3. Nica's Secret Diary

Nica's Secret Diary


  • Under a loose roof tile ontop of a two-story building overlooking the Peltarch Jousting grounds, a small book is kept, its cover bound in black leather, held secure by a small silver lock. The keyholder, a young blonde woman, slinks up there at times when the city is quiet around her and Selune's silver light grants just enough time to write.

    "I never meant to keep a diary, to write my personal thoughts and reflections down seemed artificial, like placing a filter or a theatre curtain between my true thoughts and the words on paper. Everything I dreamed, all that revolved in my inner world, was wonderously mine and mine alone, kept separate even from my sister until I had thought it through enough to voice it with clarity. But now, there's so much more going on, my life's changing at such a pace that I find it hard to properly wrap my head around it.

    Yet even now, having decided I need a diary to sort my thoughts, I find myself editing and correcting my words, as though they will be judged by someone. Am I worried that I'll discover I'm not perfect? I think I already know that, but why then is it so hard to fasten these words to paper? They look so exposed and vunerable written down, thoughts laid bare for the vultures.

    Note to self: this is all for my own benefit, both to remember and to make sense of all that's happening. I can't immediately begin to white-wash the truth if I am to truly understand myself. And understanding that is the key to everything.

    So who am I?

    That sounds a simple question, but once past factual things like name and age, it really isn't simple anymore. Worse, I ~thought~ I knew who I was only to find myself flummoxed and floundering once circumstances changed. My sister, the one in whose shadow I have always dwelt so comfortably, decided that she wanted to honour our ancestry by staying north, in the Glaciers.

    Suddenly, I was out there on my own, uncomfortable in the spotlight and scared to death of making an idiot of myself somehow. I felt myself shrinking inwards, a wallflower wilting in too much sun, but without Yu Shei and with no means to yet find my way to a monestary, the world outside is and remains the only way to learn.

    Dad supported me, he always does and believes in me more than I do myself. I was terrified yet honoured beyond words when he entrusted Wartooth's helm to me, along with his old, well worn and well loved amulet. The lime coloured shinguards, he just chuckled as he handed over. There's a story that goes with it, a story we giggled to many times, but I never imagined I'd actually be wearing a part of that story. They have served me well, everything I've been given has made life so much easier that I often feel ashamed when I meet those less fortunate. I try to help though, but am worried of coming across as some sort charity worker to those not asking for charity.

    It's awkward sometimes, just being who I am. My parents and even my brother are so well known that I'm automatically compared to them, elevated to a level that isn't mine by any right of earning it. It's a little like being a noble I suppose, though we're nothing of the sort really. Still, Deidric actually kneeled when he found out who I was. He ~kneeled~ as though the difference between him and me was vast as the sky, when really, we're about the same age and he has a natural gift for magic that's a wonderous thing in itself.

    He grew up in the Lighthouse orphanage though, his parents died in the war while mine survived and helped rebuild the city, and build the Lighthouse temple and orphanage itself. I can understand that dad is a sort of hero figure there, I can - but I had nothing to do with that. All I ever did was help out in the soup kitchen on Sundays. That's hardly worthy of being kneeled to, is it?

    I explained all this to Deidric, but he still calls me Lady and is incredibly polite. He's nice and friendly though, but it makes me feel as though we are not equal despite taking the exact same risks in adventuring together. As though I should be better than him, when really I'm not.

    In the beginning, I only adventured with friends of my family and I suppose that's still mainly true. But that frozen fearful feeling has lessened, I find myself more confident and open by far, compared to those early days. It's got a lot to do with Gilda, who is an old friend of ours that is simply irresistably sweet. She looks after me, but not in a motherly way - she doesn't tell me what to do, but rather just encourages and keeps everyone's spirits up by just being her. She's wise and very silly all at once, a combination I very much admire.

    I feel comfortable and cared for in Gilda's company, as I do in Rasuil's. He doesn't fuss or coddle, but I know he's looking out for my safety just as he does for Elaine, Leena and Jonni. Sure, he calls me pup and I think he sees me as just that, but we can still talk about most things like adults, and he doesn't see fit to sugarcoat the truth just because it happens to be dark or inappropriate. I really appreciate that, and his wry sense of humour.

    And then there's Vash't, who should fall into the same category as those above, but somehow doesn't. Like the previous two, he's much older than me and he knows my parents - but unlike Gilda and Rasuil, he doesn't know them ~that~ well. In fact, I think he knows me far better than either mom or dad by now, and that makes him mine in a sense the others are not. I feel comfortable around him too, safe enough that I can risk being a bit silly (no whitewash, a LOT silly). He tells great stories and listens to mine as though they were truly interesting, like I was someone funny, witty and bright. Perhaps I really am those things in his company, something about him seems to draw me out of my shell and make me forget being so… me. He laughs at himself, often and easily, and doesn't pretend to be anything he's not. I like that.

    Still, for all these good things happening in my life, I find myself searching. The path that I'm on, I've only just begun to walk, and it forks in a myriad of directions. Which one is mine, where do I go from here? Do I even have a path to find? I once told dad that I'm not special, and he got very upset and insisted that I am. I didn't mean to belittle myself, but I do still believe some people are fated to certain things, call it greatness if you will, while others are not. Jonni is Savras Chosen, but I am not like that. I'm not special in any way but that which I myself set out to become. There's a freedom in that, but it's also difficult, especially without Yu Shei to guide me.

    I met a man, an old man fighting off his assailants with his bare hands, in the swamps with Gilda. 'Fist of the North Star!', he cried, his frail frame still swift despite age, his fist landing so precisely as to stun his foe. We leaped into the fray, but once the dust settled, the old man fell to his knees, pale and sweating. He'd been poisoned, but said he would deal with it in his own way and there was nothing we could do but to take him to safety and warmth.

    Near the roaring central fire in the Mermaid, the old man kneeled. His eyes closed and he sank into a deep trance, while smoke slowly trickled from his skin - the poison, driven out through sheer force of will - but it seemed taxing, demanding his every ounce of force. Before he sank into the trance, he warned he might not come out of it alive. Now I wait, with a hunger for knowledge so selfish and raw that I must temper it somehow. It wasn't for my sake that our paths crossed, I have to remember that. If this man lives or doesn't is up to whatever the gods have in store for him, and if he passes, he will do so peacefully and without regrets - that much he said before his inner fight began.

    Still something claws and itches inside. A million paths to walk and a million distractions from each one. Without a guide, I am lost, and if I can't find one here then I have to look elsewhere. Even if I really ~really~ don't want to leave just yet."


  • "Marked.

    Experiences leave their mark, bangs and bruises from the impact of the events that shape our lives. Some cause but a light bump, healing seamlessly, others cut to the bone, leaving you forever altered in their wake.

    The analogy, on second thought, is perhaps faulty for likening experience to injury when in fact it also enriches us - but I can't help but think back to Ragnhild and the scars she wore so proudly, shimmering, jagged lines criss-crossing her skin.

    A childhood memory, though I cannot say whether it's my own or a story told and retold, swims up to my mind's eye: Siri on Ragnhild's one leg, me on the other, nagging for stories.

    'This one…' My chubby pink finger pokes the large diagonal scar across my grandmother's muscular thigh. I frown, bite my lip before asking. 'What hurt you?'

    Ragnhild looks down, that wolfish wild grin turned soft and warm.

    'Hurt is just of moment, little wolf. Scar is not mark of pain, is there to remind of victory, of life and learn, of honour and strength - both mine and those who fight me. You see scars and think oww, poor Ragnhild? I see scars and think hah! I fight worthy foe and live to tell tale!

    That one, frost giant. Big one, chase tribesman when we both new and green, almost kill him - but I get in way, put spear in giant's foot! And then... then he KILL ME!'

    Gasps from Siri and me, eyes round with horror, but Ragnhild just grins, bouncing my sister and me on those strong legs until we giggle.

    'I see not pain or death when I look at scar - I see tribesman, living, I see Glognar and barrel of ale after. Is when we first become friends, and for this scar, they make me honourary dwarf in giant fighting group!

    All these things, I see in scar. And that's why is beautiful.'

    Ragnhild wore all her scars with pride, displayed for the world to see. My mother, I think, carries all of her scars on the inside. I wonder what hurt she harbours there, which regrets? Her eyes are so heavy and so distant at times, yet even I can catch but a glimpse of that secret sorrowful Lycka that she hides from the world.

    Dad is more obviously marked, with his one black eye, his limp and his darkened scars, inside and out. He's easier to comfort, and be comforted by, perhaps because he's not afraid to acknowledge those things, and never hides behind supposed cheer. Then again, I suppose I was always sort of daddy's girl.

    I've chosen to take on a few marks of my own, to honour my heritage - not scars, as I know my parents would struggle to see past whatever put them there. Added to my tribal tattoes, I now wear a pale wolf on my forearm, beautifully outlined against an indigo sky. She looks up to the half-moon and stars above, as though seeking some mystery. The ink holds a secret, magic which can be activated at will. It glows blue and the moon turns full - while the wolf transforms to a werewolf, howling!

    The magic courses through me but briefly, yet makes me feel connected to my roots. For a moment, I'm a huntress, stalking through a frozen forest. I'm the howl that calls the pack, calms the panicked pup. Something about the tattoo brings to mind both my grandmother and my father, and I can't help but marvel that a complete stranger at a magic fair could create something so befitting.

    I wonder if I'm marked in other, less tangible ways, from the Huntmaster's tale. I have undeniably grown and learnt from the experience; I feel stronger but also just a little harder. I think of Vash't and I wonder if he will love me just the same, when perhaps I am no longer quite the same?

    I think of Vash't and the marks he bears himself, so cruelly changed by the past he now has to face. So many knots to untangle that I would rather leave it be, I'd rather he was simply ~here~ than him trying to change a single thing for me.

    Someone said I am much like a second chance though, for Vash't. Someone to start over with, someone to make him feel young again, free from everything that went wrong before. In that light, I suppose he really has to deal with any ties that still bind him to that past. I should be patient; I ~will~ be patient, though every day, week and month that pass sees new experience making its mark upon us.

    Will we be richer for it, reunite with fresh ardour and a thousand stories to tell - or will we bear such unfamiliar marks that we might as well be strangers to each other?"


  • "Responsibility.

    For each choice we make, for every action taken, there are consequences, both direct and indirect, ripples on the water from each pebble we throw into the well.

    Not all of them can be predicted - and it's true that sometimes not taking action is worse than trying ~something~, even knowing you don't have all the answers yet. The mark of a wise person is perhaps that, knowing when to act and when to wait, knowing how to predict the outcome and choose the least harmful path.

    We can't all be wise. Sometimes there isn't enough time to consider all the factors - sometimes you have to choose right then and there, on the spot, because the alternative is simply not acceptable. But everyone can at least try to take responsibility for their actions and the fallout of choices made.

    How I wish Elaine would do that, just once, without jumping to a defensive position, so busy fending off blame that she refuses to recognize the role she played in how events unfolded. 'It's not my fault' - 'I didn't hurt anyone' - 'I didn't mean any harm'.

    Sigh.

    In the Anauroch, Elaine was full of energy and go, that indominable, seemingly invincible and free spirit in full flow. I usually love that about her, the courage and lust for adventure that can enthuse me to do things I'd otherwise not dared, make me believe the impossible is possible - but in this riled-up, off-to-slay-the-lich mode, she ignored what everyone else had agreed on - letting Ali ibn Baba negotiate our passage - butting into conversation with the surly Zhentarim guard. He did what his kind does, responding with insult and attempts to bully her to silence.

    She held him with her magic - because she could, and she wanted him to know it. I could see the rage on his face, the humiliation untolerable and knew negotiation was permanently off the table.

    Sadly predictable and so very unnecessary, with so much riding on the outcome of our journey. Mouth shut, head down, pay the fee and get to the fight we were actually there for - is that really too much to ask?

    Yet done is done and I for one am not a believer in the merits of the blame game. We fought our way past to our true destination, achieved what we came there to do and went home. End of story, right?

    Wrong.

    The Zhentarim have arrived here, from their far off desert homeland, intent on chasing each and everyone of us down to face their brand of justice. They blame us not only for the fight in the desert, but for the mysterious and gruesome murder of their commander, and appear to spare no expenses in this, to their eyes, righteous cause.

    Again, I have to watch my back, wondering from which shadow trouble shall strike but the worst part is, I ~do~ feel responsible for it. I know we are at fault - we, the invaders and the trespassers, barging in with spell and with steel to carve a bloody path through the desert when diplomacy was so readily at hand with Baba as our guide.

