–==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