Soldiers Log: Yberre Hammersmith

Destiny seems to have split our dream asunder and I fear it bodes ill for my fate. I do not understand the will of Gods. When I think they have laid a path before us, it is then blown to the mists. When we seemed first on the eve of uniting our Sextet of Dreams, the Dwarven duo were taken from us. Sent far to Forge, I fear what will become of us with the circle joined and then broken. Perhaps Forge is where we must journey.

The guard seem willing to aid us here and with them we have shared blood against the terrible dead. The power of steel in the hands of the willing seems able to conquer the restless dead that appear to guard our sly deceiver, and I wonder how long he can call on the fallen to aid him. I think this bodes well for our future endeavors, but I fear without direction we will soon share the fate of the good men already fallen attempting to discern the true face of our enemy. I willse my sister again, but I think not so soon as this. Erastil will watch my back while Gorum guides my hand through some terrible fate I think. Blood and many moons will yet reveal the will of Gods. Father steel my heart and keep to Mother if you are able.

Soldiers Log: Yberre Hammersmith

Fortune seems to have turned in my favor of late. After wandering without any real purpose for since being freed, I seem to have fallen into some action of genuine interest to me. I do not yet know what will occur, but I smell the clever scent of fortune on the winds. I shall have to be wary of the company I have fallen into. My golden companion does not seem to have the kindness that Bannion did. While good natured, the magic that seems to corrupt his flesh seems also to affect his demeanor. Under duress, I was forced to restrain him from slicing a child's throat when he felt threatened. I am concerned how far this condition will progress with him, but he seems to be some key to a mystery I do not yet understand and it seems many different forces are interested in obtaining him. I do not see how keeping him safe can not somehow result in our benefit in the long term. For so many to be interested, whatever this great value he has is, it must eventually reveal itself.

The woman who calls herself, Honor, appears to be of ranking merchant blood. While she appears to be of simple motivation, her ties to the halls of wealth and power can only work to our advantage as this mysterious series of events continues to unfold. I must keep an eye on the acquaintances those ties bring or way. She apparently keeps company with a Wizard that may be able to shed light on our recent series of events. Be wary of Wizards with unreliable Origin, my father would always say, and this one appears to be something of a shady character from what little I have heard. We shall see.

My greater concern is her Dwarven consort from Forge. A holy man and a hunter, their zealousness is matched only by their obvious inexperience in battle. They seem to be on a quest to rid their home of some ancient evil and they have sworn to protect the woman for some part they believe she must play in that. The holy man is a healer and welcome in any fight, but I am sure I must teach these strange fellows the ways of war if we are to survive the coming days. Perhaps this is the will of Gorum, I do not know. Still, I can not deny the excitement I have. May Erastil watch over me and Gorum guide my hand, I feel I am embarking now down a road sure to end in glory and riches or on my shield. I shall find my destiny.

