I came as soon as I heard of your wish, Master. Brother Mynar told me that you wished me to tell you my tale again; do you so wish, Master? From the very beginning? Yes, Master, I understand that it is part of my penance for my great sins and I meekly bow to the will of Ilmater and his servant. My story, as you well know, takes a long time in telling; shall I send for some refreshment, or shall we fast? Very well, Master; I shall begin, at the beginning as you wish.

I was born during the long winter of the Year of the Boot, on the twenty-ninth day of Uktar 1343 DR, to be exact, though I believe that I was born during the dead of night rather than in the daylight. My place of birth was in one of the many small villages that dotted the plains west of Goliad, at least there were many small villages there before the coming of the Witch King and of wars. Oddly, I cannot remember the name of my village, if indeed it had one at all. My father was a farmer, eking out a living for himself and his family like so many in that area. Actually, he probably did better than most; I can not remember a time when we did not have food on our table and clothes on our backs. I assume that others were not so fortunate. Gihran, my father, was not an especially large man, nor did he possess great strength, but he was a wise man and kind, well liked by all in our small community. My mother…ah, my mother. Khira was her name, and she was a great beauty. All who knew her loved her and would willingly give their lives for her. Both my mother and father loved me dearly, but it was my older brothers, the twins Valirith and Karden, who held the primary place in their hearts. Perhaps that is why I did what I did…but excuse me, I get ahead of myself. My brothers, twins as I have said, were much older than I was; they were born on the first day of Kythorn in 1334, the Year of the Blazing Brand. Valirith saw the world first, followed minutes later by Karden. As the year of their birth implies, they were blazing brands indeed, lighting up the otherwise tedious and sometimes dreary lives of the locals. If my mother and father were beloved by our neighbors, my brothers were almost worshipped. They could do no wrong in the eyes of the village, and indeed, for many years, they did no wrong of which I am aware. In fact, they were born protectors and nurturers, always protecting and watching out for those smaller and weaker than the two of them, and there were (and are) many fitting that description. If only I knew where they had gone wrong, perhaps I could have helped to save them from the lures of evil, perhaps I could have saved myself…What was that, Master? I was lost in contemplation. Oh, yes, I know; I should not dwell on things that I cannot change. I am sorry; I shall continue. I suppose I ought to get on to my birth, then. As I said, I was born in winter, approximately nine and a half years after my brothers entered Toril, and close to seven years after the rise of the accursed Witch King in Vaasa. Though I know that my parents loved me dearly, it always seemed as if I was but an afterthought, as my parents focused much of their love on my brothers; we all did. Am I bitter? No, Master, I do not think that I am; I think that I understand my parents and their emotions. No, I do not think that their focus on my brothers led me to do what I did; that came about because I love my brothers more than I love anything, except Ilmater, of course. Regardless, I must continue my story. Ah, yes, my childhood. Life was not incredibly easy for us—it never is for a farmer and his family—but we made out all right. My father, as I have said, was an excellent farmer, and he nearly always brought in a fine crop. My mother kept a fine garden, and our old milk cow Lily provided us with milk and cheese. My brothers did all they could, hunting and fishing and hiring themselves out as farm hands. Besides doing all they could to keep our family well, my brothers did all they could to ensure that our village survived and prospered, which was a difficult task even before the wars began. Valirith and Karden were models of virtue in those days, seeing that the widow Rjiily had enough to eat and working for free when a farmer could not pay them, among other things. They were perfect. I idolized them and followed them everywhere they went, almost from the time I could walk. The two of them tolerated me in good nature; they were always willing to let me tag along wherever they went, and they helped to instill in me a love of sacrifice and service that I sometimes like to think that I still have today. What? It's nice of you to say so, Master, and I thank you. In addition to teaching me virtue and justice, my brothers taught me no small number of practical life skills. By the time I was three, the twins were taking me riding on our old plow horse Daffodil; I could easily control her myself by the time I was four. Sometimes I think that some of the best times of my life were spent riding through the fields on Daffodil, Valirith and Karden walking by my side. In addition to riding, the twins also taught me to hunt, though with a sling, not a bow; bows and arrows cost a great deal of money, while slings can be made from leftover cloth, using rocks as missiles, and rocks, well rocks are free. These were my golden years, when I had few cares, and none that could not be taken care of by my family. If only they had lasted forever, but alas, they did not.

In the spring of the Year of the Spur, 1348 DR, when I was a young lad of four and a half, my brothers, strapping young men of fifteen years of age, decided to set out and seek their fortunes, to become adventurers. Of course, they had talked about it for several years, going off and fighting evil, all children do so. However, they decided that they could best serve our village, the nation of Damara, and the great god Ilmater by striking evil at its heart, by striking at the Witch King in his Castle Perilous. Like all young men of their age, they believed themselves to be special, to be invincible. They thought to adventure for several months in Damara, gaining power and fame, then travel over the mountains to Vaasa and slay the Witch King in his fortress. What ignorant fools they were. What an ignorant fool I was, for I believed that they could do it. If only I had known then what I know now, then perhaps I could have averted the tragedies that have occurred. Valirith and Karden walked out of our village on the seventeenth of Kythorn, carrying with them little more than the clothes on their backs and the staves in their hand. I think that everyone in that village, everyone except perhaps the twins themselves, also realized that they carried with them the light, the spark of our lives. Valirith and Karden were the focus of our otherwise dreary lives, and when they left, they took with them our hearts.

