3. Words of an Eloquent Failure.

Words of an Eloquent Failure.


  • This entry is scrawled in a sloppy print, blood smeared all over the page and making the text difficult to read.

    _I died. I can't believe it. I saw the Fugue Plane… and I came back. I've been attacked by a necromancer who seems to know me, had my head kicked in by his patsy, and got murdered by a pack of kobold cave dwellers.

    It's too much to put into legible sentences, so I think I'm just gonna babble for a moment.

    Death sucks.
    The Fugue's freezing.
    I will forever hate kobolds.
    The Sails know something of the necromancer that attacked us.
    I'll be seeking them out as soon as they come to port again._

    The last line of the babble has been rubbed out, but upon close inspection one can faintly make out the words "Charles is" before the charcoal rubs out too thick to pick out legible letters.


  • _Gods, where to start with this entry? I suppose I'll begin with an update on my living quarters. I've been accepted into the Bardic College (at the same time as Romulus, ironically enough), and I'm writing this entry from my new vantage point of a stuffed, warm bed. It feels strange to know I have one of these. I can't say I've ever slept in a bed aside from the few nights I stayed at the Grapevine, and even those were little more than the hay bales we covered in furs at the camps. But this… I bet even the Senate doesn't sleep this comfortably! Or maybe my back is just weary from sleeping on the ground... who knows.

    I should probably explain how I ended up here. I managed to kill two birds with one stone: I successfully got myself into the College, along with proving the fact that if you ask enough people the same question someone will have the right answer. I'm not sure which I should be thanking more: Lycka for giving me the chance to even be accepted, or Elidur for immediately becoming a gracious and hospitable headmaster once I passed the test (which, I will add, consisted of Romulus and I dancing in the commons... not what I had been expecting, but worthwhile nonetheless).

    Become one of the College and meeting the other students has really opened my eyes to the major difference between bards and people of other professions here in Narfell... and why there are now so few of us compared to other occupations. The bards are not primarily fighters more often than they are. We are not meant to be on the front lines of battle, and most of us are okay with this. We know our talents lie elsewhere, and are just as valuable to modern society as one who wields armor and the banner of his nation. We choose quills over quivers, intellect over intimidation, and sheer cunning over brute strength any day of the week. Because of the events in Narfell over the last ten or so years, being of steady hand and creative mind has slightly fallen to the wayside over the ability to wield a sword. Not that this is necessarily a bad thing. Times call for different talents to further the interests of the people, and we must be willing to adapt with these ever mercurial times if we hope to succeed and survive.

    Even with that said, it's rather disheartening to see so many of the rooms here in the College standing empty. Without those ready to put quill to parchment and scribe the great events of Narfell for future generations, how are we to have any hope of furthering ourselves? Our greatest lessons can be learned from past failures, and it will take that retrospect, along with the right people at the helm, to guide Narfell into a brighter future. Cities like Peltarch have been through so much in the last decade. If we as the current generation forget where we came from and the mistakes we made, how can we ever hope to move past those transgressions... or worse, how can we ever assure those same mistakes will never be made again?

    It is because of these simple facts that I am comfortable with who I am and what I have found myself doing. I may not be a strong, daring warrior, but my stories bring happiness to people even in the darkest of times. It's the smiles of the common folk and the laughter of the orphans as I regale these nonsensical stories of snowball wars and two-fingered dwarves that bolster my sense of pride and push me to continue my work. Maybe someday I'll have my name on some books that teach the people here of the great wars and the brave souls who laid down the foundations for future generations. I'd like to think that one day these small, feeble hands will be able to do more good with ink and paper than they ever would have with steel and leather.

    A recent evening in the Mermaid with Rhiannon proved that. What began as a harmless meeting in the commons quickly escalated into an impromptu show with Rhiannon and I desperately trying to quell a crowd of drunken rioters who had convinced themselves that Maria was going to turn the rest of the Senators into toads. I... I don't even know. Needless to say, it was no easy task. But between the two of us, and a little goading from Maria and a few others in attendance, the rioters slowly succumbed to the copious amounts of alcohol and faded away.

    Would swords have been able to do that? Highly doubtful.

    This is the strength of the bards. They may not be the strongest, or the bravest, but gods be damned if they're not the most resourceful. Seeing the wonderful things those of my profession can do has given me a new sense of self worth, and bolstered my work ethic when it comes to my main projects. I've never felt this inspired!

    For now, though, I feel it pertinent to return to my books and continue working. I've made major progress on the ballad for the Defenders, and Jerrick's is nearly complete. I only hope the people I am writing for enjoy them as much as I have writing them. Hopefully, when they're both done, the fallen Defenders will be able to hear it as well as Jerrick from his place on the mountain. I'd like to think they would be proud._


  • _I fear I have neglected you so long that I've forgotten a lot of events that I should be writing about. I've imbibed a lot of liquor this past fortnight, so my memory tends to be a bit hazy about most details. But I will write as much as my clogged mind allows me to.