Golden Fire: The Journal of Cluidhn Malta-i-nour

{scrawled in a mixture of elven and draconic}
After being saved by my new brother-in-arms Yberre, we trudged east along the baywater, across the farmlands to the human city of Valeria. At the outskirts, we made camp. That night, I had a vision cloaked in a dream. I awoke as a legionnaire, wearing a strange helm of elven craft, standing with a rank of battlemages as a vast host of monsters approached. In concert with the mages, I smote the evil beasts with spells powerful and arcane, and in the press of battle I found myself standing with a fantastically armored Yberre, and those whom I know know to be Honor Brightstar and Markas Serpenthelm. A monstrous insect approached, enormous and beetle-like, and menaced Yberre with a wicked claw. My battlespells skittered off of it's chitinous hide, and it knocked my friend to the ground and pinned him there. As it prepared a death blow, an axe whipped head over haft through the air and smashed into one of the beast's legs. Two dwarves in shining armor trundled up to the beast and dispatched it in a flurry of blows from axe and hammer. As they smote the evil thing, a great dwarven host followed them into the fray. The tides of battle shifted then, and revealed a new and greater threat. A horde of humans, mingled with a few dwarves, elves and halflings, their eyes dead and soulless, their faces fixed masks of evil and hate. I recognized some of my kin from the sylvan wood, but they were possessed with some malevolent fury. The horde approached... And I awoke with a gasp.
Across the campfire, Yberre had awoken as well, his brow furrowed. Somehow, we had shared the dream. I can only guess that great Apsu had sent us this vision, to warn us of a future threat both vast and terrible. Unsettled, we slumped back into our bedrolls. After a day of wandering, we came upon an inn called The Other Slice, and secured temporary employment with the matron, a large human woman known as Lady Anna. Yberre would cook and I would clean in exchange for meals and lodging. It wasn't long before Honor, a human female who shared our vision, showed up at the inn and engaged Yberre in conversation. I gathered that they had been slaves on the same island, and knew each other somewhat. Then two bombastic dwarves showed up, one bellicose, the other scruffy. Their names were Hagbard and Hralf, and they had been sent to hire Honor for something or other. There was alot of barking back and forth in dwarvish, a language I have never bothered to learn. The strange thing about them is that they were the two dwarves from the vision, the ones who had saved Yberre from the giant beetle-thing. The dwarves rented a room for the night and we went upstairs to try to figure out what in Apsu's golden lair was going on.
Suddenly, there was a scream from below and as we rushed into the hall, Honor was hit by a crossbow bolt. Hralf ran down the stairs and stood in between my bow and the enemy, a frustrating situation to be sure. Yberre tried to yell tactical advice to everyone, but the dwarves and myself ended up downstairs, covered in blood with crossbow bolts whickering in from the windows. A mustachioed half-elf wielded a scimitar and buckler with incredible skill, dodging my sorcerous fire and then attempting to drag me from the inn. I scored him deeply with dragon's claws and then a cloud of mist filled the inn. The human scum escaped by the time Yberre had donned his chain mail, leapt from the second floor, and raced to the front door. The city guard came and were about as useful as city guards ever are, and dragged us to their barracks. From there, Honor tooks us to the palace of her family patriarch or something, and Brian Brightstar fed me drugged meat and asked useless questions about my homeland. That night, Honor and Hralf followed some filthy creature from the underdark as it delivered a scroll case to a Lord Tennyson, king of her house I think. These humans breed like rabbits and have more titles than blades of grass. The following morning, as we all stepped outside to meet with a troop of mercenaries who were to guard us against further attack, I saw a bright splotch of fresh red blood upon the lawn. As we looked for the missing mercenaries, we were attacked once again, this time by a group of slavering zombies. An armored Yberre led the fight, and we massacred the foul things. And then, more human guardsmen showed up and accused us of murder. Honor was able to sway them with her silver tongue, and we ended up at another barracks.
Apparently, this mustachioed half-elf had told the guard that we were killing humans at the estate. His warning came a good ten minutes before we were attacked, so we know that this villain is in league with the necromancer(s) who summoned the undead. We then paid to have the underdark scroll translated and it read "Great lords of the sunshine realm. Greetings from the king of lesser darkness. On next predator moon, entreat with me and you and your kin may be spared. Those who do not will surely die. My head is swimming now with all this unfamiliar intrigue, but I know one thing: this mustachioed halfbreed and his leader Praxis or Pring or some such, they will answer some questions for us or they will meet a swift and bloody end. Apsu bring me justice and safety. -Year 3585, city of Valeria-

Origin of a Warrior: Yberre Hammersmith

Born to the son of a smith in the small village outpost of Geantautomne in Southern Hibernia, Yberre Hammersmith was born into a life of hardship. Geantautomne was a village of fiercely independent Hibernians who resented the Empire. Living a simple life of farmers and trappers, most the people of the village lived on self subsistence and trade with the local hill tribes. Yberre's parents, Remy and Martine, lived in a life of relative comfort for this village, owning a home of hardy thatch and mud. Martine was an excellent cook, and though the family often had to forage for food in the wild during lean times, they always ate good food.

The life of a smith provided regular income for Remy as a small imperial fort was being built to watch over the locals, and the legion had regular need for iron braces and nails as well as horseshoes, weapons and armor to outfit their men. Since Remy had to buy most of his iron ore from the legion and then sell the crafted items back to them, his profits were slender, but in that part of the Empire, any source of regular work was a great boon of security.

