, who thanks to money am capable of all that the human heart longs for, possess all human capacities? Does not my money, therefore, transform all my incapacities into their contrary?"** If the pillars of virtue, love, faith are rendered so insubstantial so easily before the relentless tide that is wealth, what true worth have they? Money, and it's brother in arms Power, can break any shackle and can heal any rift.
Greed, the all consuming desire to possess this empowering wealth, cannot be unworthy. The very concept of worth, right and wrong, morality can be bought and sold like any other commodity. Men's souls are for sale, the price being the gift of enabling the otherwise impossible. The divine power of money. I desire something, true creates it for me, it takes my desire and turns it carnate. The divine power of money.
Methinks the Rofireinites are somewhat mistaken when they bow down before the Great Gold. Methinks an ancient manuscript must surely have been transcribed incorrectly in ages past and there was no dragon ... there was true.
// ** RL quote Karl Marx - Economic and Philosophical Manuscripts of 1844
Great RL quote that inspired the direction of this entry ...
Shakespeare in Timon of Athens:
"Gold? Yellow, glittering, precious gold?
No, Gods, I am no idle votarist! ...
Thus much of this will make black white, foul fair,
Wrong right, base noble, old young, coward valiant.
... Why, this
Will lug your priests and servants from your sides,
Pluck stout men's pillows from below their heads:
This yellow slave
Will knit and break religions, bless the accursed;
Make the hoar leprosy adored, place thieves
And give them title, knee and approbation
With senators on the bench: This is it
That makes the wappen'd widow wed again;
She, whom the spital-house and ulcerous sores
Would cast the gorge at, this embalms and spices
To the April day again. Come, damned earth,
Thou common of mankind, that put'st odds
Among the rout of nations."
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Religion.
No-one worships Corath out of love.
He is a God that demands ... that rips ... that tears worship and reverence from your very soul and leaves His followers broken and bloody. For many, this would beg the question, why worship such a Power? Why worship a God that does not love you ... promises an eternity of suffering if you fail Him ... demands obedience yet promises nothing in return?
Why indeed? At first glance to the ignorant it must seem an enigma.
Yet, the answer, as most answers to life's essential questions tend to be, is simple.
Power.
Corath is the dark embodiment of power at any cost. The Dark One says to his followers, Go out and take what you can by whatever means are at your disposal, don't be daunted, don't fear ... the right to take and hold what you desire is yours by strength of will and arm and not constrained by false bonds of morality and ethic.
The Black Sun says be guided by hatred and malice. These emotions are at the core of self-honesty. Master yourself so that you may master others. Let nothing stop you in your rise to power. Obey with utmost diligence. How could one not? Only with the Dark Sun is there absolutely no conflict between advancement of self and advancement of God that exists in all other false religions. Seek His will and there you will find that which strengthens your own.
Corath demands no altruism. Corath demands no sacrifice for the sake of another. The false Gods demand such subjugation from their beloved worshippers. I laugh. Wouldn't that make us mortal sheep that much easier to herd in the direction they wanted! Wouldn't that be convenient? Do what you are told by our nonsense dogma without complaint ... without question ... Yes God. No God. As You command God. No complaint. That's right ... for a complaint can only be grounded in self-interest, it would be a claim to live one's own life without having to live it for the benefit and advancement of others or towards the elusive goals of an elsuive God.
How can there not be a conflict?
How can there ever be synergy of interest?
It is an artificial relationship fit for fools only.
The so-called 'good' Gods have an oh-so clever method to further ensure blind adherence and unthinking devotion. Serve us faithfully and you will have an eternity of blissful paradise ... err in this false servitude and forever be denied this reward. Your path to this mirage-salvation can only be walked through mindless, self-sacrificial service to Me and My dogma. Without this ultimate, impending threat of eternal doom ... maybe the sheep would start to question. They might begin to ask, Why are you deserving of my worship Oh Mighty One-of-Many-Gods-on-Offer?
Offer the Mad God love? Corath is not a God to love. Worship of the Mad God is however the means and the end to power eternal.
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// Not a grimoire entry ... a first person recounting of his recent travels. //
I lowered the bloodied sword to my side and allowed myself the indulgence of a small smile at the carnage at my feet. My breath came in shallow gasps, the battle had been frenzied and the spectre of death always hovering near.
"Fine work, boy."
Not many men dared to call me boy but this time the whispered praise came from Sipher, Priest of my Lord. In the semi-darkness I could just make out the coarse features of his face beside me. Nearing seventy winters, Sipher bore the marks of many years of suffering and abuse. A wicked scar traced it's way from the bottom of his jaw up to just underneath his ear and his features were etched with deep lines that spoke of untold toil and hardship. The man walked with a pronounced limp, the strength long since fled from his wastened limbs and yet ... he possessed power, cunning and knowledge. His guise as a scholar of Aragen had served him well for many years yet I could tell he enjoyed the opportunity to fully exercise his powers without restraint. He enjoyed ... ha! ... does one ever really enjoy? ... high standing in the Church and would be invaluable in aiding me on my path to greatness. He possessed answers to many questions I had regarding the nature of undead and the means to attain ... their power.
I wiped the blood from my blade and sheathed it during the momentary respite. Although many mages regarded the sword as a weapon of little merit, looking disdainfully upon those who diverted attention to it's mastery, I considered my skill in it's use as an asset worth possessing. Any weapon, magical or mundane, that obtained a result of my foe dead and me alive was a good one by my measure. Regardless of their private thoughts, not many would dare say anything to me to which I might take offence. Even as a child I was regarded as a person of dark moods and a swift blade. I found the notion of honour in combat a nonsense. Death to your opponent with as little risk of death to oneself was my goal every single time I entered into any battle. Did it make any difference to the dead the manner in which they were slain? I had killed a score of men in combat, many times in an equal contest of sword against sword, but just as often using every underhanded trick and devious method at my disposal.
I was reminded of the fight with Argrad Amaged only two winters past. The winter season in this time that men are now calling the Dark Ages, was five or six months long, a time when the waters were frozen over and men's tempers were, in contrast, at boiling point. Chafing at months spent indoors, small disagreements that might be laughed off and dismissed in the warmer months would often led to fistfights or even bloodshed in the cold months of winter. Such was the case one feast-night with a group of my fellow wolf workers, including Argrad Amaged. A comment from myself made in jest, perhaps fuelled by too much ale drunk at the feasting table, about Argrad Amaged's none-too-full beard whiskers and moments later hands were on sword hilts, his blade drawn in challenge. I found myself, in the short space of a dozen heartbeats, having progressed from drunken boasting and laughing with comrades-in-arms, to facing a duel with the most accomplished bladesman within twenty leagues. His blade had been drawn, there was no backing down from here for any who would call themselves a man. Although handy with the sword myself, I had no illusions about my ability to match sword strokes with this warrior. I recalled these thoughts were but a moment's hesitation as, keeping my expression completely innocuous, I very slowly and deliberately took another swallow of ale from my horn. Without giving my intentions away, as if I were going to cowardly ignore the man's drawn blade, I spat a full mouthful of the strong beer directly into the glaring eyes of Argrad Amaged. As the big man reared back I drew my weapon and twice plunged the short blade deep. Neck and groin. Within seconds Argrad Amaged, considered close to invincible in combat by friend and foe alike, was dead in the dust at my feet.
My thoughts returning to the present, with the group of kenku now defeated, we collected the spoils of the battle and continued to the yawning cavern mouth that beckoned beyond.
Gard, the silent one, was the first to enter, his agile step belying the dwarf's squat frame and massive musculature. The dwarf's breadth of shoulder seemingly strained to breaking point the mail hauberk covering his torso. Possessing the strength of any two other men on this raid, Gard held his famed bearded axe lightly in one gigantic hairy fist, the weapon seemingly weightless in his grasp. He whirled his round war shield high above his horn-helmed head, a signal to Sipher, Alandric and myself it was safe to enter. We followed, to a man, our eyes lit with a lust for the killing to come. Now breathing steadily I entered the darkness only a couple of steps behind the dwarf. I clutched my razor sharp sword and grinned fiercely in anticipation.
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// Another story //
Virtue stepped into the cool surrounds of the temple laboratory. Two zombies mindlessly (yet unfailingly dutifully) unloaded the latest supply of corpses from a freshly plundered graveyard. In this comfortable setting Virtue was able to drop the mask of affability that served him so well in ... pleasant ... company.
His cold, appraising eyes swept over the contents of the laboratory before him. They observed the twisted abominations, works in progress from the Dread Priestess. They observed the ranks of corpses awaiting animation and experimentation. They observed the flasks and beakers containing unspeakable atrocities.
He walked along the benches, deep in thought, his fingers trailing subconsiously along a fleshless, bleached femur from creature unknown that lay within his reach.
Soft footfalls from behind alerted Virtue to the approach of another being. He turned, nodding towards the shadowed doorway. The figure, cloaked in shadow, nodded back silently, then stepped forward into the flickering torchlight, a cruel smile barely visible on Alandric's face.
"Welcome Virtue. Welcome to my playground."
Virtue nodded absently. His gaze returned to the nightmarish scene before him. Within these unhallowed walls was the knowledge he required. The secrets from beyond the grave. Secrets the Priests and Priestesses sought to harbour only for themselves but would one day be his to possess and utilise. Within these halls was the knowledge of the skeleton, the zombie, the wight, the wraith, the spectre, the mummy, the vampire and beyond.
Alandric stepped past him, already fastening a long apron over his robes to keep them clean. The mage was fastidious when it came to his appearance.
"How progress your studies?"
Again, Virtue nodded silently.
"Word of advice for you. Necromancy and the path of the Pale Master is no easy one to tread. Even within these walls there are certain stigmas that come with it. Persist with it. Be strong and be merciless. Many who start along the path see a glimpse of the power that could be theirs but that it comes at a higher cost than they are willing to pay."