    I've gather a lot of information these past few days, and met more people than I can probably remember. The project on Jerrick goes well. I have the information I need for the ballad thanks to Romulus, and enough in general to begin my book. This will be a long and arduous undertaking, I fear. But at the very least, it will give me something to focus my energy on for months in the future. Hopefully by its completion I will have enough detail to make a full account for the people of Peltarch and Narfell as a whole. The public seems to be highly fascinated by his undertaking, and as such an influx of speculation as to who he really is has come about. And with that speculation comes rumors, some of which I'm afraid will be less than accurate and more on the malicious side. You know how people talk. They are fascinated more by flaws and misgivings than true, noble deeds and I have no doubt that most talk will focus on the negative aspects. Hopefully my book will lead them into the right details and help to dispel any kind of slander or outright lies that I know will begin to circulate.

    As I said, at the very least it's a long term pet project.

    I've also seen a few new places as of late. The most prominent one is the wolf den, which Danika was kind enough to show me this evening. I must profess this was a bit of a dream for me: I spent most of my youth playing "wolves and bandits" with some of the other camp youth, and we spent countless nights prowling around the trees pretending to howl at the moon and get into brawls with the evil bandits that threatened our land.

    Kind of funny, in retrospect, but child's play is rarely anything but.

    But I digress. She showed me the den and told me of the various goings-on that she remembers (her surgery, when she got her fang, stories of the various wolves and their gods). I must say, it was a nice side venture. I'm glad I finally got to see a place that has fascinated me since childhood. It was a bit of an awestruck moment to be standing there, but I suppose it speaks for how far I've come these past few months. I've made tons of friends, been on ventures I couldn't even begin to dream of, and surpassed boundaries even I thought were impossible to breach. It would almost seem like this one has done some good in her life by leaving the camps. I may still be a scrawny gypsy girl, but at least I know enough good people to stand with me should I ever get myself in trouble.

    Which, ha, speaking of trouble… I ended up in the bath house yesterday. Some stroke of drunken luck landed me a free pass into the bath house in Peltarch, and I ended up in the sauna with Maria, Ashena and Talindra. I think we had what one would call a... oh gods, what's the word... a "girl day"? I think that's what they called it. At any rate, we ended up in that box for gods only know how long, and I think the heat and liquor may have loosened my tongue a bit more than it should have been allowed. From what I remember I didn't say anything too stupid though, as we all walked out still friends. Or so I hope. Yeesh.

    I nearly slipped about a few things of my own that I've been guarding. Gods, I've got to be more careful about who I drink around. I don't mind sharing personal stuff, but there are a few things that I just don't want other people knowing just yet. Some of it might be damaging to the friendships I've been lucky enough to make. Other parts will lead them to asking about things like Besnik that I just don't have the strength to explain right now. I can still scarcely think of him without wanting to break down like a fretful girlchild. Explaining it to someone would likely throw me into a fit of hysterics. It's hard enough watching happy couples. I'm genuinely happy for anyone that manages to find some kind of personal bliss during these trying times, but that doesn't mean the wounds stop stinging when they remind me of what I nearly had. But will I ever speak a word of it? Gods, no. I'll take it to my grave if need be. I don't wish to ever push my insecurity or hurt on anyone else just because I myself am still emotionally wounded. They are happy, and I will sing to the heavens of my happiness for them on that joyous day when they declare their solidarity for one another.

    Even through my bravado and grandeur about how I will remain forever a maiden dedicated to her work, I can't help but hope that one day I will find that kind of happiness again. It isn't a priority by any stretch of the imagination, but a small hope isn't a foolish one as long as it's managed correctly, right? I'm just like any other female. There's a small piece of me that dearly wishes for a strong husband, a sturdy household, and children to pass on my knowledge and thoughts to in the hope that they will become productive members of a society I will one day vanish from. I'll repeat that: a small piece. For all it's worth the gods seem to have me destined for an old maiden. And that too is okay in my mind. Whatever the gods deem fit for my life I will happily take and make the best of.

    It seems to me as though the ones that I might even have a chance of having an eye on are either being approached by other, more appealing women than I, or are so far out of my league that it wouldn't matter. So for now I will happily await my cronehood, continue writing, and order another bottle when mine runs dry.

    Maybe one day that'll change… maybe._


  • Two pages of blank paper lay between the last entry and this one.

    _TO-DO LIST

    • Acquire Petarch citizenship papers
    • Speak with the Bardic College about loremaster studies
    • Begin fielding stories at the Dancing Mermaid and Lucky Ferret
    • Speak with Romulus, Luke and Talindra about their mission_
      (this line is written in bolder print than the others) - Who is Jerrick?

  • _The taverns and pubs in Peltarch have been abuzz with a new tale as of late. Even as I sit here in the dead of night, sipping my tankard of ale and writing down my nonsensical thoughts and translating the sensible ones into tangible text, the tables around me are alive with conversation about one central subject. It’s strange to see such a large city all talking in unison about one adventure. Whatever happened must have been huge if every mouth is regaling the rumors about it.

