Agenar’s journal, page 248

I was recuperating from the obsidian assassin’s attack in the boat’s bow, talking with Val about the great markets of Dranseri as Teal guided us gently down the river, when Jerry lurched unsteadily toward us with a question. “Agenar,” he asked loudly, “are you the one called Dragon Master of Sriss?”

I scowled. I have been to Sriss. No man is master of a dragon.

“They tell stories of you.”

“They tell stories of your mother,” I snapped back. “Does that make you my son?” Val’s laugh boomed as he slunk away, and our conversation returned to Dranseri.

Soon, though, Wynlynn stormed forward. Ignoring Val, she glared at me and demanded, “Who are you?”

Returning her gaze, I answered, “I am Agenar.”

“That’s not an answer,” she shot back.

“It is the only answer I have.”

“Not good enough.” She continued to ignore Val, who was trying to shoo her away. “What do you do?”

I thought a moment. “I am a Luckbringer, or had you not noticed how Tymora smiles on our misadventuring?”

“Ha.” She clearly did not believe me. “What about the dragons?”

“What about the dragons?”

“Don’t play dumb. Jerry told us what that” – she stabbed at my chest – clasp means.” She turned to Val now and shouted, “He’s a terrorist. How can you trust him?” Without awaiting reply, she returned to the rear of the boat and glared at us, arms folded across her chest and fists clinched. There has been no conversation since.

Yet the question stands: who am I?

I am a Luckbringer, dedicated to helping others find the shelter of Tymora’s embrace and a better life therein. I am apparently a gifted one, seeming blest by the Goddess herself with a natural knack for her magics, even blest, if I can be so called, by her terrifying visits in the night.

I am a dragon, dedicated to improving this world by using chaos to disrupt unjust conditions and allow better to grow in their place. That does, I suppose, make me a terrorist.

Are these pieces of me in conflict? I do not think so – I have felt Tymora’s smile on me, heard luck following, at every step. My twin roles differ only in scale; the Luckbringer ministers to an individual, while a dragon seeks change more broadly. In either case, I am Agenar: a brewer’s son, who would rather not ponder such questions.

p. 250

Yet I cannot stop thinking, as we approach the city, of Wynlynn’s demand.

I had not killed, even in self-defense, before joining this group of marauders. I see the necessity – I love my life, and do not wish it ended by an angry orc or wayward Warforged, but I love my life and must assume that any other entity loves its own life in the same way and just as much.

I am a Luckbringer. We are trained to cultivate the Goddess’s favor, which guards our every step – but promises nothing beyond this life. I know that, when my – when anyone’s – end comes, there is nothing more to do. In spite of our necromancy, conscious life is over. The body may remain, or even return, but our spark rejoins the Weave to become, once more, part of all – but no longer with an individual experience of existence. So our time here is regrettably brief and must be cherished.

It had been my good fortune to avoid facing this mortal truth until recently, and I was happy to inure myself against the horrors of this world without adding the dread of a finite existence to the equation. Now, though, my hands are red and all the perfumes in Deneria will not wash them clean. I drank, in prior days, to squelch my dreaming; since finding Dagon’s Reach, that reason has been replaced. Now I drink, unless otherwise distracted, not to quiet sleep but to still the voice of my waking hours crying, from the lips of my congregated victims, “Guilty.” I no longer drink to avoid images of an awful future, but to drown regrets, recriminations, and the newly-realized fear that I, too, may soon lie decomposing into plant food.

I have looked forward to rejoining the Weave for many years, to escaping this messy world of misery and injustice. Now, however, I discover a desire to delay departure. But what cost does my time carry? How many others must die so I can continue to drown thoughts of those I kill? How much less is my life worth, with each loss of another?

Who am I? Perhaps Nemeia will help me remember.