The Diary of Morune Kaladrin, unwilling cleric of Malar

Evening, four months and three days since I left the Savage One's service…

When first I came to Narfell, I spent the first few days as might be expected-making connections, performing errands and observing the ebb and flow of the town's affairs.

I laugh as I write this, for it seems passing strange. I died yesterday. I was speaking a few words to a ranger in the Rawlinswood, whose name I know not (note to self-must remember to introduce oneself fully in future), when the small enclosure in which I was standing was attacked. I tried to aid the few warriors present with my sling and morningstar, but to no avail. By all the Realms, these goblins seem unnaturally skilled!

My corporeal weapons seemingly unaffected, I was forced to turn to less...savoury means. Even here, in my most private and personal journal, I dare not write the name of the One whose power I attempted to channel. Four months it has been, and still He haunts me with his savage promises! Nevertheless, I martialled my strength, and called upon Him to power my spells. Strong, so terribly strong, was the compulsion to unleash His powers to the full, to destroy both goblins and defenders in a maelstrom of furious devastation. I shudder now, at the memory of the rage that sought to fill me, as if I were a goblet filled to the brim with rich wine pressed from the Grapes of Wrath.

Thank the all the goodly gods that surely must exist, I was able to restrain the terrible fury, only casting incantations of terror on a few of the tougher-seeming of the foe. Soon, however, I reached the limits of my self-restraint, and was forced to take up my morningstar once more.

My skills, of course, were insufficient. Without the Beastlord's rage to infuse me, I was overcome and sent to a strange place, a half-life after death. The loneliness and despair of that place of fugue was palpable, but far better, methinks, than to fall into the hands of He who haunts my dreams!

So that is death, then. How uninteresting.

Late at night, four months and four days since I left the Savage One's service...

A most unusual event has occured today. As I was standing nearby to the place wherein I had fallen, and was contemplating the events of past days, a wounded woman in red armour stumbled, close to death, into the camp.

Seeing no alternative, I reluctantly called upon my former Lord to heal her, seeing her return to life as more important than the possible risk to me. The Beastlord knows (and rejoices, I suspect) that I am dangerous to all while I yet live.

Having saved her from death, I quite reasonably suspected her to be grateful. Unfortunately, she seemed most concerned about the circumstances of her salvation, repeatedly asking the name of the god who had saved her.

It was in this instant that I realised a terrible, unsurprising truth-there are those who would rather die than be saved from death by an evil deity. Not wishing to cause her needless pain, I attempted to refrain from revealing the name of my accursed Lord. She would have none of it, and, after threatening me with death if I did not tell her whom I served (Oh, the irony! I save her from death, only to almost have to kill her again!), I made up some explaination concerning a fictional deity I invented on the spot. I am ashamed by the need for such deception, and for not realising the consequences of my rash compassion. Yet, for all that, I do not regret having saved her. Only time will tell what the effect of my actions will have had, but I fear mightily. If the Beastlord can twist even my good intentions into evil, what hope have I.

What hope indeed?

Early Morning, five months and twelve days since I left the Beastlord's service…

I performed my first act of charity yesterday. It is difficult to describe the significance of this simple act, a simple sharing of food with a tribesman bereft of his tribe. For the twenty earliest years of my life, I was taught by His priests that strength of mind, soul and body is the only virtue, savagery the only noble trait, and violence the only worthy act of worship. I was taught that weakness, not only a disadvantage, is deeply sinful and the enemy of all that is worth living for. Indeed, although I have rejected Him, I have not yet abandoned this belief. How can I, when all around me, the 'compassionate', the 'peaceful' are mistreated, oppressed, crushed? I have spoken already of the 'injustice' inherent in the town's militia-an 'injustice' that shows a commendable lack of weakness.

Is it true, then, what I have been taught? Are mercy, compassion, 'justice' worth the undeniable weakness they cause? Is it possible for a town, a city, or country to rule with compassion, yet remain strong?

Many nations and rulers make this claim, of course. I have heard many noble knights and 'goodly' priests claim that their morals, their mercy and their compassion strengthen them. That hatred and savagery are self-destructive, thus causing weakness. Yet, for every shining paladin that upholds these ideals and with them drives back the darkness, it seems as if two more fall unheeded and unaccompanied on the battlefield, at the hands of those who are named 'evil'.

I could wish that it were possible for strength and compassion to be combined. I might understand why so many have devoted their lives to this concept, this ideal, this dream. I feel the attraction of such a life, such acceptance, such forgiveness.

Yet, when I look around, here in this town, I barely wonder whether such a goal is worth the lives of those who have died in a vain quest to reach it. Lives whose names are not even remembered by any save their impotent companions. In the face of this sheer futility, in the face of the militia, the goblins, the corpses, I am forced to realise a plain, simple truth-

I have no reason to care.

((OOC-as always, comments and constructive criticisms on anything I write here are very welcome))

Evening, five months and two days since I left the Savage One's service…

Yet again, the typically 'barbarian' justice of that little town of Norwick has left me both amazed and amused.