It was this relationship with the Legion and the relative comfort that came with it that made many of the least fortunate people of Geantautomne envious and distrustful of the Hammersmith family. Constantly exposed to torment and abuse from the older children, Remy took his son into the smithy to protect him and begin his learning the trade at the tender age of 8. Remy raised his son with a nose for fine steel, and Yberre fell fast in love with the art of blademaking. He spent many long hours pumping the bellows for his father, while Remy pounded and folded the ore, filling the long days of toil with ancient tales of Giants and Gods to teach Yberre wisdom. After years of working barrow and bellow, Yberre had grown enough to lift his own hammer, and spent many long hours mastering the folded mystery of a brilliant blade. In very short time, Yberre grew from the slight boy of his youth, to a hulking young man hardened by the toils of the forge.

At the age of 16, with the small fort complete, Yberre was delivering an order of iron goods to the Legion when the officer in command, Tibertine Aurelicus, noticed the strength and size of the local boy and solicited him to join the legion. After a long discussion with his family, they decided that to join the Legion would be an opportunity for Yberre to rise up above their simple lifestyle and find a kind of security unknown in their village. Yberre trained for 2 years with the legion and was granted his sword with the highest honors for courage and strength in combat.

Yberre settled into life at the garrison with his duty firmly in mind and all was quiet in his soldiers life until a particularly bad winter left the ground frozen through spring planting and many livestock dead. The hill tribes, desperate with starvation, had risen up to pillage what they could from and settled land. The people of towns and villages had no choice but to join the marauders, or be killed. When they came to Geantautomne, the Hammersmiths resisted. When the barbarian horde reached the fort, they laid siege to it that lasted 3 days, but with only 20 men to hold off the efforts of hundreds of barbarians, the outcome was inevitable. Most fo the Legionnaires were slain, but wounded and alive, Yberre was not killed as he was a local.

Spared for his local ties, but still hated as a soldier of the Enemy, Yberre was sold into slavery with some others off the western coast to pirates who traffic in human flesh. Brought to a secret and infamous pirate island, Yberre was kept as a slave for 5 long years by his captors until the Imperial Navy located the secret base and liberated all enslaved there. Once brought ashore, he was asked by the Legion as capture din the line of duty, was granted 5 years of back pay with valorous service compensation and offered a chance to return to the Legion. Tired of servitude after long years of slavery, Yberre opted to seek out his own way and retired from the Legion. With what gold he had, he invested in hearty arms and armor, and went to go find his way in the world with dreams of some day having a simple place of his own, a place where he could lodge travelers, hear about the world, serve fine food and never have to wander far from home, wherever it might be.

In looking for work, Yberre came across a group of pilgrims traveling across the Empire who needed a bodyguard and though they had little money to offer, Yberre gladly took the work to give him some direction. It was in this job that he came to his current companionship. Keeping guard at the front of the caravan, the party was forced to stop to shouts of, "thief, murderer, devil!" Rushing to the main store wagon, Yberre found a large group of pilgrims had gathered around a strange gold tinted fey being. He seemed confused and out of sorts, while the pilgrims in a fanatical fury, seemed determined to hand him for being an instrument of devils. As the lynch mob closed in on the frightened elfen creature, Yberre saw a great injustice unfolding before him and felt he must intervene. With a drawing of steel and a bellow only a man of his stature might be able to muster, Yberre demanded the pilgrims cease their assault. WIth a flip of coins to the paymaster to return his wages, Yberre took his new found companion and they set off away from the fanatics to find their next untold fate...

