The Temple of Mysteries was decorated with enchanted tapestries and elaborate rugs, candles and rare incense for the scores of worshipers that came out for Mystra’s midsummer night-midnight mass. Arsten had wanted to celebrate their recent around town job success, but surrendered when his Maerklos companion reminded him of how helpful the church of Mystra had been.
Songs were sung to the goddess of magic while tools, textiles and jewels of wonder were completed under the approving gaze of Minister Robander who had everyone on their feet. The revelry went on for what seemed like a very long time until a shadow caught Arsten’s attention and caused him alarm. The figure took advantage and commanded his gang of thugs to capture him.
Arsten tried desperately to draw attention to his stalkers, but everyone was caught in rapturous celebration. They were on all sides of him now; the closest one produced a long pointed…
A shaft of brilliant light screamed from below the pulpit, neither the golden alter nor the clerics could hope to hold back the undeniable radiance. Magical tendrils snaked like wild vines causing panic, separating everyone. Half of the congregation was immediately stricken blind, their eyes burned from their skulls while others stood stunned at the sudden release of magical power, raw threads of magic from the weave itself. Then darkness no- blackness, as sudden and terrible as the eruption of light.
Arsten fled the magical conflagration to find himself recovering his breath in the Memory Gardens; unlike the wild surge his attackers proved harder to evade. Dressed in yellow cloaks, these low-men had the look of vicious brawlers with pasty white dreads. From each side and behind came kicks and punches that sent Arsten reeling, sick with pain and confusion. After several fierce and bloody moments later, Arsten ducked a swing and pulled the bastard holding him directly into the coming it giving him the break he needed to escape. Arsten recovered and went on the offensive, immediately knocking one out cold and bull rushing a second. Two more low-men advanced to meet a determined look of totality in Arstens eyes, his depth of grit.
Sound crashed all about and the sky seemed to open ejecting the stars from their place in the heavens. A war-cry of divine proportions formed in the depths of Arsten Thunderstaff. From the sky came words of divine exile; shattered faiths; and troubled times. With the release of the war cry to Tempus came clarity of position; instant assessment of himself and his foes; as well as possible attack forms and counter strikes, from that moment Arsten was the avatar of war. He met their advance with precise critical attacks that theft them dead or dying.
A voice spoke to the young Thunderstaff, a dry ageless sound on the verge of insanity. Rising from the remains of his enemies Arsten turned to find a corpse standing before him; uttering a single word, “Samular.” The name, resonated within Arsten more so than ever before. He took a step closer as this corpse, one of his animated ancestors gifted him with items of great age and draconic origins.