Role

Chapter 8

I find ruling to be a small comfort in this miserable wasteland we call "life."
Alcohol, women, and now, power over the Empire are my vices, and my only
escapes from the ashen landscape of my soul. The fallen leaves on the path
I walk are rotten and fetid. The clouds above bring cold droplets of death
while the coins in my pocket fill me with a lust only for more. Ckath wished
to lead a party into Hell. He does not realize that we are already in Hell.

The barbarian hordes have been tempered, the great bellowing giant brought
low by Imperial aggression. We continue to smash them into the damp,
rotting dirt. The Fortress may as well not exist, now that the Dwarf Ghrajjek
has taken his own life. The Refuge is but a shadow of its former self, and
the rest of the enemies of the Empire cower when we mighty ones walk.

And yet I feel nothing but a hollow, vacant hole in my soul.

Ah, firebreather. My only true companion. Let me have a few sips of you.

Ah, that's better. I can continue with life again.

The Imperial forces swell - perhaps not in number, but in competance.
The Dread Lady has successfully incubated and will be, I hope, a force to
be reckoned with in the future. Things go well.