Author's Notes:This intends to detail Valen's entire journey, start to finish. I originally intended to only release it onto the forums once the character died, but I figured I might as well drop parts of it now. The majority of the information here has happened so long ago that I don't think any of it would be relevant now or reveal much. The chapters that would are still incomplete, and I intend for those to remain FOIG information. Prepare for enormous walls of text.
[There before you lies a little journal, made by hands unfamiliar with such arts, yet soft to even the roughest of touches. The march of time has clearly taken its toll on it, however; for it boasts the mark of the winds which have long blown much of its colour away, almost reducing it to the freshly-inked pages that persevere under its stout guard. What thoughts are to be read await breathlessly the sights to gaze upon them.]
[AS OF 1371: A huge, violent claw-mark seems to have dug deep into the leather on the front, yet not enough to tear it off whole. Much like the cover, the pages now also belie the many adventures it has weathered.]
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Entry #1
These are my first words. Nothing so impressive, perhaps, as I am scarcely a wordsmith; such is the inheritance I share. Even with all the time I hold as I sit writing this down, I feel as though it is not enough for me to think of being in the now. As if it is me and the page and nothing else; yet that is not so true. All the rays of the Sun now rise against the Moon on its back-foot, and I feel them creep through the windows of home and upon much more: all that I have ever known. The long-winding path of dirt before our house, with that dull old rock I threw around when my steps were less fit to fill my boots to satisfy my low standards for amusement, and which I have persisted to keep near our humble garden all this time; and the smell of our elderberries that have become among my favoured tastes for the rare times when we can celebrate with such luxuries; and the simple little well and the hills and its lovely lanes all far behind. Today. The faces, so friendly and familiar, all far behind.
For the first and for a long time, I will leave this home of Mother and Father who taught me to bake the very bread I carry, and whose voice I heard from the days when I could not light the ovens with which I baked. Though now, I wish I had heard it more; and the birds atop the large oak-trees across the wide river I often bathed in, and the simple steps, those remarkably quiet steps that led to the sudden appearance of Father on the porch with some game on his shoulder to our delight; and the questions behind him that he can look back to no longer, and which only I see as I stare out the open door into the waking forest. I feel losing myself in its endlessly stretching army of leaves and the life that I am so fond of, yet will only know truly once I take my steps before them and beyond; to walk as free as the wild allows and as I am beholden to its will. Yet, with each word I falter, flounder; my wings weighed by the vast horizon, the unknown frontier that I set my boots to. With each word written, my hand is drawn to an end to this page, and the beginning of the next; and to the door and the skies and the Sun; with each word my legs no longer withhold the urge to walk.
Entry #2
I write this with the last light the Dawn-god has given to this day. It has been many steps now. I am at this old, decrepit tree trunk, looking over into the unknown; the river is behind me in the far distance. Perhaps I am not so terrible at outlining my thoughts as I once thought, but only time will tell. After all, this is only my second entry. Guess all that night-time adventuring around for children's tales seems to have paid off. Oh, I recall I got in quite the trouble for it! Didn’t at the time, but I miss that now. Mother in her wise old age told me I would; I just couldn't imagine. Makes me wonder what trouble I'll get into up ahead – if any worth writing tales about. As free as I feel, I wish another could be free with me. Reminds me of that damned old bird of his he kept around all the time. I hated the thing! The constant cawing, the litter, the smug looks it gave. I laugh it off now, but in my youth I felt as though it challenged me, my value perhaps, as if it were more important to him than I. Those fears were put to rest as the years passed.
Dare I say, we grew to understand one another – build a bond of sorts. It would follow me around sometimes, watch my back and alert me or send out a signal if I stayed past the setting of darkness so that I may find my way back. Maybe it was just a warning. Couldn't really tell. Never had the chance of asking, either; wasn't some magician pulling a prank. A raven, real as any. Wise old bastard! I wonder what it's up to now. Just flew away after Father passed. Maybe I'll still find it out here, along with magicians and all that - the stuff of legend. Not sure I want to, though, from what little I have heard. So elusive that lot; and unnerving and surreal, and foreign to me. Tempting - though such is the case with all that is dangerous. In any case, the light's running out! Looks like I trailed off too far. Not even sure what I wanted to say in the first place, if anything at all. I shall mark this tree trunk with a sign if I am ever to return, or if anyone comes looking for me. The morrow will be a long march.
Entry #3
My thoughts are more collected now compared to last night. I’ve come to realise that this little side-venture into the realm of untold thoughts will often follow little structure. There's a saying Father said once, when I finally got him to share some of his adventures with me. It followed along the lines of: "An empty page is like looking into a well; what judge is water". I think that well much resembles the one who eyes it. Must be my nature to write as I do if that is the truth. To that end, I believe it appropriate to write some more about that which I have been thinking about all this time: family. As I sit here atop this hill, in the grass with plenty of sun to spare, it is them that come to mind; for even as they are far away now, they are with me still: the kind heart of Mother, the wisdom of Cesil and the ever-wandering steps of Father. These things have shaped me, I think, or I would hope so at least. I am a Runestrider after all, the name the Elves gave Father to go with Nelin, the only name he had known. As Mother told me, he was from a city of renown in the far north, but chose to wander much of his life; for he knew no family and relied on the land beneath him and the occasional stranger to help.