    I haven’t the heart to tell them I was there when the party left out at Peltarch. Though with as much attention as this recent event is getting, maybe that’s for the better. I’d likely be chased out of the city by mobs of people throwing questions at me. Albeit I had nothing to do with their conversing or decision to leave the city, I somehow managed to find myself in the city square when the druid they call Jerrick and his vanguard were discussing the weather-related disaster that threatens Narfell. Though it doesn’t take a terribly bright person to tell what’s happening: the streets themselves are flooded up past boot soles, making traveling anywhere a rather muddy experience. The older buildings have begun to crumble under the weight of the rainfall, and merely passing through them is a danger in itself. The city won’t be able to withstand another fortnight of weather like this without falling inward, and unfortunately taking every citizen unlucky enough to be in its path with it.

    I took notes as much as I could, but with all the information being hurled around it was difficult to keep up. From what I could gather, there was some kind of natural weather anomaly that threatened to flood out Peltarch within the moon cycle and the mortality of those going to fix it was ridiculously high. I sat on the wall of the main square, shaded from the torrential downpour by the large tree to my right, with my journal propped on my knee and hand scribing as fast as it could manage as the party discussed how they would go about fixing the issue. The druid Jerrick seemed to be the leader of the group, and once the decision to make for the sea was finalized he led the party off.

    I stayed back and watched those brave souls head for the docks with a strange pang in my gut. Something told me they were walking into something far deeper than they imagined. Strange weather seems to be a rather well-known aspect of Peltarch life, but weather such as the storms we’ve seen as of late is out of the ordinary even for such a mercurial region. As soon as they left I made for the Dancing Mermaid and took my regular booth in the left corner, still writing down any pertinent information and rumors that came within earshot. Some were talking of the strange druid, and how he possessed the power to speak with wolves. Some were talking of the party itself, and how the dangers that laid waiting for them beyond the tumultuous sea would surely claim their lives (if the demons in the water didn’t do that before they even arrived). I even heard talk from a table of inebriated deckhands of how one of the females in their party was a bit of a lush and had once taken to dancing on a table in the Lucky Ferret after one too many whiskey bottles.

    Through all the nonsense and clear cases of rumor-mongering amongst bored housewives and drunken sailors, one consistent story began to surface: there was something very wrong, the people of Narfell were in immediate danger, and if this party failed in their mission a true state of crisis would soon be upon us.

    The party returned to Peltarch tonight. I saw them come through the docks when I stopped into the Ferret for a bottle of my favorite whiskey. They looked as one would expect a person returning from a near-fatal mission would: their clothes were soaked and torn, their armor dented and scratched, and their faces carried the weight of a thousand burdens. But one was missing from their ranks: the very druid that had called the party together and organized the venture was conspicuously absent. And it only took one look at the eyes of his former party members to deduce what had happened. One of their ranks, a bedraggled blonde man I knew from former ventures by the name of Luke, entered the establishment as I was leaving. I had not the nerve to ask him what happened. They have been through enough this fortnight, and this gypsy has no doubt they will be more flooded with questions and inquiries as to the results of their coming plight in the coming days than the streets of Peltarch are at this exact moment. So for now I will wait. I know enough of them on a personal basis to ask them about what happened once they’ve had a chance to recover, and I plan on using my friendly basis with them to extract more information when it is most tactful. I have a feeling a flagon of ale and some friendly conversation will be of immense aid to them. Until then, though, I will not force my company or questioning mind on them. I cannot even begin to imagine what they have endured and my respect for them and their strength far outweighs even my own burning curiosity. In the meantime there are plenty of minds to pry into here in Peltarch. I will begin here in the Mermaid with the dock workers and bar maids. They hear more than even the Senate members, and I have high hopes that one of them has come across a pertinent conversation or useful bit of information.

    I feel it’s relevant to confess my fascination for all of this hoopla. There’s a legend buried in this event, and I fully intend on digging until I get to the truth of what has transpired. Past the drunken revelry of the dock hands, the light-hearted joking of the bedroom skills of the party members by the bar maids and their wait staff, and all the other nonsense floating around the citizens of this city, there is a tale of true heroics and a legend worthy of writing. I have the skill and patience to do it, and I feel in my heart that this tale needs to be told to anyone interested in knowing the truth. The truth is there. I just need to find the right avenues to pursue it, and with enough dedication I will come across it. And to think, I was -almost- there, for once. Once I have enough of the story to piece together what really happened, maybe I’ll put it in some kind of lore format. With as many people that are buzzing with curiosity, I’m pretty certain someone would want to read it.

    For now I wait. I wait, I listen, and I hunt down every lead I come across until the truth finally surfaces._


  • _My wanderings have finally led me home. I feared this moment from the time I left. I knew no matter what happened to me or where I went, I would find myself back under these same trees. I knew I wouldn't be ready. It didn't matter if it was a fortnight or a decade, I knew nothing would prepare me to return. I quietly prepared myself these last couple of months, remembered that it was just a place on a map. There was nothing there that could ever hurt me except for my own memories.

