Role

Chapter 2

The rhythmic knocking announced Narzaal's return to the Clan. He
ventured off to his little cave, carved into the tunnel walls to
sift though his new collection of heads. He unhooked Feslin from
his belt and sat the putrid little thing in the centre of his
makeshift table and laughed.

Stupid monk!

It still wore the same look of surprise etched upon his features
that appeared more akin to a comedic marionette than the remains
of a once joyous and contemplative monk.

But that is what the devout of Kreesthrike did. They went beyond
simple and carnal destruction and meddled in the savage energies
and mystics of the Clan. They nourished themselves through their
hatred and defilement of all things Light and Holy, seeking to
spread their corruption and fetid seed through the lands.

Narzaal was one of her Seers, gifted with visions from those who
leave their ghastly remains swinging upon his belt. He picked up
the shrunken head of Feslin from where it rested upon his little
stone table and hooked it over his belt. Although the vision of
the monk proved useless, there was something about that stupid
look upon his face that pleased Narzaal. This was enough to keep
him on display. Not in the prime position up front mind you, but
he found himself riding a little closer to the rear.

Feslin could not have hoped for a more undignified demise.