The Chronicles of the Shadow Weasel.

[Lim Pol]

The grim ridden slums, dark, dank and the stench of urine overpowering.  The drunkard staggered along the cobbled street, in which, broken crates filled with junk littered.  The man reeked of ale, and stale pipesmoke.  Bellowing loudly the lumbering bulk swayed onward, singing lewd songs, did not see the shadows behind him move.  The dark hooded figure moved out from the darkenend corner, silently, he kept low, following the drunk.  The shadow reached into one of his many pouches, strapped along the twin bandoleers.  Pick out a smooth stone, and threw into the alley, at the Drunkards left.  The clattering of stone against stone, sent the drunkard spinning.  Distracted, the shadow darted from behind a broken barrel, shortsword raised high in his right hand.  The staggering man heard the footsteps, too late, half turning straight into the pommel of the shortsword.  Blinding light flashed, briefly, followed by throbbing pain in his nose.  Half dazed, the burly man touched the messy pulp that was his nose, groaning slightly.  Looking down to his belt, seeing only pouch strings flapping in the gentle breeze, roared in anger.  Only few yards away on a nearby roof, the shadow watched.  A finely crafted hooded cloak covered his frail frame, the cloak was crafted by the hands of the Fey.  His Leather tunic, and crisscrossed bandoleers, packed with pouches of various sizes.  Strapped away at his side, a pair of shortswords.  Waiting till the enraged man roared away, the Shadow Weasel counted his gains.

[Lim Pol]

*In a Leatherbound journal, the old man scribes down his memories.*

This chapter is named, The Shadow Weasel against the Snake.

During the first threedays within this land, I crossed paths with a Snake cult.  The priestess was very persuasive, she told of riches. Gold as much as the eye could see, deep down underground.  So I joined her, and her followers into the dark depths..into hell.
She lead us deep down, underneath the dwavern mines..into a dark damp caverns, where the shadows..came to life. The high snake priestess destroyed everything that came her way.  We came to a huge cavern, The priestess ordered me forward.  Casting a spell of light around me I walked on.  The light glistenend of a mountain of coin in front of me, well what I thought was coins. *Handwriting becomes shaky for a few lines. The mountain suddenly sprang up, two angry eyes upon me.  I buckled to my knees in fright, as my bladder emptied itself.  " I am Isu, Mighty Dragon. I bring these offerings to you." Spoke the woman behind me, with a sly chuckle.

*Closing his journal the Night Weasel, sighs.* Hands trembling, He packs it away, trying to force out the Image of the Dragon.

[Lim Pol]

*Sitting in the corner of the Inn, stale sweat, fresh ale, and cooked food filled the old man's nostrils. Scribing inside his worn leather bound journal.  He once again relives his odious past.*

The whole cavern shook, enraged the dragon howled, as Isu laid down the Allhoon's blood, next to me.  The snake cult and the high priestess, readied themselves for battle.  My knees weak I trembled as the dragon drove straight at the cultists.  I looked around, the cavern crackled with spells and divine powers been used, as the Snake cult fought back valiantly.  I saw my chance, grabbing the container filled with the Allhoon's blood, fled away into the tunnels.  The journey back up to the surface was long and tedious, thinking my ordeal over once i saw the open sky.  Looking back I could not believe How wrong I was.

The next night, I dreamt I was walking in a desert, massive sand dunes stretching as far as the eye could see.  Hearing hissing behind me, I turn around.  Standing upon a rocky outcrop was the snake priestess, at her feet was an array of snakes.  So many infact you could not even see the sand.  The priestess pointed her finger toward me, the snakes slithered at me with startling speed.  That was when I awoke, screaming, drenched in sweat.  The nightmares would haunt me for many moons.

[Lim Pol]

Taking the room key from the bar wench, the old man ascended the creaky wooden stairs. Leaving the low murmurs, and shady dealings behind him.  He hobbled along the narrow corridor, finding his door, opens quickly. Looking around the simple room was swift, A bundle of furs for a bed, a single candle burnt in the corner.  The faint light was however, enough to light this small room.  The night weasel takes out his journal, and once again dares to relive his past.

The Haunted Ole Weasel.

I had found a way to stop the dreams, I'm free, finally.  Although at this time, my past was unknown to me. My waking moments in forsaken land, was under one of the durned Vistani's ox. And the contents of its bladder.  Anything beyond that was always beyond me for some reason.  After the Snake Cult, I had grown quickly not to trust a cultist again.  Work as a Bowyer was keeping my hands busy, that way the dreams would stay away.  Demands for silver arrows, frequented my tradings, and so I ventred with a group of adventurers to the northern peaks. This was after they told me of the silver mine of course.
After a day of marching, we had reached the foothills of the Northern peaks. The mountain air was fresh and cold, or ever so cold.

