The nature of an outsider

[Spike]

Where to start?

Since stepping off the boat at Fort Vehl I learned what it was to be an 'outsider'. The people here come in many forms...but of I have learned one thing its that to be different is to be alone.

One thing I have noticed is that these lands are under the sway of adventurers. There seem to be several main groups of these 'Heroes' who tend to lord it over the common man. Through brute strength or magical talent they achieve glory through defeating villains and banishing evil (evil in their own opinion that is). It seems to have created a situation where they are outside any common law and help those that are not even seeking help.

Perhaps this is just the rant of a common mercenary such as myself, who is jealous of the power and popularity that these select few have. But I think not, and that it is social unrest that is at the root of these thoughts. It matters not though as the few who acknowledge my existence look down on me. Maybe Mistone will one day have the unity of my past home, but with out the corruption.

Its not all doom and gloom though, as those that don't chase me off, call the guards or ignore me tend to be very nice. Though sadly they are few. But who said the path of a demon spawn was pleasant?

[Spike]

The bitter cold of the night was like water on on open wound. Rain came down in a drizzle, making vision almost imposable. Eander wondered through the Port Hempstead fields, site of the recent attacks by a mad wizard. A lone figure came in to sight, the rain making pinging noises as it hit his armour. Conversation followed deep into the night before the armoured man dissappeared again into the pre-dawn gloom. After he had gone Eander paused for a moment to consider what he had been told. "Huh" he muttered before his thought's turned back to Saira and the matters at hand.

Storold sat in his usual bench by the fountain of Port Hempstead. It was a crisp clear night with the stars shining brightly overhead. His mind drifted away from the notes in his hand as he gazed into the night sky and wondered, for a brief moment, what lay beyond those stars. The sound of armoured footsteps made his head turn.
"Is this tradition or something?" asked the stranger.
But not quite a stranger, Storold thought. He had the nagging feeling that he had seen him before...but not where.
"Every day I pass through here and there you are in exactly the same place."
"I like this town" replied Storold, "It's peaceful here, I like it."
They talked for a little, but it is not in till the town cryer announced that Chanda had escaped that the stranger's tone changed.
"Who is Chanda?" the stranger asked.
Storold hesitated before answering.
"She is the high priestess of Corath"
"What!? Corath has a presences here?"
"Yes, I do believe that his follows may be found in any civilized society"
"It's been to long, I thought I was safe here!"
The armoured stranger then fled into the night. Storold meekly watched him go before returning to his notes.

Travie sat in his room thinking. He knew that Muireann would be looking for the rent soon but he had more pressing matters on his mind. "It's been almost a year" he muttered. "They think I'm dead...they saw me dead. No, I'm fine."
He packed up his things anyway, just in case.

[Spike]

Travie sat at his desk fidgeting.

A large leather covered book lay open before him. Words such as "pit" and "Mortal coil" were visible hastily written on a crumpled piece of parchment beside him. Three words were circled..."Ooppengool, Ky'anv'm and Vonlelt". With a sigh he closed the book softly, stood and turned to gaze out of the window.

It was back again.

The raven had started to appear a few weeks ago. It sat atop the house across the street, eyeing his window with the mad beady eyes that all birds seem to possess. Travie made a rude gesture at at, causing it to eye him reproachfully before gliding off.

He stood there for a while longer watching the bustle of Leringard, before making up his mind a sitting back down at the desk. Pulling a fresh piece of parchment towards him he composed as short letter, the name at the top reading Ozymandias.

It was getting worse, slowly, but it was. He knew that he coudn't make it
stop but he could at least understand it. After delivering the letter he returned home and after reflecting a while knelt down and prayed to the only God he knew and ever would know. The only one who had ever given him protection. He touched his arm thoughtfully.

[Spike]

"They do not get along with most people"
(quote from The Races Of Layonara; description of a Tiefling. Author unknown. //players handbook)

//The day before Travie's disappearance in the Ire mountains.

