Journal of Kryndle Cindermoor
Day 1: I begin my journey with an entry to you my journal, the only friend to brave this path of darkness and shadow that I dare to travel. For anyone reading this I introduce myself, Kyndle Cindermoor, follower of Thyrax, Knight to be of Dralasite.
My colleagues view me as an enigma, a puzzle of mystery. The story goes something like this: the night was cold and no moon shone on the quiet village of Karaast. The few dwarven sentries were alert and shivering in their alcoves along the stone wall.
Each scanned the valley and mountain slopes for trouble but none bothered to look in. Suddenly, the ground erupted and stone rained down upon the straw roofs and stone walls. Minions of death poured from the ground like the molten metals this clan sought in the heart of the earth. Alarms were sounded and the dwarven adults, men and women alike, took up arms to defend the only place they could call home. They fought like demons themselves but the living dead seemed immune to their razor sharp steel axes and mighty crushing hammers. The dwarven armor that had brought them fame for its strength and durability crumbled under the tearing claws and rending teeth of necromantic magic. In what seemed like hours, but was truly only moments, Karaast turned from a vibrant community to a dark example of Talanthantalas' rage. The warlock and dwarves would feud no more over the precious metals inside the Cairn range. Or would they? Maybe by divine intervention, maybe by fate, most likely by luck I survived.
As my brethren were slaughtered about me, I remained silent, terrified in the dark cubby my parents had forced me to cower in. At a mere age of three I vowed vengeance, never to hide again from the dead brought back to life. I promised to embrace my rage, my terror and bring the wraith of a god yet unknown to me (Thyrax) upon those who do not obey the laws of my god. Those laws being simple:
Live life to its maximum potential, never taking a life unless yours or the life of an innocent is threatened
procreate and bring more believers into the world
pay the price of death for the gift of life
(the most important) respect those who respected these laws before you
But I digress. After hours (days?) I crawled from my hole to witness something far more terrifying then the wholesale slaughter of a village. My clan, my very family, shambled about with horrific wounds that stank of rot. They had been raised. Luckily for me the dead are not quick of thought or action. In my terror I ran, my short dwarven legs a blur of motion, my heart beating harder than my fathers hammer at the forge. I think again Thyrax smiled upon me. As I stumbled down the slope through the snow I came upon 3 men amongst a stand of trees. Their armor of bones and tattoos of sigils frightened me at first but then I realized who they were. These were men of a mysterious order, an order some believed fiction, others exaggerated fact. One grasped me and covered me in a blanket, while another built a small fire. They spoke not a word until the blueness had disappeared from my feet and lips. Then in a language ancient and brisk like the mountain winds they spoke to one another. After a few moments, one addressed me in a thick ancient, "little brother of the peaks, do you wish our protection?" Had I known the price I never would have agreed but this was my destiny.
I hate to disappoint you friend, but the rest of tale must wait. The sun has risen and I begin to fulfill my quest. (my curse?)
Day 17: I know I have neglected you for a few days, but frankly I have nothing exciting to report. I chase rumors of undead and necromancers from town to town from dawn until well after dark. The days are cold and rainy but the inns are warm in the eve.
Most people seem intimidated by my appearance (I understand their fears) but I also sense a begrudging respect when they discover my business. Anyhow, back to the story:
For many years I trained, I learned the arts of the hammer, emotional control and channeling, the ability to heal wounds of the flesh and maybe most importantly, literacy and history. My teachers imbued in me an immense hatred for the dead brought to life (they needn't try hard) and I developed a person agenda. Unlike the rest of my brothers I one day wish to quit slaying and begin my village anew. Maybe we can begin mining and metal working again. A small family, a warm hearth, and a forge sounds like a far better place to pass my final days. Not in a dark, dank tomb or an aromatic, beaker filled, necromantic tower. Maybe I will hang my shield and hammer above the forge and while the metal cools in baths of cold water I can look upon them and remember a life I once lived. Once again I digress. My training was difficult (sometimes seeming impossible) but time passed and I soon became the teacher. Then finally, seventeen days ago, Lord Balen, devoted cleric of Thyrax, Dralasite Master of Arms deemed me ready to partake in the final step of my knighthood training. I am charged with seeking a powerful undead enemy and slaying him (or being slain) thereby guaranteeing my place amongst the Order of Dralasite, followers of Thyrax, keepers of life. I tire now, maybe the nightmares will remain in the darkness and allow me to rest.
Day 19: Welcome news friend!! I have heard rumor that a vampire exists in the town of Haptur. I am only a mere 5 days travel from this small city. I must rest now as I plan to leave the Inn of the Last Dragon before dawn (this is a wonderful inn, I must return one day).
Written by Bruce Anderson (brucean@AGGREKO.com)