# Journal of A Fallen Cleric



## Rune (Sep 24, 2002)

*This is a revised reposting of my very first story hour-- which ended all of two sessions after I joined it.

This reposting is really my bid for a rejuvination of the campaign by its DM.  We've talked about what he could do to start it up again, but he hasn't really committed; maybe now he will. 

Anyway, the following account (three posts) should be taken as a prelude of sorts.  I'm fairly certain that the story-line will be advanced a few years, if we even get to play this again.  If we do, it certainly won't be with all of the original players, nor (possibly) with the original characters.

But, we shall see.  In the meantime...*

_Iunimonius 29_

My home is burning. My town is in flames. The dead surround me and suffering fills the air. I could help them, but I find myself merely rocking in a fetal ball. So much has happened.

For thirty-four years I have lived in the Church. It is all that I know. It has been everything that I have ever known. When it proved impossible for me to learn their language, I was sentenced to a lifetime of clerical duties in the Lower Church. Still I served. That is all that I knew how to do.

Then--the visions. Cursed visions.

And here I am, rocking in my own misery as every memory around me burns and dies. This is to be a new life for me.

And now I notice the renegades. They are all armed, which is a high crime against the Church--but then, so too am I, now. Two are unconscious or dead, but the other two are alert, and watching me. I am instantly suspicious.

One is an elf--and a cave elf, at that. She's dressed as no warrior, but she could be a sorceress--many of their kind are. The other is a half-orc. More trouble. The two unconscious ones look human, but they are a bit too far away to be sure. I don’t suppose it matters. They do not keep good company.

The half-orc approaches, ornamental bones and teeth clattering against the tanned hides of unidentifiable creatures. I position myself in a defensive stance. The cave elf halts the approach of the beast, and I let down my guard a mere fraction.

I still don't trust them, but I feel compelled to heal the wounds of their fallen compatriots, if I can. They are indeed human, but obviously lawless types. A big, gangly man lies bloody and senseless. He looks more suited to a life of farming than a life of crime. I pray for his health first. Apparently, my LORD sees some good in him, for he is brought back to consciousness. The other causes more concern. A bastard sword lies beside her--she is clearly a member of the Way of the Rose, or fancies herself as such. My prayers for her go unanswered.

A cave elf, a half-orc, and a follower of the Way. What have I gotten myself into? Could they have destroyed the town that I have lived in for the entirety of my life? Perhaps, but those wounds were made by no fire.

It would be different if I had not seen them before, but I had--in my dreams. My visions. I had seen myself doing terrible things by their side. This may be why I found myself tending their wounds all through the next day, rather than leaving them to their own course. Perhaps I have made a terrible error.

Time, only, shall tell.


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## Rune (Sep 28, 2002)

_Iunimonius 30_

This night, as I slumbered, I have been visited by another vision.  I was on the road with the renegades, just outside of town.  As we topped a ridge, I saw an army of spectral clergymen, mounted on horseback, and saw righteous wrath in their stride.  Clearly, they were headed to battle with the forces of evil, but a small detachment of five broke off and approached.

I stood in their path.  Only when they had advanced had it become clear that I was no obstacle in their way, but the reason for their arrival.  They meant to strike me down.  These were my brothers in the Church (ghostly, though they were).  They charged me with calls of "treachery" and "villainy."  I stood dumbfounded.  I prayed that they would break stride and flee, but THE LORD’s blessing was not upon me.

I could see out of the corner of my eyes that the renegades were rising to join battle with the figures.  I backed away from the ghostly clergy and in anger tore my robes from my body.  They were no longer the robes of the Church, but I could not continue to wear them, just the same.  The dull glitter of scaled metal shone on my chest.  I would not go down easily.  I hefted a heavy mace and shifted my arm in its large, wooden shield.  No.  I would not go down easily.

The farmboy did go down.  He was dealt a shattering blow that sundered his gangly frame.  The life was gone from his eyes before his body had completed its descent to the dusty road.

I would not go down easily, but my mace could not connect with the apparitions.  The follower of the Way was nowhere to be seen.  The half-orc was met with some success, as was the cave elf--who clearly was a witch, as I suspected.  Together, they slew two of the ghostly clergy before I was dealt a mighty blow.