Travie stood in his room fidgeting. He was in the process of packing up his belongings; books, old clothes, various weaponry etc. that lay strewn across the room when the sound of heavy wings beating at the air caught his attention. He turned around, a slow smile crossing his features. A large raven was perched casually apon the windowsill, its beady eyes circling the room. Travie threw a crust of bread in its deriction which it snapped up gratefully. The bird cawed its content causing Travie to stick his finger in his ear and wiggle it dramatically.

"Quite the musician arn't you?"
The bird cocked its head.
"You know you remind me of a story I once heard, care to listen?"
The raven glided into the room before pearching on the desk. Travie smiled slightly and began his tale whilst sorting through various scrolls.

"I will tell you the story of the Pealing Doom, a tale of misfortune and greed..."
He chuckled quitely.
"To music lovers that is. Its is claimed that this item originated from another plane of existance, for surely no mortal could have crafted such a thing. It is  said to take the form of a brass bell, crafted in two parts. The handle creates a circle of silence that surrounds the bearer. The bell bass on the other hand produces a most terrible noise similar to a banshee's wail, prolonged exposure  will paralyse you and evently cause...death.

Our story begins in the town of Haven, some 200 years ago. Its is here that our hero enters. The young passionate but foolish bard Jon Greenstone. Unfortunately our hero had found himself to be down on his luck. Haven was full of musicians, storytellers and street performers so work was scarce. Jon was forced to sell his most prized possession for food, a lute given to him by his father. Depressed and hungry he wondered down a dark uninviting ally only to be greeted by a most peculiar sight. A hunchbacked ugly old man was snoozing behind what looked to be a pawn stall. It was not this that caught Jon's attention however as he had eyes only for the splendid looking bronze bell sitting pride of place in the centre of the stall. The crusty eyes of the old man shot open.

"Fancy that trinket my boy?" he croaked.
"Very much so sir" Jon replied, "But I have no money to buy such a wonderous item".
The old man regarded him critically before a slow sly smile spread across his coarse features.
"For you my lad, I will lend it to you for 24 hours so you are able to make the coin to pay me for it".

Jon scarcly believing his luck ran to the central market place hoping to put on a show for the busy shoppers and merchants. Finding a good vantage point he began to toll his bell in what he thought was a joyful tune. No noise reached his ears however and confused he shhok the bell more violently. Despondant, he ceased his shaking beliving the bell to be broken and looked out at the carnage he had caused. No living ear was left to hear his tune as the entire market lay dead, bleeding from the ears.

It is said that Jon dropped the bell in shock, sounding its terrible noise once more...

And that my friend was the last know and only appearance of the Pealing Doom as it dissapeared shortly before the authorities descovered the scene."

The raven gave him a confused look before gliding out the open window. Travie glanced about the room with a slight grin on his face before muttering to himself "You know maybe I can stay here, for a little while longer at least..."

[Spike]

"Tieflings are native to planes of chaos and evil."
(Extract form Races of Layonara:Tiefling, author unkown //player handbook)

It was a dark night.

It was the kind of night where decent civilized people locked up their doors and windows and prayed for the dawn. The wind swept through the Ire mountains with a mournful howl. The air, very close, hinted of the storm soon to come. The night belonged to the others.

The gnolls of the shadow claw tribe had taken this opportunity to pillage the fields of port Hempstead. A scout came bounding back to the main group, telling of a soft bellied human wrapped in a midnight blue cloak and hood. The leader, a shaman, gave a hyena like cackle. They would feast well on human flesh tonight.

Hatred.

It pumped through his veins like molten iron. It was at times like this that the demon was in control, glorifying in the violence of battle. His bastard sword flicked out taking a gnoll warrior in the chest, its body trampled by its fellows in their eagerness to attack. The next took a blow to the face from his shield with such a force that its corpse went flying through the air. His hood fell back as he used blade, shield, knees, elbows and finally the forward facing horns sprouting from his skull as weapons. Blood dripped down from his plate armor, some of it his own. The gnoll shaman growled its frustration before sending a fireball streaming into the melee. The smell of burnt flesh greeted its nostrils as the realization hit that everything had gone silent. The shuriken came whirling out of the darkness taking the shaman straight in the throat, sending it gargling to its grave.

