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The beginning is blurry, uncertain. There are events that happened present, they had to be, but trying to remember them feels like sand slipping through the space between his fingers. Snippets do linger, there are some things he does remember, but they seldom make much sense. When he was younger, when the world around him was larger, he remembers running through the pouring rain, a woman running alongside him, desperately urging Gandr to go faster. He remembers her slender face, soft, warm hands and gentle, sunflower yellow eyes. A warm fireplace bathing the room (was it a room?) in orange hues, reassurances flowing out of her mouth as she carefully cleaned a wound on his face. She called him her hatchling, an odd pet name. He felt.. something, while in her presence. Lying in her lap he felt like hot water spread inside his chest. She would always make everything be alright, fix it, of that he was certain. There are many snippets of him and the woman running, sometimes hiding, of her pressing a hand over the lower half of his face, pleading for him to stay quiet in hushed tones as yelling, clanking men could be heard. When she deemed it safe again, he received a kiss on the forehead before she embraced him, telling Gandr how brave he had been. He had put together that he and the woman were getting hunted of some sort, but he had no idea why, or by whom. One time he sobbed, face buried in a pillow, as he heard the yelling and clanking outside, only for the woman to tell Gandr that there was nobody there, that his mind was just playing tricks on him. He remembers heavy breathing and aching legs, boots hitting muddy ground and rain seeping through cloth. The woman's frightened eyes. Rust, rot and shaking hands. It was confusing, it’s obvious he was missing huge pieces of this puzzle, gaps ever present. It’s as if he were missing 20 pieces of said puzzle, and half the pieces he does have are damaged, as if they have been gnawed on or torn. It’s blurry, the things that are clear are without context. Until he woke up.
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At first he hadn't even registered his eyes opening. It was incredibly dark wherever he was, the air musty, stale and vaguely reeking of death. Flat on his back he felt for his surroundings, finding wood covering tight walls on all four sides of his body. He woke up in a.. box? Gandr panicked, starting to kick the wooden ceiling above his body, relieved when he felt it give way. Some organic (was it?) mass started to flood the box, earthy in texture. He started to frantically claw his way through the dense dirt, quickly starting to run out of breath. When his hands finally breached the surface, a slight breeze dancing along his fingertips, he finally managed to heave himself out of this burrow he clumsily created. The sun stung his eyes, causing him to tear up, it seemed like he had been in there for a while. After wiping his face several times, giving himself time to accumulate to the light, Gandr took a careful look around. The ground he was sitting on was slightly grassy, some wilted, rotten flowers haphazardly thrown in front of what looked like a headstone, some moss growing at its foot. However, there was a name engraved on the stone, “Gandr Thamnophis”. He had just clawed his way out of his own grave, desecrating his own resting place, shattering the coffin someone had apparently placed him in.
It dawned on Gandr that, no matter how hard he tried, he could not remember how he had supposedly died. Did he not last fall asleep with his head resting on the woman's lap? Or were they running? Whatever had happened, something went wrong. He started to hyperventilate, holding onto his own headstone in order to get himself onto shaky legs. When he stumbled forwards, a figure clad in what looked like armor appeared practically out of nowhere. Startled, Gandr fell to the ground, trying to get away from their imposing form.
The armored man stood tall, chainmail and plate covering his whole body. He wore a closed helmet, the only openings in it being the eye slit and the small air holes, completely concealing his face. A deep, black cloak covered his shoulders, swaying in the blowing wind. The man's form did not look quite right, appearing slightly translucent in some places. As he appeared, a strange fog began to shroud the cemetery Gandr had been buried at. Whispers registered at the edge of the previously dead man's mind, accompanied by the mournful song of the wind. As the ghastly man, who held a morningstar carved from stone, started to slowly advance towards him, Gandr tried to retreat, scrambling backwards. To his horror, his back hit the tombstone, forcing him to press against it in some last vague attempt to escape the knight. He came forward in slow, heavy steps, his greaves clanking every time his boots hit the earth. The knight stopped just one step away, the marble morningstar hovering dangerously close to one of Gandrs feet. The spectre held his gaze for a moment, almost relishing in face of Gandrs fear, his trembling breath and shaking hands.
“I am Kelemvor, Lord of the Dead”, the cloaked avatar's gravelly voice rang out. He spoke in a solemn tone, yet Gandr could hear him as if he was speaking from inside his head. “We were supposed to have met before. You were supposed to stay on my plane, in my realm, forever. They call me the Judge of the Damned, treacherous serpent-”, Gandr flinched at that name, “-and though you may be, in some twisted, perverted way, alive right now, judge you I will.”
