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Sir MacMogan

Race:  Human
Class:  Paladin
Religion:  Mithaniel Marr
Office:  Guildmaster

(please note the disturbing news I have appended to the end of this tale -- R.A.)

Born a prince in a distant land, to a wise ruler already advanced in years, MacMogan spent his youth in privilege and wealth. Too far down the line to ever attain the crown, MacMogan turned his attentions otherwise.  The teachings and philosophies of great scholars were made accessible to him, and he availed himself of wizened mentors who held court in his family citadel and studied in the storied library which his Father had acquired during travels and campaigns all over Norrath in his younger years.  Great tomes, scrolls, maps, and other writings had been collected and preserved from the King's travels, and these opened the eyes of the young prince to ideas and thoughts of things uncommon.

MacMogan fell in good stead with a wizened old Cleric named Moastes who frequented the Citadel. The holy man taught much to MacMogan of things spiritual and good, of sacrifice, and of respect for all. At one point, MacMogan considered taking up the cause of Marr as the old Cleric had, and petitioned for a role as an Acolyte.  Good Moastes was overjoyed at this, and set off to his home village to prepare for the Pilgrimage to Freeport in the land of Antonica with young MacMogan, in order to have him trained in the ways of Marr. 

Days later, as MacMogan anticipated the return of good Moastes, a lone hunter rode through the gates of the Citadel. On the back of his steed was draped the lifeless body of the good cleric. The holy man had been slain senselessly by a band of roving brigands who had been spotted in the lands accompanied by strange looking men who seemed not quite human in their mannerisms and demeanor.  The only thing recovered was a tattered note tucked into a recess of the old mans robe. It was an introduction for MacMogan to the Temple of Marr in Freeport, in the land of Antonica.

MacMogan was heartbroken and conflicted as the rage rose inside him. Calling for his brothers, MacMogan picked up the sword which he had set aside so many months before, and vowed vengeance for his friend and mentor. Riding forth, MacMogan sought out those that had committed this heinous act and justice was visited upon them as swiftly and surely as lightning from the sky.

Upon his return to the Citadel weeks later, bloody and weak, the fire of rage having long been left behind as the last head was severed from the shoulders of his foe, MacMogan finally gave in to grief, and mourned his friend. While he still wanted to uphold the ideals of the teachings of Marr, he knew now that he could not forego the sword. MacMogan decided at that moment that he would take up the holy warrior's cause. He would strive to become a paladin of Marr. He would make the journey to Freeport as planned, but would now petition the holy knights for admittance to their order. He knew in some small way he would make a difference, or die in the attempt.

As he bade farewell to his Father and rode out from the Citadel, he thought of some of the writings he had seen in his recent studies at the Library. Writings about an odd order of  watchers or sentinels. A group made up of beings from all races and creeds, united together in a common cause for the preservation of Balance in the world.  If these writings were not indeed some ramblings of a mad wizard, it might be interesting to seek out and find these folk. To see what it was that they actually hope to gain in their endeavors. “Yes,” MacMogan thought to himself, “when I get to Freeport, I will surely have to seek out and meet this strange fraternity of Balance and Order…….Wargoth, what a strange name.”

Greetings, students of the arcane, and brothers and sisters in Wargoth.  It is I, the wizard Auxtherian, bearing tidings of great import.
 A disturbing event has occurred, the details of which I shall impart to you now.  Please be wise when deciding with whom to speak about them, for it would seem that our ancient struggle is alive and well in these times.
 
It all began during the winter solstice.  I lay resting in the chambers provided me by the Hall of Truth, exhausted from a long night of research in the Templars' library.  It was in the wee hours that I found my slumber growing fitful, plagued by a fever dream.  In this miserable state between sleep and awareness, I verged on lucidity, but slipped again and again into confusion.  At last, my consciousness returned to me, and I felt ... compelled.  By what, I cannot say.  All that I knew was that the shifting sands of Ro beckoned me.  Cursing my foolishness, I tried to sleep once more.  Alas, I could not, and decided to give in to the forces that were at work in my mind, for weal or woe.

That night, I made my way to the desert on the back of my beloved mare.  I thought, at the time, that I merely wanted a form of companionship for the long journey.  In hindsight, I am no longer sure.  In any case, I did not travel upon the winds, as is my wont.

Presently, I came upon a solitary figure, lying at the base of a pillar at the edge of the sea.  As I drew nearer, I could make out the features of an elderly man, who seemed near death.  A chill moved across my body as I considered that the man could well be responsible for bringing me to that place.

Unfortunately, I have never been adept at the healing arts.  I tried to remember some of the things that I had seen Lady Pistis Sophia do in our travels together, and although I was certainly no match for even the most inept cleric, I managed to ease the old fellow's discomfort a bit, and he began to come to his senses.

