The descendance of Kolomar Biddle

[Urithrand]

After arriving in Sundren, Kolomar Biddle wandered slowly around, poking his way about and learning by listening. Rumours filled his ears of strife and turmoil, and he found himself smiling at the thought. "I'll have plenty of opportunity to learn and do good here." He thought to himself. "Mystra was right to bring me here." He had been shown around by the half-orc wizard not long ago, and was impressed with the cordial nature of the beast. He was a parody of his race.

Not long after his arrival, Master Biddle was handed a tax list by a small woman, dwarven, maybe? "I require someone to take this to Sergeant Grayham in the Sharahan Hills." She demanded imperiously. He did not like her tone, taking an immediate dislike. Zugo turned his back on the woman, wiggling his nose in the air. "Sure, I'll take them." He smirked. Before the woman was even out of sight, he'd torn them up and thrown them to the winds, walking steadily towards the border camp she had pointed him towards.

A few hours later, he was rather amazed at his progress. He had arrived in the hills and teamed up with a stranger going by the name of Rob, hired by the sergeant to do some real work. Killing goblins was not only a task, it was a joy. He was slightly surprised by the enjoyment to be derived from watching a filthy disgusting goblin's head explode with one of his own bolts sticking through it, and he relished the moment. At first the pair were slow in their progress, but as time wore on they became more and more proficient at killing the beasts, moving quickly and taking them down without much effort. He revelled in the task, enjoying it and stamping hard on their heads and broken corpses. He had always hated goblins.

Later that day they had returned to the encampment to rest and restock their supplies, when a massive man joined them. A dwarf Biddle called him laughing, but the stupid orc-blood did not appreciate his humour. "Come then master dwarf, fight with us!" He invited him. The fight was on once again. They battled through the infested hills, entering an ominous cave mouth to find yet more of the beasts, even more tightly packed. Zugo was struggling to stay conscious from the smell, poor young rabbit.

Then came the first horrible shock in Master Biddle's visit. The "dwarf" was killed, a goblin spear getting a lucky stroke and sinking deep into his chest. Kolomar went mad, flinging spell after spell at the goblin, long after it was dead he pounded it furiously. The battle was on.

Hours passed. Goblins fell. Kolomar grew in strength, drawing on hidden reserves he did not know he had. Piles of corpses filled the caves until finally they were dead. All of them. Their chief lay defeated under Rob's boot and Kolomar fell to his knees in exhaustion. It was done. He was surprised to feel the tightness of his jaw, stiff where he had clenched his teeth all this time. "Come Zugo." He felt slightly ashamed. Never before had he felt this lust to kill, and he was saddened in a way that he had succumbed in this way. A learned man does not lose his temper.

[Urithrand]

The sound of the wind in the trees was distracting. He tapped the shaft of his crossbow irritably as they walked, hunting goblins again, but this time of a different tribe. They had stolen a powerful artifact of evil, a dagger of unknown qualities, stolen from the druids of the grove as they sought to destroy it. This was the artifact they had come to recover, dangerous but of unknown power, all he knew was it was something to do with Talona. There was a veritable army of goblins, but they had formed an army all of their own, seven intrepid adventurers including himself, but he was not concentrating on them.

The village stood in front of them, barely more than a few huts of mud and wattle, but densely populated. He steeled himself for the coming battle, muttering enchantments to protect himself before they stepped inside. The battle was on once again, and this time he did not hold back, nor fight the oncoming lust for blood, killing goblins what what he enjoyed, his favourite pasttime already. His crossbow twanged repeatedly with its deadly accuracy, felling goblins quickly even as he hurled spells at the oncoming foes. They stood no chance. Victorious he stood over the defeated goblin chieftain, bigger than all the others and panting his last breath. Biddle aimed his crossbow at the beast's head and fired, ripping its life away. In its hand it held a dagger, lightly glowing green with an interesting reservoir in the tip. Picking it up, he went through the little beast's pockets, pocketing a few small trinkets and holding the dagger in his hand.