I could barely move.  I was barely clinging to consciousness.  I conserved my strength, waiting for a chance to strike one last blow.  The chance came as a ghostly warrior passed before me, ignoring my helpless form.  I struck out. . .

And that was the end.

I lie awake in the crisp early hours of the morning, enshrouded in a slick coating of sweat.  I am clammy and cold; I feel that I have aged five years.

Today, my life as a renegade begins.

As the sun rises, I find myself on the road with the four criminals of my visions, walking away from this burned and hollow town--my home.

We top a ridge to find a mass of humanity in the distance.  It is clearly an army.  The early sunlight catches on the spear-tips and the armor.  It dances on cloth as a breeze carries the standards of the wounded sparrow--the standard of the Church.

They have come, I am certain, for me.


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## Rune (Oct 2, 2002)

_Iunimonius 30, Continued_

The army stretches across the horizon. They are headed due south. We _were_ headed north. There will certainly be trouble if these clergy see me in my priestly robes--burned and bereft of their holy symbols. More to the point, some of my traveling companions would raise eyebrows, at the very least, and I am in no condition to answer questions. The grasses around us come halfway to our knees, but no cover can otherwise be found.

We are not far north of the Goblin Border. Undoubtedly, this army is a crusade against those barbaric folk. Perhaps we should run. Our only real chance of escape is across the border and, truthfully, I am not likely to make it very far--and I would no doubt be ill treated upon my reception in Goblin Territory. The others, however, may stand a better chance.

As it happens, the cave elf-witch has magicked herself to look like a fat, peasant, human woman. My companions tie a rope loosely around the neck of the orc-kin fellow and, when a contingent of a couple dozen crusaders approach, claim that he is a captured slave. The crusaders demand its immediate confiscation by the army of the Church--a confiscation that would lead to a speedy execution.

The sorceress balks, and the half-orc breaks free, heading at an unnatural speed toward the south--the border. Some of the soldiers give chase, but clearly will never catch him. The rest advance upon us. My companions step forward to do battle, but are in no condition to last long.

The farmboy takes a solid blow and returns another with his sturdy staff. His brashness will surely see him dead.  The crusaders are all armored to some extent; he is not. He is outnumbered and in great peril. My vision clouds and last night's dream comes back to me, superimposing illusion with reality.  I should have found some way to warn the farmboy. He will die, I fear.

The cave elf lets her illusion fade, and attracts the attention of a few of the soldiers. She is nimble and quick on her feet, however, and manages, throughout the battle, to drop a few of the warriors with searing streams of light that emanate from her outstretched finger. Near her, the Sword-Warrior is severely outnumbered and can do little but hold her ground. Soon, she is also flanked.

My fear gives way to resolution and I drop to my knees in prayer to my LORD for aid in the upcoming melee. My request is granted and we receive an ally in the form of a large dog, eyes glowing with the light of divinity. Before the dog can be of any real help, however, something pulls it away, back to its celestial home. Perhaps we were just not worthy of divine intervention.

When the farmboy goes down, unconscious and bleeding, I pray for protection against the blows that I am about to invite and advance to do what I could to save him. Alas, I am not quick enough--before I can act, a crusader stands over the fallen form of the poor boy and drives a cruel sword through his chest. I watch the light of life fade from his face and will ever be haunted by the last question in his young, innocent eyes: _"Why?"_.

_Why?_

The farm boy is dead. Why did I not warn him of my vision? Surely, I could have found a way. Am I to be the unwitting judge of my companions--my decisions, their sentences? This is a burden I cannot--_will_ not--bear.


The remaining companions are fleeing to the South. Some of the clergy-warriors are pursuing, but it looks to me as if the outlaws will make it to the border. As heavily armored as I am, on the other hand, fleeing is no option.

I kneel in surrender.


...And, as I am being disarmed and beaten, I can hear a mighty shout rise from the south, which, to my ears, sounds like a hundred thousand voices raised in celebration. Whatever cause for celebration that my traveling companions have met, I will never know, for I now am a prisoner of the Church I once served.


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