In a time long ago, there was a man who lived happily with his three daughters. All three were graceful and of fair countenance. However, as is the nature of all things born into this world, his end would come to pass. A death vigil was held by his daughters, commencing with the eldest. She maintained an unbroken stoicism, shedding not a tear for him. The dying man asked her, “Why do you not weep?”
“I cannot mourn for those still living,” she answered gracefully.
Next, came the second daughter, and she held his hand as he waited to meet his end. They reminisced about their shared past - the countless joyful days, the painful loss of her mother, his adored wife. Despite the warm nostalgia of their shared memories, he observed a striking absence of tears in her eyes.
“Why do you not weep?” he asked.
"I cannot mourn someone who will find peace in a better place," she replied, concealing her true emotions behind a serene facade.
Finally, it was time for the youngest, his cherished child and the joy of his existence, to bid him farewell.
“Why do you not weep?” he asked.
She remained standing, her face etched with a maelstrom of rage and subtle delight.
“I cannot mourn you, for bitter joy fills my heart. I hate you with all of my being,” she spat, her words scalding with rage.
"What has filled your heart with such anger against me, my dear? What have I done to deserve your scorn?" he implored pleadingly, in a beggar’s tone.
Her voice was shrill and ringing as she answered him in bitter retort, “You have the gall to ask me this, you who would touch me in the night and call out the name of my mother? You always feigned ignorance, hiding behind the pretext of drunkenness. I have found it in my heart to forgive my sisters for their complicity, but I condemn you with all my heart. I do not weep, for it is I who have killed you. One poisoned cup at a time."
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In the grip of utter desolation, he met his end with her bitter truth echoing in his dying ears. For the light of justice will always shine on those who seek to hide in the darkest of places.
- The Threads of Forgiveness, found in the notes of the playwright Vlan di Panoli.
Stately and inexorable, the undead thing made its way towards me, the weapon in its hand raised threateningly to strike. In response, I tried to work up a spark of anger, to fill myself with some token of fighting spirit. However, I failed miserably and only succeeded in raising my sword into a center guard, the tip pointing to face the new menace. Here, deep in this dark tomb, the sweat that had soaked into my gambeson had grown cold and clammy in new fear. I was to do combat with living death.
Advancing with the implacability of the grave, it struck at me, once it was within the measure of its khopesh, the gleaming blade blurry and deceptively swift. I wanted nothing to do with this horrible thing, and I edged backward, unconsciously.
Facing Death as an abstract idea was one thing, but confronting its unliving embodiment was something else entirely.
The undead thing paused, as if unsure at the result of its actions, before it fixed upon me with the baleful glowing orbs it had in place of its eyes. Its empty sockets lit with a lost soul’s luster. The dark guardian regarded me, analyzing the trespasser of its domain. Teeth clacking with a metallic sound, it launched a few probing strikes in my direction. The undead guard’s movements were, for the most part, stilted and slow. Almost predictably so, but interspersed among the cadence of its attacks were serpent-swift strikes that my eyes could barely register. It was, in short, a most-vexing opponent, for it was unpredictable, the slow strikes lulling the senses before it struck at me erratically, but at full speed.
I disengaged for a moment and drew upon my magical reserves to unleash Entropic Aura, hoping to hinder the undead guard I faced. The gray waves of entropy lapped against the skeleton, but the walking evil pushed through them unhindered. Grimacing, I quickly followed this spell with Drain, which was empowered by my Aura.
I could barely hear the inner voices, my longtime companions. They screamed in frustration as my dark energies made contact with the monster. This time, there was no flood of delicious stolen energy towards me. This skill was one of my aces, and I was thoroughly nonplussed as the Praxis Guard closed the distance to me and cut at me with its curved, heavy sword of war.
The sibilant voices within now howled, a howl that I echoed with my own frustration and blossoming rage. I was doing so damn well! I was finally making progress, only to be dumped down here, away from my companions and friends. On top of this, I was now forced to fight some insufferable creature that had the temerity to be resistant to my magic.