    But I didn't expect this. Never in a thousand moons did I expect this burning ball of agony to choke me. Not even the storm around me can quell the wildfire burning in my chest. The ghosts in these woods call out, echo in the trees, the abandoned camps, the very hollows of my mind that I've purposely left blank to cope with being outside of my home. As I sit here in the tent that I was born in, I can hear them. Voices of all ages, all walks of life, all speaking and screaming simultaneously. They laugh, they chatter, they converse… but the screaming drowns most of them out. Gods, I can hear them screaming like they're sitting right next to me. From the newborn babes to the eldest crone using her last ragged, dying breath to call to me. Even as I write this I can feel my hands trembling fit to start a fire between my pencil and the paper in my journal. This can't be my home. My home was full of life, full of living beings that made this place come alive. Now it's just a ghost town, a hollow shell hidden in a nest of trees.

    My worst fears have been confirmed by coming back. The letter I left for Besnik was still exactly where I'd left it in his campsite. He never got it, so gods only know where he is now. I was foolish for waiting for him. And if truth be told, I did know it. As soon as I learned of the fate of the camps I knew he would disappear with the rest of them. For all I know he's long dead by now, along with Mircea and everyone else I grew up with; they're all bug food by now, rotting in some abandoned field or forest where they dropped of starvation or at the hands of a larger monster. Even knowing that awful truth, I'd hoped like a fool that he'd find my letter and heed its wishes. Now the truth is staring me in the face, with the stained, weather-worn piece of paper sitting next to me.

    They're all gone. I'm now truly alone in this world. I have no home, no family, and nothing to return to.

    Gods, this pain in my chest! I can scarcely draw a breath, it burns so harshly. I've been in near hysterics since right after Romulus left me here. I didn't have the heart to tell him we walked through the campsite where I was born and raised when he was showing me around. I could feel the tears stinging at my eyes more fervently with each step as we ventured deeper and deeper into the gypsy ruins. With each landmark came more memories: the stone head on the waterfall that the children called "Ol' Goblin Snot", the cave behind the falls where Mircea went to drink after work, the boulder I used as a stage when I rattled off my tales and argued their validity with the youth of the camp. They're all still here, but they seem like almost a copy of what they were, as if someone had made a full-detail illusion of the camps and replaced the original with it sans the people. It's just not the same without them. This isn't my home. It can't be._

    The rest of the page is smeared almost solid with black charcoal rubbings, like the writer wrote out another paragraph, rubbed it out, and repeated the process several times before giving up and turning to the next page.

    _I've never felt this level of agony in the entirety of my nineteen years in this realm. Never have I felt this smothering feeling across my throat, or this white-hot rod that burns into the center of my chest. It feels as though the entire world has ended, and I am the only remaining living soul. Because in all honesty… that might not be far from the truth. I've yet to run across another Romani in any of the places I've been thus far, leaving me to draw the only probable conclusion that I am the only one left from this ruined village. My people have scattered, my family has died off, and my god has abandoned me.

    I wish this terrible screaming would stop… all that I hear around me is the wind blowing through the trees and abandoned tents and this awful howling. There's no life around me spare the occasional woodland animal. If only I'd stayed a little while longer, maybe even a few days, I could have helped fight off those terrible Hoaran monsters that took my people away. And maybe then, just maybe, my people would still be here. At the very least, I would have gotten to tell my Besnik what I desperately want to say now. My only option now is to scream it to the trees and hope his spirit hears me. Maybe Shaundakul will take mercy on me and carry my words to him in the afterlife. I've been screaming out my anger, my frustration, my soul-crushing sadness for hours now... and the only response I get is the quiet whisper of the wind and the voices of the Romani that call to me from the trees, their voices amplified on the current of air and the claps of thunder that rattle the very ground I sit upon. I feel their confusion and their fury coursing through me like some tangible demon that claws at my breath, every exhale projecting more and more emotion until I'm scared I might suffocate under the weight of my own sadness.

    But even as I sit here in the middle of this storm, giving my ancestors a voice to the living and passed on, one thing sticks out loud and clear in my hazy, pain-wracked mind:

    I am a wanderer with no home and nothing but the bag on her back. I have no pride to defer to and no one to bring honor to except myself. I have no dignified family name to work under.

    I am now a true Romani._


  • _Peltarch is possibly more strange to me than Norwick could ever hope to be, but I think I like it here. The walls seem more fortified, and all the citizens have somewhere to be and something to do. There's this constant energy of movement through Peltarch, and it's enough to keep one abuzz with motivation through any task. The energy here is infectious; there's so many people with stories and jobs and things to sell that one can barely take it all in at once without risking breaking their neck. I found a store in one of the many buildings of the commerce district that sells lore books, and managed to pick up a few with the little gold I had left over from the boat ticket. I've been flipping through the tomes and practicing my taletelling in secret, which I'm saddened to say has taken a hit in my apathy. I'm confident though that if I practice enough, I should be back up shouting my stories in no time.