“You have crossed the line separating the Living from the Dead twice. You, betrayer, have breached this one way street, swam against my river's current. You have thus broken my sacred law. I am uncertain of how you have managed to do so, what sins you committed that sent you crawling back from six feet under. You have offended the righteous ways of Kelemvor, earning my scorn. This appearance before you, this waste of words and time, is a privilege far beyond anything someone as low as you could ever deserve. The divine and mortal world alike is gazing down upon you in disgust. Unnatural beings of your kind deserve eradication. As my teachings are graceful, Haunts, Apparitions and Revenants have my Pity. Their business is unfinished, missions never completed, and so they shall either find peace or be put out of their misery, returning to where they belong.
But you have cheated Death. You have no task to complete, no, you have not earned my Pity, only my Anger, Disgust and Scorn. You have found yourself in a quite unfortunate situation, heretic. You should burn, serpent,-”, another flinch, “-be eradicated right where you lie, and suffer eternally for disrespecting my holy teachings and laws. This punishment would be just, a fitting consequence for your treacherous crime. However I, my followers, and my plane would not directly benefit anything from your senseless suffering. No, I bestow mercy upon thee, for you may choose your punishment.
You shall become one of my agents, devoted to serve no other gods, devoting yourself to me. You shall carry out my cause, spreading the word, aiding the people who are set to die before their time, sending the dead to my realm with dignity, hunting or setting the undead to rest. Each time you strike one of the unliving down, you shall remember my mercy, remember that this could have been your fate, that it should have been you who should have gotten a sword buried in their chest by one of my followers. Remember that every uncorrupted person's life is inherently more valuable than yours, and is deserving of protection.
You could either do this, or rot where you stand, awake until the end, feeling the consequences of your actions. This is my bargain. Choose."
Gandr was petrified, actually considering the second option, since submitting and serving this omnipotent being, who openly despises him and everything he was, every moment of his existence has the potential to truly be a fate worse than certain death. However, it was clear that he was not truly given a choice. Kelemvor clearly wanted him as a servant, perhaps there was some way to salvage this situation. The woman whom he saw in faint memories did not submit to death, she ran and fought. He could not just betray her like this, forfeiting the chance he was given. There must have been a reason he had come back to the land of the living.
He swallowed heavily, his shaky voice hoarse from disuse: “I accept your offer, my Lord.”
Kelemvors steel mask of indifference made it hard to gauge his reaction, if he was pleased with Gandrs answer.
“Say it. Say you will serve me and obey my law. Vow that you will devote yourself to my will and aid the people. Your new freedom is only a few words away, serpent.”
Gandr closed his eyes, inhaling sharply, hands clenching at his sides. “I, Gandr Thamnophis, devote myself to Kelemvor. I will carry his teachings and respect his law. I will guide the dying to eternal peace, and promise the undying rest. I promise to do as you say, sire.” He felt like crying, like breaking down into sobs any moment. Kelemvors presence made his insides turn and his heart stutter. What had he done to deserve this fate? Whatever it was, it must have been terrible, his core felt cold and wrong.
“Good. Remember, I am watching. Don’t make me do something regrettable.” Kelemvor had spoken these words into a gust of wind disturbing the nearby fog. His Lord’s cloak whipped in the now stronger gusts blowing through the cemetery, and with the bellow of the dead Kelemvors' avatar disappeared, leaving Gandr on his own once more.
With his back still pressed against his own headstone, Gandr finally let his body uncoil, his shoulders dropping, and hands limp in his lap. He did not feel conflicted, his fate and faith now set in, quite literal, stone, he just needed a moment to process whatever this was. Just one moment to breathe, so he did. With his eyes absentmindedly wandering across the graveyard, he realized that he probably looked like either a desecrator or a tomb raider, sitting on his now disrupted burial site.
After taking a steadying breath Gandr got to his feet again, clothing tattered and filthy with dirt and odd.. stains. Getting away from this place seemed like a reasonable first priority, everything else could be planned later.
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Following his haphazard ‘escape’ from the grave, it dawned on Gandr that he had no clerical equipment, weapons and armor, nor the funds to afford any. He had returned to the lands of the living with only the torn, filthy clothes on his back, nothing more. In order to fulfill his newly given purpose, he would probably need to find some holy symbol of Kelemvor, but there must be some.. cost efficient way of getting such a thing. Perhaps people would be willing to pay a small sum for funeral rites.
No, he could not exploit the grieving in such a way, his Lord would be displeased, and it would feel wrong. Even the mere thought of doing it made bile rise in the back of his throat, the feeling of being watched, judged, by thousands of eyes arise. His knees turned slightly soft at the prospect, causing him to hide in an alleyway. Gandr sat heavily, head resting on his knees, hugging himself in what was supposed to be a comforting gesture. A pathetic whimper escaped his throat as his breath started to quicken and tears flooded his eyes. He refused to let any of them fall, it was bad enough that he was coming apart in some unknown, filthy alleyway, his whole body trembling like a frightened child would. A patrol of two guards passed the nook he was hiding in, their boots hitting the ground, their whole armor making that god's awful clanking sound, always rattling, always clanking. He grew even more tense as they passed where he was hiding, involuntarily holding his breath until he could not hear them anymore.