And so he set out westward and met her "somewhere in the middle", though my mother would never say where and amidst what circumstance; and would always have a timeless smile when I asked what adventures they shared, as if she became younger thinking about them. Even into a venerable age time had been kind to her appearance and moved with vigour. She was called Elise Mayton, and knew little of working the land before Father taught her. They often did cherish the lessons they taught one another, even until the very end. Father had this ocarina he would sound, much to the delight of Mother and the folks back in Northwater, our village past so in Amnwater’s direction, save for Old Man Gregur who never seemed to like us much, or anyone else for that matter. I have that little device with me today, and it bears the runes I suppose refer to Father's namesake. What they say I cannot tell; though I am eager to find out! For all my life, I've been unable to make it sing quite like Father has, but each day I set aside some time to practice while I am still unheard. Another dawn and I should be nearing Amnwater. The fruit and the music is plenty there, I hear; maybe I'll get lucky and taste some. Didn't set out with much silver and I'm no good at haggling either. For now, I best harvest whatever I can as my supplies are running low. There should be some water source nearby.
Entry #4
This will be a shorter entry, the final one before I attempt to pass through the mountains. I’ve not written in aeons, it feels like. So many days in that swampy hell to get to Esford. Can confirm that the fruits were indeed good, though I may have spent a little more than what would have been wise. Mother would understand; she would pay any price for the sweetest things! Unfortunately, much of what I have learned instead has been bitter and horrific: Athkatla, the big city up north had been taken by hideous monsters from the very mountains I have set out to pass, and their numbers trouble the roads. On one hand, I am lucky I did not set out that way and stayed away from most roads; on the other, I am lucky I will not run into who-knows-their-amount of them and inevitably die as a consequence. Still, I have decided not to turn back, this being the last time I probably could. Oh, I am scared, afraid to the bone: there are countless ways I could perish out here. The more I walk, the more all this feels like a bad, bad idea that I have foolishly attached myself to and have cast into the deepest well, with no end in sight. I'm scared for them, too, what if I am never found? I think I'll write a letter to send back home to let them know of what I am about to do, and then one after I've made it through. With a little luck on my side and some of what I’ve learned, I should be well and good, no matter the frost up there. The roads will be slippery, but I will think of something.
Entry #5
What should I have done? This has been on my mind for the past few hours now. I will have no sleep tonight, it seems. It's too cold. Something difficult to describe is swelling in my chest, and that is why I decided to write this. Father said he often wrote during his travels and that helped him, it might be why I began to write in the first place. Concentration is difficult with all these thoughts in my head, swimming around like wild, vicious fishes on a dazing hot sunny day. In each thought I now have, I mourn, shamelessly abstain from judgment and seek to understand these strange times: why I live and breathe and see as I do. I was taught to survive, and now I understand why. I am a coward, a part of me is telling me so; and yet, I feel empty in response. So much darkness, this. How can people live with these things? Never cared enough just thinking about it, maybe that's why. Maybe I had to experience such things; after all I set out to see Faerun as it is in this day and age. Didn't anticipate the ugly so soon, that's all, but what do I know of these things? I merely watched, saw how the patrol of Amn's finest dealt their justice: swift and bloody, no exception. It's strange, seeing it dealt to the living and thinking, more so than to rabid animals or else. Almost makes me feel the whole thing; though I was there, behind cover, it felt like a bad dream. What should one do in moments like this? I wish I had Cesil to ask now, but alas! I have my own thoughts and these empty pages, and they, in response, mirror only those.
Intervening was no option and they were not in the mood for questions either. Just laughed it off as if it were an average day for them. I know not what makes Man do such things; perhaps it is nature or the world as they've come to see it. Will it inevitably change me, too, towards their ways? Will I embrace them willingly after coming to know what is out there? Should I? These ideas merit knowledge my words are too young to explore. Maybe I was not ready to set out on this path, or maybe it is seeing these things that make one so. One day I'll look back and regard this with more insight, for better or for worse. The innocent chirping goes on regardless, as the land sings with life; the Oak-Father perhaps oblivious to the grim ways of mortals, or maybe the songs are for those lost to them, and signal to me the coming day. I best scrap whatever small rest I can afford.
Entry #6
I have not written in days. Barely slept. Maybe this little cave can give me some respite. The main roads are too dangerous: there are robbers and those absurd monsters, preying on the caravans and the innocent. Gods, they make my blood curdle. None of it's my fight, I simply need to stay on my feet. Alive. Can't help but pity them, though, with the stench of criminals, goblins and kobolds breathing into their faces as they make their greedy demands. None of it is as funny as in children's stories. Not funny at all. Glad to able to traverse the land and run as fast as the wind. It has come in handy: the mountains were a damned nightmare. At times I thought I would not make it, that I should have found some other way and avoided the risks; but the longer I am out here the more likely it is that an ill fate befalls me. The risks were worth it, as I've passed through mostly unharmed. Can't say the same for some goblins that were too risky to let live. It was either me or them, and I chose selfishly. I know not if that will come back to haunt me, but I had to decide then and there as they would’ve. Dare I say that was a fair trade. They didn’t look like they were going to give me any quarter. Taking their life felt like putting down rabid animals. Anyhow, Murann’s supposedly close enough now, too close for me to stay here writing this. Not sure how I'll mail back home at this rate, I'm sure Cesil would have gotten my letter by now; she must be worried. Best I get moving.