I had come through the town proper, entering the vicinity of the Southern Gate in search of an opportunity for peaceful contemplation. Naive, I know, and most unlikely, but there are a few days when there is no shrieking demonic invasion or heartrending drama playing itself out by the campfire.

Today, unfortunately, was not one of those rare occasions. As I approached the smouldering flames, I caught sight of a large crowd gathered by the watchtower. Mildly interested, and a little annoyed at the disturbance, I wandered over to learn what was afoot.

If it were not so ridiculous, the situation would have been tragic. The crowd seemed a little confused as to exactly what sort of epic event was unfolding before them, but it transpired that a young halfling had been attacked (by a badger of all things!), and had been forced to slay the creature with his (no doubt) slightly rusty and most unheroic sword. Whereupon, the grave threat to his life having ended, he was arrested by the recently returned Militia Captain Rando for carrying an unsheathed weapon inside the town boundaries!

Understandably, most of those gathered disapproved of the honourable Rando's actions. They pointed out that everyone should be allowed to defend themselves, that the badger's atypical behaviour warranted a little leniency. With all the dutifulness, lawfulness and blinkered stubborness for which (I gather) Lord Rando is famed, the halfling was offered a choice. Firstly, he could pay a hefty fine (little wonder into whose pocket it would go...), secondly he could go to jail (for the heinous crime of slaying a badger within town walls...) or thirdly Rando could inform the Druid Circle of the hin's feat of badgerslaying.

With the recent retribution of the Circle upon another hunter still fresh in many Norwickian's minds, the voicing of this last option (understandably) silenced the hecklers. I, however, was more amused than frightened. I lived twenty years of my life in a temple devoted to the Beastlord, whom I dare not name. My mentors there would go far beyond a simple flaying-and-skinning. It is doubtful there would be enough left of the offender to display upon the South Gate (as was the unfortunate hunter).

Having witnessed this fair, compassionate and honest judgement, I was mildly entertained by the protestations of a warrior who claimed to serve some God of Law (Tyr or Torm or somesuch, I believe). She continued to argue the case long after the offender and the venerable Lord Rando had left the enclosure, stating points of Norwick law, 'common sense', and finishing with that immortal statement-

'It's not fair!'

At which point, I decided to make myself heard. her naivety was becoming painful, and I was in the mood for an argument. I pointed out that 'fairness' exists solely in the mind of the observer, and thus differed for every person. I asked her if her idea of 'fairness' would bear any relation to that of, say, a Banite.

With this, I had hoped to leave. The hour was growing late, and I wanted to observe the hin's further wranglings with Rando. However, my unfortunate comment managed to draw me in to a full-blown philosophical debate on the difference between law and justice. She prattled on about how she would grow up to be a great Knight and Paladin, serving Tyr or Torm (or Somesuch?), and would then proceed to write a code of laws that would be just and fair to every single person in Faerun! Needless to say, I laughed openly at this, before once again asking her whose ideal of fairness she would use. Hers? No indeed-'someone wise' was her reply.

Ha. How predictably typical. It is a notable feature of many 'holy warriors' that they seem to have incredible trouble doing anything themselves. There own strength is insufficent, so they are forced to rely on others-first their family and friends, then their insipid deities, then finally just 'someone'. It is also a telling fact that this would-be paladin was willing to discuss such matters, even under the shadow of the three stones of the South Gate, from which all manner of evils have been known to spring! Norwick teeters on the edge of the abyss, and all that the righteous defenders of justice can do is debate matters of philosophy.

Still, I have grown to expect as much from this town. They cannot even keep their own Milita Captain safe from abduction! Perhaps one day I will journey to the great city of Peltarch, in search of someone who might just have a little steel in them.

Until then, I am left here to ponder, and watch, and hide. Though His demands on me have continued to decrease, I fear that is only because the presence of the Black Orcs are occupying most of His attention. What shall I do? What can I do?

Only watch, and wait, and laugh…

Late at night, six months and twenty-seven days since I left the Savage One's service

It is said that a guilty past is like a vengeful ghost-it inevitably returns to haunt you.

Today, I have found this to be unquestionably true. Several days ago, I had the priviledge to meet a young woman of the Uthgart tribe, who bore the name 'Thora'. I thought little of it at the time, but looking back, she seemed uncommonly interested in the mark upon my forehead. My mark? My chain, scriven in blood red to remind me of my shameful deeds, scriven in the red of. Ha, listen to my morbid ramblings. As I said, I thought little of it. The mark is unusual enough-the mark of the Beastlord, a rampant scarlet claw, but there are mercifully few who recognise it.

After the events of today, I must count this woman as one of them. I arrived at the campfire in the southward enclosure, in need of a little time for peaceful contemplation. Even though the burden of His temptations grows less with each passing week, I still must struggle to contain the sheer_anger_, the all-surpassing rage that He would fill me with.

