3. Fury And Faith: Thoughts of a Warpriest

Fury And Faith: Thoughts of a Warpriest


  • Tempus does not win battles, he helps the deserving warrior win battles. War is fair in that it oppresses and aids all equally and that in any given battle, a mortal may be slain or become a great leader among his or her companions. It should not be feared, but seen as natural force, a human force, the storm that civilization brings by its very existence. Arm all for whom battle is needful, even foes. Retreat from hopeless fights but never avoid battle. Slay one foe decisively and halt a battle quickly rather then rely upon slow attrition or the senseless dragging on of hostilities. Remember the dead that fell before you. Defend what you believe in, lest it be swept away. Disparage no foe and respect all, for valor blazes in all regardless of age, sex, or race. Tempus looks with favor upon those that acquit themselves honorably in battle without resorting to such craven tricks as destroying homes, family, or livestock when a foe is away or attacking from the rear (except when such an attack is launched by a small band against foes of vastly superior numbers). Consider the consequences of the violence of war, and do not wage war recklessly. The smooth-tongued and fleet of feet that avoid all strife and never defend their beliefs wreak more harm than the most energetic tyrant, raider, or horde leader.
    But what does it all mean?


  • Unusually powerful undead and a huge demon that matches the description of a Bah-Lor – maybe even the same one -- in the crypts. Then drow, who might be looking for Azraele's orb, though didn't they already steal it? Maybe he took it back. It's not unlikely Azraele reformed and moved into the crypts somewhere. If this is what I'm up against, I'm going to need to become a lot more powerful just to survive.

    When she stands close enough to feel the warmth of her skin, my heart pounds in my throat, my blood rushes trough my veins like a river and the air becomes so thin I feel like I'm suffocating. When she touches me, when she kisses me, I can barely think. I want her so bad it feels like I'm burning. But not yet, not like this. I won't do it to Sol. I won't be the source of more pain for her.


  • _The Drow Ear

    Dark shapes moving closer, trying to pierce the cluster of grey shapes that blocks the hole between the walls. There are no stars in the night sky, only the weak glow of a distant moon. The black figures flow trough and around the grey, coming together in battle. One of them peels off and flows forward towards him, standing a few yards further back.

    It is slender and graceful. Its expression is blank but for the malice in its eyes, two burning embers set on skin black as coal. Tts dark ear radiates, an anchor of the memory as the wyvern's stinger was. It weaves a long, curved sword in a random, endless figure. What it lacks in brute strength, it more than makes up for in focus and control. A slash at the throat. A stab at the heart. He struggles hard to keep pace with darkness made manifest as it works to dismantle his armor and endurance, and fatally breach his defense. It seems an inevitable conclusion, as a chisel methodically chipping away at a stone.

    Yet this stone is not defenseless, and will not simply lie there for the chisel. Though unable to match in speed, elegance and proficiency, he has abundant strength, fury and sheer stubborn refusal to give way. Little by little, the stone begins to dull the chisel. The dark elf was not accustomed to long personal engagements. He was trained to be dagger in the dark, now pitted head-on against an axe. At long last, Hammer was able to connect his shield to the frailer form of the drow in a stunning blow, following up with a quick slash with his axe that ripped trough its abdomen, opening a wound it would never recover from.

    By the time the duel had ended, the grey shapes had begun turning back the darkness. Victory and another trophy had come, but it had been a very close thing indeed. He was bleeding from many different cuts, and his armor was ripped and torn, barely hanging on his form. Today he had earned victory and survival, in no small part due to Tempus giving His favor, yet next time he may not be so deserving._


  • _And then there was a dream, that came once every tenday or so. Though dreams are not unusual, they tend to be single events and quickly forgotten. This one was not, as it came again and again until it was engraved on his mind. Even more curious was that this dream did not spawn from one object; it seemed to have come as if something decided he should see and know this.

    Our past shapes our future.
    He is a boy. There is a woman standing at his side. Someone deeply familiar yet decidedly unknown, her face grey and featureless. Sister? Mother? He is in a small town or camp. There are humanoid shapes moving about, as unknown and vague as the woman yet far less familiar. Soldiers.

