The Rise and Fall of Glamorfell

Sayd's Diary - A bit of fiction

While I was recovering, my friends had been busy with one Kalkimedes, a fallen paladin who now found himself cursed to sleepwalk every night towards an unknown goal. I caught them just as they arrived at their final destination, the Black Edifice, a structure only known by moonlight. We sent Yel and Mikmek ahead to scout, as has been our practice. The two have formed an amusing and even touching bond. A puzzle awaited in the first chamber, some nonsense left behind by the Thrallkeepers or Thrallmasters of ancient Thassilonia. A statue held a slender golden wand, and the solution was to gasp use it in the magical zone by the door. Such trivialities. After we had defeated a massive skunk who rose to our approach, I began zapping my companions willy nilly with the thing until they opened the door. Child’s play.

I grow weary of recounting in the first person, as modesty prevents me from accurately describing the grandeur of my heroics. I believe I may ditch this diary altogether and instead write a fictionalized account from the omniscient perspective of a god or a wordsmith.

“Sayd did not hesitate before leaping over the pallisade and tumbling fifteen feet to the sodden earth below, where he rolled to break his momentum and came face to face with Searos the Skinchanger, a burly half elf druid who glared at him with menace. With a flick of the druid’s wrist a storm of shubbery and plants arose from the earth, holding Sayd in place. The half elf smiled, no doubt intending to set upon and ravish our gorgeous hero. Sayd sleekly slipped from the impromptu garden first, tho, and crushed the druid’s very sanity with a clashing spray of red and black magic. Searos’ eagle companion, Shredd, landed on Sayd’s shoulder, taken with the presence of its new master—until Kaede, droing librarian, speared it through and through. ‘Shreeddddddddddddd!’ he cried. But it was too late. ‘Now,’ Sayd said in tien, ‘You will pay the price for insulting me. Tiger form!’

Alright, so perhaps I got a bit carried away with my re-imagining. History will not know the difference, though!

View
Sleepwalking
Kaede's letter to Emiko Lin

To Emiko Lin:

Greetings, Honored One—

Kalkamedes is safe, though it was a near thing. I think perhaps if we had arrived much later, that this message would have been one filled with regret. To our great fortune, a young man (one whom the group had assisted earlier) was staying with Kalkamedes and doing his best to keep things stable while we were on our way.

I’ll skip to the heart of the matter: Kalkamedes was going on nightly adventures into the wilderness, in his bedclothes, while fully asleep. He always left at the same time, went in the same direction, and could not be roused awake. In fact, any interference with his journey tended to be met with violence! Walorin had a set of manacles with him that we used on Kalkamedes to control him more easily; I never really understood why he DID possess such things, but I am thankful that we had them available.

Since Kalkamedes never deviated from his course, many hazards needed to be overcome in order to assure his safety. We had to get him across running water, over chasms, through razor-sharp fields of thorns, fought off a mother bear and her cubs, and even protected him from a bandit ambush (one led by another of Kressel’s lieutenants — she is truly a thorn in our side here, and I will write more on this in the future) .

Finally, we arrived at the Black Edifice, the place that called to Kalkamedes nightly; alas, this is a story for another missive. I apologize for leaving you in suspense, but I haven’t the time at present to properly describe the events of the Edifice. Know, however, that your servant is safe, and once again sleeping soundly.

In the meantime, I’ve included a sample of the stonework that you requested (my own attempts at harvesting were clumsy, but Mikmek of the Sootscale was eager to assist me, and proved invaluable at the task), as I know the Way would like to start its research sooner rather than later.

As always, I am your faithful servant,

-Kaede

View
Dovan's Tale

They had found their mark easily enough. Dovan had taken the group a few days’ ride to the north, and then ordered them to spread out and start looking for prey. “Handsome” Celthric was the first to spot something – a young wolf caught in a toothy metal contraption – and he signaled the rest of the bandits. The lot of them killed and ate the beast while they waited for the trap’s owner to return. When he did come to check on his work, they chased him down, beat him, stripped him, and tied him to a tree. The trapper had become the trapped.