Virtue's gaze followed Alandric. As he spoke, the mage picked up a wickedly sharp scalpel that he twirled dextrously in his long tapered fingers.
"Remember though, if my father taught us naught else, he taught us that there remains the essential truth that power does corrupt ... yet it also fuels the drive to attain more and more power in search of those ancient secrets of immortality ... and of undeath."
The two mages, one accomplished and one apprentice, locked gazes. Virtue nodded his understanding and acceptance.
// Alandric makes his guest appearance and motivational speech with the permission of Polak76.
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There is a passage in the private writings of Ramanon Vensk that plagues my mind. It haunts my dreams and waking hours equally. It is as follows,
... To become Master of the Dead one must be part dead. One must share a bond, an unholy link, tempered by the necromantic weave and wrought with flesh and bone. The cost is pain, a pain that proves one's dedication. For only few are allowed to receive such titles, and each few must bear the mark of the Palemaster ...
To become Master of the Dead, one must be part dead.
Eleven words. Thirteen syllables. How can so much horror and the promise, no, not the promise, it is indeed the certainty of eternal suffering and torment be summarised in eleven words and thirteen syllables?
Part dead. There can be no turning back from the path of the Pale Master.
It is to be forever denied the pleasures of the living. To never know the touch of a woman. The taste of an exquisite wine. Never to breathe deep of the scent of a rose and know the essence of beauty. It is to hear the voices of celestials raised in song and feel nothing other than scorn, derision and detachment.
The path of the Pale Master means to leave behind all those things in which normal men and women find joy so that one can truly focus on the one thing that is of real import. Power. It means leaving behind the pleasures of the carnate and discovering the untold power of the undead.
It is not, despite my ambition, my vision and my will, an easy decision. I sit, writing in this tome, atop a windswept peak in the Ire Mountains. Clouds are skidding across the grey sky above me. My fingers are stiff from the cold. The ledge upon which I sit is uncomfortable, the sharp gravel biting through my thick robes. Uncomfortable sensations, but sensations nevertheless.
Sensation.
Mortality.
The warmth of friendship.
Physicality.
Fame and respect.
Carnate pleasures.
If they are the sacrifices I must make, I am more than willing.
// *following this passage in the grimoire are several pages dealing with matters arcane, the gesticulations and phrasing requited for the more powerful magics that Virtue is learning before he finishes this entry with an ode to Corath* //
The sun approaches it's nadir,
Night falls, His time has come.
Before His majesty,
Sword hand of Toran trembles,
Aeridin pales with fear,
Rofirein's lies are revealed.
With torch are His temples burned,
His words reviled
to no avail, for truth is eternal
Earthly pleasure,
Hate-filled heart,
Power from beyond the grave.
For Him the rituals consecrated,
Sacrifice of noble king and chaste innocent,
With vision clear we cast off our shackles,
The wan light flickers,
unable to keep at bay,
Pain, grief and suffering.
The oak lies frozen,
The celestials fall cloven,
The rivers will run red,
The black maned lion will feast
Radiant and terrible,
Night falls, His time has come.
-
There is an abysmal lack of knowledge about the path of the Pale Master in the temple library. It angers and initially it confused me as to why. I seek knowledge and am met by resistance every step of the way. The clergy surely fear the autonomous power that such a person ... no, not person ... such an entity would possess and frustrate my endeavours at every opportunity.
I shall not be thwarted.
If no such knowledge is documented, I will devise my own methodology, open my own channels and walk this unchartered road regardless. Failure is not an option.
*the next few pages in the grimoire are filled with random disjointed thoughts ... some subsequently underlined highlighting their merit, some subsequently crossed out in bold, angry strokes of the quill. Some of the underlined passages are as follows ...*
*************
... the path is private, there can be no communion with others. Forget pride, forget the need for approval from any other, just oneself and The Black Sun, naught else matters. Power shared with another is power halved. My place is the crypt, the tomb, the shadows ... let the fools lead their lives in blissful ignorance of he who walks amongst them ...
*************
... secrecy is of paramount importance. Never divulge one's nature. Conduct my research in private. Never trust. Create a guise that will allow for my presence in public arenas of necromantic research ...
*************
... remain the master. Embrace the darkness from the undead realm but do not drown in it's inky depths. Maintain control. Don't be overwhelmed by the chaos that lurks evernear. Rationality. Control. Enslave the darkness, bend it to my will ...
*************
... knowledge is the answer. It is the key that will open the forbidden door. Study all that there is to study. Knowedge will be my armour and my sword as I walk the path of darkness. Mental and physical fortitude is not an advantage, it is a necessity. With mastery of knowledge will come power. The power that is my inheritance .. my entitlement, my right ...
*************
... it has been in front of me the whole time. The tenets of the faith. Follow them and I am following the path of the Pale Master. Fear. Fear would be my undoing. It is not an option. Hatred, malice, ruthlessness. It is all there. You are the instrument of Corath, seek always his will and to spread his influence ...
*************
Life and Death are neither the beginning nor the end of things. They are two sides of the same coin. When death no longer holds any fear for you and you begin to understand the ability to harvest the dead, an ever-growing resource, you begin to understand the promise of ever-growing strength and power ...
*************
-
*Virtue sits upon the rocky precipice in the Ire Mountains that has become the favoured place for his daily musings and reflections. A summoned skeletal warrior stands motionlessly some few feet to his rear, the empty depths of it's eye sockets trained over the narrow path that is the only means of ingress and egress for Virtue's refuge.*
My adoptive father once told me that the soul is a lake and when we die it is to the shores of this lake that we come to spend our eternity. He proselytized it was up to us whether the waters of our lake were clean and clear and full of fat, fresh fish to provide the feast eternal, or whether it was foul and polluted and we would suffer endless famine as a result of the sins of our lives. I liked the metaphor.
On occasion, a man of intellect and ambition will stand on the shore that edges the lake of his soul and peer within the depths.
What does he see when looks within?
Are the waters of his soul-stuff clean or clouded?
He sees the waters that were bestowed upon him at the moment of his birth and he sees all the impurities that he has contributed by the choices he has made up until that point. He looks hard through the waters and sees the detritus of his deeds that litters the icy depths. He sees the fragments of friendship. He sees the ruin of relationship. He sees the sweepings of system.
Is he pleased by what he sees?
Therein he sees the broken trusts, the broken promises and the broken hearts. He sees the unhallowed offerings, the words of profanity and the depravity of his actions. He sees the foundation of suffering and the mortar of hate with which he has built the temple of his life.
On occasion, a man of intellect and ambition will kneel on the shore that edges the lake of his soul and take in his hands a sprinkling of his own spirit. The water will run dark and foul over his fingers, it's very essence an affront and an abomination. It stains. It taints. It's corruption is palpable. It supports no life to sustain throughout eternity.
Is he pleased by what he sees? Is he troubled by what his soul has become? Does he no longer even care? Does he remember a time when the waters of his soul were clear?
On occasion, a man of intellect and ambition will cease his fruitless musings and turn his gaze upward and onto the path. The beacon. The promise. He will not let foolish introspections distract from the prize.
-
*Virtue smiles warmly to the Rofireinite priest as he walks towards the yawning temple doors. His even, white teeth glisten, matching the light reflecting off his shining silver plate.*
"Have yourself an excellent evening Sir"
*The stern looking priest briefly returns Virtue's smile and watches as he makes his way past those entering for the evening services. He wasn't sure of the young man's name but knew his donations, whilst not extravagant, had been regular.*
*Exiting into the cool air of Vehl, his senses are assaulted by a maelstrom of odours and smells. An acrid stench from the docks, the miasma of unwashed bodies, the subtle scent of decay from the crypts. Virtue nods to one of the Rofireinite laypeople toiling in the graveyard nearby, pausing momentarily in his stride to enquire.*
"Can I fetch you anything Sir? You have been at toil all day long in this bone garden and I do fret over your wellbeing. Mayhaps a drink to slake your thirst and a ..."
*titters as if his idea is a trifle naughty and looks around in well-feigned nervousness.*
... an excuse for a short respite from your duties?"
*The man smiles as he stretches his aching back. The creak and audible pop of stiffened joints is accompanied by a soft groan of pleasure he is unable to stifle. Almost everyday this young man passes by and never fails to make charitable offer of refreshment.*
"Nay young Suh, I be almost done anyways. Thanks Suh."
*Virtue raises two fingers to brow in acknowledgment of the man's declination.*
"As you wish Sir, good evening to you and yours."
*The man returns to his labours. What a pleasant young man. Wouldn't the world be a different place if it were populated by more of his ilk?*
*Virtue strides purposefully towards the gates of the inner city. Softly, under his breath, he recites his latest invocation. He thinks it has potential and will spend the evening working on it.*
Lost son of a forsaken race,
Harbinger of the Mad God,
Gatekeeper to the shadowed place.
Gods of light, hear my sedition
Servant of the Black Sun
World cast into perdition.
Risen dead delivering eternal pain,
Yours to bestow Darkest One,
Temples burning and falling fane.
-
I often wonder how many people ever spend the time to consider the beauty ... the majesty ... the perfection that is an undead summoning? Most people shy away in ignorant or agenda-driven indoctrinated revulsion without truly giving due praise and merit to this wonder, this gift of Corath.
Many different eyes can look at the same object, something that is inherently without any measurable value, that is a skeleton, and see different potential. A collection of brittle bones and rotted sinew that is the last physical reminder of an entity long since departed. Splintered thigh, broken rib, clawed finger.
What are our options?
The worshippers of Prunilla will say centuries from now the bones will deteriorate to a dust that will feed the soil that will grow the plants that will feed the children that will ... so on and so on. Excellent theory. Good for the happy little halfling dumplings. Unfortunately, it fails to address one small yet somwhat important question, How does this benefit me?? Not at all.