"Ravell..."

I stared at him, dumbfounded.  He raised a bit, leaning upon my pack.  I had no memory of meeting this hoary fellow, but as the moonlight spilled across his features, something seemed familiar.  He tried to speak again, but his efforts seemed to have drained him.  His eyes rolled back in his head, and I knew that he would die if he did not get better help than I could provide.  Fortunately, I knew of an apprentice of the Lady Pistis who practiced his art near Erudin.  I whispered to my mare in words only she would understand, and she obediently set off toward Freeport.  After she disappeared from my sight, I knelt before the old man, and gathered enough power to bend the fabric of space to my will.

My powers have carried me to the four corners of Norrath, and I have used my art to walk the face of another world.  However, in all my journeys I have never experienced the likes of what befell me when the stranger and I entered the Vortex.  The pathways between portals normally radiated a misty, silvery glow--but now they were blood red and shone like fire.  My mind nearly shattered as the echoes of phenomenal bursts of energy permeated my skull, and my gut heaved as the psychic residue of untold evil forces washed over me like boiling oil.  It seemed like ages as I struggled for my sanity, but eventually I became aware of a presence.  Something indescribable, but full of hate, seemed to be reaching out for us across unfathomable distances.  Panic gripped me, and I feebly clutched my staff as if I could somehow defend myself against the tempest that closed in on me.  Just as I thought I would be crushed, the portal to Toxxulia Forest yawned before me.  In an instant, all was dark, quiet, and calm--save the final scream of rage and hatred whose echoes rattled in my head. 

 
With the help of a passing trade caravan, I was able to get the man to the healer's hut.  For three days I waited, as the healer forbade any interference in his work.  I passed the time by entertaining the local children with small displays of fireworks and other trickery, and for that, the healer's wife kept me well-fed.  Occasionally, she would send me to Erudin to fetch more herbs for the healer's efforts.  Surprising even myself, I quietly obeyed.
 
On the third day, the healer emerged from the hut and said simply, "It is done. The Templar of Marr asks for you."
 
I entered the hut, though the scent of old tallow, incense, and ozone caused me to sneeze.  The sound caused the stranger to stir a bit, as he lay on a barrow.  "Ravell, my old friend. I am happy to see you." He managed a weak smile.

"How do you know me?" I asked.

 
He struggled to raise his head.  "What?", he asked, with a slight chuckle that turned into a cough. "Are you so addled that you do not know me?"
There was something about his voice.  It was a bit raspier, but it seemed almost as familiar as ...

MacMogan!  It could not be!  The leader of the great House of Wargoth was still in his middle years--still in his prime.  The old knight on the barrow had to be twenty years older than my friend, if not more.
 
"Sir, I do not know exactly what is transpiring here, but for you to claim that you are who I think you claim you are  ... well, it's simply ludicrous, and is apt to provoke more than my ire if you continue."
 
The stranger kept insisting that he was, in fact, my old friend.  Although I tested him with questions that only my friend could answer, and though he seemed familiar to me in ways, I could not really accept that this fellow was MacMogan.  At last, the old man nodded off, and I left to seek out the healer.  I found him resting by the fire, so I sat down beside him, and told him what had passed.  The healer listened, slightly cocking his head and studying me as I spoke.
 
"Lord Auxtherian", he started, "I have not known many of your kind, but I have never pictured the order of wizards as a closed-minded lot." He took a long puff of his pipe.  Vaguely amused, I decided to listen.
 
The fellow then told me of the healing of the stranger.  Some of it I understood, some I did not. He told me that the damage done had not only been physical, but magical and spiritual as well. He related that the damage done had taken many years to inflict, and that no one could have withstood the torment without being intentionally preserved in order to endure it.
 
I produced my pipe and borrowed a bit of his herb. "Well, that's different.  I saw MacMogan only five days ago, not far from the City of Mist.  He was, as I recall, observing a party from Wargoth as they cleansed the area of undead creatures.  I was quite busy, as I had to transport most of the party from the area to a safe location for healing and supplies. MacMogan told us to go on ahead, as we had some badly injured, and that he would be traveling with a druid that was to join him.  That was the last I saw of him, but it was certainly not twenty years ago."
 
The healer only smiled and took another pull from his pipe.  "There are things at work in that man that are beyond my experience.  I have healed him enough so that he will not die.  I have also clouded his mind temporarily, but it will not last long.  I must rest. Go to him,  for he will need you when he wakes."
 