Entry #7
The new world has come! I've been up since sunlight first hit my face, but only now as I sit do I realise how weary I am. Haven't had a proper shower in so long, and by all means, I have almost forgotten what it is like to sit on a chair. The cold, snowy rocks, dirt and more damned rocks had to do. Lucky it was raining, so I could clean myself some. Made all this travelling more difficult and awful, the thick mud. At least there are some woods out here to make camp, and proper beds, better than at home! Sure, it is not the stuff of nobles and the lot, but it is padded, with warm sheets. Expensive, though, the city is already eating up so much of my silver! That's the now, though; I must explain how I got here. I was in the woods, picking some berries and the like to take with me as I have run out of food and needed to be quench my hunger. So it was that a few, patrolling soldiers of Amn, clad in more steel upon them than I had ever seen let alone worn by any man had found me and asked my business, all scruffy-bearded and hoarse and the like. Admittedly, I felt rather intimidated by their orderliness. They asked me all kinds of questions: where I am from, my name, purpose for being there and most curiously if I were a druid or knew magic. Told them I knew neither, and that I was just a ranger from up north, headed south. Felt like an interrogation until, at last, they decided I was not worth bothering and so told me that Murann was only a few hours away on foot and I would most likely find whatever I am looking for there, just don't interfere with their business.
Then it was that we went our separate ways: they headed to do cleanse the land of monsters and protect the road for the merchants and the common folk up from where I came; and I headed for the main road to Murann that they said was mostly safe during the day and would get me there the quickest. And so were the fabled gates of Murann before my sights at last, arriving just at midday after countless days of travel. It felt completely odd, as though I have stepped into another life altogether and had become another person. Made me wonder why Father never bothered trying to explain such sights to me. Perhaps it is their ever-changing ways that one's words are simply inadequate to encapsulate, and in a lifetime must be experienced by one according to his own eyes. I set to the port first, to witness the white foam rise across the waters with each wave only to begin again, like the pumping in one's chest, as if each wave were a beat. And riding them were the massive ships we only hear of in passing, with their mighty cannons and royal sails; and with all the grandeur of Man that had been poured into them, more silver than one sees in a lifetime; and their valiant crews and high-born captains, setting out into unknowns one can only dream of.
Perhaps one day while I live I shall sail with the wind as they do and see such things with my own eyes. Until then, there is so much more to see, that I am amazed! We have built these high walls and castles, and ships and buildings, and these paved roads between them that feel so smooth to tread upon. I have seen so much more than ever, and yet there is more; there are so many people, and so many races and knowledge to understand, it is overwhelming. Too much for one such as I. Even with all this before me, there is something about the wild and the humble that draws me closer than I could ever be to city life. Such must be the fate of those who don't grow accustomed to it from when their first cries are heard in the world. What I do know, is that I am fond of being here, at this time. Despite the risks, despite the distance, I feel young now, more than ever!
Entry #8
Rain. Thunder and rain. It's quite funny - it's all what people in this town seem to talk about. Understandably so, for it has been going without pause for the better part of four weeks now, according to the people in the tavern talking by the counter. I have only been in Murann two weeks, and I have observed much the same. Storms rage across the day and night like I've never seen before. Folks claim it's magic; though rumours of such discussion are often hushed. I've learned that most are wary of the Gods and of magic. The more I learn why the more I come to be wary of such things. The rumbling of land has stopped, at least for now; but that, too, has been attributed to magic. There is almost a strange sort of feeling to it, one I struggle to describe. My Mother at times spoke of the exact word, yet I cannot recover it in my mind. My best description is as if a whole city of people were standing on ice that slowly cracked beneath them, or rather was cracked by some higher force few can with their minds imagine. And they all stood so afraid of what would happen, how the ice beneath them would tear apart and sink into an unknown sea; yet scarcely anyone seems curious or willing enough to learn how to swim. That's just my observation, anyhow, though one I think quite a few share at this time. I cannot say I expected this to be the case, nor if I am glad for it or not; it is too early to tell. Though, while writing this, during a conversation I just had with Mary, a rather friendly barmaid and villager like me I have come to a new perspective, one that I have not considered, strangely enough. There are many like me, newcomers to this place, and most aren't in it for the wonders. Most are driven by silver and age, driven to care little for the customs of Murann, or to bathe and remove the mud from their boots before entering an establishment. I am not surprised by how that could be seen as unwelcome. I suppose the more people there are the more common this is. I'm just glad that up in Northwater I was taught these things.