Despite the loss of Valirith and Karden, our village survived, as it obviously would; two people cannot make a place great, whatever their personal greatness may be. It may seem odd to you, Master, that I remember events that occurred when I was so young with such clarity. It is rather remarkable, I suppose, but that just further drives home the hugeness of the presence that my brothers had and the impact they made wherever they went. Anyway, I was four and a half when they left, as I said, and I grew quickly in the months following their departure, both mentally and physically. I became much less gregarious with their leaving, but I gained a wisdom that, though it may seem boastful to say so, was remarkable for a child my age. There were only about two hundred people around our village, so I had few playmates my age to begin with, but I would often stay away from even these few children, preferring to go off hunting or, when I could, take Daffodil out riding. I thought about a lot of things that summer—as I said, I was a precocious child—and I realized that, like my brothers before me, I did not want to stay in our village forever; I too wanted to go out and battle evil for the good of the whole of Damara, even the whole of the world. I must admit, though, that many of my thoughts turned to thoughts of fantasy, of my brothers and I slaying dragons and rescuing ancient treasures for our liege lord. Oh, the utter irony of it all. Would that I was still in my village…Master? Yes, Master, I understand; there is no use bemoaning the past. I am sorry, and I shall continue. I must also mention our village's lay priest of Ilmater, Relden. He was not an ordained priest of the Crying God; he just knew a great deal about Ilmater and preached it to our village; he also performed many of the priestly services for our village, marriages and burials and the like. On the day I was born, he annointed my forehead with a drop of holy water (he had a very small store that he used only for blessing births and marriages). Anyway, he was an old man who could not work his own fields, so the village installed him as its resident priest and saw to his needs. I can say that, except perhaps for Daffodil, Relden was my best friend during that summer and autumn. He told me many stories about the faith of Ilmater, telling me of Saint Dionysus and of Saint Sollars the Twice Martyred, whose monastery we are in at this time. He told me of the purpose of the faith, to alleviate the suffering in the world and to take it upon ourselves and to endure it always. It intrigued me, even at that young age, so I came nearly every day to his door, often doing small chores for him while I was there (sweeping his hearth, gathering firewood for the winter, and the like). Relden, besides teaching me about the Crying God, also taught me about the whole of the Faerunian pantheon, from Auril to Waukeen. In order to facilitate this teaching Relden also began to teach me to read Common runes, using the two old and battered books that he had (a prayer book of Ilmater and a treatise on the art of healing) as study aids. I was ecstatic, as not many in our village could read, not even my parents. And as an added bonus, the book on healing laid the groundwork for my later learning of that art. In a way, Relden partially replaced my brothers in my heart, but not completely, of course. My brothers and I are bound by ties stronger than the ties of blood that we share, ties that cannot be severed except by one of our deaths, and perhaps not even by that. My parents were truly overjoyed that I was learning such things, and they made much of it. I think that in a way, I had replaced, at least partially, the twins in my mother and father's hearts. However, I would have given anything, would have traded the love they heaped upon me, to have my brothers back home. I would have gladly faded back into the background if only Valirith and Karden would return. Anyway, due to his influence, I resolved to follow my brothers' lead and become an adventurer fighting for good throughout the land, though of course not until I was much older.

Summer turned into autumn and the first bite of winter could be felt. I remember the day well; it was Uktar the second, just under two weeks until the fifth anniversary of the day of my birth. I was wandering our property, looking for one of the last rabbits of the season, something to enliven our dinner, which normally consisted of turnips and dried meat served in a stew. Evening was approaching, and I had yet to even catch sight of any promising targets. I was just ready to turn back when I heard hoof beats coming from around the bend. Needless to say, I was excited, for people rarely came by our farm this late in the day, especially this late in the day. Around the bend came two large horses, almost the size of our draft horse Daffodil and armored with leather barding, with two armored figures riding upon them; two smaller horses with no riders, pack horses I assumed, followed. The man on the left was wearing shining steel plate armor with a visored and crested helmet upon his head; he had a huge two-handed sword strapped to his back and a shorter blade at his side. There was a lance standing upright next to his saddle and a shield on the other side. The other man, the one on the right, was armored identically; in fact, were it not for the difference in weaponry, one would have thought they were identical. This man also had a shield, plain as was the other's, but he merely had a footman's mace looped onto his belt. They both had silver symbols of Ilmater swinging from chains on their necks. I immediately knew that these were my brothers. And indeed they were; as soon as they saw me, they rode toward me; I lifted my arms up and the mace-wielder (who I later learned was Karden) picked me up by my tunic and place me in front of him on his saddle. We laughed and talked about nothing all the way to the house, where my parents were waiting to see who these visitors were. When my father saw the twins' faces (they had lifted their visors), he nearly broke down and cried for joy; my mother actually did break down. That was one of the greatest nights of my life; my brothers brought out a large side of mutton (which they had packed in salt) for our dinner, a welcome respite from beef and turnip stew. They gifted my mother with several expensive-looking pieces of jewelry, as well as some rare and exotic spices (cinnamon and other such commodities). To my father they gave a large sack, bulging with gold coin. And to me they gave what I considered, and indeed still consider, to have been the greatest treasure of the lot. Karden, who I learned had become an ordained priest of Ilmater, blessed me and anointed my head with a whole bottle of holy water. Valirith, who had apparently become a paladin of the Crying God, took from his pouch an exquisitely worked silver holy symbol of Ilmater, the bindings on the hands stained red and placed its chain around my neck. It is the symbol that I wear around my neck today, you know, and in addition to being a symbol for Ilmater, I think it a symbol of the goodness that still exists within my brothers, goodness that I hope to bring to the forefront. When my brothers came again, when I made my evil choice, I buried the holy symbol in the ashes of my parents' home; as you know, I recently returned from a pilgrimage to my old village. I found no one living there, but I did manage to dig up my holy symbol, as bright as the day I received it. Valirith and Karden stayed with us for almost two months, and the village came alive for them. They regaled the entire village with stories of their adventures all over Damara. I will not go into all those tales here, for it would increase the size of this tale tenfold. I will merely state that if even half of what they did is true, and I believe that it all was, there must be some good left in them for me to draw out, and I shall devote my life to finding it, as Ilmater has willed.

Then, just before the new year began, the twins decided that they had to set out again. This time they would cross the Galena Mountains and go into Vaasa to find and defeat the Witch King. Would that I had stopped them. They left a new hole in the village when they left, but we all managed to go along with our daily lives despite it all. They promised to return before the Year of the Arch (1353 DR) began, four years from then. By your leave, Master, I shall skip over much of the next two years, as I can think of little of import that happened. I grew mentally and physically, and I tried to follow my brothers' lead, helping those less fortunate than I to survive and protecting and teaching those younger than I; I suppose that I was a very serious and goal-driven child, especially as young as I was, but that is just the way things happened.

I believe that I shall advance the story until the end of Uktar 1352, a single day after my eighth name day. I was slightly disappointed that Valirith and Karden had not appeared in time for my name day, but I was confident that they would appear within the next month. I was not disappointed, but some days I wish that they had never returned to us. Sometimes, in my dreams, I think that they did not return to us, that demons have taken over their bodies, and that Valirith and Karden are pleading with me to free them, to exorcise the demons.

It was an overcast day, this thirtieth day of Uktar, with lead gray skies and biting cold; three inches of snow lay over the fields. I was in nearly the same spot as I had been four years ago, looking for some small animal to sling for supper. I heard, as I heard four years before, the sound of hoofbeats coming from around the bend. I was very excited, for I expected the same two suits of armor, the same two white chargers, and the same two brothers. By Ilmater's tears, I wish that it had been my true brothers, rather than the two demons I found. Around the bend came two chargers, yes, but they were coal black, barded in black steel and with flashing steel-shod hooves. The riders had the same builds as my brothers, had the same voices when they shouted their greetings, but they were not the heroic figures that I had seen those four years past. Plate armor they wore, yes, but it was of the same black steel that covered their steeds. Their weapons were of the same type, to be sure, but they seemed somehow more sinister; indeed, both Valirith's great sword and Karden's footman's mace both glowed with a sickly green light. I was secretly afraid of them, yet they were my brothers, and I knew that they would do nothing to harm me. What a fool I was. I ran towards them, arms upraised as before. And as before, Karden lifted me up and placed me in front of him. But we did not go immediately to my parents' home; instead, we went off into the fields, where my brothers gave me my choice, the choice that haunts me to this day. I remember their words vividly, so I will recount the whole of their offer word for word.