    I feel responsible, but Elaine doesn't. She's only sorry that the people she cares about might get hurt, but confident that we can beat the whole lot of them, kill everyone that tries to get us. They're Banites, bad people who try to oppress others with fear and with violence. The world will be better off without them!

    I don't know how to make her see it differently. I'm no supporter of the Zhentarim network and their iron-fisted rule myself and can't help but feel that if their grip of the desert region falters for spending so much effort here, it'd be a good thing - but at what cost? Even 'bad' people are people, each with dreams and ambitions of their own, families and loved ones, strengths and weaknesses. Each with their own unique history, each with a fate forever altered by our random intervention.

    I feel responsible. I ~am~ responsible, even though I wasn't the one to set the chain of events into motion, I was part of it and I want so badly to make things right, to stop this vicious cycle. But I don't see how.

    Can we settle this in any other way than blood? Can we make amends somehow; does everyone involved even want to attempt it if we could? Speaking to Elaine and Beorn has me despairing.

    Violence is easy. But how are we any better than they if that's our solution?"


  • "The little things.

    I always did like the little things, the beautiful and marvellous details of the world, especially when at times, the bigger picture is far too big and overwhelming. Now, in the weary aftermath of the Huntmaster's tale, I find it's the little things that best replenish me, filling the hollowness inside, drop by tiny drop, until I am once more a pool of clear water.

    The shimmering rainbows in the misty morning air by the edge of the swamp, the rushing sound of water falling all around. Blessed solitude, without looking over my shoulder, without a single chill of dread down my spine.

    Bright silver light over Selûne's shrine, the calm of midnight, of moonlight, of knowing you are loved. My rooftop, starlight above and the lights of the city below.

    My mother's voice, singing softly downstairs while my father cooks, their voices turning to a warm murmur mingled with laughter. Jonni and Elaine, filching cookies like a couple of naughty children. Stinky's wheezing breath as the dear old mutt faithfully fetches whatever Zoma throws.

    Torti fruit, plain and boringly potato-like on the outside, silky succulent golden on the inside, a sweet and tart and delicious little wonder.

    My own bed. No, honestly, that's definitely one of my favourite small wonders! My bed, my soft pillow, my warm, cozy blanket to bundle up in like a human caterpillar. My good night's sleep, without vampires, liches or floating swords.

    I want so much to add my Vash't to this, but he still hasn't returned. Still, just the thought of him is enough to warrant a place on my list of little things of wonder. In fact, these thoughts are what's fitted for the little things category, because the reality is still a huge wonder.

    Those green eyes, so vibrant and alive. The look that makes me somehow more myself and someone else entirely, all at once. Someone dangerous, desirable. That coy smile on the lips I've yet to taste, lips I can still feel on my skin when I close my eyes at night.

    The future is bright and full of promise, but at times it seems so far away. Now that life has calmed down, my longing has returned, but I won't be one of those people who can't have fun and live their own lives if their special someone isn't there. I refuse to be.

    Jonni and Elaine are miles ahead, sharing their lives in nearly every way, but I can wait. I can, I have something, someone great to wait for, and in the meanwhile, I'm happy with the little things."


  • "Aftermath.

    It's strangely bittersweet with endings. Even the ones you strove with all your might towards still have a pang to them, an emptiness that follows when the story book's last page is turned. Despite winning, despite achieving what seemed at the start an unreachable goal, the sweetness of success is only briefly savoured before that ache sets in.

    I feel proud of our accomplishments, proud of myself even, for persevering when I was at times so close to despair. Epic came my way and I rose to the challenge, grew from the experience. But now, when it is all over, I can't help but feel a little hollow.

    Perhaps it's like that for everyone.

    From being 'that girl', I'm again simply Nica. And that's fine, I have never really relished the spotlight and am, for the most part, quite content simply being me. But as much as the red sword was a burden to me, it also gave me purpose, something undeniably worthy to focus my time and my energy upon. I think that's what I miss now. A purpose.

    Back in Peltarch, we met at Selûne's shrine one last time. The Huntmaster spoke a brief farewell, while I could not find the right words. Though I think that, too, is fine. Deeds speak louder than words, and he had seen them all. The Huntmaster gave us that beauteous smile once more, before departing. I don't expect I'll ever see him again, but I hope that is a good thing and that he may rest now in the Moonmaiden's embrace.

    Paul Gend lingered in the city for a while, intent to award each of us with something from his collected travels as thanks for what we had done. I agonized as I always do, feeling almost reluctant before I finally settled on a pair of midnight blue gloves, studded with silver. They were Lena's once, the Selûnite priestess who was the Huntmaster's mother and savior - all of our savior really, through her gift to him.

    They're not much better than my old spiked pair, speaking strictly in terms of efficiency - but they are much more beautiful and meaningful. The Moonmaiden's blessings permeate the whole design of the gloves, the silver spikes seeming to ignite with divine light whenever I strike those who would oppose her. But the best part is that when I put my hands together, outside at night…

    The back of the gloves jointly form the symbol of Selûne, which functions much as a magical beacon. No matter how dark the night may be, how cloudy the sky, moonlight will always find a way down from above to light the path before me. It is a wonder I'll never grow weary of!

    I'll admit, I will keep searching for the type of gloves that can rival any of the swords in my father's collection - those must be out there somewhere, too - but these fit my hand and my soul like... well, duh. A glove!

    Jonni used his boon from Paul to get what may be the most amazing ring I have ever seen - but even more amazingly, didn't keep it for himself. Instead, he offered it to Elaine and proposed marriage, right outside our doorstep one evening. I think all of Peltarch heard the response!

    It was almost too fitting, an exceedingly happy happily ever after to add a rosy shimmer to this story's ending.

    I'm glad for them, and I am definitely glad for all of our happy ending. It's just... when you've walked through fire, death and despair; when you've lived and breathed ~epic~ and survived...

    ...where do you go from there?"


  • "The End.

    It's over, the sword is broken and the Necromancer slain for good. I had a moment of absolute bliss when we returned to the oasis, the feeling flooding through me with such overwhelming warmth that I had to lie down in the sand. I couldn't stop smiling, I think I might even have wept without noticing.

    I wish I could have stayed there, in that moment of complete contention, feeling all of my burden and all my knots of tension dissolve under the golden twilight of the Aunauroch sun, for just a little longer. But Elaine had a different idea of tension release, gleefully reading the scroll she had just purchased then and there. A burst of sound and light shook the oasis, an explosion of magic akin to the arrival of Leanna herself!

    It shook me out of my bliss, though it wasn't the fireworks I minded - really, what we had just accomplished was worth celebration - but the spell seemed to signal the end of our group's cohesion, unleashing the personal differences and dissent that had been simmering beneath the surface all along. I sighed inwards, trying to cling to my happy place and let the angry words and bickering just wash over me. The sour note was there, but I simply wasn't going to let it take away from the sweetness of success.

    I thought of the Huntmaster and my smile returned. We had carried on his legacy, all of us who found his treasure had also helped put an end to the Necromancer. I hope he's happy, I hope he's proud - and that at last, his long hunt is really at an end.

    But how did we come to this happy ending? Well, the credit is far from my own. I was frustrated and fighting despair once more when returning north by riverboat from our Underdark search of the Necrolancer's lair. Suddenly, the river captain started yelling 'pirates!', startling me out of my brooding. Then a one-armed, nutskinned gnome with a grey beard climbed onboard from the water, approaching me with obvious purpose.

    'You're that girl, aren't you?', he said, continuing with mention of the sword. 'You must destroy it.' I was wary even though something about this person told me not to be, and insisted on learning who he was before I said much more. So, we went to the Lighthouse temple where the gnome cast protections before revealing himself as none other than Paul Gend, the sorceror of the original lich-fighting party.

    Contrary to what the Huntmaster - and indeed the Necromancer - believed, Paul hadn't perished when attacked. He'd been grievously injured, lost his arm even, but used his years in hiding to great good - he now knew how to break the sword and kill the lich.

    'It must be done in a specific place - the same place where the sword was first tainted. As for how… do you have Lena's blade?'

    Shamefaced, I had to admit I had given it to Vash't, but would do my best to see it returned shortly.

    'Do that. It's.... much easier then. Selûne's power will see it done, but you must also find the phylactory. You have to break that and the sword, or he'll keep returning.'

    Paul Gend instructed me to prepare for a long journey, because unlike what the Huntmaster and our own party had believed, our true destination didn't lie in the Narfell Underdark at all, but much, much farther away. All the way to the Anauroch desert, in fact... but this could work in our advantage as the lich had no idea Paul was alive and thought his old lair's location a long lost secret. Finally, the right information and a chance to strike that deciding blow!

    I spoke of this to no one, simply made sure to gather our allies at the appointed time by Selûne's shrine. Answering the summons was myself, Jonni, Elaine, Sheserai, Gnarl - all the Huntmaster's treasure finders - as well as Raryldor, Shannon, Allestor, Beorn and Fafir.

    We travelled by boat, curtesy of Baba's Booze, to then continue the last stretch on foot. The Anauroch is a dangerous place, as well as hot and harsh in climate, and we were fortunate to have Baba and his guards as guides. But as we neared the desert, we had to pass a barricade with two or three burly Zhentarim guards.

    Baba attempted to negotiate for safe passage, a good idea which failed miserably as Elaine got into a heated argument with one of them and decided to freeze them with her magic. We left the guard incapacitated but alive, having to fight our way through a large number of irate Zhentarim forces after this point.

    Further into the desert, we encountered sandsharks or bullettes, huge creatures with thick hides and razor sharp teeth, then a multitude of skeletal dervishes before we meandered onwards to the oasis where the Necromancer's old lair could be accessed via a winding staircase.

    Or rather, could once be accessed... because on arrival, there were no stairs to be found. Either through collapse or deliberate sabotage, they were gone, leaving but a gaping hole deep into the ground. However, Fafir flew down to investigate in pixie form, finding the cavern below in good enough condition and without obstructing rubble.

    We took a moment to rest and refill our water supplies at the oasis, then ventured down into the cave via a long rope we had fashioned together from five individual ones. The climb down wasn't easy, it was dark and the rope swayed and twisted. Several people fell part way and injured themselves quite severely, but with a little care they were soon able to go on.

    The cavern consisted of long, narrow tunnels, leading into a number of large open spaces. The lair seemed long abandoned as only a scattering of undead still roamed, alongside golems of different shapes and sizes. Some functioned perfectly, others seemed inactive or downright fallen to bits. One, a metal golem with a glowing orb set into its chest, seemed to repair itself to function as we interacted with it, eventually leading us to a chamber which looked somewhat like a library with bookshelves, a magical mirror and a glowing orb.

    Jonni took the orb from this room, the bookshelves seeming to hold little of immediate interest though the mirror was imbued with magic of some sort. The golem seemed keen to protect the room, placing itself so that it was very difficult to pass through. We searched for the phylactory, but nothing seemed to quite fit when suddenly both Raryldor and myself heard him. The Necromancer, likely through the scrying orb or the mirror, had taken notice and was not pleased.

    But not a moment after, I heard Paul Gend's voice speak to me. 'Don't be scared off - find the phylactory, I'll hold him off. But hurry!'

    We tried, oh we tried to make haste, but a phylactory is not meant to be easily found. We abandoned the library and pushed on, finding at last a room which looked very similar to the throne room in the Illithid mine lair - three thrones, a magical panel with elaborate side contraptions and a dragon statue with an altar below it.

    Magic, magic, magic... there's little I can do to help with such matters, least of all with far greater minds than mine along. Anxiously I paced, checking for hidden compartments where I could but finding nothing while the magic users studied the different features.

    Fafir found that the altar's runes corresponded to some on the magical panels, eventually translated into a coherent message: State your wish, pay the price and the deed be done... something to that effect, I can't in detail recall as I don't speak infernal or celestial.

    Paul again: 'Have you found it yet? I can't hold him much longer, you must hurry!'

    Jonni and Shannon mused over the stone dragon, certain it hid something more than the dragon spirit Paul had told me of. Should we break it, and if so how? Sheserai reported a large empty room at the end of another hallway past the throne room, which we had hitherto not looked closer at.

    But we were running out of time!

    Time itself flickered and froze as the Necromancer appeared, but he was soon followed by Paul Gend, who attempted to fight him. Magic flew and we stepped into the fray just as Paul crumpled to the floor. The Necromancer, true to form, vanished just as we looked to get the better of him and Paul was tended to - seemingly not dead, but definitely out for the count.

    And he hadn't even told me how to break the sword yet, saying the details would be divulged when and where appropriate!

