Quoth the Raven

Scarred, I Dream

This scar I bear refuses to heal,
marring my visage, wrecking my appeal.
Glowing with an angry light,
a reminder of some vicious past slight.
Was it in battle that it first appeared,
or due to vengeance, violently seared.
I wrack my brain to find the cause
but its inception fails to give me pause.
The sole thing which occurs to me
is that its beginning lies from my mortality.
Carried over to my ascended life...
it yet burns and pains me, filling me with strife.
What baneful truth lies hidden in this mark...
threatening from the past, rising from the dark.

Fugued Thoughts

This form was not the first, nor shall it be the last. I was mortal... once. The memory of that time is shrouded, fueged. Burned away are the vestiges of ordained death, now there is only timeless servitude.

I wish I could but grasp the thread of truth that dangles, and pull it to unravel the mystery of my origin, yet alas, the pieces elude my every attempt to put them together.

Why does it matter now? Such power as flows through an immortals veins is long sought by the heroes of the realms, spending years in search of this artifact of untold mysticism, or that scroll of antiquity that will lend them the secret to ascendence.

What was the path that my mortal coil took so long ago that resulted in this end...

Transition

I am pleased with the continuing advances about the realms. The Hamlet of Rime appears to be nearly completed, its workers busselling like ants about on the ground. Soon it shall be made known to the realms, and the secrets that are harbored therein.

My time has been divided in watching the progress there and in viewing the changes inside the city of Kjeldoran itself. Ms. Clause finally took leave of her man-hunting ways in the tavern, presumably chased off by the surly highlander kilt-wearing warrior that took her place at the bar. The snow-ball flinging elves have finally run for cover, unsuited to the heat and humidity which rains down upon the city.

Most troubling of all is the state of the city's water. It seems that a local tribe of goblinoids have taken it upon themselves to reroute all water supplies for the fountains from the sewage that flows from Red Light District. It is a thoroughly deplorable sight to behold, and the smell...WHHHHHEWY...is bad (and for a carrion eater, you know its bad when I say it stinks that much). There are things floating in the water cisterns that would make the toes on the most stalwart dwarf curl, the most virtuous paladin to keel over in fits.

Until the problem is rectified, I fear that the residents will be forced to deal with the sewer dwelling goblins. One has no idea as to what they wish to parlay to correct the problem. I really do not care, the matter be truly known.

I have witnessed the rise of a new building, Mystic Heights, within the confines of the city. A black crystal tower that sends motes of starlight into the air whenever light touches it. It has become quite an activity center of later, seemingly a residential apartment for the wealthier set peoples of the realms.

Fury

Such emotion is this
to break idle bliss.
A madness to take hold,
unholy and fearful to behold.
Touched by ire and driven blind,
raging the torrent, swept aside in kind.
Destroyed in a moment
forever lost, to lament.
The piercing pain and throbs
tearing away compassion for racking sobs.
Deserved or misdirected, matters not the least,
visage reshapen to seven sinned beast.

The Lance of Longinus

Nothing more than a spear, a lance with a long birchwood staff, and a soft iron shod tip. Yet, it became so much more, an artifact of the highest power for its type. By spilling the blood of an immortal, a son of God, this weapon became the Spear of Destiny.

Who would dare think that the ichor of the highly blessed could wrought such weaponry, bestowing the powers of artifice upon mortally created, mundane objects. Imbued with the powers of heaven, the lance became a weapon of great and feared power.

Any who wield the lance are undefeatable in battle. For so long as they wield the spear, their power is amplified, their constitution invigorated, their prowess at battle increased. Many are the kings, emperors, and shahs that have seized power at the point of this weapon. And many still are the kingdoms that have fallen, for want of controlling it.

It was upon my travels, across dimensional alternatives, in a universe where magic is but a weak echo, and the gods are silent in mortal lives, that I first sensed it. Hidden for centuries in a museum, in an exhibit, in plain sight. It's true power ungaugeable to the people of its world and time.

Calling. It had pulled me to it. Demanding use. Expecting reprieve from its long period of inactivity. Its hunger for action was insatiable. Its power limitless. It was to be mine. For a time.

Now it resides here, in this time, in this realm. Wielded by myself, the Herald of Fate, and rightful owner of the Spear of Destiny. But who else would you expect to wield it, after all?