And so it was, that, filled with foreboding, I witnessed a rather amusing incident unfolding. A group of Norwick's finest, gathered around the fire, haphazardly trying to inform a militiaman about some exchange of insults that had escalated into violence. It transpired that this selfsame Thora had…questioned the moral character of one of the half-orc citizens in rather an insulting manner. One thing led to another, as they will, and the aforementioned half-orc ended up slapping the aggressive girl. After much wrangling debate and implied threats from both parties, the insulted half-orc returned to the town proper, leaving the Uthgart to sulk. Conversations continued, Thora being offered condolences and 'advice' alternately. I myself stood to present my opinion, that the threat of the Malarite Black Orcs (curse them, even in this shadow of a hamlet His servants come to seek me out. Is there no limit to His reach?) was making all the local half-orcs easily provoked, she stood and plunged me into the abyss of my deepest fears. She pointed to the mark upon my forehead, and named me a Malarite.

Desperately, I tried to allay her suspicions. My past torments me enough, without a half-civilized barbarian bringing the militia upon my head! I invented some story about being part of a lesser-known barbarian tribe (which, of course, was convieniently smallenough for her not to have heard of...), wiped out by the Malarites for blasphemy. Specifically, for bearing a tribal insignia similar to their own emblem. Ridiculous, of course, but there are only so many ways to break the links of the crimson chain I bear. She, of course, would have none of it. She persisted in accusing me, tearing apart my counter-arguments and threatening me with violence. Luckily enough, I was able to convince several others present that I was, in fact, telling the truth. It never ceases to amaze me, this fool gullibility shared by those who consider themselves 'good'.

One man, in particular, the last chieftain of a tribe turned to undead by a necromancer (oh, the tragedy. If it were not so pathetic I would weep.), took my story greatly to heart. He encouraged me, saying that as long as one member of the tribe survived, the tribe could still be said to exist.

It was then that I experienced my strangest loss of control to date. I was overwhelmed, not by violence, not by sadness, but by the sheer irony of the situation. Though little was told to me of my past at the Temple, I know I was seized from a raid on a settlement by my 'mentor', Barb'harek-of-the-talon. It was even hinted once that the settlement was one of barbarian tribesmen. For all I know, my desperate story was true.

I considered loosing my burden upon my newfound ally, revealing to him the full story-my training in the temple, my meteoric rise through His priesthood, my realisation and eventual (if short-lived) escape from the Savage One's clutches. But what would he reply? Can it be true that once evil, always evil? Would he not feel obliged to report my dark past to the militia, or slay me himself for my dark crimes? I know that the overbearing, arrogant Thora would certainly never understand, though i hope she does not pursue me further. I would find little pleasure in her death, and less in using His power to kill her.

Ah well. What is said is said, and she is not likely to forget it. Perhaps I will confide in this revenge-fuelled chieftain, aiding him in his quest to destroy the necromancer that claimed his tribe. One day, I might even find the strength to escape the Bloody-Pawed One. Ha. Such questioning is useless. I decided when I escaped to live every day, for that day. The future is yet to come, and I grow weary.

Vengeful ghosts, indeed.

Evening, six months and two days since I left the Savage One's service…

It has been long indeed since I have recounted a day's events in this, my journal, will and testament. Long, and in the meantime I have grown and learnt much. Not enough to truly escape from the blood-soaked chains of my past, but enough perhaps to once again put quill to parchment without fear.

In the past months (months? It has seemed like centuries, and every day an age...) I have slowly found it easier to resist the Beastlord's power. Though He still tempts me with visions of power, and seeks to fill me with His rage whenever I am forced to call upon His power, I have found the need to do so decreasing as my combat skills increase. Now, thankfully, I am not forced to rely on His fury merely to survive.

Goblin attacks on this pitiful excuse for a town continue, occasionally supported by risings from the Well, and the occasional outpouring from the portal near the south gates. Though each incursion is defeated, it is never without much death, and the townspeople seem at a loss as to stopping them. Even the proud wizards of Spellkeep do not have the power or the knowledge to plug these gaping holes in the town's defences. Pitiful, truly pitiful.

But I cannot complain. My newfound woodcraft and battle skills have stood me in good stead in defense of this, my temporary home. If the greatest minds present cannot solve the problems, then I will not waste my time or energy trying where they have failed.

Ahhh, these past months have been quite the awakening for me. When I stood in the temple of the Beastlord, I witnessed many powerful feats of magic and arms, was party to a furious rage which I know would be beyond the understanding of most of the naive inhabitants of Norwick. They cannot imagine the almost irresistable compulsion to kill, burn and destroy everything before them, for the very sake of doing so. Though I do not regret my decision to flee the Savage One's destructive embrace, yet still I can laugh at the arrogance of the poor fools who hold sway here. they know not the meaning of power.

Yet, perhaps that is for the best. If the only way to such power is to abandon all restraint in a frenzy of blood-soaked slaughter, then perhaps I would rather be weak! But these are matters too high for me, and the night grows old. To bed, then, to dream of...what?