The Night Weasel, shudders.  Reaches for his water skin takes a few sips, before going back to his scribing.

The cold wind at the foothills, quickly turned bitter as we ascended the treacherous mountain.  Sleet and snow lashed down upon us, the cold brought back the pain of an old wound. A wound long forgotten.  Cold and numb, we arrived at an abandoned miners house, tucked away on narrow outcrop.  Once inside we warmed our aching joints, over a open fire.  Using the wood from one of the many bunks, we soon started to feel better, and spirits where high again.  Then suddenly coldness enguffled us, colder than the harsh mountain blizzards outside. One by one the recently lit lanterns started to flicker and die out, the darkness continued to crawl toward us, as the lanterns light faded to black.  The group quickly gathered their belongings and fled out the building.  I was less fortunate although very much warmed, my old wound was still present. Falling to the floor, as my leg had no strength to carry my weight. I watched in horror as the only source of light, the once roaring fire, faded. Coldness and darkness overwhelmed me, crawling blindly along the wooden floor, was the first time I heard his voice.

The Night Weasel, closes his journal. Takes a lengthy swig from his Waterskin, wipes away a few speckles of liquid from his lips.  The warmth of the drink, will soon relax him, hopefully after a few more skins, sleep.

[Lim Pol]

*The old man, reeking of ale.  Haggard and dirty, the Ole weasel has found solice, and sleep.  Quietly he sleeps in the corner of the Morninglord temple, restfull he dreams.*

The dark hooded figure stood upon the rocky outcrop, his cloak, billowed wildly.  Gazing down from his vantage point, he surveyed the deep wooded hills below him.  The setting winter sun, behind gave a murky yellow glow.  Suddenly...a.voice..behind him shouts.  "Traitor".  Spinning around on the heels of his feet, suddenly finds him inside a huge stone cut room.  A long wooden table runs across the floor, Burning high above balls of fire.  Thirteen chairs are placed at the table, all but one are taken.  Seated are colourfull robed, masked figures.  "Come sit thief" Barked the Head of the table.  A force grabs him, forcing out his every breath. The force drags him to vacant chair, looking closer at the table, to what was once three roasted boars.  Instead it was the bodies of his former apprentices, lying on a bed of roots, fungi and worm ridden dirt. The holes gazing upon him...the holes..he has seen them before, gazing at him.  "Eat now, you are amongst friends now, Weasel."

*Bolts upright in bed, takes a few moments to cease the shaking*

[Lim Pol]

*Awake the remants of his dream, slip from his mind.  Looking around the temple, the Weasel is alone, apart from them near the altar.  Still holding a mistrust toward them, yet is drawn to the sanctuary the temple offers his fragile mind.  Soon enough the effects of the alcohol, send him back to his slumber.*

The three huge platters lie almost empty, in the middle of the long, richly decorated table.  "Now is the time" Speaks the head of the table. The hooded figures one by one slowly stand to their feet, lowring the hoods. From the far end of the table,  they slowly remove their face masks.  The first, to remove his mask was Lomion, at his side was the warrior Davi.  Both seemed to be arguing over something.  The third sat at Davi's side hissed them both to silence, Isu was her name. Soon all the hoods and masks where removed and lowered.  The faces of his past stared at him.  Ryoga, Marlee, Harlee, Cherry, Marrok, Bute, Yves, and the Bishop.  The only masked one remaining sat at the head of the table.  "Now weasel, time to take off your mask."  The unmasked people suddenly leap at the old man, draggin him onto the table.  
"I've no mask on" gasped the Weasel. As he tried in vain to fight off his subduers.  Looming overhead, the head of the table takes off her mask.  "Raywyn" cries the Weseal, suddenly her pale hand reached out towards the weasel's face. "Oh but you do weasel, you do."  Without another word the skin is rendered from the weasel's face.

