Narzaal the Desecrator of the Holy

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Role

Chapter 1

The wind was unusually still above the Tahril as Feslin the Monk
placed his controversially colourful prayer cushion on the earth
beneath him and adjusted his cowl to sit. He enjoyed it up here,
the fresh air always seemed to help his mood compared to the old
Temple nested in the sands below.

He closed his eyes and let his mind drift, enjoying the sound of
the wooden wind chimes he'd fastened to the rock face behind. It
was an unusual rhythm today, as if they were worn about the hips
of an exotic dancer. He frowned to himself.

Such erotic thoughts would get him in trouble again.

So he attempted to avert his thoughts from the hips of women and
focus on something a little more respectful. But the sound grew
closer and more obnoxious, he could feel the stale breath of his
perverted mind breathing down his neck. He needed this noise to
cease and for his peace to return.

Standing abruptly he turned on his feet, preparing to rush over
and wrench those provocative chimes from where he hung them last
week. Then he remembered the wind, that unusually still wind, he
froze where he stood and was suddenly trembling. He barely heard
the silence, when the sounds of the chimes ceased.

He only heard the whomping of a club as Narzaal cracked open the
back of his head and his lifeless body slumped to the earth. He
was then decapitated, eaten, skinned, butchered, all in a grisly
display of macabre affection. His head was salvaged of course,
then shrunken down by some dark voodoo and placed upon Narzaal's
belt where it would rhythmically knock together with the others.

Just like wind chimes.

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.