Nameless

Bramd Wayfare - Twisted Warlock of Agrathea

I am Nameless. Think for a moment of the power our names possess. At its most basic principle, it is a tag to a person, an identifying marker to the masses. Delve deeper into the meaning of a name and one might find the faintest vestiges the past. Tied to locations, to people, to objects, a name can hold special meaning to an individual and to the faceless masses. Deeper still and one will find names eliciting memories both fond and foul of the past, the present and possibly even the future if one believes in those kinds of things. But what of one who has no name? No past, no present, possibly no future. To remain, forevermore, as the pinnacle of obscurity, where one is never truly remembered or forgotten. They simply exist in a murky cloud of rememberance in both friend and foe alike, never forgotten, never remembered. So I say unto you again, I am Nameless.

I was born into this world as Bramd Wayfare, only son to loving parents. My youth was unexceptional; no different than many others my age growing up in the Shattered Kingdoms. Life was harsh and unforgiving to be sure, but if one was careful and patient enough, they could make their own way and have a good life. Ah yes, a good life is something I have always wanted. Growing up near a quaint little monestary, I was put to work cleaning the stables as soon as I was large enough to work the tools. As I had said, life was harsh, but one could make their own way. I never lacked food in my stomach, clothing on my back or a roof over my head as so many of my childhood friends did, even though the work itself was rather tough.

Time passed as it always does and eventually, my parents left me to my own devices at the monestary. They had worries of their own, and I had come of an age where it was expected of me to support myself. I had come to know many working at the clergy during my hours there, one in particular named Danarr Acktonimus. A grizzled old man of nearly 80, his mind was kept to a razors edge in his later years. He worked not as a priest in the clergy, but as their resident translator. He had mastered the old language spoken during the time of the Atman Empire, and many would come from near and far to requisition his skills in translating old artifacts and tomes. I have always been quick-of-wit, and as he later explaned he was to take me on as his apprentice. He was getting on in his years, and in me found someone to take over his duties when he passed from this life.

As I learned the nuances of the old Atman language, I had come to know others at the monestary. The High Priest, a wise, gentle man in his sixties with eyebrows that always seemed to be little white fluffy clouds, came to speak with me almost daily, inquiring about what I had learned and what was expected of me. And there is also Asria Corastin, one of the few gardeners working the grounds. There has been no finer a beauty than Asria. Her hair were like the thinnest filaments of gold spilling over her shoulders. Eyes of the purest blue, and a smile that never seemed to fade. She tended to the flowerbeds, and I was enthralled that she had as much care with the delicate desert lillies as she did with the wildflowers. Blessed was I when I found that Asria accepted my proposal. We were wed with the High Priest himself presiding over the ceremony. I was only 23 with a beautiful and caring wife, a steady and rewarding job, and with any luck, a child soon on the way. My dream of a good, simple life is almost fully realized.

Two years pass, and in that time I bid my mentor and tutor Danarr a fond, heartfelt farewell as he passes from this life to the next. I take up his position as translator, immediately making a name for myself. It is soon after this that I learn that my wife is pregnant, and if the divinations of the priests hold true, it's a son. A son! Oh I am blessed indeed to have my first child be a son. I felt complete, as if I had gained all I sought throughout my life. It is this very feeling that causes me to overlook my wife taking slightly ill in the later part of her pregnancy.

Those nine months I remember passing quickly. The preparations for the new arrival are made easily enough and before I really knew it, I had a son. However, soon after he is born, one of the attending priests comes to me and makes note that the babe did not cry as all do when they enter this world. It was all my son could do to gasp for breath. He goes on to say that while my wife is okay and will recover, my son was born sick, and is fast dying. Thunderstruck, I stare numbly at the priest, thinking it some twisted and morbid joke he was playing with me. I see Asria sitting in the bed holding our newborn babe and I immediately realize that this is no joke.

Months pass and I spend gold piece after gold piece to buy succor and healing for my child from the very priests who I work for. My own earnings are soon not enough to buy what is needed, and I readily turn to petty theft, selling what I steal to provide my son more prayers of healing. Nothing seems to work however, and I soon enough entirely out of money. My wife and I go hungry while I try to save my son.

He is six months old when it finally happened. His usual labored breathing turns to ragged gasps, and I take him once more to the clergy. However, when I arrive I find the High Priest not in. I find this a bit puzzling, but when I inquire about buying healing for my son, those who greet me turn me away, saying that healing my son is prolonging the inevitable death. My friends, good people I have known for years turning me away like this strikes me as an arrow seeking my heart. I manage the strength to leave the building and start on my way home before collapsing to my knees, unable to go back, unable to go on.

Had I not been a good father to my son? A good husband to my wife? A good man amongst men? How, then, could I be turned away so easily by those I considered friends? Was there no one on Geas who would help? I remain kneeling, the light rain obscuring my vision. I cry out, begging help from anyone with a heart to save my son. And I am answered.

I have never been a devout man, never really proscribing to one faith or another. Yet I knew that before me know was a Blessed Being, One From On High. In a musical voice he explains that he is Archemedron and that he would grant me power enough to save my son. The only thing that he asked for in return was a piece of my soul, saying that he would need to fill up the void with his blessing. I readily agree to his contract, and immediately rush home with my son in my arms and newfound hope. Little did I know that it was not Archemedron that I made a deal with.

I arrive at home and immediately think of a way to aid my son. Truly, I felt changed, but I did not know how to tap into that power just yet. In translating a few arcane tomes and in working with the priests all these years, I found a commonality between the two. The right focus of will might mean the difference between unleashing a fireball and healing the sick. I had to believe this was so, it was all I had to hold on to. So setting my will to heal my son, I concentrate upon the task at hand only to be utterly dissapointed when I find nothing happened. I sold part of my soul to heal my son, and I failed him. Depressed beyond all reasoning, I sat myself down next to my sons crib unable to do anything more for him. He died two days later.

The moment my son passed, I began to sob, wanting it to not be true. I hardly recognized my wife arriving at my side to grieve with me. Yet, she did not grieve with me but rather for me. She had long ago resigned that the Gods would not let her baby live, so she grieved for a husband who did not realize nor understand this. She lost as much as I had, we both lost our son. Incensed and outraged that she pitied me, I swept my hand back, striking her in the chest. What I saw next truly changed me.

In striking my wife, I unleashed an unholy magic, boring a hole deep into her chest. She strikes the far wall, her blank eyes staring incredulously at her husband. I see the stare as one of accusation. You failed our son. You failed me. You failed yourself. I see it still in my darkest nightmares.

I flee from my town. There is little else I could have done at that time as I was truly not myself. Yet, as they say, time heals all wounds. I have found composure and restraint if not forgiveness. Through my newly found powers and my knowledge of the Atman language, I set myself to a new profession, to raid the old forgotten places of the Empire and to bring out their riches. Every gold I make, every new skill I learn, every breath I take... all done with one defining purpose. I must kill that who manipulated me, Archemedron. Vengeance shall be mine in the end.

Yet there is one other small item of note. In my recent travels, I have come across a tome that allows one to contact one of the Lower Planes, to strike a bargain to gain their power. The one I contacted, Malgoroth the Corrupter (who masqueraded as Archemedron), eagerly granted me the power I sought. In my mind, what better way to destroy an angel than to become a devil?

Alignment: CN

Race: Human

Place of Origin: Agrathea, The Shattered Kingdoms

Contributor: Justin Philport