I have fashioned many copies of the artifact since, raining the realms with these lesser powered weapons from time to time. Their true power remaining forever hidden from those that use them. Well... at least as long as I wish it to remain a secret, that is.

Born the Rook

My talons reach into the ethereal chaos, fighting the entropic forces that defy Order, defy restraint. I work feverishly, shaping and molding that which refuses to be set, to be made constant. As I work, I feel my very being become frayed at the edges, further forcing me to tighten my concentration to maintain my own existence lest the forces that surround me rend me apart.

I have the will to survive, I have the will to create. I will not be unmade. I shall remain.

The tension grows, as time passes, and that which will be is finally held constant by my crafting. Breathing a single breath into the form, it awakens to life, immortal, yet servile only to me, its creator. My familiar, the most favored of all my creations.

Dark wings unfold, revealing a leonine body, a hawkish head gnashes a razor sharp beak which screaches with the joy of birth. Its tail lashes excitedly, tipped by a spur dripping in poison. Razor sharp claws rend the chaos about it, its eagle eyes piercing the gloom to look upon me.

"Go, my pet. Seek those that defy Order, and make them pay."

The Rook Wyvern is unleashed unto the realms.

Unanswered Prayers

I marvel at the demands of mortals, they request such oddities of the gods, that they could so easily attain themselves. An eternal comedy unto mine ears what is requested, what is sought.

"Make me rich.", "Make me powerful.", "Make me a leader amongst men.", "Secure my safety against my enemies.", "Strengthen my sword arm, my aim, my endurance.", "Protect me"

All within the means of those that seek these things out themselves, actively. And yet, a divine source is ever so much easier to provide these things unto them like a djinn released from a lamp.

This is why I have no followers. I expect them to make their own way, and NOT rely upon the blessings of my favour. To make mistakes, to stumble and grow stronger. Their free will is what makes them strong, makes them different, even from the immortals.

This is a different world, here in the 'heavens'. Ours is a path more restrained than they can fathom, our choices not always open to us. The life of a mortal is, in some ways, easier than our own.

But then again, I may just be speaking for myself.

The Dark Pantheon

There are many that believe that I must stand with the side of good, maintaining the balance against the perveyors of evil, spreaders of banality, and other wicked niceties. I say unto them, why should I?

Good and evil are but shades of grey, meer images of one another. A child's game of Jacks compared to the eternal struggle of Chaos and Order that began since the inception of time and shall continue unto oblivion.

Do I place myself in opposition against Lord Undeath, D'sar, due to his 'evil-ness'? Nay, I do it for no other reason than his very existence, and that of his mortal progeny, is abhorant to the true Order. Being Undead is what makes him my foe, not his choice of activity.

Am I bothered in the slightest by Lord Ahriman's betrayal of the cause of Justice, and fall into the depths of Hellfire? No... I merely stand against the chaos that has enveloped him, overtaken his immortal soul. That is what is my nemesis, not this streak of 'wickedness' that mortals like to discuss so profoundly in their debates of good versus evil.

Revelry

I shall never understand the mortal tendency to find reasons to revel and make complete arses of themselves. These things which they call 'Holidays' are nothing more than an excuse to get drop down drunk, eat profusely, start a few fights, and act with a complete random disregard for normalcy.

What is entertaining about horphing up last nights overindulgance of alcohol and bad food? Cats don't seem to take pleasure in dispensing furballs, and yet mortals still partake of that which makes them sick and call it a 'party'. This is but a small bit of the puzzling nature of mortals.

It is apparant that it is a blessing that their lives are so short, I would shudder to think of what the world would be like if such as they, lived forever. Their dance with chaos lands them in more messes than they can see, and yet they still jump headfirst into the puddle.

Worship or Cultish Fascination

Worship, bah, I have no need of such a thing. My existence is due to my own will, not sustained by the belief of others. My continued growth and power is not bound by the number of followers I have.

I make promises to no mortal, I answer a calling which the mortal realm cannot fathom. My viewings may affect their lives profoundly and seem important to them, however, I do not dispense portents for that reason. It is who I am, I do not exist to benefit others. I merely am.

I am a soldier of Order, standing against the rising tide of the devouring wave of Chaos. I have no time to listen to pleas for trivial blessings, nor granting of clerical powers. I further my own ends, I require not mortal hands to do so.

