Entry 2: A Prayer to Selune – The wickedness of men
Our Lady of Silver, Moon Maiden, the Night White Lady, She Who Guides: Each of these are your titles, your honors, your accolades, which you have earned from the primordial beginnings of our world. Your domains of influence include those who wander under your night sky, mariners whom seek favorable tides, navigators whom seek the use of your stars, and those needing your comfort.
I need comfort. Yet you are far away, at the Gates of the Moon, on yonder plains of Gladsheim, or wandering the land tending to your own designs. Yet, here I sit, packing my things up, for I have been kicked out of the keep run by these emotionless, macabre, lifeless cultists dedicated to Kelemvor. Though that’s certainly not all true for all of them. Father Martin shows plenty of emotion beneath his monotone façade. He is rife with fear, indecisiveness, and underlying hatred of anyone who was not born exclusively of man. I am enraged, simmering slowly like a kettle on the cusp of boiling over, and my only recourse is my discipline of prayer. Prayer to a goddess who may or may not be listening. A goddess who may or may not get my messages. A goddess who may or may not actually be concerned. Not only am I merely a mortal, but I am only half-human.
The citizens of Brost have lied against me. I have not caused any disturbance, nor have I harmed a single soul. I would not have even been in that wretched backwater town, had that pretentious knight, Sir Entitled Fancy-boy of whatever-land, not unlawfully stopped me, and harassed me despite my Writ of Travel, and a hand-written note by Father Martin. I could have crushed him and his silly pony, were I not your slave, Mistress Selune. My love has limits. My pride has limits. I can only act like the benevolent and peaceful victim for so long. They do not respect me, and they do not fear your name, no matter how kind and helpful I attempt to be.
Father Martin has lied, for he said he was in support of my Selunian mission but caved like the weakling that he is at the first sign of trouble. Were it not for your principles, I would confront him. Stare him right in his pathetic little sunken in eyes and make him wet his delicate robe with my mere presence! There would be no need for violence, for at the first hint of my displeasure, he would soil himself. If Father Martin is any indication of the character or Kelemvor, then my hope is that the Lord of the Dead be buried and gone. He produces weak willed, weak minded, racist, narrow minded, goat humpers and chicken fondlers. I hope Father Martin’s genitals fester with corpse rot, and his arse wastes away with leprosy, so that every time he sits down, one can here the clack of bone all throughout his cult hall. I have no use for false friends or cowards.
*sighs a deep sigh*
But, these are not the words you wish to hear from me. You wish to hear my praise and adoration. You wish to hear me speak of how I should tolerate Father Martin, those arrogant Knights, and even the townsfolk who lied against me. If I were to say those words aloud, it would be blasphemy to you, for it would be a falsehood. I do not hate all men. I do not hate all elves. I do not hate anyone. I simply have no use for liars, and those who would do harm to another based upon his or her heritage. In truth, I do not hate Father Martin. I pity him, and I am hurt by him. One would think that a fellow cleric would understand my plight. Yet, the only thing he sees are dead men’s bones and bigotry. I wish no harm on him, though…if you could arrange the crotch rot, even for a little while, perhaps it would humble him. Especially if it could only be cured by the prayers of a Selunian Half Orc.
*laughs at his own joke*
Look at me, whining like a new born, praying to a goddess favored by human women, and begging for compassion from a goddess who has appeared to me in ONE vision, over five years ago. What’s next? Should I begin to lactate that I may nurse the entirety of Brost on my giant teats? You gave me this vision my Mistress. A vison to travel to this backwoods cesspool for the soul purpose of being ostracized and hated. You knew I was hard-headed. You knew I would resist. You knew I wanted nothing to do with the gods, yet you persisted. You knew I would grow to care for these people, even though they mistreat me. Damn my hard head and soft heart. You knew all of this was going to happen!
If I could fall out of love, if I could turn my back on you, if I could pretend I did not sense your silver light cascading down upon my soul and tingling my spine, I would free myself from this bondage. These people do not know you. These people to not love you. These people do not even love themselves. They are petty creatures, caught up in their little superstitions, their little intrigues, and their little personal kingdoms. They certainly do not fear you, not understanding that your moods often wax and wan like the moon named for you. When they envision you, Great Selune, they see a silly little, effeminate, compassion driven, minor deity whom they should not fear or even respect. It has not always been this way! Perhaps, this is why you have sent me.
These folks respect titles, power, authority, and nobility. Their patron is Siamorphe for crying out loud! Why do you not approach these people in the same way? In my studies, I have learned that you have sanctioned knighthoods, and formed great political entities. Waterdeep, for instance has the Knights of the Blue Moon. Even this land once heralded a great knighthood in your honor, the Knights of the Crescent Moon. The Sheriff of this land is one of your Silverstars! Why has he not formed or reformed such an organization. Then, at least, these people could see that you are more than just a coddling mother, or a generous helper in the night. Then these people would know your power, your glory, your majesty, your divinity! They would know you as I know you, and they would know why I CANNOT walk away from this dung hill of a county!
*sighs deeply after his rage subsides*
Selune, my Mistress, my master, forgive me for my outburst. I speak to you as if you were a mere mortal, because I have no other mortal here upon this plane who I can speak with candidly. I have only you. I do not wish to question you, or your motives. I am alone, and you are my only hope. Please show mercy on me, and show pity to my cause. Send me, and I’ll go. I cannot promise anything about my whining; however, for I am agonizing my own ears with these lamentations.
As I pack my things and leave this cemetery, I trust that you are leading me to a better place. If not better, at least to a place where I may glorify you further. Please grant me patience, tolerance, and success. Even if that means my death. I am yours to do with as you please. Off to Fort Briarwood I go. Have mercy upon me, my Mistress, for I shall receive little from anyone else.