A preface: In order to fully understand the continuity of this story, please read “The Black Book 1″, and then start here. At the first ” … ” break, read “The Black Book” 2, 3, and 4. After this, continue from the ” … ” break, which continues the story of Nanill after he writes in his journal. The sermon is meant to happen after the journal is written, so please make sure you don’t read the remainder of this post until you’ve seen all the “Black Book” images.  

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Naminé quickly shut the black book, dropping it onto the table where she found it. The small hardcover journal collided with the wood, a small pot of ink falls over, spilling its contents in her lap. The sound of the dripping liquid would mask the patter of her tears, mingling with the black.

How could a man so confident be so….Uncertain? She wonders. She wipes her eyes, and shuts them for a moment. She imagines Nanill, reading those cursed scrolls, with bloodshot pupils and a sickened expression. The pages stained with the cadaverous fluids of someone, or something. His fingers, ever sticky with blood, his fingernails, forever unclean.

He scribbles a hardly legible annotation, and looks up to meet her gaze. Though there is no presence, no scrying magic in place, their psyches recognize each other. His eyes glow bright red, and blood streaks down his cheeks. Fresh. Though he speaks no words, offers no expression, the message is all too clear. Her eyes fly open as she shrieks, and falls out of the chair. The pain she feels is not physical. She wails.

Within seconds, there is another presence in the room. Not one of the myrmidons, not Aven… No… It is the presence of a Vandree.

She need not turn around, for as the realization sets in, he’s already helping her off the floor, and holding her in his embrace.

He doesn’t say a word. As she cries into his shoulder, he looks towards the cold black wall of their chamber, focusing on a large mirror, and eventually, his own gaze. For a moment, his reflection changes. His icy cyan eyes become saturated with a deep sanguine, and the man in the mirror smirks viciously.

He doesn’t know how to react. So he doesn’t.

“Every day you go to that place, I fear for you.” Naminé begins. “I worry that you’re dabbling in things that you don’t understand. No one can understand. I know you’re a good man, with a good heart.”

“Then why do you worry?” He replies coldly.

“Can’t you see? Look at yourself, Nanill!” She retorts.

He lets go of her for a moment, and looks down at his spattered, filthy robes. He can’t remember the last time he cleaned himself or changed his clothes. The stench of death he once forgot preceded him fills his nostrils, and for a moment, makes him nauseous.

“What I do, I do not for myself, but for the better of my people.”

“You’re going to lose yourself in the meaning of your work, Nanill. If you haven’t already.”

He narrows his eyes, like a snake, looking at her with a flash of disgust.

“What do you mean?” He insists.

“I read your journal… The first few pages…”

“The one I forbid anyone from touching?”

“And for good reason! Anyone else who might pick that up would think you’ve gone mad. There’s two different types of handwriting in that journal. And I KNOW that you’re the only one who writes in it.”

He puts a hand on his face, in a poor attempt to wipe away his rising anger.

“I’m not ashamed of what I’ve written, or afraid of being thought as mad. That’s not why I told you not to read that -”

“If you’re not ashamed, then why did you redact your own words? You can’t deny what you’ve already done!”

She picks up the journal, and pulls it open, flashing the page of stricken text, scribbled out with a thick black quill.

At the sight of the diary, he loses all control, and outright slaps the book out of her hand. It flies across the room, hitting the wall and landing on the floor with a thud. He raises his hand to strike her again, this time directly, but catches himself in the mirror, eyes blazing red. He stops, and takes a step back.

His narrowed eyes widen, and fall to the floor in both shame and disgust. He doesn’t watch, but allows Naminé to run out of the room, sobbing. She slams the door behind her.

For a moment, Nanill disappears. The drow in the mirror with blazing red eyes loses all control, shouting unintelligible words from a broken, perhaps made up language. He smashes his fists on his desk, breaking glass and slicing open his hands. Without realizing it, he blesses himself with Righteous Might, growing double his size. He continues to bash the desk until it’s in pieces, yet still finds himself dissatisfied. He takes a leg of the desk, and bashes the man in the mirror until there is no more reflection. Still holding the splintered shaft of wood, he kicks the door until it breaks off its hinges, and like a hunch-backed creature, shambles through the dark corridor of his hall, looking for a new victim of his wrath.

Unconsciously, he drags himself to the hidden chambers of his undercroft where slaves or prisoners are stored. He yanks the door open, to find a human female. She backs away from the cell door at his sight, but he advances right into her cell, slamming it shut behind him. Despite her confused pleas, he beats her to death with the broken leg of the desk, and continues his assault until her skull is in pieces around him, her brains splattered on his robe not unlike the old blood stains. As the episode ends, and his wrath subsides, a cathartic type of clarity washes over him, and then fear. He grabs her arm, inspecting her fingers, to make sure that he didn’t kill the wrong person. Thankfully, this one was just a nameless slave. Not the one he loved.

He drops the splintered wood, and lets himself fall over onto the floor. He sits with his knees in his face, hugging his legs, and mourns the death of who he once was. There’s no denying it. Nanill, whoever that was, at birth, is long gone. The man in the cell with the bright red eyes is not a drow, but a monster.

There, he waits, for someone, something to cover his icy chill with a warm embrace, of acceptance, of love. But no one comes. The door to the chamber does not open, and no one offers any words of kindness to calm the troubled boy who’s struggling to find who he truly is.

