\--==Official Submission==-- FROM: Lieutenant Anubis RE: The Story of Anubis Chapter 2- The Journal of the Lich Chapter 2- The Journal of the Lich The following is an excerpt from an ancient journal of the Lich Lord Tilakari. Translated by Shadowspawn Circa -2000 years Long before the shattering, Sosaria was a savage and dangerous land. Nomads traveled the earth raiding camps and villages. One such tribe of nomads was The Kersha; they were perhaps the most brutal. They murdered tens of thousands of people, men, women and children alike, burning and pillaging, villages and farms, unopposed. It was a dark time and the people of Sosaria lived in constant fear. Not far from where Vesper is today there was a gypsy camp. These gypsies did not fear the nomad warlords nor did they fear The Kersha. For unlike the other people of that time the gypsies could harness the power of herbs to conjure mystical spells. Such teachings were well guarded for if this power were ever revealed to the warlords, it would surly seal the fate of innocents. In this camp it came to be that Tilakari was born, he was the first son of the gypsy elder, it would be he that lead after elders time here had come to pass. Tilakari even at a very early age had taken to conjuring well. Which was fortunate for at age ten the gypsy elder was murdered by Kersha assassins. Still they were those within the camp that did not see young Tilakari to lead them. One month later as young leader was sleeping in his wagon; three men burst in and subdued the boy. They bound and gagged him and carried him off into the woods to finish him off. Now even a gypsy knows not what death might bring, curses, bad omens, and such had always been the trade secret. The three men stood over the defenseless boy with daggers drawn but could not bring themselves to strike. Instead they built a raft and bound the boy to it. They cast the raft from a cliff into the vast sea below, believing to rid them of the responsibility of their leaders death, if the raft had landed upside down, drowning the boy. After time life returned to normal at the gypsy camp, the three conspirators had taken over the caravan and moved away from the Vesper shores. They began travelling from village to village forcing the people to pay them for protection from the warlords. This was never the way gypsy magic was to be used. Others grew angry with the three leaders but were forced to follow as the three had much power together. Along the rocky beach of a far away isle, a broken raft washed up to the surf. The only sign of life were footprints headed into the jungle. Tilakari had survived, barely alive and dragging his body along the jungle floor in search of water. Crawling into a clearing he came upon a village, human skulls perched atop stakes along the bamboo walls, a hazy mist covering the ground. The entrance was guarded by a lone sentry, the guard had no skin; only his bones, yet he appeared to be still living. The bone guard noticed the young boy and readied his spear. With despair Tilakari slipped into unconsciousness. Tilakari awoke to a foul stench; he was laying on a bed of leaves covered in blood, frantically he searched his body for the wound. The blood was not his own, a sigh of relief was quickly doused by a flood of anxiety, whose blood was it? A small boy about his age entered the hut carrying a bowl carefully with both hands. The boys skin was dark, charred even as if he had been burnt. With a smile the boy tossed the contents of the bowl on to Tilakari. Again he found himself covered in blood. Too weak to even pick himself up he rested. Later that night he awoke to music, drums beating just outside the hut. Dragging his bloodied body across the ground he peered out. Before him in the center of the village was a great stone altar, it was a huge stone head. The eyes and mouth were glowing red; the source of this light could not be determined. A dozen or so men danced and chanted around the alter, speaking in ancient tongue. Suddenly the drums stopped and all eyes were on Tilakari. Two of the tribesmen came toward him and drug him to the altar. Another man dressed in torn black cloth stepped before him. His body was also charred, although a bone mask covered his face. The two men tossed Tilakari up against the altar and the masked man drew a silver dagger from his belt. Barley managing to stand on his own, the two men released him; he stumbled a bit trying to manage his own weight. The masked one held the dagger high above his head and began a chant at that the drums began to beat once more. Then an eerie silence fell over the village as the masked one brought the blade to bare on Tilakari. Fear was immediately replaced with survival instinct as Tilakari jerked a pouch from his belt dumping the water- damaged herbs from the pouch into his had, the man came forward. In dry wispy voice Tilakari shouted "Kal Vas Flam!" a pillar of fire rose from the earth engulfing the leader. All that remained were ashes and a charred silver dagger. Over the next 10 years Tilakari learned the