Masterpoet looked at the pile of orc bodies around him and smiled.  It had been a good hunt.  His fellow guild members filtered in from various points in the woods.  At once they began a most organized and military looting effort.  Half would loot, while half remained mounted and alert for orc suicide troops to materialize amongst them.  Mp was proud of them.  He had only trained the first few himself.  They went on to train the rest and he could not have done a better job himself.  They somehow instilled the same loyalty and comradeship in the new recruits that he had tried to instill in them.  After he was gone, the Hands of the Divine would live on as a monument to true brother- and sisterhood in arms.  He had done what he’s set out to do so many years before...

Born to a wealthy merchant family in Vesper, the young man was expected to take over the family business and become as decadent and self absorbed as they were.  By the time he was sixteen he had decided he would leave his family behind as soon as possible and seek his own fortune in the world.  His opportunity came much earlier than he’d thought.  His father forced him to accompany a caravan while it wound the trade route of Vesper, Minoc, Britain, and Cove as it did every year.  He was lounging in the back of a wagon hating this existence that forced him into this life when a sudden shout rang in the air, “Kal Vas Flam.”  A guard in the vanguard was lit like a bonfire and his horse charged away into the forest.  He got his first glance of an orc as a huge lord charged into the flank of the caravan followed by over twenty orcs and two mages.  They tore into the startled guards and wagons with abandon and bloodlust.  After the first minute of the battle fully one half of the guards hired to protect the caravan were fleeing the onslaught, their courage a paper thing.

The Monument Here the forgotten fallen lay From present wars and past. Here the noble hero may Lay down his sword at last. It was here upon this battlefield That strangers met and killed. If we can't understand the cause Let's hope the future will. Masterpoet

He was thrown to the ground as his wagon was overturned violently.  He watched in stark terror as his father fell to the blades of the orcs.  As the orcs began the butchering of the horses and men the young man crawled into a nearby brush and hid throughout the night.  With a head wound and no idea where he was, he roamed the woods in search of civilization.  He had to learn to survive by killing rabbits and birds for food and burned many a carcass learning to cook.  He arrived in Minoc where he was taken in by the local healers.  They took the time to teach him much of their craft before he was well enough to travel. It was a month before he finally returned to Vesper.  And his family was gone. Finding an empty house, he made inquiries throughout Vesper.  Without funds his mother had sold what remained and had taken a ship to an island.  He never found out what happened to her but reports of pirate activities during that season lend ear to the worst.  His “loyal” guards looted the rest and vanished to Britain.  The child was truly alone.  He pulled out a small pack from a hidden niche in the wall of his house.  In it lay his entire fortune: one hundred gold pieces, and a practice mace.  The next few years would prove the most difficult of his life.  It was at this time that he wrote his poem “The Monument.”  It was also at this time that he forsook his family name and called himself simply Masterpoet: a nameless man for a nameless world. At the age of seventeen he joined the Vesper/Minoc militia to push back a ratman raid that had claimed several outlying communities.  The rank and file spoke like veteran soldiers and boasted of the heads they would collect that day.  Others spoke of the loot and riches they would find.  The war wizards simply sat back in padded chairs and awaited the assault from far behind the front lines.  They drank mulled wine and spoke of a quick effort and quick return to their inscriptions.  The archers would not leave the cover of the woods and the hired leaders of the expedition marched up and down surveying the clearing.  Masterpoet could not imagine a more disorganized rabble.  He only hoped he would make a good showing and be noticed for promotion.  As the minutes ticked by, Mp made a mental list of all he would fix with this “army” when HE was the general.  However, idle fantasy evaporated quickly to gut wrenching reality as the ratmen poured through the forest into the clearing.  There were over fifty of them with Ettins in support.  They had no strategy, but it looked as if they planned on winning by shear numbers.  One moment later it looked as if they were right. Ordered to advance, the militia only partially complied.  The center moved out but both flanks slowed down and caused a bulge in the lines.  The archers let fly an inept volley and sank back into the trees.  And the wizards did nothing.  The battle lasted only ten more minutes.  It was a slaughter.  The enemy forces soon surrounded the center and the flanks were already withdrawing piecemeal.  The archers fired a clumsy volley into the massed ranks doing as much damage to their own men as the enemy.  The war wizards fired off a few fire fields to slow the advance but Masterpoet noticed one major thing.  They set them in front of themselves only.  A series of “Kal Ort Por’s” and they were gone, taking with them any chance the militia had.  Masterpoet soon found himself on the left flank trying to rally the remaining soldiers to press forward and relieve the center.  He was shocked to see his own men running in all directions from the battle.  None of those in the center survived.  Masterpoet fought his way back to the woods and hunted ratman stragglers and scouts as best he could alone and slowly made his way back to Vesper.  He vowed never to be a part of such a rabble of men again.  An idea blossomed in his head that day.  It was an idea that took several years to see to fruition.  But he never forgot the lessons he’d learned that day:  Money did not buy loyalty, enthusiasm never replaced training, only base cowards sacrificed allies for time, and without strategy an army was but a mob with one foot in the grave.  He vowed to create a group to challenge those truths. Many years later he was returning from hunting orcs in the wild when he nearly ran over a young woman fleeing from Vesper.  Dressed only in a form fitting leather outfit and thigh boots, her striking beauty nearly made him fail to realize the fear in her eyes as she shouted “lich in Vesper! Run!”  At that moment Masterpoet was determined to impress this stranger.   Stay here, I’ll defeat him.  Courageously (read: stupidly) Mp charged at the undead wizard and quickly noticed one serious mistake.  It was a lord.  A series of flamestrikes and energy bolts nearly cost him consciousness.  His vision wavered as he staggered to sell his life dearly.  Plunging his warmace into the black robes again and again he was surprised to realize he was gaining strength and health.  Sparing a quick glance back he noticed the girl gesturing at him and a poison was drawn from his veins.  With renewed vigor he attacked the undead lord again and again confident she was supporting him.  When the town guard arrived they saw a triumphant couple nursing wounds and looking exhausted.  They have not been parted since.  With Josie at his side, Masterpoet finally tackled his dream of a guild to promote the ideals he’d discovered lacking in the world.  It would be a hand for others when it could, and a fist when needed.  It would be an island of friendship and teamwork in a sea of self centered humanity.  Most of all, it would be a beacon to all people that there was good in the world yet and that even in the darkest times a single candle can light the way for the world.  It would be a Hand of the Divine.

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