The Tale of Cluidhn Malta'i'nour

As a child in the forested elven lands of northwestern New Tiryns, Cluidhn always knew that he was different. Other elves perceived him as an odd one, a dissonance in nature's harmony. He looked different. Beautiful in the elven way, yes, but somewhat... predatory. His movements more like a bird of prey than his graceful kinfolk. His skin a rich buttery gold, his hair gleaming blond, and his eyes an unnatural yellow hue. A gold like one sees in a wildfire, tinged ever so slightly with angry flakes of orange and red. Cluidhn's father Camwyllhs had left during his seventh summer to attend a distant relations' funerary rite in the old lands. He never returned. That summer, the changes began in earnest. Cluidhn's sleep was filled with powerful dreams, every night beginneng where the previous had left off. In these dreams, he possessed the same mind and soul as his earthbound elven form, but his body and experiences were those of a golden dragon hatchling. He broke free of his shell, he squalled for mother, he learned to fly, to hunt, to breathe fire. Enormous elder dragons recited the sagas of creation: how Apsu, the Waybringer, Creator of All, mated with Tiamat to create the first dragons; how Dahak, their first son, betrayed Apsu, poisoning the thoughts of his kinfolk and creating the first chromatic dragons, traitors to the race; how mighty Apsu defeated Dahak in battle, only to be betrayed by Tiamat before Dahak could be slain. Cluidhn's days were spent under elven tutelage, learning the ways of nature, but his heart was filled with fire. The fire of dragons. The breath of Apsu. By his twenty-fifth year, his mother and uncle's interest had focused on his tradition-minded older brother Cadrithon and animal-loving younger sister Tylemyr. Nobody was inclined to speak to the strange-looking boy, easier just to avert one's eyes and go about one's affairs. Cluidhn began to hike to the coast for "meditation retreats" every fortnight or so to escape the ever increasing social awkwardness and exclusion. He found a small cave in a cliffside and built an amateurish little altar, with a crudely hand-carved driftwood dragon to represent Apsu in the back wall of the cave. He would sit there, with Apsu at his back, staring out at the horizon over the ocean, wishing for even just a glimpse of a dragon. This went on fore some years, and the dreams started to come less and less, until Cluidhn's sleep was just sleep and his days dripped slowly by like spilt honey from a table's edge. Cadrithon was confirmed in the path of priesthood, and Tylemyr had begun to excel in her training as a ranger. Then, as things often do, everything changed...

One day, eager as always to practice her training, Tylemyr followed Cluidhn's trail and discovered his sanctuary. Instead of confronting him, she returned to the elfwood and spoke to their mother and Cadrithon of Cluidhn's heresy. The following morning, Cluidhn awoke in his little cave to the pinch of spearheads at his neck. Pinned to the floor by three rangers, he could only watch in astonishment and horror as Cadrithon destroyed his crude altar and prepared to smash the small idol of Apsu that he had lovingly crafted. Seeing the statue of his deity in his brother's vengeful grasp, Cluidhn felt his body convulse. Suddenly, he was filled with an indescribable power. He screamed as fire rushed through his veins and burst forth from his hands, filling the cave and burning everyone and everything inside it. The magic was glorious and, even as his flesh was seared, his soul was flushed with the sorcerous fury. Then all went dark as a spearbutt smashed into his temple. Cluidhn's second awakening that day was a painful one, hazy and confusing. He had been bound and gagged, blindfolded, and tied to a brushwood litter, his burns unhealed. The post-concussion nausea was amplified by the bouncing of the litter as he was dragged through the woods by his outraged kinfolk. After an eternity, the torment ended as the litter was flung to the ground. His blindfold and gag were ripped away. Blinking, he realized where he had been dragged. The sacred circle, a ring of trees where the druids and priests conducted the rituals and mysteries of the elven ways. His extended family looked down at him, faces drawn and grim. His mother leaned forward and spat. "We no longer know your name." As all present turned away in disgust and took their leave, Cadrithon cut Cluidhn free of the litter and freed his wrists, saying "The elders have spoken, he who was once my brother and is no more. If this one is seen within these woods after this day, he will be hunted and slain." Cadrithon yanked his brother to his feet, cuffed his head, and pushed his face close, baring his teeth. "Now run from here, and let not thine feet soil this place again. Run!" Cluidhn ran. He ran until his feet bled. He ran to the coast and he followed the ocean south until he fell. And then he slept. And he dreamed of fire. He was twenty-seven years old...