    I was close to tears of frustration when we finally headed to the very last room, the seemingly empty, wide open end of the line. It was almost too empty, wasn't it? 'Transmutation magic..', someone said, and just then a fence appeared at the corridor, barring part of our party from entering the open room beyond. Suddenly a roar filled the air and a rattling, hissing sound followed.

    Over our heads, a bone white shape, wreathed in flames, whirled and descended on bare wings - a boney dragon form, looking much like I envision a dracolich does. It seemed to fill the air with dread, swooping up and away, then down with a roar as it attacked. But I, strangely perhaps, found myself eager for something to fight, something I could influence with the sheer force of my body. We swarmed around it, slashing, kicking, thumping.. and it broke!

    As it crumbled, so too did the fence. And what's more, the dragon statue hovering over the shrine was gone when we returned, vanished with it's guardian spirit defeated. In its place, a glowing orb hovered, filling the air around it with negative energy... the phylactory, at last!

    To touch it, to even go near was agony. Elaine took it and winced with each pulse of negative energy, until she finally just layed it out on the ground. Quickly, before the Necromancer returns.. how do we break it!?

    'Through Selûne's power', Paul had said. I thought at the time it referred only to the red blade, but Shannon gestured to the glowing rapier at my side. Lena's rapier, her gift of love and redemption to her son... yes, it felt fitting.

    I'm terrible with sharp instruments, but breathed a prayer to the Moonmaiden as I raised the blade over my head, then brought it down with both arms behind the thrust, straight into the orb's midst. Negative energy burst out as the phylactory shattered, but the bright moonlight seemed to pour out like a wave and swallow the shards, melting it all away in glorious liquid light.

    Thank you, Selûne.

    The red blade was next, but how? How, when the Necromancer cast all his fury at us, trying to stop the destruction of his safeguards. We fought him off again, when Paul Gend became our genie in a bottle for the second time, suddenly appearing spry and alert as though never injured in the first place.

    'Place the sword on the altar', he said, 'then Lena's rapier beside it. It'll be the price asked for.' I quickly did as instructed, placing eerie red beside heavenly white while Paul began to speak in a gruesome tongue. 'Step back!', he cried, and no sooner had we done so than a bright burst of magic crackled in the air - and when it faded, the blades were there no more.

    Thank you Lena, for saving your son in more ways than one, and saving us that took the torch up after him.

    Now, we could finally finish it - if only our foe would show himself. It would have been smarter not to, but I felt certain he would try to finish us foolish mortals in anger, and again time flickered. He came... he came, and the fight that followed is a blur in my mind's eye. I remember only my determination, so singular in intent that I didn't think to step out of the vapours of magic cast all around us. I kicked, I punched, I headbutted him as hard as I could.. and I hit the floor with my fist still clenched.

    Afterwards, I heard it said Shannon's healing spell both raised me and Jonni to my feet and took the Necromancer off of his. Who really got the last blow in doesn't matter though, even had I died it would have been worth those punches and the sweetness of victory not just for us, but for all the people now gone. Paul Gend's eyes filled with tears as we stood there, soaking the moment in.

    Finally, the Necromancer is no more."


  • "Feeling good.

    After so much frustration and uncertainty, after all that frantic and not so successful kicking just to try and keep my nose above the water, I feel as though we've built some momentum at last. Though the end is not yet in sight, we are taking action towards it, and it feels good.

    I feel good, for the first time in months. For the first time since this started, really.

    Seeing Vash't, brief though it was, helped more than he might have realized. It wasn't just the warmth and ardour of our embrace (though there was certainly no shortage of that), it's also that Vash't, simply by being Vash't, makes me view the world through his eyes.

    That world is so much brighter.

    I want to live in that world all the time, to be the person I am when he looks at me. The grim events of the recent past seemed suddenly like grand adventure, so boldly epic that he all but pouted at having missed it. And the absolutely ~huge~ grin on his face when I presented him with the Huntmaster's rapier was definitely worth waiting for!

    Lately it feels as if I'm being lavished with such kindness and generosity that my tousled spirits can't help but fly higher. Mooncandy, after the strike on Arnath, gave me and Jonni some simply staggering gifts: a helmet for him and a beautiful necklace of moonstones for me, powerfully enchanted to ward off harm. A small inscription on the back of the clasp reveals it as Eluriel's work, which only makes me like it more.

    Jonni's made me wonderful ring, blessed by Savras to grant me deeper insight, or true sight as he calls it. I find that wearing it, I am better able to predict the course of battle, but it also brings with it a warm and comforting sense of being protected. Big brother is watching, or rather watching over me.

    Elaine decided quite on a whim and in that typical overwhelmingly generous way of hers, to spoil me even further. She presented me with what may be the most wonderful boots ever, and giggled happily while my jaw dropped like an anchor.

    I say boots, but they're actually more like slippers, blue and adorably paw-like in their shape, but the best part is the loving care she put into the details. I never have to clean or repair them, they seem to do that on their own in the light of the moon - the moon, which also lights up the shimmering silver letters of Elaine's message of friendship.

    I feel spoiled, a little guilty over all these boons that are simply bestowed on me, but also happy and grateful - both for the gifts themselves and for having such great people in my life, people that lift me up and give me strength to carry on.

    –-

    Yesterday, we embarked on a search for the Necromancer's lair.

    I'd formed a tentative idea of where to find it, based on previous attacks and the inclusion of undead Mind Flayers on two separate occasions. There are remains of an abandoned Illithid city in the Underdark, with a passage leading up to the Norwick crypts. A lot of activity has been centered around there, so I felt certain we'd find something.

    I was right. I was also wrong, but in a way I couldn't have predicted at the time.

    We set out in small but able force from Norwick; myself, Jonni, Elaine, Emellia and Raryldor, joined part-way by the priestess Trish and a capable fellow by the name of Ashen.

    All through the Norwick crypts, things appeared much as normal, but below in Fendon's old court, a mummy lord awaited us with a shambling, groaning party of friends. As we neared the entrance to the svirfnerblin city below, I heard him speaking in my head: the Necromancer, threatening.

    'Are you certain you wish to face me? Turn back now, while there's still time.'

    I did no such thing and below, he changed tactics, trying to entice me with promises of power. 'All this could be yours', he said as I was admiring the black waters of the svirfnerblin docks. He really has no idea who I am, to try to lure me with a realm to rule. But it was not just me he spoke to, both Elaine and Emellia professed hearing a voice inside their heads, making similar promises.

    We fought savage stray svirfnerblins, Ropers and Cloakers before nearing the old Illithid settlement, where the first true signs of our foe's presence was seen - undead Quaggoths, likely the very ones we had slain previously in Arnath. These were followed by many more, a scattered breed of races joined in undeath, until finally the mind flayer ruins were around us - and a swaying, gauntly tentacled army of their kin.

    We cut through all we could see, finding an open dome nearby which we entered, eventually coming to what appeared an old mine. Narrow bridges spanned dark depths, branching out into a honeycomb of cave mouths. Here, resistance grew much more fierce as several powerful vampires leaped out at us, two of them thankfully petrified by Elaine's magic.

    Biggest and baddest of them all was a death knight, eyes glowing red. Dread seemed to fill the air around him, but we managed to use the narrowness of the bridge to good advantage, Raryldor's earth elemental pummelling down the horrid being's defences. A Bodak's cold gaze followed past the bridge, and I felt certain we were getting closer.

    'Hey! There's a man being tortured in here!'

    Elaine's shout halted our party, leading us to a small and unremarkable seeming cave mouth. Within, a horrific sight: a man, screaming and twitching as a magical contraption seemed to draw his lifeforce out. This unusual and cruel set-up seemed to power a magical barrier to the continued path inside.

    One conduit held negative energy, the other positive, and by blasting the first with healing magic, Raryldor managed to disrupt the system and set the man free. He was woozy, claiming to have no memories of how he got there, but gave the name Jim. Ashen loaned him something to wear and he followed our party further in, the path now open to a larger chamber.

    This room looked much like mom's sketch of the Necromancer's lair... and who should we meet in this room but the Necromancer himself? 'Foolish mortals', he said, time hickuping in that frightening way it does when mages seek to halt its flow.

    We fought, he disappeared - then his voice was heard behind a dragon statue hovering over an altar of sorts. A burst of lightning magic saw it cracked, and again we fought until inevitably, our foe faded from view. Whether he was truly there or not, I cannot say for certain, but it's doubtful.

    The lair seemed otherwise empty - no cupboards, no chests or bookshelves, no desks or hidden compartments that we could find. Three stone thrones stood to one side of the chamber, the busted up dragon statue in the centre of the room and on the other side of the thrones, a peculiar magical panel. It seemed of Illithid make, and amongst other things contained a prerecorded message from our not-so-dear necromancer lich.

    'Foolish mortals, bla bla bla', he spoke, though past the random villainous threats, an ultimatum was given: deliver the sword to him on the long stairs, or all of Narfell will suffer. This is our last chance, bla bla bla, foolish mortals, end transmission.

    What I desperately wished to find, what the Huntmaster himself thought we would find, were some sort of clues to the sword's destruction - but try as we might, we found nothing. Nothing, until Jim sat down in one of the thrones and suddenly dropped away from sight.

    A trap door of sorts was set into the seat, it seems, and by following (narrowly avoiding a fiery death into a melting crucible), we found ourselves in the self-same caves where Kristovar and Raryldor's party had previously ventured.

    This place seemed, by all accounts, to be precisely what we had been looking for - but frustratingly enough, it held nothing of direct use to our cause. The Necromancer, it seemed to me then, remains one step ahead.

    But now, completely unexpectedly, a new plan has presented itself. I'll put no details of it down as I'm keeping it a secret for now, even from my own family. It's good though, it's very good.

    Except for one small detail... but he'll understand. I know he will."


  • "Resolve.

    It's gone from bad to worse, but I no longer feel quite so helpless. Rather, I feel as though I've waded through fire, burnt until I glowed red-hot, been beaten and hardened until I emerged on the other side with fresh-forged steel in my resolve. I think back on what I've lived through in the past week, and I can't help but marvel. Maybe I can do this, after all.

    In the wake of the vampire attack, many strong and able people rallied. When we marched on the Barrows, Raryldor was there with as many of the Shesa'e as he could muster, Jonni was there, Elaine, Emellia and many others. Even Shannon, much to Em's delight (she has decided he is 'cute').

    The party made short work of the vampires, finding them exactly where Jonni's vision had indicated. But the clue we uncovered after the last of them was staked lead somewhere far more dangerous. Somewhere so very dangerous, it gave everyone pause.

    Arnath.

    I've never even fought one Quaggoth, and now our trail lead to a whole city of their numbers - and that's not counting whatever undead horrors also awaited within! I wasn't just in over my head here, I was so far below the surface that daylight was fading - but when, if not now, would we ever get a party that was strong enough for this? It felt good to strike back, to do something proactive and not just hide and wait. I didn't want to stop, even if I was afraid.

    Mooncandy joined us before we set off, our party cutting though the fishmen like a knife through butter. But as we entered the Underdark, the fishmen struck back. This time, they were undead, kuo toa zombies and magically enhanced ones at that. In short order, they dragged Jonni down in their shambling midst, and try as I might to get through, I couldn't reach him. It was a close call, and we hadn't even entered Arnath yet…

    I saw doubt cross the faces of several, in that moment. I felt it myself, but something inside insisted - if not now, then when? This wouldn't ever be less dangerous, but we had to do it anyway.

    Bathing in magic, with Elaine's haste quickening our steps, we took the leap together. My memory of that fight is a blur of images: magic crackling in the darkness; fire and lightning, pillars of divine light; the hulking shapes of Quaggoths stepping out of shadow and the pale gaunt figures in the distance; the flash of steel and the black-and-white floor tiles beneath my feet, in the square beyond the courtyard.

    It was only after the dust settled that I even saw the vampire, his body half-hidden underneath the other fallen. There were Mind Flayers too, with their tentacled faces and the sickly pallor of undeath clinging to their skin. A note was retrieved, a treasure chest raided, and then the gong rang out...

    The Quaggoth dinner bell, oh great...

    But there came no rush of clawed feet, no cries of alarm ringing through the city - instead a deeper calm seemed to settle as he appeared. The Necromancer, clad in stereotypical black. He appeared completely unphased by the destruction of his minions, walking calmly through the square as though we were of no consequence whatsoever to him - in fact, it seemed to me that he didn't even see the party. But he saw me.

    'You', he said in a dispassionate voice as that cold, dead gaze fixed on me. 'You have something that belongs to me. And I want it back. Now.'

