Chronicles of Martoushca of Peltarch II
-
Dearest diary,
I've just emptied my account at the bank to fulfil the last order for remove disease potions from primrose. It was for fifty bottles, which isn't enough, but at least it will buy fifty of those worse afflicted by the plague more time.
I had saved the gold in my account as an insurance against my own death - to pay for a true resurrection at the temple should I ever fall in battle. My conscience wouldn't allow me to hold onto it though. My life is not more important than anybody else's.
Now that my gold coins have been totally depleted I have had to resort to publicly begging for aid in the marketplace.
A few brilliant souls have responded with some coin, but we are going to need a more solid solution. One of the first symptoms of the plague is hunger - so naturally food supplies are starting to run low. The order has started to ration food in the district, but we're going to have to push for more food soon.
I'll see if I can start selling some of my "adventuring" gear. Need to get more coin from somewhere.
On a personal level I could use a little more hope too. I've been doing my best to believe that there may be an end this this that isn't an utter disaster, and that my actions will make some kind of difference. But when honesty rears it's ugly head I know in my heart that I'm like a gnome casting illusion spells to fool myself. Despair seems to be my constant companion these days, occasionally kept at bay by brute, baseless optimism.
Sheelah help me.
Gods help us.
-
[[copied and pasted form an enchantment application. This is for the enchantment of her sling "Fury".]]
The dark night was just now beginning to brighten, the stars starting to fade as the dawn slowly approached.
Marty had been fasting for the last forty days, each day eating nothing but a single goodberry, and drinking nothing but a cupped hand full of water from the sacred brook. Her hair had grown long during her fast, and she had been careful not to wash it clean of the specs of blood and gore that had soiled it during battle.
She sat naked in the glen by a camp fire, upon which was boiling a small cauldron. Behind her sat Trin, also naked, braiding Marty’s hair as she sang a druidic chant. Trin wove thongs of leather into Marty’s hair, each strand cut from hides obtained from Marty’s personal war. One hide from a dire wolf, one a tanned giant’s scrotum, another cut from a lizardfolk’s back. Each hide had the story of the battle from which they were obtained written onto them in enchanted inks before being cut into long thin strips. As she braided the thongs into Marty’s hair she would occasionally fasten a tooth, a ring from a ruined suit of chainmail, a carved bone, each trinket also a trophy from battle.
Boiling in the cauldron was a brew made from the saps of different trees, dire wolf urine, and other reagents. If filled the grove with a woody acrid smell, mingling with the smoke from the fire.
Marty’s arms were crossed in front of her, hands closed except for the index and middle finger, making a “V”. In her trance, she delved deep into the love in her soul. She visualised Peltarch, her walls, the faces of her people, the scent of her muddy streets. She also visualised her comrades in the Legion, her brothers and sisters in the Circle, the faces of everyone she loved and cared about – most of them strangers. The images drifted in and out of her consciousness. For each face Marty uttered a short prayer to Sheela, and any other god that was listening, for their protection and prosperity.
Once Trin had finished braiding Marty’s hair, two long plats ran from each side of her head and down her back. From amongst the weapons that were laid out before them, Trin took Marty’s cruel looking bowie knife and shaved each side of Marty’s head with it. Two braids now in her hand, Trim raised Marty’s knife toward the sky eastward and continued her chant, increasing in volume and intensity.
Marty dipped each pair of spread fingers into a small bow containing a thick, tar like paint. Maintaining the “V” symbol, she drew the fingers out of the pot and painted a pair of stripes on each cheek, and a pair of stripes running down the sides of her freshly shaved head. The paint stung as it entered into cuts left on the sides of her head after Trin’s rough shaving. She then tossed the pot of paint into the cauldron and took up a heavy granite slab. She fastened a rectangular clay tile to the slab with one of the spare thongs. The tile bore magical strength runes written in Giant. The tablet itself was a trophy, picked up from a hill giant named Broont’ahg whom she had slain on the beach near Peltarch.
As she fastened the strength rune to the granite slab, Marty entered into a second trance. This time the soil of love that she had tilled in her heart began to sprout as she meditated upon the faces of her foes. The hideous faces of orcs, the snarling fangs of kobolds, the stench of zombies and ghouls, the swinging ball sacks of giants, the slick oily hairdos of vampires … As hatred and fury began to grow inside her, so did the divine magic begin to sprout from the soil in her heart. She growled the words of her spells as if preparing for battle …
Wisdom of the Owl …
Grace of the Cat …
Trin quickly fastened the masterworked pouch to the braids, assembling the sling. The pouch had been crafted from tanned giant scrotum and soaked in camomile tea during Marty’s period of fasting.
Marty continued to growl out the worlds of her spells.
Endurance of the Bear…
Strength of the Bull ...
Marty gripped the granite slab with one hand, holding it over the cauldron with the fastened strength rune facing toward her.
“NOW!” She cried out to Trin. As Marty spat out the worlds of the Blood Frenzy spell, her muscles now bulging and rippling as if they were about to burst out through her skin, Trin quickly grabbed her iron wood club and struck Marty square in the face with it. Marty’s nose flattened under the blow as it issued a geyser of blood.
“GRAGH!” Marty bellowed as she flew into her final rage. Her fist shot out and smashed against the Strength rune, shattering it into powder which then fell into the cauldron. The bones in her hand also shattered as they struck the granite slab.