Brother, Karden said, brother Glynnon, you know that we love you, that we love you above our own lives. That is why Valirith and I are going to offer you a choice, a choice that will decide the way that your life advances from this time on. We serve a new master, and we are extending to you alone of this whole village the opportunity to join us in our service to the great lord Orcus and his servant, the Witch King. You will gain great power, and will not be confined to this tiny backwater village for the rest of your life if you accept. You will ride with us on the winds of war all over the continent. From Waterdeep to Thay and Narfell to Calimshan, we shall be but a step under the Witch King in power, and he a step under Orcus himself. However, if you refuse, if you refuse our great offer, our offer of immortality, then we shall have no choice but to end you, to end your life completely. Remember brother, remember that we wish only love for you, but we must do our master's bidding. If you join us, I myself will train you to be a priest in the service of our god Orcus. If you will not join us, I will send you to the embrace of all the devils in all the nine levels of Hell. Well, brother, will you join us, or will you die?

What can I say? I know that I should have refused, should have gone defiantly to my death, but I could refuse my brothers nothing; I loved them too much, and truthfully, I was afraid to die. Lowering my head, I murmured my assent. I am not certain that I truly knew what I had promised to; I was only nine, after all. However, I shall take full responsibility for my actions; they were my own, may Ilmater forgive me. What, Master? Thank you for the sentiment; I truly hope that he has indeed forgiven me, but I hope that I can forgive myself as easily as the Crying God has. My brothers were ecstatic. They hugged and kissed me, and blessed me in the name of Orcus. Karden even went so far as to anoint me with some foul smelling liquid, which I now know was unholy water, "blessed" by Karden as a priest of that foul demon-god Orcus. For some reason, after this blessing, I felt better, felt more at ease with my terrible decision. After this small ceremony, Karden (he always did talk more than Valirith) told me that I must prove to Orcus, and to my brothers, the depth of my promise. This village reminded both my brothers and me of our past goodness, and it had to be destroyed. If I was truly committed to Orcus, he said, then I had to help them kill the village's inhabitants and raze all the buildings to the ground. I was aghast, but I went along with the plan, having already traded my soul to Orcus in return for my life and my brothers' love. We rode on to my parents' house, where my mother and father greeted my brothers lovingly and joyfully, but at the same time, very warily. I could tell by their eyes that they knew my brothers had changed; unfortunately, they did not know how much they had changed. Mother and Father welcomed Valirith and Karden into the house, where dinner was being prepared. Dinner that night was the bloodiest I had ever seen. We sat down at the table, and my father began the prayer to Ilmater. In the middle of the prayer, my huge brother Valirith casually reached behind his back and pulled out a very large dagger from his belt. My father, head bowed, did not see the blade until it pierced his stomach with the force of a hammer blow. He grunted and kind of fell to the side, his full plate spilling onto the floor. My mother, screaming, brandished a carving knife and lunged at Valirith; the glancing blow laid open his cheek. Impassively turning towards her, Valirith casually knocked the knife from her hand and backhanded her, knocking her to the floor. Karden picked Mother up and cruelly twisted her arm behind her back. She sobbed. Valirith grunted and handed me the dagger he had used to slay my father, motioning towards my mother, our mother. She cried to me, begged me not to do it, but I loved my brothers more than I loved even her. I stabbed her in the abdomen, and her blood ran over my hand. Valirith came up behind me and put his hand over mine, making me twist the blade in her stomach. My mother, my beautiful and loving mother, gave a small sigh, told me that she loved us all despite this, and died. I was nine years old.

After my parents were dead, my brothers calmly sat back down and began eating their dinner; Karden told me to do the same. Numbly, I did. It was such a surreal situation; sometimes I still do not believe that it happened. We stayed that night in my parents' home, the bodies of my mother and father lying where they fell. The next day, my new life began. Before we left the house forever, the house where I had spent my entire life, Karden handed me a lit torch and told me to burn the house, the barn, and all the outbuildings. Now without a care (I suppose I had been fully converted by the blood of my mother on my hands), I did as he asked, ignoring the cries of the animals still in the barn. From there, we went to other isolated farms, killing all that we found and burning any structure we could. What often happened was my brothers would ride up to a farm house, kill several of the inhabitants, and capture one or two, usually women or children, for me to slay with their help. My hands were stained red that day; they still are so stained. The death that pained me the most (besides those of my parents) was the death of Relden. I killed him myself, with no help from my brothers. I merely walked up to him, greeted him warmly, and shoved a dagger into his chest. His look haunts me today; it was a spiritually wounded, betrayed look, a sad look. He shook his head and fell to his knees, calling out to Ilmater to help him. As soon as the prayer left his lips, he died; I like to think that Ilmater heard Relden's prayer and let him die quickly. At the end of that day, all of my clothes were stained with blood; it was as if I had bathed in it. The stench of smoke was in my nostrils and in my hair. My brothers congratulated me, and Karden told me that we had much travelling to do in the next few months. We were to go to Vaasa where, on the first day of Hammer of the Year of the Arch (1353 DR), I was to be formally indoctrinated into the faith of Orcus. We crossed western Damara in a month, a decent time considering the route we took and the harsh winter conditions. Upon our arrival in Vaasa, we made camp (in bitter cold, I might add) on a windswept hill just on the far side of the Galena Mountains. Karden gathered some plants and other "necessities", as he called them. Meanwhile, Valirith busied himself setting up an altar on the top of the hill, using whatever rocks and wood were at hand. At midnight on Hammer the first, 1353 DR, I was lying naked upon the altar as Karden spoke unholy prayers over me and poured unholy water mixed with (I later found out) my father's blood upon my brow. Then followed one of the most painful experiences of my life, as Valirith, with Karden chanting in the background, drew tattoos upon my arms and back, the same tattoos that you, Master, have seen for yourself. I have the goat head of Orcus on either shoulder, and many other evil symbols also "grace" my back. Finally, in rude mockery of the ancient tradition of the faithful in Ilmater, Valirith tattooed a red teardrop next to my left eye, instead of the more proper gray, which I now wear next to my right eye. Why do I keep all of these tattoos, Master? I keep them because they are a physical reminder of my past and of the evils I have caused. There are a part of my punishment.

