No Rest For the Wicked

     The fact that we had no time to rest came a quite a surprise, literally.  On my first night I was awakened by screaming and the sounds of several villagers calling out for help, I leapt out of bed and grabbed my sword before running out side.  A short run to the commotion later, I was standing in front of a large obelisk,  The obelisk, a monument to the prison and the guards who dies in the fire, had been spattered with blood, written in blood on the monument was the letter "V".  After a short investigation I realized no one had seen or heard anything until a barmaid heading home saw the defiled monument and had begun screaming.  When the violent events of the night had, at least for the moment been dealt with, the stunned villagers returned to their homes and locked their doors.  The next day came with no relief in sight, I began doing some research on the possibility of ghosts and who they might be.  The distrust of the town made it difficult for me to get anything done.  Everywhere I went I was shut out like a leper.  The only place I was able to accomplish anything significant was in the library of my old mentor.
     I found that the prison was well known for housing some of the worst criminals in the area, but generally never for more than a few months.  Harrowstone was well known as the last stop in many a criminals lives.  The fire itself was a bit of a mystery, the warden's wife was killed in the fire, but no one knew why she was there.  The warden, Lyvar Hawkran, and all of the guards on duty were also killed.
     Since I was unable to find anything conclusive, I decided to stake out the desecrated monument, hoping to catch the vandal returning to the scene of the crime.  I spent the rest of the day preparing for a night of restlessness.  I ate, read, studied my magic, and decided a nap might be a good idea.  After dark I gathered my weapons and stole quietly to a spot where I could observe the monument from a distance.  Time passed slowly waiting for something, anything to happen.  Being half-elven made the wait a bit easier, you see elves live a long time, and must learn patience from an early age.  While I was not raised by elves, I do have some of that patience trained into me.  My patience finally paid off, just after 1:00 a.m. I heard someone coming toward the monument.  I thought I had hidden myself well, but when I heard my quarry turn and run I knew I would have to give chase.  Springing from my hiding spot, I ran flat out after the figure.  As I closed in on him from behind, a flash of movement to the side caught my eye.  Just as I was about to reach out and grab the would be vandal, a large hulking figure smashed into him, sending them both sprawling to the ground.  I yelled for both figures to stop, neither listened.  As they stood, locked in combat, I realized that the man I had been chasing was one of the townspeople that had attacked us during the funeral, the other was what appeared to be a half-orc in battle gear, dressed for a fight.  "Stop" I shouted.  "You fool! Can you not see this man is possessed?" replied the half-orc in a snarl.  After looking again at the townsman, I noticed his eyes were completely white.  "He'll kill you elf, defend yourself!" cried the half-orc.  With that warning the townsman attacked, rushing at me, slashing with a blood-soaked razor.  I was unable to completely avoid the attack.  A large gash opened on my buckler arm.  I reached inward to my spells that I had committed to memory, and with the grace of years of diligent practice,  traced the arcane runes for my Frostbite Spell.  Steam began to form around my hand, like breath on a winters morning, it turned ice blue in an instant.  I reached out with my frozen fingers and touched the possessed man, he staggered from the cold as it seeped into him, but quickly recovered and attacked again.  The half-orc took my attack as an opportunity, flanking the would be killer, and smashing him in the back with a brutal looking mace.  "Don't kill him." I shouted.  The half-orc just looked at me and snorted derisively, "Why not? He'd kill us both if he had the chance."  While he was distracted, and injured, I whirled in for another touch with my blue frosted fingers.  It was enough, barely.  I saw his eyes close and limbs go limp as he fell unconscious.  When I turned the half-orc had once again disappeared into the night.  This was how I first met Morghoul the Cleric.