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            Sargon fingered the bloodstone that dangled from a leather cord around his neck.  Its smooth polished surface and physical beauty brought back memories of the woman he had loved.  In his mind he saw her face, her long red hair streaming about her fair countenance.  He had taken the vow of celibacy, as all healers of Arnor must, but it was a promise that Sargon could not keep once he had seen her, for Adaren's physical beauty had overcome his will power.  "Adaren, I loved you — why did you abandon me?" he said as if she were standing before him. 
 
In his youth, while training to become a healer, an argument with a fellow acolyte developed, a concealed disagreement for the forbidden love of a woman.  The disagreement festered, and Sargon was forced to defend himself against a man who had broken more than the vow of celibacy, his challenger's choice of attack proof that he had dabbled in things dark and deadly.  Sargon had emerged victorious from the wrongful assault, but at a horrible cost.  The curse cast by his now dead rival had slowly eaten the flesh from his bones.  If it were not for the protection of the stone he wore, the spell would complete its work, ending his life.  Worse yet, he was forced to abandon his vocation and flee the order, for they accused him of murder and hunted him.  As he had wandered from kingdom to kingdom, the curse continued its deadly work, devouring his flesh so that, no matter where he went, he was regarded as a pariah.  He had given himself up to death and set off on a final pilgrimage, hoping to come to peace with those who had wronged him before the curse took his life, but in the northern reaches of Winis Dale he discovered the simple bauble, and unaware of the jewel's protective qualities, donned the attractive trinket as a remembrance of his journey.  The trip would have been his last if he hadn't found the bloodstone, but as luck would have it, the gem's magical properties stemmed the effects of the necromancy that assailed his body and preserved what remained of his life.  Perhaps the curse was the god Arnor's way of forcing me to keep my promise of chastity, for no woman could ever love me now, not in this macabre state.  But Arnor must have further use for his follower, finding the stone too much of a coincidence to think otherwise, he mused, as he had a thousand times since he discovered the gem that was his salvation.     
 
He surveyed the magnificent landscape one more time before continuing through the open field.  He could see the tracker, Aric, returning from his hunt and wondered what the fair-haired woodsman would be preparing for their evening meal.  "Good Aric," Sargon spoke to himself, "what shall we do now, my friend?"  As he watched the woodsman, he couldn't help but think of how different he was from Grimmric and himself.  Aric had never placed much value in gathering wealth and power.  He was content in the everyday tasks life had to offer and took satisfaction in helping those unable to help themselves.  In their time together, Sargon had observed that Aric actually enjoyed aiding the oppressed peoples they met in their travels.  He would have made a great healer, Sargon thought, but his love for the wilderness drew him elsewhere.  He and Grimmric seemed so incompatible with Aric that it was a paradox they had even taken him into their confidence.  There is much to be learned from this kindly woodsman, he thought.
 
The healer snapped out of his contemplative mood and returned his focus to the present.  He approached the house contented, his mind cleared.  The evening stroll had created a stillness, a serenity within him.  Soon it would be night and he would descend into the catacombs beneath the mundane dwelling to rehearse for death in sleep.  Tomorrow was another day within the tranquility they had carved for themselves.  Sargon watched the overcast sky drift in and heard the thunder rumbling in the distance.  We have been fortunate, but I am tired, he thought.  A lifetime of wearing the brand of murderer had taken its toll on the priest, the fact that the accusation was false notwithstanding.  He had chosen to use his life to bring peace and healing to those around him, but his scarred visage brought fear and loathing instead, a fact that tormented him each time it occurred to him. 
 
Crouching down as far as he could in the high grass, the lone figure watched the men's activities from a comfortable distance.  He waited patiently for the dark to settle in, the tools he had been supplied safely tucked away in a satchel that he carried.  He was told that the disfigured cleric would have what they wanted, a gem of relatively insignificant appearance to which they lay claim of rightful ownership, as if that mattered to the men who commanded him.  For its return, they promised the antidote to the poison they had introduced to his system and re-establishment of a marginal prominence and usefulness in their society.  Failure meant death — at the hands of these three should his skills fail him or from the slow acting poison should the gem not be returned and the remedy dispensed. 
 
He knew that he had some time before these men would seek their rest, and as he lay watching, his memories returned to a time perhaps even more desperate than now.  He was the older of two boys, but a savage raid on his village had taken the lives of his mother, father and brother, a tragedy that had plunged him into a world of darkness.  Now, he was no better than the murderers who had butchered his family.  He loathed the evil that had trapped him, forcing him to do their bidding, but his way was set. His life depended upon the outcome of this mission, and as much as he hated serving them, forced or otherwise, he still deemed his life too precious a commodity to part with without a struggle. And so, he would be the hand of fate for these three unsuspecting men, and as such, the bringer of change as unavoidable as the oncoming storm.