From that bleak hillside where my soul was well and truly lost (until I found Ilmater again, that is), my brothers took me north to Castle Perilous, the Witch King's stronghold. There my brothers put me into a room by myself and went to report to their superior, whom they said was the Witch King himself. They returned and said that we would be travelling into the Galena Mountains to seek out a good dragon that was rumored to live there, and slay it, bringing its treasures back to enrich the Witch King's coffers. To assist in this, Karden and Valirith were put in command of a small group of five ogres. The dragon was reported to be a gold one, though still rather young. Karden privately told me that the ogres were shock troops, and not expected to live long. My job, when we finally found the dragon, was to wait outside with my brothers' horses; I was deemed too young to face a dragon, and rightly so. The ogres, brutish and stinking of sour milk, scared me, but none of them tried to do anything to me, no doubt at the urging of my brothers. We set out for the Galena Mountains, seeking this dragon's lair. Karden knew roughly where it lived, but we still searched for its lair for over a ride before we found it. That is a ride of searching through mountainous terrain in the depths of winter; I do not know if I have ever been colder in my life, except perhaps one other time. When we finally found the lair, Karden had the ogres make a great deal of noise in order to lure the beast out of its lair. Well, being a young and relatively foolish dragon, it took the bait; it managed to kill two of the ogres with its initial breath, but the other three managed to get out of the way before it could get them too. These three ran up to the beast and began beating on it with two-handed swords; some of them managed to inflict a good deal of damage. However, the dragon was able to slay these three; then, for the first time, I saw my brothers engaged in real combat together. They acted as one, complementing each other's strikes and retreats so completely that the dragon was unable to mount an effective defense; it was quickly overwhelmed. After the beast was dead, Valirith went around and stuck his blade into all of the ogres, for some sadistic reason making sure that they were all dead. It was then I realized that this hulking brother of mine, a man who palpably oozed evil, was well and truly insane. We went inside the cave and found a good deal of treasure, mainly gold and gems, but with two or three weapons and a shield that Karden, after a few seconds of chanting, declared were magical. After the treasure was sorted, Karden produced a large bag and began putting treasure into it; somehow, obviously magically, the entirety of the gold dragon's hoard managed to fit inside that medium-sized bag. He declared that we would spend the night here while he harvested pieces of the dragon useful to the casting of spells and the making of magic items. The next day, we set off once again for Castle Perilous, leaving the broken and plundered dragon's body behind us.

When we arrived at the castle, I was once again placed in a room alone while my brothers went to speak with the Witch King. When they returned, Karden told me that he was to train me to become a priest of Orcus. As I was only nine, I could not go through the normal initiation into the faith, which would be the raping and sacrificing five virgins in one night, followed by the sacrificing of various orcs and goblins after defeating them in single combat. Karden said that would have to wait until I was twelve, at least. I did have to fight a goblin one-on-one; it may seem like that was no great thing, but remember, Master, that I was only nine years old. Obviously, I managed to slay it, rather simply, actually. Karden placed us about fifty yards apart and told us to begin. The goblin ran at me, and for a few seconds I was too shocked and scared to do anything. Karden yelled something at me, and I suddenly remembered what little training I had been given. Trying to imagine the goblin as merely a large and ugly rabbit, I slung a stone at him, striking it square in the head. The goblin fell over, unconscious; Karden told me to finish the job. So, just as I had done with all of my fellow villagers and with my mother, I took my knife and killed it. How I did so still sickens me to this day. I cut out the thing's heart and ate it raw. I don't remember the next few days; the goblin heart made me violently ill, and understandably so. My brothers, of course, did nothing to help me save making sure I did not die of starvation; I suppose I had to prove my toughness to them. Well, I did; I believe that Ilmater was watching over me even then, helping me endure and suffer through these evils. After I had recovered, Karden and Valirith got me sick again, this time on drink. I almost think that my drinking binge felt worse than when I ate the goblin heart; I suppose that is why I have not drank a great deal since. Anyway, after my two bouts of illness, which together lasted approximately one ride, my true training in Orcus and his ways began. Karden took me away from Castle Perilous alone; Valirith was ordered elsewhere by the Witch King. I could tell that neither was very happy about that situation; they disliked very much being separated. Of course, Karden took his frustrations out on me, beating me just about every night. I took it as well as I could, and I always healed—thanks of course to Ilmater—but that instilled in me a great dislike for seeing people tortured and beaten. That is not to say that I am totally opposed to torture, mind you; sometimes it is necessary to save more lives than it wastes. However, I prefer to take no part in it myself, and will leave the area where torture it taking place. I prefer to not even go into the penitents' cells in the cellar to watch my brother priests take their penance. For some reason, though, I do not mind allowing myself to be subjected to torture; in fact, I try to visit the penitents' cells at least twice a month to help atone for my many great sins. I am sorry for going off on that tangent, Master; I will continue. What? Thank you, Master.

