The wise man fears a night with no moon.
The War, was not going well for us. Sure we were victorious in most engagements; vampires died to our magic, burning in sorcerous fires. However the monsters continued to replace their numbers rapidly, while striking from the shadows at will. Mages fell, and each of us that did so will require decades to replace. Our enemies are far from stupid, a slow, grinding war of attrition suits their needs perfectly. The blood sucking abominations know that they need only hold their course in order to win.
It was with this in mind, that I first opened the old grimoire. It was a gift from Jacuyl, given to me long ago, in exchange for another first edition volume I had obtained from Terort Skitas. I had never bothered to study its contents, as I had no need for the vile magics within. Necessity and desperation however, are the seeds of all compromise.
It is said that the wise man fears the night with no moon. As I read through the pages, I was made to understand exactly why. There are black spirits in that night, unspeakable horrors, and apparitions out of the darkest nightmares. And all of them have Names. Names that can be called, and then used to command them.
The book held far more pages than it possibly should have given it's size, each containing some new spell to inflict horrific pain, agony, disease, and suffering. The book eerily whispered the words of each new spell to me as I read them, in a cacophony of hissing voices no louder than the rustle of a single page turning. This book is a weapon, a reservoir of dark and forbidden secrets, and I drank all that it had to teach me. Every word on every page stained my soul, making me sick to my stomach as I studied it. Yet another part of me, hungry and ambitious for such power, continued to read on with sunken, ravenous eyes.
I discovered that the grimoire was originally penned centuries ago by an arch-necromancer named Kemmler. Apparently he had fought a series of wars over a three century period against the Paladins of Luna. During that time, the knights caught and killed him on three separate occasions. Once he was burned at a stake, and twice he was drawn and quartered. He laughed cruelly and maniacally each and every time they did so, as if the joke was ultimately on them. His executioners were documented to have died of strange and mysterious accidents.
Thus I chronicle the path that I chose, to fight fire with fire, and dark power with even darker.