The last few days have been difficult to put into words. I bet five entries – or a really, really long one – would hardly cover what has happened! So many new faces, so many new sights, words, foods, drinks in all their varieties – all plenty and unique; so many interactions had with remarkable individuals and so much knowledge gained! Where to begin? I suppose it is best to follow on my previous entry, as shortly after writing it I had been noticed by an Elf lady who had introduced herself to me as Qileth. We talked a while, though Mary seemed to be rather protective of me – but mainly humans in general – in that interaction. Turns out, she is not too swayed by her, or even Elves in general. She called Qileth a strumpet, in fact – not that she is one, of course. I was wary at the time, unsure of her kind; for so many of my people spoke foul things about them, and the Elves did not favour us much, either. Not all of them, in any case. Some do, the people Qileth is with. In any case, we introduced ourselves and arranged a meeting date for the next day, since she had to go. And it was that day that I met Adrian, another interesting figure. Quite experienced and not one for words. Initially, I found him a bit menacing – him standing in the corner, all black, staring at us. Qileth’s good at handling these things, though; I’ve come to be more alert. Suppose it’s due to my travels. I have been finding it rather difficult not to be like that. Anyhow, she has the right personality for these things: the heartfelt smile with the sort of endearing attitude the rougher folks may not be used to. Works wonders to reel them in. And so we talked, and I had my own suspicions about her the longer we did so; for I mentioned to her my father’s ocarina, that little instrument he always used to play and which now resides in my care. She read one of the inscriptions, told me it read something along the lines of “Among Oak’s wise embrace”, and that her mentor would say such a thing. I was curious enough to pursue that possibility, and told her that I am called Valen Runestrider, like my father Nelin before me; and alas, that got her intrigued proper! For she seemed to take an interest in me, and asked that I be her bodyguard. And so I accepted an offer like that, as strange as it was to imagine myself as one – some stout warrior, guarding valiantly a lady of the Elves on her journeys. It’s the stuff of children’s tales; but that is where we are, and I have no reason to be disappointed for it at this time. And so, the day came to a close - the next meriting its own entry.
Onwards, this day is when things got a little stranger. I am not much for a long rest, unless my belly is full; so it was, that day, that I set out early before light to earn some taran, seeing as I have had but thirty silver pieces to my name. To my luck, my friend Culdur, whom I had met during my first adventures had been busy assembling a group to head out to the crypts and whatnot. There, I met several good folks like Olly and the ladies Alison Lockway and Eliyen and many more that would take too long to list. To cut that story short, we did our usual dangerous business to make our coin: retrieve the ear of hostile goblins, clear the crypts of undead, take care of some kobolds – the usual stuff. I was more than glad to find out that my hunting skills work on such small targets, save for the undead, whom no mortal weapon can destroy as far as I am aware. Must be the work of magic, from what I hear. Deeply disturbing lot, they are; the way they shuffle lifelessly, crumbling with each step as they do so, and the ghouls with their awful, tormented crawl just feel wrong to see. We got out of there, cursing the so called Time of Troubles once the holy words no longer proved to yield any effect against them and made camp. It was then that conversation turned to Qileth again and Culdur, as brilliantly blunt as he is, asked the question of what I meant by her being too kind to us, Humans – specifically if it was something more than kindness. My answer shall remain unwritten for the time being, but there was a great torrent of emotions in me that moment. I am not sure if I will look back on my answer with the embarrassed smile of a young man or with the scrutinising gaze of a wiser one.
In any case, that was the highlight of the day, at least until night came around and I met Bran. He’s a good man – a half-elf, more precisely – and he is of an exceptionally stubborn, dutiful but nevertheless kind and pure soul; for I am slowly coming to regard him as a brother I have never had. A kind of admirable fellow one can look up to in the darkest of times, and indeed, he has proven that in our journeys since. Yet, at that time, we had only just met, and he was an enigma to me just as I was to him. Getting to know one another proved to be a great endeavour, for we struck a bond of friendship through our lengthy and rather personal discussions of faith and duty and the nature of good. He worships the lady Mielikki and has taken it upon himself to aid the roadside travellers at his own peril, and to do good because it must be done – a conviction up until then I found difficult to understand. I’ve always been one for myself, but I found that I could respect such a thing, especially coming from one so adamantly loyal and unwavering towards such a cause. I’d even like to think that I managed to do some good in my time in Murann, having taken care of many awful and hostile creatures. For all that goodly acting, though, I can’t help but think that even those creatures have some design behind them, some kind of purpose. I trust in the judgment of Bran’s good heart in that it is the right thing. Yet ultimately, they would have killed us regardless of heart if we weren’t so swift first and, as such, my arrows never struck with some kind of greater, righteous fury. Regardless, we chugged some good Murann tea and mead together as we chatted, both of which were good and unique enough for my tastes and we headed to our separate ways.
