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Summary - Sphere Honesty, Tribunal
Samroth was a simple man living a simple life. Unknown to him, he bore the
full creative and destructive power of a Namer. By manipulating something's
True Name, a Namer could control the very existence of objects. Of people.
A Namer is destined to speak honestly, or his power to Name disappears.
Unfortunately, Samroth's rare gift was wasted when he accidentally un-Named
himself in a moment of panic to preserve the life of his young wife. Without
realizing it, he bound his entire soul and the soul of a devil to a beat-up
museum artifact that some crazy warlord thought would give him eternal power.
Now he feels a void, and thinks he can fill it by upholding the Law. Sensing
his empty soul, the Anti-Paladin guild took him in to study him (and disguised
it as training...cruel bastards never told him he had no soul).
He cannot lie, and has no desire to - he finds it repulsive.
He is evil, but not corrupt.
Plot hooks
-Could learn somehow that he is missing his soul
-Could find himself drawn to collecting souls via unholy blessing
-Could be redeemed much later in life to get his soul back (or as a result of
getting his soul back)
-Could learn of the Namers and maybe even that he was (or still is?) one.
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Fate's Fluke - the Namers
Without irony, one could say that it began in the beginning.
The Lord of Order and the Forsaken One harnessed creation itself, molding
an empty plane into what would come to be known as Thera. Each object, each
creature, each being was granted a name - its True Name - to distinguish it
from all other things.
But having created in their own image, they unknowingly bestowed a simple and
powerful ability upon some of their sentient creations:
The ability to Name.
Hundreds of generations would pass before the first of the Namers fully
realized the scope of her power. The power of a True Name is the power of
creation itself - and it is the power of destruction. The first Namer was of
good heart, and recognizing the dangerous power at her disposal, gave a True
Name to all who would be called Namers. Bound to this Name was truth itself,
that all Namers must remain honest to themselves and all of Thera, lest their
Naming ability become impotent and forgotten.
Wars raged and Ages passed, and the Namers fled into legend. Naming was
diluted by time, and now, the vastly weakened power only manifests itself in
the rare prophetic oracle and the magical art of conjuration.
But from time to time, an exception surfaces.
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Prophecy's Burden
"Wait! Wait! I'll do it!"
The warlord grinned, lowering his dagger from the throat of the writhing
young woman. Her tear-stained face was a satisfying blend of terror, and
now hope, as the man roughly released her.
"I'll do it," Samroth repeated, resignedly, as his young wife scurried
through the dirt away from the warlord.
An undulating blade rested upon the stout oaken table at the warlord's
side. It was an artifact of an older time, but appeared more fit for a
museum than the warlord's scabbard. Samroth approached the table slowly,
desperately trying to think of a way out. And failing.
The prophecy was old, a tale told by a crazy, decrepit blind woman dozens of
generations ago. But the warlord was a believer. He was fanatically convinced
that the oracle's tales of "unimaginable eternal power" would be his through
the "blade of water's edge", and somehow Samroth was "the moon-marked child."
Gods damn the birthmark on his neck!
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A Lost Soul
"Are yeh gonn just STAND THERE?!" The warlord's bellow echoed through the
small, filthy cellar.
Samroth blinked, frozen. What could he do? What did the warlord expect? He
was just a man, and this was just an old, rusted, dented piece of metal.
They were doomed.
Samroth put his hand on the hilt of the undulating blade. Flakes of rust broke
off, clacking onto the table. Even if he knew how to use a sword, this one
wouldn't hold up.
They were doomed.
Samroth's wife whimpered, cowering into the furthest corner. The warlord
shifted toward her, his face a boiling mask of rage.
They were doomed.
"I would give my soul for you, Alense," Samroth whispered under his breath,
his final declaration of love before he would charge to his death. In one
clumsy motion, he lifted the sword and lunged awkwardly at the warlord,
shouting "DEVIL TAKE YOU!"
The sword was alive, rippling, angry, bloodthirsty. Samroth dropped it. The
warlord hesitated, awestruck. Alense screamed. Samroth ran, grabbing his
wife's arm. Red lightning flashed from inside. The warlord cackled.
They were free.
They were doomed.
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He sat with his face in his hands at a stout table in a quiet corner of the
bar. Four or five mugs stood empty, and another lay on its side. Zalenne's
cider was strong, but not strong enough to erase his mood. A joyful and
boistrous song broke out in the common room, but to him, it echoed emptily.
She had painted for the patrons, capturing the militant elf Ilianthalas
with precise detail. Samroth had shared a drink and conversation with the
Maran-to-be, and rather enjoyed the irony of the discussion while the
artist painted.
But she had presumably captured Samroth in exquisite detail as well. He
was taken aback when he saw the representation of himself. While the elf's
eyes were fierce with burning hatred and emotion, his were...
...Empty.
Devoid of emotion, of light, they were glassy and vacant - like those of a
corpse. They weren't mischievous, or friendly, or dark, or pensive. They
were just empty.
What had Alense told him before she left him? That the eyes were a window
to the soul? And here were his, barren, vacuous.
Samroth swirled his half-empty mug, ruminating. The amber beverage rippled,
distorting the face that stared back, daring him to make the connection.
But was it possible to live without a soul?
He frowned and stood, placing a few silver pieces on the table. Ilianthalas
had, perhaps unknowingly, given him an answer. In his raw hatred for Samroth,
he divulged that Samroth would learn to steal souls with his weapon, and that
Samroth's soul could yet be salvaged.
Putting the two together, Samroth staggered back to resume his training with
renewed vigor.
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