Ah yes, I was telling you of my training into the faith of Orcus. The faith itself, as you well know, is a vile and mean thing, full of hatred and evil. I learned things and, indeed, did things that today utterly sicken me. Sometimes I awaken in the middle of the night, sitting up on my pallet, sweating and panting, unable to sleep again. Yes, I know that there are potions to help me sleep, and I know that I can get them from the apothecary any time I want. However, I cannot do so, partially because I believe that those dreams are a part of my penance, but mainly because the potions would also cloud my mind, perhaps keeping from my mind the visions that Ilmater has given me, the visions that I believe are your real reason for asking me to tell my tale again. Yes, I know, Master; it is not right to assume such things. I humbly apologize. I suppose that I must continue to speak on my dark and horrible training. I do not know where Karden took me, exactly, only that it was in a range of mountains to the west of Castle Perilous. We lived in a cave and slept on the cold stone, or, I should say, I slept on the cold stone. The cave had obviously been used before, perhaps even for this very purpose, as there was some construction in it; walls divided it into three rooms. Karden, of course, took over the one furnished room; he graciously gave me my choice of the kitchen area or the storeroom for me to take my rest (I took the kitchen; there was at least a fire burning there). Karden, no longer the loving brother that he once was, became both my teacher and my tormentor. When he beat me or spit in my food or made me run naked in the snow, he told me that it was for my own good, that he had to go through the same thing when he converted to the faith of Orcus. At the time, I believed him, believed anything that he said or did. He was my hero, and he could do no wrong, despite all that he did to me; when he hit me or made me fast, it was either my fault or it was a part of my training. Never did I think that he was merely being spiteful or mean; never did I think that he was just a sadistic person. I still do not think that he is totally evil; I do not and cannot think that of either of my brothers. True, they have done many things that are evil, but I have done the same and I like to think that I have at least gone part of the way towards redeeming myself in Ilmater's eyes. Pardon me, Master? Oh, thank you, Master; it is kind of you to say so. Anyway, like myself, I believe that my brothers can be redeemed, and I think that Ilmater has shown me how to go about it. Regardless, I must continue my story. Despite his sadistic behavior (likely due in part to his separation from Valirith), Karden did teach me much. For some reason, he insisted on teaching me the art of natural, as opposed to magical, healing. It seems ironic, because the faith of Orcus has only to do with death and decay; life and healing would seem to be anathema to it. I believe that Karden did it because he did enjoy the irony of the situation. There was also the fact that he had me practice on small animals that he had snared. He would catch a rabbit, break its leg, then have me try to set the bone and heal the poor beast. He really loved to hurt small animals; perhaps that is why he beat me as well; I was not a very large nine-year-old. Karden also took it upon himself to teach me how to wield the warhammer. What it amounted to was him telling me how to hold it, giving me a stick, and beating me half to death with a stick of his own. It was a long and painful process, but I grew to be reasonably proficient. Actually, I do not know if it was wrong or not, but I almost enjoyed the pain when he beat me. I believe I have gotten over such masochism though. I no longer truly enjoy receiving pain; I see it merely as a part of my penance every time I hurt. Perhaps the one exception to this is food deprivation; I often enjoy a good fast to help me clear my mind. Karden also taught me to speak the languages of some of the creatures I might one day have to associate with in my service to Orcus and the Witch King. Most notably, he taught me to speak the languages of ogres, goblins, and orcs. Looking back, I would perhaps have rather learned to speak some different languages, languages not tainted by evil; however, I suppose that such a wish was not in my destiny. Every now and then during my stay in that accursed cave, some orc or hobgoblin would come and deliver a message for Karden, normally from Valirith, keeping Karden updated on the situation at the front. Sometimes Karden would be pleased by the message, and he celebrated by beating me. Sometimes he would be enraged by the message, and would take out his anger by killing the messenger, then by beating me. Karden also forced me to go on long hikes, alone, through the mountains. Sometimes he would force me to make my camp in the mountains. I think that all too often, only my native fortitude and my ability to hunt and catch my own food stood between death and me in the mountains. Once, I had to fend off a bear with only my sling. To be sure, it was a small bear still slightly groggy from its long hibernation, but I still bare the scars that it left on my right leg. Even now, the leg aches slightly in cold weather. One of the last things that Karden began to teach me was spell casting. Though I have never understood why, he made me do all sorts of unpleasant things to prepare for any spell I cast. He made me drink blood or swallow a live spider before attempting the simplest of spells. I think that perhaps he wanted to form a block of some kind within me, so that I would never be as powerful a spell caster as he; was he scared of me, maybe? Despite this, I was a quick study, and mastered many basic spells and priestly abilities relatively quickly. Anyway, that is how I spent almost twenty four months of my life, living in a cave (when I was lucky) with a man, my brother, whose idea of teaching me involved beating me every time I did not do as he pleased and every time I did not move as quickly as he would have wished. So, after twenty-four months of training, hard and painful training, I became a full-fledged priest of Ilmater, and Karden presented me with a wooden holy symbol of Orcus and let me have a mug of sour ale. I could not help but think of that happy time, years ago, when my brother Karden, the same Karden who had repeatedly beat and tormented me, anointed my head with holy water and gave me a holy symbol of Ilmater.

Now, Master, before I continue, I must address something. I know that, in my telling, it may seem like I was but a prisoner bound against my will, that I did not enjoy my training and my evil life. I humbly and shamefully deny that. In fact, I did enjoy the life, despite the beatings and other depredations that I suffered. I think that my story may be partially colored by the long periods of meditation and thought I have given to my past. Unfortunately, I truly did enjoy all that I have done, both what I have told you and what I have yet to tell you. But, on the other hand, I believe that I still maintained a sense of decency, no matter how deeply buried. Anyway, back to my story.

During the second week of Hammer, 1355 DR, near my second anniversary of living in that cave, just after my eleventh birthday, Karden received another visitor, though not a goblinoid minion. Valirith himself walked into the cave, grunted at me, and sat down at the fire. Karden was overjoyed to see his twin. He sent me to run up and down the trails while he and Valirith spoke privately. I ran for probably two or three hours, too afraid to stop, lest Karden come out and punish me for disobeying his command. I ran until I heard Karden bellow for me to get back to the cave. I sprinted back as fast as I could, more frightened of the possibility of disobeying my brother than I was of perhaps breaking a leg on the precarious mountain trails. When I returned, panting, to the cave, Karden tossed a pack at me and ordered me to prepare to leave. We were to return to Castle Perilous to receive new orders. We traveled across Vaasa in the biting cold, but I did not care; I was free of that accursed mountain and the pain it had brought me. Due to very bad weather, it took nearly a month of riding to get to the fortress. When we arrived, I was yet again placed in a room alone while my brothers went to speak with their dark and evil master. When they returned, Karden told me that their master had given he and Valirith another job. They were supposed to find and defeat some minor noble's forces that had been harassing friendly supply columns in western Damara. The twins had been given command of two regiments of orcs and orders to destroy the enemy to the man. Karden told me that I would have the honor of carrying the goat-head banner into battle. First, though, I had to be properly outfitted. I was taken to the armory, where I was outfitted with chain mail and a shield small enough for me. Though I had hit a growth spurt and was not short at all, I was still nowhere near my full height of five-and-a-half feet and a little underweight from my two-year ordeal in the mountains. I can only assume that the armor had been meant for some undersized man or perhaps a highly ranked goblin. I was also given a warhammer, which was nearly so heavy as to be useless to me. And of course, I also had my sling, though Karden did see to it that I received some brass bullets to replace the rocks I had always used previously.