Before any questions were even asked, Dovan got out his special set of knives and had a little “fun.” Then they got to work. Between Dovan’s knives and Auchs’ fists, the unlucky bastard soon spilled everything about himself, about the loose-knit community of hunters and trappers in the Greenbelt, about this trading post to the north… and then he spilled some more… and more, and more, and more. The bandits had all the information that they needed, as far as Falgrim could tell anyway, but still Dovan asked his questions, and still they cut and beat the man’s flesh. The poor fool said what he thought they wanted to hear, said anything to get them to stop, but the two kept at it well past sundown.

The rest of them were gathered around the fire, out of sight but not out of earshot. Topper Red, always the idealist, was clearly not happy with the situation. After a lot of fidgeting and grumbling, the young man finally spoke up. “He’s said all he’s gonna say, right? Can’t they at least gag him? All his hollerin’ is upsettin’ my dinner.”

Without looking up from the fire, Markard the Stitcher muttered, “Why don’t you go ask Dovan to stuff a rag in the guy’s mouth.”

“Or ask Markard to stitch his mouth shut,” Falgrim said with a grin. Markard glared at Falgrim in response. That sort of cruelty was not Markard’s style (his nickname came from his crude healing skills), and neither was a sense of humor.

“Handsome” Celthric stayed silent, although he smiled a little at Falgrim’s little joke, careful not to open his mouth. He didn’t open it often these days unless he absolutely had to, not since the Stag Lord had beaten his good looks and all of his teeth out of him.

“Nine hells, I ain’t dumb,” Topper said with a scowl. “I know well enough to not get between Dovan and his fun.” Topper spit into the fire. “I’m just bellyachin’, I suppose. Don’t see the point of it, is all.”

“The point is that Dovan has the favor of the Stag Lord and you don’t…. or he did, anyway. So keep your aching belly to yourself, And don’t you dare mention that he got sent north to Thorn River, he’s awful sore about that. ” Falgrim said sternly. Dovan was a cruel and vindictive devil-spawn, and Auchs was violent and so dumb that the giant would do whatever Dovan wanted. To make matters worse, Dovan had recently suffered a humiliating demotion, having been sent away to Kressle’s camp. It wasn’t worth it to risk getting on either one’s bad side.

Topper Red breathed an exaggerated sigh of relief when the screaming finally stopped. Soon after, Dovan strode out of the darkness and towards the campfire, with Auchs trailing close behind. Dovan was shirtless, revealing the strange tattoos that snaked across his chest and arms, but was in the process of pulling on the trapper’s tunic as he walked. Once dressed, he asked, “What do you think, gentlemen? Do I look the part?”

“It’ll do,” replied Falgrim, “but that tunic’s too big, and I can see bits o’ your tattoos. Don’t see many trappers with that sort of thing, not in these parts. And then there’s your accent…”

Dovan scoffed. “Minor details,” he said, ridding his voice of its normal foreign lilt and replacing it with something that sounded much more rough, patterned after the strange speech of Galt. “I’ll have the disguise and voice perfected by the time I reach this Oleg’s.”

“Hey!” exclaimed Auchs, who looked down at Dovan with new wonder in his dim eyes. “You sound like that hunter man!”

Dovan shot Auchs a look of pure disgust. “Yes, you lumbering oaf! That’s the whole idea!” He then delivered a savage backhand across Auch’s huge, misshapen face. Everything stopped as the bandits awaited Auchs’ reaction, but the mighty fool only cowered in response. If anyone else had tried that, Auchs would probably have ripped their head off. But the giant was scared of Dovan, as small and slight as the man was in comparison. Nine hells, I don’t blame him, thought Falgrim. The former mercenary had been all around the Inner Sea, and had seldom encountered as nasty a group of characters as the Stag Lord’s lieutenants.

“Get some rest,” Dovan ordered the others. “We ride at first light. That little trading post will soon be a pyre to our glory.”

In his disguise, gaining the trust of the travelling priest was child’s play for Dovan. After setting up a simple ambush, Dovan made sure to rescue the old man before he was slaughtered by the other “bandits”. The old fool was almost pathetically grateful, and invited him to travel with him to the old fort.

