Gabe3e

Light in the Darkness

The caverns beneath Waterdeep seem smaller than I remember. Less cavernous, if that’s possible. The echoes ring unfamiliar in my ears, telling stories of new openings to explore and recent cave-ins. I can only hope the careful stewardship of the Lady’s Chosen has kept the path open.

The stream should lead me there, mingling its waters with others as it draws near. Hopefully the drow scouting on Promenade will not slay me on sight. The ancient pit of Garagos has always been fraught with enemies, and sometimes the new recruits are edgy. The constant vigilance required eventually frays the nerves, making it necessary to train recruits on the field. It gnawed at my spirit, and Eilistraee’s blessing was not strong enough to sustain me.

Perhaps the others have succumbed to that constant drain. There may be nothing left but the gaping hole, ruins reaching out like ragged claws on a twisted hand, Garagos finally winning the war against Eilistraee’s warrior maidens.

Oerth

The moon’s light on this world has not the gentle caress of Selune’s cool glow. The strangely tinted shadows crawl with evil on this world. The vast distances otherwise seem similar to those in the great grasslands south of the Grimjaws, but even the very grasses here feel alien beneath my soft boots.

Some things remain the same though, even on this alien Prime. The humans cower behind their great stone walls in fear of the crawling night. They gather in their well-lit taverns, singing, prancing, pretending that the world has shrunk to the confines of their cramped, safe haven. Evil lurks within the walls, just as it does without. It hides beneath masks of authority and facades of kindness. Do all humans embrace such folly?

I imagine their sages must gather power around them as ours do. With Shaundakul’s grace, they also nurture the wanderlust that drives them to break free of their stony prisons, as I’ll need spells to return to my world.

Things Left Undone

I hear their cries in my dreams. They moan in despair in their poison-induced sleep, writhing on the floor in hunger. Their hair is knotted and their once proud beards matted with dirt and gruel.

Clangeddin has abandoned them, just as G’kar has abandoned Clangeddin. Is it his folly which caused their distress, or was it their own haughty mein, a drop in their guard…?

Regardless, Eilistraee punishes me for leaving the slaves with the dhaerow. The actions of the fallen ones cast repercussions upon the rest of us, and the Lady of Dance does not suffer such activity. I shall have to contact the church when next I visit Skullport. I only hope I still know the way through the twisting caverns.

One more year

This last year I feel as if I have been torn four ways at once. I had thought to attribute it to the chaos in the Weave or the Gods direct influence upon Toril, but with the total withdrawal of Mystra’s touch upon the land, I can only conclude that the changes must be physical in nature.

The extended stay upon the ship has been particularly trying. The roving eyes of the bronzed Northman seems to rip through my ability to concentrate. The fierce ocean sun burns harsh upon my skin, and yet the gaze of this sailor seems to make the reddened, blistered flesh burn from within. I find my gaze locked upon the rippling of the muscles along his back as he reins in the sails. It takes all my effort to keep my mein.

I have begun staying belowdecks with Gwynnedh, in hopes that my skin returns to a healthy grey and such disturbing thoughts are quelled. But the two weeks of confinement have caused weight to gain in the most inconvenient places. My swords no longer hang flat upon my thigh, and I fear I shall have to adjust the straps crossing over my chest as well.

I need a distraction. With luck, perhaps we’ll be attacked.

The Year of Shadows Darkens

Gods walk Toril’s cold, hard earth. Their folly has tossed the world into chaos. Everything we thought unchanging has twisted into shapes made only more disturbing by their familiarity. Forests filled with grotesque and blackened trees hunger for blood. The dead roam more freely, unsettled and numerous.

Mystra is slain.

Apparently the Gods can be just as foolish as the rest of us. She thought to challenge Helm in his task as guardian of the Celestial Stairway. The only god still flush with his power, Helm smote Mystra mightily, sundering her flesh in twain.