Travie wiped his blood slicked blade on the grass before sheathing it. The demon, satisfied with the bloodshed had slunk back into his sub-conscious with a feeling of smugness. He glanced at his armor, blackened by blood and filth. The first few drops of rain began to patter lightly on the ground, the first peal of thunder heard in the distance. He wrapped his cloak about himself and began to limp deeper into the mountains.

The temperature had dropped dramatically now, but still he pressed on. Travie had no idea what is was about these mountains that forced him to return time and time again. Tonight he would find out, he had never delved this far before. Undead were becoming more common here, the disfigured, mutilated corpses lying close by acted as a testament to his willpower. The undead had never bothered him as such, those who feared them just feared death itself. The paladins, the priests, they all preached of eternal paradise in the afterlife. the sight of the undead just reminded them of thier own mortality. So they turned their fear into weapons of war. Travie pondered on how life was like a candle in the night, eventually the wick would burn down and darkness would come again. He had died once before and it had cost everything to come back. There was to much to see, to much to know before the flame died forever. He must accept the night to appreciate the day. A shiver ran down his spine as he reflected on these thoughts. The demon in his sub-conscious sat waiting, watching. Travie pulled his cloak closer as he sat on a stone, watching the storm clouds roll in.

It was a dark night.

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Alandric roamed the plains below the mountains, picking the purple mushrooms that thrived in abundance. Under the shroud of illusion the Gnolls were oblivious to his passing. Alandric chose not to slaughter the Gnolls for unlike cattle they served an indirect defence mechanism to the temple. They had their place.

He was about to enter within the dungeon of the eye when the glorious tunes of battle drew his attention away. There, within the midst of a gnoll clan was a warrior of supreme skill and bestial fury that carved them all with relative ease. Unlike most warriors however this one was different, he was alone and searching

Alandric put aside his tasks and chose to follow this person for a time. He followed him through each Gnoll war clan and observed how he casually slew them all. After each battle the man would shiver with exhilaration and delight as if quenching some hunger within. This man was indeed different.

Alanadric pulled his cloak tightly about him and dispelled his illusion. The man caugt sight of him and clenched his sword ready to charge.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you" Alandric whispered, a technique he often adopted to conceal his true voice.
To the man Alandric would have been a black shadow like a spectre in the gloom. "You speak? Out of my way shade. None will thwart my path"
"Do you know where your path leads?" At that point Alandric noticed the two protruding horns from the mans scull. "Demonkin" he added.
Alandric could here a low growl. "I will find out soon enough".
Alandric nodded. "Then I will not halt your progress." He turned to leave and halted briefly to add, "Oh, and his children lie ahead. Try not to destroy them all." Alandric cast another spell and disappearee from sight.
"Whose children?"
All the man could hear was a chuckle as Alandric wandered off.

In truth Alandric only wandered a short distance away. He would watch this man and ensure that he is true to his calling. Should he find the temple and leave to spread the news, Alandric would slay him and hand his corpse to the Gnolls.

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The storm clouds were getting closer. It occurred to Travie that it was probably not the best idea in the world to be standing atop a mountain wearing full plate armor in the immediate vicinity of a thunder storm. The flash of lightning did nothing to calm his nerves especially after his strange meeting with the dark cloaked man earlier. He had to find shelter and fast.

A small shower of stones near by caused him to leap up, his frost enchanted bastard sword at the ready. He was alone.

One of the dislodged stones caught his eye however. It continued rolling for a short distance before disappearing behind a shrub with the dull sound of stone striking wood. Confusion crossed his features as he pulled aside the shrub to reveal something which caused him to turn deathly pale.

