[Updates abound.]

There you were, Katrin. I thought you lost, but you were nestled between a ceremonial robe and a bag of traps. Make of that what you will. I wonder if any new druid found you? I met one of them. Serenity. You would not like her, but I did before I learned her name or that she was a member of the Circle. She is much more pleasant company than you. Who was this person writing on your pages? Please do not say it was me. So tedious. How could you bear it? "Peltarch hurts my feet. Everything is so close. I can smell the earth on my clothes. But I cannot move just yet." A lie then, but a truth now. I have an appointment with the regent's council in Peltarch. You know, I am actually looking forward to rooting out the devils' accomplices. Even if it means sitting through a statement from the master of coin, but I do fear the devils will make the whole affair less entertaining than even that in time. I met the most amusing paladin recently. Picking locks. Roughing up the nobility. The finest, but he's fallen now, naturally. The devils' doing. Likely out of play for some time, the poor fellow. The Peltarch Gaol. How did my past self neglect to destroy it so many times?

Aftermath One by one, like pearls on a string, we came tumbling out through the shimmering green veil of the portal, finding Horgrim's black-cowled figure chanting, our steadfast anchor to the prime, back to home and hearth and loved ones waiting. The ogre was visibly weary, relieved at our return though his glowing green eyes kept scanning for a smaller figure in our midst. Aesso - the sparkling girl who chose to make an ogre her friend, who treated him like a person and cheerily strong-armed the rest of the adventuring band into accepting the starkly rational-minded mage who fit in nowhere else. Horgrim had done all this for Aesso. But the girl who stepped out of the portal, last of all and with an awkward shuffle and confused expression - she was not Aesso. Sarah Snow mumbled timidly, bewildered as she looked around to each and everyone of us without any sign of recognition: 'Where am I?' The last that she remembers is crawling up in bed, in her simple inn room after that disasterous performance. She fell asleep and she dreamed - she had the strangest dreams… Sarah frowned now, rubbed at her eyes as though she had only just woken up, noticing Horgrim with startled apprehension. I introduced them quickly and then let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding: at least she hadn't screamed - I think it might've broken Horgrim's heart if she had. The ogre mage gave Sarah a long stare, mumbled disappointedly and then turned abruptly away. With the briefest of farewells, he made his departure, teleporting off to brood on his loss. And it 'is' a loss that the amazing, wonderful, willful and bubbly Aesso will never again walk in our midst, stir trouble and create marvellous, wildly creative and chaotically whimsical things. Aesso truly was Amazing - but she is never truly gone. Not while we still remember. A miraculous gain however, a wonderous marvel that we hoped, but could never have counted on achieving, was rescuing Sarah Snow. 'Do you know Sarah Snow?', asked Aesso with a quivering sob in her throat, Silvia the Fey shaking her leafy head. She didn't know Sarah, no one did - but now, we've all been granted that opportunity. Aesso wanted so badly to know who Sarah was, ached to remember, just as I ~know~ Sarah Snow yearned with all her heart to find out what she could really do, what she might show the world if she became all that she could be, through Beeble's deal. But the two can never meet, they're forever separate like two sides of the same coin. I like that simile quite well, I think. I like to imagine that Aesso isn't lost - we've just flipped the coin because it's Sarah's turn to shine now, to make friends and stir up her own version of amazing, whatever that turns out to be. Heads and tails are both just as good, just as wonderful in their own right - only different. And at the center of the coin, within the metal that glues the two sides together, beats the same sweet, kind heart. We set Sarah free from her most painful memory, cheered her on when the crowd was full of jeers and boos. And that's exactly what we need to keep doing now. Just like with Tristyn, pulling someone out of dire straits is not enough - to truly rescue a person in need, you have to keep being there for them. It's not always about surviving the epic fights, but the stumbling blocks in our daily lives. To be offered a hand when life drags you down, a shoulder to cry on - that is as much of a rescue, of just as great importance as braving the proverbial dragon. Perhaps the most important lesson I take with me from the story is this - the importance of kindness and care, of laughter and joy, friendship and love and all things bright and beautiful that not only enhance our lives, but actually build us up and makes us stronger. That, not strength in arms or might in magic, is what allowed us to do the impossible.

