Role

Chapter 8

Following the previous entries, dozens of pages seem to have been
intentionally left blank, now fading yellow and cracking with time.
A few soiled fingerprints, smudges of blood, stains of ash, various unknown
blemishes are all scattered randomly throughout this section, seemingly
passed over for reasons unknown.

One page has been mostly torn away, leaving behind a roughly torn edge. A
drop of red wax rests near the bottom, on closer inspection revealing a tiny
stamped seal of a scarab. Your touch causes an instant magical reaction, as
hidden text begins to glow on this page, slowly spilling over to all
preceding pages in the journal...

Both sides of every page now crawl with life-like movement, a dizzying array
of magical scripture and diagrams glowing, the interwoven complexities of
which are difficult to truly comprehend. Branching diagrams flow from page to
page, detailed maps, complex charts outline magical ingredients, obscure
spells in some foreign cypher, numerous layered caricatures of brains and
extensive diagrams of the neurological system twist and spiral from one page
to the next, flickering like flames and thrashing with life-like movement.
Layered drawings flow into charts, runes blurring between familiar and
foreign words, poetry, art, and science merged as one, covering every
possible space of every page.

What remains of this torn page, softly glowing text now reads as follows...
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Some would believe that perfection, true mastery of the Self, is a state to
be achieved. Some would mistakenly believe they have achieved it. Even my
guildmaster claims this of me-- though he is an elf, which would explain a
great deal of his inferior perceptions. No longer useful, the time has come
to slaughter him.

Perfection of the Self is a process ever unfolding, of overcoming-- of Becoming--
a never-ending transformation. Each moment to become more than the last. And
in proving this Truth, I've become stronger and mentally sharper than all
elves and drow before me. And still I advance.

Perhaps a test, Father Scarabaeus Himself would seem to deny the very
prospects for my transformation, suggesting that, beyond the necromancers and
perhaps the rarest of dark paladins, only slaves in the end would achieve the
transcendence I've envisioned. Yet I continually realize this simple Truth
overflowing from within. Such a thing cannot be constrained by past
precedents.

As the vines of the jungle thrive relentless, like the flames of wild fire, my
life is the Pure essence of health and endless progression. Should it become
necessary... I would deny even Him.
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