We set out on Alturak the nineteenth in the Year of Harp (1355 DR), my brothers and I and three hundred orc warriors. The orcs were remarkably well disciplined; I suppose that comes from their militant background. We crossed the Galena Mountains with no problems, and had set up our command post and had begun to make sweeps looking for the rebels by the middle of Ches. I took part in some of the sweeps, always riding near Karden, carrying the banner of the Witch King. On one occasion, we were ambushed by a group of humans loyal to King Virdin of Damara. They fought well, as they were defending their homes and families, and they managed to kill several orcs out of our band of fifty. However, they were outnumbered and swiftly worn down. One man, a wild-eyed brute wielding a huge axe, made straight for me. His blow hit my shield and almost knocked me off my horse. I panicked, forgetting all of my training. All I could think of was that I did not want to die like this, killed by a man who seemed half-animal. I swung at him the only thing I held in my hands, the Witch King's banner staff. I connected squarely with his skull and his head seemed to explode, splattering blood and brain matter all over my face and chest. Some of his blood made its way into my open, screaming mouth. To be sure, I had tasted blood before, but nothing like this. All the blood I had previously drank was from much lower life forms, nothing like this. This blood was hot, was full of life. It drew away my fears and filled me with euphoria. Yes, Master, I do realize that much of what I was feeling actually came from battle lust, but I believe that the blood was the catalyst for my feeling this blood lust. Well, upon feeling this bloodlust, I spurred my horse into the thick of the fighting, laying about me with my warhammer in one hand, holding the banner pole upright in the other. I believe that I slew at least four more humans that day. I was a man possessed, feeling no weariness or pain. At the end of the battle, which lasted no more than two or three minutes, I stood on the ground (I do not remember dismounting from my horse) panting, my clothes and face spattered with the blood of my adversaries. I held my warhammer white-knuckled in my right hand, and the war banner stood upright next to me, supported by a grip equally as tight. My shield lay shattered at my feet; I believe that I had broken it over the head of an enemy. Somehow, I had the taste of blood, not my own, in my mouth. I must have bitten a man, perhaps only to have the hot taste of blood upon my tongue. Perhaps a quarter of our band of fifty had been slain; of the twenty humans who had opposed us, only one survived, and he had been captured by Karden himself. This survivor was tortured to death, not for information, but merely for pleasure, though he did scream out all he knew before my brother sewed shut his mouth. When he had finished his grisly work some forty minutes later, he looked at me, still bloodstained and wild-eyed, smiled, and told me that I was well on my way to becoming a great priest in the service of Orcus. Our campaign against the Damaran forces lasted the entire summer of 1355. I shall not bore you with the details of every little encounter, Master; I shall merely say that I did many a thing in which I take no pride. With each man I killed, my hatred for goodness, as well as I believe my madness, grew. By the end of the campaign, which was fantastically successful for the Witch King's forces, I had killed some thirty-seven men, all at least two years my elder. I was eleven years old.

Towards the beginning of autumn of the Year of the Harp, I began to get my man's growth. Karden told me that the fact that I began to grow so soon was a good omen and that by the beginning of the next year I would be ready to be fully initiated into the faith. I looked forward to it very much. Besides this encouraging news from Karden, autumn also brought the fighting in the west to a near standstill. Both sides were limited to small raids against the enemy, large-scale troop movements being impossible in the early winter. I took to painting my face for what small skirmishes we did take part in, to make myself appear more intimidating. I was assigned a small group of orcs, who now respected (and even feared) me, with orders to operate independently to destroy enemy supplies and demoralize their troops. Because of my total ruthlessness despite my youthful features, the orcs under my command called me the Young Beast, a name I lived up to with relish. Karden told me, when I managed to stop at our side's headquarters, that I was doing well and that my band was accomplishing a great deal. Master, I know that it sounds as if I am glossing over many of the details of several months or my life, months during which I committed many an evil act and perhaps blemished my soul forever. However, I cannot divulge the particulars of that time, for I do not know them myself. I think perhaps that I was truly mad during that time, and that the lifting of my madness erased those memories forever. Despite this, I do not blame the evil I did on any madness; if the madness and bloodlust was indeed the cause of my evil, then I brought them upon myself by the choices I made. Anyway, my raids continued until mid-Marpentoth, when Karden abruptly told me that we were to return to Castle Perilous so that I might be fully initiated into the faith of Orcus. Karden, Valirith, and I left on Marpentoth the nineteenth for Castle Perilous. I was struck by how similar this journey was to the last time we three had journeyed to Castle Perilous, so many years ago. Just as last time, I was going to dedicate my soul to Orcus, and, just as last time, my brothers were cold and aloof from me, seeing me more as a servant or slave and less as a brother, I suppose. The passes were bad for our journey, and it took nearly two months to reach Castle Perilous. On the twenty-second day of Nightal 1355 DR, when I was twelve years old, we arrived in Castle Perilous. The date of my initiation was set as Hammer the First, 1356 DR, the Year of the Worm, three years after that cold night on top of that hillside in eastern Vaasa.

Master, I must once again plead ignorance as to all that transpired at the ceremony. I see it through a red haze, and much of what I do see is not clear to me. I know that I…ah…deflowered several young women, raping them cruelly before I slew them upon the altar, taking a bite from each of their hearts. I also killed several men in single combat, offering no mercy. After all this, I think that I bathed in the blood of my victims, "washing myself clean" before my final vigil at the altar of Orcus, where I would supposedly receive a vision from that dark god on how best to serve him. That vision I do remember, for I believe that it saved both my life and my soul. I knelt for many hours, hoping for a vision of me leading legions into battle in the name of my goat-horned god. Instead, I saw an image from my childhood, an image of a man with my face being stretched on a bloodstained rack. I tried to focus on this image, because I initially thought that it meant I would suffer at the hands of those faithful to Ilmater. However, this image soon faded, replaced by another message, one whose meaning could not be mistaken. I saw a pair of white hands, joined at the wrist by bloodstained leather straps, reaching out to me in supplication. I heard a man's voice, a voice that sounded as if in great pain, tell me that I was not for the goat-headed god, that I would serve another god. Then the hands disappeared and I was kneeling in front of the altar, tears streaming down my cheeks. Ilmater himself had visited me, and he had told me that I could not serve Orcus, that I must serve the Crying God, the god of my youth.

