Ralshamar the Legend of the Battlefield

Role

Chapter 9

Ralshamar had grown much in the years since his pledge to the temple to one
day be worthy to wear the robes of an acolyte. His technique improved day
by day, and with it the destruction he could bring against the profane in
the quest for purity. A century ago he would never have dared push into
shattered Maethian to bring down the enemies of truth, but now not even
there were they safe from his wrath.

He had met several other pledges to the Father's temple. Some who even had
promise. It was unfortunate that he had butchered the magician Narra when
she had taken him for one of the profane and spontaneously flung herself
upon his blade, but her sight had proved less clouded in her native form
than as a bat. Her understanding--loathe as he was to admit it--had
eclipsed his own, and she had granted him knowledge of some of the holes in
his studies of the Father's text. She would be a worthy ally, though would
undoubtedly one day wish to have her revenge upon him. They would see who
had the stronger will when that day came. She clearly had ambitions to
serve as the Father's Voice, and had asked him if he one day aspired to be
the Flame. He felt she was getting somewhat ahead of herself, but could not
deny that it was an ambition worthy of pursuing.

Yet not all was ideal.

The task which the Father's agent had imparted upon him would likely take
many years yet. The profane Marshal was more caucious after the last time
he had eviscerated the dwarf, and the so called captain had not shown his
face to Ralshamar in the last 300 years. The imperial lie was in shambles,
dead Emperor and absentee leaders of half their so called sects. All good
things in the grand scheme, but inconvenient in the extreme in the
immediate. It would likely take many years yet, but Ralshamar would persist.

The one current acolyte of the temple had vanished. Whether dead or simply
in hiding, Ralshamar neither knew nor cared; either was as impotent as the
other in doing the Father's work. It was unfortunate, as he had been
impressed by the conjurer's ruthlessness. Perhaps he would yet reemerge,
but the drow had his doubts.

Yet the fact remained.

The temple would open once more; and the profane would be shown the
Father's truth.

Role

Chapter 8

Ralshamar considered, that perhaps, he had been thinking too small.

The mummy's decree concerning the Spire had come as a surprise to him. A
consolidation of power, perhaps? A simple distaste for those profane that
would openly look upon him with disgust? All reasonable theories, and yet
Ralshamar did not believe the mummy had lied to him when he had asked why.

The claim that he had had enough of the citizens of Thera believing the
Spire served. That it was by his will that the cities were kept protected,
and all should come to know this. Misguided, of course. The Spire as an
institution was based on a flawed proposition; that cities needed to be
protected at all.

And yet.

For the briefest moments in that discussion Ralshamar had sensed the hunger
there. Not the hunger of a creature that wished to safeguard the cities;
the hunger of one who would push and push and push until he pushed too far,
and the chains of mediocrity would snap.

The mummy may sit atop the spire for now, but in time its luster would
tarnish. He would feel constrained. Would want more.

When that day came, when the mask did not merely loosen but was torn away.

Ralshamar would be waiting.

Yes, Ralshamar decided. He had been thinking too small.

The thief was a trifle.

The mummy was a far more worthy ambition. Though it may take centuries...

They both had time.

Now, how to expedite the process...

PK Gank-O-Meter

Role

Chapter 7

The profane are numerous, but I must never forget that no matter how blind
they may be all have the potential to be taught to see the Father's truth.
To that end I have been taking note of those that are of immediate interest
to me.

The first, the thief from the Spire, Vae. She is aware of my nature and yet
offers gifts and aide. Naturally all gifts must be refused, as a gift from
the profane is no gift at all, and the man who needs aide from such a
creature is weak in both body and will. Yet I am unable to yet determine
whether the source of these offers is a truely startling level of blindness
even for one of the profane or the beginnings of discontent with her
current position. If it is the former: regretable, but not surprising. If
it is the latter, perhaps she can yet walk out from the fog of illusion in
good time. This will require further investigation.

The latter is a far more interesting possibility. The imperial slave Zaol
at first sight seemed entirely feckless to my gaze. A dangerous opponent,
perhaps. But all together dull of mind and easily lead by the chains which
bind him. However, I did witness something there. The casual disregard for
his so called law while seeking my death was perhaps quite costly for me,
but could be the beginnings of freedom from mediocrity for him. I feel this
one will need to die before he truely begins to see, which will be no
simple task: but one that must be pursued nevertheless. Once he comes to
realise his enslavement does not even offer martial victory, perhaps he can
come to see that it can not even begin to grant spiritual freedom.

We shall see.

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.

Role

Chapter 5

Ralshamar had come to realise that very few people truely understood the
way that the world worked.

There were the imperials, who once honeyed words had failed had turned to
violence; and when violence had proved less than persuasive, to bribes. The
shackles of the oath did not chafe so much they would have him believe. Yet
did the man who saw clearly seek a knife to put out his own eyes with? no.