Entry #10
And that was just the beginning of our little troupe. For the next day, I ran into him at the Thoroughfare and there was already a squad there under his leadership, consisting of the following: Lorelai the Bard, a rather fun-loving lady who enjoys jokes and jolliness; Nary the Greedy, a strange and oddly talkative figure whose elusive nature I can hardly understand; Bristle the Nimble, a similar lady, though more city-like in her speech and Olly the Cheese-Keeper. He offered us each a wedge of cheese after our mission into the crypts, and I have never seen him without it. As for the former three, they all share a sort of conviction in Bran, an enjoyment in his company and not entirely just for the coin. I like to think we’ve come to form a bit of a bond, the five of us – a bond that is supplemented by a few others, when we do run into them, such as Farthgen the Dwarf and Alison “Lemon” Lockway, as Nary so respectfully refers to her. In any case, the truly strangest occurrence that whole day was when we headed to a spider encampment where, oddly, the rain stopped altogether – replaced by a mysterious white fog. Now, I am no stranger to the bastards; let’s just say we are not on friendly terms. Still, I have, due to those experiences, managed to stay without any stingers in me as opposed to the rest of the folks who had a rough time. None of that can compare to the sheer, exhausting dance we had with what I have learned to be an albino ettercap – a creature only found in legends, as far as I knew. That would not be the only monster of legend that day, curiously – I may be shaping up to be some hero of tales, after all! Nevertheless, I managed to land a killing blow on the strange creature and that was that; we headed outside to set camp and share a little story between us. There was this bookish fellow with us who we asked to read something from his travels, seeing as none of us really knew – or wanted to – tell a story. The whole day’s bizarre nature didn’t occur to me much in these moments.
Got cut short. Trembles, trembles twice; the quaking of the ground got us onto our feet rather quickly. We armed ourselves to look around, tracing our steps back to the cave. This was a terrible, awful idea. Even now, just recounting it I’ve no idea how we lived. For a troll, with flesh and bark stuck to its enormous figure – and it was large, indeed, standing taller than whole bloody trees – emerged with its big, dumb head. It pushed oak and branch alike to its side as if they were air. Panic gripped us in that moment, and by the time our lanterns turned off and our chatter subsided to whispers, it saw us and charged us. All madness broke loose as Bran, ever the foolishly honourable, drew its ire so that myself and Bristle could route the others back to the city with haste. To say the least, it was tense – I wanted to flee and just save myself; but something kept me there for a reasonable time to make sure each familiar face got out. Fear, maybe it was, or just that talk we had the other night; but most likely that each of them I could see as if they were someone back from the village. Friends, perhaps. Felt like leaving behind an extension of those I knew – I didn’t want to do that unless I absolutely had to, with all the adventuring we’ve been through together.
Luckily, both Bran and Bristle made it; though the hero with a broken arm, and the bookish fellow came later, somehow as well, helped by Bristle, who snuck around the troll with ease. Another group, then, consisting of a mad dwarf, Kurgan, and others decided to charge the thing head on. So we followed, much to mine and Lorelai’s protests, only for us to be right. For none of what we attacked the thing with did any damage whatsoever. We were as useless as hot soup to cool one down on a hot day. By Silvanus, it was all the business of utter fools. And that is how we rushed back to the gates of Murann, with our tails between our legs – if they weren’t damaged to where we could barely walk. The dwarf got smashed so utterly that I am surprised most still doubt the Gods’ powers after his survival. What were they even thinking? I still cannot answer it today. We headed to the Laughing Wolf to lick our wounds and finish the day there, having alerted the guards and all that; although it wasn’t like they believed us or could do much about it, considering that some twenty of us were like wet pasta against a stone wall. Siege engines, cannons – that’s the stuff that could bring it down, we said.
After a little rest, we went to our separate ways. I was about to go back to the Cabin and have a look around, maybe go adventuring again; but then I saw Qileth and Adrian. At first, I was taken aback by their presence as I did not expect to see them around and so soon, no less. My clothes were torn badly from the adventuring of the previous nights, from which the injuries were still still unceremoniously bandaged. It was her that, well, acted quite a way: concerned, but also unusually keen on seeing me in a bed. My mind could not dare draw obvious conclusions from those words – almost out of fear, maybe. I felt it so unthinkable that I would, well, be taken a liking to at this time. What for? I’m a nobody who has barely come to town and I could scarcely mention a name aside from those I see often, let alone be named by anyone. Would I even be ready for such a thing? There was a time back in Northwater where I thought maybe I would give it all away for the adventure of walking the road with someone else beside me, and I admit, that intrigues me still; I just cannot be certain of it being the right decision now. Maybe Fate has brought us together for a good reason, though. Cesil used to advise me to at least heed the fruit that falls my way. Well, wherever this may lead remains to be seen, I suppose; but she could bring me closer to understanding a lot more about myself and Father.
By the Gods, everything that I’ve written so far sounds utterly ridiculous; no wonder Lorelai called me Valen “the Mad” as a jest. The more I am in Murann, the more am I starting to think that it is true. And still, it gets even stranger; for now I have taken up my bow and sword once more to do battle with the menaces of the world. It has been months – months of being holed up in the merchant-city. Every day, all that I saw were unassuming locals, going about their business to bakeries, taverns, blacksmiths, tailors and the like. Then, more and more refugees flooded in through the vast, statue-flanked gates, wandering about in droves. The city square, Thoroughfare, grew unbearable by the day: the rambling of those full with beer, the rumbling, the incessant cries of those seeking to sell their wares and, most dreaded of all, the toll of the Halls of Judgment, signalling that yet another was put to the sword by the King’s Own. Can’t believe those feathered knights just stand around all day in the most majestic armour I have ever seen crafted, and that’s all they ever do besides dealing out the Harbor King’s justice. Their swords have not once touched the kobolds, goblins, bugbears and whatever assails the woods and mines around the city. A single one of them could easily cut through a dozen, I wager; yet the work is left to us, who wield the poorest of iron and the simplest of bows. We fight and die out there – for coin, and survival. We enact judgment upon these creatures in their stead, at our peril, with our blood and suffering, so that the common folk who walk the grounds they just stand on all day is worth walking. Not that it is only us, the mercenaries; the guards are, too, on the frontlines: I see fresh-faced fellows, like myself, with halberds and helmets, patrol the roads. Sometimes, they are alone, as I am. Even so, now that the longest nine months of my life are over, and the storm returns and there is much I fear to brave, I can only trust what instincts my nature dictates, and navigate it with what I have learned.