    I've gone further out of the gates lately as well. Yngdir came across me while I was trying fruitlessly to kill more pigs and led me to a bone yard. He gave me a mace and told me nothing outside of my ill-equipped nature and that there was a reason for him bringing me there. I asked him why, and his response was so cryptic and foreboding I didn't dare poke into it further. The only things that came out of that venture were me getting some practice in with scouting and learning that I'm not the most cowardly creature in Norwick. That man… I still can't figure out what happened. One moment he was all guns blazing about taking out the goblins, and then before I knew what was happening he was shrinking away like a newborn foal at the sight of a cave. Ha! Pansy. If I see him again I fully intend on dragging him into that cave by the ear and making sure he at least lives up to his bold posturing.

    Tonight's venture was with Cecil. He's been so busy with patrolling and scouting for the burned goblins that I've been apprehensive about asking to join him on a patrol again. Tonight he found me at the south gate and didn't really give me a choice in the matter. We ventured into the Nars and up to Hero's Bluff, and we were so close to the Jiyyd demons you could hear them scream through the trees. I don't think I like it up there, though I get the feeling I'll find myself there again one day soon. The road sign between the Nars pass and Norwick said the gypsy camps lay west, so once my cuts and bruises heal I might head that direction. For now, I train and pray and wait._

    The rest of the entry is in minuscule, almost illegible writing.

    I still wait by the southern gate every night, hoping against hope that you'll show up on the path. It's well past the new moon though, and my hope is beginning to dwindle. For all I know you never even got my letter. I don't even know if you're still alive. I wish I hadn't left without you. I should have insisted that you come with me. Hopefully one day I'll find you and be able to implore your forgiveness. I will remain strong until that day. I pray every night that the winds lead you back to me.


  • A significant change in the writer appears to have happened between this entry and the short one preceding it: the handwriting is back to the neat, uniform print that covers the first few pages, no blotches or brittle spots stain the pages past the first one, and the smell of spirits seems to have dissipated. The only thing that would suggest the writer being in any other mood but calm would be the small, almost unnoticeable circles of discoloration toward the bottom of the page that accompanies a slight quake to the print of the last few sentences.

    _Figures the god of the nomads would be a recluse. I don't expect him to appear at the snap of my fingers, but you'd think after a week or so of prayer and meditation whenever possible would at least be a hint. Oh Besnik, how you would mock me. You always said I was too impatient for my own good. Maybe you were right. Ha, maybe I was wrong to throw things at your head whenever you poked at my attention span.

    Or maybe we were both right. You always told me I wasn't destined to stay in the camps. I would argue back that there was nowhere for me to go, to which you would reply with a laugh and one of your grandiose arm sweeps toward the pass. I thought you a fool, but in the back of my mind I would wonder what would happen if I ever took your cryptic advice. Ha, look what you did, you little twit. You planted the seed of escape in a naive young girl's head and she ran with it full force. I place no resentment upon your name, but I can't help but laugh at how many of my questions now would have been answered had I simply heeded your hints at giving information and prodded deeper into that brilliant little head of yours.

    No use in reminiscing about a young man who probably didn't live past the raid, though. As much as I would love to sit and remember back about our days walking around the camps and making fun of whatever seemed relevant about the other, it would only drag me down at this point in my journey. Maybe when I have a moment to stop and think, my thoughts will venture back to him. Until then, I cannot afford even a flash of weakness to run through my constitution.

    I think I know what I'm going to focus my energy on for a while. Since I'm already here in Peltarch, I think I'm going to go talk to the temple-goers about contacting the gods in a more efficient manner. The confusion that threatened to eat me whole before is still a lurking shadow in my mind, and I'm about fed up with feeling it try and take over every time a major challenge is put before me. If this is really Shaundakul's will, is this is where I'm destined to be, it's high time I stop acting like a little girl and grow into the blade and bow I now carry._

    There's a gap in the entry, with several lines of rubbed out charcoal and what appears to be a smudge of liquid before the text continues.

    Despite my bold talk and straight posture, the smallest, deepest corner of my heart aches to see him once more, and apologize for what I said that final night in the camp. I hope he found my letter. It's coming close to the end of the second moon cycle, so maybe… just maybe, with the coming of the new moon, I'll see him riding up toward the southern gate with that smile I miss so much.


  • This entry is shorter than the rest, the handwriting scrawled and borderline illegible.

    _I've said it once, and I'll say it a thousand times more… I hate water. These legs were made to stay on solid ground.

    Note to self: acquire a mount and never, ever, ever ride on the ferry boat from Norwick to Peltarch again. Worse comes to worst, walk. It's worth not vomiting every half hour._


  • The pages this entry is written on are warped and brittle from rainfall, and the words are slightly smudged from the side of the writer's palm dragging across them. The handwriting is considerably more slurred and sloppy than the previous entries. If one puts their nose to the binding and sniffs deeply, they might be able to pick up the smell of wine and spirits sprinkled across the pages.