    Then there is a wail. The sky turns red as blood. Dark things appear everywhere and slash and tear at the soldiers. There is fire and death. He runs to a forest. The cries of a hundred men and women, dying in unnatural ways, is deafening.

    Something follows, and no matter how hard he runs, it always comes closer. He can feel its seering breath on his back already. He always falls, and no matter how hard he tries, he always looks back. He has to look back. The dark thing stands twice as tall as any man, with wings that obscure the entire sky and a head made entirely of dagger-like fangs. It stalks ever closer.

    And just as he would die and wake from the nightmare to soaked sheets and a pounding heart, something holds the moment and keeps him in the dream. A shielding figure, easily the size of the demon-thing appears. The boy never sees it coming. It is as if new arrival stopped time and moved into place, then allowed time to unfold as it would. He simply appears in the gap between the boy and the maw.

    The figure stands tall, easily the size of the demon-thing itself, steel plates covering its entire figure, face ever obscured. It wields a sword that could cleave mountains in hands that could crush anvils with ease. On its armor, the mark of a flaming sword burns bright as the sun, seering away the darkness and blood-red sky. In that final, briefest of moments the giant and the demon clash.

    And then he wakes, left to consider the meaning of the dream - or vision._


  • _Though the trails of the web seemed random and endless, he did not follow them entirely directionless. It was fortunate he still seemed to retain a good amount of equipment and trophies, and these pulled him along a series of threads as he examined and touch them, awakening memories thought lost.

    The Wyvern's Stinger
    There were others in the field, though they were grey and undefined. Marionets without face or meaning, serving little purpose but to fill up empty space and narrative. They fought with other, equally dream-like creatures around a small hill, on which stood a monster. This one was somewhat clear. An ugly thing, somewhat like a dragon but not quite, with large wings and a whiptail ending in a stinger. The stinger shone bright in the grey mist, as it was clear it was the one part that could not be be denied. It was tangiable and preserved, and the anchor to which the entire line of memories was held. The wyvern was important, a leader of its pack and it fought hard to keep that leadership. Hammer charged forward trough gaps between the individual melees, towards the target of his attack, shouting cries of war and dedicating the kill to come to Tempus. The monster stood tall and strong, and its stinger could skewer a dwarf trough, but it was ground-bound and distracted by the battle around it. It was too occupied with a grey ghost trying to further clip its wing to notice Hammer before it was already too late. He had reached the beast and hacked his axe at its shoulder, only narrowly dodging a snap from the wyvern's jaws. It had been a move of instinct, though it had left the wyvern open to one of Hammer's ghostly allies to cut trough the flesh and bone of its thigh, fatally crippling it. He pulled his axe from its shoulder with a wet tearing tearing and pivotted around, swinging it along the side into the monster's throat. It gurgled, thrashed and finally collapsed, bleeding from a half-dozen mortal wounds. After plunging his axe down into its skull to ensure it was well and truly dead, he yanked it out and applied it to the tail end instead. The stinger, a wickedly sharp thing the length of his forearm, would make for an excellent trophy, and proof of a kill dedicated to the Foehammer._


  • _Only the muffled sounds of the streets in the distance and the rustling of the nearby trees disturbed the silence at the shrine, the statue's unblinking gaze piercing the mist that had begun to roll in. Hammer stood unmoving at the shrine's entrance, his stance with the halberd seeming disciplined enough to a casual observer, and if asked he would merely reply that he was guarding, giving credence to such assumptions.

    But the truth was that he was not entirely watchful, his sight turned inwards and travelling the myriad strands of the web that was his mind. He followed the threads to nodes, and then on further. Some would lead him to slivers of lost memories, which opened paths to more pieces still. Each of them would have to be gathered and reassembled before any sense could be made of them, but these quiet times were the moment to do so. Still, they were never entirely clear, always missing in detail and clarity. If one were to divide one's life into a ten thousand images, how would one image give any meaningful insight? As so many things, it needed others to define it._


  • Eluriel … control orbs ... Order of the Phoenix ... no further information ...

    Aramuil … no information ...

    Locrian … Lucidicious.. no further information ...

