The Reaper has visited us this day. His scythe has taken our companions, our friends. Our brothers. The Grey Blade has fallen this day. The Reaper's scythe has taken his soul, leaving his body behind, a mere shell of his former self. Cry not for Barrat, for he has answered Torm's summons, delivered by the Reaper's Scythe. Torm has called the Grey Blade to battle alongside him in the most glorious of all battlefields. Shed no tears for Barrat; celebrate his life, for his death is but a doorway to Warrior's Rest. Three Cheers for Barrat, the Grey Blade of Amn!
These are the last words I heard Lord Boris Wyrmbane speak. Boris was more than a friend to me. He was a brother...and a father. Despite his words, I know he grieved more than any would have thought possible, just as I would have for him, were he in my place.
What he did not know, and will never know, is that his speech did not fall on deaf ears. I was not, as he thought, in Torm's domain. I had not even left the material plane. I was struck down by the damned Necromancer, Illichys, his hex cursing my soul, and his dying wish damning my body, even as his final breath was expelled from his lungs and his lifeblood flowed down my blade.
Boris could not know that I heard every word he spoke, saw the tears in his eyes that no one else witnessed. He had no way of knowing that, long after my burial and eventual entombing, I would rise and walk Faerun once more.
He had no way of knowing the Necromancer's wish would Curse me, and with the fiend's death....eternally so.
Death is a being I am a stranger to. Never did I feel his touch, for his scythe passed through me as insubstantially as steel through a phantom. Death cannot touch me, Torm has abandoned me, and the only god that will take me is the one I had been fighting my entire life. Myrkul will never have my soul, even if his magic courses through my veins where blood once flowed.
I am incapable of feeling. The cold steel of the Grey Blade is no longer cold. The warmth of a fire that once comforted me so, does no longer. The love I held for my brothers of the Purple Dragons...no longer exists in my soul. I show no remorse. No guilt. No sadness. Not even anger or rage. Just...emptiness. And longing. Longing to find Death, where I know he cannot find me.
Illichys, the only man capable of removing this...is dead by my own hand.
There is no hope for me, so I sit in this dungeon, alone except for my servants, who never venture higher than the second floor of my tower. They will not look upon me. For I am Curst.
--Barrat, the Grey Blade of Amn. Knight of the Purple Dragons, Agent of the Harpers, and Justiciar of Torm. Curst to a Faerun-bound Oblivion.