    _Things just continue to get more and more interesting here in Norwick. Another storm had blown in by the time I returned from my meandering around the city, and it took a good hour or so for my cloak to dry out next to the fire at the Grapevine. Not long after I had settled in with my first flagon two familiar faces, followed by several more, joined me; before long we were all talking and laughing like I'd been here several years. It's nights like tonight that remind me of why I left the camps-

    Oh yeah. The camps. I've heard from several people that the camps now stand empty. I've yet to figure out exactly what happened, but it couldn't have been more than a day or two after I left. I suppose that makes me lucky, and reinforces the point that I was destined to leave. My doubt when I first arrived in Norwick was for nothing. Shaundakul meant for me to be here. I Just know it. All the same, I can't help but wonder what became of Mircea and everyone else back home. As much as I despise that coal smudge of a man, deep down I hope he's faring well. He's not the type that would do well in a new environment, but at the very least I hope he's found somewhere safe to go and he's surviving. He may be a bastard, but he's a resourceful man.

    Back to today's events. Ashena convinced us to go out exploring, and I joined their party as they wandered through Rawlinswood. And get this- I didn't do badly! In fact, I even managed to kill a few things! Gods above, I can't even put into words how utterly massive the monsters were! But between all of us, they all fell rather easily. I've started getting better with a longbow, and my sword work, while still nowhere near my comrades, is coming along very slowly. Another few weeks of practicing and I might start to feel comfortable with it. Imagine that! Me, comfortable with a blade! My, how times change.

    We went all the way out to the Scar before coming back, and by the time we arrived back at the south gate I was in a happy buzz. I couldn't stop myself from smiling… and I think the others noticed. I've been rather sullen the last fortnight or so, and to finally get out and do something productive put me in such high spirits I felt like I was flying. And before I knew it we were heading out again, this time in search of more of the pustuled, burned goblins like the one Cecil and I came across in the woods. There was nothing in the fields but more smaller goblins and a few zombies, and the party ultimately decided to go into the goblin hold.

    Gods, the darkness down there. Small shadows seem like giant monsters that are waiting for a chance to bite your head off and spit out your skull. I've never been so terrified in my life. Around every corner there seemed to be a trap; giant beetle things crawled out of every crevice and these... things called bugbears were waiting for us in the lower levels. Even through the monsters and darkness, though, there was one more terrifying thought in my head that stuck out more than any fear of the monsters. Something about this place was off. There was something about that cavern that just didn't feel right. We were there looking for goblins, but all we found were bugs and random traps. There was nothing to suggest our prey was anywhere to be found, and yet there we were at the bottom of some godsforsaken cavern clawing for any hint as to where they might be or what they had planned.

    Nothing. We found absolutely -nothing-.

    There's something we're not seeing, some key or clue that's going to crack this whole plan wide open. It has to be close. Judging from what we know so far we can't be far off. But there's definitely something we're missing. And when we find that one vital element, the entire goblin mystery is gonna unravel at our feet. Whether or not we find something worse underneath this layer remains to be seen. Though knowing how situations play out here, we haven't even scratched the surface of what's going on._


  • The handwriting of this entry is shaky, with smudged spots that appear to be words that have angrily rubbed out and written over. Faint coppery red smudges dot the edge of the paper where someone gripped the corners to turn the page over.

    _Between the people I've come across, the things I've seen and the lessons I've had to learn on the end of a blade my head already feels like it's gonna burst. I got my hands on a bedroll yesterday, so the poor tavern women no longer have to deal with me dragging myself in at all hours of the night and scaring them senseless. I think I prefer to sleep under the sky. Even when it gets wet (as it tends to do a lot here in Norwick), being out in the open air seems to do wonders to calm me when I'm too tired or sore to move.

    But enough about trivial nonsense. If you're reading this, you obviously want to know what happened next. Or you've stumbled across this and are just in need of a quick form of entertainment. Either way, I will indulge you. My second day In Norwick was the day everyone seemed to come out of the woodwork… literally. Upon exiting the tavern I met a man named Jorg at the campfire near where I'd first rested upon my arrival, and the two of us had a lengthy conversation about... nothing, really. Lots of personal stuff I'm still wondering why I shared. He gave me a weird feeling, so I was thankful for the newcomer that approached us and gave me an excuse to get away.

    Though in hindsight, I'm not sure if it was a blessing or a burden that eh approached us when he did.

    Not more than five minutes after learning his name (Cecil, a barbarian guard... what a weird combination) I found myself out in the forest walking with him on his patrol, and was swinging a sword like a dimwit at whatever small beast he could half-taunt into not directly attacking me. Though I will add that I killed at least one - imagine that! Me, scrawny little me, wielding a sword and killing things in some godsforsaken forest! My, how the gods work in mysterious ways.

    Not long into our walk we made our way into some kind of goblin territory, and after nearly losing a hand to one of the foul-looking little buggers another called out to Cecil from the treeline behind us. The two exchanged hostile words, and the ugly little thing jumped at us! I panicked. Everything in my brain shut down and I ran for cover, leaving poor Cecil to fight the bastard himself. I know I wouldn't have been much use aside from burning through any of his potion reserves, but I still feel this odd twinge of guilt for just hiding. He told me to run, yeah, but didn't I swear to myself that I was gonna get better? How does running like a coward help anyone?

