I never really understand why I spend time on roles, as they more often than not, well, actually all of them, have gone ignored. This one helped me to keep my characters role in perspective, being sphere Anger, as well as providing a reason for his hatred of magic. Yes, perhaps it was a bit redundant for rager hating magic philosphy, so I'm not particularly certain what else I could have done. I had a few of my interactions to post into the role had I lasted to hero...but in the end I just have too little time (to log in on a regular basis with consistent times) to wait for any recognition whatsoever. I believe the only immteraction Grjarincx recived was a compliment from an unrevealed Immortal who congratulated him and Findlebisk on defending, and Grjarincx watched Findlebisk kill the raiding parties. Okay, this post is running away with me...I'm just frutrated. Without further waste of your time (hopefully);

Role:

Looking closely upon Grjarincx, you focus your divine insight upon the thoughts coursing through his head, swirling about amidst the turmoil of countless memories and a maze of contained doubt and confusion. A memory reveals itself before your gaze, materializing slowly from within the swirling river of his thoughts. A waving finger protrudes in your direction, words uttered undecipherable though the anger and malicious intent behind the snarling visage of a male duergar certainly reveals the gravity of the situation, and a pang of the intense terror felt by the recipient suddenly flushes your conscience, amalgamating slowly deep in your spine where it settles for an eternity. Thankfully not yours. Quickly the memory dissapates, and another unveils itself before you, fuller, more detailed than the last, and you watch as the memory encloses you ominously, for now you live to experience the tribulations and trials, the haunting reverie of times past...


Stealing his gaze across the tiled floor below him, Grjarincx mutters quietly to himself.
His hoarse voice slices through the tense silence as he grumbles softly.
'There were only to be two dwarven guardsmen, not five...the drow will pay for that mistake.'
Glancing cautiously once more upon the scene below him, he begins altering his approach to
deal with the change in circumstances. Fortunately, he had anticipated the possibility of
the approach of others, and had a crossbow loaded, extra bolts fashinoned upon its expansive
breast. Realizing the changes had likely destroyed his oppertunity to test himself against
his opponents, he once more spits upon the ground, cursing the name of an unknown entity.


The vision before you flashes brightly then fades from view, replaced by a suddenly recalled
memory, dating no more than a fortnight previous. You see Grjarincx huddled in the deep set
corner of a bar, hesitantly slipping a pouch of coins to the drow adjacent to him, his
unblemished face and dark eyes locked upon the figure intently.

He whispers softly, "You recieve payment for your aid, and half of the takings when I have
finished dispatching their guard. Be ready for my signal, and you'll take yours with not
a blade lifted."

Without looking to see if the drow has anything else to offer, he draws his cloaks together
and hastily makes his way to the door, slamming it as he passes through without thought to
the barmaid who shrieks in fright at the sudden sound. He walks off into the dredges of the
cavernous city, losing himself within the dark domiciles of the underground.

The memory of the ensuing battle quickly materializing before you once more, and you see
Grjarincx poised calmly upon his rocky perch, crossbow aimed directly upon the nearest foe.
With an audible twang, the bolt is released, carving a quick arc into the startled eye of a
dwarven guardsmen. Four other dwarves spin quickly as the sound of their ally's heavy armors
crashing to the ground reaches them. Another twang quickly echoes through the cavern, and
a second dwarf slumps to the ground, pierced through the heart, his battlemail sundered by the
whetted bolt. Quickly the remaining guardsmen assess the situation, and begin a furious
battle charge towards Grjarincx, weapons bared menacingly as their warcries reverberate
ominously throughout the room.

Loading the bolt once more, knowing he has only one more oppertunity, he takes careful aim
and unleashes another bolt through the neck of the leading dwarf, watching with satisfaction
as the dwarf spins in agony, throwing himself to the ground as his lifeblood seeps from his
veins. Dropping the now useless crossbow to the ground, he unsheathes his twin blades,
grinning as the oppertunity has arisen to truly test his battle prowess. Screaming his own
battlecry, he leaps nimbly down the rocky outcropping, landing at its base with his blades
extended, each pointed in the general direction of the two rushing dwarves.

An intense feeling of hatred overwhelms you as a bloodred haze dims the transparent memory before you, though the cavern can still be seen in some detail.

Quickly axes come swinging towards you, only to be deftly slapped away, returned threefold
in the form of stining slashes and lightning quick thrusts. The blades before you become
a whirlwind, spinning intricate patterns into the air, ducking a blade quickly to strike
the exposed belly of one dwarf while the other turns above a swinging slash of an axe only
to swiftly twist its course, turning upon the exposed collar of the other. Withdrawing
both blades, he swings his right arm out, slashing the neck of the first dwarf, and follows
with a sweep of his right, removing the axe and hand of the remaining combatant. Nodding
with satisfaction as the dwarf screams in intense pain, he quickly jabs his sword into the
forsaken beings wailing mouth, silencing him for eternity. Wiping the blood from his
blades, Grjarincx whistles in the direction of his original position, though doing so only
after plucking a keyring from the corpse of the last fallen guard, placing it deep within
the heavy cloak he bears about his body.

