I grow tired of the voices.

Here I sit in a den of villainy. Pirates, smugglers, and thieves surround me, carousing the night away. No discipline, no poise. These are men who kill that which ruins their fun and profit. Of all of my disguises this is the one I think I despise the most. The eye patch and gold tooth, the salt and the fish scales rubbed into the clothing. I hate acting like them. I hate pretending I’m one of them.

I’ve wordlessly slain worthy kings with less revulsion. And somehow that frightens me – but just a little bit.

Among these sea dogs drift my ever-present companions, my curse.
The ghostly figure of Captain T’Panga struts about the tavern, a practiced look of distaste and revulsion on his face. I have yet to see the noblest of paladins be able to produce such a look of revulsion as this thousand-years-dead mercenary captain.
Behind him drifts Captain Muerdetta with her eternally downcast eyes, mumbling to herself all her tragic mistakes over and over again.
Across from me sits Captain Mitarin and Captain Turon, my grandfather. They spend their time together in the afterlife telling the same old tales that they told each other in life. Mitarin regaling Turon (and of course, me) with tales of the old days when he Jakob the Steadfast sat high in the Valerian isles before the rise of Lord Jhel. Though today, Turon is regaling Mitarin (and let’s not forget me) with tales of the Society’s exploits after the other man’s untimely death at the end of a Drow spear.
And beside me, Kironius Mengst, father of the Society and savior of Khevoran, is laughing uproariously at the folly of a drunken pirate across the room. The man’s been in a good mood since Kishara was put down, and even though that was nearly a decade ago, in comparison to five-thousand years of silently watching the Society forget her roots, I suppose I can’t much blame him a bit of levity.

They are a priceless source of history and lore, of knowledge martial and arcane. They are history itself, drifting around me as I go about my duties. When my father learned of my curse his jealousy was tangible.
As for me, I just wish they’d all just shut the hell up and go away.

Can you imagine hiding on a rooftop for three days behind a crossbow, waiting for your mark to pass by an open window, and having this crowd of dead chatterboxes loitering about? It’s maddening.

My father. He and his contemporaries, namely Sandoval and Shadow, are growing ever older. So old, in fact, that I doubt it will be long before decrepitude begins to set in. They all have this intense look in their eyes of men trying desperately to leave a mark on the world before their passing. I wonder how long it will be before my father joins this entourage of spirits around me. I wonder if he’s disappointed that I have not become the great tactician that he wished of me. I wonder if he’s disappointed that I’ll never lead a charge of worthy men into battle. My father does not stab people in the back…oh no, not the great General…he just orders me to. I think that he’s disappointed that I don’t straighten up and tell him to stuff it.

But that’s not my job. Like Silent I am Terath’Ambul. Like Bruenor I am Storm Guard. Let the old coot judge me if he wishes, but deep down he knows he didn’t raise a General, he knows he didn’t raise a soldier.

He raised a killer.
My mark just drunkenly took his two barmaids of the evening up the stairs to the loft.
And thus I kill.

Lance Corporal Alexander Rahl
The Storm Guard
Special Operations Division
The Black Rose Society