Darthus stood there stunned for a moment, wiped the blood from his nose, set it forcefully back into alignment and waited for his vision to clear. He then remembered Sparhawk, and hurried over. Sparhawk seemed to be unconscious and fell limply into Darthus' arms. He felt the back of Sparhawk's head, and his hand came away red with blood. Darthus had been taught a small amount of healing in his training at the monastery, and did his best to stop the bleeding with a strip of his robe that he wrapped around his friend's head. He then gathered a bit of irid moss, which was known for its healing properties.

After a while Sparhawk came to, and Darthus explained what had happened and whom it was that had done that to him. Sparhawk had heard Morpheus' name before, it was spoken with utter disdain all over Shallam, and he spit as he rose shakily to his feet and spoke an oath on his sword that this act would not go unremembered. Darthus lent his friend his arm, led him back to Shallam, and then began the long journey by foot back to his guildhouse, his only home, and to his brothers, his only family.

When Darthus returned he was not surprised to see Mordicarnon waiting for him at the entrance to the monastery. "I heard what happened. Come my brother, let us speak in my chambers", he said to Darthus in his deep raspy voice and turned away from him. Darthus followed him down the dimly lit hallways he knew so well, that he had walked a thousand times. And yet now they were somehow different. There was a sadness to this journey, a sadness and a feeling that he had not known in years, when he had the wool ripped from over his eyes by his father, Sherimoor. That feeling was doubt.

When they arrived at Mordicarnon's chambers, his mentor calmly walked behind his desk, sat in his chair, and motioned to the one across from him, "Sit". Darthus hurriedly tried to explain himself, "I was just practicing brother, I didn't mean to-". "Sit", Mordicarnon repeated and Darthus obeyed. Only then did his mentor and true father figure begin to speak. "You must realize my brother... no, my son... that this order you have joined, this order of the Kharon monks, has little tolerance for "weak" emotions. Things like honor, mercy, or kindness. Those have no place here."

He stopped for a moment, and then gave a deep sigh. A sigh filled with sadness, and with loss. "I was like you once my son. I was full of ideals and morals. But that was all torn away from me. I watched as my family was butchered by a group of bandits, all for our meager possessions. They seemed to take sport in it. I barely escaped with my life. Yes, I used to be like you, but I had that all taken away, and was left with only an emptiness, a void where my heart used to be. And that is why I joined this order my son, for revenge. That's why we're all here, for revenge, for hate, for power, it doesn't matter.

"You must make a decision. This has become a harsh world, one where ideals such as yours may be out of date. If you can realize this, and decide to strike first against a world that only seeks to strike you, then you may stay. You have much potential, and are an exceptional monk. You could become Secretary one day, maybe even Guild Master.

"But if you cannot, if you must retain these antiquated values then you have only two choices. You may either attempt to leave..." Mordicarnon slowly drew open a drawer and pulled forth a glimmering jeweled dagger and toyed with it a moment thoughtfully. He then grabbed the pommel with his right hand and swiftly stabbed it downwards inches into the thick oak. "Or you may die.

Morpheus and the others have very little patience for ones such as yourself, as you have seen. If you cannot change, then you do not belong here. Think on what I have said. If you cannot find it in yourself to accept it, then you must leave, and let me never see your face again. Because if you stay then the only way I will it see it once more, will be if one of them brings back your head. Now leave me.

Mordicarnon gave a dismissive motion with his hand, and quickly looked down at the tome laying open on his desktop. Whether it was because he truly didn't care or because he was hiding an emotion even he could not contain was unclear. Darthus got to his feet, and walked slowly towards the door. As he put his hand on the handle, he looked back with one last wistful glance and then shut it behind him, shut it on another chapter of his life. He had made his decision.

Penned by my hand on the 14th of Glacian, in the year 217 AF.