Silver Tears of the Mournland

Silent Musings 1

After listening to that blasted skull for more than a
week spout off about finding our way to Cyonia I had
to put in at an inn—just for the sake of a soft bed.
It was close. The bed was straw and softer than the
dry dusty earth; but, the amount of nocturnal insects
I had to share it with made me feel the fool for paying more than a single copper.

The room kept the sky away from my head and the earth from my feet…but that was all. I managed to spend enough time studying my newly acquired books to get a fuller grasp of the necro-arcane subtleties inherent of my new skills. That was nice considering that I will be cramped on a narrow ship for the next week with a bunch of devout lunks with nothing better to do than preach about the evils of what makes life…life.

Alright, probably not a fair assessment but I resent having to hide the fact that I’m able to learn complex multi-realities simply because the unwashed bear a fear-filled grudge against their lack of comprehension. Don’t they see the intrinsic nihilism of life and the logical workings of the world? The bliss of the void will inspire there empty minds on their deathbed. Well, that is if I don’t find a better purpose for them. Which reminds me, I should find some more documentation on the limitations and contingencies involved with a properly performed reanimation. It would be unfortunate for me to acquire the ultimate skill and be unable to adequately take advantage of it.

Oh, how I will cherish the day when I wrest the life force from an unwashed and feed it into the quivering bones of a discarded shell of humanity. How I will tremble with pride and ecstasy as I master the puppetry of life and death. Any child with a tinder and spark can spew the fiery wash of sorcery; but, it takes a real dedication to the art to wrestle with the fabric of life itself…to conquer the world of reality and fiction, to encompass the oneness of nothingness…to express yourself with the negative of what energy is…the void of life and death.

Alright, to sleep. We will find the path to our studies…we are so close to Cyonia, if Theraspian is right, we will find our treasure and I can make my master whole again.

Brother Hayden Interrupts Me Again

Here we are again. I’m sitting in my
study, with my latest stack of
texts, (which I just picked up yesterday, I might add) and I think I’m
getting close to pinpointing the location the ruins of Thalia in northern Jemaini. As far as I can tell according to all of my compiled sources, the fabled city should be at the base of a steep cliff on a bay to the northeast of the present day city of Coronet. My instincts tell me that this is, in fact, correct. Then again, it’s been a long time since my instincts were incorrect, so it might be time. Mayhaps I will present this “new information,” (as they like to call it…as if information about a lost fabled city could be new) to the “General” in charge of the search. Then again, it’s not really what I’m supposed to be working on, so maybe not. Maybe I’ll let them head off in the wrong direction…yet again…I just wish they wouldn’t spend so much on these ridiculous expeditions. I’ll pray on it.

Brother Hayden comes in…and I pray for strength…the strength to not hit him square in his smug little nose…again. At least that other time it was an accident…Pelor knows.

So long story short (I have to get back to my books, after all) He’s got an urn, (of which I’m not going to get into here) and a letter from a Sister, about a wounded Brother, and I don’t care what anybody says about it…I’m not leaving my books behind.




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