*Screaming loudly, The weasel found himself, soaked and shaking, lying on the bedroll.  Daylight flooded through the open door, and stain glassed windows.*

[Lim Pol]

A pleased and well rested weasel, entered the woods.  He had come across a strange device that held his dreams at bay, which was tucked inside his tunic.  Mother night would soon cast her cloak of darkness over the land.  The weasel was not worried, his task inside the woods was a simple one.  He was to gather a few planks of Beech wood, which he would use to create his arrow shafts.  Finding a suitable tree, the weasel started his task. 
Contray to his first thoughts the task was far from easy, a serious error had half of the tree on top of him. There he lied pinned, he could only squirm as the daylight faded, to be replaced by Ole night.  The howls rang all around the weasel, as he still struggled to remove the fallen branches off him. 
"Now what have we here." A cold voice spoke, somewhere in the Darkness.  The weasel's heart leapt in fright, the voice belonged to the one from the abandoned mining hut.

Within seconds, the heavy branches had been cast from the old man's body.  The weasel was kneeling in servitude, in front of the hooded, dark robed figure.

"You will hear all my words, Weasel." Spoke the standing man, reaching into the folds of his sleeves.  Drawing out a wicked, cruel looking dagger.  "You will obey me."

The weasel, bowed his head, grovelling. "Yes Master."  His Master gazed down at him.  "Excellent, Now I've enemies that I require you to eliminate. You will need this."  The Master handed over the Dagger to the Weasel, before disappearing into a cloud of mist, which flowed away.  Looking down upon the dagger, the weasel could hear the faint calling for blood.
 

[Lim Pol]

The frantic Weasel leapt though the lower branches, with the grace of hunting cat.  Behind him the temple, the only place that had held the voices at bay.  The temple had been desecrated, and the wards protecting him fell.  He had tried to force the voices out of his head, by bashing his skull against the stone floor.  Someone tried to stop him, he attacked and fled into the night.  The dagger screamed out for blood, he could not resists it's callings no longer.  He leapt down from the tree, down on top of the prey he had been stalking.  Soon as the dagger drank blood, the voices ceased.  The weasel, gazed in horror at the sight that laid before him.  A voice behind him spoke.

"You have done well my faithfull severant."The Vrolock spoke to him.

Spinning around, The weasel kneeled in obedience.  The Vrolock nodded before placing a bag on the forest track.  

"Inside is some clothing I wish you to wear, I will call for you again."

A flutter of wings filled the air, the Weasel  looked up. He was alone in the woods, apart from the eyes of his victim, staring at him.


That was the last time he ever saw his master, although the dagger still called out to him. He had fought a battle of wills against the cursed weapon, and lost.  He obeyed it's command, and the weasel quenched it's thirst.  Until one night in a dark alleyway in the City of Vallaki, the weasel fought the Man known as The Bishop....

The dagger must have sensed the power surging through the Bishop's blood, It's multitude of voices screamed out at the Weasel.  The Weasel stalked after his prey, wicked dagger in his hands, voices screaming in his head.

[Lim Pol]

The Weasel laid in a fine bed, the room richly decorated. At the door stood the Bishop, holding something in his hands.  "Your awake I see, Good." Spoke the Bishop, striding forward.  "I'm sorry about last night" As stopped at the foot of the bed, the weasel's eyes widenend. In the Bishop's hands was the dagger. "An interesting item you have here, you dropped it when I cast a Ward upon myself. It was brave of you to aid me in my fight with the neuri."  The weasel nodded, slowly sitting up in the comfortable bed.
The Bishop gazed upon the dagger, he turned to the Weasel slowly. "I'll think I'll keep it for now." Standing to his feet, he made his way out of the room. "Rest old man, I've need of your skills shortly."  Suddenly the weasels eyelids dropped, he fought to open them. He struggled focusing on the dagger, but to no avail. Within seconds the weasel was deep in sleep and snoring.

The weasel worked with the Bishop, if only to get his dagger back at first. During that time the weasel had been told the Bishop played a hand in killing his master.  So he plotted a way to kill the Bishop.

The body of the Bishop laid at the Weasel's feet, he chuckled as he bent low to collect his dagger.  A growl behind him froze his blood, the hound that had slain the Bishop was still here.  He tried to spin and leapt backwards away from the hound, but bending low. The weasel was no match for the Agile Hell Hound.....

[Lim Pol]

Sat in the gloomy, dank cave, the small fire burnt.  It gave little warmth or light, but was enough to scribe into his worn journal.

Damn those Sun kissers, they had brought me back.  And they have returned the Bishop back to life, they have also taken the dagger and cast it into the nearby lake.  I was told by the Sun kissing Hin Drudoc, that she had saved us both from the Hound.  And that the dagger was an evil object and had to be cast away.  Finally free from the daggers hold, I plan to make my way back west.  The Bishop still believes me to be an ally, which works in my favor. I shall carry on working for him, disarming traps and picking locks.  And when his powers are all depleted I will make him sorry from taking her from me, I will make him suffer and offer his soul to Isu.  If her spirit can hear my calls, or hopefully the Bishops pleading for his sorry life. 