Then we have the Aeridinites with their grandiose and pseudopoetic rhetoric about maintaining the Great Cycle and ensuring the peaceful slumber of the dear departed. Oh how wonderful! We can even make a concoction from the bones of the dead that heals wounds, praise be to the Lifebringer for this bounty! *Virtue spits a curse at his inability to convey sarcasm through quill and ink based mediums* Let us all have a group hug.
Aragenites perhaps wish to study the remains, unlock the clues and solve the riddle as to what was the cause of death. Shadonites maybe desire to make some chimes from the bones to scare the kiddies. Who ever knows why the Shadonites do anything? Why one would offer worship to such a trifling, ineffectual deity is beyond me anyway.
My contention? These options are, at best, inconsequential.
Now consider the gift of Corath to these valueless bones.
One imbues these bones with negative energy, the dark threads of the weave, the merest fraction of the Black Sun's Unholy curse and ... we have created greatness.
The perfect warrior.
An ally who never wearies. Never questions. Never displays irrationality. A warrior who is utterly ruthless, completely without useless notions of honour, loyalty and compassion. A killing machine whose motivations, desires and intentions are always completely congruous with my own. Imbued with unfailing strength and unflagging speed.
With living allies this perfection is impossible. It can only ever be theoretical and will remain always practically unattainable. Only through the gift of Corath can one achieve such perfection.
-
Good and evil. What a nonsense.
There is no good. There is no evil.
There is consideration of what is best for self and then there is consideration of what is best for other. An act or deed that is good for oneself may be, by necessity, harmful to another and therefore, as considered from the other person's perspective, evil. Yet it benefited me. So, what was the act? Was it good or evil? It could be both, it is both, entirely dependant on whom you are asking. Such things as please us, we denominate good, those which displease us, evil. **
I overheard a conversation the other day on the nature of evil. It was laughable and it was all I could do to keep my words of clarity within and a vapid smile upon my face. The conversation, the meeting of two feeble minds, attempting to grapple the nature of good and evil. What was it? Was it suffering? Was it actions that were hateful? Was evil the absence of good? What of a storm that results in a ship sinking and the drowning of innocent babes? Was the storm evil? Was it just a random act of nature? Is nature ... life, the way of things ... essentially evil then? Must there be a cause possessed of an awareness to constitute evil? Why are we, as mortals, held more accountable for our actions than the force of nature? The druids, the priests of Katia worship this evil, uncaring force that sees the death and suffering of millions. Why is this religion not forbidden? Why are druids not hunted and killed by the righteous paladin?
I hear the Rofireinites, the Aeridinites and the Toranites talk of absolutes. Ideals of good and evil. Deeds and misdeeds that surpass cultural, religious and political moral frameworks. Murder. Rape. Theft. They make their arguments and initially, one must think there is some merit to their words ... then one who is possessed of acuity of mind cannot help but consider that their entire premise is built upon a fundamentally flawed foundation.
Who decides what is good? Their Gods? Who or what enables and empowers their God's opinion on what is right and wrong to be the correct one? How do their Gods, and thus their faith's priests and judges, attain this position of moral authority? Is it by virtue of being able to enforce their view with the most power and might? By being able to quash and supress any and all argument and opinion to the contrary? So it is their strength that makes them right? That therefore makes them good? If one were to look hard enough and long enough, one would find some community, some society in this world where certain deeds, however abhorent they may be deemed to someone on the other side of the world, are perfectly acceptable.
One must then consider I suppose those deeds that an individual may perform that are harmful to others that do not benefit oneself. Are these deeds evil when there is no benefit from anyone's perspective? What of this evil with no intent? I do not believe it can be so. There is always a consequence for any action. To claim otherwise is illogical. There can be nothing taken away without something gained. That is a law of the world that I can understand. There is always a balance, things may be created, be destroyed, form may change ... but something always takes the place. There can be no action without consequence.
There is no good nor evil. There is perspective.
** // RL quote - Benedictus de Spinoza
-
Mouth dry and head pounding, it took all my powers of concentration to navigate passage through the narrow doorway and stumble outside. A victim of a too much ale the evening prior it was my third time that night I had needed to step outside the front door of my lodgings to relieve myself. I had not planned on drinking too much that evening as I knew it was to be an early rise the next morning. However, gathered around a large bonfire with the other men, it had been toast after toast for the couple to be wedded tomorrow. Although the groom himself had been absent, standing his post at the wall, many a pitcher had been raised in his honour during the drunken celebrations.
Swaying slightly in the cool night air I directed the stream away from the path and into the bushes, thus avoiding futher ire from my already sure to be ill-tempered wife. I was undecided what was going to be hardest to face in the morning, what was sure to be a splitting headache or my woman's sharp tongue scolding me ... at length. In the process of retying my breeches with the trailing length of plaited rope, I did not even manage to voice a cry of alarm as the shape hurtled out of the darkness.
The sword clove deep. The spray of blood, black in the night, covered the partially opened door to my home behind where I had been standing. My slayer pulled the sword free with a vicious wrench and moved passed where I lay on the ground to inside my steading. I tried to scream my protest but my throat had choked with blood and no sound issued forth.
My last thoughts were of my sharp-tongued, but, beyond my ability to put into adequate words, beautiful and loving wife. What had I done to be so blessed to share all these years with this woman? My wife, her smile so beautiful as to eclipse even the most spectacular sunset, the first blooms of spring ... it was enough to cause the sight of the snow-capped mountains to pale into mediocrity. Although we had not been blessed with children, I considered myself lucky for every year I had shared with my wife. I should have told her this every minute of every day of my life.
Before I could further ponder what I should have done during my life, Death claimed me in it's cold embrace.
Quickly searching the couple's dwelling, Virtue added whatever of worth he could find to the existing contents of his lion skin bag. He allowed himself the indulgence of a small smile. He almost had the ten thousand true he required for the Rebuilding of Stone raffle. Close now.
-
The shrill squeal echoed through the forest trees. Birds took to wing overhead, startled from their avian dreams. The little boy's breath came in ragged gasps as he ran blindly through the underbrush, occasionally daring to cast panicked looks behind for a glimpse of his pursuer.
There! A flicker of movement through the dappled green. The man, hands outstretched, was gaining on him. The pale oval of face through the leaves.
The boy, though only five, was sturdily built for his age. He sucked air into his tortured lungs and continued his fearful flight. The boy knew these woods well, if only he could keep going there was a thick hedge of brambles but a couple hundred yards ahead. If only he could make it, there were gaps in the viciously spiked bushes that would allow passage for a child but surely deter further pursuit from a man full grown.
Desperation fuelling his tired limbs, the boy ran on. The sound of thudding footsteps so close behind rang in his ears. Close now. Only a little further. Keep going. Keep running. Approaching the thicket the boy made out a gap in the thorned branches, perhaps the opening for a burrow of one of the hares that were abundant in the area. It was barely wide enough for the boy, he would sustain scratches but he would be safe. Covering the last few yards the boy raised his arms over his head to protect his face and threw himself forward.
Close ... but not close enough. His pursuer, face split in a merciless grin that showed white and even teeth, grabbed hold of the back of the boy's thin tunic at the last possible moment and lifted him easily into the air. Effortlessly he spun the boy around and with a gentle squeeze that hinted at the crushing pressure he could exert if he chose, subdued the boy's frenzied thrashing.
Virtue's voice toned forth, hollow and deep. Sepulchral.
"Where do you think you are going little one? Did you think you could escape this dread servant of Corath so easily?"
The question was accompanied by a fierce tickling that sent the boy off into fresh peals of laughter. Virtue slung the boy over his shoulder, ignoring the rain of mock-blows his son rained upon his broad back.
"Did you think you could escape? Your mother has warmed the water and you will have a bath young man. Your baby sister is already abed and, without one, you will surely wake her with your odour!"
The boy's high pitched voice sung in protest.
"But Daaaa-aaaad!! I had a bath laaa-aaast week."
"And you will have another one next week. And the week after, and the week after that too. You will have a bath every week as your mother commands until you are a man grown ... and then you will probably continue to have a bath ... but this time at your wife's command!"
Virtue laughed. His son, so like him at this age, grinned widely. Was there any place better ... safer .. than in his Dad's arms?
Virtue awoke from his fevered sleep with a shout that rang from the walls of his room at the temple. Sweat beaded his forehead. The sheets of the bed were twisted and knotted from his writhing. Where had that nightmare come from? With a force of effort he controlled his breathing, recited a short prayer to Corath and drifted off back to sleep.
-
// Not a grimoire entry, more like stream of consciousness, a little snippit of his thoughts //
Hate. Hate and loathing. Him. Her. Them. My stomach clenches. Knotted. Acids squirting. I can feel my insides roiling. Churning. Throat burning. It is a need. A hunger to hurt. It is expectation unfulfilled. Envy. Desire unquenched. It is wanting but never having. It is an ache that knows only no release. My shoulders are tense. Pretty girl smiling at handsome man. Break her. Break him. No laughter. No joy. I want to lash out and strike something with my fists again and again and again until my hands ache and the object of my hate lies broken and bleeding before me. It is in my sight but I cannot grasp it. Not ever being able to grasp it. Faces pass me in a blur. Never enough. I cannot reach it so I break everything and everyone else. Feel cold. Feel hot. Never right. It never goes away. There is always the need to hurt. Distraction. It doesn't make it right. Nothing is right. Makes me strong. The hate drives me forward and forward. So loud. Thoughts screaming in my head. Want to scream. Breathe deep. Hate.
-
Evening in Hempstead. Dusk falls, the heat of the day is a quickly fading memory.
Virtue sits by a small park, far from the thoroughfare of the main square. It is as quiet a corner as the city of Hempstead holds. He appears deep in thought, his normally smiling face grim, seemingly carved of stone. His fingers idly drum a rhythm atop his folded knee. Nearby, the squeal of a child's laughter rings out, for a moment interrupting the serenity of his musings.