"So much danger, so much killing... And they seek to destroy it." He muttered under his breath. The party regrouped near the entrance to the village to cast their healing spells, but he went to sit alone behind a massive rock, leaning back against it and muttering all the while to Zugo who sniffed the blade curiously. "Such a curious little thing." He whispered. "So small but I can feel the power within it..."

For some time he sat there, stroking the blade gently and muttering to himself. "Surely the decision as to its evil would lay in the use of it." He reasoned with himself. His mind was already made up. After a long walk back to the border and numerous little skirmishes, he walked into the druid's grove once again, alone so as not to be overheard. "I am sorry sir." He addressed the keeper, "But the goblin eluded us. the blade is lost." The keeper expressed his worry and fear that the dagger would be put to good use, but Biddle did not speak further, merely nodded. "An evil artifact to be used in the name of good," he justified it to himself once again.

He returned to the campfire in the Exigo trading post, and sat along, his hand inside his pack, stroking the blade softly, lovingly. "I will use this blade to aid me in my quest to grow strong." He muttered quietly, ignored by everyone else, and therefore in no immediate danger of being overheard. "Grow strong and aid the cause of good." But a twinge of guilt nibbled at the edges of his heart. A learned man does not steal.

[Urithrand]

Master Biddle panted fearfully in the border camp of the Viridale, the dark fog still visible in the distance. It had been terrifying in there, people had died, just dropped dead in the mist and they had no idea what had happened. He himself had been forced to hold onto Master Nocte's cloak the whole way through so as not to become lost and separated from the group. Then the death came, flying from the shadows of some building, the ominous aura all pervading. They had barely escaped with their lives. He felt weak and pathetic, and felt his hand grip around the handle of his dagger once again. "I will not give in." he gritted his teeth, "I will not feel fear like this again. I will grow strong."

A learned man does not cower.

[Urithrand]

The large building that stood in front of him was apparently the enclave of red wizards he had heard so much about. A massive building with an atmosphere that crackled with arcane energy. Here he would become known, not as brethren but as a regular customer. Nocte stood by him, towering over his tiny size, but looking almost concerned.

"I have something to confess." Biddle told him.

"Go on." Nocte spoke, his voice expressionless.

"I stole something of great power. Great evil they said. But evil is in the eye of the beholder." He insisted to himself, "And to do good with an evil artifact is to spit in the eye of evil, isn't it?"

Nocte smiled and nodded, "Such artifacts should be in the hands of people who are unafraid to use it." He raised an eyebrow slightly amused. "For the cause of good." He added almost as an after-thought.

Biddle poured his heart out to the man, about his uprising bloodlust, his desire to grow strong, his theft of the blade, his using that spell, the evil spell. darkbolt he called it, everything came out and he could not stop, but for some reason, he was not upset. He did not whine or moan, merely stated and waited for Nocte to nod in all the right places. After a time, Nocte spoke.

"It is not evil to wish for the power to do good." His smile was slightly disconcerting, "And as I said, the fact that the artifact is in your hands means it is not an evil artifact. And this spell? I would be interested to see it... Good and evil is not black and white like the paladins see it, you are not doing evil. Come now, let's peruse the wares of the wizards, then you can go and show me this spell of yours."

A learned man does not justify himself.

[Urithrand]

Back in the sharahan hills once again, Master Biddle walked alongside his friend Nocte, waiting for a goblin to jump out of the brush so he could demonstrate the spell. He'd only used it once before now, and then the overwhelming malice in it had shocked him, left him shaken and slightly nervous, but it was amazingly powerful. It had felled the chief of gnolls only a few days previous, the first and only time he had used it so far.

It happened quickly, three goblins jumped out in front of them and fired with bolts. Biddle's spells deflected the arrow with ease and Nocte dodged the arrow aimed at him without any difficulty. Killing the two archers with his own crossbow while Nocte watched, he summoned his strength and began the incantation, moving his hands very precisely in front of him. Upon completion, his darkbolt launched forth and struck the goblin in the chest square, knocking it off its feet and killing it instantly.

Biddle stood over the goblin, his face a contorted mask of rage as he mastered the anger that had come over him in casting the spell. It was welcome, his hatred for goblin-kind was growing. "Take your dagger, quickly." Nocte commanded him. "Carve its heart out while it is still warm." Biddle did not stop to consider what was coming next, he merely obeyed, blood spurting over his hands as he snapped ribs and ripped open its chest. The heart was difficult to remove without destroying it, though after a while he suddeeded.