As Marty collapsed, Trin quickly tossed the sling into the cauldron. The brew bubbled and boiled and surged up over the rim, spilling out onto the campfire. This sent a pungent stench up into the air that reached almost as far as Norwick. Trin let the sling simmer for a while as Marty writhed on the ground.
“Bitch!?... Shite … my nose … “
Trin used her robe to protect her hands as she grabbed each side of the cauldron. She gazed down at Marty’s flattened face as she tipped its contents out onto the fire. “Meh … ‘tis an improvement if you ask me.”
Marty spluttered out a laugh that bubbled up out of her bleeding face. “ … farrrrrk.”
The sling and the contents of the cauldron now lay on the ashes of the extinguished fire, the first rays of dawn’s sun bathing it in a dim orange light. Almost instantly grass and flowers began to sprout up out of the earth around it.
“Here,” said Trin as she dusted off her hands, coming over to tend to Marty, “Let me take a look at y’ then.” She pulled what was left of Marty’s nose together and quietly chanted the worlds of a regeneration spell upon her. She took Marty’s hand also, pulling the bones out straight as the spell began to heal them. Marty winced as the magic did its work.
After she had been put back together, Marty crawled over to where the sling lay. “… So you put it together right yeah? The left braid on the left side of the pouch, and the right braid on the right side of the pouch?”.
Trin had no idea there were “sides” of a sling pouch.
“…. Yes… Yes of course!”
-
Dearest diary,
i collected another twenty potions of remove disease from Primrose in the commons today. While out of the District I searched the market place to see if there was anything else I could find that could help us in our plight against the plague.
The Warrior's Soul stall had an amulet for sale that I am hoping will help me attune with the divine ... and if if their grace is upon me I should be able to cast more curing magic each day.
None of this will be enough of course. Just buying time. Hopefully Constable Dunderstone will be able to produce a more effective cure soon.
May the love of the gods be upon him.
-
Dearest diary.
Nothing is more lethal to high spirits than the death of a child.
I'm not sure if the little one died of the plague, or from some other cause. Regardless, I have been stricken with remorse and guilt almost beyond my ability to bear.
"If only I had been here"
"If only I had prayed more - was more spiritual"
"If only my sins weren't held against me so the gods of nature would grant me more grace"
"If only I had looked harder and found more clues regarding who or what was behind this plague."If only - if only - if only.
I have made up my mind to leave the district no longer. Previously I had taken leave from time to time - to use my magic while on some frivolous "Adventure" to distract me from what was going on here. - no more - Every prayer, every ounce of grace I can beg out of the gods that will listen to me - all of it goes toward the sick now. I don't think I can bear one more death on my conscience.
I am going to sleep now, but a rooster is by my side. I have told him to crow as soon as he sees the sun. That should grant me a few hours of sleep. May the gods grant me at least a little peace as I slumber, and let me not be afflicted by nightmares of disease as has been the norm.
I love you.
-
Dear Diary.
It appears that I may have deluded myself into believing I was making a significant contribution toward fending off the plague.
Every day I had been casting magic from nature's grace to remove the disease from those who had been stricken in Peltarch's Residential District. I followed up on those who I had cured only to find that the divine magic only suppressed the plague without curing it.
While I continue to labour in the district to do what I can, I am overwhelmed with the feeling of hopelessness and insignificance. I'm struggling to be of good cheer when I am taking leave from the district, and while waiting for divine grace to return to me for more curing spells I am distracting myself with various pointless "Adventures". During these adventures I have noticed that the landscape is littered with magical items. It is as if some kind of cloak (?) that had suppressed the magic of these items from manifesting has been lifted from the land, and now it is uncommon to return to the city without a handful of new magical items in my pack. I guess this is a blessing? And I really should be showing some kind of gratitude for the good fortune that seems to be falling from the sky. But even the coin gained from the sale of these treasures does little to abate my misery. Most of It I am using to purchase more potions to to suppress the plague. If even I can buy some poor souls some time before the plague inevitably takes them, maybe that will be something?
-
Dearest diary,
So it's been a while since my last entry. Until today I have not been witness of much that would be worth writing about.
A plague has struck the residential district of Peltarch. The bulk of my time has been spent casting cures and other spells on those afflicted. I am able to cure around three per day, but I've been using restoration and endurance spells on others to help reduce their suffering.
I had heard talk of crystals being found in the hands of ettins and duergar. Taking a brief leave from my usual duties in the residential district, I ventured underground to see if the words were true.
I abhor being underground. I find myself getting lost easily, and my vision spell wore off earlier than expected. But the particular cave I ventured into did bring back fond memories. The last time I was there was during an assault lead by General Grag. It seems like a life time ago. I do miss the old Legion days. The Legion is still active in the land, but most of it's focus is now on defending the refugees and citizens of Hin Hold and Sam's Hole. We don't have organised "patrols" that go out and look for trouble like we did back in the old days.
So I slaughtered a good number of ettin, but was unable to find any of these crystals I had heard about. Just another bull shite adventurer's tale I guess? It was good to get away from the plague for a while though. And flirting with death did give me the emotional boost I needed after spending so much time with the ill.
I'm back in the Residential District as I write this. I hear that Jonnie and his friends are working on a cure for the plague. I'm sure they have the issue in hand. I'd offer my services, but whenever I'm with that group I just feel like I'm getting in their way.
