...You stood in a chamber where the walls remembered pain. Every surface bore the record of what had been done here, in this place built for breaking. The memory was not quite yours and yet it was. You had been here, or someone wearing your face had been here, teaching the students of Bhaal the first lesson; mercy was a fiction invented by the weak, and only through suffering could divinity be achieved. Or had you learned it? The distinction blurred. The knife in your hand was slick. You didn't remember drawing it. The Dark Urge coils in your skull and whispers that you should. That you should do it again. That the only purity left to you is the purity of the blade.

A shadow moves across your vision. Not outside you. Inside. And it feels so right that you almost weep...