Algae Elfpox - The Journey of a Shaman [Archive]

alerka

01-01-2005, 08:52 AM

<DIV>Part 1</DIV> <DIV> </DIV> <DIV> It has been roughly a week since I was washed out to sea by the tidal waves wrought from Norrath’s cracking crust. I can still recall the salt crystals clinging to my fur from the seawater evaporating under the unforgiving sun. There was no shade, no refuge, nothing in between my flesh and the angry rays of our closest star. For two days I bobbed in the ocean, perched like a parrot on a piece of wooden railing. At night I shivered in the howling winds, shuddering under the visage of broken Luclin, its fiery shards orbiting one another in the starless sky. With each swelling wave I quaked on my wooden sanctuary. I thought of the lucky sharks that would grow fat on my flesh should I topple into the deep. I could recollect no nightmare that did not pale in comparison to my predicament. I always hated the ocean, and now it seemed hatred and fear were indeed kin. That was seven days ago. I now find myself in a hovel of human design. After a short sojourn to some island inhabited by fools and refugees, I had been taken here, and unceremoniously dumped into this room. The rafters tower fifteen feet above my head and I have to leap just to surmount the obstacle of a bed. I already miss the warm, close quarters of my warrens and the feel of the damp earth of the tunnels brushing against my bristling fur. The landlord is a rude old codger and if it weren’t for fear of his many bodyguards wandering about, I’d slit his throat and make off with his coin purse. I had nightmares the first night in my decrepit room at the inn. Visions of the shattering plagued my dreams. I remember our tunnels splitting open to the chilly night air. The water rushed in and all the screams were cut short. I wake up in a cold sweat. The next morning is stiflingly hot. I can see the guards pouring water onto themselves and wiping the sweat from their brows. There are many more like me in this place, and gnomes as well. The gnomes here are all insane, not like the ones we war with when our tunneling intersects theirs. They scream, holding their heads between their hands, moaning of voices and visions. Some of them tinker over rusty machines that are devoid of any function other than exploding or causing damage to their surroundings. The Ratonga around me seem as bewildered as I am, but a few of them seem to have been here a long time, and have resigned themselves to making a living. There is graffiti on the stucco walls where gangs paint their violent slogans, competing for space with the maddened gnomes who scrawl foot after foot of mathematical equations. A tenseness is in the air as if a civil war is on the edge of every blade in this district. The guards are wary, as are the vicious dogs they keep restrained on taut chains. I can only imagine the heavy-handed form of punishment that is used to keep my kin and these filthy gnomes from killing one another. Some jangling ogre in black plate mail stopped me from crossing into the main part of this city. I thought feverishly on the origins of the red symbols painted sloppily on his armor. Within moments I knew where I was. Freeport had changed much since I was a child and my father would take me along with him when he went to its fields to lace the grain and wheat with poisons. I was forced to descend into this bloated man-city’s clogged sewers to help eradicate some vermin before the ogre would open the main city gate for me. Funny thing is the gate guard was too dim-witted to notice that I had gathered long dead corpses of rats and crabs rather than dispatching them myself. Once in the main streets of the city, I was dwarfed even further by the massive architecture. I had to stay in the shadows of buildings and in the tight alleyways to avoid being trampled on. Everyone was rude and obnoxious. A few of the people even took time to talk badly about my people and spit in my direction. I still carry one of the Erudite’s tongues, and the cured hide of one of the Kerrans now decorates my foyer. It does well in removing the dirt from my feet before I enter my room. One must be careful with murder in such a condensed society of varied races of people. Even though assassination and killing is part of my kin’s ideology, I resigned to killing only those who would not be missed. I snuffed a harlot and fashioned a backpack from her flesh. An Iksar panhandler’s scaled hide did well in providing me with a waterproof cape. People don’t understand that death is a part of our culture, and to fight this urge to quell the population of other races of beings is fruitless. We are nature’s answer to overpopulation. We spread the diseases. We sow discord. We are Ratonga. I have always been a romantic. I feel as if my ancestors watch over me. They cry when I let them down. They reward me when I make them proud, by adding spiritual power to the goals of my people. For every retch I kill in this city, one of my ancestors is freed from purgatory and allowed to pass into the netherworld. I am a prisoner of this ziggurat of broken bricks and misplaced fools, but as long as I am here, I can cull the spread of the lesser races. After one such culling in the Stonestair district alleyways an odd thing happened. My father appeared to me in a vision. He spoke of the face of Norrath and how the Shattering was not just an isolated event. He further informed me that one of the only other surviving cities was that of Qeynos. He explained how this city had become a refuge for the world and that the population of its inhabitants was ever increasing. I was told that Freeport’s population was dwindling as its citizens waged constant wars and even killed one another. It had become clear what my father had been trying to tell me. My place here in Freeport was of limited importance. I could better serve my ancestors in Qeynos, by living among my enemies, poisoning their crops and abducting their young. In time the visitations of my dead family became more and more commonplace. I sought the council of the local clergy, a group of holy men known as the Dismal Rage. They sent me on pointless errands; some of which conflicted with my interests. In one such case the priest spoke of a group of Ratonga beneath the city, spreading disease to the citizens of Freeport. He petitioned to me to slay this group and return with their hides as proof of my deeds. My reaction was swift: I informed my kin below the city and they were quick to relocate. Whenever he would send me down with their location, I would alert them and return to the priest claiming defeat. The priests became irritated with my lack of success and eventually resigned to giving me other tasks. Most of these involved killing other races, which I delighted in and excelled at. Within a month I had risen slightly in their ranks and became an acolyte to their teachings. One of the pale skinned priests took a liking to me and we had many discussions concerning the spirit world. When I spoke to him of my father’s ghostly visitations is when the entire tone of his preaching changed in nature. The old priest whispered of the world of spirits. He went in depth about the plane between this one and the spirit world. He explained how this thin boundary land served to separate the living from the dead, but that it was weak and easily manipulated by spirits and those who wish to speak to them. There was a clear distinction made between the undead and the dead. I was informed that spirits are not the foul mockery of life that the undead are. Spirits are natural and pure. After many weeks of the old priest’s sermons and private lessons it became clear that I was deemed worthy to begin my training as one who communicates with the spirit world…..a shaman. </DIV>