I also heard word that vampires may be behind this plague. Seems like an odd move for vampires. Hard to see what they would have to gain from it. But I have noticed that some cultists who live under the city have succumbed to vampirism. Maybe they had maintained their faith in Talona after becoming undead? I heard somewhere that it was Talona the cultists worship - the Mother of all Plagues. Tossing up whether I should be cursing her in the name of Sheelah Peryroyl or presenting an offering to appease her.
Mother give me wisdom.
-
Greetings Diary.
Well, I've been very slack when it comes to making entries. It is entirely because things have been too consistent to be noteworthy.
I have opened a stall in Norwick. I guess that should have been noteworthy enough for an entry into this diary? Maybe even MORE note worthy if the stall was actually doing well...
Truth be told, I think it's despair that is writing this entry.
A group of dwarves has gone missing in the Underdark, and they are recruiting help to go search for them. Naturally I volunteered. I still wear Legion colours, and it would be a breach of my oath not to offer help. But I'm getting old. Maybe not old? Just tired? I'm definitely not as fresh or as quick as I used to be.
And the underdark is a place where none of my strengths as a warrior apply, and where all of my weaknesses are laid bare. Best case scenario - they are just lost or stuck somewhere and we all come home safely. More likely scenario - whatever slaughtered those dwarves will take us too. And even if someone drags my body back to a temple to be raised from the dead, I'm basically broke at the moment. Definitely not enough coins to be raised from the dead. In all likelihood this trip could well be my last amongst the living.
It's been a good life. I mean, the parts of it I remember. I don't have too many regrets. Peltarch has broken my heart though, and I feel the current state of the city is my biggest failure. I had dedicated myself to make it beautiful like it was before the war with N'Jast, when the flowerbeds and green grass made the city wonderful. And the people I served as a politician, who put me forward to fight the tide of authoritarianism and elitism ... those I utterly failed. Where Tidus' vision once reigned the puppets of Siamorphe now brood. A boy king pulled along by his loins, his puppet strings being tugged by his Siamorphean puppeteers.
But at least Peltarch still stands. That is something. I fought so hard and sacrificed so much to keep it standing agains the onslaught of N'Jast. Nobody remembers that war of course, but for me the unmarked graves that embrace my friends and comrades all along the road from Jyyd to Peltarch will always speak to me. They comfort and beckon me. As broken as my heart is at the current state of Peltarch it was always be my home and my first love. Too much blood and tears have been shed for me to feel any differently.
I suppose I should try to look in the bright side of my situation? Should I somehow survive this mission to rescue the lost dwarves I will experience a blessed state. Like finding a lost coin. While it is lost you're grieving over it, but when you find it the coin becomes more precious than the rest of your coins in your purse. That's something ... to be utterly lost and devoid of hope, and then to have your life redeemed from the shadow of death. The number of times I should have been removed from the land of the living and luck, or the love of friends, has kept my in this mortal coil. There have been moments where I was that coin, or have been searching for it and found it. It's a blessed state indeed.
I'm rambling.
Well dear diary, if this is my last entry, I hope you remember me fondly. Love your kin, live in harmony with your community and with nature, and try not to murder the wrong people.
I love you.
Martoushca Leaffall.
-
The penguin darted through the water; it’s back barely skimming the surface of the Icelace. She had been away from home for too long, and her desire to be back added haste to her movement. She wasn’t really sure how long she had been away for. From her point of view it could have been around a year, but she had entered into an astral trance while paying homage toward the Mountain of St Jerrick. Time can pass strangely when in such a state.
The penguin dove a little lower into the water, before sharply changing direction upward, bursting through the surface and flying up onto the dock. Upon landing she staggered a little, her flippers and fins tired from having swam so far. If her beak could smile it would have, her heart being overwhelmed with joy when feeling the familiar, splintery wood of the dock beneath her flippers. But her feelings suddenly sank. Everything was wrong. The smell of acrid smoke filled her nostrils, and many of the buildings so familiar to her were now in ruins.
“Qua Quark qu-”
[translation – “Holy Sheelah, …. what the fu-“]A titanic shockwave tore through the docks, shaking the ground and shattering windows. The penguin was knocked off her feet. A cloud of burning dust erupted from what used to be the courthouse, as debris began to rain down onto the street.
“QUAERK!”
[translation – “SHITE-SAUCE!”]The dazed aquatic bird clumsily got to her feet. She gazed in despair at what remained of her home’s justice – a rising cloud of dust and falling, shattered stone. Like a tempest, all the fears of her past crashed up against her soul. Before long she could hear shouting and battle. She dived onto a commando roll, tumbling into nearby ruins. She pressed her back up against a broken wall as a running battle surged past her. She would have joined in the fight but had no idea which side to fight for.
Once the din had passed, he penguin’s skin began to bulge and boil. One bulge grew into a large hump on her back and transformed into a backpack and bedroll. Another erupted out of her shoulder, sprouted a blonde mop of hair, and grew into a head as the penguin head retracted into the new head’s neck. One of the flippers stretched into a circular shape and became a shield. A white daisy was painted onto the front of the shield, while a host of scabbards housing throwing blades, darts, and other cruel looking throwing weapons lined the back. The penguin’s skin began to darken and became a suit of black, dark blue leather armour into which the body of a halfling woman inflated into shape.
