Transcriber's Note: The following pages were discovered in a recovered diary that is believed to belong to Mad Sirian Waters. It is believed that some or all of the events contained herein were delusions of that madman, as both Sirian himself and Samuel Farthen are still actively involved in the Summoner Wars despite the events that are related here. There is also a footnote that defies any rational explanation: Mad Sirian wrote his own name with the letters 'jsmkd' and that of Samuel Farthen with 'thenobleknave', whatever that may be; our scholars have been utterly baffled as to what those cryptic messages mean, although these may well be further inane ramblings of that once prestigious mind.
My master, it seems, is wise beyond the considerable centuries that he has ruled these vile lands. For as surely as his wisdom placed this glowing dark Summoning Stone into my hands to fulfill my destiny, it has also deduced the location of that wretched Vanguard General and sent me to deal with the upstart before he’d mastered his newly stolen Stone. Soon the stains on my hands will have a rich new layer upon them; my glee is marvelous to behold!
The pompous General has no inkling of our proximity until my troops are upon him. My lovely pet Ghoul tears into the front lines in search of a grizzled treat, but with a cry fails to finish off the wretch and begins to gnaw his own flesh in his ravenous hunger. The ensuing counterattack leaves my lovely Ghoul destroyed, and a pitched battle rages. I eagerly rend my own flesh and use it to animate some frightful Warlocks on the front lines, hurling powerful hexes from afar to decimate the foul Vanguard ranks.
I peer into the boundless abyss of the Stone, and let out a delighted groan as a small piece of my soul enters the stone and reveals my own future. With a cackle, I call forth the peerless Hirud, and set the crazed shaman loose upon my enemies. I feel the power drain from me as he steps into the fray, and I have not the strength to bring a companion to assist the disfigured warrior. The General, it seems, is also weighed down by this magical leech in our presence, and is forced to come deal with the threat himself.
A blinding, putrid light reaches across the battlefield as the General prepares himself for war. Assisted by his stalwart troops, he cuts first one and then another of the shaman’s heads off, and with an anguished scream the mage vanishes into delightfully tainted dust. Thus freed of the leech’s effect, I call forth the mighty Corpse Wyrm to deal with the abhorrent Vanguards.
Great piles fall off of the creature’s mighty flanks, before twisting to reveal themselves as more of my blood-soaked troops. Knowing the time to strike is nigh, I call upon the necrotic powers that even my wise Master forbids me to use; in a gruesome surge, my army dispatches the hapless Vanguards on all sides, but soon I feel the twisted magic rend me from the inside to the out and see several of my troops drop in the process, horribly disfigured even for my lovely forces. My eyes roll back into my head in pained jubilation.
Under the onslaught, the cowardly General has no choice but to fall back with a sturdy escort and call upon a stooped woman that must number years nearly equal to my glorious Master. With uncanny power she demolishes my troops from afar, and soon the mighty Corpse Wyrm is blasted back into the pile of death from whence he came.
With a snarl I call forth two Walls of Godshome to block the old crone’s path. I spy a battle clad angel that had infiltrated my defenses and rend his neck in twain, feeling my strength return from this delightful snack. My most agile troops flit through my barricades to slash at the old woman, whose aura of defenses do nothing to stop them, and then with a flash of mist they retreat to safety.
The General decides to call upon a burly, tattooed mystic whose power makes my minions shriek. I send them after the mystic and his phalanx of woeful companions, but in a blast of light from the faraway General one of the warrior monks survives the barrage unscathed, and swiftly maneuvers his way into the heart of my territory past my bewildered troops. I hiss at him as, imbued with his master’s mystical arts, he unleashes a powerful chakra that siphons my strength and kindles my fury.
I clench my Stone so tightly that my stained knuckles turn a ghastly white beneath their crimson coverings. I feel my stomach turn in pained ecstasy as my soul begins to seep out into a pile of my fallen soldiers on either side of me, bringing them back to continue the battle. With a blast from the far-off General, my Stone becomes white-hot and then strangely cold, and my spell is undone. Cursing, I set upon the intruding monk and use his fleeting life to undo the damage he wrought, while my clever foot soldiers use their trickery to cripple the lead mystic with dual blows to his tattooed face. I laugh as the coward has to call upon a stately escort to cover his retreat, and my pursuing troops find that guard to be a tough foe to bring down.
Sensing my reserves running low and time being crucial, I call upon my Stone to return the spirit of my fallen necromancer to me. However, with another flash of searing heat and biting cold, my Stone is rendered inert and the spell fizzles. I howl, and loose another salvo of my bloodthirsty troops to shuffle off the mortal coils of both the tattooed monk and the old crone, while bringing forth the savage Gull-Dass to finish the task at hand.
The General is reeling from the twin losses, but he lifts his Stone and in shocked outrage I see the bones in my graveyard stir and the freed spirits of his faithful monks flee my hallowed crypts and recharge his accursed 'divine' Stone. I cut down his remaining soldiers, but soon he calls forth a valiant defender to assist him in his hour of need, a shield maiden of magnificent physique.
My vampires dare not go near her for fear that they shall not return, and even the towering Gull-Dass is given pause. I decide to ignore her and pursue the heavily wounded General with my gruesome army in tow, and end the fight before her retribution can commence. She valiantly charges forth to meet the beastly Gull-Dass in battle and try to win the day, but with a series of devastating blows she is brought down with alacrity that surprise both myself and the foul General. The General has no more protector, and boldly charges out to finish off the weakened Gull-Dass himself. Left alone, with body broken from the long battle, one of my vampires sneaks behind him and I come face to face with the defeated wretch.
“Shall you come serve the great Rotten King? Will you join in Itharia’s liberation from the cruel shackles of life into glorious undeath?”
His eyes burn with righteous indignation right until the vampire’s fangs bury themselves into his neck. He shall make a fine servant indeed.