We enter the Doomcrag, ready to end the mortal threat to Rivenspire of both the Baron and the Lightless Remnant. However, Verandis’s worst fears are realised when Montclair’s bloody-projection appears and channels the power of the cursed relic into the house soldiers of Tamrith and Dorrell, turning them to bloodfiends.
We were forced to slay our own soldiers.
Verandis knew this might happen, in fact, I am sure now that he foresaw it. And yet I cannot judge him, for I could have, should have, done more to overcome the blind pride of both Tamrith and Dorell.
We are taught that sacrifice is noble, that it is not something to regret, it is something to celebrate, and to aspire to. But these men and women did not sacrifice themselves for the greater good, they were sacrificed… and there is nothing noble in that.
One thing I should have learnt from my journey through troubled High Rock is that the means by which we achieve, is often just as important as the achievement itself.
Our soldiers slain by our own hand, and Gwendis, Tamrith and Dorell, have been taken from us by the Remnant’s insidious light. The fate of all Rivenspire now lies upon the shoulders of a vampire and a soldier without a soul. I’d like to hear the tavern bards attempts to turn this into a doughty ballad.