Virtue turns his head slowly and sees a girl child, no older than six or seven running after a small kitten that has escaped her clutches. She is chasing the kitten playfully, perhaps seeking to steal just a few more moments of innocent play before she is summoned inside by her mother or father for the evening. Without expression, Virtue watches her a for a little while.
Eventually, with the night approaching full dark, a woman's voice rings out and the girl gives up her game and runs off to the warmth and safety of home and hearth. The kitten, perhaps following an unknown feline instinct, follows soon after at the girl's heels.
Virtue breathes deep. His path is known. No regrets. Silently, he watches the little girl disappear from view.
He stands. Time to go. Chanda and the others will be waiting.
-
The flame of the candle flickers through the darkened hole of the door, the only evidence that the tiny room is occupied. The quill that slowly works it's way across the parchment makes not the barest whisper of a sound. It's wielder, a not unhandsome man enjoying the full blossom and promise of youth, sits hunched over his grimoire.
There is a crypt towards I continually find myself drawn. Near the township of Haven, past the encampment of desperate bandits, through the shadowed woods, hidden by brush, it beckons me. It's location is known only to a few. Fewer still dare to enter the darkness and brave the dangers within.
Yet, it draws me, as the cliche says, like a moth to the flame. The mystery. The treasures. The darkness. The promise. I first travelled there with Chanda and Alandric a month or so ago and have returned numerous times since. To learn and to study.
The umber hulks that infest the upper levels, though numerous, no longer present much of a threat to my person. Robbed of the mind-muddling power of their gaze, warded by a relatively simple incantation, they pose little danger. The other beasts, the ones that cause the caverns to shake and the ground to open at my very feet are more dangerous and must be dealt with using appropriate caution.
However, it is to the beyond ... the below ... past the halls of these cattle where I find myself returning again and again. Beyond and Below. Apt words.
There I find that which I seek ... there I find the servants of the Mad God.
Vampire.
The name inspires due awe and dread. Strength and speed and cunning. Hunger. An insatiable craving for the blood and the life of mortalkind. Ruthlessness. Ineffable evil.
They would make a powerful servant for the right master. Food for thought.
-
Priests and priestesses. I, with very few exceptions, cannot abide them. It is so many things. The ignorance. The misguided focus. The blind adherence to a dogma without rationality and the application of reason.
Druids, however? That is a path I can understand.
We have humanity.
We have the natural world.
Why is there a perceived conflict? It is a simple issue. They are not in conflict. Humankind has risen and evolved to be the greatest killing beast in the animal kingdom. Humankind, by the rule of natural law, deserves their place in deciding the fate, the life and death, of those around them. Druids understand this. I understand this. There is the rise of the strong and the subjugation of the weak. Natural. Irrefutable.
One would thinh so, yet, I look around and see the rightful place of those who should continue, by the selection of natural law, restricted and bounded by the illogical frameworks priests of the so-called good deities seek to impose. Rofireinites place restrictions, laws and boundaries on themselves and others that limit the reign of their free will. A nonsense. The strongest should survive and flourish and create their own reality. The weakest perish and perpetuate their failure no longer. All law, all normal and natural behaviour must flow from this immutable truth.
Nature. Corath. There is a fundamental synergy that escapes those who cannot see through the blindfold of indoctrination. Natural Law must be the impetus for the behaviour of all. The weak, they build their walls and they build their laws to pervert the course of natural law. The strong, the worthy, those who must continue ... need none of these artificial props to support our place. Failure is weakness and not tolerated by the Dark One. Druids get this concept. It is a shame so many of them cannot see there is less conflict between what they seek to achieve and the will of the Black Sun. The strong do not fail. The weak fail. The weak fear and the weak create artificial laws to hide their frailties. Mercy is weakness. Mercy is not a favour one does for another. Mercy is a delay of their inevitable fall. If someone, something is in the position of needing your mercy ... quite simply, they are unworthy of continuation.
Why is this truth seen as 'evil'? It is not a question of good and evil. It just is truth. Those who seek to hide this truth are guilty of a far greater perversion of natural law than any Corathite I have ever met.
The strong survive and dominate. It is the law of the Natural World, the only true law not distorted by cultural and political ambiguity, and priests seek to obscure this truth to all. The walls of the weak must topple. The laws of the corrupt must be revealed for the lies they are. Does this sound brutal? What is brutality? It is merely a reflection of Corath and a reflection of the natural order. Savage, cruel ... evolving to perfection.
-
// This post is kinda half in jest .. though it does sum up Virtue's experiences in the crafthall over the last few days. //
There is something about the crafthalls when you first walk in each morning. It is the initial darkness, slowly dispelled as Dalia the caretaker first lights the lanterns and stokes the forges. If you squint your eyes, it is like the sun cresting the horizon on a new day. It is the natural colours, the verdant greens and browns, the dappled light created by strategically placed braziers. I am reminded of a an earlier time. A time of youthful innocence and exuberance. It is reminiscent of a walk through the forest in an age when nature's majesty was unsullied by the hand of man. My emotionally susceptibility is heightened with all the promises of a new day crafting in Layonara. My sense of wonder and goodwill to fellow man is at a peak. In the morning all feelings are heightened: fear, sadness, joy, love and expectation. I am a vessel waiting to be filled with the nectar experience of the day. The doors open - I am filled with love.
It deteriorates rapidly from there.
As a wise man once said (// Samuel Johnson //) there is nothing like the prospect of execution to focus the mind. Similarly, the prospect of having to work another day in the crafthalls of doom, sharpens one's sensibilities to a fine edge. In this circumstance a day at craft becomes an exquisite torture.
Like people facing death, I find that I pass through a regular set of emotional stages when crafting.
Optimism. I stand behind the tinker's toolbox, the fletcher's bench, the hide rack, as the day commences. My mind is open, receptive, curious. There is still a slight thrill of excitement about what I am about to experience. Maybe today is different. There is potential. I am filled with love.
Bemusement. Although the first hour I craft doesn't yield more positive results than 3 in 19 nuggets with a 45% chance of success, I am still optimistic. I am sure today is going to be different. Something favourably statistically amazing is going to happen any minute.
Anxiety. Still no success matching the text box's allegations. The crafthall that had seemed so full of promise by dawn's early light now seem uninspiring and devoid of life and light. Life's plan is now obscure. Everything seems to take forever. Long silences. Limbs motionless. Silence. Lots of staring.
Guilt. I blame myself. I obviously have the wrong mindset about how the crafting process is progressing. I must rid myself of prejudices. It may be not be the ideal, but I must try to judge this crafting experience on its own merits. Where is the love?
Panic. I desperately try to enjoy the repeated failures at 70% chance of success. I look for meaning in every failure. Is this meant to make me a better, more patient person? A kind of hysteria sets in. I remember a slightly humorous comment someone made three weeks ago and I laugh out loud. Clutching at straws.
Paralysis. A numbness sets in. The mind fights to retain its sanity. I feel like an entombed miner trying to stay calm while rescue teams dig their way through a thousand metres of granite with teaspoons; like being strapped in the chair while a geriatric dentist with a severe case of the shakes painstakingly drills and fills every tooth in my head.
Hatred. I start to plot revenge on those who have brought me to this point of my life. I devise elaborate tortures for my friends, mentors, teachers, acquaintances who have in some way been responsible in inflicting this horror on me. I plot obsessively. My loathing ranges over the mayor of Hempstead to the goblins guarding the ore, to the potential customers for whom I craft, those pusillanimous, encephalically challenged traitors who refuse to hand over their money to at least make this financially, if not intellectually and spiritually worthwhile. The net of hatred spreads far and wide. There is no love anymore.
These vengeful thoughts occupy and soothe my mind for the last, what seems like, forty hours of the crafting day. The shadow on the face of the sundial seems frozen in time. It is as if Corath has stopped the march of time, He is determined to prolong the day until I have given up hope of it ever ending. I pray for death's sweet numbing embrace.
I wonder what I might have done with my time today instead of what I actually have done. Were I a doctor, how many people might I have cured? Were I a teacher, how many young minds might I have expanded, nurtured? A noble paladin, how many wrong-doers might I have smited (or is it smitten?)?
Suddenly it's over. I stand blinking; stunned as the time to escape is finally here. The last nugget is gone, the last tailor's needle broken, the last imbalance of raw ingredients recognised. It is like dawn after a night of griffon air raids. I stumble out the doors of the centre into the chill evening air. The street torches are beautiful in the fog; people are chatting, laughing, going places. Life, normality, sanity return.
-
Virtue sits at ease in the mahogany panelled great library of the mansion in Leringard. A summoned skeletal warrior fans him with a branch of an exotic palm tree, specially transported from far Audira. If the skeleton resents the mundane nature of it's assigned task, it gives no sign. Virtue scans another book ... searching and seeking the lost and forbidden lore of the Pale Master.
Selected passages of Dark Path of the Pale Master by Mesannas Beranesev ...
**********************
Within the chapter on History of the Pale Masters ...
... the path of the Pale Master. The refined and perfected art of summoning undead, the minions of the realm beyond, do to one's bidding. Creating, ordering, mastering undead through channels 'arcane' as opposed to the more traditional channels 'divine' ...
**********************
Within the chapter on Origins of our summons ...
... In the depths of the unimaginable hells, things ... entities dark and powerful have been biding their time for centuries, millenia. The corpses are buried but their usefulness is not at an end. The Pale Master can make his crusade, his goals and motivations theirs again. The tormented souls are not free yet. Using the twisted and malignant powers granted by the Mad God, created out of the hate from the deepest bowels of the earth, the summoned undead shoulder the burdens of the mortal plane once more at our bidding. That which dies does not die, but remains, decays, and returns in horror ...
**********************
Within the chapter on Strengths of our summons ...
... Ghoul ... can cause a wasting disease to debilitate one's enemies ...
... Shadow ... can steal the strength of the most powerful warrior with their touch ... an opponent's blade can pass through harmlessly ...