The sun is sinking low. The last rays on a blessedly clear day colour the sky in hues of gold, pink and orange, eventually fading to purple. The wind is quiet, barely rustling the red golden leaves and evergreens in the pass. The young man sits on the balcony of a tower in the pass. The lounge room inside was comfortable, but the fresh air outside suited his feelings more. Huddled in his cloak despite the day not being terribly cold, a candle nearby in case he writes well into the night. A dark, heady wine in hand, he takes a sip and enjoys the atmosphere for a time. A glass later, having let his thoughts roam, he sets to his papers. I headed down the Moldy Rat Tribe's cave, the other day. It might not exist by the time anyone reads these pages, but it is a cave south of Norwick, where the bones of the old town of Norwick stand. The goblin tribe seems to be growing in number and strength. There's stronger individuals among them compared to the first time I found this cave, and they are building fortifications and laying traps. I have no real issue with these goblins. Most are smart enough to turn and run, and I let them. If they're then dumb enough to gather up a posse and attack me, that is on them. There's a certain fungus that grows in those caves. When their spores are released, they make it hard to breathe, hard to fight. For the unhardened, at least. I gather it into small pouches to use in battle. They're not extremely effective, but they're good for staggering waves of attackers, especially lesser creatures. A well timed shot can save hapless greenhorns from being overwhelmed, or allow for one or two more bowshots before entering melee. There's always one sucker that doesn't see it coming. I really should be on the lookout for more substances like this. And see if I can find a way to refine them. I was walking my way through the cave when I noticed one of the mushrooms behind me shedding more spores, but no live goblins were there. I wasn't alone. I walked on, affecting not to notice, hoping to catch my stalker slipping up. Then, suddenly, a spell was cast at me! I became invisible, which is confusing when you're expecting a fireball. A giggle. A sweet voice saying "hi". Thank Tymora, it was Sebrienne. She saw me on the map. I've been warned to throw it away, that it makes me too easy to stalk, but honestly. I walk around in clanking metal and all the colours Lathander's light provides. Anyone that wants to find me, can find me. And in this instance, I was happy she found me. She got hard done by a few days prior. Erilo came up saying someone was telling lies about her. That she had killed a child. Turns out it wasn't a lie. At some point when she was a child, five years old I think she said, she lost control over that curious and terrible gift and struck out in anger at a bully. She couldn't help that, of course. I would've tackled the kid at that age, because my strength is physical. She used what advantage she had. It's not on her that she was cursed with such strength so young. You scold the child, yes, punish it because it needs to learn that that was wrong, but you don't blame it. It's a child. Barely more than a toddler. Yet she blamed herself. There she sat. Sobbing at what she'd done. Sobbing at the shame of it. Sobbing at having it revealed in a cold rumour without context, and what I assume was fear of everyone around thinking less of her for it. And many were around. Instead they comforted her, and I believe it genuine. Part of me wanted to comfort her, too. A girl that kind an sweet should not have to suffer a pain like that. They excused what happened, as I have done in the paragraph above. A child cannot be blamed. And that's where the hound is stuck. At that table, however, with all the people showering her with kindness and support, I wouldn't be much help, if I was heard at all. So I was happy to see her in that cave, and invited her to head deeper with me. There was a door I never got past, and her unique strength provided an opportunity for that. More important was the opportunity to talk to her. She had not really calmed down from the reveal, as expected, and she certainly wasn't at peace. I talked the whole walk through that cave. There were goblins we fought, but nothing to even press us. She blew through those fated doors, and there was a large undead, but even that we dispatched quickly. It must have been a strange sight, two humans just walking through their cave, harvesting mushrooms with one of them lecturing and only fighting the ones that bothered to get in their way. I really should learn to be more concise, but I suppose I lack the skill to say much with few words. That's for wiser men than myself. I tried to instill that excusing her actions and justifying them, even when it is perfectly sound and correct, is fighting what happened. Fight, absolutely, but fight for your future, and fight like a lioness. Fight fearlessly and without regret. The future is up in the air. But you cannot fight the past. You can try, but it will drain you until you haven't the strength to get out of bed in the morning and you will still have changed nothing. The past is set in stone. Peace lies in accepting that past. In accepting that you made a mistake. That something is on you, and that you caused that hurt. Regardless of any justification. You own it. Blaming yourself but justifying it is being halfway there. You accepted the responsibility, but still think the wrong can be set right. You can make amends, of course, but you cannot wipe the slate clean. As hard as it is to learn acceptance, it seems harder still to teach it. I doubt I got through to her, and it worries me. This self blame will keep her from finding peace and leave her fearing her strength. And if she fears her strength, she will eventually make a mistake that burns her out completely. All while she could be so great. As we were heading back into town to sell what little spoils we had, she asked me how old I was. Do I sound that old? Age and mileage and all that. He puts his writing utensils away, then safely stores the paper before pouring himself another glass. He lies back on the balcony and lets his thoughts roam some more as he looks at the night sky.