At first I did not want to believe it. When Karden questioned me on the visions I had been shown during my vigil, I made up a story about myself wearing an ornate goat-horned mask presiding over a horde of beings loyal to Orcus. I thought even as I spoke it that the lie sounded transparent, but he seemed to accept it as fact. Karden presented me with my ceremonial robes, as well as an ivory holy symbol of Orcus. He then informed me that I was to be given total command of a small group of orcs with orders to do as I had done the previous summer and autumn, destroying supplies and demoralizing enemy troops. This time, however, I would be without my brothers to watch over me and give me direction. I would be in command. Karden told me that I had been given a great honor, having a command bestowed on me at such a young age. He further told me that he had complete faith in me, and that if I betrayed that faith by failing, he would personally raise me from the dead with the express purpose of torturing me to death. So, still troubled by the visions I had seen (but not afraid of Karden's threats, not anymore) I left Castle Perilous in the company of twenty hardened orcish veterans, but without the guiding hand of my brothers. The orcs, having heard of my exploits the previous year and of my "vision" at my vigil (the vision I let be known, that is), treated me with a great deal of respect and not a little bit of fear. Back in Damara and back raiding, my mind once again hazed over and the Young Beast once again took over. Over the course of the next seven months, I trod upon the dark rode of death and destruction all over western Damara, killing many a man, as well as a great many women and children. My evil thoughts were only interrupted by my dreams, which I found very troubling. Often I dreamed of hands bound at the wrist, bloodstained with fingers curled into claws of pain. They were my hands. Other times I dreamed of myself being stretched on a bloodstained rack, a goat-headed figure turning the wheel, gleefully listening to my screams. Still other dreams found me turning my back on a broken man and his offers of peace and love and walking down a road lined with the leering faces and greedy claws of the most terrible demons in all the Nine Hells, while the broken man wept for my lost soul. Those were the worst dreams of all, for in all of them I saw my soul tortured and torn to pieces, and my body reformed into that of a mindless maggot, waiting to be devoured. Those dreams caused me to awaken in a cold sweat; indeed, they still cause me some discomfort just remembering them. Thank you for your concern, Master, but I must insist on continuing; this is a part of my penance, after all. Anyway, I continued my raiding despite these portentous and disturbing dreams. That is, until Eleasias the seventh of 1356 DR. On that day, my band (now down to sixteen; four of the replacements I had gotten the previous month had been slain in a nasty raid against a supply column) laid in ambush for a group of travelers in southern Damara, near the mountains. We had seen their campfire the previous night, and had set up an ambush in a ravine that the road passed through. There were seven travelers, all riding large war horses, which would be worse than useless in the tight confines of the ravine, what with orcish arrows and my sling bullets raining down upon them. The riders, all heavily cloaked despite the heat, rode seemingly obliviously into the ravine. I gave the signal, and my orcs prepared to fire. Just as they were preparing to kill the riders, however, the lead horseman, still cloaked, said a Word. I felt a sharp pain, but just as I felt as if my head were going to explode, I felt rather than saw pair of pale bound hands stop the Word before it destroyed me. My orcs did not have my protection, however. They died most gruesomely. While I reeled, the same man who said the Word said a short prayer, and I was suddenly frozen, completely unable to move. Two of the riders brought their horses to the crest of the ravine where I stood motionless and bound my hands and gagged my mouth. One of them, dressed in plate armor and carrying a large warhammer laid me over the front of his saddle as easily and as gently as if I was a small child. Without any conversation, the riders turned around and rode south into the mountains with me as their prisoner.

The group, who I surmised were priests and warriors faithful to Ilmater, rode late into the night, stopping only when full darkness descended. The one who had care of me stripped me of all my gear, dressing me instead in a simple gray robe. I was too numb to resist, even as he took most of my things and burned them. He kept my holy symbol from the fire, though, giving it to the man who had said the Word earlier that day. That man looked at the symbol, shook his head, and hobbled over to where I sat, stunned at the day's events. He shook his head sadly, laid his scarred hands upon my head, and murmured a blessing, one that I did not quite hear. Though I did not hear it, the words still made me feel much better. It was as if this man, through his mere words, could take away from me all of the pain that I had suffered and all of the evil that I had done. I felt as I had in the young days, in the days before I had followed my brothers into the depths of evil. Those words, those soft and kindly words, also took from me the madness that had lately gripped me, and it allowed me to see myself without any barriers, to the stain that blotted the brightness of my soul like a cloud blocks the sun. I wept, and the bent and broken man who had said those kind words to me held me and wept with me. He blessed me and told me that I was his child from then on and that I would never belong to the goat-headed one. Then I wept for joy, because I knew that Ilmater loved me and that he would protect me from harm. I slept then, and I slept the sleep of the innocent, untroubled by dreams or evil thoughts. It was the first time I had done so in many years. I awoke with the dawn, and I was alone, or very nearly so. A single man on horseback stood near me, watching me. It was the man who had put me on his horse the previous day. When he saw that I was awake, he walked his horse over next to me. He looked at me through the visor of his helmet, and I felt that I should know him. Seeming to know what I wanted, the man lifted his visor, and I beheld the face of a man that I had killed many years ago. Relden, his face unlined by age and his back unbent by time, looked at me. I knew then that he had forgiven me for what I had done; I only wish that I could do the same. He looked me over once, nodded as if in approval of what he saw, and turned his horse; he began to ride off, and with each step that his horse took, he faded, until there was only the sound of hoof beats upon the wind.

Alone, unarmed, without provisions, and unfamiliar with the terrain, I began walking deeper into the mountains, sure that Ilmater would deliver me from whatever trials I would face. I walked for several days, and I began to feel my hunger; I relished in the feeling, the clarity of mind that it gave me. I walked until I could walk no longer, and then I crawled. I do not know how far I crawled, save that my hands and knees were bloodied by the time I could crawl no farther. It was nighttime, and I fell to the ground, blessing Ilmater's name all the while. I fell unconscious then, and dreams of Ilmater and his love filled my mind.

As you well know, Master, I had fallen to the ground within sight of this monastery, nearly upon the grounds dedicated to Saint Sollers the Twice Martyred. As you also know, I was found by patrolling monks on the twenty-first of Eleasias, unconscious and nearly dead from starvation. As you know, I was brought into the monastery, where I was nursed back to health over the course of nine days. And as you also know, on the first day of Eleint, 1356 DR, I came to you in your office and told you my story, finishing with a plea to enter the faith of Ilmater. And finally, as you very well know, I told naught but the truth, so you allowed me to become an acolyte. And as you well know, I have spent these two and a half years learning to be a good and penitent follower of the Crying God. There Master, I have told you of my past; the main of my story is finished. Shall we take a small break before I tell you of the dreams and visions I have had in recent weeks, or shall I continue? Very well, Master, I shall continue.

Beginning in Hammer of this year (1359 DR), I began to have vivid dreams, dreams which I am certain were sent to me by Ilmater himself. In some, I saw my brothers, bound by black and evil ties to serve their dark master. I then saw a long sword, made of platinum, sitting in the grip of a stone statue of an armored man that stood in an abandoned city, somewhere in the Bloodstone Lands. Both the sword and the statue had carved upon them a symbol, a shield upon whose face were two swords, point down. I saw a dark figure hiding behind the statue, a figure that made my blood run cold. The sword sheared through my brothers' bonds as easily as if their restraints were made of air. In others, my brothers' bonds were broken, but their minds were still caught in insane mazes, and they were too weak to break free of them on their own. A staff came into view then; a plain staff made of rowan; a red-scaled claw lay next to the staff. In the background of the scene, I saw mountain paths that I knew all too well; the staff lay in the very cave where I was taught to be a priest of Orcus. A word that I cannot remember was spoken, and the staff began to glow with a soothing white light. I saw the staff touched to each of my brothers' heads in turn, and their minds were free from the madness that had plagued them. In the third dream, my brothers were free from their physical and mental bonds, but their armor was still stained black, and that held them from forgiveness. I then saw a smooth mountain pool, somewhere in the mountains west of Vaasa, unsullied by the touch of man, filled with pure water. I saw a hand dip into that pool, filling two jars full of that pure water. I saw the water touching my brothers' armor, which began to lose its dark taint and shine whitely and purely. In the fourth set of dreams, my brothers' bodies, minds, and armors were all clean, and they wept for joy, for they had found Ilmater once again. In the fifth and final dream, at least for now, I beheld the visage of Ilmater himself, and he spoke to me. I shall remember his words always.