    Lucidicious … never heard of Azraele ..

    Rith … present when Azraele was first destroyed ... doesn't remember much else ... no further information ...

    Fadia … no information ...

    Lorelai … no information.

    Tempus guide me. I'm running out of old people.


  • _34 Hours
    I have a notebook full of information. Tempus commanded the philactery of the lich Azraele to be taken to the temple of Kelemnvor. It seemed I wasn't having much success, but there are a few things to do. There are a dozen names in here, and I only know Sol. Where is she?

    36 Hours
    A halfling called Mooncandy and two women called Kamilah and Elsbeth seem to know me. I don't remember them, but I feel as if I should. I think this is a good sign.

    42 Hours
    My head still hurts, but it's getting better. The memories from my armor and my axe are coming slower now, and they've become clearer. I remember fighting goblins in a forest, and I 'feel' those would be to the south. I don't know why though. I don't know what's south. Not yet.
    It's still the most I remember though, all these battles. It doesn't seem so painful and horrible anymore, but I'm still not sure what to think. Praying to Tempus gives me courage; it feels less alone.

    54 hours
    Sol took me to a shrine at the beach. I felt this place was important even before she told me. Strong memories, and strong memories of her. She says I treaded her badly, and that she isn't sure she loves me anymore. If what she says is true, I can't blame her for it. I feel strongly about her, but without my memories it's all vague and dull.

    Did Tempus take my memories for some reason? Am I meant to forget something, or relearn something? If so, how can I avoid making the same mistakes?_


  • _1 Minute
    Where am I? What happened? Who are these people? Stay away! I'm leaving! Out of my way. What's wrong with me? What's wrong with my legs? Who are you? .. I know you. So familiar. Your eyes, your skin, your voice. Soft. I know you. But who are you? Ssss.. something.

    2 Hours
    Her name is Sol. I told her we are going to marry, but I don't remember. My name is Hammer. That's a very strange name. I serve Tempus. That seems about right, it's the one thing that doesn't seem 'off'. Sol tells me I should rest. She took me to an inn. Having her close feels good, but I don't remember her. Just feelings, all so vague. So tired.

    18 Hours
    Sol is gone, and I can't find her. Maybe it has something to do with the body we found. But she called the guards for this. If we were going to marry, and something bad happened to me, wouldn't she have stayed with me? It feels off. She's not telling me everything. I'm returning to this priestess "Daisy" at the temple of Tyr. Maybe she can tell me what happened to me.

    20 Hours
    I had died in the barrows, under the city. My body and things were brought in and left in the temple. What was I doing there? Why was I there? I met a man called Pherdur. He's taking me to the shrine of Tempus. Hopefully there are others there, and they can tell me what happened.

    24 Hours
    There are no others here. Are they dead? Was I abandoned?
    My head hurts when I look at the statue, but it also feels right. Holes in my head are being filled up again. Prayers. Praises. Strength. Trust. Faith. I'm a warrior-priest, and Tempus is my lord.

    I had many things. There's a key for a chest somewhere. It's marked Droibo #17. I think I saw a Droibo shop in the city. Maybe I have more things there.

    This axe is mine. My head hurts when I touch the handle, and I relearn the battles I was in. I've killed so many different things, in so many different places. So much blood, and pain, and death. But the axe feels right in my hands. War and battle is my calling and my purpose. That is who I am. Apparantly.

    I put on the armor. My hands remember where the different pieces go. Each piece I put on tells me of another battle. An arrow here. A sword there. I remember angry pieces of fur. Shoveling slabs of rotting meat. Fire and death. Raging, howling, gnawing, screeching. It doesn't stop. Pounding in my head! Too much! STOP!"_


  • Reavers!

    _There was Mooncandy, who could be a great Tempuran but choose to serve the soft, gentle touch of the moon goddess instead. What a waste.
    There was Duncan, who had done nothing but whined and complained the whole way despite being in the Morninglord's graces again.
    There were two Steel Fangs from the area. It was good to fight alongside other faithful for a change.
    And then there was me, who had come to Damarra to return the equipment of those Fangs that were murdered at the shrine, and was pulled into a war.