The residents were uninspiring. Two merchants; an older man and a pretty woman, married to each other. Four guards and their captain, but only two were on duty. And Dovan himself. He slipped into his best impersonation of a carpenter from Galt who had just come to the trading post to sell his skills, and they all bought it. The old merchant paid him for the work and rented him a room for the night, and the woman chatted him up a bit, but they paid the disguised Dovan no special mind.
===============
Several months later:

In the middle of the night, Dovan slipped out of his bed and crept unnoticed across the yard to the stables. Searos and the others were waiting outside, hopefully out of sight. Once they saw the fire, they would make for the gate, which Dovan would have to get open. As Dovan poured oil along the base of the catapults, he fervently hoped the guard near the gate, that strange-speaking elf, stayed at her post when the blaze started. He expected Searos would have arranged some sort of distraction to help him.

He saw Laerrick in the northwest corner of the fort, where he always ways. He was a predictable watchman, which was a fact he would have to relate to Pharasma in her boneyard. It was simple to sneak up behind him. He realized how much he missed the catch in their breath and the startled look in their eyes, right after the blade slipped into their throat. It had been too long since he had killed.
==============

View
Sayd to Quintessa Maray

Dear one,

You have been much on my mind of late. In the grand cities I can slip about as I will, pleasing my own ends, but here in this rugged landscape there are too few shadows to hide in. My lust for dominance is nigh uncontrollable but I can not sate it without destroying the trust of my allies. I fear I can not survive this land on my own, robbed of my sword arm by a brutal venom—though, as it happens, my newfound devotion to the dark magicks of my blood has born fruit of a more thrilling sustenance than ever mere swordplay did.

I have found what you wanted of Kalkimedes. The paladin fell from favor far north in Mendev, where he used such cunning tricks and cowardly schemes as to make me proud, though it did not please his god, apparently. He did himself a favor. What good are the blessings of the gods if they rob us of our very will to choose?

I learned much of myself from a priestess of Calistria who saved my life, though I will hold those secrets as my own for now. It is time you did a service for me—and gods know, past time you serviced me—and what I would have is knowledge from your network. There is a common crux to all the ills of the greenbelt, even this so called Stag Lord. Each foe we’ve overthrown, from the mite King Garbles to the purple skinned kobold summoner to the Stag Lord himself have borne the touch of the First World on their lips.

What do you know of the Queen of Whispers? I have included a starting point: my own sketches of two pages of a children’s book as well as a legend I was told of a drinking contest and an axe as strong as Woman’s Scorn. Find more for me. I expect to be in the court of this fey tyrant e’re many moons have changed, and my sharpest blade will be knowledge.

I dream idle dreams on the road when the blather of my companions turns to a kind of sing-song music drifting into tree and sky. I see a broad and tall metropolis, built upon and sucking the life from these lands, with a name rendered difficult for those without the dark tongue. They will call it only the City of Night. At it’s apex, in the most harrowing looking of towers, I will sit enthroned while the petrified, screaming statues that my enemies have become adorn my walls. You will be there as well, kneeling at my feet, in chains. I know your heart quickens to that day.

Yours in body and soul,

Sayd

View
Kaede's letter to Emiko Lin
Awakening

To Emiko Lin:

Greetings, Honored One—

I apologize for my recent silence, and hope to have not caused anyone needless worry. To confirm for you what your other agents have surmised: I have been able to discover within myself a latent talent for the arcane arts.

As such things often go with me, it began after a vision and a dream. I awoke one day — alone and separated from my traveling companions — with a tiny thrush perched upon my chest. To my surprise, it spoke Tien, albeit somewhat haltingly and without any particular artfulness. It calls itself “Yukimura”, and we communed at length about magic, and how to unlock the use of my arcane talents.

I believe that Yukimura is the reincarnated form of my old master. He denies having ever been an “ornery, wrinkly old sourpuss” as he puts it, but also admits to not having a particularly good memory. Regardless, Yukimura has begun to take upon himself the role of a wise mentor, and even seems to delight in it. It’s unclear if this represents the mists of amnesia clearing away, a clever facade on my master’s part, or just playful thrush mimicry. In any case, I find that my master’s soul reaches out to me less frequently, which has certain… social and diplomatic advantages.

