Jora Horne, just a touch of death.

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Name: Jora Horne​ Age: 48​ Gender: Female​ Race: Human​ Height: 6'4" 193cm​ Build: Junoesque, robust​ Inheritor Background: Carries an ancient holy book of Jergal, written in Netherese, with all the potential white and black necromantic rites that might entail. ​ ​ ​ Jora Horne carried herself with august imperialism. Whilst statuesque and venust an air of the macabre chilled further in her presence. About her waist a leather harness carried always upon her personage the empty chthonic gaze cast of a human skull, and beside it a similarly nitheful appearing tome of ancient script written in some dead language long forgotten. Such trappings were borne upon a frame oft heavily armored, however fitted plates compressed upon the vigorous musculature of biceps and callipygian waist. Skin of deathly pallor contrasted with dark hair and a dispassionate expression. Such display was, of course, marked in trims of gold and signs of wealth where able; whilst grim and detached in service this was Amn, after all, and even the most earnest thanatologist is not beyond cultural influence.​

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[Rose]

THE FIRST BLIGHT

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A daughter of a ruined minor textiles merchant, Jora Horne and her siblings became swiftly destitute when their father was slain at the hands of bandits whilst making a delivery. Family wealth was swiftly cannibalized by greedy relatives, and children were left without anyone to speak for them. Forgotten to the streets without the bounty of a name even to support them what remained of their nuclear bond grew frayed as they must learn to endure as urchins of the slums. While each sibling found a way to survive, Jora could not. Would not. So much changed so fast and the viciousness of the slums, the coldness of such sudden loss, and the settling apathy and hopelessness of anything she once knew of life ever returning was too much. Jora took a breath, wrapped herself in a fishing net, and stepped off the docks.

She woke later; cold, but dry. The air was still and stagnant, but clean. Stone loomed in all directions, and candles lit the skyless darkness. Jora was in a tomb, or crypt, or mausoleum, as she would guess from the stained glass upon faux-windows carved into the stonework underground. There were so many books, however, and a trio of individuals in dull, grey robes writing endlessly upon desks. Silence only broke by the scratching of quills and Jora was content to be ignored -the supposed saviors declining to even acknowledge her continued life. Since the violently sudden end of her family and old life she finally felt something other than grief. She felt curiosity, and peace. Isolated, quiet peace. She was spared death, or perhaps cursed with life, but here she could fade away. She could become nothing and curl in on herself and vanish from the noise and pain of the living world, and soon she would learn to enjoy the company of herself and a solemn responsibility. Jora would become a Doomscribe and devote what was spared of her life into the responsibility of death that she was for whatever reason cheated out of.

 

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A PALLID DAWN


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Jora Horne was still very young and by her 14th birthday had transcribed more books than she cared to count. Histories, cultural traditions, and stories. So many stories of the once living cataloging their names into great libraries of the deceased. Her penmanship was fair and her studies slow, but steady. This was the time now for her to learn combat as well. The scriviners were largely too old to travel and a Roaming Scribe was needed, and for that so too would protection be required. Jora was tasked with real responsibility to go into the outside world, perform funerary arrangements and become conditioned to society again. Piece by piece being reconstructed. While shy and intimidated at first -and ashamed of her once attempted suicide- she began to enjoy the grim fatality of her jobs. She was to collect bodies. She was to write Last Will and Testaments. She was to record passing moments and the stories of the dead, and how they lived, and how they died. She was to perform autopsies on the dead and study fresh corpses, embalming, mummification, and various cultural funerary rites and consecrations. She saw the grief in others, even if she could no longer relate to it herself. Death was another step of bureaucracy on a cosmic scale. Life was a fleeting aberration. These people didn't understand it, but they didn't need to understand it. She did. While ascetic and simple the cultural influence of Amn touched all things however. The poorest would only afford unmarked or mass graves while the wealthy held feasts and chapels. Those that could not afford the modest price of a Last Will were left unconsecrated. Tithes of service were a part of passing and death was still a business- one which many, one would hope, would invest in. Wealth does not transcend corporeal passing.

