Role

Chapter 6

Ralshamar had been doing something quite unusual for him and minding his
own business--at least, in a manner of speaking. He'd found himself short
on coin from the many battles with the profane and the elves of Eil Shaeria
certainly weren't putting theirs to good use. Unfortunately, bloody from a
battle with a particularly misguided guard, he found himself attacked by
the profane invoker Talleluin. The battle was brief and regretably
bloodless, but Ralshamar saw an opportunity.

Remembering the whispered words of the dark voice that had commanded him to
learn the lesson of De Invidia et Odio, the drow engaged the magician in
discussion. The profane spoke of being saved, and wishing to save in turn
as those that had rescued her had. Of having a desire to be like those that
had been her salvation. To protect those profane weaker than she. Not an
office as the catechism spoke of, but perhaps more insidious for that. A
woman with one eye seeing the blind and hungering for that ignorance, and
taking up the knife to carve out her remaining vision.

So Ralshamar decided it was time for a test.

Would the profane lean on the crutch of envy, that construct of the profane,
and rush to save the helpless citizens of Ayr'Trinil as Ralshamar informed
her he was butchering them? Would she match will to word and attempt to
spill his blood in search of her false existence?

Or would she let them die, and know that she had for the rest of her days.
Would the truth eat at the mask she tried to wear forever more, until such
a time that she would lay down her crutches and walk unhindered into the
darkness? Would she know every time she claimed to be like her profane
saviours, that in fact she was far more like the drow she had so
scorned?

It was the latter. And Ralshamar was pleased.