"Now eat it." The words shocked Biddle who looked up at Nocte in disgust. He was serious. "It is an ancient rite of the Rashemi berzerkers." He smiled, "Eating the heart of your foes grants you their strength and courage in battle. Go on, eat it."

Biddle sniffed the heart. A strong smell of meat. He liked meat. Closing his eyes he bit into the raw heart. Blood spurted into his mouth and he ripped off a chunk, forcing back the urge to gag, desperately he wanted to vomit. "Chew" he told himself. His mouth started to work and he chewed, swallowed. Another gag, but this time not as bad as before, and he took the next bite more willingly. He chewed, swallowed, chewed, swallowed. Slowly, his mind conquered the disgust at what he was doing, and a startling realisation came over him. This was nice.

He finished eating the heart and looked at his hands. they were covered in blood, as he imagined his face was. Pulling a rag of a top out of his bag that he kept to wrap any books in he found, he wiped himself down and threw the rag away.

"Well done." Nocte was smiling broadly at his little protegé. "Now you understand the hunger, the power to be gained from defeating your foe." Biddle simply stared at him in amazement. he felt strong, powerful. Looking down at the corpse he kicked it visciously. Nocte smiled some more.

"Let's keep this to ourselves for now, shall we?" Nocte said, "Other people might not appreciate this in the same way we do."

Biddle did not speak, he merely nodded. His mind was racing. His viewpoint on good and evil was fundamentally shifting. "The ends justify the means." He told himself in amazement. "I am doing good, but in ways I had always considered evil. Amazing how the world works." His eyes were wide and he hardly blinked at all as they made their way back to the tradepost again.

A learned man does not question himself.

[Urithrand]

The trade post was a blur, he was not really listening to anyone speaking. He stood by the cart, next to Nocte but he did not speak. His mind was spinning, his hand wrapped firmly around the hilt of his dagger like a comfort blanket. The process of his learning had involved him doing many things he would never have dreamed of doing before, but such was the nature of power. He was growing strong just as he had always dreamed, and his desire to do good was still intact, and he was doing good. Killing goblins and devouring their barely-stopped-beating hearts, twisting evil magic to good ends and forcing evil artifacts to obey the will of a good man. He was doing good. All in the name of good.

"Mystra has held me back all these years." He thought to himself. "These acts she forbids, frowns on, admonishes, they are all perfectly good ways to do good. All in the name of good." his face twisted into a thoughtful scowl again as his mutinous thoughts occurred to him. "She has never allowed me to fulfil my potential. Held me back. There is magic out there, magic to be grasped, to be controlled. I have lost my faith in her, a sad day this is indeed."

It happened in an instant. One moment he was there, standing next to Nocte, the next it was all dark. He could hear mocking laughter echoing from somewhere in the black. he muttered a light spell, but it did not work. He opened his eyes wide in fear. "She has forsaken me... stolen her magic away from me and forced me into the abyss..." Words echoed around him also in the blackest of blackness, weak they whispered, pathetic little gnome, can't even cast a powerful spell, has to steal magic from others. Kill it, kill it!.

Then came the pain. Words could not describe the agony nor do it justice in any way, he felt like someone was rending him every cell from another, his body was aflame surely, aflame and being pulled apart at once and he could do othing but writhe and scream, begging Mystra for mercy. Minutes past and the pain did not stop, hours, surely? His prayers became curses, screaming hatred towards his goddess for what she was doing to him, using profanities from every language he knew he spat at her, over and over again, still screaming in the most agony he could imagine possible.

Then it stopped. Everything went silent and the pain stopped. Just stopped. "I'm dead." He sobbed. "The bitch Mystra has killed me."