It all made sense now, his continues returning to these mountains, the 'children' of which the man had spoken, his inability to fit into this well-to-do adventurer driven society. Emotions stirred deep within him ranging from fear to...hope. Even the demon had sat up and taken notice. Before him (it couldn't be!) lay a door. Cut into the door in low relief was the symbol of a skull being pierced with a sword.

He stood the staring for a long time before a slight sound behind him caused him to turn very very slowly. His unconscious body hit the ground with a dull thud.

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Alandric wanders the halls behind a couple of guards leading him to the holding cells. It was routine for Alandric. The guards would select a victim of his choice and Alandric would test his latest developed contagions.

His mind was elsewhere as they wandered the cold dark corridors. He was failing at finding a remedy for his own ailment. This lead to him becoming bitter and twisted as his imminent death drew closer with each passing day.

"This one Doctor Vensk?" The guard's sudden question broke his nostalgia. They had reached the holding cells and he was pointing at a half fiend male crouched low in the corner of the cell. He glared at the Alandric, his teeth clenched emiting a low growl. It was almost as if he resembled a feral beast, cornered and angered. Unlike the others though this one Alandric remembered. It was the man he met at the base of the mountains.
"No. This one stays. THe mistress has plans for him."
Alandric scanned the adjacent cells.
"Grab that healthy looking dwarf male over there" Alandric pointed. "Dwarves are great to test on. Their inherent constitution provides a challenge for me to overcome."
"As you wish," the guardsman replied.
As the two grabbed the screaming and kicking dwarf out of the cells and down towards the torture chambers Alandric paused briefly at Travie's cell.
"Don't think that I saved you. Your fate may be far worse that this dwarf is about to recieve." Alandric disappeared into the gloom without another word.

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Travie listened to the wails of the dwarf being dragged away. The chill that ran down his spine had nothing to do with the cold, and it was cold, so very cold here in the temple of death. He glanced with blurred vision around his cell. Never designed to hold prisoners for long periods of time the only barely humane feature was a small hole in a corner that acted as both toilet and drain. The only colour beside the faceless stone walls was a combination of rust and blood staining the rock below two built in hand cuffs.

All this was lost apon Travie to whom time had lost meaning. His finger tips brushed some words carved into the floor; "Even in death there is no release", before collapsing back into a fitful sleep. It may have just been brought about by his hallucinogenic state but he was now greeted back into his dark dreams by the sound of mocking laughter.

They came what could have been hours or maybe days later. It did not matter. Black armored gauntlets pulled him roughly to his feet. Then dragging him down what seemed like a maze of corridors before dumping him unceremoniously into a hard backed steel chair in the centre of an empty room. Empty save for a blood red armor plated woman wrapped in a dark cloak and hood to conceal her features. A curt gesture to the guards caused them to lock his arms and legs in place before departing. She stood there for a moment, watching him.
"Hmm..." she murmured "I don't know why the high priestess is so interested in you. Those who discover the temple are usally tortured to death. But she specified that you were to be kept alive."
Travie regained enough of his wits to mutter with a sly smile "Looking for a good time is she?"
His captor reacted surprisingly fast and unlike the slap he had been expecting, delivered a full round house punch to his head, sending his vision through a constellation of stars.
"I would say that I didn't enjoy doing that but..." she shrugged. "Guards remove him".

A short while after the guards had dragged the prone body away a man slipped out of the shadows.
"What did you think Chanda?"
"Maybe Alandric, we will see...".

