The White Death of Tamanir
He has been active for 137 years. He is only campaigns during the winter, and may The Gospel save you should you find your army in a snowstorm. Only a few have ever seen him, the cowardly, the lucky, those who ran immediately when the fear took hold.
He started with the pack train. Our guards were killed first, and then both our mules and horses had their throats slit or bolts in between their eyes. He did this so we couldn’t get away, so that he has days to complete his work. Having already turned in for the night, I didn’t know that at the time of course. Naturally, when he did strike, the disturbance woke me along with the rest of the camp. I didn’t know what was going on. There was screaming and men rushing about everywhere confused. It was dark, and crossbow bolts were soaring, quickly. While others were searching for this sniper, I went to find Commander Speiglatlin. I found him still in his cot with a stilleto stuck through his breastbone. He looked peaceful actually. It was still so dark. Somehow he had dropped snow on our campfires in the area. Those who had rushed in with torches or tried lighting their own were his number one targets. Those shouting orders, trying to control the chaos were his second. How he had so many bolts (of yew no less!) I do not know. So many, far more than a man should be able to carry. There was screaming everywhere, men trying to find a target or guidance. Those who go went for the pack train discovered the supplies had been booby trapped. All told, it probably went on for an hour or so before the desertion began. The deserters are never seen again. I think he likes to hunt them first, that he enjoys the chase. In the morning we take what supplies we can and attempt a forced march back home in the snow. The next night the camp is more paranoid, we clustered our tents together for added security. Big mistake. He set fire to it all somehow, roasting hundreds of men alive, and most of what little supplies we could carry. Our shelters are gone, our blankets are gone. My maps were destroyed in that inferno. One of the soldiers said they saw him. A man, dressed dressed head to toe in white winter wool, carrying ashen crossbow. This morning, fatigue has now overpower adrenalin, and I am having a hard time keeping one foot in front of the other. We are still seventeen days from our border. -Christopher Jehrold, Cartographer to Duke Ellington of Grussia 1067.
When the fall harvest has finally been put in the graineries, The Butler makes his travel across Faridar, taking bids on the White Death’s services. The White Death accepts exactly one contract a year, but he seems to have an exceptional hatred of Grussians, favoring contacts against them.
Twice has The Butler been killed. He was apprehended by Viscount Blitherton in 1022 in Asesque [Duchy of Limel, Roux], imprisoned, interrogated and executed under suspicion of being the White Death; charged with murder [The previous season’s contract was against the Duke’s in-laws in Loya]. Instead of taking a contract that year, the White Death stole into Asesque and strung up Duke Redvine, his son, and Viscount Blitherton, ending their lineages and leaving 68 bodies in his wake. No useful information was recovered from the interrogation.
The other was in 1102, when The Butler’s carriage was attacked by “bandits.” Apparently, the White Death thought Grussian Duke Forvlad was behind it. He invaded the Vulgrek Range and started a terrorist campaign against his civilian population, rather than the usual military targets by burning down all the graineries along the Orbek river. The only person he killed this time was Forvlad’s wife, Duchess Armeia from Alsamia.