I returned to the hut and saw the old man tossing and turning in a troubled sleep.  His countenance changed from one moment to the next--mumbling and screaming, crying, then shouting between clenched teeth.  Even in this state, I could see the similarities to my friend, but .  I began to fear, and it was the worst kind of fear--one whose cause cannot be pinpointed.  I found myself slowly backing away.
 
As the man lay there, writhing in semiconscious misery, he threw his head back.  In that instant, the candle light played across his neck, and I saw that he bore a mark.  I bent to get a closer look, and my worst fears were confirmed.  Upon the old man's neck was a small S-shaped scar at the base of his throat.  I could no longer deny that it was surely the same scar that a band of ruffians had once given MacMogan--his reward for trying to avenge the fallen cleric Moastes.
 
My jaw dropped.  I must have lost myself and cried out, for the man bolted upright as if he had heard someone calling his name.  His eyes were wild and filled with hate, and I could only manage a squeak of surprise as he grabbed me by the throat and threw me to the dirt floor.  As he raised his fist to strike me, I instinctively began to summon my powers.  Though weakened and groggy, he lunged at me--but stopped short as grasping tendrils of energy fixed him to the floor.  He leered at me, his face a mask of sheer hatred.  Tingling arcs of electricity leapt between my fingertips as I prepared for the worst.  It was then that my spell broke, and the man's legs were free once more.  I braced myself with a grimace, but the man did not attack me further.  Instead, his face grew slack, and he fell to his knees.  Lucidity crept into his eyes, quickly replaced by horror.  I dispelled my lightning, and rushed to his aid.  I felt horrible, for as his memories returned, I could see that he was ashamed.  I would not speak of it again, were the need to know our enemy any less pressing than it is.  
 
That night, MacMogan told me his story. I have never felt such pain--not at my own peril, or even at the death of my beloved wife.  To die is an end to pain, but what had happened to MacMogan was a worse fate, if such can be imagined.
 
To relate the whole of it would take volumes.  I am recording the details for posterity, but for this missive, I shall be brief.
 
After the war party had left the City of Mist on the last day I saw my friend, a portal had been opened at the City. This was no ordinary portal, and could only have been brought into being by students of arts long since forgotten--to most of us, that is.  Undoubtedly, it was opened by the forces of Chaos, the age-old enemy of Wargoth and his followers. Whether the location of this power was a randomly chosen one, merely to help Chaos feed the evil in the City, or whether the cleansing had called Chaos's attention to that spot, is unknown.  Others in my order believe that it might have even been a trap set by Chaos for exactly the purpose it fulfilled, but I cannot consider that without a shudder.
 
Whatever the reason, the forces of Chaos found MacMogan alone there that day, exhausted and drained of blessed mana.  A great number of the Chaotic Horde fell that day to the Swordarm of Marr, but, in the end, Chaos overcame the lone paladin and he was taken alive into their realm as a great prize.
 
MacMogan still has not related to me all that was done to him in that time, only giving whispers of it now and then, along with warnings that it is beyond understanding.  Despite this, one interesting fact about the realm of Chaos has come of this--we now know that they are operating from a plane upon which time does not flow as it does in ours.  It is more fittingly ... chaotic.  While only a day or two passed here, MacMogan suffered twenty or more years of torment in the realm of Chaos.  Our leader spent nearly half his lifetime in unspeakable torment, while we ate, drank, and lived as we always do--oblivious to what may be happening elsewhere in the universe. 

Only MacMogan's faith in Marr, and the will to fight, were kept somewhat intact, eventually leading to an opportunity for escape.  That is where I became involved, apparently.  It could only have been the spirits of fallen knights, or perhaps the touch of Marr himself, that called me to find the old man...at the pillar marking the site of the first defeat of Chaos by Wargoth and his comrades.


I must warn you, heroes of Wargoth, that when you next see MacMogan, he will not appear as he did.  His hair has grown long and white. His eyes are no longer dark, but carry in them the empty void of another plane.  Despite these things, I can assure you that he is the same man.  He is a Knight of Truth, and Guildmaster of the House of Wargoth, and I laugh in my heart to think that the forces of Chaos could not take that from him.
 
There is, well, one last thing.  I would not speak of this, if the power of knowledge were not so great and needed in our struggle.  In fact, it may be nothing, but I will tell you all the same.  As MacMogan lay in the healer's hut, in the throes of his fever dream, he mumbled three words that I hope I am not made to remember in future days.  
 
"They ... are ... coming ..."

It is at times such as these that I most keenly feel the absence of old Marius.  I only hope I do not disappoint him, wherever he is, and in whatever form.

Blessed Be!

Ravell Auxtherian
 Viceroy and Archivist of the House of Wargoth
Watcher of Katta Castellum