    From then on I was completely silent. I could barely speak, I hardly looked anyone in the face, I was just kind of... well, there. So many people came around after the fight. Cecil took the goblin's body to the jail cells in the Norwick barracks, and after a brief autopsy and a prolonged pissing contest with one of the guards met up with a bunch of other people he said he worked with. The only one who stands out in the blur that was that entire day was a woman named Danika. I still have the apple she gave me. For some reason, I haven't brought myself to eat it yet. It's the small things, you know?

    I've spent the days since on my own fighting on the edge of the woods, and to be perfectly honest it's not going as well as I'd hoped. I mean, I expected small progress. But after the same boar knocks you out for the fifth time and you've barely managed to make the damned thing wheeze you start to wonder why you're doing it. But for some reason, every time I pick myself up off the ground and spit out whatever blood's built up in my mouth, I just can't find it in myself to turn and run. Every time I get knocked back is more motivation for me to push forward and kill that little bugger. I killed a rather nasty-looking boar and a ghoulish thing that looked a little nastier than the monsters Cecil and I were fighting two days ago, but after several knockouts I managed to collect his head just like the boar. And that, really, is all the motivation I need. I can do this. I've already done more than I said was possible, so what's stopping me from continuing forward?_


  • _I realize there's only been a few hours' time between this writing and my last one, but I feel a strong urge to write down all I've seen in this short time before I forget the details. If the old lady on the hay cart had told me half of what I would find in this city I probably wouldn't have believed her. Things here are so…

    Weird.

    There's no other way of putting it. I wish I had a more eloquent phrase to describe this city, but the people here are just straight up weird. But before I get ahead of myself and spoil the good details, let me explain what happened when I came down from my room at the Grapevine (that's the name of the place!) this morning.

    As comfortable as my bed is, I could scarcely get my eyes closed before I would twitch and turn. I attempted rest until the fire in my hearth had burned down to embers, and upon realizing that the sun would rise soon gave up and dressed again. The tavern was much more open when I went back downstairs than when I had retired to my room mere hours ago; only a few drunk stragglers remained at the bar, including the rather awful smelling man I'd encountered when getting my food. He was in the same spot as when I'd left, his hazy yellowish eyes locked in a dead stare with a keg behind the bar as if the two were having a staring contest to the death. I observed him for a few moments to make sure he was still breathing, and upon seeing one of his eyes twitch satiated my worried curiosity. I wasn't about to get less than a sword throw's length away from him (something about the look in his eyes when he'd questioned my ability to finish my food gave me the creeps), so once I had assured he was indeed still breathing I made my way carefully past him toward the door.

    I scarcely had a firm grip on the handle when a voice behind me, raspy and heavy with a drunken slur, called out:

    "Oi! Gypsy whore!"

    I froze on the spot. Who in the hells knew who I was? I'd only talked to Mariana, and we didn't have any conversation besides how much my room was going to be. I had half a mind to turn around and snap something back, but thinking better of it I restrained my tongue with a hard bite and pulled the tavern door open. Whoever had yelled could have easily been yelling at another Romani. I wasn't the first to leave my camp by a long shot, and my father had always told me of the gypsy girls who went into the city looking for work and ended up as bed-warmers. Deciding it wasn't worth the conflict to turn around and spit out something nasty I took a step out of the door, ready to strike out on my first major job hunt.

    The voice returned as I moved to shut the door behind myself, and I didn't have to look behind me to know who was standing behind me. The smell of decayed food and alcohol gave it away without any effort.

    "Yer dad's been lookin' fer ya, yanno," he grunted, the acrid smell of his breath raising every hair on my body. "Put a pretty penny on yer safe return."

    I wanted to run, throw myself into a full sprint and take off down the road as fast as my feet could carry me. Fear kept me rooted to the spot, eyes staring at the sign for the tavern that hung on the wall to my right as I struggled with the urge to scream. "And how exactly do you know my father?" I asked quietly, feeling my hands begin to tremble.

    "I have my ways, girl." I heard him take a step forward, his chest mere inches from my back. I still refused to turn, or give him any reason to possibly pull a weapon for that matter. Maybe if I stood still and talked him down I could find a chance to run. "I'd be happy ter let 'im know the guards found ya dead at the gate… fer a price."

    "Do I honestly look like I have anything to give you?" I was beginning to lose my patience. My eyes darted back and forth, searching for anyone that might be able to help. A guard, a tavern worker, a passing civilian... anyone._

    The neat print of the journal entry begins to quaver, as if the author's hand began shaking mid-sentence. Two darkened spots where water or some other liquid smudge two lines in the middle of the paragraph.

    _I heard his cloak shift, and before I knew it there was a sharp jab in between two of the ribs in my back. It wasn't enough to break skin through my tunic, but it was definitely enough to make me stand on tiptoe for a split second. My eyes began to burn with tears as the urge to scream rose higher and higher in my chest, but I bit my tongue again and remained silent until I felt him withdraw the blade. "Yer a gypsy. Yer out fer anything shiny. Ya gotta have somethin'." His voice was right above my right shoulder now, the stench of his breath and clothing threatening to turn my stomach inside out.