Entry #12
The rain’s returned, along with even more refugees. Heard the Iron Fleet has come down and squeezed the supplies of salt and flour mostly dry. This city is a tomb that is slowly being robbed, and we’re all struggling to not just make ends meet, but see a way through it all. Every day, I find new faces to venture out with to clear the roads of the evil creatures that run amok and prey on the innocent. I repeat this, for I believe I am truly going mad. Is this what my life has come to? With hope, I set out into a better world, towards safety and the promises of fulfilment, only to watch as blood slowly washes it away and leaves its crimson imprint forever in its wake. Someday, this must come to an end – surely. It is said, in rumours, that the Harbor King has gone to communicate an alliance with the Queen of Tethyr to the east, in hopes of their combined might crushing the Sythillisian Horde. Gods only know what goes on there, in those ruins of Athkatla, if there are so many threats abound as far as this place. It’s all so far beyond me, and so much older and greater than my eyes can see, and I am scared. Each step I take into the unknown drags at my feet and pulls me nearer to the abyss. Many times now, I have been injured, though my skills have been tested like never before, and I have grown. Still, I am only one man. I can only pray the horror never reaches Amnwater. What’s certain, is that the quiet months have passed, and the evils that lurk have returned to the fore once again. We’ll have to bear the burdens that come of it, or perish trying.
Entry #13
Looks like I might find my place in the world yet. Many of those from the past have begun to show up again, and to begin to continue the work they’ve left off now that the quiet months are over. Duncan Dunsbury of the Morning Crier and Laremy of the Scribbling Gibberling are once more at odds for what news to present to the ignorant commonfolk; though only the former met with me, and discussed his plans. He was in need of one who could forage and make use of the land’s gifts, and I have offered this aid to him in hopes it would make a difference more than putting down goblinoids to no end in sight. Indeed, his alchemist-fellows, people who work on strange concoctions from herbs and spices – which I can hardly begin to understand – and other things are working on, well, something useful to the people. Nevertheless, he seems to have his own designs in this as I would come to find out. I was introduced to this lady who spoke of something horrid: a town full of undead. Didn’t ask where. All I knew is that no one can put them to rest quite like Bran, and so finding him would be paramount to any mission we would undertake there. I felt compelled to do so – even to my own peril – so that this fellow may not die in some foolish attempt to go there. Can hardly do anything against the dead at all, but I know the forests and I can chart our path in and out, and I can scout what lies there. Maybe it’s not even wholly why I agreed to do it. Didn’t feel much, just agreed – felt it right, as if I owed it. Thought of home. I can only guess what might’ve happened since my departure if there are curses around here so vile and beyond any of us that I’m not even sure what to feel or think. Maybe, I must forgo such things altogether; become one with the wilds and adapt to all without a single thought. All for home. And yet, that newspaper man would make such information public, to the peril of the commonfolk, as they would certainly be terrified – and with good reason – and chaos would ensue. All for renown? Personal gain? I can’t tell.
Entry #14
Fate’s starting to bring us back together, perhaps. It appears this mission I’ve, no doubt, foolishly assigned myself to has brought me back together with an old friend: Bristle. I was out, hunting the population of goblinoids once again – aiding the newer arrivals to venture out. A few parties already began to form and make closer bonds. Had I not met Bran and Bristle and the likes, I think I’d have become more savage than I care to admit I can be. What’s strange is how simple and unexpected the encounter was: on my way back towards the checkpoint where the Swords of Darromar – mercenaries – have set up camp, on the bridge above the rapids. She stood there, leaning against the railing and staring into the sun-lit waters as they flowed endlessly. At least, it was peaceful, a respite from this all. Turns out, she hadn’t forgotten, either: the bark troll, the wolves, the dead – everything that we’ve faced. She goes out there, too, to put her trade as a scout to good uses for coin to help the poor back in the Crimson Row. Glad to say she’s retained her good humour and witty retorts as well, as well as her sense. We chatted about the state of things and the nobility; and she said that, since I’ve started to care about those refugees and the like, I’ll probably have it figured out – whatever that means. For all our sakes, I hope that I do; part of why I came all the way to Murann is to understand a legacy I know nothing about. On that note, we would come to part ways for the time being. Gods know, there’s a lot to figure out.