These new arcane powers have come with a significant cost. You may have heard of my prowess as a martial artist; I must admit that I no longer possess the agility or strength that I once had. This isn’t to say that I cannot fight — I’ve retained all of my unarmed combat training, and am more than a martial match for a typical spellcaster — but it does mean that I’ve come to rely on Teret and Walorin to provide what I cannot, while I support their efforts. The old Kaede was a flurry of fists and fury, but also couldn’t make her companions over ten feet tall. On balance, I find it to be a favorable trade.

I will seek out Old Beldame, as you suggested. It is with regret that I must inform you that during my absence, my companions destroyed one of her former residences in ignorance, though thankfully it appears that she was not present at the time. Truly, lawfulness requires constant vigilance in this region of the world. I hope that she doesn’t bear any grudges.

Finally, I will see what aid I can lend Kalkamedes. It seems as though I will be able to convince my companions to accompany me without raising any suspicions about my motivations; some of the others have reason to visit him as well. I will inform you of the results, one way or the other.

As always, I am your faithful servant,

-Kaede

View
Sayd's Diary - 21 to 29 Desnus, 4710 AR

21 Desnus
The Stolen Lands, we called them. Just a white emptiness on the map. I walked them in the winter winds, strident, while my companions huddled for warmth. I walk them as the earth pushes forth shoots, as brambles snake out into light, as flowers bloom. It was just another job to keep the wine pouring, I thought. I have rushed headlong towards death since I was but a child. Though my line on the map has meandered, my path through time has been arrow straight. This time I missed the mark.

I do not think the world a just place, though I bear no umbrage towards justice. If a man wishes to live in peace, he should keep his hand on the plow reins, not the sword. Oft have I dismissed my fortune as little more than the fall of dice. When one plays the game, he had best know the stakes.

Yet all now stands changed. I have been no stranger to violence, nor violence to me, and, fearing not the consequence, have made bedfellows of bedlam my whole life through. Why am I now so terrified? I thought myself a foregone tale, born of darkness and bound to it in the grave. Now I know that is not so, that I escaped that fate as a babe. My life seems such a fragile thing, a feather borne on the wind. I know not what to do with this feeling but commit it to ink, and hope it remains here only, drying on the page.

25 Desnus
My strength returns. Bokken came back to the hut to find me doing pull-ups from a tree branch. Still, it may be long months before I am the athlete that I was. My sword swings are incredibly clumsy, so much so that I would not trust myself to duel. The dagger is more manageable. I fear to return to Oleg’s in this state. Kesten Garess could kill me easily, and has more cause then ever since I struck him. This last week has seemed unreal. Bokken is the only collaborator who can assure me that Phoebe, that beautiful, childlike creature, was not the figment of my overthrown mind. She is gone, and yet she could be anyone. She wears a thousand faces, each of them calling me onward.

29 Desnus
I believe I am closing in on my friends. Riding alone through the wilds has been difficult but rewarding. I shared my lunch with a friendly dog at a brook’s edge, today. The babbling water recalled something sweet and far away. I left the sword behind, and my armor. I could not make use of them like this. I travel light, dagger on my hip and in my boot. Bread slathered in honey and cool milk. Despite Phoebe’s urgings, I feel less need now then ever to revenge myself upon the Stag Lord. I want to feel the warm sun on my face and drink the wind as it blows across the fragrant grass. There is a majesty to coming so close to death. You can see every drop of dew. I know the feeling will fade, but like a drug, I am taking my fill of it.

View
Phoebe Kissingdeath's Diary

Date Unwritten

Perhaps I have gone too far. The Osirian—a pathfinder, I thought—seems hardly worth my time. Still, it is the goddesses will that any slight be repaid a thousand fold. He deigned to call me a cow when we bumped in the street, even though it was his error. He should take his eyes of his compass when he walks the thoroughfare. His look of disgust at my buxom cheeks, the ripples of welcoming fat undulating under my sheer chemise, deserves an answer.

I wore the guise of Curva at the time, of course. She has been my favorite of late, with her silken blonde curls and heavy eye shadow. This ring has given me endless pleasures. When I found it lying half covered in autumn leaves last year I knew immediately what my lady wanted me to do with it.

Date Unwritten

The Osirian is dead. ‘Twas a harsh punishment, to be sure. I meant only to lure him on with the aspect of a nymph, far out into the snow, and leave him stripped to find his way back. Perhaps frostbite would have taken a toe, or aught else! I did not expect those men to spring from the path and waylay him with steel invitations. I made a quick exit. What’s done is done.