By Kelemvors mercy, he had to get himself together, there was no reason to crumble now, he had had his rest. Nevertheless, he remained in the dark alley a few moments more until the trembling got at least a bit better, aggressively wiping the tears from his eyes. There was a task to complete, work to be done. The lady lingered in his mind, her encouraging smile, the warm whispers speaking of his courage. Oh, how he yearned to feel that warm water spreading in his chest again, chasing away the dreadful cold which had now settled there. It was no use crying over dead ophidians, or however that saying went. Gandr couldn’t remember.
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He spent the next few days acquiring a necklace which looked a bit like a rosary, consisting of dark gray and off-white beads of stone. This, he kept on his person at all times, hiding it beneath his tattered cloak. It served as a constant reminder of what he had done wrong, what sins he committed by mere existence, of what he was worth, which was nothing at all, as his Lord told him. Kelemvors word was gospel after all.
Gandr spent the evenings and nights praying, begging for forgiveness, until he reached a small village, nothing more than a few houses, which reeked of death and rot. The peoples eyes were haunted, gaunt fingers pointing him to the small graveyard beneath a willow.
“They cry at night.”, an old woman told him, “Screaming. Please, I beg of you-”, she grabbed him by the shoulders, hands shaking. Gandr could almost feel the cold radiating off of her (but who was he to judge, producing no body heat like a corpse). “-strange one, the people cannot sleep. Please.”
He obviously could not deny the frail woman, walking the track to the small cemetery as the crows perched above, calling. Fog had gathered around the headstones, he could almost hear the deads’ demented whispers. A strange sense of wrongness settled deep inside Gandrs bones, something he thought to be impossible after dying.
“Cursed..”, a groaning whisper said behind him. When he sharply turned around, emblazoned shield raised, a rotting humanoid stood before him, impossibly thin, already missing a limb, skin an unhealthily pale, greenish (just like his) pallor. “Do not trust.. she lies. Free us.” More haunts had appeared from the shadows, all eerily whispering, begging to be freed.
“Please don’t hurt me, I can help, alright, just-”, Gandr was stammering, that he knew, stumbling back as the haunt grabbed at him. “She deceives, she killed.”, the undead warned a last time before Gandr broke free of its grip. It was clear what he had to do . (please let it be the truth, don’t make him kill someone innocent-)
He stood in the old womans house again, the rusty mace felt heavy in his hand. Gandr stood in the doorway, feeling like an executioner, like a bringer of death. The old woman- gods, he did not even know her name -was about to stand up from her armchair, probably to greet him, when he struck. Her crumpled form fell back into the chair, blood staining the polka-dotted fabric of her gown, dirtying the flower pattern of the armchair cushion. “I’m so sorry-”, he choked out, bile rising in his throat, “-this is the only way to free them, I’m so-”
“Hush, child”, the crone cooed at him, “I did kill them, yes. They did not give me the herbs needed for my daughters medicine. It’s alright..”, blood dribbled down the corner of her mouth, dripping onto her knit shawl. She inhaled loudly, her voice barely above a whisper now: “At least I will be reunited with her once more.”
Her jaw went slack, the last spark of life leaving her eyes. Gandr fell to his hands and knees next to the armchair holding its now deceased owner, the mace abandoned at the crones cold feet. He retched as tears dripped to the floor, choked sobs wrecking his frame.
It took a while before he was able to get back to his feet, eyes empty as he carried her corpse outside, turning her to ash in the middle of her beloved flower bed, letting her remains mingle with the well taken care of earth. He left the town with even more guilt riddling his conscience, feet dragging heavily. When Gandr passed the cemetery, he saw that the fog had disappeared. Beyond the crows' cries, it was completely silent.
He was one of them. One of the monsters that was haunting wherever he went. They had disappeared after he had killed what tethered their spirits to this plane. What would it take for him to disappear? Could he even do that? Did it hurt?
Gandr did not make it far that day, collapsing next to the path he took. His legs refused to carry him any further. As night came, Gandr was still lying in the dry, dead grasses, thoughts racing and body numb. At some point, while his tears were still flowing, he did miraculously fall asleep.
His hands were still shaking days after.
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The routine of wandering, praying, doing his best to help, and guilt eating him alive did continue for a while, perhaps a few weeks. The weight on his shoulders increased, he ate scraps, and could not breathe properly when hearing yelling and those damned boots.
He would have continued that way, had he not received that letter, demanding he show up at the crossing. Well, he does live to serve after all.