Quickly a drow descends, his glee indicative by the heartless chuckle that eminates from
his mouth, the mirth and hatred evident in his eyes. Clapping softly, he finishes his
descent and stands before your gaze, his eyes suddenly hardening to the point of rage as
he focuses them directly upon you.

The drow quickly asks, "Where are the keys. Surely you have them?"
A hoarse laugh ensues, and a hoarse whisper, yours, offers, "Of course. Let us collect
upon the reward I promised, and reflect upon the word I kept."
"The word you kept, duergar?" the drow asks quietly.
Turning to face the drow once more, you notice the small crossbow held towards you,
aimed directly at your chest.

"Unfortunately, duergar, I am forced to lift my weapon now. Do not think I do not
appreciate your aid....but I simply insist upon taking the treasure. Your life I would
reward, but then, I seek to leave no enemies living. A deal I will offer you, instead,"
the cool voice offers, melodious despite the malevolent words.
"You can face me, and if you win, you can go free."

A feeling of relief fills you momentarily, followed swiftly by anger and righteous indignation. Once more the blades extend before you in preparation for battle.

A quick chuckle escapes the thin lipped drow as he comments, "Surely I do not intend to
give you a fair chance. Your ability did not go unnoticed." With a quick flick of his
hand, another figure appears upon the top of the ledge, whispering the quiet, disconcerting
tongue of the arcane. A small globe appears in his hands, growing slightly as his chanting
intensifies. With the swing of his hand, the wizard unleashes a fireball directly towards
you, and you feel your body warm with an intense heat, the memory fading just as the ball
explodes before you.

Darkness, pain...what is that noise? Something terrible, surely, and likely not a foe to
take lightly, one that shrieks like such. It hurts my head, the noise, the seared flesh of
my face sending a ripple of agonizing pulses through me. By the Gods, it hurts. I cannot
see...I am alive...but for how long?

Standing before the form of the duergar, the two drow stand, engrossed in the pathetic attempts
the duergar makes to climb to his feet, his face burned and marred beyond recognition.

"Well then. I kept my word, to you, and surely such is fair." With a chuckle, the drow
raises his crossbow upon the distracted duergar, locking the bolt into place.

Snap! The drow, the mage...his crossbow. These thoughts explode through the intense pain,
the meaning of them seemingly lost upon his occupied mind even as his body responds to them,
throwing itself to the side. More pain...shoulder...now...hurts...bastard must die.

The drow laughs mercilessly as the duergar responds before him, quickly closing the distance
between them, now seperated by only the dwarven corpse at his feet. Stepping forward, he
levels the bow once more, this time directly upon the heart of his foe.
The cool, soothing voice asks, "Where are the keys, duergar?"

Keys...what keys? The keys...yes. Reaching into his cloak, the duergar resignedly produces
the keys, relasing an audible croak of pain the movements have caused him. The drow reaches
down, intending to pluck the keys from the dying duergar, and instead finds the uninjured arm
of the duergar wrap about him, embracing his neck in a deathly coil of muscle and skin.
Twisting his body with the anger of the smitten, the duergar pulls the drow towards the ground,
his pain abated by the mometary satisfaction of the vertabrae cracking stiffly within the
confines of his grasp. He lowers the corpse across his body, focusing his thoughts upon the
sounds about him. Nothing...nothing...

Then, slowly, the sound of light footfalls break through the horrifying silence, much closer
than expected. A whisper echoes throughout the hallway, the drowish tongue foreign to him.
Focusing himself upon the direction of the voice, Grjarincx grasps the loaded crossbow in his
injured hand, forcing the thoughts of pain from his mind as he prepares his injured body for
one last assault. He senses the form looming above him even before he feels lithe hands slide
into the folds of his robe to search for the keys. Using his good arm, he swings frantically,
latching his hand onto the arm of the mage, yelping with pain as he pulls his injured arm from
beneath his fallen enemy. He fires towards the end of the arm, failing to notice the form
instantly stiffen, and pulls it to the ground in a savage hug. Rolling atop it, he begins to
beat savagely upon it, venting himself until he can no longer sustain his anger, and he topples
beside the corpse, the loss of blood and extreme exertion costing him dearly.


The memory fades, replaced by a hunger deep within you, though it is not one that will ever be sated by feasting. As you pull your focus away from Grjarincx, you pause only briefly to consider the implications of the events seen, and the anger that must well just below the skin of this tortured creature. The hunger slowly dissipates, flooding free of you in a river of relief.