    Against us, a mass of raging and howling, covered in wet and drying layers of blood, eyes wild and knuckles bare. They carried chipped axes and swords, but they were so lost to the Curse they would just as likely have used their filth-encrusted hands. In small groups they lurched forward from the darkness, trying to overwhelm us. Again and again, they crashed on our shields like waves on stone, and again and again they were cut down without mercy or pause. No quarter was asked, and no quarter was given. This was blood-mad rage against faithful fury.

    Duncan went down halfway trough, but Tempus wouldn't let him escape that easily. He was restored and pulled onto his feet again, to fight on.
    At last we found the leader of the cult, the head of the snake. I demanded surrender, and it fortunately refused. Its magic was weak. Its rage was worthless and it was put down as all their kind inevitably will.

    While we had ripped out its throat, the Steel Fangs on the plains to the east had broken the horde's back. It was over. Another glorious victory for Tempus._


  • _Sharans!

    The first one went down easily, and then another, and another. These weren't warriors. These were villagers, who had been cowed into conversion by the priestesses and mages. Now cought between the fires that came to fight them, and the whips that would punish them if they didn't, the villagers took their chances with the fire. They would die bravely, but they would die. Redemption in death for their weakness and cowardice. "Kill them all!"

    The Sharan rabble never stood a chance before the hardened Narfellan adventurers. They slumped to the ground missing limps, ribcages crushed, skulls smashed. The actual priestesses and mages soon joined the battle, shielded by their converts, but it would do them no good. They soon joined their servants at their feet, and the shadows they summoned faded away in moments. This was no worthy battle.

    And then, Tempus had taken note and provided just such a thing. A larger room, with a large gathering of Sharans in it. Their last stand, it seemed. More troubling were the larger, more powerful shadows among them. Though the living were easily destroyed, these were not. The first of invaders slumped to the ground, her life almost completely drained from her. And more shadows kept coming.

    –--

    He fought back to back with another, an Oscuran nontheless -- who would ever have thought one of 'those' would stand and fight, rather than run to save its own hide. His axe could cut trough armor and flesh with ease, but against the incorporial shadows he may as well have been using a skinning knife. It didn't matter. To retreat here was to admit defeat to a group of skulking, corrupting, dishonourable cave-dwellers. Better to die in defiance than to retreat in shame and fear. This was more than just a battle against shadows, this was a test of fury and faith against their dread and twisted madness. They could drain all the life from his flayed corpse, but he would never stop fighting them. Even though the power of the shadows eventually overwhelmed him -- it was only a matter of time to begin with -- he still refused to give in.

    He lay on the cold and damp cave floor. It felt as if his limbs had been turned to lead and he was breathing liquid fire, his skin had cracked with negative energy and his heart was beating without sure rhytm. He wheezed prayers trough grey lips, calling Tempus for strength and cursing the weakness of his flesh. He wasn't going to die here. Not here, not now, not like this. He refused to. Battle was still going on around him. The others needed him. Tempus demanded him to fight to the last.
    Get up. Get up! Get the fark up, weakling, and show your worth!

    And he got up. He pulled together the last jetsam and flotsam of his strength that were floating trough his form and pulled them together, crawling up from the stone floor. Some minutes later, the shadows had finally been defeated, and non had died.

    Another hour later, the cult had been completely purged._


  • _Balor!

    Someone in the large group of raiders yelled, voicing the surprise and terror they all felt as the massive demon came into view, stalking towards the group at a leasurely place. An apex predator loose in a herd of cattle.

    The battle trough the old tunnels had its challenging moments, powerful undead pouring around every corner and out of every crevice. The encounter with the lich had been anticlimactic though. It was destroyed by Mielliki's power before it could utter even a single word. Dissapointing.
    Now though, it seemed Tempus had provided suitable compensation.

    Despite standing more than twice as high as the tallest, radiating overwhelming power and terror, it did not find its prey fleeing in fear. No, these were not some Dalelands shepards or Cormyran horsemen. These were some of Narfell's most capable warriors, the best of a land where only the strong and cunning thrive; Mariston, Eluriel, Aelthas, Lycka and many more. They scattered, luring the Balor into their midst, then turning to bring it down as any other giant. Singled-out, overwhelmed. Little by little, minute after minute, blessed steel, piercing arrows and sheer stubborn tenacity brought the mighty demon down. And though close at times, at the cost of not a single death.