    Jonni stepped up beside me as I replied, with all the conviction I could muster. 'It isn't yours until you claim it.'

    A fight broke out, but it soon became clear we couldn't harm the Necromancer. He dealt very little harm to us in turn, in fact, with the exception of a blast of negative energy towards Jonni, he didn't really do anything. I think he must have not truly been there at all but rather projected his image towards whoever held the sword.

    Taking his first few vampires out wasn't the end of it, of course. He wants the sword and there's no way to hide it from him, it's tied to him and so charged with necromantic energy that it must burn like a bonfire to anyone with magical ability.

    Norwick, a few days after... was worse than Arnath in a way.

    The moment I arrived, I found a seemingly endless army of undead massing at the gates; zombies, skeletons, patchwork giants and worse. Daron was there, Silver, a brightly clad dwarf named Foignar and (thank the gods for that), Shannon.

    One gate burst, then the second. The guards fell back as the horde pushed through, but we held the line for a while. But they just kept coming, the night spewing out horrors faster than we could strike them down. Dawn was hours away and the Necromancer's forces assailed us relentlessly, seeming bigger and tougher for each new wave.

    A colossal patchwork zombie tore through our ragged ranks, rampaged into town. Foignar fell, Silver and Daron, while Shannon stood his ground. Vampires followed, casters and fighters, one more vicious than the next. I couldn't stop to think, couldn't help the fallen, couldn't even find it in me to feel fear - I kicked, I punched, I ran and leaped through fire, drinking my one Heal potion a breath before my vampire assailant caught up with me.

    Somehow, I lived. As dawn broke, Shannon actually complimented me on that, though took the edge off this praise by adding dryly that he wouldn't have wanted to tell my parents I had died on his watch. As we hauled the fallen into the temple of Chauntea, my heart was heavy with regret. Three persons dead... it was a heavy price to pay, even if we had staved the undead off for now. I asked Shannon if he thought I should have done things differently; focusing on bringing the others to the healers at once, or been more careful myself.

    No, he said. To my amazement, I saw the same exhaustion in his face that I felt myself. Shannon said he couldn't have done this without me. That he had needed my help in the fight.

    That makes me feel a little better. I may still be out of my depth, I may be unable to resolve this myself, but no one, not even the likes of Shannon, can do everything themselves. And perhaps, while my resolve is strong and my mind clear, I'm not even the weakest link.

    I fought, I kept fighting despite the odds and I survived. I was even useful. Perhaps that's all there is to epic?"


  • "The sword's tale.

    The vampire attack was the talk of the town, and first to hear of it were of course my parents. Dad gave me that hug I so dearly needed, wrapping me into his arms as though I was a little girl once again, safe from all the world's evil in her father's embrace. It felt so good, though we both know I'm not a little girl anymore. I have to fight my own battles, and so when he let go, he clasped his thick blue cloak around my shoulders, then took my hand and replaced the ring he once gave me with his own.

    I couldn't refuse - it's his way of protecting me when he can't be there to snarl and howl at anything threatening to harm me. I mumbled something about returning both items once all this was over, then he hugged me again.

    Being Selunite, dad's cloak happens to be the exact same bright blue colour as that of my Selunite traveller's clothes, my now constant choice in combat situations. I feel better for wearing it, this portable hug clasped around me. But I really have to return it, dad does still get into trouble all of his own, even though he acts as if those days are long over.

    Mom, on the other hand, yelled at me (for growing up and everything thereafter), demanded to hear a long and detailed account of all that had happened, listened closely and then huffed out a long breath.

    'Right!', she said, with that sudden cheery determination that is pointless to even try to resist. 'We need to get to the bottom of this now, so come on! It's time for a delve into history.'

    My hair still smells of the incense of the Cerulean laboratory, where she coaxed the following story from the sword (which put up no more resistance than I did to her relentless will):

    @ed5ed456a0:

    The Red Short Sword - Legend Lore

    This weapon has a fascinating history, though it is not well known in most circles. In fact only a select few people have even seen it before it was unearthed from the Huntmaster's treasure trove. It was initially forged to serve one Ethan Smith, a ranger who fought all manner of evil creatures - including a certain Necromancer. This is where our story begins in earnest.

    Facing the Necromancer took a grave toll on the party that chased him when he first rose to prominence. Ethan Smith, along with sorcerer Paul Gend, Selunite cleric Lena Light, and scout James Butch stormed into the Necromancer's lair, situated in a cave deep into the Underdark.

    The party fought with deadly purpose, but they had arrived too late, the ritual was already complete. The Necromancer had become a lich, and now there was no way to kill him, for the phylactery was nowhere to be found. However, the sword's power was so great that it managed to trap some of the fiend's essence within, preventing the lich from achieving even greater power.

    After the dust had settled, the sword was left in Paul Gend's care, the group reasoning that the weaver was the more capable in keeping the now tainted blade away from the wrong hands.

    Several years later, however, the sword would resurface, stolen by a thief of the Necromancer's employ. But instead of returning it, the thief decided to keep the blade for himself. He would die shortly after, for reasons unknown, leaving the blade to be once again forgotten.

    Ten years later, the sword was found by the young ranger Morrison Smith, who had recently left his home following his father Ethan's death.

    Upon finding the blade, the Necromancer's tie to the weapon caused young Morrison to kill those who had entrapped its essence. The first of these murders was James, the scout, a man Morrison knew not at all.

    The Necromancer revealed himself after this in the guise of an elderly mage, praising the young man for killing a thief who had wronged him in the past. This was a but a half truth that would ensnare Morrison into serving him.

    The second victim was Paul Gend, the lich claiming him to be an evil mage. Later on, the Necromancer would ask Morisson to end the life of the last remaining member of the group, who was reportedly hidden in Morrison's hometown.

    He searched for Lena Light, sword in hand, but she was nowhere to be found. Frustrated, he returned home to see his beloved mother Eleanor once more, before returning to the Necromancer's lair.

    A mother always knows…

    Gazing into her son's eyes, she knew what he had done, and her heart wept. She held him in her arms and told him the truth: he could not find Lena Light, because she was now Eleanor Smith.

    Once the true tale was revealed, Morrison vowed to destroy his former master. As a parting gift, his mother granted him a rapier. He thanked her and was about to head on his way when the lich appeared. Then and there they fought, the red blade cast aside and the rapier held high.

    But Eleanor perished that day, her life claimed by a ray of negative energy. With her dying breath, she uttered a prayer to Selune, petitioning the Moonmaiden to protect her son forever. And the answer came as the rapier began to glow with divine light. With the weapon now infused with the godess' blessings, Morrison was able to strike many a crippling blow to the Necromancer, causing him to flee.

    Morrison Smith took the red blade but never used it again. He would carry it as a reminder of his dark deeds for the 40 years that followed, taking on the name of Huntmaster and giving chase to all necromancers, slaying all he met. Except for the one that always escaped him.

    This explains so much about the conflicting nature of the sword itself - a portion of the lich's essence is trapped inside it… no wonder my hand recoils, no wonder that when the sword resurfaced, so too did the Necromancer, wanting to reclaim it.

    It is part of him... but the Huntmaster has strong ties to the sword as well - after all, it was created for and weilded by his own father before it was tainted. I'm not sure if it was fate, chance or the Necromancer's own dark will that saw it placed in the hands of the son... but I know that Lena saved him, in more ways than one.

    I'm starting to realize this isn't just my fight, me and all those who oppose the Necromancer here and now... it's also theirs, the heroes gone before us. Ethan Smith, Paul Gend, Lena Light, James Butch - and Morrison himself. If I can help put a worthy end to this tale, if I can somehow finish what they started all those years ago, then they'll finally have won.

    I still have no idea how, but I am going to try anyway."


  • "Careful.

    'I must ask you to be careful', said the Huntmaster. 'Be careful', echoed all the rest, Jonni, mom and dad, Salin, even Maria who after having examined the sword briefly, grew pale of face. 'On a scale of one to ten in necromantic energy', she said, '…this one's thirteen. Be extremely careful, Nica..'

    But none of them could tell me how.

    How do I take care, what should I do or not do to err on the side of caution when what I'm walking around with is this? The sword, even when it doesn't move, seems to draw all kinds of attention, as though it was a flaming beacon of negative energy calling out to all the land's hungry hordes of undeath.

    I mustn't leave the sword locked up, that's what the Huntmaster told me, but how then do I keep it safe - and keep everyone around it safe for that matter? Short of taking permanent residence inside temple wards and sitting there in stoic guardianship, I don't think safe is within my abilities to manage. And hiding in a temple, how will I ever manage to find a way to destroy the sword?

    I feel so helpless. I've tried to offer the guardianship of the sword to others, but for better or worse, they all declined. It seems to be my burden to bear, though I feel horribly ill equipped to handle it... I wonder, if I had known all this when I picked it up, would I still have done it?

    I've adjusted my routines, all those that require solitude and space to run outside the shelter of city walls. I miss my swimming, the beach bright and early at dawn, the grimy, sweaty swamp runs and meditation out by the cliffs. I no longer feel comfortable there, where my life blood so recently soaked the earth. I grow irritable and anxious, being so dependant on others company to do anything, even something so simple as to run. But what else, other than staying ever alert and never alone, can I do that constitutes being careful?

    'Beware', the Huntmaster whispered in my head, 'They seek that which you hold. Deals were struck, promises made, beware...'

    The warning came one late afternoon, on an otherwise uneventful day. I could have chosen to work at the orphanage that evening, safe behind the temple wards, but I didn't, I couldn't quite stand being so cooped up. But I didn't stray from the commons, deciding adventure was not an option that went well with being careful. Later that night, as I sat out on the patio of the Mermaid in conversation with Cyrian, Raryldor happened by.

    Just as he had on an earlier occasion, the elven cleric seemed troubled, convinced that some evil presence was near. I felt nothing, but the Huntmaster's warning had me wary enough to follow as Raryldor cast a few spells upon himself and circled the building. Suddenly there was movement as two bats left their cover by the rooftop, straight above where we had been sitting.

    A blink of an eye later, they took new and terrifying shape on the ground - two heavily armored vampires, swords gleaming. I knew I was no match for them, I knew my only real option was to run as fast as I could to the nearest temple, but when Raryldor was shoved to the ground and beaten bloodied in short order, I couldn't. I just had to do something.

    I tried to trip the attacker, hoping to get his attention off the elven cleric for long enough to let him back on his feet. I missed, pathetically, but did draw the vampire's attention. Cold, dead eyes focused on me, and I knew at once I'd made the wrong call, even before the steel bit my skin, even before my attempt to run proved futile. I hadn't been careful.

    As the light faded from my eyes, all I could think about was how foolish I had been to try and play hero. The sword would be taken…

    I don't think I have ever been less glad to see the Huntmaster, his kind and radiant visage once again appearing before me in the fugue plane. For all his comforting words and the trust he appears to place in me, I could not help but feel I had failed him once more.

    I'm not much of a guardian if I can't fight off my persuers, I can't outsmart them, hide from them or even outrun them... I'm in way over my head and for all that I am suitable in some ways - it is true that the sword will find it very difficult to entice or corrupt me - I feel woefully inept in almost every other way.

    I can't even break the sword, I said morosely.

    You can, he replied calmly. You just need to learn how.

    The Huntmaster believes some clues might be found at the Necromancer's old lair - though where that is, he does not yet know. He bid me remain hopeful before we parted and I awoke in the Mermaid, my wounds tended to by Raryldor. While recovering my strength a bit, I told him and Cyrian more about the troubles we face.

    They said that the vampires had been defeated, but not for good. Raryldor believes they may lair in the Barrows but did not chase after this time because I was down for the count. He also offered his aid, or rather outright told me I wouldn't have to face this alone, in a tone that brooked no protest. Not that I had any protests, quite the opposite - regardless of what my parents think of Raryldor, he's precisely the sort of ally I'm going to need.

    As for the sword, it is still in my possession, apparantly having sprung out from my pack when I was down, defending me. That is perhaps one small consolation to take from all this; that while the Huntmaster still retains some small control over the sword, it won't be all that easily claimed, even if I'm taken out of the equation.

    I have to cling to that, I think… remembering I'm not alone in this struggle, even if I can't help but think of myself as the weakest link. I need my family's strength, the support of the pack... I need my friends, but also allies I can trust, whether friends or not. I need Selune's guidance... I need a hug that convinces me it'll all be alright, somehow.

    And I really need to sleep."


  • "The Huntmaster.

    I saw him again, even more radiant than before. Perhaps it was from being in that place, as if some souls shine all the brighter with their mortal coils thrown off - either way his presence was like moonlight, gentle yet bright, a cooling balm to the sting of what had just befallen me.

