![]() As I stare down the blade of a would-be hero, its glittering “just upgraded in town during downtime before starting this quest” surface already claiming my head as its prize, I cannot help but wonder how I came to be here in the first place... ...Certainly, the life of a cultist wasn’t my first, nor only option. Yet, somehow, I found myself inextricably pulled down this plot convenient path, as though the faceless gods who dictate the fate and destiny of all people merely needed pawns in their grand, enigmatic schemes. No, that may not be the case, entirely. Had I not agency and freewill after all? Perhaps the inscrutable gods did wish the best for me, I merely chose a different path. What difference was there between me and this group of adventurers? Certainly the weaponry, there isn’t much chance for plundering dungeons in between important cult business. I digress, though, and I only have a few more moments of hyper-cognition to think my thoughts before that +3 longsword of greater cultist bane decapitates me. Well it all started when I was born, really. My story is one as quickly recounted as it was jotted down by the gods upon pressed for a detailed and thorough background of my entire life’s story by a group of brigands-called-heroes as if it could fit into a sentence or two. Well, here it is: His name, well, let’s call him Larry, he grew up as a poor potato farmer when, as a young boy, he fell in with a tough crowd and eventually joined the Whispering Way.
Have you ever had your life summed up so succinctly that you felt satisfied in the telling? Well that certainly doesn’t tell the whole story, now does it? Cultistry is a sacred, and time-honored profession in this world, and this kind of recapitulation does not do it justice. To be a little more fustian, here is my life’s story: I was raised by a couple of agriculturalists who specialized in cultivating starchy tubers. Though my formative years were spent boiling, mashing, and sticking such tubers in stews, I quickly found the redundancy dissatisfying and yearned for more. I joined a group of like-minded individuals as a young, virile man and we committed ourselves to making the world a better place. Having never been educated on exactly how to accomplish this feat, we made as many blunders as victories, caused as much hardship as we did ease. What we needed was a guide, a mentor. Some wizened old man with a white beard and witty candor to evoke our inner hero and guide us on our path to notoriety. Unfortunately, the trope for accomplished tutor is eerily similar to cultist recruiter and we soon found ourselves indoctrinated into the Whispering Way, ostensibly to help make the world a better place (though, I think he really did say “deader”. My companions and I argued a long time about that). But, it’s too late now. Even if we appealed to the kinder nature of these heroes, we cannot turn back from our path. Something about a tainted soul and turning to ash if we ever leave “the Way” (that’s what we cultists call it, anyway). I figure, if I’m going to die either way (on the one hand: an infernal pile of ash, on the other by an inevitable adventurer’s sword), I may as well try and accomplish SOMETHING in my mediocre life, so furthering the will of “the Way” seemed like a pretty good use of my time. I guess, what the whole point of all this is, as I stare down the naked, silver plane of raw sword and hero muscle coming at my neck, I cannot help but wonder if he understands. Me and my companions, whom they found in our cultist lounge in our secret hideout, we were all adventurer’s too once. So beware, our fate could befall you next.
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