    I couldn't take it anymore. I ducked my head and took off down the road, feet flying under me and kicking up a dust storm as I fled. I could hear him attempting to give chase, but judging from his drunken demeanor and the fading ragged breaths he couldn't keep up. I don't know what happened to him; I didn't look back, I didn't look where I was going, I just ran. Before I knew it I was out of a gate and back on the path where the old woman and I had first entered the city, and as I began recognizing the trees I slowed my desperate sprint to a slow walk. My breath was short and sharp in my chest, every breath stinging my lungs as I forced myself to breathe at a normal rate. I had made it about a quarter mile out of the gate when I finally collapsed in the middle of the road, palms and knees stinging as they made contact with the pebbles on the road. Tears instantly overflowed down my face, breathing still too painful to even sob. I heard footsteps in front of me but didn't bother to look up, my thoughts racing faster than the sprint I had just taken to escape that psycho at the tavern. They came closer and closer to me, walking at a leisurely pace until they stopped a few feet in front of me. If it were someone that wanted to hurt me, they could do it. I only hoped they would do it quickly.

    This was a mistake. All of it. I was a fool for ever even thinking I could live outside of the gypsy camps. And now I was stuck. Stuck in a foreign city with no money, no friends and no one that would help me. My fingers curled into fists in the dirt. What an ignorant, foolish girl I was! Where was the god that my parents and everyone I knew had prayed to? Where was Shaundakul now? Wasn't he supposed to protect the ones that called themselves nomads? Yeah, right. The gods weren't real. They were just ghost stories people put their faith into because they couldn't deal with the real world.

    Funny thing to run through my mind, now that I reflect on this entire situation in hindsight.

    A crisp wind blew across my face, pushing the loose hairs that had fallen from my hair tie off of my face and sending the skin of my arms and exposed chest into fits of goose bumps. The person that had stopped in front of me finally spoke as my gasps for breath dissolved into quiet sobs, his voice strong and steady like the winter winds. "Stand up, young one. The dirt is no place for anyone that doesn't wish to be run over."

    His voice caught me off guard as I looked up sharply, my eyes taking in a most peculiar sight: it was a bearded, rugged looking man clad in a long traveler's cloak and dark leather armor that creaked like storm winds flying through a mountain pass. A giant sword nearly his height sat perched on his back, the long handle protruding over his right shoulder. But it wasn't his dress or demeanor that caught me by such sharp surprise as to warrant me completely losing track of how I'd ended up in the middle of the road in near hysterics; it was the fact that his feet were hovering about six inches off the ground.

    My eyes widened to the size of flagon tops, the trained reflex of immediately throwing my head back down to the dirt in reverence kicking in without me having to think about it. This was… Gods above, it couldn't be...

    "Stand," he said again, his voice a little firmer and bringing a stronger breeze with it. "Stand and face me."

    Trembling from head to toe with a combination of anxiety, fear and sheer adrenaline I rose from the dirt, eyes still locked on the path below me. "Great One, I apologize for-"

    "Don't apologize. You have nothing to apologize for. Now straighten up and look forward."

    I did as I was told, lifting my chin to look at the road before me. My stomach did another backflip to realize it was empty. I looked around me to see if it had been a flicker of my imagination, and to my dismay I realized there were no fresh tracks in front of me in the path.

    "This is the path you took to get here," he said again, his voice seeming to rumble along the steady current of cold air that blew past me toward the Norwick gate I'd just run through. "If you wish to go home, go. But remember that the winds led you here for a reason. Find your purpose. And don't do your honor a disservice by breaking your vow to yourself. Stay strong and you will find your way."

    I turned back to face the Norwick gate, taking in a deep inhale through my nose. The strong breeze filled my nostrils with the smells of the forest and dust from the path, the panic I'd felt while running all but dissipating within a few seconds. If that had really been the Guiding Hand, if that had really been Shaundakul, I couldn't go against his wisdom. At the very least, it was a reason to keep going. Maybe it was all a ploy by my own imagination to keep me from breaking down. Who knew. But at that point I wasn't about to turn away from sound advice just because I couldn't tell if it was from a god or my own mind.

    The wind kept blowing all the way through the gate, almost urging me down the path. I followed it down the road back into Norwick, and allowed it to lead my steps as I entered the town again. It continued to push me until I was standing in front of the local wares store, and with a final flourish that kicked dirt up into my face dissipated into the calm early morning chill once again. I drew my cloak closer around my shoulders, swallowing a jolt of fear that ran through me. This was it. It was finally my time to make something of myself. If I didn't do it then... I never would.

    And this is where I am now, dear journal. I found myself a small campfire nearby and a comfortable rock to perch myself on as I wrote, but the sun is breaking over the canopies and I feel it's time to make a move. Shaundakul... if that really was you, thank you. I will sing your praises from the highest mountain. If not, maybe I'm not the pile of bird feed I thought I was when I entered this strange city. I guess only time will tell. Wish me luck, dear journal._