Phelan Caill the Mummy Lord, Anathema to the Empire

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Edges

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Immortal Comments

Role

Chapter 1

Phelan dedicates a not insignificant portion of his time to contemplation and
to introspection. His thoughts are not so intensive to be meditation but not
so superficial as to be considered mere pondering. He focuses his mind on what
has been, what is and what may be while he carries out the rote tasks of
mastering spells or while he trains his meager skills in combat against pitiful
foes.

In this instance, Phelan focuses his mind on evocation of his first experiences
in effort to recall the first moment in his life which could be accurately
referred to as an actual memory. The result though is no different than all of
his previous attempts as the dank smell and chill darkness of the nursery of
the Balator oprhanage coalesce in his mind's eye. The stiffness of the hardwood
board pressing against his back while he stared abrubtly into the black
darkness around him, startled into waking by the wail of another child shrieking
in the bunk above him. Jaragh was not there to walk through the rows of bunks
that night to comfort the children with his words of peace and sooth them back
to dreams of being cared for and being valued. No he was away in the far South
to gather donations to support the oprhanage. Instead, the shrill whisper of
the mistress of boys shushed the room back into still quiet with the thump of
her cudgel against the sideboard of the nearest bunk. Phelan half closed his
eyes to focus on her so as to dodge her next blow if it came his way. He froze
in distress at the black cloaked figure at the side of the mistress as it moved
closer to him. Too long and too thin the figure pointed it's index finger in
the direction of his bunk and muttered at the mistress of boys. The woman
snatched Phelan up out of his bunk, out of the room, down the long hallway,
through the side door and out into the yard with what seemed one harsh motion.
Phelan opened his mouth wide to yell for help to protest and with the flick of
an unseen blade his yell turned into a gurgle and his tongue lay on the ground
before him bleeding itself dry with convulsive contractions. The robed figure
bent slighty to pick it up and place it in an oiled pouch among its accoutrements.
It waved a hand in Phelan's direction and the sharp pain and bleeding of his
mangled mouth fell into a dull calloused over throb.

Role

Chapter 2

No, not this time, but he could feel that there was more there in the recesses
of his mind, he would never cease to plumb the depths of his consciousness for
some loose thread of memory of his life prior to that night in the orphanage.
He rolled his tongue over in his mouth and allowed himself the satisfaction
of a brief musing of slaying the scion necromancer that had muted and enslaved
him for the remaining years of his childhood and well into young adulthood.
His enslavement had been horrid and ghastly and wrecked his body and mind with
intolerable suffering, but it had made him hard and provided the opportunity to
learn the dark arts despite the unwitting fool necromancer's perception of him
as an incompetent tool incapable of base thought.

Phelan completes his breathing exercises and moves on to the task at hand, still
mindless of his conception, and ignorant of the loss of his parents. Why would
he concern himself with the loss of something he never had when he could pursue
the ability to read and shape the threads of destiny and embrace the struggle
to sculpt his own fate.

Role

Chapter 3

After so many years, he could still faintly recall the sweet taste of
honey as it rolled off the back of his tongue and down his throat.
He rolled the tongue of the elven mage around in his dry mouth, it
would probably only last another day or perhaps two at most. Tongues
of the high elves were his favorite to reanimate, though a trimmed
orc tongue lasted weeks longer, the elven tongues seemed to convey a
slight sense of taste when feasting on the corpse of a victim.

The Dread Lord's meditations on loss were near constant now, save the
brief moments when combat might offer some slight distraction of
thrill or concern. He enjoyed turning over the notion of possession
in his mind, rolling it about like the sweet honey Jaragh used to
bring to the orphans on return from his trips to the Weald. If one
never actually possessed anything, could they suffer from loss? Did
he own a seat at the Council table of the Empire, the position of
leadership of the Black, the robe on his back, a shield to protect
himself from the divine? Must a thing or an ideal be possessed to be
used to his benefit? Did he care enough about any one thing, position,
or person that it would matter to him if he did not have it in his
life any longer?

It was clear through all of these deep musings though that the
citizens with whom he had spent his life were invested in his death,
and in his Becoming. They had provided him all the artifacts required
by the Conservator to plant the seed within him. Phelan embraced the
feelings of anticipation that came with the possibility of examining
the concept of loss from the perspective of undeath, while holding
close the prospect of ultimate death and what understanding of loss
that experience would finally bring.