Describe my history to you?
A difficult task. I do not experience thoughts and memories in the ways that I grew accustomed to in my First Birth. Memory and thought are anchored to time. Time is anchored to motion. Linear motion pre-supposes a beginning point and a terminal point, along a plane.
When the terminus was stolen from me, time became...bubbled? Yes. Bubbled. Curved, insular, episodic.
But, yes, certainly, I am willing to explore and re-experience the bubbles with you.
When I rest and remember, I see Friar Daltry standing over me, rod in hand, about to strike me for a third time. I suppose I was threatening him with what might happen should he lay the rod across my face, again. He was mocking me, eyes narrowed in that particular aspect that he adopted when he knew one understood how weak he truly was.
"Do it!", he demanded. "Do it! You know how to prevent the blow. Why do you not do it?"
Yes, that is what he said. Acknowledging that my memories are not your own, perhaps some context would be in order:
I was young. Perhaps more poor than idealistic, or perhaps more idealistic than poor. I've never quite sorted that question out, but then it only matters in terms of...ah yes...the rod.
I had entered into an order, you understand. A religious order. A mercenary order, to be exact. It was based in Lordaeron, and was a result of the upsurge in martial economy trailing on the fading after-shocks of the Second War. I had no particular martial calling that I knew of, but I had a stomach that needed filling, and a mind to see an opportunity. So I took up the cloth and subjected myself unto humiliation after humiliation, all with a knowlege that this, too, would pass.
"Mercenary priests" might be a term that strikes some as odd, at first consideration. But this should not be. All priests are mercenary. All. If they are not, they are hermits starving in a cave to the subjectified glory of an invariably half-interested deity. Serve your interests, we shall, within a limited and narrow capacity. But only if you believe, and if you in turn subject yourselves to the calling of our particular patrons and matrons. And that calling is often answered in a wider capacity than the priesthood is duty-bound to reciprocate unto you. After all, it is up to the gods to repay their servants. We are merely the vessels, the chain-holders, the prophets, and the god-mongers that introduce you to them. And that calling -in one form or another- invariably involves cold, solid, coin.
That is the lay-application in most cases. But there is a very practical side to the orders of the land. Some rely on bandages or druidic powers for fleshly rejuevenation. These have their times, places, and uses. But when marching into battle on a large scale, priests are widely considered an irreplaceable commodity in the business of the meat-grinder. A priest will not break away from his physician's duties to take on bear form and tear out throats, or squander his precious energies in face to face armored combat after the fashion of the Templar. Provided that he has not given himself wholly over to the shadow-aspect of a particular deity, he will not do these things, because he cannot. In his earliest stages of understanding, he is limited, and that makes him safe and predictable.
And this is why the coffers of our order were nearly burst to overflowing. We were predictable, because we were required to be. This ensured that we were a well-paid workhorse destined for the troll-wars in the lands surrounding Aerie-Peak.
But, forgive me. I forget the bubble:
Ah, yes. Friar Daltry...
You must understand, that those bound to a cloth must possess a particular sort of gnosis if they are to answer their calling with any measure of understanding, or success. I suppose that some are born with this tendency. Born into the arms of a godling. Few who have little affinity with the beings that dwell beyond thrive in the religous orders. They tend, rather, to fall into the embrace of daemons and take up the calling of the malafactors known as the shadow orders: necromancy, daemonology...many things.
I did not inherently have this gnosis. But battlepriests were needed. And they were generously compensated.
On the flip side of the seduction, training was harsh.
The well-known priestly discipline of raising a nonphysical barrier for the defense of the flesh was the topic, at this stage of training, you see. A simple enough exercise, really...given several seconds. But that does not suffice: developing the capacity to raise this shield instantly and reflexively was the lesson to be taught. As it happened, my order taught it by striking us immediately after a spoken warning word until we could raise a barrier to prevent the blows from landing. Those with a sufficient level of gnosis would usually learn the lesson in time to forestall a third blow. But I...I was becoming the favored whipping post of the temple trainers.
So, Friar Daltry was at it, again.
"Defend!", he would shout, and a mere second later, the rod landed hard across my pate. I recall that I was beginning to get rather delirious by then. I was taking perhaps 20 rods a day, and as we were forbidden healing until the day's end- so that painful lessons would stick, I surmise- I was quite swollen, bloodied, and bruised.
All of this serves to illustrate that it appeared for some time that I had no capacity for the priesthood, and it began to show in the faces and attitudes of the friars and fathers. In fact, by the time I was sent to my chamber on this particular day, 'the day of the torn lip' as I recall it, I was certain that my time with the order was about to be cut short.
On the occassion that I would be leaving, however, I had acquired a small stash of nightshade cut with sweetening herbs. I then planned to volunteer myself for one last post at kitchen duty, and to ensure that I was present at the dishing out of Frater Daltry's portion. As events transpired, this was not necessary or relevant, but I think it important, as I suspect that this intent- though never acted upon- set events unseen into motion which would carry a greater impact upon my own path than I could ever have divined.