Cluidhn continued south until he had left his woodland home far behind. He left the coast and headed east. He would go to the mountains. He had seen a faded mural once that showed dragons in flight over the Emperor's Teeth, the imposing mountain range that dominated the island. Surviving by his wits, he scaled the rocky heights, searching for dragons. He found only hardship and starvation. On several occasions, he thought that he saw dragons in flight, only to be crushed with despair upon realizing that they were wyverns, distant cousins to dragonkind, brutish and small. He reached a mountain pass where the rains fed the Sidhe's Blood River. He followed the river, and weak with starvation, he collapsed and lost consciousness. He awoke, choking. An ugly, apish lout was trying to kill him! "Hold still, ya daft elfling, I'm just givin' ya some porrridge! What's yer name, pointy-ears?" said the lout. "I am Cluidhn. I name myself Malta'i'nour." "And what in all the hells does that gobbledygook mean?" "It is elven for Golden Fire." And so he met Aelfred. A half-orc, plying the river in his tiny merchant vessel, bringing the trade from distant Forge and up and down the river. Aelfred, a child of rape and a half-orc, preferred the sailing life to farming or mining, and had sold his mother's cottage and field to buy the Lady Grey only six months before he found the half-dead elf splayed out on the riverbank. He took Cluidhn on as his first mate and taught him the ways of the river and how to use a dagger for more than just carving dragons out of driftwood. The two outcasts formed a complex bond that evolved first into friendship, then into brotherhood, and eventually a father-son relationship as Aelfred grew into middle age and his friend remained a youth. Aelfred enjoyed listening to Cluidhn's tales of dragons and dreams, and life settled into a comfortable routine. For seventy years, Cluidhn lived on the Lady Grey with Aelfred, and as the young elf became an adult, Aelfred became a withered old curmudgeon, salty and brusque. In the summer of that seventieth year, Aelfred died in his sleep. Cluidhn buried his friend as he had always wanted, laid on a blanket on the deck of his beloved ship, and set adrift on the great sea for one last voyage with the Lady Grey. Mourning his friend, and feeling his hundred years, Cluidhn set out on another great journey, alone once again...

He spent many years in the Carven Plains, a vast expanse of tree stumps as far as the eye could see. It was hard to imagine that this desolate, dusty place had once been home to the elves of New Tiryns. It was here that an outcast could eke out a meager existence, taking hunting trips to the sparse woods by Aelfred's beloved Sidhe's Blood river and selling meat and hides to the other outcasts. Over time, though, Cluidhn proved too strange even for the denizens of the Carven Plains. Even with his lack of wisdom, he eventually picked up on the dirty looks and threatening gestures of the folk who called that tortured land home. He decided to make for the city of Gold, and set out once more. He reached the city of Tin and fended off two brigands, a tough and a wizard, who thought him an easy mark. The power flowed through him once more. His hands became dragon claws, and he gutted the wizard and wounded the other, who ran off screaming "Murder! The elf has murdered Indragor!" The wizard's pouch yielded bread, silvers, and an ivory scroll case containing a magical scroll. Knowing full well how the townsfolk were likely to treat a gold-skinned elf with bloodied hands, Cluidhn ran from Tin. As he reached the lake, he heard the baying of dogs in the distance. He shucked his boots and ran southwest in the shallows, evading pursuit. He made his way to the woods in twilight, and slept in the crotch of a tree. As the sun rose over the lake, he examined the scroll. As his brow furrowed with concentration, he felt the power surge within his chest. His eyes tingled, suffused with sorcery, and suddenly he could make out the words and meaning of the arcane symbols. This was a spell that would create a ball of fire, and cast it towards an enemy, where it would explode into a huge magical bonfire. Cluidhn's eyes widened as more of his destiny became clear. He stuffed the scrollcase into his pack and set out southeast along a river, toward the city of Gold. As he approached the city, wrapped in his cloak and wide-brimmed hat, he spotted his erstwhile assailant of the day before, his wounded arm in a sling. The tough was talking to a group of guardsmen, gesticulating wildly with his unwounded hand. Cluidhn pulled his hat a little further down and left the road, skirting the city and walking to the eastward side. There, he saw a line of pilgrims resting next to their wagons and cooking supper. He sat down nearby, and waited for dusk. As one driver rustled around in his wagon, Cluidhn spotted a glint in the fading sunlight. The wagon was filled with golden ore! Cluidhn flashed back to his childhood dreams. He was a young golden dragon, curled against his mother's side on a vast mound of coins, jewels, and precious metal ores. He felt so warm, so comforted by his mother's presence, so loved... "What in the burning eyes of Rovagug? Thief! Thief! There's a bloody thief in my wagon. He's trying to steal our ore!" Cluidhn snapped awake, bleary-eyed and confused. A small horde of dirty pilgrims and drivers grabbed him and yanked him out of... a wagon? "What? No! I'm no thief! I was just trying to warm myself..." The driver interrupted, "This halfwit must have fallen asleep whilst trying to steal our gold! Let's hang the blighter!" Other voices joined in and began chanting "Hang the Elf! Hang the Elf!" Then a deeper voice drowned out the crowd...

