Memorial of a Hero

[Urithrand]

Caspar, the High Cleric of Tyr stood in front of a great assembly with no desire to hide the sadness from his features. The crowd, dressed from head to toe in black, watched silently as he straightened his plain tunic and took a deep breath, clearing his throat.

"My people. I stand here before you to deliver grave news indeed. In the last 24 hours, we have lost not just one, but two great paladins of our order to the darkness. Balthasar, trusted brother and friend for many, many years, was faced with a crisis of faith. A crisis of such magnitude, even his great willpower could not help but buckle under the strain. He went forth from this place no longer a brother, but fallen and disgraced. His intention some might claim was pure. He wanted to do what he had already done many times before. He wanted to save Sundren. But in order to do so, he was willing to consort with clerics of the lowest of evil deities, Bane and Myrkul.

Had this been the end of this transgression, then my heart would not today be so heavy, but I am sad to tell you that another of our brothers followed, and with a wholly different intention. We know only what the few survivors have reported, but all we can be sure of is that Baragorn killed Balthasar, and prevented him from achieving the sole purpose of the selling of his soul. Now I am no paladin, and I am sure that many paladins would applaud him for his actions. But I will not remember his name with fondness nor cheer, for where one could have been saved, now two are eternally lost. He murdered the man he had once called brother, and as a result of his actions, he himself has been killed, and his death was almost that of eight other people at the same time. His irresponsible actions could have resulted in victory for the lich Averganon, and as such, I cannot condone what he has done. The Anti Phylactery and its host are still very much alive, squatting in some extra planar pocket, and now both Baragorn and Balthasar are lost to us."

Caspar's speech was clearly not over, but the hairs on his neck began to stand on end, and his ears began to burn. Something evil was afoot... and it didn't take long for him to see what. Balthasar was striding directly towards him, carrying the head of Baragorn D'Locke. And he was certainly no longer human.

"See now the results of your pathetic faith, priest." The creature spoke, his voice echoing and feral. "Your brothers are dead, and I am become immortal!" With a cackling laugh, he hurled the severed head of Baragorn at Caspar, and with a deafening thunderclap, he was gone as fast as he appeared. Caspar gaped at the spot where he had stood, his mouth opening and closing a few times.

"Balthasar..." He whispered sadly as a single tear rolled down his cheek.

[Phantom Lamb]

As Caspar gives his sad, pained speech, it's clear he's torn. He seems to flash between feelings of anger, betrayal, and sorrow. As any who knew Balthazar well, the last few weeks would have been trying and difficult. His loss weighs heavily, as does the inner conflict shown on Caspar's face.

There is not clear agreement in the crowd. A few "tsks" escape the tongues of dissenters. There are those who are here to morn the loss of Balthazar, but even within the ranks of the church, it's clear they don't all agree with Caspar. There is division here, even in the Triumvirate, where doctrines often seem as boring and standard as a white wall.

...

As Balthazar disappears, panic and shock breaks through the crowd. This was a friend, a champion of good and justice, now forced to do the evil bidding of a lich? How could such a thing happen? As the shock subsided, there were questions remaining. There was clearly a breech in faith. How could the gods let such a thing happen to such a man?

In the distance, the trees parted. A mage... no, a soldier... limped painfully from the forest edge. He was quiet, and few noticed his presence until he neared the service.

The scholii was not alone. A semi-translucent disk, perfectly round, hovered just a few feet from the ground. Eight men and women were piled on this disk, which miraculously, yet effortlessly, supported their weight.

There were questions, yes. Perhaps this man had the answers.

[Zorkaplex]

The chamber ahead was flooded with incredible power... he could feel it in his soul as the claws of evil scraped at the back of his mind.

Ahriman emerged last from the stairs into the defiled lair of Averganon while cloaked in protective magics to hide him from sight. His companions charge the Lich who lords over the dark altar and laughs as he summons powerful magics as the the battle begins...

The fight raged for many hours and Ahriman finds himself running low on spells and healing kits. He just finishes patching up a Skullcleaver Captain as negative energy whips out at the dwarf and knock him dead off his feet. Ahriman curses and turns in time to see his friend, Cirion, cut down before the undead minions. With the last of his companions gone, he is alone now except for the scraping of armor coming from the stairs. Balthazar! Badly wounded, Balthazar crawls his way up the stairs to face the Lich who stands before the stairs, seemingly amused at the paladin's struggle. Not able to make out their conversation, he glaces over at them from behind the altar. They are arguing and as Ahriman moves closer, he realizes that Balthazar has offered himself for the bodies of the fallen. Averganon seems to agree to the deal, but refuses to give up the slain paladin, Baragorn D'Locke.

Suddenly, lashes of dark energy surge forth from Averganon hands and shoot into Balthazar who's body convulses and twists as bones break and sinew is torn. Ahriman swallows as he observes the scene helpless and watching as Balthazar screams violently and his body is transformed. He peers at the thing before Averganon and to his horror he realizes the once mighty paladin is now a Death Knight!

The abomination collects the bodies and the Lich enslaves parts of their souls with the snares of dark magic. The undead Balthazar takes the bodies down the stairs and out of sight.

Ahriman is alone again, but the Lich turns and looks right at him. His trained minds shrugs off the dark tendrils that attack his mind. He begins to chant in arcane tones as his hands weave intricate patterns in the air summonng up his one hope for survival. Ahriman is plucked from reality into the space of the ethereal plane. He bolts into a dead run as he flees from the lair into the horrors of the dark Necropolis. He can just make out the howls of Averganon in rage as he escapes...

Stumbling out onto the the soiled grounds of the graveyard, Ahriman barely makes it out of the Necropolis as it begins to tumble down and collapse. He spots the bodies of his companions as rushes to them just as his spells begin to fade. He manages to sputter out the words of a scroll and a strange magical disk floats before him. The Legion mage then chants again and infuses himself with a Bull's power and strength. He collects the bodies of his friends and gently places them onto Tenser's floating disk. He proceeds down the road far away from the dust and echos that remain of the tainted place....

[Peridan]

An Illmateri Temple

The halls were silent, excepting for the low chanting of the Illateri monks. The temple was a quiet place, a restful one. Monks shuffled around in small groups murmuring about some theological bit of knowledge or some such.

Candles were lit everywhere, leaving shadows that danced along the holy building and playing amongst the faces and robes that inhabited it. Bells ringing in the distance signaled the time for a meal, but the news of the death and turning of the Triumverate paladins had spread even to this holy place and had taken the appetite of more than a few.

The tall statue of Illmater, the Sufferer stood in the center of the temple. Its visage was one of mercy and of pain, an unlikely combination and one that must have taken a skilled sculptor.

In the corner of the barracks was a small shrine with a single robed figure kneeling at it, the person's face hidden. A back broader than most of the monks and clerics within the temple shifted underneath the smock, and the figure stirred. Candles around the shrine flickered gently as the figure puts his hand up to the flame, searching for some kind of warmth. The hand is callused, and yet paradoxically smooth and flawless at the same time, speaking of youth.

The robes around the figure shift slightly, making ripples of shadow and light waltz their way around the man, dancing in a never ending duet across the canvas of the wool robes. And tears slide down onto the marbled floor, quiet and yet full of a pain that cannot be expressed in words.

Within the bastion of peace and serenity, a soldier suffers the loss of his friend.