After a long, long time, I’ve met Bran again. I was returning from a long venture of culling kobolds and goblinoids, as has become my primary source of bread in the city at this point, and I saw him at the Thoroughfare. Not much has changed with that fellow: he is still stout and wields a great blade and speaks in a rather archaic manner. A band of some kind is across his forehead, though I did not ask what this was for. Honestly, with him and the others returned, I feel so much more present once again. Qileth’s helped me stay mostly civil, but with each remnant of the Winter Horde that my arrows pierce I feel that civility erode. So much blood – evil, foul blood – has been spilt by my hands that I no longer question why, it has become a matter of survival. Familiar faces help me at least discern right from wrong; and Bran’s goodly mission to which I feel indebted especially keeps me on a right path. He is a good man, and one with whom I am glad to share aiding the roadside with. Our meeting’s not quite marked by the best of circumstances, however. We discussed the matter of this town of undead, and he took the matter in hand with the competence it demands, while I faltered. Recalling my meeting with Bristle, and my failure to send a letter back home was still as sensitive as ever; and I do not expect it to become easier, either. As a good friend, then, he did not hesitate in an attempt to comfort and reassure me, even after all this time. Then again, as a half-elf, he will most likely live triple what I will, so it’s little to him. Can’t even imagine what that’s like. I’ve still much ahead, and all the more reason to do more with the time I was given. May I do so with company as trusted as my friends. Out here, I hardly have anyone else.
Entry #16
Never thought that I’d become good at guiding others. It’s been a while since I’ve picked up my bow again now, and I’ve gotten only better and better at using it. Found many fresh sellswords and I’ve taken a liking to seeing them form bonds over the campfire and slowly find their place here as well. We do good to destroy these creatures that do nothing but pillage. There was this particularly sizeable band of adventurers that I’ve mustered a few bells ago for an outing that I’m resting through the bruises of as I write this. For indeed, after a period of uncertain decision-making, I’ve led us to the Fool’s Canyon where there are bounties and danger aplenty. I’m no stranger to the place, though it still remains as treacherous as ever and I’ve done well not to underestimate it. Goblinoids, for all their vices, are not as stupid as one ignorant might imagine and especially not when seven of us are talking as our torches light the night. We managed to clear a sizeable portion of the Canyon, but alerted the bugbears in the mines so we made a retreat to make camp. And just as we’d be setting out, Qileth and Bran – along with a halfling, Moira – appear out of the darkness. As ecstatic as she is, a hug my way was inevitable, much to my slight embarrassment and everyone else’s amusement. Truth be told, I was quite worried for her despite Bran’s presence as it was a rather inopportune time to stumble upon us. We were wary for any ambushes and the like, as much as I was delighted to see them all. As it also turned out, our foe played smart: they stationed many of their numbers – a large majority of bugbears – along the Canyon, so we did our duty in reducing their numbers. It took a great toll, but Qileth ensured that we remained alive and well and the others fought bravely, too. Not much coin was earned that’s for granted, but we did the populace a lot of good and the folks I led had their adventure-lust satisfied.
Entry #17
Today was a day like any other, without much to speak of, until nightfall that is. I must’ve been returning from south of the city. It’s a long path of dirt, stretching along the vast stone walls of the city, towards a bend where the Firedrake Lodge is situated. Haven’t been inside of there yet as I mostly just go past it, to where the crossroad opens up by the ant cave. One of these days, I’ll just slot a map into this journal for reference. Anyroad, we – myself and Bran – were coming back that way towards the city gates and there was some commotion, so we wandered there to see what it was about. And as we did, they waded out of the forest with lanterns: the elves did. Fair-haired and well-dressed, there were many of their number; yet they were unarmed. Callous as ever, the Harbor Guard cared not for these things of course, as they broke us all up, calling them troublemakers and such. So we headed east of the gate, taking the straight road towards the checkpoint past the camp of the Swords of Darromar at the Whiteflow. Once we passed the bridge there – the one on which I met Bristle the other day – they spoke and waved and the night was lit up; and they glittered with all manner of magics with them. A diplomat they brought, hoping to discuss more amicable relations between their people and those of Murann. So beautiful were their simple garbs of silk that I couldn’t much listen to their conversation; and even if I could, they spoke their own tongue more than ours. Their leader, Cyronir, an elf of many years and strong conviction, spoke to Bran and another called Quill, a diplomat-warrior of white hair. I just let them do all the talking; my stumbling words could barely form a sentence. Wasn’t even sure what to tell them save for a farewell, and I don’t think they regarded me at all. How will I fare in Qileth’s home like this? Lucky we understand one another, but I fear it might not be the case with others. Better to just wait with it.
I don’t even know what happened tonight. This might be another, really long entry for me to make sense of as I write it, but this sunny morning is the perfect light upon my thoughts. Yesterday, as I stood about in an unusually calm Thoroughfare, made alive only by the chatter of a handful, the idea of going further out in the name of exploration had stuck with me. The constant onslaught against the goblinoids had dulled my senses to map territories I am less familiar with. After all, if I were to fail navigating them, what man of the woods would I be? Or so I thought. To that end, I assembled a core party of myself, Bran, the one he stood bodyguard for by the name of Jhesstra – a white-haired sorceress of sorts. We were joined, then, by the bald monk Caiden, as well as the magician Morgan and a huntress whose name I cannot recall. The veil of night was at its peak as we vouched to head eastwards on the long route of Tethir Road towards Trademeet. And so we tread the night and the many paths of it I hadn’t in so long or at all, until the road gave way to many sights which I shall do my best to describe.