Date Unwritten

I know not why I have lingered in these parts. I briefly stayed at an old outpost wearing the trappings of an old wise woman, and was greeted most warmly by my hostess, Svetlana. It did not take long to ferret out her desires. I told her of the moon radish, which is known to grow in these parts. I hope Calistria blesses her with a child, for hers is a kind and loving soul.

Date Unwritten

The fey are in an uproar. I hear whispers as I walk, talk of dark tidings. I saw something while bathing invisibly in a hot spring today. A troop of mites passed nearby, and their leader, a twisted little fruit, rode upon a creature I never thought to know. I remember seeing depictions of him when I stayed in Kyonin, the stylized drawings a perfect caricature. Tickleback, his name is called in the common tongue. The elves called him Mahgretaan. He is a creature of the First World, the bane of the Gnarlmarches for long centuries, as I heard it. His kiss is death. He was a wonder to behold.

Date Unwritten

It all makes sense now. I know why I have wandered these rolling hills, chasing dreams and shadows. ’Twas the will of Calistria. There is an outsider nearby, a dark mirror of me, and he burns for revenge. I can feel his fire, but I must find him before it goes out.

Date Unwritten

He has the blood of succubi pumping through his heart, like I have the blood of lyrakien flowing through mine. His face was angelic as he lay dying. I found him “resting” in an alchemist’s hut, mere days from complete collapse. He spoke haltingly, whisperingly, of how he and his friends had stormed the Great Oak and unseated Grabbles, the mite king. This was the very creature I saw in the company of Mahgretaan. The bloated ancient bit him, he said. I told him to close his eyes, and in his ear I whispered words of salvation, and kissed him. I asked him what his name was.

“Sayd Krynn,” he said weakly. I could not help but giggle.

“That is not a name,” I said. “They are just words in the abyssal tongue. Sayd Krynn means blonde baby.”

“So it does,” he said, and fell to slumber.

Date Unwritten

My magic has failed me and I do not know why. The sickness remains. The venom of Mahgretaan lives up to its legend. That he has not perished is sheer miracle, though he has an audacity to live that few mortals could match. I have communed with scholars in Elysium, and they are suggesting certain formulae for the alchemist to concoct. I am pushing Bokken and his laboratory to the limit with this, but he seems happy to help. I think his mind is gone.

Date Unwritten

He lives in twilight. He is not really here, but still speaks. His tale is full of such wonders that no sane being would believe it, but I know it is true. He tells of how he was born from a gnoll, a high priestess of Lamashtu, as some sort of revenge for offending Nocticula; how he quickly passed into the hands of a paladin, who had not the heart to slay him; how he was raised in a secret city of witches; how as a boy he was borne out of the sea on the back of a whale when his ship wrecked, killing all the others; how he was rescued in Kaer Maga by a dhampir sellsword who taught him the blade, and so much more. He thinks that he is in Absalom, that I am some other priestess, that we are lovers. He told me his true name.

Date Unwritten

He is strong enough to eat today. He will recover. I realized that I have appeared to him and to Bokken without disguise. They see my true form: halfling-slight, jewel toned hair, radiant eyes, a child of Elysium. He is fascinated by me. Could it be that in all his travels he has not met another like him? We spoke quite frankly for hours. I described to him what would become of his soul when his mortal form passed, how it would be ripped apart in the abyss to birth new incubi, how Nocticula only cares for cruelty. I laid his head on my lap and told him tales of Calistria that I learned at the feet of the masters. How her exploits, though violent and cruel, always began with a seed of pleasure and amusement, not sadism and hatred. He is deadly fearful to abandon his goddess for a new one. Nocticula gave him life.

“She has not forgotten me,” he says, looking emotional for the first time. “She would never forgive my betrayal.”