"Not Mystra." Came the faintest of faint whispers, so quiet he was not even sure if it was real. Was he hallucinating? Had he gone mad? Was this the ninth hell? "And not dead." His body was wrached and weak, he could not lift himself from the ground. Wait! The ground! It was there! Grass under his fingers, the smell of soil, the feel of the gentlest breeze against his hot skin and then the gentle feeling of rain landing on his bare face, his skin so hot it seemed to sizzle and dry immeditaely. "Are you angry?" came the faint whisper again, as though the air was whispering to him. Biddle tried to nod, but his head did not move. "yes" his voice made no sound. He was surely dead and cast onto some far plane. "Good..." came the satisfied response.

He saw a light... far in the distance there was a light, coming closer? It grew brighter and brighter, but no, it was not a light, it was his eyesight returning, he could see the grass in front of him, the rain landing just there and there. The sky, never had he been so relieved to see the sky. But whatever had done this was not finished yet, there was a searing burn on his right forearm, but the pain was nothing in comparison to what he had felt and he did not even have the energy to whimper. The smell of burning meat assailed his nostrils, and he wondered if he had been set alight. The smell abated, however, and eventually he was simply left there, lying on the floor, unable to move. His arm hurt badly. "All in the name of good..." came the final comment before he suddenly felt extremely alone, more than he'd ever felt before. Mystra had forsaken him.

Finally having the energy to lift his head, he looked around as far as he could. He was near the trading post, he could see it in the distance. "Get the hell up, Biddle." He whispered through gritted teeth. "Move!"

He caught sight of his arm, and what he saw nearly made him faint again. The burn was not a burn, it was a brand. The symbol of Bane was scorched into his flesh, red as the morning sun and still hot to touch. He wept a while as he realised what was happening, but slowly his sobbing abated. He had been conscripted, and he was numb. He didn't care anymore, everything was meaningless.

Forching himself up took far more effort than he'd anticipated, and he was forced to crawl back to the fire, so close to death he could smell it. He spat blood and pulled himself along the ground, slowly closer to the campfire.

It took him hours to get there, and as he arrived, Nocte gasped with surprise but did not come forward to help him. He did not want it. His "friends" feigned concern for him, fussing over him and rushing to help. He did not want it. The druid Annie cast a healing spell on him, the coolness of the magic making him feel better, stronger, but guilty also, and scared.

A learned man does not deny the inevitable.

[Urithrand]

Master Biddle sat down by the fire, his heart still pounding and his mind racing. That had been too close. Cornered in the ogre caves by Cirion Reliun and Algernon firing questions, accusing, questioning his motives and alliegances. They had defeated the biggest Ogre he'd ever seen, five times his height at least, and they had stood there, pontificating, gesturing and talking while the hunger gripped him, his eyes unmoving from the corpse of the ogre, its heart just waiting to be plucked from its chest.

They finally left and walked away, and he fell on the corpse, savaging it with his dagger to remove his prize, the biggest heart he had ever seen, glistening and still twitching in his hands. He bit into it, slowly at first, savouring it until he lost control, devouring it hungrily. Just at the same time as the stupid Half-Orc walked back into the room. "What are you doing with that heart?" Cirion had asked him. Moments later the accusations and questions poured forth so quickly he hardly had time to think, dodging questions and lying to the best of his ability. He'd used Bane's name, stupid stupid, now they were starting to guess... He talked so fast he wondered how his tongue could keep up, turning their accusations against them, piling on guilt as much as he could.

An hour they must have stood there until they were interrupted by an attacking ogre, and Biddle ran. Fled as fast as he could, being struck once hard, but leaving the cave to reach the freshness of air outside. He had to wait, to make sure their suspicions did not turn into rumours. He had to make them keep quiet. They emerged not far behind him, and the game began again, but Cirion was forced to admit the evidence against him was slim. "It's an ancient Rashemi ritual." He'd told them. "Eating the heart of your defeated enemies grants you their strength in battle. It's a tradition, though you may find it disgusting it is sacred and I follow it out of respect." He waited for the lie to be believed, over and over he told it until they finally admitted he did not act like a Banite. He'd won.

But it was close, too close. He'd have to be more careful in future, not use Bane's name. Mystra the bitch of magic had forsaken him, betrayed him and struck him with her fury when he claimed to still worship her, he had to do something to deflect the suspicion. Anything. He began to formulate a plan.

A learned man does not succumb to rumour-mongering.