A large waterstained and ragged journal that appears as though it was found in the trash, or perhaps the canal, dried over a volcanic vent, and re-used. Some of the pages contain text that is mostly or completely illegible, over which is written in dark ink in a neat but large hand. The cover simply has the word "AMUUT" on it.

Forward

The brothers of the Ragged Claw encouraged those among us who were literate to keep records of our journeys to self-enlightenment and harmonious co-existance with the Universe about us, but in all my training on the surface, never did I write a word. It is only now, having found this book floating in the putrid waters of the canal, that I consider recording the steps of my journey.

Where to begin.

The Ragged Claws are a small order, existing only among Orcs and Half Orcs, specifically Orcs and Half Orcs that are predisposed to introspection. A small order indeed. Our training is inspired by the school of thought that death is inevitable, and necessary. Orcs have but two ways to die - In battle striving to bring Yurtrus' gift to their foes, or alone on the ground, withering at his touch. Those that survive the touch of the Rotting One find themselves stronger for the torment, and become more his instrument by bringing the gift to others.

When one accepts that death is inevitable, and sickness is a trial that makes one stronger, the truth becomes clear. It is not merely by surviving that we become stronger. We must seek to test ourselves against the vileness of the world. We must take into ourselves such perfidity that our bodies are pushed to their limits. We must with every day brush our lives against the limits of death, reaching ever forward for the white hands, and knowing that by doing, they will not reach forward for us.

Marpenoth 23, 1374

Poison

Chaos mist - A taste not altogether unlike drinking a glass of hard liquor. Chaos mist brought upon me a sense of euphoria and confusion, and for a time I felt as though I were outside of my body, peering in at actions I had no control over. I began to become concerned that I would drift away from my mortal remains if I embraced the sensation overlong. Envisioning a silver cord attaching my spirit and body, I travelled back to my shell, where I waited for the poison to run it's course. I awoke with pain behind my eyes and in my neck, which I readily accepted as the price for my journey.

Disease

Spider Sickness - Travelling into the sewers beneath the ruins of this town, I was assaulted by vile spiders that spewed effluvience at me at every step. Try as I might, I could not become sick at the smell, or even the taste of it. Those that travelled with me were of a lesser sort, and became physically ill several times. The sickness was of a debilitating sort, sapping the strength of the afflicted and slowing their steps. The spiders no doubt do this by purpose, to better capture their prey.

Death

I walked the line between Faerun and Yurtrus closely this day, on several occasions allowing myself to brush the division between the two when I could have simply healed myself as the others did. Though I tried to be open and aware during those moments, enlightenment on the nature of the two eluded me. When the battle came to it's inevitable conclusion, I was spent, exhausted. I was only vaguely cogniscient of the ones that ventured with me, and who now doddered upon my wounds as though I were a child with a skinned knee. All around me were the shells of those I had slain in my trance, Yurtrus' gift having been granted to them purely by chance as I sought enlightenment.

Marpenoth 23, 1374

Poison

Deathblade - I came across a small sample of this poison within the pockets of a goblin I had just throttled. Later the same day, I prepared it in a mixture of blood from the Inn of Undeath and, bracing my spirit and flesh, quickly drank it down.

I was unprepared, to say the least for the effect. My throat constricted against my volition and I struggled for breath. My eyes felt fit to bursting within the sockets, and I could hear and feel the blood within my veins rushing through me in a mad quest to find an egress from my mortal shell.

Calling upon my training, I calmed myself and sought the inner tranquility I knew would be my only salvation from this poison. I forced my breathing to quiet. I became still. The blood within me heeded my will and slowed from the torrentous flow it had been only moments before, until it became as still as a tepid pond. I closed my eyes and embraced the emptiness that was now filling me, and I was at peace. For a moment, I felt Yurtrus' cold hands upon my throat, but by seeking the state of animus and void, I proved myself fit to endure his torment for another day.

Disease

Plague - Encountering a sickened beggar today, I frightened him to submission and took from him his sputum, consuming it before him. The plague was in me.

As before, the training I recieved in my childhood was more then a match for this sickness. I drew upon Animus and Void, harmonizing the sickness within me until it became as a part of me, something I had been born with. When next I watered the ground, my urine was fetid and black, and the plague within me was gone.

Once again, I prove stronger then mundane disease. More virulent strains, perhaps even magical ones need be sought out.

Death

Try as I might, I could not wander near to the darkness of Yurtrus' cave today without merely allowing a foe to strike me defenceless. This would shame my training and the masters that taught me, and will not be done. Perhaps tomorrow, a more worthy foe will lead me to the shadows in which Yurtrus lurks.

Marpenoth 24, 1374