“Nocticula is a toothless bitch,” I say evenly. “She eats scraps from my lady’s table. I have communed with sages from the outer planes, beings whose vision reaches far and farther. Do you not know who saved you on the night of your birth? ‘Twas worshipers of Calistria who stormed the ruined fane where Nocticula’s ritual lay in wait. You were born from Ashgrazaa the Jackal, high priestess of Lamashtu, and held before her as the ultimate indignity and testament to her failure—the goddess of fertility could not even pop the right monster out of her own servant. Then Ashgrazaa was impaled. You were probably meant to be the main course for the celebratory feast. You were a prop. The only reason you live is because a priest, Coradd Raventress, plucked your crying body from the floor when the bloodshed was done and felt pity for you. Do you not remember the wasp broach he wore? Did you not speak of it in your illness?”

His mouth hangs agape.

“That is what the sages say,” I finish. “Twas not Nocticula who has given you your charmed life, Sayd Krynn. Calistria has brought you through the fire time and again. Am I not here at the very hour of your demise to blow life into body again? And who has sent me?”

“But—why?” he says, astonished.

“Because you are beautiful to her,” I say.

Date Unwritten

I am off again, out of this strange land. Spring has arrived. Sayd will never be the man he was. Mahgretaan’s venom should have killed him. He is weaker now. He is sluggish. His body has forgotten some of its athleticism, his hand some of its skill with the blade. But he will live. He will live to take his revenge.

View
The 2nd Desnus, 4710 AR
The Diary of Teret Feron

At last, we return to Oleg’s. At once, and almost always now, everything feels forever from here, and forever past. Since the last time I have written in here, much traveling has occurred, thankfully, with little strife. To whomever reads this, with some luck, an offspring of mine, but most likely, an adventurer much alike myself, best you take upon yourself a hobby. I have found the long days, keeping a vigilant eye is more tiring than most anything. The inability to relax, to stop and just let the soreness soak away from you, oh how I miss it. There isnt an ounce of me that wouldn’t gut a Lebeda were one to set foot before me, but I will readily admit I miss how they spoiled their “favored sons”. Back to what I was saying, Adventurer, take what solace you can, because even here, even now, I am not so sure as to my safety. It’s quiet enough, and most nights here I sleep soundly, but always I feel as though there is a knife to my back. Hidden somewhere in the shadows. In truth, it may well just be the ordeals of recent, the sights. So much not of the normal planar of being.

I suppose the best place to start is upon our dealings with the Kobolds. I believe we maintain a mutual understanding with them of the benefits of co-existence. I believe the two of their number that have travelled with us, are more friendly than their peers, but I doubt the least of which that they would put a knife in my back if their king demanded it. The Soot Scales. What an interesting group they are. We recently bested their spiritual leader, a being who conjured an eidolon to do his dirty work. Turns out he wasn’t even one of them. We recovered what looks to be his personal journal, though i’ve only read some bits of it. I like to think of myself as a learned man, even having some level of skill with linguistics, but even some of this is a stretch for my faculties. Still, we have much to gain from the kobolds, and they us, so we shall keep to it. Naturally, being the good folks that we are, we accepted yet another charge from another party to set about some task. This time fetching a crown. This feels like another despot seeking legitimacy, except that Chief Sootscale was the one to cast down the diol, sparking the revolution within their mine. It was sort of inspiring. I do not yet know where or what we have ahead of us in this.

Once we left there, we followed the river lengthwise twice. Once again, our epicene friend was adventuring beyond his means. It appears he suffered to some extent, a wound which imparted a poison within his veins. Naturally, he decided to imbibe some of the -what I took as some sort of delicious treat, but I believe now to be something far different - sample powder the Kobolds had provided. I do not know with any certainty that it proved to solve his ailments, but his unnatural state after taking it within him, marks it likely best for carousing. Still, he is well again, which was fortuitous for us.

Not long after we crossed the Shrike river, or perhaps it was long, it melds together to me, we happened upon a hut. To this moment, I think there was much more to learn there, perhaps something we should have sought, but its a fleeting thought, as a piece of ash upon the wind. After battling the baffling animation of a giant pot, which, for the record, swallowed Walorin without flinching, we managed to set the place ablaze. What secrets that place held, and whether they should be spoken of here, I do not know. Perhaps when we have more time, we will journey south there. We will need to find some way to construct bridges. Perhaps I can see about acquiring some knowledge from the Carpenter that expeditiously appeared. Something about them bites at me, but I think I am chasing shadows there too. So little trust, real trust, not trust of requirement, exists here. That’s Kestern’s problem though. Kestern. That man is an adulterer, but I think, it feels anyway, like this man possess a character that overshadows that. Maybe the man just uses his overbearing nature to shed something of his past. A Garess to the core, stubborn as a dwarf upon a rock.