    The most powerful demon and greatest terror he had ever encountered, utterly destroyed in minutes. He wondered then what could truly challenge Narfell._


  • _Most people seem to be completely indoctrinated that the only set of tactics that works when raiding an area is to move a corner at a time, and lure the enemy one man at a time around your corner. Don't even think of suggesting anything else, because at best it makes you stupid. I get so tired and frustrated with all the creeping around, knowing that sooner or later the things we raid are going to figure it out and start using it against us. Then again, so many of the things I fight seem to be completely oblivious to their friends running off and around a corner one by one. It makes no sense. Sooner or later though.. it'll change. And there'll be hells to pay when it does.

    I don't see any honour and glory in skulking around corners and picking off enemies one by one with five or more people. And I seem to be the only one feeling this way. With all the deaths I've had and they don't seem to suffer, I can't help but wonder though: how do you blend strength and cunning, in a way that Tempus would approve of?_

    ScribbleScribbleScribbleScribbleScribbleScribbleScribbleScribbleScribble _…so that might explain why Tempus chose me for this assignment. He's as much a general as a warrior. Why send one of your strongest warpriests when a lesser one can do it just as well. If Azraele really did become a demilich, and it wouldn't be tied to the philactery anymore, it might explain why Tempus sent me instead. Even though the philactery wouldn't be tied to the lich anymore, it could still hold some information that the Kelemnvorans might be able to use.

    Or, maybe like Lycka said, I've been given the chance to rise in His service. It doesn't really matter either way, as these are the orders and I'm following them. ScribbleScribbleScribbleScribbleScribbleScribbleScribbleScribbleScribbleScribbleScribbleScribbleScribbleScribbleScribbleScribble
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    Sol
    Lycka
    Mia
    Aelthas
    C'tan
    Meril
    Eluriel
    Ronan
    Jerrick_


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  • _He walked out of the large tent, looking up at the glen's green canopy as it still obscured much of the slowly rising sun's light. Surrounded by tall cliffs on all sides, the glen was sheltered from the punishing northern wind – even though he didn't much mind it at most times -- and offered a haven of relative peace and safety in a war-torn region. Even a warpriest needs peace and quiet now and then.

    A few steps and he reached a large wooden tub. If Narfell had anything aplenty it was rain, and the tub was almost completely filled. After quickly washing his arms and chest, he knelt to hold his entire head under, feeling the cooling chill spread over his face, up his neck and down his back. As even the sounds of the wind trough leaves, birds and the distant footsteps of other dwellers were muffled, his thoughts became all the louder. With those, he peeled away the shell around his heart and peered inside.

    He was sure Rith -- and by extension -- Fadia and Lune hated him. He saw it in the way they looked at him. If he asked, they would likely say it is because of how he had beaten Saria -- without knowing or caring about circumstance, of course -- but he knew it had had started far before that.
    Though the thought of possibly offending someone meant very little to him, it did have some practical consequences. Rith would have been useful -- not necessary, but useful -- in the Campaign, and Fadia was an elder druid. Though she was not the only one, she could bar him and Sol from living in the glen. This had the potential to create problems, but would create new opportunities as well.

    Realising his lungs were burning, he pulled his head from the tub, taking a deep breath as he stood up and quickly dried his face and hair with a rough towel. Looking around one last time to ensure everything was as it should be, a warrior reflex if nothing else, he headed back inside the tent. Devinee raised her head slowly at his approach, and he gave the lion a respectful nod as he stepped past her enclosed 'den'. Even though the big cat was relatively tame and remained notably weak, it was still very much a full-grown lion. No matter how some druids and hunters treated their wolves and panthers as common housedogs and cats, he wasn't going to. Not only would it be decidedly unwise, especially as a non-druid, it also seemed disrespectful. The wild should be left wild.