A New Age, A New Saga

An Era of Peace

The empire had ruled peacefully for almost two thousand years since the Day of Just Rebellion at the end of the last great war.

The House of Constance ruled for 17 generations since the fabled Constance Primus united all the islands of the world in peace.

It was a time of hope. It was a time of magic.

The magi of all nine mysteries and the churches of all the gods of Good and Law worked together in unprecedented harmony. Together they brought forth miracles and wonders, all but ending famine, disease and suffering.

The empire expanded into the four corners of the realm.

An Age of Reason

Once the expansion reached the eastern and westernmost reaches of the world, the expansion of the mind began.

Emperor Aeterna Primus funded the building of the schools. Colleges and universities sprang up across the lands, spreading learning on a scale previously unthinkable. Scholarships were available to any able and willing to learn.

The most influential of these centers of learning were the Scholasticas of Civitas, Arcana, Deus, Scientia, Tridens and Fortis and they ruled modern thought for nearly nine centuries.

The world was on the brink of something only previously dreamed of by idealists. This something was so powerful, so alluring, yet so ephemeral that to say its name was to snuff it out.

The Dawn of Flame

To this day it is not clear where the Students of Flame came from, though we have had generations to study events.

In over 100 cities, flames erupted. First there were the physical flames, in every case, they started with the libraries and universities. Once the knowledge was burned, the granaries and the food storehouses came next. A few of the more prepared towns managed to put a halt to things before the flames spread too far, but the effects were nonetheless disastrous. In the more remote reaches, whole cities were lost.

Famine erupted across the lands. Millions died of starvation, pestilence, looting and war. The flames of chaos spread between the cities. Some nations rebelled.

Tiryns herself did not suffer any of the direct consequences, but the indirect losses were catastrophic. The island had long since become dependent upon regular supplies of food, spices, luxuries and the like. Faced with this, Empress Aeterna Decimus Tertius chose to create the outposts. The cost was tremendous and the payoff immediate.

Thousands of ships sailed carrying hundreds of thousands of soldiers, building materials and orders to create an outpost at every port, at every major intersection and near every city. Responding to chaos with overwhelming force, Tiryns quickly re-established order and peace, of a sort. Those who resisted were slaughtered. Those who refused to pay the taxes of food and goods Tiryns demanded were quickly removed from power or killed.

It was not all blood and tyranny, however. The soldiers put an end to the chaos, ensuring regular shipments of food and medicine got to those who needed it most. The famine passed. Law and order were restored. The ships of Tiryns brought soldiers, medicine and some learning to the islands. The ships returned with food and goods. A form of balance was restored.

It couldn't last.

...

About five years ago, we saw the last ship of Tiryns come and go. Several expeditions were mounted. None returned. The diviners worked their seeing magics. Those that lived clawed out their eyes or simply lost their minds.

Now, there are whispers of war brewing in the eastern continents. Local governor's are grabbing up and hording resources and power. Many claim the right of Tiryns when they do so, but few believe Tiryns will ever return.

In some cities, the people speak openly of casting down the legions. Still others grumble for conquest.

A report came to my desk yesterday speaking of dark creatures being seen in the north. If the reports from the south are to be believed, the Orgoshi have returned as well.

One way or another, the Third Age of Tiryns is over.

The Darkness Within

During the four days he has to contemplate prior to leaving for the island, Matthias meditates as he did before. Only this time, instead of entering Constantine's vision, he descends into his own dark dream.

