The wisdom of Night -
A cold night swept across my back whilst preying upon the heathen Gnolls of
blackburrow as I had so many times before. That breeze felt good, but it carried
something with it. At that time it was but a mere spark of wonder, curiosity,
and reverence.
"For Halas, For MacLear!"
I pondered quite sometime the recognition of my small town. Even to the point of
near ignorance of the bloodthirsty gnolls lashing their teeth at me. Their wet
stink fur ripe in my nose, I cast my solid wood staff into the heads of my
enemies. A rage of excitement fresh in my veins as I thought over and over,
"for Halas, for MacLear... For Halas, For Maclear..."
Regaining my steady mind once again, a sought to find this MacLear of Halas. For
days I trekked across the land of Norrath. Devoid from the high trees of
Kelethin, the heated pools of lavastorm, the murky jungle swamp of the Feerrott,
the Rain soaked plains of Karana, and the high wisdom of Erudin had given
neither trail nor trace of this small band of heroes.
My fate was already sealed years before, as a shunned outcast of Halas when I
was but a child. Many of the high shamen saw my powers of tribal majik and had
sought to train me in their ways. My bloodline was discovered shortly after
(secrets can never be kept from the wisdom of the Tribual) that my rogue father
was involved with a blazen attempt at Antonius Bayle's life. I was cast onto the
plains to be forgotten.
I spent many moons practicing what little majik they tought me, with help from a
noble shaman from the guild provided me the scrolls and training I so needed at
night on the cold plains of Everfrost. Soon I began to practice on my own,
waiting for the moonrise so as not to be noticed by my peers. I tore at my heart
straining under the pressures of this, vowing revenge for what they had done to
me. Refusing my rite of passage. I worked day and night, ignoring the sleep and
nutrition my body ached for. I strove for violence. I can sometimes pity the
gnolls I crossed at that time for which I gave no mercy, and on occasion I even
tore their very pelts from their bones in triumph.
The violence comsumed me. It gnawed at my stomach as a violent disease would.
Finally my time had come. Caring nothing about myself, or my brothers and
sisters, feeding only rage, my body gave out. The depths of staggering pain tore
at my thoughts, and a voice began speaking to me. Each tougue thrashed word
seared my ears in flaming pain. Miragul, he called himself, so close to death
himself offered his corrupted assistance. Too weak to fight, too weak even to
fight, my mind faded into blackness.
Light came through in a dazzling array of colors and patterns as it beat itself
against the polished helm of Tormod himself. Two sister shaman knelt beside me
working what they could to save me from the oblivion. I told Tormod of my quest
to seek the MacLears as I rested, as well as my fate by the judgement of my
father's actions. He acknowledged the grevious situation, and admitted me under
his ranks. Even though a short time had passed, my insideous alter-ego had all
but vanished with the pride I carried as a MacLear. My new brothers and sisters
welcomed me in with open arms and stout beer. I had hoped my soul was saved.
Months passed easily with my noble family. Many good times met with many good
friends. I grew strong once again under the wing of Tormod. Alas his voice was
not the only one still heard. Nights retched my brain with Miragul's soft tones.
Asking for help, demanding for help. Always so soft and delicate the torture. I
feared telling anyone of this sinister majik, knowing it would be seen as evil
inside of me. Lo it was. Even though I remained a MacLear, I tried to keep
myself separated as much as possible. I did what was asked and enjoyed the
occasional brawling we took part in. Always flexing a muscle to keep his voice
silent.
I wandered across the land once more, searching for serenity. Nights proving to
be worse than the days, his voice followed just a loudly, just as softly no
matter how far I tried to get. I was forced to exile myself once more. Thus have
I not seen my brethren in so many moons, thus have I a turned a back on MacLear.
I hope to return among the ranks, but for now I practice to quiet the evil in
me.
-------------------
Damman Spiritas
Wisdom of the Nights
Semi - Retired