Returning to our journey though, after violating the property of The Olde Beldame as Yelenya named it or mentioned. It does not sound promising to potentially earn the ire of any property owner, let alone one known as Olde. It implies living long enough to be known well enough as surviving to reach Aged. That wasn’t the strangest, speaking of Yelenya. She stated she wasn’t human. Though she claimed to have said it before, this is slightly unsettling. What IS she? To my mind, it explains things that never quite added up, but at the once, it levels a layer of mistrust upon her. I may hold things back about my past, but my nature is as plain a Iomaede’s justice. It’s there for the viewing, and I make no remorse about it. Hiding your nature to me, is distrustful, but I can look past it for now. She is a valued member of our Spirited group. I have yet to formulate an appropriate way to ask that nagging question. It harkens along with asking her a count of her years. I’ve learned one too many slaps to have forgotten the dangers in asking that.

And then there’s the ghoul. Davik Nettles. I think there is something written around here about him. How maybe we were supposed to negotiate with him? That fiasco. First, the ghoul emerges forth from the depths of this raging river to confront us, mumbling. We agree to its task, one I still don’t actually know, but at least diplomacy won out on that one. Then, Sayd, the adventurous one, bursts forth across the only rope remaining of what must have been Davik’s crossing. I don’t know what was thought here, but leaving behind all of our possessions and transportation seemed unwise. I guess that sums him up pretty well overall. He is surprisingly well equipped with the silver tongue, but appears to have lead within that cavern when it comes to forethought. Alas, each of us is a piece to the whole, a cog in a mechanism that shudders forth. I feel more directionless of late than ever.

So be it, as we used to say in the Lebeda regulars, “Onward we go, its death we face, leave the grace to those, with plenty to waste.” I have managed to finish this poor excuse for ale, and desire enough. Perhaps I will continue writing when I am clearer of thought and more to say on the matter. Perhaps I will go find Sasha and continue our discussion on metal working. She is surprisingly limber…

View
Walorin
Journal Entry 2

By Caiden’s ticklish testicles- we done jumped out of the fryin pan and into that fire!

After a long day of escapin’ and all manner of other physical endeavors we thought we might rest up for the night. Before anything much else happened these nice folk had me put my mark on some kinda document. The intent of which was to bind me to this group and attemptin to set straight this crooked land.

Seein’ as i’m the new blood here they put me on first watch- prolly more to keep an eye on me, than out of concern for my natural sleepin cycle. And wouldn’tcha know it, we was ambushed by some screamin’ Amos – running near-nekkid through our camp, wild-eyed and bushy-haired like some kinda coked up squirrel. Now, I don’t know how- but that scrawny bender had managed to grab the attention, and somehow not got eaten by, a band of hungry wolves.

needless to say we had to save that fools scrawny ass- and save it we did! anyhow, as things seem to do, it all ended with everyone chatting away like it weren’t no thing. including one of the wolves.

the next morning we headed off to the kobold karvernz. I spent a good amount of time talkin with the scrappy one, map-pick? matchstick? somethin like that. sharing some of the local food.

Sayd was talkin’ to the big’un about th’current leadership in the karvernz, and its a good thing he did, since the more they talked, the more it seemed like a bad situation. and as such, once we arrived, it seemed like barely 10 minutes before we got into it with the so-called shaman. Sayd fired up or scared off most of the reglar lizards, and we all had a little part in trying to convince em that fighting us would be a negative experience. in the end though, who should arrive but old sharptooth himself and started chewin on my newfound friendlings. I had no choice but to usher him down a long aisle of hurt. while I was busy whoopin’ that stoney goliath- well long story short, the bad guy got away, but not before makin us genuine celebrities around these parts. They was even kind enough to gift us with some right kindly gifts!

View
The 13th Gozran, 4710 AR
Diary of Teret Feron

Now, as the sun sets on another day amongst our party, I am taking the moment to write of our experiences. I do not know that anyone will ever read this save me, but should we not escape by the skin of our teeth this next time, perhaps this will serve as our final countenance.