The way back west did not go according to plan, the road soon came to the lake shore. It was here I heard the call of the dagger, Its many voices assaulted my mind.  Calling to be freed from its watery prison, for days I spent near the lake, diving..searching. Each failed attempt sent the voices of the dagger into a rage, demanding to be freed and to bathe in blood.

It was here the lake got the better of the old man, exhaustion took hold of his aging body. Slumped over a few tied logs he had used as a marker, he drifted off north.

[Lim Pol]

Kaleb awoke, lying down in the sand, soaked to the bone.  The waters of the lake lapping peacefully at his feet.  He slowly rolled over onto his back, gazing upwards into the night sky.  Closing his eyes, something was different. Then it dawned on him, silence.  No voices shouting at him, commanding him, nothing.  His Sister dead, her group disbanded.  Which was fine the Order never even knew existed, he was merely a shadow.  A sudden weight seemed to lift from the Weasel's shoulders, he let out sigh of relief.  Opening his eyes, he raised his arms and gazed into his open palms.  "These hands will never cease, I will put ye te work."

He got up onto his feet, dusting off sand from his clothing.  It was a humid summers night, luckily.  If it had been winter, the Weasel knew he would have frozen to death already.  He made his way off the Shore, north into the wooded hills.  Weaponless, coinless, the Weasel had found a small cave.  The entrance was low, he had to crawl through a narrow crack.  He crawled for a few feet, the tunnel narrowing at the end. Once inside he found himself inside a small cavern, the ceiling stretching high into the darkness.  The weasel had made his home, and he would start his new life.

He began to Fletch, and tinker with Smithing.  Keeping his mind alert, and his hands busy.  "Demons will find work fer idle hands."  He would tell himself everyday. The weasel soon grew bored of his home on the northern lakeside hills.  His journeys took him far and wide, and with various types of woods.  His work began to move in leaps and bounds, he began to sell his wares outside the city of Vallaki.  He would call himself the Bowyer, the weasel was no longer.

[Lim Pol]

Many moons have past, the Bowyer found solice in his work.  And his work for Militia earned him a cit zenship to Vallaki. He had almost forgotten his past, Almost.  He still dreamed of her, his dearest Raywyn.  He had gone to places forbidden to find her, crossed seas of mist to find his loved one.   The only one that could turn him away from the enclosing, swirling darkness in His mind.  She was truly lost to him. 


Now he stands over two bloody bodies, Charcoal hands dripping with dark blood.  The desecrated altar of Ezra, twists and turns, as darkness falls upon the Assassin of The Brotherhood.

[Lim Pol]

The death of the Weasel.

For years he had fooled them, the people of Vallaki.  Captain of the Militia Kaleb.  Years he had battled voices in his head to kill, while also secretly worshipping Set.  Infact not only just worship, he had performed many scarifies to his deity.  Something he could cover up easily as Captain of the Militia, and did for a number of years.  However his unspoken love for Raywyn was something he never knew his black heart could feel, and eventually the start of his downfall. He would often watch her from a distance, ready to protect her at anytime.  They would talk together many times inside the ladies rest, these moments kept the swirling madness at bay.  When she vanished, Kaleb searched for her throughout all of Barovia.  Until his search ended up at the gates of Castle Ravenloft, yet even this did not stop him. 
Fleeing the Castle down into the valley below, the weasel tried to hide in a vistani wagon.  Only to be discovered by a Vistani woman, to avoid capture he did what he did best.  The spilling of the vistani blood, suddenly changed Kaleb.  His tongue was forked and his skin shed, like that of a snake.  His tresspass into the castle had not gone unnoticed, he saw bounties around area.  A week or so had gone by before Kaleb was captured, and taken to the citadel to be locked up.  After seeing his appearance and linking a number of murders to him, the garda had no choice left.  The Former Captain of the Militia and Assassin of Set was to be executed.
First he was hung till he was dead, then taken down for his arms and legs to be separately tied to a horse.  The horses then pulled in different directions, ripping him apart.  Instead of blood and his insides spilling out, a swarm of snakes dropped to the floor. Which the guards and onlookers dealt with easily.  His body parts buried and hidden, never to be seen or heard from ever again.