[RPG] Troubling times.

[Tonie van Loon]

Quinn had been sitting in the large library of the Temple of Storms in
Dyomoque for some time, having made his way to the safety of the fortified
structure after finishing his daily work keeping the courts and offices
running in spite of the heavy Daemonic presence in the region. He had lost
several good administrators already, and simply keeping the region running
as it should was quickly becoming a serious problem.

He, however, had different matters to his mind, different matters entirely.
Nearly buried beneath a small mountain of ancient scrolls and dusty tomes he
dug deep into the least visited parts of this already obscure library of the
Arcane, searching through the scraps of knowledge his Order had managed to
acquire over the centuries. He realized fully that this was dangerous, dark
knowledge, forbidden knowledge, but he was determined to find the answers he
so desperately sought.

He shook his head, reading only the distorted accounts telling of
unfathomable horrors from ages past, of creatures that up to now had merely
been the stuff of nightmares, now nightmares made flesh. However horrible
the tales of the Daemons might be, more gruesome still were the stories of
the terrible Pit Fiends that led them. He found out that the Daemon now
known as Devastating had been around for millennia, a primal evil that had
been killed before but had never been vanquished; whenever it was killed it
seemed to simply find a new host.

However, there was also a spark of hope to be found. Some of the accounts
did speak of victories, however small in the grand scheme they might have
been. On one occasion a Daemon Lord had been utterly destroyed by the
righteous fury of the Storm Lord brought to bear by his mortal servants on
this plane.

Quinn closed the tome he had been studying and rose from the table. He
walked away muttering softly to himself, shaking his head slowly as he left
the library and headed for the Private Chapel he had ordered built for the
inner circle of the Order. He looked at the Altar, and then at the weapon he
had placed upon it until he found himself ready to wield it in battle
against the Daemons. Gungnir, the Unwavering One, a weapon once wielded by
Tyr himself, its power now lay dormant. The Spear had been in his possession
for some time, and all that time he had sensed the divine influence upon it,
but it was not until a confrontation with the past in the Mountains over
Toren that he had realized the weapon's true nature.

He knelt down by the altar and bowed his head, whispering a small prayer to
the wind as he tried to clear his mind. "Zisa, Gentle Mother, guide me
through these dark times and let your son fall not into darkness. Tyr,
Honoured Father, grant me the wisdom to know my enemy when he is upon me and
let my mind be free of doubt. Grant me Your sight to know the path I must
take and grant me Your strength to see it through…"
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