A faint glimmer in an amulet and an obnoxious young human female is all that remains of any hope for magic.

Dredging Up Fond Memories

Waterdeep.

A city of wonders. Tall buildings crowding so close not even a slip of parchment could fit between. Merchants selling every delicacy and bauble, catering to every vice. The city glows for miles around as the night grows dark, with lovers strolling the wide, paved roads, and revelry loud into the early morning hours.

The familiar smells wash over me as I stand in the marketplace; the unwashed hordes, the heavily perfumed lords, the searing flesh of some unidentifiable skewered meat, the gritty tang of wet stone. And yet, to me it seems all a facade over the seedy underbelly, where dealings are done in shadow, short motions, and hushed tones. Where all are welcome, with enough coin or the right phrase. The city a mile beneath Waterdeep’s surface, Skullport.

Stumbling through the gates, unnoticed amongst the crowds swelling through the streets, I fell into petty thievery to feed myself. I quickly caught the notice of a thieves’ guild, for in Waterdeep there is room for more than just one. My master was kindly, at the start, and the marks on the surface were easy. Gold flowed through my hands like water. Eventually my master became too kindly. I managed to avoid his advances for a while. When he became insistent, I went where all rogues flee for safety in the city.

Below Waterdeep, the marks were not so easy. Suspicious and hunted, the people skulk along the edges of the narrow streets. Those who stroll casually along such roads are frequently the most dangerous, their gait showing a cat-like grace and menace twinkling in their eyes.

I became sloppy. Faint with hunger, desperate for coin, I tried to cut the purse of a short, hooded figure. She was slight in build, but her hand had a wirey strength behind it as she clamped down upon my wrist. Her eyes burned red in the dimness of the vast cavern as she scrutinized me. I fell limp, hoping she’d leave me in the streets and move on. I had to stifle my surprise when I was lifted into her arms, carried through the streets to a small, unassuming storefront.

If it was not for that Eilistraean, I would still be there, my hatred nourished in the darkness, fed by the constant stream of debauchery and crime that prevails there.

She must be dead by now. Surely someone of that nature could not survive the Skullport streets for long.

The Past

It feels as if I was never young. As if I sprung fully formed from the womb with the weight of my heritage upon my shoulders.

My mother did not expect me to be as I am, grey of skin with a shock of white hair. She had been savaged by the encroaching drow, left for dead upon the forest floor. When her husband found her, he tended her to health. When her belly rounded with pregnancy, they rejoiced, the past forgotten like a bad dream. It was an occasion they had prayed for, for many years.

But they did not anticipate me. The midwife was stoic, but practical. “Leave her to the wolves,” she said, “one such as that will only bring you grief.” My mother, frail with the effort of the difficult birth, clutched me tight, denying anything could be wrong with her child. She never fully recovered from that weakness and the incessant disdain of the other villagers, and when she died five years later, her husband feigned to ignore my existence.

It was a warm summer night when I left. The moon was full, casting the trees in a silvery brilliance. The woods called to me, tempting my tender feet with soft grass, blossoms hidden behind curtains of new leaves. I have always felt the call of the road, and with nothing left to bind me I was quick to wander.

The taunting of the village children paled beside the torture I was to later endure.

He seemed to be kind, more so than any other human I had encountered so far. I was thin, shivering with cold and hunger. I was an easy mark, as they say. It took only a few words and the promise of warm food to crumble my resolve. With my delicate hand dwarfed within his, he led me off to his tower, deep within the woods.

That night I slept indoors. The ragged blanket did little to soften the hard stone floor of my cell, but it took the bite off the chill air. I never knew when he was watching. It was difficult, over time, to discern reality from illusion. The shadows would comfort me, whispering in sibilant voices when the long days stretched without contact. Still, I watched and listened, soaking up what little I could glean from the wizard’s infrequent and stumbling arcane recitations. I bided my time.

