Rowser shuffled sleepily through the hollow space, allowing his wrapped burden to slide along the floor. He lay it down and looped a worn cord around the Hilt; heaving down on the trailing-end, the huge longsword lifted to heaven, and was securely tied off. The Book is placed reverently on the pedastal as the sword swings slowly high above. Rowser makes his way in the gloom to the doors at the end of the hall, its high ceilings made parody by the narrow walls and a floor space packed with random seating types. Rowser throws wide the oversized doors, his gnomish frame unimpressive in the greyed morning light. He turned back and begins The Work.
*"And the Chosen will be so picked from those who be worthy, and into nothingness will the follow the lord Aroden to Bring back his Lost Lissala*
Rowser breathes the words out into the empty room, his voice pushing out and into the street beyond the open doors, reaching the ears of early morning labors, and late night reveliers. 645. This was his 645th sermon since Gam was Taken to Service and followed the rest of the Clan. He will always remember the emptyness he heard that day when he awoke and only Gam was there. 'They Gone to the service of Aroden.' All of them? 'Aye, all of them' Are we going to Gam? 'Not you my child, your time is later, now lisen to my words....' and she told Rowser then, he was to empty the gnome home of impediments and Preach the Words of The Book. She handed it to him. directly in his hands, they trembled so as she gave him The Book. as far as he knew, no one in the whole family had ever touched The Book, aside Gam. 'But they been called to service. And your ol Gam the Bannerman be hearin the call. too. You keep to the book lad you preach the truth.' And the next dy, when he woke. Gam had gone. Like the others the day before, like the Questing God Aroden himself, Gam had gone.
*The mighty Godess of our Distant God, rent asunder in twain and corrupted by the twisted ways of the Rune Lords,*
She had left the deed, everlasting rights of the property of the gnome home. Once teeming with 40 souls. now only Rowser to hold the gate. She had left The Book, a bound leather tome of inserted sheafs, hand written parables, wildly annotated pages from the 11 Acts, their stories cut in with tales of the seven virtues of rule. Gam had also left The Sword of Iomedea; a massive green crystal longsword, half again as tall as Rowser; that was all she had left. It was the Way of the Calling. The Called would go and leave no body behind or anything that they could not carry alone into His Service. They would just be gone.
*An Lo, do we wield the Sword Of Iomedea here on this plane to guard the gates fof the stormy dark into which our greatest lord has ventured unafraid*
He liked this passage and allowed his voice to spread wider, flowing its tones along the rough wooden floor and winding into the awakening city. This was one of Gams favorites as well and he thought of her now, fighting through with Tifner and Loric and Sckiyler and Fillion and Buillion Steve and all the others of the clan who had been called to His Service. Their departure had only strengthend and deepend his faith, let him know that the time was near and he must bear Her Sword alone as a banner for all to know The Inheritor was also the Gatekeeper and Chooser.
*And Iomedea will see and choose those of her lieges greatest Banner-Men and she will choose them to go and follow Aroden into the Stormy Dark beyond ken*
The first dawn rays reached into the hall and brought the massive crystal weapon an inner greenish pink glow as Rowsers voice reached a smooth rolling crecendo, his 645th mornig sermon was punctuated with a startling boom. The shock wave shook the city block and Rowser tumbled from the tall stool he had been standing upon. MOre explosions and waves of force followed; Rowsers eyes were fixed upon the heavens, or nearly. He was watching the wildly swinging Longsword, scything madly through the air above him. The far half of the hall explodes inwards in a violent storm of splinters and stone as an enormous black boulder opens the structure to the nightmare-filled city. The thin cord snaps and the Holy weapon spears down in the same instant Rowser leaps forward. The massive sword point shows no hesitation in its journy though the cheap pulpit. Nor through The Book, spread open atop it. Nor through Rowseres little finger as he makes a desperate grab for The Book. He opens his mouth to scream, but becomes transfixed upon the open Book before him. He knows every page of The Book, but this one he knows not. He is almost lost in the unrecognized flowing hand-written fey script of the page, knowing words he has never read. Taking off one leather sandal, he grips the blade Longsword in front of him, pulling it free from the wrecked pulpit and holding it before him, point down and crossguard high over his head. Rowser gathers The Book into his bloody four-fingered hand, clutching it to his chest. He raises his eyes to the obsidion menhir that had invaded his hall and destroyed his only home. The words from the page come to his lips as if a memory never forgotten. They rumble out of his throat, each sylable a dervished warior, each vowel and pause an attacking general. Rowser advanced upon the stone as he preached the Faith of his Gam:
*Flames lash the morning air to taste its fresh life,