Ragnarr: Beholding his Work Against the Undead

Today, we did some good work.

Flamm released an evil spirit that apparently he'd released before, which isn't so good. But the spirit mostly seemed to want to go home, and did, so there's that. I can't help but think that we're going to run into the bastard again.

We fought a beholder, too. Well, I can't say we, so much as everyone else. The damn thing knocked me out. Apparently Chris did a fine job, and managed to use a bastard of a spell without causing too much damage. His mother would be proud of the lad.

Then there were the undead. I can't rightly say that I killed any of the bastards, but Pelor certainly chose to work through me in a damn fine way.

Which makes me wonder how long he's been guiding my path. When I joined the order, became an official cleric and got my name from the seer and all that, I thought he was daft for calling me "Brother Ragnarr". Here I was, looking forward to doing Pelor's work some place with a nice warm bed and a fine supply of ale, and he names me Ragnarr.

I couldn't complain, not really. Everyone's heard about the Citadel of Ragnarr, the Undead Slayer. It just never seemed like a good time.

I mean it sounds, good, sure: shambling hordes of undead coming through the pass, nothing to stop them but a dwarf in the servant of Pelor, with a sigil of the sun in one hand and a rock in the other. But these days it's a great fortress, expanded and kept up by generations of Pelor's servants, summoning up rock walls and spanning the whole bloody pass to keep the undead from the cursed lands away from the civilized side of the mountains. Lads go there to show there mettle, to learn how to dust the bastards with the light of Pelor himself. Hell, I spent a wee bit of time there myself. Somewhere, you can take a crap in walls I summoned.

But that's just it: that crapper took my five days of magic. This poor bastard dwarf had one. His entire blood fortress would have been barely big enough to stand. It would have been days before he could even summon enough rock to build himself a staircase and even do anything about the bastards.

Sure, he could bring food, he could summon water. But where's the liquor? And where did his shit go? How long was he up there, with no beer and no illusionists, before anyone noticed and sent help, or even before the could seal the bastard undead on the other side of the wall?

It's enough to drive a man crazy. The poor bastards that finally found his fortress ought to be glad he didn't have an axe with him, or he might have killed them, too. The stories don't talk about whether he tried to turn the poor bastards, swearing that the light of Pelor would turn their evil selves to dust unless they gave him a proper drink RIGHT SODDING NOW.

And that, that's who the bastard seer named me after.

So where am I now? In the middle of nowhere, far from a proper drink, killing undead.

Pelor, I love you, serve you, and respect you, but you're a bastard.