Caladar's knuckles were white as ash upon the hilt of his shortsword, and he did not know why, but he could not let it go.
Around and around his little room he paced, the sounds of the bustling tavern below drowned out by the incessant humming in his ears, a tidal wave crashing with every ragged beat of his weary heart.
What did they mean, the Black Temple? And why did they come to me?
I'm not a killer, damn it, I'm not even a fighter!
So why so I suddenly desire blood, so much blood, blood and killing?
***
What do they know...
What do they know of the dead ones that walk and kill
I was there in the darkness when he called them
The darkness within darkness of the Black Temple of...
You must... in the Black Temple of...
Caladar awakes screaming, and his bed is drenched in sweat...
***
Ah yes... revenge, reclamation, and much, much killing...
Caladar stoops before the pool, the black pool of whispers, and the shadows whisper around him...