[Spike]

It never mattered what time of year it was, it was always cold in the Ire mountains. He stood near the top where even the gnolls did not venture. Nothing alive ever did. The air was crisp and clean with a strong breeze  that caused his midnight blue cloak to bellow out creating images and shapes that changed even as the eye tried to focus. The atmosphere of solitude produced a cold sobriety that settled into his mind like a lead weight through water. Here there were no mutterings of mad gods, no whisperings of hate-fueled demons, just the glimmer of light from Port Hempstead and the twinkling of stars in the clear night sky. Thinking of this he turned his eyes skyward and let his sight drift amongst the pinpoints of light in-till they halted apon a space that appeared empty. But not quite, composed of ten stars that gave no light but absorbed it, the constellation know as the 'Ebony stars' made its presences felt as it cast its baneful gaze down on the world of mortals. He tore his eyes away from its hateful stare and let his sight drift over the darkened landscape before carefully removing the armor plating from around his left bicep. Having done that he pulled up his sleeve to show a clean white bandage that in-circled his arm. Slowly ha began to unravel it to reveal a sight that still caused great discomfit and pain as memories came flooding back.

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Spluttering torches lined the crypt like walls, giving off a glare that outlined the darkness rather that illuminating it. Strange contraptions loomed out of the shadows,all blades and spikes. Complex knives stood in racks along the walls and chains covered in rust the colour of blood dangled from the ceiling. Most of this was lost apon him as he was dragged in, barely conscious. He heard a cold voice full of disdain speaking to some unknown listener.

"Break his will, but not anything else that can't heal, I need a loyal warrior not a mewing wreck like last time."

The next few days or maybe weeks were a hellish blur with those blades becoming the center of his existence. They let him sleep occasionally, leaving him in a barren cell to cradle his wounds. She returned, his tormentor, after what felt like an enternity. Twin guards accompanied her with strange clamp like devices in their belts and red chalk which was used to draw a circle of runes on the dusty stone floor. He voice reached his ears again.

"He has natural magical ability, no doubt a remanent of his heritage. That an I can not tolerate a disloyal follower. This way is quicker...".

 It was short and brutal. Spells were cast and his biceps scared with wounds that would never fully heal. That night his dreams were peaceful, not disturbed by the hate-filled whisperings that had accompanied him since childhood. He remembered only one thing of his dreams that night. Peace.

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That time had passed him by. Memories such as these were left in the shadows of those dark winding alleys that infested the chaotic city of Arabel. The wounds had slowly closed along with his connection to everyday normal life. But the scars remained and the voices had returned. Sleep was no longer a refuge. Below the lights of Port Hempstaed twinkled on in a different world, as a raven, far away, battled the winds to reach him.

[Spike]

A dream...
 
He stands apon the scaffold, a hangman's noose around his neck and a trap door at his feet giving no doubt to its purpose. Course fibers bite at the skin leaving tiny red dots as their mark. Hundreds of grey faces focus on him, featureless, emotionless. he tries to turn his face but unseen hands hold him steady.

 "You stand accused" a voice whispers in his ear, "of treason. Not against any king or nation, but against humanity. Your very presence taints Layonara, your spirit creates only woe. Your will sends men screaming to the grave. You have turned your back on those that gave you life and so the consequences will be dire".

"Yet you are not one of us ether" a voice whispers even closer though he feels no breath on his neck. "Torn between two though not the first, and balance is rarely achieved. We shall see".
He hears the sharp click of a lever being pulled and the ground disappears under his feet.

Mountains rise up before him. Barren and forlorn with peaks capped with snow they beckon him. He trudges through the desolate valleys occasionally sending a shower of stones in his wake. Suddenly Sall steps out from behind a nearby bolder, his eyes full of triumph. As he steps closer an orange plate becomes visible as he waves it about with glee.
"You see? You never had a chance, we always win". Without warning a blade explodes from his chest in a shower of blood and gore. As the corpse hits the ground with a dull thud Balzag retrieves his sword and then picks up the orange dish.
"You see?" he says before vanishing into the night.

