I have named my four 'priestesses'; it is time I expanded what I am. The shaman has become my 'hand'; the gnoll champion my 'sword', and I have drafted a new, elite guard in the form of a prize; they shall become my 'temple-throne guard'. Bear, whom I have learned the Xvarts call 'Ursa', sits at my side, the wolves at my feet. It is a start.

In my sleep, the skull whispers assassins will come for me. It mocks me for claiming what is not my own, that the other gods will not stand for this; I have made an enemy out of them. This time, I fear it speaks true. I must move swiftly.

I have decided I will learn the knife; my four have begun to show me and the brigands can teach me to brawl. I am unprepared for hand-to-hand, and I could not stop a swordsman of even moderate skill. Dodging arrows will be trickier. If it comes to it, the shaman and his knowledge of herblore and fungi will give me the edge, but that will mean nothing if I'm dead. I am ever aware of my own mortality, and the skull plays off this vulnerability. It manipulates me into using my sire's power, the divine blood that runs through my veins. I do not want its barbed gifts, but if I am to survive, I cannot ignore it.

I will begin practising tomorrow, as will my new 'priestesses'.