    I died.

    It happened but moments earlier on a routine training run through the swamps. I like the swamps, the marshy ground itself provides a challenge, and the lizardmen's frequent grease spells adds to improvement on my footwork. I was fighting a swamp wisp, a common enough thing and no real danger despite the occasional zap it delivered, when suddenly the short sword freed itself from my pack. It jumped straight into the fray, but once the battle was won, it didn't fall inert.

    Instead, it drifted closer, aimed at my throat. I took a wary step back, staring intently at it while my mind presented possible moves to counter this seeming hostility - dodge, a quick downwards blow, pin it with my foot - but then it suddenly backed off, floating backwards and away from me, towards the Scar.

    Alarmed and wary, I followed as stealthily as I am able - which unfortunately isn't very stealthy at all. On the sloping grassy fields that lead down to the sheer cliff edge, I saw the sword engaged in combat with a multitude of kobolds, easily a dozen. They were eerily red-eyed, muscular and armed with longswords - and just as I spied them, they too saw me. I began to back away, but these were no ordinary kobolds. The first to reach me was swift and strong, knocking me off my feet. A brief flash of pain as my vision went red, then blurry white.

    I fell… or was I lifted up? The world was muted and pale around me. No wind stirred here, no blue skies over my head, but water trickled soothingly in a nearby fountain. I felt numb, staring at the unfamiliar fugue plane around me.

    The sword... imagine those kobolds with that sword. A first twinge of emotion and it was dread, mingled with a sense of failure. Some keeper I made...

    Just as these heavy emotions arose, threatening to drown me, he arrived. The Huntmaster's sympathetic eyes were almost too much to bear, his presence a blessing I didn't quite deserve but was thankful for all the same. Our conversation was brief, though each word seemed to etch itself into my memory, clear as day even now:

    _H: It was the sword, wasn't it?

    N: It was fighting kobolds…

    H: I figure it would... I can barely control it anymore...

    N: I feared it would fall into the wrong hands, so I followed...

    H: That is a valid concern. Even in my hands, that sword committed atrocities... Well, no matter now. I'll try to have you restored to your plane now. But I must ask you to be careful. Don't trust the sword. There was once a time when I could control it. But my grasp over it fades...

    N: How can I contain it, should I lock it up?

    H: No. Left to its own devices, I don't know what the sword will do. You must find a way to destroy it.

    N: Is it tied to the Necromancer? He returned not long ago... we tried to finish him, but he got away.

    H: It is. I don't know how, but it is. And that would explain why my power over the sword is growing weaker. If he is back, then you must hurry.

    N: He seemed an undead creature, so the sword... it could be his phylactory? All the more reason to destroy it if so, but how?

    H: I wish I knew... It was the one thing I always missed in trying to defeat him...

    H: Do you have any other questions? You shouldn't linger in this place.

    N: If you can still influence the sword, could you not give some sort of sign that it is you in control?

    H: I could, but it would be easily discovered and used against you. It's best that you just be careful at all times.

    N: I will try... may Selune guide me._

    I awoke in the place where I had fallen, kobold bodies scattered all around like broken toys. The short sword was back in my pack, and on wobbly legs I made my way back to town.

    Half way back, a ranger came into view all of a sudden. I longed for Vash't and his warm embrace, for Rasuil and his watchful comforting calm, but instead I met John Isle. Strange as it sounds, given that John is well.. John, I'm grateful that I did. He took one look at my bloodied, torn clothing, my pale and shaken face and offered me his arm. 'C'mon', he said, 'y'need somethin' ta eat.' I leaned on him and - without a single grope, without a hint of lewdness - he lead me to the Lucky Ferret Inn, put a bowl of something warm infront of me and then just kept me company.

    He was kind to me, almost protective. He listened as I told the tale, shared with me how the sword had whispered its promises to him earlier. Part of him still wants it, he admitted that - but not at the cost of his independance. Jonni keeps telling me I shouldn't trust John, but I couldn't help but feel he was sincere. Even in caring.

    The Huntmaster has set me the task of doing what he himself could not: to destroy the sword. I have no idea how, no idea why he believes I'm even capable of this, but I do know one thing for certain - I'll need all the help I can get."


  • "The Necromancer.

    Are some stories bound to repeat themselves, to play out over and over until someone breaks the pattern, to win or to lose in so decisive a manner as to put a permanent period mark to the pages of history?

    The Huntmaster and the Necromancer seem to have that kind of story, destined to struggle on even after one of them has passed from this world - bound, perhaps, through that red sword?

    He's here now.

    Jonni and I, again at the Norwick south gates though in company this time. Sheserai had spoken of strong skeletons wandering the graveyard and crypt, wishing to investigate the roots of this anomali. We were still in idle conversation when I felt it again, that sense of growing unease. I ~knew~ danger was approaching, and this time I trusted myself not to have imagined it.

    This time we were prepared, spells, swords and bow at the ready when they came, groaning, shambling and reeking undead. There were more of them this time, wave upon wave, zombies and skeletons in varying degree of horror - and no sooner had they reached the gates than the sword once more flew out of its confinement to fight them.

    It was an eerie sight, that red-glowing blade dancing by itself in the dark of night, piercing flesh and bone. After countless decaying bodies lay scattered and in piles upon the ground, the sword still didn't drop - it seemed, if one can describe a lifeless object in those words, at high alert, hovering impatiently before us for a brief moment before cutting a path of crimson red through the darkness, towards the cemetary.

    Jonni frowned, sensing a trap. I shrugged helplessly, following. What else could I do? I had chosen to take the sword with the exact purpose of keeping it out of the wrong hands, and here it was, heading towards the wrong hands. It was fighting the undead, yes - but when it stopped, fell to the ground once more - who would then claim it, if I was not there?

    It took off at some speed, but then stopped near the hole in the ground, as though waiting for us. I could almost have sworn it was impatient, and had it had a foot, might well have tapped it, by the time our party caught up.

    The crypts then… where something particularily bad was already stirring by the sound of it. With a few final preparations and the addition of Raryldor to our side, we entered and immediately found ourselves in battle. The undead we faced were no pushovers, far stronger than what one normally encounters in that place. A faint echo of dark chanting could be heard at times, in the brief lulls between fights.

    The chanting grew stronger the deeper inside we went, a sense of urgency and dread building inside me - but the resistance was also growing stronger, we could make no more haste than this without lives lost. Following the sounds through the winding hallways of the crypt, we came at last to the centre of the ritual, a small chamber to the far right.

    It was crawling with undead, so many that the red glowing glyph in the middle of the floor was initially hard to make out. Looking closer, I spied a black shadowy figure in the pentagram's midst and undead priests around it, finishing their incantations.

    'You're too late!', the gaunt figure cried out, just as our group mustered the charge and darkness descended, thick as a blanket. The sword was a blur of red and I followed it, striking at whatever came close while magic pulsed in the air and the sound of battle raged around me. There was a flash of divine light before the dust settled and my vision cleared.

    Undead lay defeated all around, but of the necromancer in their midsts I saw no sign. But the pentagram still glowed with pulsing crimson light. A portal, a summoning circle? I know little about such things, but as the others tried to determine how to undo the dark magic, the sword leaped into action. It swooped high into the air, descending swiftly in an arc of red to bury itself to the hilt in the pentagram's midst.

    A burst of energy followed, a painful backlash of the sword's disruptive act, then the glyph faded. We stood there in the sudden silence, staring at the sword hilt sticking out of the stone. It had lead us here, no question about that. But whether it had helped or simply drawn us into harm's way, I still can't say. Perhaps it's a little of both.

    The questions started coming as I stepped up to retrieve the sword, mostly the very same questions I was asking myself at the time. Wrapping my cloak around my hand, I grabbed the sword's hilt and gave a tug - but it was firmly stuck and more than that, seemed for a moment to actively repel me. Offers came of assistance, but I kept at it, pulling with all my weight behind it. Something made me hesitate to let other people touch the sword, perhaps the same instinctive feeling that makes me not want to touch it directly myself.

    There's a sense of malice to it, something corrosive and greasy. The Huntmaster's journal has me left thinking the sword might have the power to corrupt a person, somehow. Since I have absolutely no desire for the sword - even if I could somehow use it, I'd be so terrible at it as to make the result laughable - I may be somewhat better suited to be its guardian than most.

    But with the sword, it seems the Necromancer follows. In my gut, I know it was him - the very same villain described in the journal. What he wants, I don't yet know though - is it possible the Huntmaster and he have fought for so long that whenever one stirs, the other follows? The sword is the link between them, the key to everything. I'm certain of that, if not of much more. It's as important as it is dangerous and contradictory in nature.

    Jonni isn't happy with all this. He seemed downright angry, and not just at the situation but at me, down in the Barrows. Flaming skeletons had emerged from below, spilling out into the Residential area when he was on his way to work. The ensuing commotion drew a small crowd, myself included, to head down to investigate matters.

    And of course the sword decided to 'help'.

    As we entered the Ashald family tomb, John Isle got a strange gleam in his eye, quickening his step to walk closer to the hovering blade. A knot of unease formed in my gut, but before I could stop him, he ran his finger along the flat of the blade. Unease blossomed into fear - I have a degree of trust for John, but it's situational. He's an openly greedy person who, while pleasant enough when it costs him nothing to be, would likely sell his own mommy dearest down the river if the price was right.

    I warned him, but he still seemed entranced with the sword - and then suddenly, without him actually grasping for it, it was in his hand.

    I told him to let go of it, nearly pleading because I felt the trap closing, history about to repeat itself. The Necromancer, awakened and near, might soon have another minion and a dangerous one at that.

    'John, let go of it PLEASE!'

    Instead, darkness fell and John vanished from view. But, Selune be praised, we were in an enclosed room by now, and there were only so many corners for John to hide. Elaine found him, froze him with magic and quickly disarmed him.

    Jonni was angry and remained angry after, seeming to think I'm careless to just carry the sword with me, that I don't see that it's dangerous and place a naive trust in it. Perhaps he's just worried, though he refused to take the sword himself when I offered it and has given me no suggestions for anywhere safe to store it. John on the other hand seemed strangely muted, his usual rascal grin faded away. Later, he told me the sword whispered to him, luring him with promises of power.

    And Elvira, upon exiting the Barrows, looked at me with a baffled expression, wondering where that sense of shelter and care came from...

    My best guess to these contradictions is that the Huntmaster, through his years of guardianship or the mark he put on the blade, has some sort of sway over it - he is that protective presence, his hand is the one that guides the helpful things it does. That doesn't mean it's a 'good' weapon, or that it can be trusted - clearly it was once the Necromancer's tool and it seems his hold on it remains. It's as though the battle between the two continues through the sword's very existance.

    The question is, can we break the pattern?"


  • "The Huntmaster's Sword.

    It's wrapped up now and stuffed deeply into my pack, the spidersilk cloak wound around it like a glossy blue cucoon. That's not going to stop it though, I know that - but somehow the layers of cloth and leather straps between it and myself feels comforting.

    I don't want to touch it. I don't really want to keep it with me at all, but I can't think of any place that would be safer for a sword that can move on its own accord - perhaps even has a will of its own…

    It moved. It not only moved, but actually ~flew~ out of my pack in a blur of cold metal and eerie red light, hurtling towards the gnoll that persued me. If not for the other eyewitnesses at the gate, I'd be convinced I was crazy or imagining it all, there was something so nightmarish about the whole scene. About that whole afternoon, really...

    The sun glinted golden, just about touching the treetops as I left the shrine of Kelemvor with my freshly purchased supplies. It was a beautiful afternoon, still and clear, yet as I stepped outside the gates, I felt suddenly uneasy. I tried to brush it off as imagination, trading a few friendly words with Shady, but the feeling stayed with me, growing more and more intense.

    Someone was watching me - it felt as though unseen eyes bored into my back like daggers, as though assassins would spring from every dark corner. Danger - danger - danger, my heart seemed to cry with every beat as I made my way north, trying my best to remain calm.

    The tension grew, yet every time I looked around, every time I stopped to listen, there was nothing - nothing but a golden afternoon and my own heartbeat thundering in my ears. I resolved to keep walking, calm and controlled to not rush into any ambush, but at the first sight of Peltarch's towering walls, I broke into full run. If I just got inside the walls, I'd be safe...

    But it was already there, waiting.

    A snarling gnoll warrior, crazed with hunger and disease. I sidestepped his swinging axe, dodged and ran past and through the gates, but before I could bar them the gnoll shouldered through, howling.