ways of this tribe, the language the ancient ceremonies and rituals, he had been able to translate and teach the people common. He learned that they worshipped an all-powerful being of darkness called the Guardian. Over time as the new priest he began to hear the voice of the Guardian, it guided him when he was unsure what to do. Tilakari learned other skills as well, hunting in the jungle had many dangers, and vile creatures would come from the caves near the village. The tribe's hunters made many trips to the caves to collect gold and silver from these creatures to create religious items. Soon Tilakari was a warrior as well as a priest, and his power was without equal among the tribesmen. But island life soon began to take its toll; Tilakari often wondered what fate his gypsy family had followed. Soon he longed to return home, to seek to regain his birthright from the three men that cast him into the sea. Tilakari awoke to the sounds of war cries; he grabbed his bow and ran out of his hut. Bolts and arrows filled the skies. At the east wall the village was under siege. It was the Kersha, some how the warlords had made their way to the islands. How could it be? Why did the Guardian not warn him of this? His tribes' bows and spears would be no match for the heavily armored troops of the Kersha. Within an hour the village walls had fallen, the warriors slain and skinned, the women raped and gutted and the children chained and driven to the ships to be sold as slaves. Tilakari lay barely alive, crushed under the fallen altar of the Guardian. The attackers returned to the beachhead to drink for their "proud victory". Tilakari struggled to free himself from the weight of the altar. His legs were crushed; "In Vas Mani" he uttered and rose to his feet. Filled with rage he stood before the desecrated altar and screamed to the Guardian for vengeance! His calls went unanswered. This only enraged him more he looked to the altar, "Corp Por, Corp Por, Corp Por! Corp Por!" He turned the altar to a pile of rubble. The earth began to shake and stir violently, until the ground beneath Tilakari's very feet gave way. He fell endlessly into the darkness. Circa -1500 years For over four centuries Tilakari lay trapped beneath the earth. He could not sleep, did not need to, he had not eaten, he was never hungry nor did he thirst for a drink. He had gone mad a few times, more then he could count, but always he came back, and he realized where he was. The cold earth had pressed against his body for to long, his desire to be free over the years had grown strong, as did the voice. The voice was the only thing that kept him from the madness. The voice told him this was a lesson in patience, the voice continued "I have waited and watched for eternity but you have only waited for a few centuries. Go now to the surface and continue your studies." Tilakari rose up through the dirt and rock like a creature possessed, oh how he longed to see the sun, the light of day, finally it had come. Through the mud burst the skeletal hand of Tilakari, he had gone down a mere man and risen a lich, a pure servant of the Guardian, a holy warrior of evil. Circa -1200 years The next three hundred years he spent gathering herbs writing spells, and constructing a tower from which to protect himself and his possessions from the warlords and looters. He read the local histories of the many new cities and towns researched potions and poisons and conducted experiments on human test subjects. He went to watch many battles fought by both humans and elves and orcs, he studied many cultures, and learned a great deal. He watched as the Guardian had told him to do. He was now ready to exact vengeance on those that had wronged him. He knew the names of the ancestors and he would destroy them all. Tilakari had seized control of two armies already. He proposed a meeting to discuss a land division between the warlords; all had come to the tower in the name of peace seeking a truce with other armies. Once all parties had arrived, Lord Tilakaris' army stormed the tower and captured the warlords. Tilakari had them all hung from the tower walls. With his vengeance complete he returned to the island to seek out the remains of the Altar. He called onto the Guardian asking for his bidding. The Guardian did not answer. Tilakari was confused, had he not served his master well, had he not done what he was...no, he sought revenge for himself, putting the needs of himself before his master. But this revelation came all too late, for once more the earth shook and Tilakari fell into the darkness. Again the voice returned to teach him. Circa -6 years The ascension to the surface was a hard one for Tilakari, he had stayed below for too long this time, and his mind reeled with the orders of the Guardian, this time he would not fail, everything would be in place for the coming. On the surface Tilakari learned he had a newissue to contend with. His legs had decayed beyond regeneration. He would have to find a host to continue his work for the Guardian. \*End of readable entries