Perchance such draw to worship is due to my Seraphic form, a symbolic relation to a heaven that shall welcome them for serving me. They listen not when I explain that I maintain no such place for souls, that there is no heaven dedicated to those that follow me. There is a greater order involved in the afterlife, one that doesn't involve me. I am the carrion eater, not the shepherd of souls. They follow blindly without listening... were I dedicated to darker designs, such faults could be capitalized upon, but that is not my way.

I see what is, what has been, what shall be. Destiny and design are my forte, not comforting the shades of life lost.

Undead or Walking Take-Out

There is no greater abomination to behold than the undead. Their decaying bodies, devoid of souls, animated by wicked design and an unholy link to the negative plane. The empty vessels, putrid and rancid, corrupt and vile, walking and talking as if they had never lost life, never died. They are unredeemable, having no place in the land of the living, none in the lands of the dead.

They do not even have the dignity to act like normal carrion, actually having the gall to fight back if I happen to choose one for a snack. No self respecting carrion eater should have to concern itself with the prospect of indigestion, merely because the aforementioned meal refuses to lie still. However, there is sport in the hunt with them at the very least. It is intriguing to note that even these creatures can fear something... especially in light of the fact that they seem to revel in the fear that they cause in their own rampaging.

Hear me, all creatures of the undead, be you heucuva, vampire, lich, dracolich, wraith, wight, ghost, shade, or what-have-you. You hold no place in the realms, no place other than in the depths of my gullet. A tasty morsel, a minor tidbit to sate my hunger during my flight. You are not eternal. Mine is the face of your final oblivion. I am your ultimate destruction, watch for me.

Chaotic Warrior Challenge

I find my frustration level growing over the continuing proliferation of chaotic warrior insurgencies in the realms. Their disruption of Order is intolerable, entropy spreads wherever they dare to walk. Their misguided following of the chaotic force that threatens to doom the realm is beyond belief and surely based in insanity.

No clan seems willing to stand against them, I have even gone so far as to challenge the heroes of the realms to return ten of their heads to me for my blessed favour, yet still none dare to face them. Were not the universal laws clear on prohibiting my eradicating their fouling manipulations from the face of the planet, I would have done so FAR long ago.

And yet, I know something that even they do not. That the future is set. Even their destiny I have seen and measured... and it ends in oblivion. I have set forces in motion to counter chaos in the future, I lament that I yet must tolerate them for the time being.

Discovery

Mine eyes have looked upon an anomaly in the lands, a difference, a newness which has na'er been seen. Whilst upon my daily flights, scouring the realms for portents of the coming incursion of Chaos, I saw it. Nestled within a green vale, surrounded by snow-capped white mountains, a hamlet.

Seemingly sprung from the bowels of the earth over night, the bustling village was teeming with activity. My curiousity got the better of me, forcing me to land and perch upon the gold enameled bell tower of the church in the center of the community. From there, I saw it all, the school children playing in the yard; the merchants hawking their wares; the knight-guards patrolling the walled circumference surrounding the city. There was even a small festival taking place in a grand palisade toward the south end of the place, where the residents cavorted and partied with wild abandon.

But amidst their seemingly happy and jovial exterior, there is a sense of wrongness, of a hidden threat, which seems to pervade their thoughts, even in the midst of their daily lives. Their eyes are tinged in fear, and from time to time, if you observe closely, they quickly glance to the high mountains nearby, pursing lips and wringing hands.

There is a mystery here, in the midst of their white steepled homes, and revelling atmosphere. A mystery that should be solved. But not, I think, by me.

I returned to my vigil, flying away from the place, certain that mortals of the land, in their wandering and adventuring ways, would eventually locate the place and decipher the conundrum.

I have greater concerns to worry about.

Aspect of an Immortal

I am a god of destiny, of future foretold, prophecy set forth and life ordained to a certain path. I am the Herald. I am the Oracle. I am a force of ultimate Order, and as such am always in opposition to chaotic influence. I am unconcerned by the petty squabbling of good and evil, seeing both as meer shades of the true battle betwixt Chaos and Law. I am the bane of undeath, the carrion eater.

I ride the tides of the sea of Time, seeing the past, present, and future. I speak cryptically, and often in rhyme, casting vague glimpses upon the truth that I see.

I may take the form of a prophet, a blind seer, a raven, or a dark seraph. I do not accept followers, however sects have been formed claiming to follow the course of my flight (See Crusaders of the Redeeming Inquisition).

I am reclusive. I am ambivalent.