Marty peered out from behind the wall she had hidden behind. The coast was clear. She made her way stealthily through the streets, hoping to find someone who could tell her was the hells was going on, and maybe reconnect with the Legion chain of command … if that was still a thing?
-
@21e6c651ae:
_Greetings diary.
It has been a month since Bane's Bane fell to the goblins. I would be lying if I said that my grief was over. But it has dimmed enough to allow life's normal routines to resume.
I have been on foot for so long I almost forget what it feels like to have a saddle between my knees. I have put off partnering with another horse lest I "replace" Bane's Bane. That is nonsense however. The position left vacant by a fallen soldier is reinforced. Soldiers are never replaced.
So I have made up my mind to reinforce my efforts by recruiting another horse to partner with me in my military and agricultural ventures. I will go to the stables tomorrow.
In the mean time I'll prepare as much magic as I can that will let me communicate with horses. I'm looking for a comrade. I'm not interested in any of them being "sold" to me._
@21e6c651ae:
_I'm not saying that horse sellers are slave traders.
Not to their faces at least. But the comparison is valid I'd say. At least in some cases. I did my best to bypass the seller and connect directly to the horses.
In truth, animals don't have the same kind of mind we people do. They aren't "intelligent" enough speak. But animals have their own kind of wisdom. With them it's more about feeling and instinct. At least in the wild it is. But after communing with the ponies in Peltarch's stable it became pretty clear how well "trained" they were. Training isn't a bad thing. Gosh I train myself! But sometimes training that drive out the feeling. Drive out the instinct. Training can turn an animal into a tool. That's a blasphemy to me.
There was one pony tied to the rail at the back of the paddock. "Forget about that one" the horse seller told me. "That bastard can't be tamed. Kicked one of my saddle boys right in jewels." He went on to tell me that the apothecaries were currently trying to reassemble the lad in the temple light house, and how he would pay for the healing if he were making more sales. His pitch may have one me over if I hadn't already made up my mind to hand over gold to release one of the horses.
I made an equine greeting toward the pony. He snorted at me in contempt. I could see in his eyes that he wasn't interested in being saddled or ridden. He was just over it all. He just wanted to fight.
I used magic to communicate to him. I made him feel the wars I have fought. The friends I have lost. I shared with him my feelings about Bane's Bane. It wasn't long before he could see that we were both on the same page.
"You sure about that one miss? I'm telling you, he's a real bastard. He'll kick you off as sure as."
"Aye" I told him. "And he'll probably try to kick my head off after that. That's why he's the one."
I think it was guilt that I saw on the horse sellers face. Maybe he felt bad about taking money for a horse he was about to get rid of?
I tried to get saddle and barding on the pony, but he wasn't going to have it. He bucked and kicked at me with all his might. I ended up on my arse in the mud.
"So what are you going to call him?" the seller asked me.
It was pretty clear already who this horse was.
"His name is Bastard."_
-
Flanked by a panther and a great lioness, Martoushca returned from the massacre in the Howling Woods. Tiny fish darted away as she knelt down to wash her equipment in the Misty Pond. There was more killing that needed to be done, but for now there would be a lull in the bloodshed.
She noticed her reflection in the submerged scimitar as the blood and gore floated away from it. She drew it up out of the water to see herself more clearly. Her hair was matted with dried blood and pieces of goblin. Streams of it ran down her face. Once red, the goblin blood that stained her face was now almost black and beginning to crust. But past the horror that marred her face was a visible bitterness. It came out through her eyes. Eyes through which once shone the light of her Goddess, now lifelessly glared with contempt.
She remembered the oath that she had hastily taken when forging the blade. She remembered the love that drove her to take that oath. But something was different. She had lost something. She had fought against goblins countless times before. Fought against so many other foes. But never like this. Then Kayleb's words came back to her. Was the archon right? Was she on a "darker road"?
She looked deeper into her reflection. Love once drove her to fight. It drove her to protect those dear to her. But she was no longer a protector. She was a killer. Her slaughter wasn't to make the land safe. She was now a storm of fury and hatred.
She was what she once fought against. She began to feel herself being humbled by the hound archon's words. It was true that her heart wasn't right.
She stood, continuing to gaze at her own reflection in the scimitar's broad blade.
_Thou art snared with the words of thy mouth,
thou art trapped by the oath you have taken.Deliver thyself as a doe from the hand of the hunter,
and as a bird from the hand of the fowler._With all of her might Martoushca hurled the curved sword into the Misty Pond. With a relieving splash it broke the surface of the water. She watched the gleaming of it's blade dull as it sank down into the depths. She continued to stare until the ripples she had created in the pond were almost gone and the pond was still again.
Finally Marty broke the silence. "C'mon," she said to the two great cats by her side. "Lets go home."
-
Puchat and Gubbernut squatted around a tiny fire they had just lit, cooking spiders and beetles skewered on twigs over the small flame. The moon was full, but their hunting had been fruitless. They muttered to each other softly in the dark.
"Spellyapper says good days ahead for us!" said Puchat as he turned his bug kebab slowly over the fire. "Hmm … good days."
Gubbernut wasn't as optimistic. "Always they say that. They say 'shed the bloods and fight till yoo die and we see good days'. I start to think in my brain that there are no good days."
