Dear Bishop,
In the days since the village was destroyed, I have found myself with more time than things to do. Where I was once busy with the duties of caring for a parish, I now find myself with odd hours spent in morbid languor. I thank you for your offer, but i don't think I'm ready to go back to pastoral life yet, the wound is too fresh. The Temple at Spellguard has been most accommodating, the quarters I was offered were much to fine for a simple country preacher such as I. I took a cell in the monastery, it's cosy, and quiet. The Priests there have been most kind to me, but as an experienced healer, I know a bedside manner when I see one. They still consider me, not daft perhaps, but wounded. I know they talk about my choices in what I wear on my patrols to protect from the undead threat. I explain to them that as a healer I may at any moment need to rush into a mass of putrid, life-hating undead to save the life of some poor beset peasant. Then the get that look again, and pat me on the arm or something...it's all very tiring. You know the sheer numbers of innocents killed by undead every year! And even one would be too many! I try every day to understand, I grapple it with every fiber of my being; I cannot comprehend Our Lady's wisdom in this matter, why she would let the weave be used to that end....
I recall back in the village there was a midwife, not a follower of Our Lady of Spells, but of Prunilla. She baked the most wonderful pies, and had a course but fine humor to her. She knew that I taught lower form conjuring, and one day the topic of the undead came up. I even then was never quite sure how to respond when asked about that aspect of the weave. I guess I waffled, I'm sure I wasn't a very good representative of the theology of the church, but what ever I stammered out, she laughed. She gave a rich deep peasant's laugh, and she said that come hell or high water, those dead would feed the crops, so in the end they would be a good thing. I never saw her body among the dead in the village. Is that irony? I'm not sure. I sometimes daydream that she escaped, a baby under her arm, some how stealing a meaning from the slaughter. A child that would grow up to make a difference great enough that the massacre would become sense to me, that I could fathom why...
Meanwhile, I patrol, I walk the crypts, that kin may visit their dead in peace. I make potions, and give them away. The threat is everywhere. They walk beneath Krandor, and Vhel, in Storand's, and deep in the broken halls. The walk again in the woods, and still beneath the swamps. The others at the temple think I spend too much time fighting them, do they not know that the undead are tireless?
In response to this threat, I suggest an immediate formation of a corps of paladins to combat uncontrolled undead where ever they may be found. I submit my candidacy for the post of combat healer for them. I know I could not presume to guide them in matters spiritual, but She has granted me a gift in healing, and I think that in such an enterprise, which is necessary anyways, I could provide a valuable service.
In regards to the accusations that may be pending against me, the Toranites with who I have cleansed the undead from the afore mentioned areas had the self discipline to hold their tongues in regard to our differences in creed, and we certainly have made a difference to the people who live in the lands nearby. Also, Lucinda did not hold back her power when I healed them, does that not mean anything?
I am, as ever Lucinda's humble servant, please pray for me, that I may better understand her wisdom.
Father Logan
