The Emperor lies dead. Felled by an assassin wielding that cursed sword. I have failed to uphold my duty to the empire as a citizen, I have failed the Emperor as one of his guard, I have failed the Gods as their agent. Deep runs my dispair.
And yet, it seems this is not enough. In the midst of this madness, a horde force seeks to sweep through this city, the city which lies under the final aegis of the Emperor. They will steal, and kill, and burn. And to this I say no.
All the people of this city, those who welcomed us, those who rejected us, those who sat in ignorance and indifference, all of them are deserving of the protection the empire offers. I am Norn Za'har, and today I shall be this fist of the Emperor. Those who would take from the meek shall be brought low by the fist of hell, the flames of righteousness fueled by the sweat of my labors, the blood of my wounds, the tears of my anguish. The fate of the Emperor will not be shared by his people.
At the same instant, all the dragon-born guardsmen slump over.
Just as I begin to turn to them, I hear Araja cry out, “Help!” from inside the Emperor’s chambers.I open the door, and within the next few seconds, Vashir drops down the chimney, Za’har bursts in through a window, and Yos phases in through another window.I glance around, and immediately see that the plan has failed.The Emperor lies beside his bed, the black crystal sword embedded in his chest.
Araja runs to him, putting her hands out and attempting to stem the flow of blood from his chest, but it is obviously too late.The blood has already stopped; the figure on the ground has made the indefinable transition from living creature to corpse – one with which I am all too familiar.I walk to the tableau, kneel, and grasp the hilt of the sword in both hands.
I have my instructions.I know what I must do.
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It is over.I have completed my task.I feel the most powerful rush of power and emotion I have ever experienced.I sense the satisfaction of my deity, and know that Nerull is pleased with my service.
I look up, and see Za’har staring at me in horror.“How did you do that?”I cannot tell if he admires the fact that the sword has been destroyed or believes I had something to do with the Emperor’s demise.There are times when I have difficulty fathoming the minds of living creatures.It is particularly difficult when they feel strongly about something, as now.My mind is further clouded by the fact that I am experiencing a magical high like nothing I can remember.
This may become a problem.
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I am now in the presence of a deity who, under normal circumstances, would destroy me without a thought.Instead, I have been thanked for my efforts on his behalf, and told that he has instructed his followers to aid me if I should ever request it.Though I feel his awe-inspiring power pulsing at the edge of my consciousness, it seems not to be directed at me per se.I . . . am not sure what to think of this.I have always believed that Pelor is the embodiment of the ultimate opposite of those things which I represent, and to be in the very presence of his avatar and be . . . cordial . . . is . . . words fail me.The sheer magnitude of the disaster in which we are embroiled overwhelms me.
Still, perhaps it is better to remain as far from him in the room as possible.No sense in provoking him, as long as he has chosen to tolerate – even accept – my existence.
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Vance’s words seem intriguing.I am willing to listen to more.However, it seems obvious to me that we cannot trust him.I will withhold judgment until I know more.For now, there are more important matters at hand – like the fate of this city.
Za'har, Fist of Hell
Failure. Sorrow. Fury.
The Emperor lies dead. Felled by an assassin wielding that cursed sword. I have failed to uphold my duty to the empire as a citizen, I have failed the Emperor as one of his guard, I have failed the Gods as their agent. Deep runs my dispair.
And yet, it seems this is not enough. In the midst of this madness, a horde force seeks to sweep through this city, the city which lies under the final aegis of the Emperor. They will steal, and kill, and burn. And to this I say no.
All the people of this city, those who welcomed us, those who rejected us, those who sat in ignorance and indifference, all of them are deserving of the protection the empire offers. I am Norn Za'har, and today I shall be this fist of the Emperor. Those who would take from the meek shall be brought low by the fist of hell, the flames of righteousness fueled by the sweat of my labors, the blood of my wounds, the tears of my anguish. The fate of the Emperor will not be shared by his people.
Admatha's thoughts (lines indicate breaks in time)
At the same instant, all the dragon-born guardsmen slump over.
Just as I begin to turn to them, I hear Araja cry out, “Help!” from inside the Emperor’s chambers. I open the door, and within the next few seconds, Vashir drops down the chimney, Za’har bursts in through a window, and Yos phases in through another window. I glance around, and immediately see that the plan has failed. The Emperor lies beside his bed, the black crystal sword embedded in his chest.
Araja runs to him, putting her hands out and attempting to stem the flow of blood from his chest, but it is obviously too late. The blood has already stopped; the figure on the ground has made the indefinable transition from living creature to corpse – one with which I am all too familiar. I walk to the tableau, kneel, and grasp the hilt of the sword in both hands.
I have my instructions. I know what I must do.
I look up, and see Za’har staring at me in horror. “How did you do that?” I cannot tell if he admires the fact that the sword has been destroyed or believes I had something to do with the Emperor’s demise. There are times when I have difficulty fathoming the minds of living creatures. It is particularly difficult when they feel strongly about something, as now. My mind is further clouded by the fact that I am experiencing a magical high like nothing I can remember.
This may become a problem.
Still, perhaps it is better to remain as far from him in the room as possible. No sense in provoking him, as long as he has chosen to tolerate – even accept – my existence.