"But the brain of yoo is the substance of poop."
"Skumchaka jew!" squealed Gubbernut as he dropped his cooking bugs and raised a fist to strike Puchat. He suddenly froze however, ears twitching as he picked up the sound of terror in the distance. Both goblins rose to their feet to peer over the tall grass. Over by the misty pond they could make out the forms of the other members of their hunting party. They were fleeing for their lives with four great cats on their heels. Two of the great cats were enormous lionesses. The other two were jet black panthers.
Gubbernut drew his rusty dagger. "We FIGHT! You hold in the front while I move to FLANK!" He turned to see Puchat had already begun fleeing for his life. "KA BOUNAH!" He cried, rushing forward to meet the cats. The lions had stopped momentarily to maul a fleeing goblin. As he ran at the closest panther, the great black cat leaped into the air. Mid pounce, it's form began to crack and distort as the panther turned into a furious halfling woman. She drew a scimitar from a scabbard across her back and brought it down through Gubbernut's head as she landed. Thoughts of fury at Puchat's betrayal were brutally interrupted as the blade passed down through the goblins brain, cleaving the entire skull and neck in two and lodging in the creature's sternum. Martoushca kicked the goblin's chest in an attempt to dislodge the weapon but it was firmly jammed. Abandoning it, her hand flashed back and forth from her bandoleer to unleash a volley of throwing blades. The first struck Puchat in the back. The rest cut down other fleeing goblins.
Mystical runes began to circle around one of the lions as the magic used to summon it began to wear off. The fight was far from over. Muttering in frustration to herself, Marty raised her hand toward the night sky as the lion disappeared and cast another summoning spell. A towering hound archon appeared by her side, the tip of his great sword sinking slightly into the undergrowth as he rested his hands on it's pommel. Marty drew a cruel looking sickle and a bowie knife. "Let's go Kayleb!" she called out to the celestial as she ran forward. Kayleb simply stood and watched as the crazed halfling charged into combat. She hooked the sickle around the front of a fleeing goblins neck and yanked it back, thrusting the top of the creatures spine onto her bowie knife. She looked back briefly. "What are you waiting for?"
Marty swung her sickle around again to disembowel another goblin, and then delivered an upward thrust with her bowie knife under it's companion's chin. The goblin quivered and twitched as the blade penetrated the base of it's skull. She turned again to see Kayleb simply standing there, leaning on his sword. She simply shrugged at him.
"I answer the call of the righteous." he finally said. "I am summoned by the good to fight against evil."
"Yeah?!" Marty was truly baffled now. The panther continued the slaughter as she stopped to converse with the hound archon. "Well how about you get to it then!?"
"It is the good who may summon me halfling woman! You walk on thin ice. Your heart is not right."
Martoushcah waved her dripping sickle over the field of fleeing goblins. "How about the hearts of these bastards!? Listen," she pointed the blood soaked bowie knife toward Kayleb "if it's your job to smite evil shite then how about you start swinging that sword of yours eh!?"
"You are motivated by hatred."
"I'm motivated by LOVE! I LOVED Bane's Bane." Marty took a few steps forward toward the hound archon in an almost menacing fashion.
"They killed a horse, and now you seek revenge."
"YES!"
The sound of great cats roaring and goblins screaming began to die down as the last in the area began to fall to fang and claw.
"Halfling woman," the archon began, his tone as if he were beginning a lecture, "love is a pure motivation. But when your love becomes selfish attachment you are taken down a darker road. You will be judged."
Martoushca raised her voice again, "Judged eh? GOOD! Then I'll be able to follow these bastards down into hell to finish the job! Look, I summoned you to FIGHT Kayleb! How about you give me this lesson in morality some some other time?"
"Yes halfling woman, some other time. Until then you'd do well to examine your heart." With that glowing glyphs began to circle about him as he was drawn back into the celestial realm.
Marty looked about. Her Ultravision spell was still running and in the moonlight she could see that the cats had finished off most of the goblins. "Examine my heart?" She muttered to herself as she dislodged her scimitar from Gubbernut's body. "Examine your heart on a plate you self righteous snob."
-
@1868f25381:
_Today I am out of mercy.
As we were leaving the druid's glen to head north, Bane's Bane and I were ambushed by Dog Tribe goblins. She rushed into battle, and before I could call her back and rush to hear aid their rusty daggers had cut deep into her neck.
I killed them. I made the land red with their blood. But it was as if the crimson would be washed away by my tears. Bane's Bane was never just a pony to me. Never just a mount. She was my comrade. Every time she carried me into battle I always held her back, keeping her from melee that I knew she'd never be able to handle. She was an old pony almost into the days where she should be in a paddock instead of bearing a rider. But the way she charged those goblins was as if she was refusing to enter into that fate. She died fighting, and I have no doubt in my heart that she is now grazing on the Green Fields in the celestial realm, or maybe even into Warrior's Rest to be greeted by Tempus himself.
After the slaughter I pushed on north to mine a cave south of the gypsy camp. It was as if the lords of earth had swallowed up my tears and revealed to me the path of vengeance. For in the cave I struck a vein of blood metal ore. I hauled out as much as I could and dragged it back to the crafting hall in Peltarch. For the first time **I solved the riddle of steel and forged a cruel scimitar. On it's edge I swore that the tribe that murdered Bane's Bane shall perish from the face of Narfell.