With social responsibility Jora needed to learn to defend herself, and to defend others. From this a tome of prayers, maneuvers, and ritual to armor and weapon perseverance was her daily study. The language was an old one of their gods true church and one not spoken for many thousands of years. She was told of the old days before the God of Death took a back seat to the affairs of mortality and became an observer. Of the social responsibilities they once carried and should now still carry. Of the legal responsibilities mandated to them. Of the order and rigidity death held in everyday life of the original pantheon of the Old Empire before its fall. Also of the Companions and Knights of the Pallid Mask. While she could not be officially ordained as one she was to keep tradition, faith, responsibility, and duty all the same for when the time of The End comes. So that when The End Of All Life struck those who followed in her footsteps will be prepared to write the final names, before writing their own names and ensuring the complete silence of all life. Mortal and divine.

Jora engaged more with the public. She trained harder. She fought harder. She studied the undead whose being broke the cycle of death in its purity by their chaotic nature. While the holy dead remained, she knew she would become worthy of the chance she was given and would need to ensure the orderly death of all things was not impeded by the unliving or by the blasphemy of fiends whom might seek to steal souls from the gods and their rightful destination. The only undead permissible were those ordained by the church, and few and very far between at that in order and discipline, in service of the church, and in voluntary contract of duty not to prolong or cheat due death. Whilst Myrkul reigned this cycle was too frequently and too regularly broken and needed constant vigilance and trimming. By adulthood, Jora was prepared to be declared true. She rose now as a Doomscribe of the Order of the White Glove. Expressionless, jaded, inured by a life surrounded by death she seemed cold compared to the more joyous living. Though her duty was pure and her intent just, and her gloves always kept the cleanest of white even when armor and clothes faded and grew ancient. She was ready to begin her first real trials and travel to places of hauntings alone to put the dead to rest.

 

[Rose]

CALAMITY


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Her bond to The Pitiless One broke and for a time she was plunged to darkness, misery, and uncertainty again. It was her childhood repeating itself. Chaos erupted everywhere and she hid underground in prayer with the other Doomscribes seeking answers that would never come. The gods were silent. Magic ceased. The world stood still, and with the weave and gods unresponsive monsters and the supernatural would certainly lay waste to now undefended humanity. This was surely a sign of the coming End. It wasn't until whispers of further lands came of none other than Torm himself. He in the flesh who came to his holy land of Tantras, and the return of magic and prayers in his presence... and of similar stories of other gods in other realms. The gods walked the earth and those who found them were blessed. This also surely meant that gods would war and death will come in droves. Jora had a mission now. Not just to tend her duties to death and record the passing of life. If her god came to mortal life then it is to him that his Companions would have assembled. This was her time to explore the wider world during these Times of Trouble.

While she did not ever find what she sought, the journey was enlightening and further helped Jora discover more of herself and greater independence. She was entrusted as the inheritor of the ancient book of Jergal's faith from which she was instructed and learned, and as the Godswar came to an end and the silence remained her duties did not end. People still died and still there was a need, even if the dead did not walk now in these moments. She practiced her words from the book and the holy rituals and gave blessings to the dead and consecrated their graves through mundane ritual as before. With a world in chaos it was her responsibility to be order and to be disciplined and ensure the passing of all lives continued as planned as these years of silence surely heralded.

As she had found the clenching grip of grief twice so too did Jora experience a new hope as magic slowly returned. Trickles of divine power and whispers of greyish light glowed at her fingertips. Her prayers were not answered yet but she was given the tools to be of service, but with it came strange sensations on occasion. When performing an autopsy on a fresh body the hairs at the back of her neck would rise and she would feel a sensation of… peace. When walking the graves she would feel an unshakable sense of being watched. Upon one moment when lighting holy censers she would swear to have heard a word spoken in human voice as incense was lit, however no prayers ever came answered with communion. Unfortunately, this slow return of magic also meant the return of the living dead. With magic, civilizations would heal and the death of all was postponed, and while that was a relief surely to all there was some guilt that she would not be part of something as significant as the end of the world. With unusual experiences in places of death and religious services Jora needed to consult with her mentors. After ten years abroad she was to return home to Amn to seek greater wisdom for the interpretation of the queer sensations she was experiencing.