... Ghast ... The stink of death and corruption surrounding these creatures can be overwhelming ... weakening ... more virulent disease ...
... Wight ... attack using their clawed fists in mindless rage ... can steal the very life energy of our opponents ...
... Wraith ...Can weaken the sturdiest of fighters ... incorporeal creatures born of evil and darkness ... existing only to destroy at our command ...
**********************
// Dark Path of the Pale Master by Mesannas Beranesev ... is just a made up tome! I'm sure something like it must exist somewhere. :-)
-
The Church of Corath.
It amuses me that a Church that is dedicated to the worship of the Mad One, the deification of Chaos, Death, Lies and Hatred has such a rigid hierarchy. That it demands such blind obedience from it's followers to the Dreap Priests and Priestesses. How does one advance in such a hierarchy if one is always obeying one's ranked superior? By natural attrition? Does one have to wait until his or her master or mistress dies of old age before one can advance to the next rung of the ladder? Surely the Black Sun, the Master of Murder, the Lord of Lust, the God of Deception finds such a peaceful, ordered and structured process an affront and an abomination?
I am unsure as to Alandric's intentions. He panders to The Dread Priestess' every whim and desire. He laughs at her jests, every word that come from her mouth is naught ever but the unarguable truth. What does he hope to gain by such blind adherence to another's word? Why does he perceive that the rise of his own star is best served by linking it to that of another?
I do not fawn.
I do not flatter.
I shall be no Priest or Priestess' sycophant.
I have determined my path. I know the way that shall lead to greatness and power of which few even dare to dream. The Church of Corath, and their toadies and lickspittles, can either aid me ... or I shall step over their broken and bloody corpses as I continue my journey.
-
I dare to think that I am becoming the most popular and well regarded man in Mistone! I am friends with Rofireinites, Aeridinites and Toranites! A little courtesy goes such a very long way. I am continually asked by people that I meet if I am a paladin, one of these false and feeble God's holy warriors. Why? Because I wear shining silver platemail and I speak with a civil tongue. It is laughable. There is nothing I am unwilling to do, no crime too great, no sin so unspeakable that I will not undertake without a moment's hesitation to achieve my goals. I have embraced the word of the Lord of Madness, the Black Sun as my soul's path, but ... but ... because I am clever enough to remember my manners in company, I am embraced with open arms!
People will believe what they wish to believe, regardless of the circumstantial evidence that is presented to the contrary. The horrors and potential terrors of the great wide, dark world around them are so great that people search for any light to embrace and which to cling. People will see only what is pleasing to the eye and hear what is pleasing to the ear. It is the nature of humankind. A clever man sees this and can do as he pleases, act as he wishes ... as long as he continues to present the face that people wish to see. All I need do is maintain an air of polite meekness. Maintain an air of civilty. Yes Milady. Yes Sir. A little bit of bowing here and there. A polite request will very often yield far better results than the threat of pain and suffering.
I have had the great gold wyrm of Rofirein painted onto my shield. I hang the oak leaf of Aeridin from my neck. I call out to Vorax, Father of Battle before I engage in melee. It is enough for the fools. I dare say I could sacrifice a child to the Mad God in the square of Hempstead and get away with it because I am fair of form and fair of face and I speak the words that people wish to hear. Captain Trent, grateful to me since I assisted him with his kobold menace, might very well hold the child down for me as I raised the sacrificial dagger if I asked him politely enough.
I have been spending time studying the ... there is a small inkblot at this point on the page of the grimoire as if the author paused in thought for a moment or two* ... relationships of the Gods and Goddesses. It occurred to me that there are Priests and Priestesses who might be able to see through the illusion of a man's presentation and see to the core of his beliefs, no matter how bright his smile and smooth his tongue. The intrigues, enmities and favours of the pantheon are such that I should be able to cloak my true devotions. I will claim no single God or Goddess as my own. If a Priest of Toran casts a divination upon me and it is revealed that I am not his soul's brother - I will claim I light a candle to Lady Mist prior to a sea voyage. Be it a cleric of the so called Lifebringer - I explain that prior to battle I offer up a prayer to Vorax to guide my sword true. A Rofireinte? I burn incense to Deliar to bless my trade dealings or offer a cup of wine to Xeen so that I might know love.
It is laughable. People will believe what they wish to believe. You just have to give them even the slightest of excuses for doing so.
-
*written in Virtue's angular, yet neat, handwriting ... further explanations and explorations on the path of the Pale Master*
... the hallmark, the stunning power ... the tool of power of the Pale Master is the ability to reanimate the dead. The magnificent and awe-inspiring transformation of an inert corpse into a fearsome minion, wholly subject to the summoner's whim and desire. There exist many mages who can summon mighty golems, those that can cast a rain of fire from the heavens, bend the most stubborn will to match their own, however, in our dominance over the awakened dead, the Pale Masters are unparalleled in all of the lands of Layonara.
The Pale Master walks his path learning of a great differentiation. This does not happen of itself, though, and only comes with increasingly perfected knowledge of the unliving flesh. When one would seek to dominate and command the walking dead, it is essential to understand all there is to know. Their abilities, their limitations, their origins, the dark weave that animates them to do our bidding. Everything.
Whilst basic necromantic power is easily capable of rending soul from flesh and consigning enemies to despair, the essence of that power is Death, and living beings cannot long endure its presence before succumbing to that dark and cold embrace themselves. For those who would bring this power to the battlefield in betterment of self, this presents a problem: How does one contain death without dying?
The solution to this problem, I believe, is a simple one to grasp, harder to follow. First, a vessel is acquired to channel the power, a lifeless corpse being the natural choice as the very embodiment of death. To this end the Pale Master invokes the dark weave and summons a body from its place of rest, animating and controlling it with a continuous flow of power. Once the link between the master and the servant is forged, the full force of darkness may be made manifest through the now-undead vessel. It is the Black Sun's gift.
Yet, how does the Pale Master channel the dark power to the minion in the first place without suffering? I believe the answer to this is the second key - the dark weave is channeled very slowly and only in small amounts, just barely enough to maintain control of the undead servant.
To be certain, there are elements of this arrangement which are less than ideal. The thread of power that binds the deceased to the reanimator is tenuous, making control of the minion imperfect and only possible for short periods of time. Additionally, the might of the summoned undead is limited by the experience of the Pale Master, such that the summoned one always possesses slightly less vitality than the summoner, up to the capacity that a particular frame may possess. One must seek a continuous improvement of self in order to obtain a like improvement in power of their summons ...
-
// Timing of this entry is slightly out of whack - it is meant to be his reflections on his first DT loss which actually happened a week or so ago RL. //
I had dreamed of this moment for so long and yet still I did not realise immediately when it finally happened. One moment I was battling something? Remembering something? Imagining something? and the very next, my spirit self and my physical self were torn apart. I think I should be able to remember the nature of my last thoughts before a piece of my very soul was torn from me ... but I could not. The shock, a week later, remains as one of the most significant moments of my existence. There was no flash of light, no clap of thunder, no puff of smoke and no pyrotechnics of wizardry. There was only darkness, within which I had dwelled for so long, and then, as if no time had passed at all, I was once more cloaked in my physical form, returned to the world of the flesh.
I was dressed the same, my steel breastplate and greaves still splattered with the ichor of the elementals I had battled only minutes ago.
Minutes ago. Centuries ago.
I gasped and exhaled a breath, the night air was cool, refreshing yet though I knew not why, also a little acrid. My lungs expanded and then emptied in an action simultaneously innate and alien. I was still breathing hard from the frenzied efforts of my combat. My right shoulder ached from the weight of swinging my sword, my legs trembled from the tension of the battle. My sword dropped to the grass covered ground upon which I stood, the fingers encircling the hilt suddenly nerveless.
It was dark, but straight away obvious it was not the impenetrable darkness of the void. Although I immediately determined it was some time after the moon's zenith, the illumination from the moon and stars overhead was such that I could see my surroundings clearly. In my briefest eternity of banishment from life, never did I, never was I able, imagine the night sky as beautiful and as awe-inspiring as it was at this moment. In the distance, a spear cast away, I could see a number of tall poles stretching off and around a small copse of trees. Atop each pole was a lantern burning brightly, the pool of light cast by each flickering in a light breeze. Further, in the distance, more winking torchlight could be discerned through the screen of the surrounding trees.
I inhaled deeply, savoring the taste, the sweet sensation of each breath. There was a hint of the sea upon the soft breeze. The smell of the earth in my nostrils, rich and loamy. Dew on the grass. A faint charge in the air - a storm, yet unseen, approaching in the distance. A heavy rain would surely be falling before dawn.
Amidst the sensory overload, I barely noticed the weakness in my limbs. Looking down, I clenched my fist, the muscles of the bicep bunching and a trickle of blood oozed from a jagged, though recently healed, slash. I had no recollection of how I received this wound but knew that often in the frenzy of combat a warrior could pick up scores of cuts and bruises, the pain of which he would not feel until the battle's end. I licked the few drops away, the blood tasted salty and strange upon my tongue.
My movements, the sword dropping to the ground, the creak of my harness, my ragged breathing, the soft breeze causing the branches of the trees nearby to rock and sway. Sounds, their source known and unknown, filled my ears with a strange and alien cacophany. In the distance, a hound barked and howled.
-
Corath
Blessed in Unholy fire,
row upon row of offered corpse.
harsh cry of raven over the field,
screams of the dying, torn from throat hoarse.
Black Sun
The Mad God saw me fresh from womb
and claimed his dark soul's son.
claiming me for purpose warped and foul,
heir to the Dark Gift my sacrifice had won.
Death Lord
Lowest and Most High of the Gods is He
pain, death and power the gift is given
heavy blood price is demanded,
orphan's cry, maiden's wail and soft flesh riven.
Mad God
Who cares for fair favour offered me?
Seat of honour in Aeridin's Halls,
Shade and succor of the Great Oak tree,
Refuge and safety behind Toran's walls.