I will kill them. I will kill them all.
They're dead. Every single one of them.
And not just their males. But their women, and their children too.
They enslave and slaughter animals, so I will slaughter them with animals.
I will summon the beasts of the land and from the celestial realm to join in my vengeance. The grass shall drink in their blood. Goblins of other tribes shall see the high pile of scorched, mangled corpses and be struck with terror. "What could they have done to bring this curse on themselves?" I hate them. Even those who hate goblins will pity the dog tribe when they see what becomes of them.
The edge of this scimitar shall take off the hea**_
((The writing of this diary entry seems to get heavier and heavier, as if more and more pressure was being put on the quill during writing. The entry finishes abruptly with a blot of ink. It looks as if the quill broke))
[[ [url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pfevBIsVG1o]OOC ]]
-
@cd309e962d:
_Diary.
Thoughts are scattered right now.
Generally, waking up by the altar in a temple naked in a pool of your own blood usually means you've had a bad day. According to the bald dwarf who dragged me back to town I feel to goblins.
I do have vague recollection of a great axe. Came out of nowhere. Goblin must have been invisible?
I never really had a chance to thank the bald dwarf or even get his name.
I'm currently resting up at the Grapevine. Need to get my nerve back._
((Ugh … after checking the combat log it turned out that I died to a Goblin Elite that I couldn't see. I probably wouldn't have died if I wasn't playing half awake. And that kids is why you don't play sleepy! Was so happy after watching Star Wars, and now so sad after losing almost 9000xp that I'm unlikely to get back ever. Was sooo close to lvling too! Need to go see Star Wars again to pick myself up! One of the things I love about Narfell - the emotional roller coaster!))
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@38c4b0fcf1:
_Dear reader,
His Majesty King George has opened up a position in his court for a "Voice of the People". It's a nice idea. In theory the Voice of the People would serve as an "adviser". So they'd be giving advice to the king on behalf of the people.
I feel it's may be just a token role. Something to let the people feel they still have some kind of input in their political destiny. Initially I had no interest in the position. But it became obvious that folks were assuming I'd jump at it. If taking on this role means an opportunity to "advise" that the king grant more government back to the people then it's an opportunity I'm eager to take.
The other candidates are fine folks. To be honest I'd be happy if they were to take up the role. Whether I gain the position or not, I'd still feel the burden to "advise" the king. The crown upon his brow is enchanted with power I invoked from the presence of my goddess. I am party accountable for what he does with that power. So I'm in his ear whether he likes it or not.
I've got the help of a couple of scribes to write out "Little Green Books". They're doing most of the copy work. I'm making the covers and binding them. These little books are really just a tract with a proposal for a system of political representation. Tidus had a dream - of people free who govern themselves. I'd like to believe that despite Siamorphean plots the dream has yet to be slain.
We'll see._
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@1386e1419c:
_Beloved diary,
It has been many moons time since my last entry. While I could say that my toil in Peltarch's fields and other various adventures have kept me "too busy" to write, that wouldn't be entirely true. If truth must be told then it would be more honest to say that I haven't felt the events of my live have been interesting enough to chronicle.
Sometimes I feel my lost memories coming back to me. I still have no idea who stole my memories or why. But some days it is as if my past life comes back to me. It is more like remembering a dream. I'm not sure if these returning memories are actually from my former life or if they are the creations of my own imagination. I remember senate chambers, and war, and faces that I no longer see.
In one hand I have an earnest desire to regain my lost memories and for whoever took them from me to meet terrible justice. In the other hand is a simple acceptance. While whatever plot against me may have totally succeeded, I am fully convinced that I am what my current actions declare me to be. I am not what I remember. I am not diminished by what has been taken from me.
I am diminished by my lack of decent pipe weed however. My grief at the fall of the Silver Valley is magnified. They grew perfect weed in the Valley._
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@e11d978d65:
Dear diary.
I have just returned form City Hall.
There are some things that "good" people don't do. They don't kill, they don't steal, and they don't lie. There may be extreme and unusual circumstances where to not do these things would actually allow a greater evil than to commit these things, but a person who does these things as a general part of their character can hardly be called "good".
I was in City Hall at the request of His Majesty King George the First. I was there with Rith Phoenixfeather, Maria and Lyca. The four of us were there to enchant the kings crown.
Seeing that I am now accountable for how the king rules now that he wears a crown enchanted with the power of the gods I serve, I am in despair.
Rith made a suggestion that the crown include an "alarm" enchantment that would be set off if the crown were ever magically tampered in any way. It seemed agreeable to everyone there so we prepared to include it.
Seeing that we were raising suggestions, I moved that the crown included an enchantment that prevented the wearer from lying to the people of Peltarch. I thought it good that Peltarch's king be honest with those he rules over. Where there is dishonesty there is never freedom. Lies enslave, but truth sets free.
Diary, it wasn't just that the others disagreed with me, the turned on me. I was derided and belittled, called "paranoid" and utterly dismissed for making such a suggestion. I have never before witnesses such passion to defend the concept of dishonesty. Despite my better judgement, I remained to enchant the crown. Seeing that I am accountable for how the wearer of this crown uses the magic within it, I made a statement against it's use for dishonesty while we were casting our magic at it. Unable to suffer such statements, Rith turned her magic toward me, to block whatever effect my words may have had upon the enchantment.