 

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REUNIFICATION​

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Returning home Jora Horne delved into the ruins from which she was raised to confer with the older ones that brought her up. These sensations and signs were shared in different forms and it was revealed that through the Godswar came the death of Myrkul. Now, however, with magic returning was the experience of a new deity to replace him. It was quiet at first but the name grows spoken louder and with more confidence by the month.

Kelemvor.

Although magic is weak and sometimes unpredictable there is more certainty in these times where death is concerned. The passing of life is as destined as ever but it is not to be feared as it once was. This would be a greater moment to teach of mortality and finality of the afterlife and of a person's true life once the chrysalis of their mortal coil is left behind. These are things that The Pittiles One might enjoy more than the chaos and fear wrought by Myrkul, however the new god rumored of by the masses is young. He has just been born. These signs they have been experiencing were interpreted to be a summoning, and as Jergal must surely be at the side of Kelemvor his followers must seek them too. There is so much for a new faith to learn. Rituals and rites to solidify and forge an identity. Mundane and magical practices where the dead are concerned. The legalities and political elements of dead people were a further nightmare. The Scriviners of Doom were here though to shoulder these growing pains and to teach and help the new fledgling god and his followers to stand confidently and to legitimize them in the eyes of public opinion.

Heavy armor could not be maintained in solitary travel and it would be a lengthy walk yet. Jora left her blessed plate and belongings behind for the next child that would be taken in as she was and walk in the footsteps she left, just as she had done in the shadow of those who came before. With old chain and as many travel supplies as she could carry Jora began the journey for her newest quest. There were new priests and holy warriors of a companion order; there were new dead -intentional or accidental- with the return of magic; there were the remains of Myrkul’s legacy which were in dire need of being burned away, scoured from the world, and consecrated.

It was time to travel to Murann.

 

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Name: Linda Mays
Cause of Death: Evisceration by boar
Date: Mirtul 27th, 1369

On this day Linda foraged for medicinal herbs for her aging mother. She was slain by wild boars leaving behind a husband and two children. Remains mostly devoured. Head and some pieces recovered and returned to family for burial.

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Twilight crept upon the heath where wildflowers bloomed. Amidst sky yet overcast by unrelenting storms the barest flicker of wind gave hope that the moon might make a brief appearance; but hope was analogous with harm. One might imagine a bovine braying in the distance but the steady winds of the Mirtul storm brought only a haunting whisper to the somber field where stood a family, a stranger, and a burial mound of rocks. Not far beyond a still river lay at rest where willows grew, and upon one bore paired initials. A place that lovers once frequented and later chose to raise a ranch and family. A place now where they welcomed a mysterious woman for shelter at the ending stretch of a quest and were repaid with the cold, pitiless peace of death. Hand in hand the children stood not fully understanding what was happening in their youth, while a widower held their weeping, elderly grandmother. The man comforted her, but she felt the guilt of her heart too heavily to be consoled; for it was a daughters love that brought her to the wilds, and for a mother to burden the experience of the birth, growth, and end of a child. For three days they've known loss in their heart but no finality was given until the questing woman paid for her stay with the recovery of remains and blessing of a final passage.

As twilight began to wane and a long period of emotion-filled silence grew to grim acceptance the woman raised a skull from her waist. A silver amulet of a skull and scroll was lain upon it while its chain fell free. Her face never betrayed sign of emotion as she spoke in deep, droning tone with lilting melody; a fall, a raise, and a fall carefully constructed to drive the pain of the dirge like a stake into the heart with its flow carefully accented. In grief there was peace. There was acceptance of death and the assurance of finality. The gift of gloom would be granted and the family which hosted this traveler would hear their grief in the deafening silence for a long while yet. The Lord of The End of Everything shall leave his mark upon mortal hearts once more and their parting dirge will enshrine a memory to carry in whatever time of life remains.

In the silence of the meadow
Where your whispers used to lie
The echo fades to shadows
Of the days when you'd be nigh
The river's song is mournful
It weeps the way you left
The willow’s tears are endless
Its branches bend with grief

The ground that once held laughter
Now only knows the thief
The moonlight's soft, indifferent
To the sorrow in the air
Where flowers bloom no longer
And memories turn to dust
The stones bear silent witness
To the love that was a must

Your voice, a ghostly murmur
Haunts the twilight's gentle breeze