A Blood Spattered Journal

[[DM] Grinning Death]

A dark castle rests in the far reaches of the Spine. Its looming towers cast a dark shadow upon the desolate wastes, their halls empty of any signs of life. In the northern most tower, a gaping hole allows the harsh winds to enter the antechamber.

The remains of ornate furniture litter the hall. Blood stains the floor, scorch marks cover the walls. Flagstones are shattered into rubble, and the scent of ozone lingers in the air with the remains of power made tangible.

Beyond this scene of destruction, however, stairs lead upwards into a private chamber. Ancient armor is displayed on the walls, identifiable as perhaps an ancient predecessor to the current armor worn by the Legionnaires. A heavy blade is mounted next to it, a worn by time and use. Next to this paraphernalia of battles long past, there are rows of tomes likely coveted by any scholar worth his salt.

And lying on a desk made of mahogany so deeply red it is reminiscent of heart's blood is a journal, open to a yellowed page. The script is formal, tightly written across the page by a practiced hand.

"My years in Sundren have not been in vain, I think. Ever since he led us here, I have unraveled more and more of his plan. A nation in this wilderness? Pure foolishness, or so I thought. But my Father commanded it, for what reasons I cared little for beyond the cultivation of my own brood. Now, though, I start to see the bones of this nation he wishes to create. The seed of the goodly gods being scattered, perhaps. Or, the dreams of a foolish young mage. Either one I can deal with, and turn this place into a home for my people. I will create a nation where my kind is not only tolerated, but celebrated. My Father will rejoice in my efforts, I think, when I have built a utopia for him to rule.”

A gust of wind makes the paper flutter, flipping to the next page.

"The wizard continues to disturb me with his insights. I wonder at time whether or not he guesses at my true heritage, with the way he looks at me. His eyes are normal, as much as any mortals. No hidden power lies there ready to twist minds. But sometimes, when we speak, his voice fills the air, makes it resonate. I have seen no evidence of castings, as mages are wont to do to impress; yet he speaks as though he speaks to the world, not just to me."

There is a final entry inscribed on the last page, the remainder blank.

“It’s done, then. The wizard is finally dead, through means fair or foul I cannot say. I had to fake my own demise in the last few decades in order to keep things running smoothly from behind the curtain. My heirs have been remarkably well behaved, though I think we all know what kind of opportunity lies in these lands. As long as I lead them well, there will be little enough fuss when I remove a bad seed or two as the years progress. In any case, the two idiot apprentices still cannot see the forest for the singular tree within, they argue about the nature of their master’s will towards government even after it is apparent to any with a whit of sense. And, I hear Veritas has begun his rumblings. I wonder if this little nation is doomed to fail before it even begins? Regardless, I am here. My brood is growing. And soon there will be enough blood to feast for years to come.”