Sharroz roams forest south of Brill, keeping a mouldy eye out for any herbs or plants that he may turn into a concoction of sorts. After a while he stops his search to pull out an incredibly old book, leafing through its pages until he finds the recipe he's after.
"If i add another does of bruiseweed mixed with plaguebloom.. that should increase the potency 10 fold." he mutters bitterly to himself. In his mind, he believes if he can create something of use to the Cult, they would accept them into their ranks. He continues about his business, finding the ingredients for the flesheating potion.
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Sharroz was once known as Damian Forgesmith in his human days, a practitioner of the holy arts. He once believed that the Light was the one and only way to live ones life. At the battle of Stratholme, when he became cornered by countless number of ghouls and infected, he believed that somehow the Holy Light would save him. Up until his dying breath he kept telling himself that salvation would arrive at any moment, before uttering ".........why?", collapsing on the ground.
His cruel fate had not ended there, however, as he found himself standing to his feet whilst moving forward against his will. He could not speak, all he could do was listen to commands flooding into his head that told him to obey. Mentally screaming at his own inability to break free, he unwillingly began to murder the townsfolk that he once new dearly.
Just as Stratholme was on the verge of collapsing in on its fiery self, he faltered, a second voice begins to crawl its way into his mind, drowning out the commanding voice altogether. Being now able to collect his thoughts once more, he flee's the battlefield into the night, trying to find his way to the voice that allowed him to think freely once more.
He now serves the Dark Lady, eagerly waiting to assault the Church of the Holy Light and its lies that it spews.
Thu Aug 05, 2010 12:32 am