    Alone and without magic, I'm not much of a match for a gnoll, but I had to try. I tried to trip it, but took a searing hit to my side in return when I suddenly felt my pack move. And when the gnoll struck again, its axe caused sparks of red to fly at the clash with the hovering short-sword that proceeded to fight it...

    Others rushed to aid, but the sword did most of the job, falling flat and inert to the ground once the fight was done. I hesitated, staring at it laying there. Had it actually fought to help me?

    It looked just as before, the dark blade glowing red and omnious. I crouched to retrieve it, feeling that same instinctive revulsion at touching it directly. Had it fought to save me, or just to taste blood...?

    I unclasped my cloak, wrapping it around the sword and quickly tucking the whole bundle into my pack while questions I couldn't even answer to myself began to fly from the onlookers.

    But the strangest part of all is this: suddenly, shaky-legged and bloodied though I was, I felt a calm settle over me. Again I was being watched, but unlike before it was a warm and sheltering feeling, as though I had a guardian angel watching over me.

    And again, I'm fairly certain the feeling emanated from the blade."


  • "The Huntmaster's Journal.

    He did use the sword… that was his first mistake, but one he made innocently enough, out of ignorance, youthful and eager at the time. What fresh-faced adventurer had really done differently in his shoes?

    @86c7c7c2a8:

    I found a strange sword today. It's a really good sword, but it has something strange about it… Or maybe I'm just paranoid. Yes, that must be it. I mean, what harm could a sword possibly do without a hand to hold it?

    Unfortunately, this one mistake lead quickly on to others, far worse…

    @86c7c7c2a8:

    I killed a man today. I don't know why. I don't know who he was. I just saw him and something made me do it. The odd thing about it, is that as soon as I did, a mage appeared beside me, congratulating me. He said I was destined to great things. I'm not sure what he meant, but I'll stick with him for now and see what happens.

    Reading the journal, it strikes me how little Morrison seems to question things at the time. He kills a man for no apparant reason and doesn't seem to even begin to show remorse, to wonder why. Did this mage feed him a convenient explanation and he clung on to it as truth, because then he would not have to feel guilty? It seems both callous and horribly naive, but I think there are other explanations here than just being young and dumb.

    The sword itself is definitely a factor: the enchantments it bears seem to augment the physical strength of it's weilder, but at the expense of their better judgement in how to use it. That's a very dangerous combination, power without wisdom. You could end up doing very bad things without necessarily being a bad person - especially if manipulated by someone else.

    @86c7c7c2a8:

    Betrayed! Damned the soul who trusts a necromancer! That fiend used me for his crimes and I followed blindly… No more! I shall hunt him down. Him and all scum like him! I will not rest until I find each and every one of them!

    From this point on, Morrison Smith became the Huntmaster. He spent the next forty years combatting the same type of evil he was once fooled into serving, until he finally could fight no more. He must have payed his debt a hundred times over, but his last words are still tinged with remorse. I can't help but wonder, even having ascended to a celestial, if he has ever truly forgiven himself?

    @86c7c7c2a8:

    And so, if someone ever finds my gear, all I ask of you is that you use it in the pursuit of all that is Good and Worthy, and never forget what I've done. But above all, never succumb to the temptations of power.

    I'll try to take this cautionary tale to heart - I don't think of myself as a power-hungry person, though I have to admit that I'm ambitious in my own way and always want to excel and improve in what I do. Can I honestly say that if instead of a sword, this was a pair of amazing gloves, gloves that made my fists strike hard as rock and swift as lightning, that I wouldn't be tempted? I would definitely be tempted, especially if like the Huntmaster, I was ignorant of the harmful aspects.

    I mustn't be ignorant though, nor ever stop questioning and thinking for myself instead of following blindly along. I learnt that lesson early on with regards to survival. I was following adventurers I thought were experienced, strong and able into unknown territory. They were definitely stronger than me in battle prowess, but as it turned out, clueless about the dangers - they just strode confidently on, right into a hornet's nest that nearly claimed our lives. From that moment on, I stopped assuming that people around me necessarily know what they're doing, regardless of how old, how experienced or powerful they are.

    It's strange… sitting here with the book and the sword, I can almost feel the Huntmaster's tale come alive. From time to time I've actually found myself looking over my shoulder, convinced someone was watching me. It's silly, I'm just indulging my bardic streak here. Time I packed up and headed home, though I think I'll stop by Kelemvore's shrine to purchase some blessed bolts first. If I'm to honour the Huntmaster's legacy, kicking some undead butt seems a good start."


  • "The Huntmaster's Treasure.

    @9182c73aa6:

    In the woods… close to the sea... the Huntmasters treasure awaits for thee.. gold and booty of the finest there is... heed the warning though, the X is not the place... but if you go above it, you'll win the race

    The hunt is over, the treasure found - and what a treasure it was, so full of bounty that it was almost overwhelming for the five of us present. It's strange how, when there's a great amount of something desirable infront of you, you find you almost don't want it anymore. Perhaps that's just me, fighting down my greed (which I do have, but don't want to succumb to), but perhaps there's something about plenty in itself?

    I'd better start from the beginning though, because after the undead attack, the clues were all but completely gathered. Just one more clue left, and I found it hidden away by Shane Andryl's memorial stone in the Silver Valley.

    X is not the place, but it's what popped out at most of us when reading the complete thing. X as in the big red warning sign, carved into the ground outside the Beholder cave in the far east Rawlings. If you go above that cave, you'll find yourself not quite by the sea as such, but certainly in the woods and in proximity to water. It felt like a pretty solid guess, and we were all excited as we started out, myself, Jonni, Elaine, Sheserai and Gnarl.

    You'd think that with such a small party, we would have no trouble keeping together. But Gnarl somehow got lost, despite knowing where we were heading, and so we paused and paced above the cave, frustrated in our eagerness to get on with the chase.

    Once regathered, we searched the woods by the Scar, far and wide, fighting the usual wyverns and harpies - which today, as it happened, included one very large wyvern. This Mother of all of her kind was petrified in a highly dramatic pose, wings spread wide just as her tail touched the stone circle. She was so impressive that I wanted to simply leave her there, but stone soon shattered as some of the others continued to attack. Perhaps it was safer that way - perhaps kinder, because who knows what it's really like to be stone yet still in some sense alive - but the secret bardic vein in me twitched and wailed in protest at beauty broken.

    We pushed on, further and further until suddenly, Elaine's excited shout resounded. 'FOUND IT!

    Hidden by a copse of trees and half-buried, a large wooden chest stood before us. There was a pause as everyone just looked at it, a solemn silence pregnant with expectation. Then the lid was sprung and a soft wow came from those who glimpsed the contents….

    Then came the light.

    It was a bright light, blinding white. I blinked repeatedly to clear my vision, and then I saw him... a hooded man, clad in forest green with wings of purest white still fluttering gently. He seemed at the same time gentle and awe-inspiring, this celestial being who introduced himself (to rows of slackened jaws) as The Huntmaster.

    In life, his name was Morrison Smith, a ranger sworn to combat the evils of undeath in service to the Moonmaiden. A ranger ~and~ a Selunite... how could I not be just a little smitten? He greeted all of us with the same solemn kindness, yet before he accepted us as guardians of his former belongings, he cautioned us to not make the same mistakes he did, hinting of something dark within his legacy. But first he looked at us - one after the other, ~really~ looked at us with eyes so piercing it was as though he could see right through me.

    I squirmed on the spot, but could not look away while every mistake, every shameful, deceitful, cowardly and selfish act I ever made seemed to be laid bare before his penetreting celestial gaze. Lies, evasion, hurtful remarks I wish I had never made, they all flashed before me and I felt so small and so flawed, like a child with grubby hands staring up at this perfect angel.

    And then he smiled.

    It was like sunshine on a cloudy day, that smile, and in that moment I knew I'd do whatever I could to make him proud, to carry on his work and make sure this find had meaning. I'd come here like the rest, without any nobler cause than searching for treasure, following an intriguing riddle and hoping for shiny things - but now, it suddenly meant something. I think we all felt that way, because the mood was thoughtful as we returned to Norwick with all our gathered treasure.

    Jonni, still weary from his close call at the hands of that vampire, excused himself early while the rest of us lay the items out in the grass, just staring at them for what felt the longest time. It was all good things, useful in qualities and obviously designed for those good of heart - though the Huntmaster's warning still rang at the back of my mind. I wondered what it was he had done wrong, noticing an inscription on the hilt of a strangely red-glowing short sword.

    'May I never forget what I have done', it read. The sword itself stood out amongst the objects, not just from it's omnious glow but also being the only item clearly unsuitable for the use of good. Had the Huntmaster really used this wicked blade? It had such an uneasy feel to it that I didn't even want to touch it, but obviously also held some powerful enchantments.

    It was the type of thing that was worth keeping for the sole purpose of keeping it out of the wrong hands. And while I knew there were no such wrong hands in our group, it still felt right to take it. It felt like something my father would have done.

    I also chose the Huntmaster's journal, eager to learn more about his story, as well as a very unusual ring and eventually, after having waited and waited for anyone else to display an interest in it, a beautiful rapier, bathed in the shimmer of moonlight. Vash't is going to absolutely love it... I think I'm more excited about giving him this gift than about anything I got for myself!

    Maybe if I stick around in Norwick for the next day, I might find him loitering conveniently nearby? And if nothing else, it would give me time to finish reading the Huntmaster's journal."


  • "Vampires.

    My parents, among many other possible and actual titles, could well be called vampire-hunters. For years, nothing short of an unexplored Nars Empire ruin would get my mother's eyes so bright with excitement as this topic. Tales of Lillia and the mysterious Waterdeep coven were obviously not for small children's ears, but I still managed to catch enough of it - especially while eavesdropping on my parents, C'Tan and Yu Shei - to send my thoughts into thrilling flights of fancy and occasional bouts of night terrors.

    The topic also caused rows, huge arguments between mom and dad, between mom and Ronan, and this too had something to do with vampires, or so I always thought. No one really told us, but I remember Jonni pulling me away from listening at the top of the stairs once, like he wanted to protect me from the anger and the hurt below. All I know for sure is that it put a distance between mom and Ronan that was never fully bridged. And that sparkle in her eyes when talk turned to vampires was gone.

    Still, as I grew older I kept nagging for those stories, having the same horror-mingled fascination with them as when I was little. Vampires are undead, undeniably evil and vile - but unlike most other sorts of undead they still think, they still reason, want and feel ~something~, retaining enough of their old selves to make them appear at times not so unlike the living. If you've met one groaning, shuffling, brain-eating zombie you have met them all, but vampires are individuals.

    Elaine, Sheserai and I toyed with the idea of the dashing visitor to the College being a vampire, winding ourselves up to the point of Elaine started stalking the man. I think at some level we enjoyed it, the tingle of fright, the speculation and the mystery. But when I had my first real, undeniable vampire encounter, there was none of that.

    There was just blood, steel and a cold, merciless fury.

    Helplessness and terror.

    Jonni and I had returned from a spot of carefree mining down south, placed our heavy bags near the south fire and chit-chatted amicably about this and that, about the ongoing chase for the Huntmaster's treasure which even I was beginning to grow enthused about, almost against my own intentions.

    The sun had just begun to set and the first stars made their shy appearance overhead when suddenly, a thick darkness descended. I heard distant groans and the air grew heavier as though laden with death, dread and decay. We scrambled to our feet just as the first zombies came through the gates, but in their midst was something else. A flash of steel, an armored figure cutting through the shambling hoard like a shark, like lightning.

    The vampire.

    He was pale death swooping down upon us, his sword cutting to the bone with the first impossibly swift strike, followed by a merciless second, third, fourth - Jonni yelled for me to do what he couldn't and run, while he gritted his teeth and tried to stand his ground.

    The vampire tore through him as though his armor was made of wet parchment. My brother fell to the ground, crumpled like a doll while I stared in terror, in disbelief. Jonni, the big brother who could carry the world on his shoulders. Somehow, despite adventuring together, deep down I never thought anything could really hurt him until that moment.

    In the next breath, the vampire was upon me, and any foolish notion of being able to fight it was knocked out of me. Almost too late, I did what Jonni had told me and ran.

    But not far.

    Shaking, bleeding, I ducked around the nearest cover and fumbled for an invisibility potion, then turned back as quickly as I dared to recover my brother. In town, distant screams and clangs of metal suggested the vampire had moved on to livelier prey and I hoped, I begged and prayed that it wouldn't see me or the thick trail of blood as I half carried, half dragged Jonni up the hill and towards Chauntea's temple.