    He paused in his step as when he entered the tent's living area, as he was treated to a sight no artist could ever fully recreate. There, in the middle of the large, low bed lied a sleeping vision of loveliness. Tousled dark-blonde hair framed a soft, slightly exotic face. The bed's furs only covered her up to the small of her back, leaving soft curves delightfully obscured. With her arm draped elegantly alongside her face, she seemed almost delicate. He smiled as he acknowledged, again, that she was far stronger than she seemed, and could be every bit the lioness he had come to call her. With that thought in mind, he crept closer and underneath the furs, to give her a memorable wake up._


  • ScribbleScribbleScribbleScribbleBlue haired merchantScribbleScribbleScribbleScribbleScribbleScribblepunishment or rewardScribbleScribblemagical detectionScribbleScribbleScribbleScribbleScribbleScribbleScribbleScribblewindow of opportunityScribbleScribbleScribbleScribbleGaerielleScribbleScribbleGlaive of TimeScribbleScribbleScribbleScribbleIs it a coincidenceScribbleScribbleScribbleScribblemoving around the whole timeScribbleScribblewe would never knowScribbleScribbleScribbleScribbleScribbleScribbleScribbleScribbleFar Scouts.ScribbleScribbleScribbleScribbleScribbleScribble

    Friad Fred


  • _"I met Tempus.

    He pulled me back from another death, and gave me an assignment. It sounds like a challenge, but the mere fact that He's given me that much attention, and trusts me with this was enough to pull me out of the growing apathy I was feeling. I need to start a campaign journal to keep my operations and information clear. It'll take digging for scraps in unusual places, though Tempus warned me not to rush. I take it that it doesn't involve an immediate threat, but still something that has to be dealt with. I pray He will guide me, and give me the strength to succeed.

    That, and Sol. I love Sol. I need a better word for it, because 'love' doesn't say enough. I've lost a lot of power, but while before it made me feel bad without much context, now I feel bad - and afraid - because of what it might stop me from doing. Aside from making my assignment much more difficult, though a greater test as well, I may not be strong enough to defeat Sol's teacher and earn the right to marry her. Even now, I didn't feel that bad about the thought of Peltarch burning, but I feel terrified about not being proving worthy. Dangerous line of thought, this.

    I don't know what scares me most. The thought that I might fail and never marry her, or the knowledge that a few months ago the thought of marrying was what scared me, and now it's all I want."_

    AZRAELE CAMPAIGN
    BACKGROUND:
    Tempus has commanded that the Philactery of Azraele, an ancient and powerful lich, is captured and delivered to the Temple of Kelemnvor.

    OBJECTIVES:
    1. Find and capture Philactery of Azraele
    2. Deliver Philactery to Temple of Kelemnvor

    CAMPAIGN PARTICIPANTS
    ALLIES:
    Temple of Kelemnvor - unconfirmed. Have supplied information so far, and assumed that they stand to benefit from having the philactery delivered to them. May be able to secure additional support as required.

    CONTACTS:
    Thander: Can provide information on undead in general. As priest of Kelemnvor, he can be expected to be suitably dedicated to the campaign's success.

    Meril: elven bard. Said he will keep me informed if he finds anything relative. Reliability questionable at this time.

    HOSTILES:
    Azraele - Unconfirmed. Assumed he/it doesn't want to give up the philactery by asking nicely. Highly powerful, but exact powers currently unknown.

    INFORMATION
    Temple of Kelemnvor: "Azraele is/was an archmage lich What is a lich? What are the strengths and weaknesses of a lich? thought destroyed at the same timethat Rass and the Eastlanders were defeated attacking old Norwick. Need an exact timeframe. I don't know about any attack by Rass and the Eastlanders on Norwick. He is very powerful and know to be able to cast timestop." What does this do?
    NOTE: Temple of Kelemnvor had no knowledge that Azraele still exist. He had apparantly been thought of as destroyed. Information may be scarce.


  • _"And just like that, I've begun losing His favor. Three deaths in under a month. So many prayers and so much strength lost, just like that. Tempus tells me to have no fear, and fight on no matter the odds.