What's done is done. The crown is now upon our new king's head. May the gods have mercy upon me for whatever dishonesty the crown helps him to conceal.
@e11d978d65:
Dear Diary.
From the beginning of Del'Rosa's plot to instal a king over us, and the presentation of George to Peltarch, my stomach has been churned by his plan to cast off his wife so that he may take another who may grant him an heir. The necessity to break a marriage in order to establish this throne makes it even more vile in my opinion.
And what makes it worse, George seems keen to pursue the political opportunities that casting off his wife may present. He stated to me his interest in "strengthening" Daramar's relationship with Peltarch by marrying into their kingdom.
This did confirm what I had feared from the beginning, that our new king will become a puppet, with Damaran servants of Siamorphe pulling his strings. I am in despair of Peltarch losing so much that has been purchased for her by the blood of heroes. Tidus didn't drive out the usurpers from Hoarsgate for us to hand our city over to Damara by their intrigue. The blood shed repelling N'Jast is in vain if we so easily place ourselves under the power of foreigners.
One hope remains I feel, but it will take a miracle.
-
Emotionally exhausted from what felt like constant war, ventures into the abyss, and her heavy sense of responsibility, Marty entered the secret grove, knelt and prayed before the glowing monolith. She raised her hands and her voice, praying in the druidic tongue
"**Lords of the natural, patrons of wind, earth, tree, stone, and all living things…. I come before you with humility.
May those who love an honour you know your blessing.
May those who defile you, and who commit abominations against you be cursed with suffering.
When they would be filled thanks to you, may they know hunger.
When they would be fruitful thanks to you, may they know barrenness.
When they would be protected thanks to you, may they know tempest and lightnings and storm.but on those who love and fear you, show mercy.
Bless with fertility, protection, food and all good gifts.Bring faithful servants into your fold. For the protection of your forests, for wisdom and guidance for 'civilization', and for the destruction of those who defy you.
And grant to me, the least of all your servants, wisdom and insight. Patience and zeal. Blessed Sheela, and all allies of hers, all gods who guard the balance and who govern the elements, be with me to guide and protect. Keep me in your will, as I seek to teach and guide others to stay in your will.**"
[CHAT WINDOW TEXT] [Mon Sep 15 06:19:50] Experience Points Gained: 8
[CHAT WINDOW TEXT] [Mon Sep 15 06:19:50] Your character has gained enough experience to advance a level."**Grant to me more grace that I may promote and protect your will. Grant my arm strength and ferocity that I may smite with stones those who oppose you.
And above all, in all things and in every way may our work in your name be a blessing not only to you all but to all who dwell in Narfell.
In the name of Sheela Peryroyl, Chauntea, Silvanus, and all patrons of nature,**"
A breeze began to swirl about the stone, gradually gaining speed.
"May it be so. "
The swirling breeze became a whirling vortex. A bolt of lightning shattered the peace of the glen, exploding the ground just in front of Martoushca. Thrown back from the blast, partially deafened and blinded, she was barely able to make out the form of a towering figure now standing before her. When she saw the visitors canine features her hand instinctively darted for her dagger, but before she could draw the archon had, with a single swift movement, drawn his greatsword and brought the tip of it to rest on Martoushca's shoulder.
"The locusts have no king," the hound archon began, speaking above the whirling wind in a deep, authoritative voice, "and yet they advance together in ranks."
What's that supposed to mean? Martoushca thought to herself.
As if the archon had read her mind, he continued, "I don't know that that means. I'm just passing it on. They've heard your prayers." With that he seemed to implode out of existence as he teleported away.
((OOC: Most of the above is a copy and paste from when the IG chat log. It feels a bit masturbatory to be posting a record of solo RP, but it was a bit of an event for me. Marty is finally back to where she was before she took the non-combat C Token about two years ago. She lvled up during a solo prayer moment in the druid glen - which I thought was very cool. This lvl Marty gained a point of WIS and the ability to cast 4th lvl druid spells. I'm looking forward to finding out if they're any good.))
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(this diary entry is written in shaky handwriting. There is almost no punctuation, and some words seem to flow into each other.)
@18545ccab1:
_I have just returned from inferno In the final push of our campaign against the Gnoll threat we created a diversion so that a strike could penetrate intotheir territory toclose their demon gates delrosa gave us information about the their leader thrice born he told us to offer a surrender to him but we all felt his death would be for the best we pushed into their land down into the caves and found thefinal gate from which demons were coming intothis world thrice born was there we ordered a surrender but rejected it we fought against him and many demons he diedonce but then rose again in a larger he snatched delrosa and fled through the gate into hell we followed I thought I knew horror having fought in wars and battles I have seen the worst a person can do to another and the limits of hatred and suffering or so I thought i could not havebeen more wrong ftan im tkasha
._
(There are indications that more was written onto this page in halfling, but it has been torn diagonally from the centre of the edge of the page down toward the base of the spine.)
@18545ccab1:
_Dear diary.
After a day resting I feel as though I have recovered some from my time in the inferno. We dove into the infernal realm to rescue Del’Rosa from the clutches of the “Thrice Born” leader of the Gnolls.