Light's Bane
In darkened room these promises I rend
And count the wrongs that I have borne
I wait and dream for this World's end,
Listen! Is that the harbinger's horn?
Corath
-
// Inspired by the numerous times Virtue is mistaken for a paladin in-game! //
I leaned back on the cool, damp earth and closed my eyes. Sarkus was holding court and telling another of his not-particularly-amusing tales. After a night such as this, when the ale purchased fromm stole true was running freely, I invariably found the little rogue to be annoying and all too rarely even slightly amusing. It was a concept that he just didn't quite grasp - the ability to recite joke after joke did not make someone funny. Quite the opposite, it made them ******* annoying. Someone is either funny or they are not. Sarkus was not. Despite me, and others, telling him this on a regular basis, he was a constant assault on my ears with his whining, nasal voice. Joke after pun after quip after gag after wise-crack.
This time, Sarkus had another of my crew, Karlin 'Bull' Faocci, in his sights with some story, the details of which were lost on me as I let my mind wander.
The boys roared with laughter at the end of the tale, none louder than Sarkus himself. Another tip for any would be bard - don't laugh louder at your own joke than everybody in your audience. With an effort, I opened my eyes and surveyed my crew. Karlin Faocci - nicknamed 'Bull' as a result of his solid physique. Broad shouldered, thick waisted, short but powerful legs and arms. Always a moment or two slower than the others on the uptake, he was chuckling nervously, not entirely sure whether he was painted in a positive or negative light as the subject of Sarkus's joke.
The comedian himself, Sarkus Sanders. Standing 5' 9" in his leather boots and weighing in at nine and a half stone when dripping wet. Every crew has their 'yes-man', their rodent, their runt, someone who becomes something of a mascot if you like, and Sarkus was ours. He had introduced himself, a couple of years ago now, as 'Cutter' but, not surprisingly, the self-appointed appellation never took. I could tell he desperately wished to be referred to by that nickname, mayhaps thinking it sounded fierce. I decided right then and there he would thereafter only ever be called Sarkus.
The other lads, the brothers, Mykan and Maste Cowan. Although separated in age by a couple of years, they might as well have been twins. Before their hair had been shaved to a stubble, they both had sported a mass of curly ginger locks. Solid, reliable fellas, good in a fight with either their fists or a knife, I trusted them both.
Steppe Roge stood in silence, piglike eyes squinting balefully out as Sarkus had completed his joke and the others laughed. With a surname of Roge, a host of nicknames would normally follow a person for their entire lives. However, Steppe decided he wanted to be called Steppe and nothing other than that. When Steppe spoke, people listened and, if they knew what was good for them, people obeyed. He was, quite simply, the largest and scariest man I had ever met and every day I was glad he was part of my crew and not against us. Although he must weigh upwards of twenty stone and most of it muscle, Steppe was fast. Fast and tough, a lethal combination. I had once seen him struck across the back of his head with a club swung with full force by some ogre outside a Krandor. Steppe hadn't even blinked. Blood streaming from the gash, he had whirled around and stuck that ogre with his knife, gutting him right quick. It had been like the rest of us were frozen still.
Last night had been much like many others before it - drinking at one of the local taverns, brawling, drinking more at a different inn, more brawling. We had eventually ended up in this forest after chasing a couple of merchants we had come across about an hour ago. We were heading back to Mykan and Maste's hovel to lay low - one of our gals had reported a crew of Toranites due to pass through in the next couple of days - when we had seen the two little halflings. They had copped one look at us and immediately set off at a run. Steppe has a large tattoo of - we think - a dagger inked upon his forehead and that alone was probably a fair clue that if we managed to catch up with them on one of the deserted streets that night they were going to be in some deep, deep trouble. The two had about a fifty yard start on us but we had set off in quick pursuit. Down numerous streets and alleyways, they had led us on a long and winding chase. At one point, Sarkus had almost brought one of them down when he had thrown a glass bottle that had hit the ****** on the shoulder. The half-man had staggered but managed to keep running.This was decidedly lucky for him as chasing his fleeing form for a half an hour had not improved our mood nor our intent for violence. After a further five or ten minutes - and a sprained wrist for Mykan as he attempted to jump someone's fence - we had finally given up and collapsed in the woods, ranting and fuming.
Sarkus had been trying, with varying degrees of success amongst the boys, to improve our mood with his hilarious jokes but I decided to call it a night. With a nod of my head to the lads I got up and we all started back. I could tell Steppe's blood was up and he was still angry at the halflings having given us the slip and I decided it would be best if we got back before Sarkus inadverdantly said something that set the big guy off. We cut through the woods, off the deer trail, in the direction of our destination.
It was then we saw the paladin, on his knees in the darkness, muttering some prayer. He was dressed in shining plate and a white surcoat emblazoned with an oak leaf, ****** paladin's clothes. If there is someone we hate more than halflings, gnomes or elves - it's a ******* paladin. I grinned at the lads, this one was about to enter a world of hurt.
We approached in a horseshoe formation, Bull darting around behind the ******* in case he tried to make a run for it. Our unsuccessful chase of the halflings through the night was still raw in our minds and we were determined not to let this prize get away. Sarkus, perhaps emboldened by the positive response to his joke earlier, must have decided he was going to be our spokesman tonight.
"Hey ********."
There was no response. He had not moved from his original position at our approach, kneeling and muttering some incantation loudly and seemingly completely oblivious as to our presence. Upon his knees as if in prayer, I thought we'll have him praying for his God's favour all too soon. Ignoring us was not going to make us disappear.
"Hey ********, I'm talking to you."
Still nothing. To my left, Maste reached down to the grass by his feet and retrieved something I could not quite clearly make out in the semi-darkness. He handed it to me, provoking a whistle of surprise and amazement. It was similar to the knife I carried in a sheath underneath the waistband of my pants but double-edged and substantially longer. It was probably three feet in length from the hilt guard to it's point and absolutely razor sharp along both edges. It was also coated in sticky, semi-dried blood. I handed it back to Maste, wiping the blood from my hands.
"********* - that yours?
The praying continued.
"You'd better start talking *******. What're you praying about *******? You kill your ******** priest with this thing? Is that it ****? You crying 'bout killing your ******* ***** ******? Don't worry ******, you'll be joining him soon. Yeh, that's right ******, I think we might cut you up real bad. What do ya say *******?"
No reaction.
I motioned with a nod of my head to Steppe - he understood. We were far enough away from anyone else that we could have some fun with little risk of being disturbed. Two steps forward and, with stunning force, Steppe propelled a kick into the ******'s ribs. I expected the ****** to crumple and fold - when Steppe kicks someone, there are certain expected things that generally happen. Things inside the person on the receiving end will break, they will cry out, there will be blood and pain. This time, nothing. The ******'s praying continued uninterrupted, neither increasing or diminishing in intensity as a result of the massive blow he had just received.
More violence imminent, excitement turned Sarkus's voice into even more of a high pitch than it's normal whine.
"You're ******, *******, you hear? You're *******."
Emboldened by the lack of response, Sarkus launched his own kick at the kneeling form. Lacking Steppe's incredible power, Sarkus wound up and aimed his kick horizontally, boot flying in towards the figure's lowered head. As if he were guided by some sixth sense, the ******* casually lifted his left arm and, with an angled forearm, deflected the kick high and harmlessly away. Sarkus stumbled and almost fell, recovering his balance and maintaining his footing only by skipping backwards in an ungainly display. Again, almost casually, as if unaware that his life was now forfeit, the ***** paladin rose to his feet and acknowledged my crew surrounding him for the first time.
Sarkus was screaming now;
"You're dead ********, get it? You're dead."
Then, the soon-to-be-dead ******** smiled.
-
We stood at the edge of the high stone parapet, this fair Aeridinite priestess and I. We had encountered each other by random chance, I had been wandering north from Lor towards Prantz, still sorely wounded from a battle-gone-wrong with some vicious manticores when I literally stumbled across her outside a temple to Prunilla.
With a kind smile she introduced herself, Mirrim Cade was her name. With a gentle touch she removed the pain of my wounds. Her fair face was creased with worry about my wellbeing - though, until then I had been a complete stranger to her. I was initially suspicious as to her motivations. I had little coin and I must have looked a sorry sight.
Over the next few hours I learnt that what she offered me - aid, healing, kindness - she offered everybody. It was the dictate of her God, the Lifebringer. We wandered over the realms and I listened to her gentle voice for hours. Then, fair priestess Mirrim offered to show me a sight of wonder, a lookout that offered views of the ocean supposedly unmatched throughout the world. A lofty claim yet when we arrived I could see that it was no idle declaration. She did this for no other reason than she thought it would bring me great pleasure. It was a place she loved and she wished to share it with me.
The stairs were virtually endless, I feared my legs would not have the strength to carry me to the top. The spare priestess climbing in front of me surely felt the same though she gave no sign of discomfort. After an age we reached the top. The climb, was worth it, the view was ... unable to be given proper justice with my meagre written word. We felt like Gods.
She noticed me smiling and asked if I was happy.
I dared not to tell her the truth. It was true, I was smiling. I had pictured throwing the strumpet of Aeridin from the edge and watch her plummet to the rocks far, far below. What a sight that would have been! Almost made me giggle.
-
// Part of a conversation between Virtue and Sasha, text log //
Virtue Kessen - Like my shield? *shows her the shield emblazoned with the Dragon symbol of Rofirein*
Sasha Tomyris - *looks at it*
Virtue Kessen - I just had the enamelling finished *broad smile*
Sasha Tomyris - I like it - but does it really mean anything to you?
Virtue Kessen - Indeed Milady, I am most curious as to the nature ... the ideals of the Dragon God. I hope to discuss Him, the tenets of the faith, at length with you one day soon.
Sasha Tomyris - You seem to fancy any God that takes you at the moment Virtue.