    So I fought on, alone against a pack of wolves on the road east. It was an ambush, and I was cut off. It was a fairly good death, fitting for a warrior, but death all the same.
    I fought on, against my own advice, against the frost wolves of the mountains. Their breath was too powerful, and pushed me over a cliff. Not a good death.
    And I fought on against the kobolds in their cave. Against two kobolds. And still I died. Pathetic.

    If this is what Tempus teaches and commands, to know no fear and fight on no matter what, then why has it made me so much weaker? Why does it feel like the shrine's statue watches me with disdain? What have I done to suddenly have His favor turn against me? Is it because I failed in the Legion? I know I did everything I could, and He would know too. So why, then?
    Tempus, I'd pray for forgiveness, but I don't really know what I've done wrong.

    What have I done, and what will I do about it? At least in the Legion I had some sense of direction and purpose – even though the way there was wrong. But now, I'm just on my own and I've found my list of allies is a lot shorter than I thought. I wonder if I have any at all.

    This is no good. These doubts cripple me, and I lash out where I can. What was the point of picking fights with Oscuran guards and nobles -- aside from that they're inbred, lying, twisting, corrupting, cowardly, dishonourable shadow-skulking snakes. Aside from the occasional dwarf -- and even then -- has anything good ever come out of a cave?

    I have to pull myself together, and figure it out. And I have the feeling that I'll learn the most from my spirit quest -- still have to find a shaman for that. Hopefully, it'll at least teach me something about myself. I might have been born here, but I don't have Narfellan blood -- Damarran and Amian, as far as I know. I can't even find Amia on any maps -- so maybe Narfell isn't my 'homeland' after all, even though I was born here. Maybe I'm just as much an outlander as the next. I have to find what I believe is worth fighting for. I thought it was Narfell, but you may as well be fighting for a dozen different countries at the same time: Peltarch - Norwick - Oscura - Gypsies - Druids - ... Which one of these do I believe in? Do I believe in any of them?

    I still have faith in Tempus, even though He might not have it in me. He'll guide me the right way sooner or later. I just have to see it and follow when He does. Until then, I'm going to fight for Sol, gold and glory. Things I care about, at least."_


  • _He knelt in front of the shrine, placing a scythe with the offerings, lowering his head and speaking quietly.
    "Tempus. In name of Cara Desh, I offer you these spoils. May you see her, and grant her Your favor in battle."

    He then placed a number of blue gems with the offerings, again kneeling down and lowering his head.
    "Lord of Battle. In name of Persephone Kore, I offer you these spoils. May you see her, and grant her Your favor in battle."

    Finally, he placed some more gems, garnets, with the offerings. He knelt, lowered his head, and spoke.
    "Foehammer. In name of Ayala, I offer you these spoils. May you see her, and grant her Your favor in battle.

    Finally, he stood up, placed his fist over his chest - the oldest of salutes - and spoke a last time, before leaving the shrine.
    "Glory to Tempus, Honour To Your Name."_


  • @dbb5058c22:

    Sol & Saria

    I love Sol. I love how she looks, how she moves, how she smiles, how she purrs, how she feels, how she touches, how she listens, how she cares, how she's there. I love the feeling of her hair, I love the way she prowls around, how she's worth fighting for and I love how she keeps surprising me. Maybe I should surprise her.

    @dbb5058c22:

    Steel Fangs

    I'm not sure I should lead anything. It would be good to see Temposan warriors fighting together, but I'm not powerful and experienced enough to lead. What sort of group would it be? What would they fight for?
    Narfell as a whole? A part of it? Maybe even take a part and defend it?

    @dbb5058c22:

    Narfell

    He who defends everything defends nothing.
    Maybe I'd be better off joining the Militia or the Defenders. Norwick sees a lot of battle, but if those visions are true the Defenders will have work to do soon. But Peltarch is so very law-bound. Would I even be able to fit in?
    I'll just keep preaching for now. Tempus will show me the way.

    @dbb5058c22:

    Lt. West & Tuigans

    Met some black orcs but didn't learn a lot. What are they up to?

    @dbb5058c22:

    Ormpur

    Need more Temposans. Also need to keep helping to clear Jiyyd, unless I can find a mage that can teleport back and forth.