Before me stood a foe, arrogant and proud. Our warrior, felled by a superior blade; our barbarian lay dying at the blunt of an enemy club. The only one with wits enough to stand by my side was a rogue, unmatched in cunning and stealth, but outmatched in a frontal confrontation like the one we now deigned to face.

They deigned to face.

No warrior would face an enemy of this number alone, yet there was no life for us if we turned our backs here. All that was left to us was a life after perseveration, or death in cowardice. Neither I, not my rogue, we’re cowards, but no normal party would ever leave such an encounter alive, let alone one lacking in combat abilities such as ourselves.

Rogues weren’t respected, for their masteries lied in a silver tongue that gleamed with golden blade. They were masters of subterfuge, commanding encounters through preparation and foresight. They did night fight an honorable battle to your face, they would destroy your ambitions behind your back. Rogues we’re feared.

Healers, we’re not. Healers were respected for their abilities, but they were not feared. We were considered a necessary burden, tasked with the menial job of ensuring the rest of the party had the stamina to use their abilities and skills to their fullest, providing confidence that strengthens every allied blow, and a comfort that protected all from death.

No one appreciated that softened, though. No one considered the difficulty of triaging a friend in battle, through death, sometimes for many, and often all at once. People thought is weak for covering weaknesses, and though we packed the strength necessary to fell does.

But our oath to do no harm was not a suggestion, or a bythought. To do no harm eas to deny ourselves the animus of battle, and shed the desire for glory. As long as we were allied, we would use our power to protect, and we would sacrifice the glories of esteem at the altar of life, to stave death.

However, I no longer was bound by those chains. Neither of us had the strength to face this many enemies, even weak as they were, alone. At least, none beside did.

I stepped forward to the laugh of a raucous crowed of chattering rabble. They cacophony inflated by the felling of haughty heroes soon fell silent as a wave of magic slithered along, slicing the Achilles of all caught unawares.

As outcast groups, the rogues and the healers often worked together out of necessity. We provided cunning supplies for cunning folk, and my rogue now sat with only enough attention to avoid an unbecoming surprise.

It was the only permission I needed.

With a wave of my hand, blades of light covered the cervical vertebrae of all who now knelt. Their heads heads now offered me in obeisance, in their blood an atonement for their sins. I blackened my oath with efficiency. To use my powers to harm was looked down upon. I knew the destruction. I had been the destruction. I had been a feared, crazed, battle mage of an era I wished to forget, and I wrote the oath of the Guild of Uriel so that none would again taste the frenzy of battle as I had.

But the hubris of my party had gotten them killed. The difficult task of giving one’s life and energy for others is a skill underestimated no more, and the sanguine wetness I tasted on my lips pursed my lip into a smile that was no longer appropriate to hide.

There was no time for confusion. A second wave tore through the enemy at the thigh, severing the femoral arteries of many who were standing. Those left tripped backwards in fear, or stumbled forward in stupidity, their comrades left to die dishonorable deaths within the minute.

It was how the Black Mage Barbatos started all battles. The first ranks would kneel, the second would wail. It was always melancholy to hear men crying for mothers, but they had brought this upon themselves. The symphony of their screams fed my frenzy.

The final ranks would revere.

Men with no respect for magic were simply not, in my presence, and those who dared to rush forwards in defiance now begged for mercy, their bodies wracked with an unholy pain that I always taught my students before continuing on to the ways of anatomy. There would be no more black mages, and this poison of the soul ensured it.

As I looked that enemy champion in the eye, those yet living were released into the hands of my faithful and present companion, death. Their punishment was to be forgotten in the wake of my terrible name. My rogue collected as many materials off the wasted corpses, to be used by the guild in service of life that was once wasted.

Fear filled his heart. Fear always filled their hearts. Healers weren’t respected because the world forgets. There were always who forget, and those who remain ignorant to remember.

But I had been party to enough failed expeditions. Our township alone had lost too many proud warriors, and my Lord was growing both frustrated and fearful. Neighboring townships were suffering the same woes, and attacks by bandits had increased as towns lost their protectors.

I gave my seal to my rogue, and he began his journey back. Within a few days, expeditions would cease, and all Guilds of Uriel would be posted by the gates of every inhabited castle in my lord’s lands, the people hidden safely within. I would meet with my fellow mages in secluded location passed down to us through the eons, and stories of laughter on the battlefield would, for the time being, begin their hushed rounds through the enemies ranks once again.

First, do no harm. An oath I created to shed the creed of the black mage:

> The enemies kneel in blood.

> They offer their heads in obeisance, their loins are bathed with the their blood, and their lips cry out for mercy.

> Their mothers will forget them.

> Their fathers shall be visited by famine.

> Our lips will drink the wine of victory from their necks.