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The legacy of Morgion had indeed killed this man, but
it was human hands that had done the work - an evil
powder, a poison, whose signs mimicked the plague. The
ghost knew its uses all too well. The powder was a favorite
tool of those who served the Master of the Bronze Tower. It
was sacred to them, as if they held the very power of their
god in their hands. The poison could be created by anyone
with the knowledge. The Lord of Decay was not a trusting
god, even with his followers. Only the most devout learned
the secrets of his worship. Morgion's powers were reserved
for those who guided the cult, the Nightmaster and his
acolytes.
Any loyalty Rennard had ever owed to his dread master
had* died with his body. Morgion rewarded failure with
death. Rennard had failed to kill the Solamnic warrior who
had discovered that there was a traitor in their midst.
Rennard had failed to kill Huma.
Rennard knew then the fate of the doomed peasants.
They would die, a few at a time, in the name of the faceless
god he once had called master.
"What do you see, specter?" Erik demanded.
"I see that your sword would be a kind fate to these
folk, Erik Dornay. They are being culled and sacrificed in
the name of Morgion."
The Knight of the Rose gripped the hilt of his sword
tightly. "You are certain?"
"I think I know well enough. The poor wretches are
easy prey for the cultists. Look at what lies here. They do
not have the strength to bury their dead anymore."
The young knight was grim, pale
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