That is my complete story, Master. I know that it is possible that these visions are merely my own mind wishing to help my brothers, but I do not believe that it is so. I believe with all my heart that Ilmater did send me these visions, and I must seek to fulfill them. Therefore, Master, I seek your permission to leave the monastery and begin my quest. I thank you, Master; I shall leave upon the morrow.

In one of my dreams, I saw the platinum sword I had envisioned earlier. It was standing upright in a black void; I could clearly make out the swords and shield design etched on the crosspiece. The whole of the sword began to glow with a faint blue light, and I heard a voice from the void. It said

The sword that has never tasted blood is not meant for combat. No man may even grasp it if he intends to use it to cause harm to another. Its cut is meant to heal, not to hurt. Beware the guardian of the sword (at this point the sword faded away, leaving only the void, which felt colder somehow), for it wished in life to keep the sword from those who needed it most, and it continues to do so in death. Beware its icy grip. Make the stone man weep and he shall give you the blade that you seek.

That dream helped to shed some small amount of light upon that part of my quest. I already have the symbol on the blade to go on; perhaps it is the crest of an ancient city, or the insignia of a long-dead nobleman. I ought to consult a sage on that manner. The fact that the sword is not meant for shedding blood is heartening; when I confront my brothers, I do not wish to harm them any more than I must. The sword's guardian worries me, though; obviously, it is undead, but I do not know of what kind or how to combat it. And as for the stone man, I can only assume that it refers to the statue holding the sword. Is it a man trapped in stone, who will weep for joy when he is freed, or must I merely pour water upon the statue's brow? Or is there something else? This dream raised as many questions as it answered.

In another dream, I was standing on a scaffold, naked, surrounded by a screaming, bloodthirsty mob. They screamed for my death. A black-robed man-shape told me that I could only be cleansed through death, and that I could never be a true servant to any god because I loved my own life above the will of the gods. I looked around wildly, seeking some escape from my fate, but I saw nothing but faces screaming for my blood. I had a terrible scare when I realized that these were the faces of those I had slain in my life; I saw my mother and father screaming obscenities at me. Relden was there, too, praying to Ilmater that my blood be spilled this day. This dream disturbed me greatly, as I am unsure of whether it was merely a product of my own guilt or a vision of things to come. I am inclined, whether through a sense of optimism or for another reason, to believe that this dream is a product of the former, as I clearly remember Relden, or his shade, granting me forgiveness. However, it is still possible that the dream is a warning of some sort, perhaps saying that I should make special effort to put the worth of my own life in the perspective of my service to Ilmater.

In countless other dreams and visions, I failed in my quest. Sometimes I lay bound on an altar, with Karden holding a knife poised above me, ready to cut out my heart. In others, I lay broken at the feet of my adversaries, be they ogres or giants or the animated corpses of my own parents. In yet other dreams, those I trusted most killed me in my blankets. Warning, perhaps? Or are they merely the disturbed dreams of a disturbed mind? I do know one thing for certain, though. I shall definitely be very wary in those I trust with my life, even to the point of magically divining the moral and ethical intentions of those with which I adventure. I know that I am treading on relatively thin ice morally in this regard, but I find it necessary, both to insure my own safety and the prevention of a premature, fatal end to my quest.

Glynnon is a relatively tall young man at five and a half feet in height. He weighs in at a stout one hundred and forty pounds, though he is not fat; rather, he is solid and stocky. He wears his blonde hair relatively short, perhaps and inch or two in length. His sharp-featured face is ruddy and clean-shaven, mainly because he is not really old enough to have a full beard. Beneath each of his pale blue eyes, he has a teardrop shape tattooed, red under the left eye, and the more traditional gray under the right eye. His eyes, haunted by years of pain, hard living, and anguish, belie his smooth and youthful features, causing many to be confused of his true age; some name him fourteen, while others call him thirty. Glynnon always wears the gray wool tunic and leggings of the faithful of Ilmater, often with a plain suit of chain mail (and padding, of course) over that. Over his other clothing, Glynnon always wears a gray tabard with the bloodied rack of Ilmater stitched in red upon the left breast. When involved in formal situations, he will also don a gray woolen skullcap. Glynnon's only weapons are the warhammer and sling hanging from his leather belt (he keeps sling bullets in a belt pouch); the knife at his belt is merely a tool. Much of the time, Glynnon wears leather gloves to protect himself from the cold. The gloves also serve another purpose: to cover the tattooed leather straps that grace his wrists. Glynnon got these tattoos to symbolize his everlasting bondage and servitude to Ilmater; however, not being a flashy man, he is loath to show them off. In addition to his eye and wrist tattoos, Glynnon sports many other markings, some less benign. His back is a maze of evil markings, thanks to his brother Valirith. A large goat skull, snorting fire, is drawn squarely on the middle of my back, its horns reaching almost to his shoulders. A smaller goat head is inked onto the point of each shoulder. Entwined thorns and flames wind around his back as well, interspersed by stars, pentagrams, and other arcane symbols. Belying these evil designs, Glynnon has the bound hands of Ilmater inked very large upon his chest. (Yes Jason, I know that these are a lot of very intricate tattoos, perhaps beyond what is normally available in this technology level, but I do not think that it makes that much of a difference. First, I am gaining nothing from having these tattoos; in fact, I am actually putting myself in danger by having a lot of them. Additionally, I figure that this is a fantasy game, and, considering the situation in which I got most of these tattoos, it is quite possibly that they were put on magically during various ceremonies. That is not to say that the tattoos themselves are magical, just that they were put on magically; besides, that is just one possible theory.)

Socially, Glynnon is relatively reserved, perhaps because he often dwells on his past and the evil deeds that he committed. However, that is not to say that he is oblivious to the wants and needs of others. On the contrary, he often puts the needs of others above his own. However, he puts his quest above even the needs of his friends, as obsessed as he is with bringing his brothers out of the darkness. This single-mindedness can often put people off, and as a result, Glynnon makes few friends. Glynnon does not like to see people in pain, and will go out of his way, often to the point of endangering or impoverishing himself to assist those in need. He trusts most people, though he often covertly scans their alignment to make sure he is not associating unnecessarily with evil people; he is concerned that just being around those of evil bent will corrupt him and drag him back to his evil ways. However, he will associate with evil beings when necessary, making sure to attempt to convert them to the faith of the Crying