Then the maran. Ralshamar had seen little of those that dwelled within the
fortress, though the few that he had had forced him into retreat. A state
of affairs that must be rectified, but not this day. With every passing
month his body grew stronger, and in time those highest of the profane
would be put to the sword.

Then there were these villagers.

Though the empire and the maran had wronged him more and were an afront to
all he believed, he held a strange disdain for these hut-dwelling men and
women that it had taken him many years to put a finger on the source of.

If he had been weaker, he could have ended up one of them. Had he not
suffered beneath the touch of magic? Was it not written upon his skin for
all to see until his final breath? It would have been easy to ascribe blame,
to walk in a world of fog and lies where his existence could be put to the
noble task of stopping such a malignant force. To grant meaning to pain
where there was no meaning; to ascribe a higher calling to suffering where
there had been none.

These men and women may have been strong of body, but their minds were weak.

And that, Ralshamar had decided, was a lesson worth remembering.

Role

Chapter 4

Key points:
1. Has lost his memory due to trauma. His only memories before the
transmuter's experiments is the sky and his name. Obviously, he's a very
damaged individual, though thinks completely otherwise. Will start out very
emotionally detached, though this might change depending on what happens.

2. If he sets himself a purpose he will stick to it with near fanatical
obsession, since this is part of what he believes permitted him to survive
his ordeal.

3. Believes he survived where so many others died because his will to
endure was greater than the other orphans. Kind of crazy about self
'improvement'.

4. Will react very baddly to people who he perceives to be trying to
subjugate him. I expect the most overt two will be Empire and Tribunal, but
who knows!

5. Joined the warriors guild because while his mind didn't fail him when
trying to escape his body did. Hence, wants to address what he perceives as
a fatal weakness.

6. Will seek the Cult of the Scarab, believing the temple can guide him on
the path to rediscovering himself.

Role

Chapter 3

These twin certainties consumed Ralshamar's waking hours and dreams both,
and though his body grew brittle and broken, the iron resolve remained.

His chance came in the ninth month.

It was not a great feat of cunning or cleverness which bought Ralshamar his
freedom. It was a patch of blood slick stone and a carelessly placed foot.

The tall shadow slipped and struck his head upon the table which Ralshamar
lay upon, and for the first time the shadow was weak and upon the ground.
An opportunity.

Yet Ralshamar was weaker still, and when he rolled from the table to the
ground and tried to beat the tall shadows head against the floor his arms
were too weak to lift the unconscious shadow's head.

So he took one of the discs-which-burned, and even as his hand sizzled and
popped he pressed it into the shadow's mouth, holding it there until the
smoke filled his nose and the pain in his hand went out. Held it there even
when the shadow's red eyes opened and the shadow tried to speak, but the
shadow had no more tongue to move. Held it there until the red eyes went
out and the shadow was gone.

And at last, he was free.

And the shadow had burned.

Role

Chapter 2

Exposure was simple enough to engineer. Cutting was such a messy business,
and quite prone to complications. Simple discs of the substance placed
against the skin were far better at establishing reactions and
affectiveness of the current countermeasures. Of course, the skin scarred
over time and left quite an unsightly appearance, but there was far less
blood. A much more humane method, undoubtedly.

Of course, most of the specimens did not last long. Fragile and often
sickly already, orphans made for such transient subjects, but needs must.
Sometimes he was blessed with one with a particularly resilient fortitude.
These were rare and valued finds, and sometimes they could last a full year
or more on his table.

Ralshamar was one such specimen.

The young drow fought in the beginning.

Or, he liked to think he had. After seven months, the pain had stripped him
of much. Memories had been the first to go. There were vague recollections
of a time before the burning, of air that did not smell of sizzling meat.
Of a sky not made of stone.

That was what he clung to when the burns would split open, when blood would
bubble up from beneath the discs of mithril upon his skin and the tall
shadow who brought the agony would click his tongue and mutter to himself.

He would see the sky again.

And he would see the tall shadow burn.

Role

Chapter 1

The dark elf race are swift of mind and hand. Deadly with blade and spell,
there are few foes the paragons of their race need give concern to facing;
yet even so. They are flawed.

So was the thinking of a particularly unpleasant specimen of the species. A
transmuter of no mean skill, he had once tasted the bite of a mithril blade
in his youth and the fear had stayed with him to his fourth century, the
phantom pain as fresh as the day the incision had been made. So it was that
on the day 400 years since his regretable birth he resolved to dedicate
some decades to solving the problem. To excise the lone flaw of the highest
of the races of Thera was a project worthy of a mind as great as his. It
would be his magnum opus.

Of course, the research would be a costly affair, and he could not be
expected to risk his own health in the experiments. Why, he could live
another four centuries yet! Far better to utilise the castoffs. It was
unfortunate that drow lives would need to be spent, but far too many
orphans tended to end up enrolled in that thug Thrym's school regardless.
It was for the best.

It was for the good of the race.

And his research, naturally.

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