Introduction and Regrets
I put no trust in divine beings. Why would I? The stone Deities of the local peoples have no apparent power. I don’t speak of the thing that torments me. I must hide my true countenance behind a visage of false apathy. The truth is I do care, and I care too much. All the while the cruel, fearful, despicable deeds of my past threaten to seep into my bleak present. I enjoy the reading and memorization of poetry. The words of the ancient poets guide my steps in a way no false, cold, dead god could. I find comfort in the sonnets of Quivverstaff, counsel in the proverbs of Viad, and comprehension in the epics of Romher. They are my friends, my companions, my perfect three. They are all I have.
I methodically study the hateful, desolate, bloody "art" of war— it almost seems like an art when observed from above. And I am often tempted to believe it so, yet then I am beckoned again by the whispering fingers of Death to gaze on the sanguinary transgressions of my youth. Then and only then, do I recognize the truth of my being, my purpose, my internal driving force, what goads me on — who I truly am.
I am a monster in the near-eternal service of a far greater evil than I could ever hope to grasp by the corners, let alone conquer. She, who has led the charge on the most wanton, most heinous, most debauched wars ever to exist, was there at the end of them all to harvest the crop of mutilated bodies and ill-obtained gold with her Scythe of Death.
Only one of such high standing in the ranks of evil may take for herself a soul to serve her for a period, in which she strips them of all hope and will to continue breathing.
Or at least that's what She's done to me.
Day of Awakening and Travel
I woke today, in the usual manner, my body aching. My eyes inflamed from prolong weeping. I cried out in a hoarse whisper to my Mistress. The false warmth flooded my feet at first, a thousand tiny pinpricks of mirrored light. The familiar, comforting pain raced up my legs, burning the night out of my veins. The groan started low in my throat, hoarse and droning. By the time the warmth of Her kiss reached my hairline, the groan was an wild, animalistic cry. My body floated upwards, buoyed from underneath by Her icy palm. So cold it is burns red hot.