The Lamented Chronicle

[Dugs]

Ever since I was a kid, I'd always heard the rumors, always heard the stories. That Doom-Fate was prophesied to be the last Thane of our people. Everyone had their theories, of course. Maybe he'd die in the mouth of a dragon, maybe he'd fail us, getting slaughtered by some random orc. Hells, maybe he'd even make it until he died of old age. Who was to really say?

Around the time I was born, there was another child, Zosmere Never-Crown, the grandson prophesied to never hold the crown. A bit self-explanatory, I think. Around this time, we'd leave our keep now and again. I remember traveling with my parents, trying to learn the histories of the sands themselves, trying to find new stories. But that's when tragedy struck my little family. A savage clan took us. I wish I could remember their names, wish I could whisper to Umbur my cries. I wish I remembered the things I can't, and I wish I could forget the things I do remember.

First, there was flame, then there was screaming. The fucking screaming. I'll never forget it; it might as well be seared into my brain. This orc had a sick sense of humor, killing my parents, a few friends. But they let me live. They carved out my eye, and so I became Sorrow-Marked. I've dedicated my entire life to slaughtering orcs, to pissing on their graves, trying to fill that hole deep within me. And some forty years later, my opportunity arose. A madman, a cleric of the second spoke, Coordum cursed be his name, started a war with Iakmes, or perhaps it's the other way around. Savages fighting savages, if you ask me.

But the MINNINGAR were formed. Someone smarter than me could probably explain what it was, or why they bothered choosing me. I suppose I'm one of the biggest, not afraid to tell someone how it is. Maybe they just wanted someone Zosmere's age, someone to remind him he isn't a bitter old man just yet. Who knows? I sure as fuck don't. It was told to us that our Thane would leave for an ancient rite, a meeting of some sort at Kardesler. That he'd dedicate our people to the cause of Ephians, that we'd walk hand in hand, slaughtering the many orcs.

A feast was held. I even sang a little song, emptied two mugs of ale, slamming them against each other, against the table. I think I saw that old man smile! He named me Merry-Maker that day. I hope I can hear him call me that one more time. It was then that he left, and it was then that I got my first real taste of combat. A league of orcs, fifty or so tops. I danced through them, ripping limb from limb, from ear to ear. But it was not all joy, for our Thane had returned. His age was showing, the trip was hard on him. He was weaker than before. Much weaker.

I wish the words would come to me, but they just don't. It all happened so fast. We were sent here, sent there. We were sent to Ephia's Well, to demand they answer for ignoring us, to demand they answer for leaving us to die. Ephia's Well... Now that's a story for another time. We've arrived, we're beginning to settle. And this might be the comfiest bed I've ever laid my fat head upon. I'm going to enjoy it. I have to.


"Merry-Maker"
In the heart of Got Valdhazr! ; Where shadows linger, near and far ;
We gather here with somber grace ; to honor those who found their place!

Raise your cups in silent cheer ; for the fallen, always near
As we feast, remember well ; The stories that these walls do tell

[Dugs]

THE SHEPHERDS' SONG

IN SHADOWED HALLS WHERE WHISPERS DIE,
WE SING OF KALI AND GALI'S CRY.

GUARDIANS OF LAW AND EARTH BELOW,
THROUGH THEIR SACRIFICE, WE GROW.

WITH SCALES BALANCED, PURE AND BRIGHT,
IN THEIR LIGHT, WE FIND OUR SIGHT.

KALI'S LAW, A BEACON STRONG,
GALI'S WISDOM GUIDES US ALONG.

IN TEMPLES WHERE THEIR VOICES SOAR,
SPIRITS FIND THEIR JOURNEY'S SHORE.

WITH SCALES BALANCED, PURE AND BRIGHT,
IN THEIR LIGHT, WE FIND OUR SIGHT.

MOURN THE DEAD, UPHOLD THEIR NAME,
IN SACRED GROUNDS, WE STAKE OUR CLAIM.

BY THEIR WISDOM, WE FIND OUR PEACE,
ETERNAL ECHOES NEVER CEASE.

KALI AND GALI, SHEPHERDS OF GRACE,
GUIDING SOULS TO THEIR RESTING PLACE.

WITH SCALES BALANCED, PURE AND BRIGHT,
IN THEIR LIGHT, WE FIND OUR SIGHT.

OH, TWINARI, SHADOWS CAST,
GUIDED BY THEIR LEGACY VAST.

IN SILENCE, WE SEEK THEIR LIGHT,
KALI AND GALI, ENDLESS NIGHT.


THE LEGEND OF GWYILYM BITTER-OATH

IN THE HEART OF GOT VALDHAZR,
WHERE SHADOWS DWELL AND FIRES CHAR,
LIVED A DWARF OF LEGEND OLD,
GWILYM BITTER-OATH, HEART COLD.

IN THE DAYS WHEN HALLS WERE YOUNG,
SONGS OF VALOR OFTEN SUNG,
GWILYM NO-NAME STOOD TALL,
WARRIOR WISE, BELOVED BY ALL.

PROPHECY OF DOOM FORETOLD,
SEER'S VISION DARK AND BOLD,
GREAT CALAMITY TO FALL,
ONLY SACRIFICE COULD STALL.

TO THE DEPTHS, ALONE HE WENT,
LABYRINTH OF THE MALEVOLENT,
ARTIFACT OF POWER GRAND,
AT A COST NONE COULD WITHSTAND.

MONTHS IN SHADOWS, MONSTERS FACED,
DRIVEN BY HIS OATH EMBRACED,
FOUND THE STONE OF VIGIL BRIGHT,
BUT IT CAME WITH ENDLESS NIGHT.

TOUCHED THE STONE, HIS FATE WAS SEALED,
LIFE TO DARKNESS NOW REVEALED,
RETURNED HOME, BUT CHANGED, FORLORN,
EYES ONCE BRIGHT NOW COLD AND WORN.

COUNCIL NAMED HIM BITTER-OATH,
GUARDIAN OF SHADOWS' GROWTH,
CENTURIES HE STOOD HIS GROUND,
ETERNAL WATCH, FOREVER BOUND.

SILENT HALLS AND WHISPERS LOW,
OF HIS SACRIFICE THEY KNOW,
IN THE DARKEST HOUR'S CALL,
BITTER-OATH STANDS, GUARDING ALL.

IN EMPTY HALLS, HIS TALE IS TOLD,
A HERO'S HEART, A SPIRIT BOLD,
GWILYM'S LEGEND, SOMBER, GRAND,
PROTECTOR OF HIS ANCIENT LAND.

[Dugs]

NO MORE WORDS, NO MORE PLANS,
HE'LL DO WHAT HE MUST, WITH HIS OWN TWO HANDS.


The Journal seems to end here, pages are ripped out.