In truth, i’m not sure I know how we survived. After we took shelter within the belly of -these, mites, these little creatures- their nest, I was convinced we were simply setting ourselves up for a death we didn’t see coming. Their king, apparently these being live under a monarchy as well, he called himself Gravels, I think. He spoke with such a shrill voice, he was nearly grated enough to want to navigate the chasm that had separated us and squeeze his little neck.

Unfortunately for us, I believe our task of taking back the Kobolds god, Sharptooth, enraged him, and set him upon the same task, only much more effectively. I think perhaps there could have been some other route for us, but for the arrow that was loosed at them. That seemed to settle all discussions right there.

What followed was a whirlwind of activity. My head still has trouble comprehending it. We fled at that point. He had snuck into the lair of these little creetins, I don’t know, two levels below. They were caverns, but on a miniature scale. Most of us had to duck down to some extent to move about. The climbs though, that, I wont forget. Attempting to ascend, with my armor being what it is, my gear, was a challenge. Our youngest member, sweet Ellisa, she fled the fastest, she made the climb the way I would expect the elf to, Kaede. The one that is still here anyway. One of them deserted in the night. No, our cleric, blessed though she be, fled up into the tunnels. I pursued as best I could, and I do remember, there was a mite, larger than the rest. He held his sword the way the other fighter does. It was probably considered a greatsword by their measure, but really about a longsword’s length for us. He cleaved the elf, before I could intervene. Thankfully, he was larger than the others, but measured no greater in skill, for I returned his favor unto him. From there, it was a flurry of melee. Blood flowed freely on all sides as we escaped. I took, and still feel the effects of, a bite from more than one of their creatures. They looked to be a centipede, but after the first we faced, the giant monolithic one, I am unsure I wish to see another so long as I live. At one point, another mite, one who looked different, — I would even wager one of their females — stepped forth and we took her down as well. She bore quite a bit of strange materials. Enough strangeness that I sought to drag its corpse from the warrens with us as we fled. As one might expect, bearing my armor as I do, I was the last to successfully flee their caverns. One by one, we encircled what we believed to be the only way out. We were quite wrong.

We had really kicked the hornets nest on this however, as we stop atop the, the tree seemed to come to life. The Sycamore that we had sought, believing it to be a treasure trove, turned against us. We suddenly found ourselves caught by some unnatural force. Once again, our party stood undecided on how best to proceed. Some protested we should flee, others that we had the upper hand. With what little information we had, I stood upon the side that maximized our chances of what we knew. I stood my ground upon the top of that hole.

The mites though, we underestimated. They began to appear from the ground. Secret tunnels or some other type of defense. Well executed. Something I shall remember, should it be necessary. As brutal as the melee had been below, we had more options of movement within the sun, but it did not relent then. The Mite King again, upon that wretched beast he rode, appeared, issuing challenges. I don’t know if these words spoke inspired our two kobold friends, but they began to tear into their lines with a ferocity I have yet to seen in such small creatures. It was almost admirable if it hadn’t been foolish. Their King, Gravels? Grabbles? I still do not recall, showed some tactical prowess when he charged into the midst of our party, taking the androgynous one down. Sayd, he calls himself.Most everyone stood their ground. The man we freed, Waloran, proved his skill on that field, felling more than a few of the little rodents. All that rose before us, fell before us, save the king. His ride provided the needed movement off the field of battle. I am sure he will bring more of his little minions to bear. Perhaps, if the time is right, I can equal the battlefield. Silverwind would make as fine combat steed. Perhaps we should see about that when next we arrive at Oleg’s. So many things to learn from this ordeal, so many things to wrap the mind around. Never in my travels have I encountered things such as these, and I am sure I shall see worse before our charter is out.

Regarding Walorin. I think we should keep him. He has a warriors mettle, and it would be nice to have another man to speak plainly with. One who knows the soldiering way, not these scoundrels. Who knows, its too soon to tell if I am mistaken about him as well. I am getting tired. I should rest. We lived another day, perhaps I can survive the night too.

View

I'm sorry, but we no longer support this web browser. Please upgrade your browser or install Chrome or Firefox to enjoy the full functionality of this site.