There is a flash and suddenly he is standing in a courtyard before a great temple, much like the one inside the Crystal Tomb. Only with more shadow than he remembers, seeping out from behind closed doors and high in the ceilings as he walks through the open doorway. The golden light of Pelor still glows from the central altar but it is different somehow. Its light is now darker, almost gritty, the illumination dulled.

Upon the altar is a large gold and black sunburst, the holy symbol of Pelor. The light seems to emanate from within it. Steeling himself for whatever might lay ahead, Matthias walks to the altar and peers down at the symbol. The holy symbol is actually loose, and not, as he first thought, a piece of the altar. It hums a little as he approaches.

The humming noise increases in intensity. The light seemed to be pulsing in time to the vibrations. Matthias reaches out and touches the symbol and with a sigh the humming stops, and he feels a jolt of energy flowing into him.

A voice echoes inside his head, speaking in a strange tongue. Matthias ponders to himself the meaning behind the words but realizes that the tongue is nothing he understands, yet the voices seem slightly familiar, almost comforting in a way. But these thoughts are quickly forgotten as the light diminishes in intensity, and golden flares start washing like waves up his arm.

In a flash, with his finger still on the holy symbol, he realizes why the voice sounds familiar. It is not words it is speaking, but the sounds of magic. Specifically, these are the sounds of the healing fires of Pelor.

This magic is dark, not tainted but angry. The magic is filled with all the rage of the burning sun, filled with life-giving and life-destroying power. The symbol seems to grow hotter as the moments tick by.

Matthias pulls his hand away, startled by the sudden intense heat. Immediately he feels a sharp pain all throughout his body, as though tearing away all the muscles, all the flesh, all the sinew in one moment. He doubles over, kneeling in front of the altar.

This is when he sees the cracks spreading on the golden face of the altar, cracks pulsing with an eerie red glow. Matthias senses something is wrong and backs away from the altar, but when he reaches for his mace and shield, shocking realization hits him.

No shield. No mace. Just himself, his robes, and the connection to his god. Looking again at the altar, a feeling washes over him, and he knows.

It is sick.

It is dying.

“It is you, Matthias.”

There is a voice, talking to him, whispering thoughts.

It's difficult to differentiate between the voice and his thoughts. Even as he listens hard, he can barely make out the whispers.

"Heal me. Embrace me. Call me brother. Pick me up, and carry me into the world as your own. Heal the sick, taste the rage. Embrace it, and by doing so, be cleansed."

The statues of angels all seem to watch in anticipation. Matthias bends down and picks up the symbol and holding it between his hands places it against his breast, pressing it against himself in what seems an effort to become one with it. As Matthias places his hand upon the holy symbol, the burning sensation starts again, almost immediately.

Gradually it increases as he strains to lift the unbelievably heavy thing. Finally, with a great heave, he slings it around his neck where it drops, without a single bounce, to hang upon his chest.

Matthias stands, breathing heavily for a moment, but realizes the ordeal is not over. The heat from the symbol suffuses him, but a new sensation is now radiating from the altar itself.

The cracks in the altar are spreading visibly now, and as they spread, Matthias feels cold running up and down his body, prickling his skin. The chill spreads out, engulfing the room. The red light within the cracks darkens and begins to throb in a slow rhythmic pulsing.

Almost like the beating of a heart.

At once Matthias knows what he must do: heal this sickness, purge the altar of the darkness, and set everything back into balance.

Matthias raises his voice above the noise to call out for Pelor to bring life, and, reaching for the altar his hand unconsciously brushes the holy symbol at his chest, its weight still dragging against his neck. There is a flash of golden energy and he feels as though his limbs are burning themselves away in the pure fury of it.

And then there is a silence.

So profound is the sudden quiet, that Matthias finds himself holding his breath for fear of breaking it. A moment passes as the red light seems to ooze back into the altar. Some of it drips down upon him, seeping into his flesh before he can move. Where it touches Matthias, he feels the anger and the rage all over again. But that too becomes quiet, until all that is left is the lightly throbbing weight of the holy symbol, pulsing in time with the light from the altar.

The pure, golden light. Unbroken, unmarred, uninjured.

His breath escapes, and he awakens. Matthias clutches for the symbol around his neck.

It's still there.

So heavy.

But it feels right, somehow.