What seems like an eon passes, before the tears stop flowing, the ducts all dried up. He contemplates his thoughts for some minutes, before the door finally opens. With wide and excited eyes, he looks towards the door, expecting her, but finds himself disappointed. One of the myrmidons stands before him, to remind him of his morning sermon.

“Fine. Tell them their father will be a few minutes late. But the sermon will be given.”

“Understood.”

There is silence once more.

Nanill stands up, and brushes himself off.

“Clean this mess up. I don’t want to see this disgusting creature’s corpse anywhere near here. Burn it. Her possessions, too.”

The myrmidon nods, and gently opens the cell door. Nanill raises his hood over his face, and pushes past the guard callously. He slams the door shut behind him.

A dry chuckle echoes in the halls.

No pain, no gain. No gain, no change…You asked…I gave…

…

“Are you really going to just leave us here forever?” a drow female asks.

“Forever? No. Just a few decades. Don’t make me show you what forever feels like.”

She backs down, and fearfully omits her line of questioning. I smile, and nod to my guards, who upon my request, open the cells, and grab my subjects by the arms, and lead them to their new quarters. Simple flats with kitchens and simple living spaces. Sent to one room are a drow male, and a human female. Another, a drow female, and human male. To the third, a drow male, and female.

Within my walls, they may feel small, but they serve a great and unique purpose. From their lives, I will learn all of the effects of bearing a child and living both a childhood and a lifetime within my realm. Their tribulations will lend me, and my family, a benefit. A benefit that may yet be felt by generations to come.

I check the first thing off my to-do list for the day. I look at an hourglass that’s more like a 24 hour glass, and realize I’m nearly late to give my morning sermon, today being a Sunday. It would only make sense for a person such as I to have a birthday on Sunday, and furthermore, be on time for my congregation, as any man of the cloth should be.

When I return, based on my calculations, my results should be ready.

…

“My brothers, and sisters. Sons, and daughters. Ye, the most pious of people who make up my faithful congregation. Today is a special today not just for you all, but for me.

As you know, I hardly make reference of my own life lest therein lies some lesson pertaining to the great one above. But on this lovely Sunday morning, I find myself overjoyed. Today is my birthday, a day I often ignore.

Simply put, I always thought that indifference towards the self and any celebration of vanity, was always what one ought to exhibit in the pursuit of virtue. This may yet be true most of the time, but I think what is more close to the path is not complete abstinence, but temperance. All things have a place in God’s creation.

In fact, there is a time, and a place for everything at least sometimes. The servant of God doesn’t interrupt his eternal service by choosing to spending a day to reflect on his own self, and place in our great world. If anything, he celebrates God’s creation in a way that no other living being could. We ought to respect ourselves, and strive towards our own evolution. It would be foolish to assume that the forces of divinity will carry you every step of the way on your quest. You must be the one to move your own feet.

To labor in service of God, to be willing, able… Is your part of the unspoken bond between you and the Great One. Your service, is always rewarded with due compensation. The answers to your questions will come to you. Sometimes, all you have to do is ask.”

I look up towards the pews that line my hall, and the souls that fill their seats. There is agreement, and attentiveness written all over their faces.

When I look in their eyes, I see the souls of the faithfully unaware. Those who are happy to ask me to provide them services they don’t fully understand the source of. Those who had none, and sought family. A place where everyone is protected and offered purpose. A place where anyone of any background, with any amount of sin in their heart, could find reconciliation. And my, have they found it…

And I, from uncertainty, have found loyalty.

“Thus, in spirit of the words I leave you with, I shall keep this discussion brief, and allow you to enjoy the feast I have prepared. And don’t forget; the cost of what I provide is not coin, but goodwill. Towards your family, neighbors, to all who take part in our God’s bountiful creation. I thank you all, and ask in the name of the great one, that you all are blessed.”

I smile, as I conclude my remarks. As I step down from my podium, my bronze myrmidons mobilize to help me set up the “feast” I mentioned to my congregation. Here, I spared no expense, despite my normally basic tastes. I made accommodations for fine elvish wine, dwarven brandy, large cuts of steaks, chicken breasts, pork chops, even foods that I hardly consider worth the effort to chew.  

The motley crew that would make up my faithful, however, are much more simple in mind and taste than I am. They appreciate the worldly features of a still-bleeding hunk of chewy meat. The crisp after-taste of cider. The smell of freshly baked pies, or cakes. These things may be nice, but they aren’t what make me happy. This banquet, even if known only to me, is a symbol of my happiness to depart from the conventions of my birth. I smirk, as the thought crosses my mind. Nobody notices.

The voice I consider to be my conscience has been giving me signs that this will probably be my last legitimate birthday as a mortal. I have no interest in outright explaining what will be happening. To make an eloquent and short point; what value does a birthday have when you can’t die?

None.

Every unique day I wake up and learn something new, is a day that I am reborn. Lifetime after lifetime of evolution, who will be able to recognize me as the person I am today?

I’m already having trouble being recognized as the person I was years ago by some of the people closest to me. There is fear…Worry that I will change for the worse, and not the better. There is evidence that my ability to do worse things is only becoming greater. My lust for power is only becoming greater. Maybe she’s right.

…