I have difficulty putting into words the horrors we encountered on the other side of the infernal gate. It was a place where the air stank of sulphur, burning the lungs throat and nostrils as if the air itself were fire. The stone on which we stood was a maddening twisted nightmare. It had a form that no force of nature would sculpt. Rather, it looked to be the formed from the insane imaginations of the most corrupted being.
But worse than the landscape or even the creatures we fought there was the very nature of the place itself. Again, words fail me, but it was as if countless tortured souls screamed silently at me. Waves of hatred and spite, of selfish lusts and empty envious despair washed over me like suffocating bile. As hard as I tried to stay focused on our mission to rescue Del’Rosa and to destroy the Thrice Born, my mind kept going back to my last conversation with the dread-knight Shallyah. She stood against me in the commons, tearing down my beliefs with cold, heartless logic. Her quest was to convince me that there was no such thing as love, that the very concept of love was not real, and that love did not actually exist. Her heartless, pseudo-intellectual words seemed devoid of wisdom and reason to me at the time. But now – I have returned from a place where her words are true. I have seen with my own eyes a world where there is no love. A place where there is nothing but ambition and lust and hatred and pride every other kind of evil. And in that place, it was as if hope was snuffed out of my heart like a candle flame in a gale. Above all the horrors I encountered in that place, the memory that torments me most is that of Shallyah’s demon skin armour - of her cold, contemptuous gaze as she attempted to demolish love with her words, attempting to destroy the most sacred concept of my faith and the very foundation of all of my motivations.
The spark of love that remained in my heart turned out to be my salvation however. Without it I would simply have fled the place. Love wouldn’t let me leave. I couldn’t leave the bodies of Legs or Alv and the others in that place. I couldn’t leave Del’Rosa, or General Theaon or Raryldor or the Jonni or Elaine or the others to fight and die there. In some ways I value their lives above mine. In truth I love them. As I fired arrows into the horrific, bloated form of the Thrice Born, it was that dwindling spark in my heart that kept me from sinking into utter despair. It kept me fighting.
We only had a few moments after the Thrice Born had fallen to gather our dead and escape. I had to take the form on an ox for the strength to move fast enough to escape, a horde of demons on our heels.
They say that when we die our souls go to the fugue. There we are collected by our gods if we have been faithful in their eyes. If not, our souls wander, to become a part of the wall keeping Kelemvore’s fortress, or to be snatched by some demon or defil and dragged into it’s abode where souls are traded like beans in a nightmare realm of hatred and evil.
I wish with all my heart to be found faithful by Sheela, and to be carried away to the Green Fields. To escape the loveless prisons of the hells or the abyss. But if that was my motivation – fear of damnation or desire for paradise, will I really be found faithful? For that would be a selfish thing, and her dogma is to love – the very opposite of a self preserving or self glorifying motivation.
No, fantasies and fears of the afterlife won’t set my motivations. I’ll make love my goal. I wish that were a simple thing, to love. I only have a smouldering spark of it in my heart. Maybe it will become a flame. But in me there are selfish desires and lusts eager to extinguish it.
Sheelah, loving mother, help me._
-
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@731dd6cfd3:
_Dear Diary,
I had the strangest dream.
I'm walking through the market place, and every second person is a gnoll. The gnolls and regular people are simply trading and carrying on as if it weren't an odd thing. Every now and then a gnoll would nod knowingly to another gnoll, as if they were both in on some plot. I met with my husband, General Del'Rosa, and he was holding our children in his arms. But all five of them were gnolls! Then he was a gnoll!
I woke up with such a start I think I woke the troops around me. What do you think it could mean?
It will be a blessing to see the end of this dam war.
.
Post Script: Del'Rosa is not my husband. It was just a dream._
@731dd6cfd3:
_Diary.
Just returned from the underdark. Hate that place. Dark and full of freaks. I was in a party that included Shallyah. She's quite the warrior! It's like watching someone dance! Even in the dark. Like a dancer. No, more like, if monsters were trees, with that axe she's like a lumber jack. Like a crazy lumber jack. Like one of those massive lumberjacks in Norwick - the ones that smell of stale ale, sweat and moldy crotch. Just like one of those.
We come back to Peltarch, and there in the commons a man runs up. When I say "man" I mean … celestial. Seriously dear diary, the way his bare chest glistened. His body was like, sculpted. I felt such a connection with him! And I feel he may have liked me too. But up comes Shallyah, all bathed after the adventure and wearing that skimpy outfit of hers. The one that shows all that long human leg of hers. The one with all the gaps that shows off the cleavage and other lovely bits. And she's all like "Oh I'm a martial artist too! Bla bla bla I've mastered this and that of the order of pooping red falcon bla bla bla I'm such a dirty slut bla bla bla .. "
Seriously.
Sometimes I feel like I'm doomed to be forever alone. Especially when the likes of Shallyah start flashing their shite around.
At least the grass in the commons is all cut evenly. It's something that nobody seems to appreciate, but I know how important stuff like that is. I don't need a man to give meaning to my life. It's not like I should receive any special attention just because I am a serv_(blurred) f a goddess of love and fertility or anything like that. I me(blurred) _does a servant of Lathander get more sun? Does a servant or Tyr get more justice? So why should a servant of Sheelah Peryroyl -bless her name- get more romance? It's not like I'm lonely or anything.
I'm fine!_
.
((The ink in some parts of this diary entry have been smudged by drops of some kind of fluid))