    I made it inside, but could barely speak as Yllalyn hasted towards us. I'd left my brother to die - it didn't matter that he told me to, I left him and now he was dead, dead when moments ago we'd been laughing together…

    Yllalyn startled me out of grief suddenly.

    'He's alive, but barely... if you'd come just a moment later.. '

    She got to frantic work, sending me out once more to find a herb that would help stabilize his condition and again I went invisible, again terrified. I was sure the undead would smell me, would follow the blood and tear me limb from limb, the vampire was still out there... but all I saw was the odd shambling zombie as I tiptoed to the gates. Just outside, untramped by their rotting feet, grass grew thick.

    Something glinted in the darkness, a flash of something pale and out of place.

    I bent down to retrieve a slip of paper... curiously it was a clue, a lead to the Huntmaster's treasure - but that's not what I wanted at all, not then! I stuffed it into my pocket anyway, about to rush on when noticing just the herb Yllalyn had described, growing by the opposite side of the gate...

    I collected a handful and ran back as fast as my legs would carry me. Live, please oh please, just live... and he did! Yllalyn said it was an incredibly close call, and I have never seen Jonni so pale and so vunerable looking as that time. He leaned on me as we hobbled back towards the gate at dawn, as if suddenly our roles had been reversed.

    Raryldor ended up chasing the vampire down, deep in the Norwick crypts. The threat is ended, but the fright lingers like an echo, like a chill down my spine. There was no wickedly clever wordplay or seductively mystery-laden games, that thing was nothing but a killer, pure cold hate. And for all my training and all my hard work, there was nothing I could do to fight it, nothing. I could only run."


  • "Treasure.

    Growing up in a household like mine, I have lacked for very few things. I am privileged, I am aware of this, though I think my parents did a fairly good job of keeping us from being spoiled, at least in the sense of always getting whatever we wanted. Still, when I look at the equipment I have simply been given, through no effort on my part but for insisting on adventuring, I can't help but feel rather spoiled. Only my gloves and my crossbow are mine through having actually ~done~ something to deserve them. The crossbow at least, I actually think I earned fair and square, risking my life to shield Jimmeh from that big kobold at the gates. Gilda had my back, but it was decidedly scary (and bloody).

    It's hard not to take what you have for granted, and perhaps this played into my parents decision to have all of us children spending time at the Lighthouse orphanage. When we were very little, we would simply play with the other children while mom and dad did their rounds, but as we got older we'd help out instead, with whatever simpler chores were needed. I learned a lot from this, not only about treasuring the riches I have (like parents who love and protect me) but also that there's no real difference between me and the children who live there. But for a twist of fate, anyone of them could be me.

    In helping out, I also gained a treasured skill I'd never have mastered at home. Cooking! Not that dad isn't a decent cook, but Mildred at the orphanage, she has such a love for what she does that it spreads throughout the kitchen, carried with the heedy aromas from the heavy cast-iron pots and pans. For special occasions, she'd let me help her make cookies, and the scent would spread throughout the temple entirely. Everyone would make errands to the orphanage suddenly, donating a little something in return for a piece of the baked treasure. I'd feel absurdly proud though all I did was pour in the things Mildred measured up for me.

    Treasure means different things to different people, at different stages in their lives I think. When I was little, the cookie was in itself treasure - fiercely coveted, jealously guarded and devoured in tiny bites to savour every last morsel - but now I realize that the pride I felt in having helped bake it was also a form of treasure. Unlike the first kind, the second type of treasure lingered like a warm glow. And unlike the first, this treasure felt better the more I shared it. I still feel a tinge of that same pride when people eat and enjoy something I created.

    I've watched my parents return from their voyages and adventures, laden with magical, shiny goods, but for me the real treasure brought back was always the stories. The items, while often wonderous, were pins to hang the story threads upon and make it that much more vivid and real - like Wartooth's helmet. It's a good helmet, no doubt about that, but the story, oh! The story is why I'm so honoured to wear it.

    The best part about stories is that everyone can share them, be they rich or poor, young or old. All you need is imagination, the will to let yourself be swept away and a good story can take you anywhere, across chasms of time and space to places and people you'd never otherwise meet. Stories can make you happy or sad, make you think, make you wonder, make you escape from your ordinary life, if only for a little while. It's my favourite form of treasure, because you can enjoy it over and over, and sharing it only makes it grander.

    I'm contemplating the word treasure today, because Jonni, Elaine and a fair few others are all out chasing after an actual one. A few clues have been found, hinting of a buried treasure from someone calling themselves the Huntmaster. I'm sort of curious, but haven't got the time to join the chase just yet. Perhaps tomorrow, if it hasn't already been found.

    I'm not really that bothered with chasing after riches (it might be the classic pair of worn out boots for all I know) - but perhaps there's a really good story hidden there too?"


  • "Practice.

    Whatever your ambitions, whatever your natural talents, there's really only one thing that will get you closer to your goal, one thing that will make you improve, whether you even have that elusive natural gift for something or not. Genius is one percent inspiration and 99 percent transpiration, as the saying goes. For me, nothing could feel more true.

    It upsets dad when I say I'm not special, and perhaps that's not the right turn of phrase to use, really. I don't mean that I'm insignificant - it's more the sense that what I do, and however well I do it, isn't the result of anything other than simple hard work. I'm not chosen for some grand or terrible fate, I've no calling to serve the gods, I can't sing without making old Stinky howl.. Really, I'm not particularily gifted in any one area except possibly that sheer bullheadedness that seems to run as deep in our family as the famous Zoma 'luck'.

    Being stubborn can go a long way though, at least if you have your mind set on something. I remember my first tentative sessions with Yu Shei, working on little things like balance. I'd be discouraged and ashamed when I fell, blushing with pride when I kept my balance - but Yu would only nod and say 'Try again' and 'Again'.

    Slowly it sank in - it wasn't about that individual failure or success, it was about mastering the move and ultimately yourself. The only way to do that is through practice, again and again and again, until it's ingrained in your very fibre. Seen in this light, the only real failure would be to give up.

    I haven't given up yet, and I'm not about to start now. Selûne's shard said I would find a mentor, and I don't doubt I will, some day. But I no longer feel quite as lost without one. It's true I have a lot to learn, but I have good people around me, people I can bounce ideas and thoughts with. Elvewyn's calm and wisdom provides welcome insight, but perhaps oddly, so does Elaine in that her way of thinking contrasts so with my own. I think we both find our discussions worthwhile because while we don't always agree, we find understanding for the others point of view - actually, sometimes I even find I understand myself more clearly for having to lay my arguments out in the open.

    As for the combat side, I have a vision of what I wish to accomplish, and I can feel improvement creeping up on me, slowly but steadily. I've started a new training regime, extending my morning run along the waterfront, from the residential district to the docks and out into the foothills beyond, past the farms and down the winding stone stairs to the Icelace. I strip down to my undergarnments in the cover of the old shipwreck, slip the ice scarab around my neck and swim out until my feet no longer touch the sand.

    I practice my spinning here, twirling, curling, kick, slice and punch. The sluggishness of water is helpful, makes me feel more keenly the difference little angles make and how you build up momentum in twisting around just so; a little burst of effort which you can then simply ride on, letting the wave carry you through.

    Even with the scarab and constant motion, the water is freezing. Afterwards I always head to the bath house, lie on my back in the warm water or on a bench in the steam room to let my mind roam free in utter relaxation.

    It's a solitary exercize but it works for me; I think I'd even feel a bit awkward were someone to join me. The swamps runs are different, that's all about building stamina and strength of leg in those tricky marshy patches. I just run myself sweaty and breathless, shooing some kobolds and fighting others along the way. It's simple, grubby and rather relaxing in its own way, in fact.

    'I… wouldn't mind if you joined me at the bath house', I said to Vash't after one such sweaty run through mud and swampy green. He pinched the bridge of his nose, looked up at the sky and mumbled something incoherent before shaking his head. I knew I'd pushed it, but as usual I find it hard to resist the thrill of testing his resolve. The very notion that I could be considered tempting is still strange and new in itself, but that the person I myself find so tempting feels this way? It's plain irresistable.

    He calls me a witch, asks me to stop and then begs me for more, green eyes aglow. Since there's only so much we can actually ~do~ within the limits of this courtship, I'm using my words instead, to rather a wonderful effect. I don't think I ever felt this naughty before, even while I'm technically speaking being very good! Even better, I can blame it all on him for bringing Witchfist into life, that secret vixen side of me that really wouldn't exist but for him.

    Still, for all those wild urges and thrills, for all that sometimes the single, all-consuming thought that fits into my feverish head is to kiss him, I don't. He doesn't either, not on the lips, not ever crossing the lines. Hugs are quite allowed though, and we do that a ~lot~, pressing our bodies so close together that sometimes I can't tell which heartbeat is mine and which is his. I like to rub my cheek against his, feel the light prickle of stubble against my skin, breathe a soft nonsense something into his ear and push my luck a little further before we must part.

    Parting is such sweet sorrow, as the poets say. I always thought it was drivel until now, and can only hope my current change of opinion is insightful rather than proof of love turning my brain to mush...

    I do worry about some things. Not age as such, but rather life experience, which he has ample of and I don't. He's loved before, lost before, hurt and been hurt, kissed, cajoled and learnt from it all. Me... I'm just fumbling along, trying to wing it with confidence that isn't quite mine. Perhaps this fear of being at a disadvantage is why I find it such a thrill when his eyes go glazed at but a smile and a few choice words? Perhaps love is powerful enough to be an equalizer, no matter your score going into the game?

    It would be nice if that was the case, because sometimes I feel very small and very green. Like when I found out his previous lover was none other than Rith... Yeah, not the best grounds for comparison, is it? I couldn't hope to match Rith in a thousand years of trying, but I pushed that feeling of inferiority away as best I could, tried to work it out in my own mind before saying anything to Vash't. After all, I knew he had a past, and it would be a sad past if it didn't include lovers of a caliber equal to his own, right? I can't blame him for living a full life before we met - if I did that, we might as well call it quits right now.

    I still felt small. Then I pictured in my mind's eye dad's fury, the snarling beast beneath the skin - and Vash't walking straight into it, knowingly. Willingly, even. He could have had someone like Rith, but he chose me, even with werewolf strings attached.

    I suddenly felt much better.

    He told me himself, eventually, like it was a big deal which might upset me, then gave me the most adoring look when I explained that it wasn't. He'd told me he loved me not a half hour earlier, slipped it out in mid-sentence banter as though it was well established fact and not a rather staggering first. We nestled together upstairs in the Mermaid, sharing our dreams and thoughts of past and future until Elaine shook us from reverie with something or other of urgent nature. I don't even remember what, so warm was I from that green gaze, those loving arms.

    For all that I want more, sometimes desperately so, I find myself wondering if perhaps my parents aren't so wrong in insisting on this courtship period. Perhaps, like most things, love is something that requires some practice? I feel as though I'm beginning to find my confidence with every new step we take."


  • "Faith.

    Throughout my life, faith has been a natural element, entwined so seamlessly with who I am that it is not until now that I have truly begun to reflect over it. It's true that my father is a Selûnite priest and Yu Shei follows the same faith, but it is still not a choice that's automatic for all the family - Jonni has Savras (or Savras him, depending on how you view things), mom and Siri pay their homage mainly to the Grey Wolf.

    Yet for me, it was always Selûne, so without question that I can't even recall considering choosing another god as my patron. Jonni's teasing that I'm a daddy's girl might have some truth to it there, because many of my fondest childhood memories are of me and dad, hand in hand by the Moonmaiden's shrine or at home by the window, bathed in her silver light. I felt doubly loved in those moments, as though embraced not only by my father but the godess herself. It was a simple, self-evident sort of love, much alike that between parent and child. I was happy and safe knowing that she loved me, and I loved her in return, with all my earnest little heart.

    In some ways, I still feel that way, though I am aware that I must stand on my own two feet and fend for myself as all grown-ups do. I am no priestess, serving the Moonmaiden directly. I expect no miracles and ask no favours, but simply try to let Selûne guide me in the way I live my life, in the choices I make and in how I treat others. I strive to be someone who does her proud; someone kind, someone tolerant, understanding and forgiving.

    These ideals sound so simple that they shouldn't need to be stated out loud, I often think. Yet there's a point in doing that, because the things we take for granted are often the things we neglect the most. Kindness is a virtue grossly underrated, tolerance much harder to accomplish than any condemnation, no matter how righteous. I should know, I struggle with this more than I'd care to admit.