He finally slipped. He was drunk, made incautious by his presumed familiarity with me. He forgot to cast his spell of sleeping, and when the door swung wide I was ready. His blood glowed with furious intensity in my vision as I stabbed him with the sharpened rat bone. He fell back, and in a frenzy I continued. I must have escaped into the woods.

I came to at a small stream, blood drying brown upon my shredded clothes. I scrubbed for hours, trying to remove the taint. With a mixture of hope and despair, I fled south. The road beckoned, and Waterdeep swallowed me in its impassionate embrace, hiding me from the wizard. I took refuge in the huddled masses.

I do not know to this day if I killed him. If I should see him again, I shall finish the job.

when it rains, it pours

Having been sufficiently cowed by the mystic power of Silvia, who next should we meet but the archmage, Kouraf. Likely not the original, but one who knows more of his past than the pitifully branded heretic we rescued from his tomb in the icy north. This latest seems to dabble in necromancy. If these Kourafs didn’t have such an obvious prediliction towards clones, I’d worry about this one turning towards lichdom.

However, even the most powerful magicks can fail a mage at a critical moment. When it seemed as if all our enchantments were mere annoyances to this learned, decrepit half-elf, Kalcryx waded in close to Kouraf. After the dragon spawn bound him up in his arms, he started a most foul yet effective trick, gnawing on Kouraf’s head and shoulders as he muffled the frail spellcaster’s mouth with his thickly muscled arms.

After we killed him, we discovered a satin lined coffin embedded within the stone of the abandoned Myrkulite altar, with only the unburned ash of a used scroll within. His soul must have fled his dying mortal shell somehow and taken residence in a new clone, transporting away.

I believe he will be quite furious with us if he remembers how he was slain.

the other freckled meat.

Today we brought down the Imperceptor’s successor, prodigy and son, Murdock Darkfury. I find myself a bit sad that he threw himself at us in what seemed to be almost a worthless show of boasting and pride in his own ability. Considering how well we held ourselves in our last meeting, I’m a bit surprised he put himself at what seemed like an uncalculated risk. He placed too much confidence in his ability to escape via magical means. It’s ironic that both the father and son fell due to similar failings. I must make sure I don’t fall prey to such vanities.

I wonder about his motives in constantly pestering the dwarf with missives. I’ve been quite entertained seeing the dwarf squirm under the attention. Lately the dwarf’s brow has been furrowed deep with frustration, and his eye seems to twitch slightly with aggravation as he tries to fathom Murdock’s motives. His soul must be in torment to be favored by such a hated enemy.

Murdock seemed a worthy foe. It would have been interesting to see what plans he had for us. However, not interesting enough for me to sway from my belief that we should disintegrate the body and cast his ashes into the Trackless Sea. We’d best kill Silvia before she gains the power to resurrect her relatives from the ashes.

I wonder if there are any other Darkfurys skulking in the background.

One Geas at a Time

I’ve finally finished drafting plans for a Mystran temple in Mosstone. Having only seen small parts of the temple in Velen, I was at somewhat of a loss concerning the architecture. Perhaps Gwynnedh has some insight, but it would be embarrassing to have to place myself in her debt for a simple lack of knowledge. I can only have faith that if the Rider of Winds had wished me to know such things, he would have placed them in my path. May he forgive me for raising a temple for worship to another deity. Some day perhaps I can travel to the forests of Myth Drannor and offer apology at his shrine.

Mosstone had best be at least a marginally profitable venture, for otherwise I’ll be unable to cover the costs of both temple and guildhouse.

I envy Kalcryx and the ease with which he recruited and holds his Helmite warriors, despite his monstrous looks. I have asked Falderian to whisper the word of my guild in the ears of those we might want to attract, and I have been looking about the city myself. If I manage to gather people of such skill, I shall have a good basis to work from to attract those of stronger power.

This is, of course, assuming I manage to survive the monk bent upon assassinating me. I hope Falderian manages to contact this ‘Twinkle’ fellow soon.