https://youtu.be/FwNOmS78q-o He awakens Cormac's bleary eyes scan the dimly lit room, everything is white-painted, clinical, and he can't move his head. He struggles but can't get up, his arms are bound - and his legs. "What the devil is going on?!" he growls at no-one. His voice bounces off the walls, there's nothing. "Stop struggling", a woman's voice - familiar. "Don't you know I'm trying to help you?" she continues, sounding genuine and servantly. Cormac tries to relax, his struggles cease and he looks up to endless black where he imagines the ceiling ought to be. He hears a click - or a fingersnap from the same direction that the voice is speaking to him from. A bright light blinks on over his head, a bright white halo beaming down directly into his face. He can feel the heat from it, but he can't blink or close his eyes. He growls and begins to struggle again. "Stop struggling!" The woman's voice again through soft calming laughter, though firmer this time. From either side he ears a separate set of footfalls, the clicking of heels on stone floor. A man's voice, and a woman's voice speaking together. They're both familiar too - people he knows well. They speak as one "He's ready. You can begin the procedure", and each grabs an arm. Cormac's half-blinded eyes roll from one side to the other, above him he can see the white uniform robes of healers, though tight and open necked, cut low he thinks. Buttons open and, he thinks to himself that he glimpsed underwear. He tries to peek further but his attention is stolen away by the sound of metal on metal, like chains, or tools down by his feet. "Excellent! Now 'sweetie', lets take care of what ails you" The first voice says, the familiar woman. She called him 'sweetie', she's never called him 'sweetie' - she said as much - was it days ago? Years? His thought dwelled on this. He felt a hand caress his ankle and move up his shin, it rested on his knee and he felt fingernails drumming there. "A little higher", the two voices said at once. And he felt the fingernails trail upon his muscular thigh. "Ah, yes. Right here I think 'sweetie'. I promise it's for your own good - only - you simply 'must' stop running away from 'what ails you'." She sounded sincere, she sounded like she truly cared. But Cormac was panicked and rightly so. He didn't see the tool but he could feel the sharp edge bite his flesh, sink into the tissue, and glide around his thigh bone. He could 'feel' his bone. It was horrific, and he screamed. He felt his body fight against the restraints but he could not break free, even as the sound of one tool being put down was replaced with the sound of sawing. Rapid sawing. It was over in moments. The sensation was both hot and wicked, and he knew at once that his leg was lost. He swallowed back the sick feeling and his heart sank like a stone. What kind of warrior could he ever be now? That's where his mind went. The two assistants gently stroked his hair, and wiped his tears away. "There there, Cormac, it's all over now you see? Well done amputator." The both comforted Cormac and praised the surgeon in their singular man/woman voice. In his dizziness he could hear a slow cranking, and he became aware that the table he was lashed to was moving and when he was finally upright the image he saw before him made him sick. There was Isolde's beautiful body, dressed in a white healer's robes, though the front was open in a low V, cinched with a red belt, and the lower skirts barely covered below her waist. Thin white gossamer stockings were worn high above her knees, and she wore, he noticed, dainty shoes of silver/white with long thin stiletto heels. It would've drove any man insane, were it not for her face, her whole head, what looked back at him was the head of the Devil, Amshiel. From the shoulders down she was ever the knockout; but the unsettling gaze of this fel creature that spoke with her voice should've been enough to break his mind. What pushed him over the edge though was the 'limb' he cradled in her arms like a newborn babe. Not his severed leg, but a symbol. A tattered, bloodied banner bearing the screaming raven emblem of his clan. Blood dripping from where the wooden shaft that bore the once-proud flag had been sawn in twain. "There, now it's gone. And yet I see 'sweetie' that something still ails you", spoke the she-devil. "Something still ails him amputator", said the twin voices that still stood at either side of him. "Nothing ails me!" Barked Cormac. "Release me, let me 'die'!" he couldn't hold back the broken sob that warbled his words. They all laughed. Cackled. The ruined banner was cast aside and she approached him; this not-Isolde figure, this devil that both was and was not her. The silvery serrated sawblade glinting bloody as the bright halo of light shone upon it. She didn't hesitate, no more words of comfort. The devil grinned at him, and Cormac screamed in agony in its face; no surgical cutting of the flesh this time - just sawing, once - twice - a third stroke and he felt his arm no more. The flesh was torn away after the bone had been cut, the ragged flap of me at squirting blood on the stark whites of the female healer by his side. She did not protest. The devil-woman walked away from him, holding something - his arm, obviously - but no. When she turned around she held his Warblade; the longsword he'd claimed from the mazelike tomb of the vain-glorious warrior. "There, now! I've cut away your vanity, your dreams of fame - I've taken your desire 'sweetie', can't you see? You're free now!" She waved the bloody sword at him, pointed it at him, the devil's face grinning and laughing all the while - yet the voice was honest. This too was cast aside and it clattered to the floor, the room was mad with sound for a hellish moment. The devil's head shook and he heard Isolde tut sweetly at him. The twin voices on each side tutted