Virtue Kessen - You think so? Certainly I am curious. I am curious that the Gods ... and Goddesses of course *inclines his head with a smile* seem to be the deification of certain concepts and ideals. Should we not then address Them for that specificity only?
Virtue Kessen - Take if you will, Rofirein. Law, order, structure, community.
Sasha Tomyris - *nods*
Virtue Kessen - Explain to me then why would a farmer pray to Rofirein in preference to, say Prunilla for a bountiful crop for his family?
Virtue Kessen- Or Mist for a safe sea voyage?
Virtue Kessen - Or Xeen to bless a new romance ... Toran to plant the seed of -goodness- in an -evil- man's heart?
Sasha Tomyris - Well, my father always followed Rofirein so I grew up hearing about him. My dance teacher also paid homage ... well, farmers are a superstitious lot by and large and I suppose like to curry favour with a large number of Gods and spirits.
Virtue Kessen - Indeed Milady, quite so. Perhaps you can see my prayers are not quite so random as first imagined. Not really subject to, as you say *smiling*, my fancy of the moment. Instead my prayers are just appropriate to whichever particular endeavour I am engaging at the time.
Sasha Tomyris - I can understand that Virtue - but to carry the symbols of Rofirein so ... I have cause for concern. To truly do Him justice you need to understand his tenets. You don't just carry a nice shield for yourself. It's what others see when you carry it.
Virtue Kessen - Does it not seem reasonable that a man can respect Rofirein for what He brings to society, for what He brings to the betterment of the community as a whole yet still also venerate Vorax prior to an engagement in combat or Aeridin afterwards?
Sasha Tomyris - I don't have a problem with that Virtue.
Virtue Kessen - I very musch do not desire to cause offence to you Milady. Please believe me *bows slightly from the waist*
Sasha Tomyris - You must be aware to carry the symbol of the Dragon God causes people to view you in a certain way and ... expect certain things.
Virtue Kessen - Indeed Milady. I have an understanding of the tenets of Rofirein. To wear His symbol with ignorance in my heart would be a mockery.
Sasha Tomyris - That is all I am trying to say. If you're not prepared to meet those demands, then perhaps you should choose a more common symbol ... however, if you are, then I don't have any issue with it *smiles*
Virtue Kessen - I would hope you would immediately bring it to my attention if I conducted myself in any way contrary to what you might consider appropriate Milady.
Sasha Tomyris - *laughs* Sure Virtue
Virtue Kessen - My humble thanks Milady
-
// Short prayer whispered by Virtue at the altar of the Temple, deep in the *** *********. //
Greatest of the Gods,
Creator and Destroyer,
Hear my plea.
The sons and daughters of your ememies are slain at my hand.
The innocent blood of their children soaks into the earth.
All that I am, all that I have, all that I will be, I offer you now.
My unworthy lifeblood, spilled in your name, spilled by this slayer of light, spilled within this holy circle, I offer you now.
*takes dagger and slashes palm*
My soul, into your eternal service I offer you now.
Greatest of the Gods,
Creator and Destroyer,
Hear my plea.
I ask of you this service of violence and fury.
I ask of you this gift of revenge.
I ask of you this favour of cruelty and hurt.
I ask of you thisboon of suffering and savagery.
I ask of you this gift of rage and pain.
Greatest of the Gods,
Creator and Destroyer,
Hear my plea.
-
Toran, Rofirein and Aeridin.
Gods of the nobility.
Gods of the priveleged few.
Gods of those who can afford the luxury of an idealogy that goes beyond basic survival.
We see the well-fed adventurers, dripping with their jewels and gems, bearing the devices of the so called 'Gods of Good'. We see their derision. We see the contempt they hold for us.
What do they know of pain?
What do they know of hunger?
Do they know what it feels like to hold a starving child in your arms and have them suffer while you weep, powerless to do anything?
Is it right that a man is charged and jailed by the Rofreinites for the 'crime' of trying to feed his family? Is it right that the Toranites talk of their noble motives of purity and virtue whilst clad in shining armor that costs enough true to feed an entire village? Aeridinites who are so focused on ensuring the return of abominations to the great cycle yet they forget about the suffering of all those around them here and now.
Have all the Gods turned their faces from us, only blessing those with enough true to fill their church coffers? These Gods and their servants sneer at us - the 'common' folk. Let them sneer and ignore our suffering no longer.
They ignore our suffering, They laugh at our pain. No more shall we fight amongst ourselves as they would have it. No more shall we suffer in silence the indignities of the ruling classes and their uncaring puppet religions.
It is time to take what is rightfully ours. Time to end the suffering of our children. Do not fear my friends, fear is the tool of our enemies that for too long has kept us under their bootheels. Let our hunger, our suffering, our pain, our oppression be not their weapons.
Let them be ours.
It has begun.
The best merchant tells his customers exactly that which they wish to hear. It is far easier to sell something that the customer wants to buy in the first place than trying to convince them of something they really don't want. The very best deceptions are really not so far removed from the truth. It is unfortunate that I could not risk the scribe to remain alive - he was quite professional and for a little while I almost was going to let him live. His greed far outweighed his morality, and there was the possibility he may have been a useful tool in the future, yet, the price that would be paid for premature discovery is too great to risk. It was best that it ended as it did. Dead men tell no tales, as the corsair's saying goes.
*Virtue ceases writing for a moment, places his quill upon the desk and looks down at the parchment that sits beside his grimoire. His brow is furrowed in thought. After a little while, he resumes writing, the page quickly filling with the details of his next idea.*
-
The Rofireinites held their trials yesterday for new knights. I was tempted to apply for membership, I know all the right words to say in the order and manner in which they are meant to be spoken. I had spoken to Sasha at length about joining the order and she was excited that I continued to show such an interest in her religion. It was only when I had allowed myself to begin to fully consider the practical and logistical implications of membership when Sasha revealed that all candidates were subject to scrutiny from the priests of the Dragon God prior to admittance.
I had to consider the likelihood of benefit against the potential for discovery. Was further ingratiation within the ranks of the Dragon God going to advance me along my path to power? No, not overmuch. Plan considered, plan dismissed.
Instead, I purchased for Sasha a potion (of great expense brewed by a surly dwarven monk) that I handed over as a gift from one friend to another upon completion of her trials. She was truly moved by my most caring gesture. Thus is the alliance of a person so easily bought and sold. Everything, including friendship, is merely a commodity, traded and bartered, able to be won or lost. Sometimes you have to dress it up in a pretty wrapping paper but the fact it is only a commodity remains the truth.
Of my old friend Alandric, I have not seen much at all of late. My inquiries into his whereabouts yield either blank or veiled looks from those around the temple. Unfortunate, a useful tool lost.
-
*The grimoire is filled with dated entries that fill the pages. All facets of Virtue's travels, research and interactions are recorded in meticulous detail. One entry in particular stands out, the brush strokes are heavy, almost scarring the page as if written in great anger.*
I grow weary of my own endless civility.
I smile like a buffoon until my jaw aches and I nod vapidly at the supposed words of wisdom provided by others until I fear I must look like the village idiot.
How long must I wait? How long until I am powerful enough to shed this mask and show my true worth and indeed the true worthlessness of those around me? The answer to this is too long. An ambition, an intellect, a ruthlessness, a right to greatness such as mine ... it is unnatural that it be stifled any longer. How I long to take my blade and plunge it through the lies, the mediocrity and the foolishness cloaked in the fragile flesh of those who surround me.
I am no fool. I recognise there are far more accomplished swordsmen and swordswomen, mages and priests than myself. There are warriors who can fell opposing armies singlehandedly. There are those who are able to shape the weave with the same alacrity as the dog Goddess Lucinda Herself. However, they lack something which very few possess but that which I am fortunate enough to be gifted.
What is this mysterious gift?
The ambition to rule all and the willingness to do all necessary to achieve this.
Everything and anything that is necessary.
No boundaries.
No limits.
No regrets.
-
Paintings of Virtue commissioned Wedlar, Jular 4, 1419 for persons unknown.
// Mucking around in Photoshop, many talents I have, Photoshop artistry unfortunately is not one of them. //
-
The cramped confines of the hut were thick with the smoke of incense and the reek of his body, which I guessed had, for far too long, gone unwashed. I breathed shallowly through my mouth in, I think, a truly valiant attempt to keep the stench from overwhelming my sensibilities. Glancing at Alandric, I noticed his dark hair was in even more of a stark contrast to his pale complexion than normal, his fair skin being at least a shade or two whiter than normal as a result of breathing in the base odours that wafted around us.
Prior to his arrival I had conjured a vision of this shaman as a man of mighty stature, a man able to command the forces of nature to do his bidding. Perhaps he would be bedecked in a crown of feathers and brandishing a staff of mysterious power. I had pictured him, standing before us and commanding the elements of Wind, Earth, Fire and Water in a show that would be remembered by all in attendance as the grandest display of weave-work ever witnessed. Such was his reputation.
As such, I considered it a heroic effort on my part to not only remain conscious, but also to appear impressed and interested in the words of the small, wizened figure seated before me. Even were he not hunched over with advanced age, the shaman would barely stand five feet tall. Clad in partially cured furs, his scrawny limbs were encrusted with dirt and other vileness I dared not look at too closely. His left arm from wrist to shoulder was covered in hundreds of small, raised scars. I assumed they must be wounds received in a disease-ridden past from a pox or plague of some description. I dared not let my imagination conjure up too many explanations for his disfigurement lest I, by chance, guess at a horrid truth. It was difficult to imagine this was the man about whom I had read so many tales. This was the great shaman whom had turned back the army of Skorgan Babd with a summoned storm of lightning and fire? This was the mighty magician who had struck the cairn-thief Gragnar stone-cold dead with but a glance and a few muttered words? Looking at him now I could scarce believe that these stories could be, even in part, rooted in truth.
