The Doomguard (PWH)

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The following exchange between a Doomguard factor and an Indep was recorded by a Guvner scribe: 
INDEP: See, the Doomguard's got the idea that things only get worse. Me? I think that's a little harsh. 
Doomguard: You don't know the meaning of harsh. All things decay, all things die, all things decompose. It's called entropy, and it's the force that rules the multiverse. 
I: So you Sinkers just sit back and watch it all fall apart. And here I thought Bleakers were apathetic. 
D: Nothing lasts forever, berk—not even you. You're decaying as you speak, inching nearer and nearer to death. But you're wrong—not all ofus are content to let things crumble on their own. Some in our faction like to help them along. 
I: Tell me about it! Last week, a sodding Sinker set fire to my friend's tent in the Bazaar! 
D: No doubt it would've collapsed soon anyway. But don't forget who runs the Armory. We've got enough weapons and bashers there to tear down all of Sigil, if that were our goal. 
I: Chant says that is your goal. 
D: Chant says a lot of things, berk. But the Doomguard isn't a haven for rippers. When someone comes to the Armory to join us, we test him. He's got to prove his willingness to give up his old life, give in to entropy, and promote chaos. The tests also weed out the foolishly destructive—wanton displays of devastation aren't part of our plan. We favor ruin with a purpose. 
I: So destroying Sigil doesn't have a purpose. 
D: Not now, anyway. The city's falling to pieces just fine on its own. 
I: No wonder the Harmonium want to bring you down. 
D: Worry about yourself—chant says your type's on the wrong end of a Hardhead club more often than not. As for us, the Mercykillers find our ways easier to digest, and you know how all those law-boys stick together. 
I: Oh, there's a bunch of berks known for their prudence. They probably like you addle-coves 'cause you wave your weapons and flash your armor as much as they do. I've heard that every Sinker's trained in using a sword—even the wizards. And your high-ups get special swords, too—entropy blades, or some such, and you-
D: Shut your bone-box! How does a leatherhead like you know the dark of such things? 
I: Afraid of the truth? You'll not get many believers in your cause if you recoil from the light. 
D: It hardly matters, friend. We'll be the ones laughing in the end, when the last chunk of stone in the multiverse finally turns to dust.
Category:Sects