As we left the great walls of Murann behind, the long stretch towards its outskirts began, with smaller homes and camps around. This led us to the Whiteflow, where we turned south until we found ourselves at the Split; little was here save for the dense woods that flanked us and the river that rapidly flowed to our right. Once we got to the road sign, instead of heading straight ahead southwards and curling back towards Murann – and the Fool’s Canyon – we took a left eastwards. This led us to Syllia’s Pond where a sizable host of the recruits of the soldiery were sent to patrol and fend for themselves against bandits, goblins and the threats of the wilds. North of here, there’s a route through the thickets that is currently blocked off due to, well, who knows? Might be due to logging or Gods know what manner of monster; these things are rarely shared with the public. Then as the Oathlands reached on, in the distance along our destination, we found the remnants of old, blackened walls, claimed by moss and bushes a long time ago. Where they once stood as bastions, watchtowers and buildings over the earth, they are now claimed by it; the long-rusted iron bars to support them are bent and slanted in jagged ways, protruding from the dirt like cruel building blocks. The whole scene looks like if pieces of rubble fell out of a giant’s pockets and were never removed. It is here that, many times before, we’ve battled the goblins and black wizards that disturb the dead and tend to dwell in the depths of the ruins these walls were built over.
In a shocking contrast to such a sight, the churning of the windmills at Dhalan Fields awaited us, along with the gentle sway of stretches of golden wheat, surrounded by new and well-maintained walls and plenty of livestock, from beautiful horses to oxen and chickens and cats. With the lakeshore to surround it, the whole place was rather serene - none too removed from civilisation yet still tame enough to not be the wilderness I’m used to, either. After we passed it, a cozy little inn came into view: the Wayrest, which bellows woodfire smoke by the lakeshore. The cobble route we took stretches beneath its worn, stone arch; many a merchant and pony stops beside it to rest the night or day. The former was still high, but we did not stop to order from its popular array of beverages and, instead, opted to pass through a more dangerous area where the road itself had been swallowed by the grasses so much as to befit the name Overgrown Trails, and where the thickets directly east lead to Cahir’s Pass – south of Trademeet – and many other places as I’d come to find out later.
We had to cut through some wild land northwards before resuming our course, arriving in lowlands rich with willows and beavers and bridges over waters from the nearby ponds, channeled in man-made ways. Eastwards, the willows grow ever denser and make passage difficult, so our path went north where we found ourselves at the aptly named Rolling Hills. Mounds of earth and rock flanked the bumpy road left and right; the checkpoint flags of yellow and a black stripe – usually for merchants – were planted aplenty in the ground. This is how we were now approaching Trademeet directly, and it was but half a bell until we would arrive. A strange, ocarina-like shrine with a throne in the middle stood by the roadside, littered with many offerings. With a curious look or two, we passed this and came to face the Town of Merchantry in the distance.
Bustling. Even beneath the veil of night, Trademeet was so alive with colour and life: roaring purple and yellow and soaring blue tents, with others full of cascading embroideries of countless other colours. The Kapparthall, a governing-estate of the lady Lilith Lurraxol – the High Merchant lording over the trade, no doubt – rose mightily from the hell without a single blemish on its halls of glass and marble. We had to pass by caravaneers who saw plenty of traffic even at such an hour just to set our sights on the vast expanse of vibrant stalls that all sold different goods: from armors, weaponry, herbs, common goods to cheese, pears and figs – there was everything. The hollering of salesmen constantly beset us as we made our way through the narrow, beaten path of dirt in the middle of town towards a temple to Waukeen. Even as we did, I suspected that the four-way fork in the middle would be incredibly important not just now, but for the foreseeable future. Just to our right, in the corner as the roads entwined, the road sign said the following:
“NORTH – IMNESCAR
WEST – MURANN EAST – BROST SOUTH – MOSSTONE”
So far, I’ve been to two of these; the others I’d surely find a reason to walk eventually, so I thought. The Calishites of the far, far south awaited us to our left once we crossed, committing all manners of spices to market. Their militant, dark-skinned denizens cooked and steamed various foodstuffs in their camp and enjoyed the company of their exotic women, dressed in striking crimson gowns. Their camp was northwards overall, which is where we were headed after a quick rest at the Temple; we saw their chestnut steeds on our way out, with the vigil of the striking yellow-black Lurraxol guards stood on the refurbished road to the estate. With the coming of the morning, we now saw that there was some wear to the glamour: the signs and walls of the homes, taverns and most buildings of the commonfolk were diminished by the winds of time – save for the barracks. Refugees from all over were also pleading and squatting in the mud, with nowhere to go after they were forced to flee the Horde. It wasn’t the desperate, frantic processing of them – of us – at Imnescar, but a numb, quiet wait.
As we continued onwards, the Copperhill Farmstead soon came to surround us, with the burrowhomes of the halflings and a small windmill peering down at us from the hills to our left. It was a rather elevated trek away from the main road, by about half a bell or so, and lively as the jolly hinfolk that worked there.
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