For its was night, a bitter enveloping blackness that gnawed at the soul. His journey continues under a sky where the stars do not move. Frost plays a slow battle on the rock, incasing it like a cocoon. It is Eden that appears to him next, beautiful in her plain black robe, her long dark hair stirring slightly in the breeze. With her she carries a full length mirror held by an ornate silver frame.
"Take a look at your inner self" she whispers softly, "I hope you see and maybe understand". As she holds the mirror up for his inspection his eyes widening shock. Gone was his dark hair swept forward to form a fringe with the two horns peeking through the sides. Gone was his midnight blue cloak fitting over silver plate armor. His reflection showed a different picture.
His horns were elongated protruding from a face, his face, that was framed by matted greased up hair. Eyes that spoke of the horrors that awaited burned with black and gold. His forearms and hands were enlarged with black and red bone plating and ended in cruel talons, a mockery of his delicate hands. Strange tattoos marked his face and torso. Finally a pair of midnight blue wings extended from behind powerful shoulders and encircled the apparition in an aura of chaotic energy. As soon as his mind absorbs the vision both Eden and the mirror fade from sight leaving him painfully alone.

He knew not where he was going or why he continued. Cavern walls loomed uncomfortably close as he stumbles on. At last, overpowered by exhaustion he collapses. Visions begin to cloud his mind; Jaigan dead by his hand, Port Hempstead in flames, he sees glimpses of futures of people he dose not know. After a while bleary eyes open to be greeted by the sight of the raven. Perched upon a fallen branch it blinks at him with beady eyes.
"You see?" The words come as a thought rather than speech.
"Yes I see" Travie replies.

He awoke in a cold sweat.
"Light" he murmurs causing the room to fill with a hazy yellow glow. Piles of scrolls inscribed with spells become visible, covering every avaible surface. An obsession that began with a mild interest before developing into tireless research. He looks down at his hands with surprise.

[Spike]

A sea of blood washed over my eyes. I know not why I attacked them as they were doing no harm, mealy organising an encampment for the night. I used that gift which I posses, which is to block out the light of the sun, as such consuming the weak evening sunlight. Their snarls of fear and rage only served to fuel my own. Memory fails me at this point as I succumbed to that darkness that envelops my soul like a shroud. None were spared from my blade, not just warriors but women and children lay at my feet in their death throes. All fell before my fury and for that time I truly was that which I fight against, an abomination.

It is here I pause to reflect upon my deed so that if you, the reader, ever come to lay eyes on this, can understand my position. I know that many of you would consider the destruction of a gnollish encampment to be a boon upon society, a civil act for the greater good if you will. But not I. bigotry runs rampant through the 'good' mortal races such as humans, dwarfs and elves. It is not considered that the savage as they are called, are people to with their own culture, religion and societies. So although you may think of my act as a good deed, perhaps even a heroic one, I see it for what it truly is. It my curse, the driving force behind my existence to seek out and destroy law and order through violence or subtly, which these gnolls did posses in their fashion.

My story continues with the complete slaughter of these people (for in my view they are people). I stood there with blood streaming from many wounds but myself uncaring, glorifying in the violence I had committed. It was then that my doom came, as there were far more of them then I had anticipated. I fought on as I could, no longer from demonic hatred but from sheer desperation to survive. Fear, which I confess I rarely feel anymore, gripped my heart with its cold icy talons. I knew then that my end was near. It was after plunging my bastard sword up to the hilt in the chest of an unfortunate victim, that I left my self over stretched. An axe blade cut through my back armour plate and lodged itself in my spine leaving me paralysed in my decent into the cold embrace of the soul mother.

Some may say that fortunately I am one of those few who have sold out the right to a peaceful death for a fragmented existence through the magic known as the bind stones. It was now that the soul mother took her due, devouring one tenth of my already fragmented soul to state her hunger. It is the reason I write this now so that I may remember n times to come that though I did dark deeds, I felt regret for them. I do not know however how long this will last. With this shard of my soul being lost I lose a fragment of my humanity as well. My soul is the thing that keeps the beast in check and with its gradual disintegration the rise of that beast will be that fraction faster. Very rarely am I able to articulate my thoughts like this but I have reason to depart now to complete a minor errand a member of the Raven Guard, guardians of our most holy temple, asked of me. It is fitting that after mentioning these warriors I leave you with my last vision of that fateful day. That of a single raven coming to feast upon the dead.