    I don't think I'm a bad person, I certainly strive to never be mean or hurtful - yet I sometimes find myself easily annoyed, especially when I feel others are being slow or incomprehensive. At times like that, I catch myself passing silent judgement or even making a snide comment to my friends - and I shouldn't! I should always strive to understand - really, isn't that what my whole life's ambition is about? Understanding me and the nature of the world I exist in, understanding others and being tolerant of their shortcomings, open to their virtues. For all that I'm trying to perfect certain aspects of myself, I know I'm just as flawed as anyone else - yet loved all the same.

    I'll keep trying, Selûne. If I can't always speak kind words, I'll at least refrain from speaking ill words when they have no purpose but to hurt.

    Forgiveness is another concept which sounds simple, but really isn't. You can say it, you can wish it to be true, but to forgive someone in your heart of hearts is probably the hardest thing there is. I don't speak from experience here - really, I have had a blessed life with little need to forgive anyone anything of weight - but I have seen my parents battling the regrets, grudges and sorrows of life. Ultimately, I believe forgiveness is a gift not only to the one who did wrong, but the one wronged - because only then can they let that hurt go.

    Yes, it's hard, and it's true that not all things can be forgiven - but we can look to the moon to guide us and give us courage to take that first step. That's kind of the essence of what faith is to me and what I want to do myself - I don't want to preach or persuade, I don't want to tell others what to do or how to do it, dictate what's right or what's wrong - I want simply to listen and understand, and in that way help people find the path that's right for them.

    To a point, of course. Tolerance doesn't mean you should tolerate intolerance and tyranny, cruelty and spite - but I believe that to understand the roots of evil means you can combat it better, and in other ways than simply meeting force with force.

    Again, it comes down to understanding. Curiously, it was through aiding another faith that I reached new understanding myself, not long ago. It was Spring Tide, and a young acolyte of Istishia was to be initiated into the faith. Visitors to the ritual were two sea elves, strange and slightly haughty beautifully green-skinned people, seeming beyond graceful in the water yet a little out of place, almost awkward on land. They had had some trouble on their journey, expecting an ambush upon return - and so we, the spectators, were asked to help clear their way.

    We were to dive down, right into the frosty depths of the Icelace, to fight a number of kuo toa and whatever else lurked below, aided by spells of water breathing and cold resistance. It was a chance for an entirely new experience, and I gladly volunteered alongside Jonni, Elaine and a bunch of others.

    Even with the spells, it was a shock to descend into the cold water - the magic keeping the freezing somewhat at bay, yet I could feel myself growing numb and sluggish of movement. Taking that first breath of water was rather daunting too, it goes right against natural instinct and I kept my mouth firmly shut for a little too long, feeling slightly nauseaus by the time I dared to breathe.

    Once at the bottom, I started somewhat to adjust, swaying seaweed and soft, soggy sand under my feet. Moving proved tricky while fully immersed in water; you feel at once lighter and slower. I tried walking upright at first, bobbing languidly up and down with each step when the fishmen were sighted, not far ahead. Clearly, they were not about to play nice, and crossbow bolts whizzed through the water towards us.

    A curious thing about water… it slows things down, and in that fight, I suddenly ~saw~ all movement, each element of combat all the more clearly, like time itself was drawn out. There was time to think, though reaction time was also slowed - until Elaine's hasting magic rippled the water. I gave up on walking, pushing off into a horizontal crawl through the water to fight, fist and elbow, knee and foot.

    Something curious about water... I could ~feel~ what I was doing, intently aware of each motion, the water's resistance, the rythm and flow around me. Is this what air does too, only so subtly that we hardly ever notice? This slows me down, that propels me forwards, builds speed and momentum.. I learned so much in this one underwater battle that when we finally emerged, I felt lighter, sleeker, swifter - as though just a little bit closer to the sharks we'd fought and their beautifully efficient economy of motion.

    The Selûnite priestess I sparred with at the Night Stalk told me never to put limitations on what I want to accomplish. Now, I think I want to glide through air like a shark through water, moving with effortless grace and purpose - but all the while let the Moonmaiden's merciful light guide my actions, so that I do not become cruel and cold-blooded."


  • "Focus.

    To the unarmed fighter, this is a key word. Without armor, without shield or even a weapon to be used to block an incoming blow, you have to focus intently on what's happening, predict what's next so that you can move out of harm's way. Your armor, in a sense, is just that: an acute awareness of your surroundings and a swift, correct interpretation of any given situation. And of course you must be quick enough to make use of that awareness, to be where that axe swinging down is not going to land, to sidestep an incoming charge by someone heavier than you, to use the attackers own momentum to bring them down.

    When my focus is sharp and clear, I can do all that, sometimes emerging from a fight without a single scratch. But when I falter, it's a searingly painful reminder of just how vunerable I am, and how fragile the human body really is.

    The orcish warrior in the foothills, all stomping, raging testosterone. I shifted my balance subtly from foot to foot, calmly awaiting his furious charge when suddenly my mind drifted to other, quite unrelated matters.

    Vash't, Vash't, Vash't.

    Ashald garden, draped in velvet shadows, dark roses shyly folding up their petals for the night. Martin the Gardener muttered something unintelligable as he shambled off, leaving us alone under the stars. Vash't, Vash't, Vasht… he had made it out alive from the necromancer's lair, giddy with the thrill of battle. I had (somehow) made it out alive from the Mermaid where the victorious party gathered, fleeing the insufferably public jibes and remarks on what had just days ago been only ours.

    At any other time, I would have loved to stay and talk with the charming elven woman I later learned was none other than mom's childhood idol Eowiel, but there was fire in Vash'ts eyes, and my own face was undoubtedly burning. I clutched his hand as though my life depended on it as we hurried off into the sheltering night.

    In the garden, his arms wrapped tightly around me, the heat of his body pressed against mine. His lips...

    Wait, wasn't there something I was supposed to - oh crap, the orc.

    There's nothing quite so terrifying as a greataxe swinging down on your head, coupled with the realization that you haven't got enough time to evade the blow. The orc roared in triumph and all I could do was take the pain, knowing even as I moved away that it would be too late, trying only to steel myself against it. A hard hit to my shoulder, hot blood gushing down my side. White dots of pain dancing wildly before my eyes.

    I ran.

    I ran, angrily chastizing myself to keep the fear at bay, heavy steps following close behind. I pressed my hand tightly to the gash, willing the bleeding to stop, the flesh to mend, then turned abruptly around to try and trip my persuer. He wasn't expecting that, the surprise was plain on his face, but I hadn't quite the force left in me to make him topple. The orc roared again, scoring a glancing blow to my leg before my fist impacted with his nose. The rest is a blur of red.

    Having washed my blood and my humiliation off and mended the multiple gashes in my fighting attire, I find myself less angry and more alarmed. It's true I took a kobold dagger to the thigh once before, in similar dreamy distraction, but this is worse. This could have cost me my life, and I really REALLY need to focus on what I'm actually doing. Even if I want nothing so badly as to focus on the things I'm not yet doing.

    Like kissing Vash't.

    I'm obsessing over the curve of his mouth. The way the corner of his lips quirk, betraying a smile's arrival. A coy smile, a teasing one, a warm and tender smile when his hand curls around mine. A wolfish grin, hinting of things to come.

    But all he does is hint, and it's driving me ~crazy~! He's being all well behaved and abiding so diligently by the rules of conduct that it's making me all the more rebellious. I find myself saying and doing things designed to drive him crazy in turn, and feeling strangely empowered when I succeed. I don't want to actually break the rules, but I want to test them, stretch and scratch at the do's and don'ts. I want to want, and be wanted in return. But it's oh so distracting, like being drunk, and like a drunk I find myself doing some pretty stupid things. The worst part is, I've no desire to sober up.

    But I've ~got~ to learn to focus when it matters!"


  • "Epic.

    It's a big word, charged with notions of heroism in the face of grimly death-defying odds. Epic is the stuff of legends, often with a greater purpose, a great threat and a great effort to thwart it. Epic saves the world, breaks it, or as in the case of my parents, both.

    Are some people destined for it, or does epic spring from our own intent, our ambitions and the choices we make? It must be a little of both, because what point is there for fate to place you in the right place at the right time, if you are unwilling or unable to take the challenge on? And those that are willing, those that seek greatness, will they not find their own way to that right place and time, instead?

    Not always.

    My mother - though she hardly lacks in epic deeds to her name - was and I think remains frustrated by the simple factors of place and time as limiting factors to greatness. Oh, she won't let on, but I know it eats at her, having missed the conclusion of many big events, especially those she put a lot of effort into resolving. The lot of the bard, she'll claim with a martyr's sigh, is to do all the research and then sing the heroes praise as they return - but she doesn't fool me. More than anything, my mother wants to make the world a better place, and knows well that the success of executing those world-changing events rests not only on bravery but also knowledge. The latter is a worthy contribution to greatness, unglamorous though it may seem compared to the epic deeds themselves.

    That doesn't change the fact that if she could have been in that right spot at the right time, she definitely would have preferred it. Though the events she did partake in (which are far more numerous than she'll gripe about when in sour mood), they're pretty damned amazing.

    My father, though he'll deny it, is a Hero with a big capital H and also the kind of person around whom things happen. He'll try and deflect this fateful trouble-magnetism onto my mother but there's no denying that a man who wears pink attracts all sorts of attention; the good, the bad and the highly irregular. He's been in the thick of battle since he was barely into his teens, living and breathing epic all along the way. Similarily to Jonni, I think he was in a sense born for it, though Jonni is a great deal more cautious.

    Perhaps time has changed dad a bit, mellowing the wild, if not quite the chaotic streak? The sort of wild that once saw the birth of the Suicidal Five seems a thing of the past, but if my father has one single defining characteristic, it's his stubbornness. When push comes to shove, he'll always be there, and perhaps this is an important part of what epic is made of - a simple, iron-clad refusal to give up, so long as you have something you believe in, something worth defending. To stand tall and defiant no matter the odds, to see things through to the end, whether bitter or sweet.

    Beneath that fierce and unyielding facade, beneath the snarling alpha male, is a kindness far greater than anyone outside our inner circle sees. Dad's anger is terrifying, his dark moods seem to permeate the house so that simply setting foot inside is enough to know it - but he's also wise enough to see past the rage, once it settles, and both forgive and ask forgiveness of others. He did that the morning after, in fact - sat me down for a nice long talk about life, about love, about courtship. It could have been awkward, but somehow it wasn't… I think he actually understands. There are rules, there are expectations, and I doubt he's really all that happy about Vash't being in my life - but he's going to give him a chance, if that's what I really want. And it is.

    I hope Vash't sees past the snarls and the anger, just as much as I hope dad sees past goofy grins and issues concerning age. They're the most important men in my life, and I really need for them to get along.

    Back to epic then, from sidetracking to the personal (although I would rank Vash'ts talk with my father as some sort of epic). Actually, I think I would characterize the goals I've set myself as personal too, rather than epic. Despite, or perhaps because I grew up surrounded by greatness, I never felt it was something I myself was destined for, in as much as there is destiny involved. Perhaps it's simply that the bar is set so very high in my family that reaching for it seems an impossible thing, but I'm not sure that's the whole reason. I've always liked the little things better, the details rather than the greater picture.

    I'm good with details, which is not to say I don't put bit by bit of them together to form that larger whole - like I do in training, perfecting a new move. But to jump straight ahead to the greater scale of things, the seemingly unbeatable odds, and find it in myself to believe I can make a difference? No, I can't do that. Epic is too much to handle, when all that I do relies on control. I'll keep focusing on me and continue stretching my limits and my understanding so that one day, if I should find myself in the right place at the right time, I'll be able to stand my ground.

    I've fought ghost orcs with Horbag, Rasuil and other great names, I've even helped take a (futile) swing or two at powerful undead under the necromancer Ser'Khal's control, right at the heart of the city. Jonni shone that day - he's not quite the typical shining knight hero of the stories, but he shone in his own humbler way, simply shouldering the responsibility of leadership. They're marching off now, him and Elaine and a whole band of volunteers, determined for the final showdown. As sure as I am of it being all kinds of epic, I'm equally sure that I'm not ready for it.

    It's hard to remain behind, especially since Vash't is going too. I gave him a whole batch of blessed arrows, with the unspoken urging that he stay in the back. It's harder still to wait and wonder, it might even be harder than the fighting itself. Mom gave me a knowing look as I cracked the bedroom window open, but she said nothing. I need my rooftop, need my time alone to think.

    No matter how I twist and turn it, no matter that I believe the epic is not for me, I still have to find a way to relate to it. The people in my life are undoubtedly headed for greater things and I must either learn to endure waiting or find a way to contribute something meaningful.

    Somehow."