Discord
Changelog
01-18-2014, 08:20 PM
(This post was last modified: 01-18-2014, 08:22 PM by The Philosopher.)
1rst of Hammer, 1359
There are times I wonder on what side I am on.
Not out of lack of loyalty. I serve You, holy Torm, as best I can. I try my best to stay true to Your teachings. But how can any man stay wise in the wake of so much treachery, so much wickedness, a vileness even the dead rebuke?
I try to tell myself every day. I am not Tyr, even-handed, wise and just in His judgement. I hold none of His divine mandate. I am only to be a beacon of chivalry, to represent Torm's ideals, to strive for them every day, every moment. To act upon them decisively, and always with an eye turned inward.
But I can't ignore it. I can't, and yet, what can I do about it, beyond dying a pointless death?
I was the host of Tyraturos' Feast of the Moon. Well attended by the citizenry, and many of the adventuring community. Tribunes of great repute, vaunted Apprentices, influential Legionnaires.
Olga.
It was a jarring time, though. There before me was the truth of Thay revealed, all its rotting core brought out to procession, and the shining gems that still struggled to stay the course. Stirring remembrances of the dead. Loathsome disrespect of them. Foulest sacrilege.
I wanted to defend Jay from that miserable assault. I wanted to shield him with my body and keep that absolute madness from taking place. Yet before I could even move forward to do anything, the deed was done. Lieutenant Elira murdered him, in front of everyone, for a miserably small slight. Staining the Feast of the Moon with blood.
I respected her. Held her as a promising woman. Harbouring evil in her heart, yet with something in there worth saving. A promise of redemption, if she tried.
Maera tells me there is something there still, yet my faith in it flags. Cold murder. Cold, laughing murder. She revels in that darkness, and I had to take in the breath and let it go. Some can't be saved from their damnation. Not if they don't want to be.
But in the end, I was tested. The darkness that consumed Thazar Keep beckoned for release, and those adventurers that were still at the festivities strived at the call of the dead. More than an achievement of great worth, it was a personal one. I struggled. I stood my ground against shadow and demon. I was tempted.
And I won.
Priest-Inquisitor Velarian has heard the tale, and given me at last my cloak. I am now Warden of the Hand.
Would that my joy wasn't clouded by this worry.
There are times I wonder on what side I am on.
Not out of lack of loyalty. I serve You, holy Torm, as best I can. I try my best to stay true to Your teachings. But how can any man stay wise in the wake of so much treachery, so much wickedness, a vileness even the dead rebuke?
I try to tell myself every day. I am not Tyr, even-handed, wise and just in His judgement. I hold none of His divine mandate. I am only to be a beacon of chivalry, to represent Torm's ideals, to strive for them every day, every moment. To act upon them decisively, and always with an eye turned inward.
But I can't ignore it. I can't, and yet, what can I do about it, beyond dying a pointless death?
I was the host of Tyraturos' Feast of the Moon. Well attended by the citizenry, and many of the adventuring community. Tribunes of great repute, vaunted Apprentices, influential Legionnaires.
Olga.
It was a jarring time, though. There before me was the truth of Thay revealed, all its rotting core brought out to procession, and the shining gems that still struggled to stay the course. Stirring remembrances of the dead. Loathsome disrespect of them. Foulest sacrilege.
I wanted to defend Jay from that miserable assault. I wanted to shield him with my body and keep that absolute madness from taking place. Yet before I could even move forward to do anything, the deed was done. Lieutenant Elira murdered him, in front of everyone, for a miserably small slight. Staining the Feast of the Moon with blood.
I respected her. Held her as a promising woman. Harbouring evil in her heart, yet with something in there worth saving. A promise of redemption, if she tried.
Maera tells me there is something there still, yet my faith in it flags. Cold murder. Cold, laughing murder. She revels in that darkness, and I had to take in the breath and let it go. Some can't be saved from their damnation. Not if they don't want to be.
But in the end, I was tested. The darkness that consumed Thazar Keep beckoned for release, and those adventurers that were still at the festivities strived at the call of the dead. More than an achievement of great worth, it was a personal one. I struggled. I stood my ground against shadow and demon. I was tempted.
And I won.
Priest-Inquisitor Velarian has heard the tale, and given me at last my cloak. I am now Warden of the Hand.
Would that my joy wasn't clouded by this worry.