But, I digress somewhat: back to the invocation of the barrier.
The barrier, you see, could be seen as either an intellectual formula, or an intuitive formula. They sought to move us beyond the intellectual application, and move us into the intuitive realm. The spiritual, they called it. But particularly spiritual, I fear I was not.
But why all the meandering about this shield? Because at the end of this day, the day on which it grew obvious that I was not fit for the life of a battlepriest, or a priest of any sort, really, this was the turning point: the blessing and occassion and time that I found a bond with my Goddess. And with that discovery, at long last, gnosis was mine.
I returned to my bed, performed the minor healing incantations as they were given to me...yes, even this minor task drained my spirit of all reserves...but as I lay in my cramped closet, in the dark, reveling in fantasies of beating Friar Daltry into a bloodied pulp with his own stick... or of watching him choke, that ridiculous, fat face swollen like a tomato before it collapsed into his stew...I noticed that a strange, violet flow had suffused the small chamber. Oh, it was not very bright, hardly bright enough to even see by. It was not the blaze of "holy" light that some priests have described upon their moment of revelation...no. Rather, it was more like the darkened glow given off by the infernals and the daemons.
The task of healing the days 'lessons' would normally take me several hours to recover from before I could perform even the simplest of invocations. But as I lay there, enveloped by this warm, dim glow, I felt myself to be revitalized. The fatigue fell from my body and mind as if it were merely an old cloak to be tossed away. I felt my perceptions expand, moving beyond the cramped chamber, beyond the chapel, beyond Lordaeron, beyond the spinning ball of chaos that we call a 'world', and out...out into the cosmos. A Perfect Thunder roared through the multiverse, carrying my baffled yet exhaultant mind with it. I saw flashes of all things, saw their interconnected natures, felt the cycle of the expanding universe, saw it collapse upon itself again into an uncontainable point...saw it explode once more.
All of this, all of this in the fraction of an instant.
So striken was I, that I only lay there upon the bedroll, gasping for breath. And that is when the glow intensified, and Skassax, who was to be my Mistress and my Goddess, first spoke unto me.
"You are weary, Seth, for you have seen the nature of the world."
A strange voice- spoken only in my own head, I suppose. The voice, neither feminine nor masculine, carried an etherial, ringing quality. It was alluring and smooth and full. It gave me the undeniable impression of great power, and a capacity for great cruelty. But not violent...at least not explosively so. Merely cold.
I was so astounded that response was impossible for me. But my training and instincts told me what to do- and I did it. I rose to my knees, fell flat upon my face, and gave worship. But my newfound matron...yes, over the years I have come to know Skassax as a Dark Mistress...She would have none of that.
"Rise, Seth. You shall stand as one worthy of Me, rather than grovel after the fashion of the weak and the vain. I care nothing for simpering adulation. Rather, arise and serve me with deeds. And in doing so, serve yourself."
At that very instant, the air grew suddenly cold, and took on a heavy aspect that muffled even the sound of my own frantic breathing from my ears. Before I could rise of my own accord, I felt myself being lifted into the air, my feet off the floor, suspended in space...and about me the violet glow had taken on a misty quality. It spun about the room, moving into a vortex before me.
And I watched, speechless, as this gathered itself into a vaprous form. That of a woman. She was elegantly adorned and stately in appearance. Yet, her face had no features whatsoever. Not even eyes.
I felt myself being slowly lowered to the floor.
"Seth- I have heard the call of your heart. This is the bond, and I have answered. You shall be my priest, and I shall be your Matron."
I remember being exeedingly overwhelmed by the moment, by the sheer power that radiated from this apparition, and began to babble something about undying loyalty. But Skassax, she would have none of that, either.
"You shall stay your tongue," she commanded me. "Of Me, and of our bond, you will remain silent among the priests of Lordaeron, and those of the city here...for the time..- as they would surely burn your body. You may study their ways, but you shall be forever touched by My shadow. You will find that you shall not escape this, for you belong to me.
"Harken unto these words: you shall know me as Skassax, and I dwell upon the edge of Death. In the Great Maelstrom, illuminated by a thousand Black Suns, therein lies My Throne. Only unto the dead am I exhalted forever. And you- for you I hold abiding affection, my pet.
"You shall now go out among the priests, here. You shall be as one of them. You shall finish your instruction, whereupon you shall enter into the service of a Captain Bronzebelly. You shall fight in the Hinterland wars, and master your abilities. When you are ready, I shall come to you again.
"Know this, Seth. Know this and remember: hypocrites have told you that the watchword of the cloth is sacrifice- and this is a lie, for those sacrificed are defeated, and those objects of sacrifice extract a price from you- and from Me- for their own petty vanity. The watchword, the True Word, is Lust. Lust of the spirit, lust for knowledge. Lust for revenge, battle, or for death. The object does not matter, but only that lust shall burn through your veins as the molten rivers of Ironforge.
"Go thou forth, Seth, and gather Lust for victory."
With this, the image was gone...and I was alone, again.
And that is what I remember of my first day in the service of Skassax.