I gathered my full powers of attention for it was important that I remembered his instructions. In a thin and scratching voice, barely audible, the shaman outlined the events as they would occur on the morrow. I strained forward to hear his words, it was as if his voice had gone unused for many months and was he trying hard to remember it's function.
"Four candles will be lit to appease the Denizens of the North, South, East and West. Often times, angry and vengeful Demons they are, but by lighting a candle in their name they shall be appeased."
His description of the ceremony was interrupted as a wracking cough seized the shaman's frail body, ending only after several long moments when he hawked and spat a wad of phlegm to the dirt floor in front of him. I couldn't help wrinkling my nose in disgust but managed to maintain my smile. I feared my jaw might crack as my teeth ground together.
"I will ring the bronze bell of Vodoun three times to indicate the start of the ritual and to ward away the gaze of any small demons present who may have wickedness in their black hearts as they watch our deeds. I will also have to make offerings tonight to curry their favour and prevent their wrath."
I hid a smile at his warning. Fear was no enemy of mine, it was a companion to which I held quite the fondness. An ally and a friend.
I glanced out of the corner of my eye to make sure Alandric was also listening, I wanted him to test my memory and ability to recite what he said later that evening. Although I had rehearsed the words of the rites scores, if not hundreds of times, I wanted to ensure that I was able to recall and announce them perfectly tomorrow.
The shaman intoned;
// specific instructions not mentioned here //
The shaman eyed me sharply to make sure I was concentrating on his words. I nodded encouragingly for him to continue and my knuckles whitened underneath the hem of my cloak. It galled me to have to 'play nice' to this insignificant toad. Yet, play nice I would. There was nothing I would not endure to walk the path.
The instructions for the ceremony continued.
// specific instructions not mentioned here //
The instructions for my role in tomorrow's ceremony now imparted, I breathed a sigh of pure relief and bowed low to the shaman. The air was a marginally cleaner and easier to breathe with my forehead pressed to the ground.
"Thank you, holy one."
I placed the offering at his feet, bowed once more before exiting the hut. There was still much to do before the ceremony tomorrow.
-
His hoarse cry is loud against the silence of the night. Virtue sits in his bed, sweat pouring from his body despite the chill in the air. The woman whose name he has not bothered remembering, whose affections have been bought with a handful of true, murmurs something unintelligible beside him. Her voice is thick with sleep, her breath thicker again with the scent of cheap wine. With a muttered incantation Virtue brings into being a soft light that barely caresses the far wall of the small room. Not knowing whether his dreams hold any special significance, it has become his habit to record their details in his grimoire.
It is chasing me, close now. I can hear the menacing promise of my eternal damnation in it's heavy footfall. I turn, there is nothing there. Wait! There! Off to the side of my vision. A glimpse of something terrible in the darkness. Something that threatens to blast my sanity to shards. I am haunted. I am haunted by something. Something unknown. Something wonderful and terrible at the same time. Is it a something? Is it a someone? It ... it .. it takes the light out of things ... it fills me with longings ... Is it a sign from my God? Does Corath seek to send me a message? I am sur-
A giggle interrupts his flow of thoughts and writings. Virtue turns sharply, his companion, sheets clutched up around her bosom with a modesty he finds amusing, is now seated upright beside him, looking over his shoulder at his grimoire.
"Corat' M'lord? In't that tha' name o' one o' them Gods o' the dead?"
Virtue's hand slides to the sheathed dagger hidden under his pillow. A paranoid habit of his youth, it has saved his life on more than one occasion. His even white teeth shine bright in the broad smile he offers his companion.
"Indeed. You are right, how very clever you are. The ability to read must be quite the rare skill for one of your chosen vocation."
His expression is mild, his movements smooth, reassuring in their casualness.
"My da' did taught me how t' read an' write M'lord."
She was accustomed to surprise and disdain from her customers. Many of her clients who spoke with their fancy airs and graces couldn't read nor write themselves and oft times their natural reaction was to belittle and humiliate. Little men with their little egos she thought to herself. This one was no different with his pretty way of talking and his oh-so courtly manners.
"Really? How wonderful ... "
Subtle movement. Bland expression.
" ... yet a terrible irony that such a gift from your father leads not to a betterment of your existence in this realm ... but instead ... to be the cause of your death."
Before her face had the chance to register understanding or surprise at his words, his dagger flashed an arc in the dim light. For the warrior who could fell a giant in single combat, an inquisitive woman-for-hire, barely twenty years of age at his guess, needed no second blow.
-
*folded and tucked in between pages in Virtue's grimoire is one of the scribed posters recently hung on walls throughout Fort Vehl.*
Bloody and brutal times.
Drakes rain fire from the skies and goblinkin ravage and pillage without fear of reprisal. The innocent, the starvelings, the children are the victims of the madness. Unbenownst to most, we are mere pawns in a cycle of violence perpetuated by the church of Rofirein and it's rivals. It is not our misdeeds that have brought this trouble upon our homes.
How do we, the so-called common man, resist such treatment of our person? That of our families? How do we cast off the shackles placed upon us by this church that cares not at all for us.
The church of Rofirein and it's high and mighty knights, do they hear our plea? Nay. They deal in violence. They deal in punishment. They build their glistening temples of marble and gold while we starve in the dirt at their feet. Beneath notice. They lack any mercy for those not of their order and we can no longer show them more compassion than they give us.
Let any who bear the device of the Dragon God know fear. Let them know the fear that has been their weapon for far too long strikes both ways. The knife in the hand of the child can bring low the mighty knight when it is wielded with righteous fury.
Bloody and brutal times. No longer just for us.
Another poster, opportune timing given the incident with the drakes yet unfortunately much less outrage this time. I stood nearby to hear newly knighted Sasha's impassioned plea to those peasants who were gathered at it's appearance and had hoped there might be a violent incident ... but no such fortune. If only one of the craven fools that had gathered attacked her, forcing her to take up arms in defence of her person, then things might have got interesting in a hurry. I was tempted to throw a stone at Sasha from my hidden vantage to try to provoke something but dared not.
No matter, I have other ideas. The posters might very well have run their course of effectiveness anyway. I dare not seek assistance for their funding, I am surrounded by loose lipped fools, and the two thus far have cost me over thirty thousand true for their scribing and .... cleaning up of loose ends. Additionally, the longer I persist on one course of action, the greater the chance that those who do not appreciate my efforts draw closer to me.
No matter, I have other ideas.
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"Stand"
grating sound of bone upon bone
"Sit"
clatter
"Clap your hands"
dry cracking, harsh and jarring to the ear
"Stand up and turn around"
scrape of bony heel on stone
"How delightful! *the voice deepens with purpose* Now ... bow down before me, your creator and your master"
rasping sound, almost lost under the chuckle of he who commands
"Perfect ... and so it begins"
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// Snippits of his CDQ. //
CDQ Pics (http://forums.layonara.com/photopost/showgallery.php?cat=100782)
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Virtue sits in his room at the temple, the longsword of Ghant Vodoun cradled in his large, scarred hands. He whispers to it, his voice barely audible.
Yes, patience. Today a trickle ... tomorrow a flood. Countless souls I will give you ... you shall feast on blood and death such as this world has seen not for decades ... share your secrets with me, let us journey together, let us show those fragile husks of man who walk this realm of light, let is show them those of the darkness hold power still ...
The muscular steel-clad bulk of one of the nameless Raven Guard suddenly filled the doorway to the room. His eyes lit upon the figure of Virtue sitting on the narrow cot, barely illuminated by a solitary candle. If he noticed the new lines etched upon Virtue's normally guileless and sunny countenance or a certain lassitude in his returned gaze, he did not comment nor give indication that he cared. The Raven Guard's voice was deep, sepulchral.
The Dread Priestess sends word you are to attend tonight's convocation. So she speaks, so we all obey.
Without waiting for acknowledgement, the Raven Guard turned and only the sound of his footsteps, ringing loudly along the corridor, remained of the man. Virtue turned his attention back to the sword.
I know, I know ... all in good time. Some we must suffer to live ... for now. They are tools, useful tools. We use them as needed and when the time comes that they be discarded ... then ... they are yours ...
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Why is it so much easier to hate than to love?
Is it something missing inside of me, or, more likely, is it something extra that I possess that others do not?
Some look upon a wealthy man and are inspired.
Some look upon a wife or lover and see their soul's companion.
Some look upon the child at play and see their legacy.
I ... I do not.
I look upon the wealth or power in the possession of another and I think only of ways to make it mine.
I look upon a woman of fair countenance and see someone who can fulfil my carnal needs.
I look upon the child and see *small inkblot where the quill has rested upon the parchment for a moment or two* a small person.
What makes someone truly happy? It is really quite simple. It is the determination of one's needs and the subsequent fulfillment of them.
I look around and see small people with their simple needs and their simple goals and their simple means of achieving them.
I have larger dreams. Loftier goals.
As such, there is only one path ... only one road that is open. I raise myself at the expense of others. Every degree of power I obtain opens up the possibility to obtain more power again. It is destiny's mandate that he who would be great must exercise his dominance over others, grasp all the power he can and always seek more.
Large dreams and lofty goals.
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Law and regulation and of course that which follows, order and community wide civility are undeniably useful tools.
The herder finds the flock of sheep far easier to control than a pack of wolves. Perhaps the flesh of the wolf tastes just as fine as that of the sheep but it is not worth the trouble? There is a balance to be found, to impose order and obligation and accountability onto the herd yet remain apart from the herd oneself. People desire nothing more than to be a member of the herd. Tell me where to go Sir, please take away my free will and capacity for independent thought Sir. Fulfil my basic needs Sir and I shall never question my place Sir. Let us huddle together and hopefully the wolves will let us pass unmolested. There is a certain safety in this anonymity. I shall be content with not having more than my fellow herdmember Sir as long as I don't have to suffer with less than my fellow herdmember Sir.
Is such a view a frustration to me? Not in the slightest. With so many content to be sheep ... the wolves can feast well.