along in unison. "What ails you?" said all three, quizzically. "Yet more?" Each said, the twins speaking out of line with each other for the first time, as each one asked in a circle. The blood-spattered 'nurse', this 'amputator' cast her saw aside and it rattled and skittered across the stone floor. Her stiletto heels clicked and clacked with furious speed as she moved towards her tools. "Ah, this one - for he sees much - he has knowledge of us. He has 'seen' us". The voice of Isolde melting away to the voice of some aged crone, her plump and gorgeous exposed thighs fading to the gray and wrinkled, vein-laced thighs of some old witch. She turned, a strange corkscrew tool in her hands; she turned the handle and the devil's head grinned at him as she came closer. The ancient haggard witch's flat breasts sagged and swung within the open V of her shirt and she was soon upon him, her wrinkled stockinged knee bracing against his chest as she plunged the mad tool forward - driving it into his eye, and with a few furious cranks he heard the 'pop' in his head and all went white - then red - and then black in one eye. He screamed madly and shook furiously against his restraints, this was somehow worse than having his limbs cut away. He watched with his remaining good eye as the hag slithered from him, she laughed her cronish laugh merrily, no softness in her words anymore. The devil's head faced him still even with he body facing away this time. The sexy nurses at his sides' hands were cold on his skin. He realized they, too, had taken their hag-forms. They congratulated their surgeon once more, though no longer in their weird unified speech but separately, and each with different praising words. "Very good, sister!" "Well done, love!", the leader hag unscrewed Cormac's ruined eye from the tool, in a weird sensation he 'saw' through it, for some reason, the room turned and turned, turned thrice and ceased. He could see his broken and bleeding body from their perspective, and at the same time could see the hag holding his eyeball. It wasn't really an eyeball, not a human eye anyway. It looked to him like a painted stone with an eye symbol painted on it. He knew this spell, protection magic; 'The Evil Eye' it was called and it was worn by the superstitious to ward off evil enchantments and beguilements. "There, 'sweetie'" the crone hissed through the ragged teeth of the devil's head. "...I've taken your magic. What remains now that you have no past? No future? What do you have now that I have in my hands your present? Nothing? Tell us Cormac -- tell us what else ails you". The three sisters spoke the same question. "What ails you Cormac?", over and over. They seemed to taunt him. He had little fight left in him, and he felt sick in his stomach as the dizzying scene unfolded when his eyeball was cast aside and the whole world wheeled around him. One eye focused forward, and the other rolling with clear sight. It rolled to the edge of darkness and settled staring upwards and to an angle. There in the corner he saw the real beast. It sat doglike, the body of a black wolf with thick fur, hindquarters with great large paws and a curled black tail; the front half, head and shoulders covered in the black wings of an enormous red-eyed raven. It looked down and he felt it was unimpressed in spite of its featureless black beaked face. This anti-gryphon (lion hindquarters and eagle fore to wolf and raven) was him. Maybe? His spirit - his terror. He watched from the unattached eyeball as it looked up and away, and back towards the torn body of Cormac on the butchers' block. With his one good eye, Cormac too watched as the hag had put down her insane corkscrew tool and pulled up an ornate silver knife. The three sisters continued to babble madly among themselves. One promising that she knew what 'ailed him', the other agreeing with the other, but protesting to the surgeon - begging her to take his other limbs. "Just to be sure, fair sister - just to be certain, my beauty". The bloodsoaked surgeon came forth and hushed them both. The face of Amshiel dead with flies buzzing around his dead bulging corpse-eyes, rotting and bearing down on Cormac. The mad click-clack of stiletto heels and the sound of them slipping in the lake of blood that had spilled onto the tiled floor echoed in the dark room; only the halo of burning light above him. He winced as he heard the hiss of the blade slide into his bare chest. He sighed out a weak breathy gasp as he felt the bones of his breast cracking open, as his ribs were pulled apart his loose eyeball watched the Valravn's beak drool its dark, hungry saliva in the dark. It licked its black-lipped beak as it watched the hag pull his beating heart from his chest; a feast, a feast for the beast that feasts on the hearts of kings, the hearts of lords, the hearts of babes; a feast was such a heart! "Such a heart!" spoke the three hags together; "my goodness, such a heart!" the surgeon said again, excited - giddy - full of girlish glee and wonder. In her blood covered talon hands, raven's talons Cormac thought insanely. He could hear his heart beating from the greataxe she held in her claws, held it like it was both as light as a feather. He passed out, or he died. His heart he feared in his dreamstate was being fed to the Valravn. His broken body left in its ruined state being drained of blood and removed from any kind of warriors' use. His mind, body and soul broken and scattered to the four winds; or entombed forever in this mad and haunted place. The beast in the corner, in the dark, ever watching and waiting for scraps of him. The devil and the girl. What could it all mean? It did not matter... he slept. He dreamt. He sweated through the night and would rise again at dawn; having perhaps no memory of the mad things that haunt him. Simply aware of the inescapable thing that burdens his heart.