The Unfinished Memoirs of Cealis Smyth.

[ArcanaFTW]

*These memoirs lay tattered in the Cordor Library, documented to have been made in 98 AR, a long time after the man himself went missing, it seems.*

I lay here, on the freezing cold snow of the mountains above, my hand quivering as I write this down. I should introduce myself, firstly, for my elemental warding with not last long, and I can already hear the beasts of the mountain prowling the night. My name is Cealis Smyth, supposed Priest of Lurue, born a mere six, no, eight years ago? It is a complicated story, and you are most likely thinking that I'm a madman. The saddest part of all of this is that I don't even know anymore, I haven't seen another peaceful soul in years, perhaps, in a way, this is my punishment?

Again, my ward wanes and I digress. I arrived to the isle many years ago, with memories and aspirations that I now know were not mine. As soon as I arrived to Arelith, I was recruited into the Cordor Guard as a recruit - it took me five times to get the uniform right, and although at the time it made me shudder to reflect upon it now I simply smile. A sad smile, most likely.

My hair was bright blue, and I wore a ridiculous goatee as if it were the height of fashion as I carelessly pranced about, and that's when I met her. It was after a trip from the Bramble Woods, I had just finished my routine 'Patrol' I liked to call it, and had a refilled water skin at my waist. She wasn't pretty by any means of the word, and I thought she was quite foul, her face constantly unamused and she refused to even give a name. I pestered, and pestered her - like the youthful hooligan I was to get a name. Jihael.

Jihael.
Jihael.

Doesn't it roll down the tongue like a rough sandpaper? I loved it, it suited her. The wretched elf, gods be damned. The reason I am out here, even after all this time. If only I could have one last word with her, just one word.

Again, I digress. She is not important, at least not right now.

A week or two after the trip, I decided to go with a recently acquired friend of mine to Wharftown, much to my own protest.

I hated the sea, you see. I still do. The rolling waves of salty hell, accompanied by crafty creatures, both on ship and down below. I never did understand why anyone would voluntarily become a sailor, of all things.

This trip was when I met him,
My greatest friend. I would never admit it to his face, but part of my loved him much more than that at the time. It was a childish fantasy, my wisdom, if you could even call it that, had not kicked in. Alhambra was in love with himself more than anyone else. But, we all have our own faults, and he was not excluded. He was hanging around the ship-building crew with two peculiar strangers, (not that he wasn't strange, mind you) when I mentioned my affiliation with My Queen. His face shone like the sun, his near-electrified hair and bright robes joining in as he preached to me about how much he appreciated Lurue, he even called himself the 'Unicorn Wizard'!

After much talk, he ushered me into the Guldorand Guard. This was before it was called the High Watch, just after Raunrai stood down from Mayorship. Like the blissful fool I was, I accepted the job great fully, as if it were a kind of grand honour. I quit my recruitment in Cordor as soon as I could and made my way up towards those mystic mountains with Alhambra.

And there I saw paradise, the town I had fallen in love with truly. The only thing to ever return my hearts empty gestures. The cold evening winds of the mountain logging town, surrounded by grunting loggers and rustic homes. Even the broken gate was welcomed, for it was part of what instantly became my home.

Within a few short weeks, I became a boy into a recruit. My cowardice was still there, but my boyish nature dispelled. The commander, Gaelmesh, was ruthless and unforgiving. As if he were the Avatar of the mountains themselves.

Of course, that's when I met Vault. Vault was.. Different from others, the evil that swell within him palpable, every move, every gesture; alien, yet do familiar, as if his hands were mine, but placed in control of a different mind, a different mind altogether. Perhaps not altogether, truthfully.

We argued, and he laughed, and I gritted my teeth at his abyssal curses. I was his toy, his play-thing, an amusing pebble to skip across the lake, and forget about a moment after.

We fought once, before I was taken. It was a fight of divine faith, where our will itself battled against each other.

He won.

But not only did he win, Jihael was there. Scorning me, telling me the fool I was. My memory may not be the exact same, with gaps and warped experience. But everything of her was crystal clear, as if The Queen herself ordered for my undoing to be known.

That's when the sickness started emerging. Firstly, a cough. Just the occasional choking sensation, I thought nothing of it. I must tell you that this was when the Banites were in control of the Port Town, and their grip fervent and strong. I detested them, but perhaps not as much as I should have. I was too distracted on other, much more mundane problems than liberating Wharftown, and now that I look back, that was for the best. For what could a Priest, who could only summon a pitiful Bear do against an army of evil? I've come a long way, as I look up upon the giant Stone Elemental, I see a friend. Of a sort, at least. Something to confide in, to give these last documents to who-ever is closest.

The ward is gone, now. And I feel the ice cold wind against my knuckles and cheeks. There was once a time where I could go unphased by this, and not be effected in the slightest. I don't miss those times, at all.

I should continue, before my fingers stop feeling and I lose track.


That cough became a lurch, that became vomit. A black substance, infused with negative-energy. The woman who came to my assistance, by the request of Alhambra, or at least her assistants was the woman who had taken care of me as a babe. And yet, her name escapes me now, how dreadfully ironic.

They could not help me, and I resorted to amoral assistance. Vault Black, the priest I so resented, was my only option. Or, more accurately, his master was. Zharrik.

They sent me first to Stonehold, and trapped me within for days before finally coming back for me, to send to their precious citadel, within the Abyss. They tortured me, used me - they manufactured whatever was manifesting inside of me into my soul, making it a part of me without even realising what they were releasing. They turned me into a monster, as negative energy glowed all around me. Necrosis flowed through me, and I was a minion of the sadistic god they called The Vaunted.

I ran, I ran and I kept on running. I escaped, but the days became a blur. I don't remember the first few weeks, but I knew what I had become. I was a soldier, without mercy and without jurisdiction. I had no fear, for I felt nothing. Except that flutter, from my dark-embedded heart. Jihael, the woman who not only mocked me, but now shunned me. Calling me a corpse, mocking my cursed looks. I took up the act of a man without feeling then, but she was my weakness. She cut me into ribbons with nothing but words.

But eventually, even she began to help me. I started to feel again, a soldier still, but also a healer. That was when I began to die. It was subtle, at first. Another cough, until I wretched and then vomited. I began dying and I knew it was happening. For me, it would be peace. I would never admit it to anyone, much like many things within my life, but here I am now. Spilling my secrets on a frosty parchment. I pretended to care, as if I wanted to live. But, really, I was not living. Going from day to day, sitting on that same bench within Guldorand, waiting for someone to talk to, to see a smile.

I rarely got a smile from Jihael, and when she did smile she looked like a drowned rat. But I didn't care, why should I? She was beautiful inside, even if she never showed it, I just knew. One day. She moved me to experiment with negative energy, to see how to finally cure my Necrosis, and to--

*The memoirs end there, a scrawl left. Along with a small, insignificant signature. The body was never found.*

Found you.

[ArcanaFTW]

(This was discovered in the notes section of my iPod, and is quite badly written! I fixed it up a little bit so tada, even if I doubt anyone remembers him.)

[Rystefn]

Layla remembers. He made off with her gold ingots and didn't even have the common decency to die somewhere she could fish them out of his pockets.