Dressed in her green gardening robe, Martoushca sat cross-legged, meditating at the base of the tree in Peltarch’s common. The tree was sacred to her, and she would often worship and meditate before it. Deep in a lucid dream, her consciousness floated above Peltarch’s streets. Not the Peltarch that is, however. It was a blurred combination of how Peltach was,;with cobble streets, closely packed buildings, and colourful markets, and a Peltarch that could be; with glorious flowerbeds, towering oak avenues, and grassy parks where lovers would meet. As she drifted higher her vision of Peltarch, a combination of memory and fantasy, began to grow faint and distant, eventually becoming a tiny patch on the landscape. The entirety of Narfell stretched out before her, including the areas around – Damara, The Dale, the Underdark. Like a mullti-layered map, the vision crawled and warped as order, chaos, and the elemental forces competed and pushed against each other. The conflict was destructive in parts, but in others creative. Seasons struggling against each other, bringing forth fertility cycles. Death and decay bringing forth new life. Chaos bringing forth order. As she drifted higher, her vision of the world began to fold in upon itself. Everywhere she had been, every memory of the land, coiled up into a single drop of rain. The drop joined thousands of others, disappearing among countless drops as they all fell through a void. As the rain pelted her, she became aware of her own form. There was no present. She was now a smudge through time. From the moment of her conception, each moment of her being was as a smear through which she was mostly a halfling. Her infancy, childhood, adulthood, all of it a single brush stroke. At times the stroke took different forms; a soldier, a gardener, the wildshape of a grazing cow, a politician, a panther, an ambassador, a healer, a murderer. As the brush stroke of her life extended into the future, it became a haze. Some parts of the stroke were clearer, while others forked off into blurred, uncertain destinies. The form of a white wolf appeared, “I could use a pipe full of weed about now.” “Same … Wait … Who are you? My spirit guide?” The white wolf scoffed, “You’re more of a cat person, Martoushca Leaffall of Peltarch” “I am more of a cat person.” “But “Cat” and “Person” are simply forms. Limits. Boundaries around being given a name. The boundaries are only real to the person who sees them. A life can transcend boundaries.” It was at that moment that Martousca realised that she was the white wolf, conversing with herself. “What is a life? What is the meaning of it?”. As she asked, she felt power call to her, offering itself to her. The power to make grow, and to set ablaze. The power to heal life, and to snuff life out like a candle. “Oh that’s a simple riddle to solve. The meaning of lif-“ Marty was suddenly torn from her trance as a drunken lout staggered into her, sending her face down into the wet grass. The acrid smell of urine filled her nostrils as the lout’s companion pissed up against her sacred tree. There were three lads in all, each full of ale. To Marty, their words blurred and mixed into each other. “Oi, I tripped over something!” “It’s a halfling!” “Bah, I thought it was a big worm.” “Useless half person. A step down from a worm!” “Oh, you’re going to make it cry! What’s wrong worm girl?” Another clumsy kick to her back. A glob of spit reaching her face. “See if its got any coin.” A guard’s bark called out from the other side of the common, “Oi!” “Shite, let’s fly!” “Ba ha ha – till later worm girl!” Her face still pressed up against the earth, Marty could feel the steps of the louts fleeing the common. She could also feel the heavy steps of the city guard making his way across the grass toward her. The guard extended a hand, offering to help Marty up. She took it, brushing herself off. “Thank you Sir.” “Nay, thank you Leaffall.” “Pft. What for?” “Oh, for not slaying those three louts. It would have been a difficult report for me to write up.” Marty laughed softly, still barely awake from her trance. The guard continued. “Y’don’t remember me, do you?” Marty struggled, looking at the man’s face. He had a greying beard and tired eyes. She searched her memory, and as usual it failed her. “Sorry. I hope you’ll forgive me. My memory is rubbish.” “Oh nothing to forgive. I remember you though. You haven't aged a day! I was on the ridge, south of the wall, when N’Jast marched on Peltarch. I was an archer.” A hoard of buried memories clawed their way to the surface of Marty’s mind. “It was snowing. I thought my arse was going to freeze off.” The guard chuckled. “Aye. And thank y’for what y’did that day. I’m here because of it. We were all trying to scurry away hoping to save our own lives. Y’took that war machine on with a sickle! If it wasn’t dancing with you it would have blocked our flight and crushed us all. T’was brave.” Marty scoffed awkwardly, “Not brave. I was too scared out of my mind to know what I was doing.” “Well I’m alive because of what y’did regardless.” “Hmm … well, you saved me from those three louts, so I guess we can call that even.” [OOC: A little write up to mark Marty Lvling up into her 12th level of Druid. She now has access to druidic spells that can change the weather, shape the land, and instantly kill foes. I wanted to incorporate some kind of minor spiritual epiphany into her story to at least partially explain the sudden spike up in spiritual power]

Entry 34 Not too long ago I heard rumors swirl of an exploration party finding an "ice throne" in the mountains outside of Blackbridge. I believe this party was made up of some Lovitarians I made acquaintances with, but they have either moved on or found a new victim to play with in their torturous lair. I've given up on tracking them down for information and decided to take it upon myself to find this supposed place. I have been attempting to find new passes in the mountains that I have not travelled before. Many times, I've been turned around and storms confusing my direction where I'm finding myself in familiar territory again, travelling in circles. This past week I found a new path. I was able to push further than I had ventured before. I came down into a small valley to find a few scatterings of goblins and some young wyverns. I followed along the edge of a glacier coming down from the mountain, and then in an alcove amongst the ice I caught a glimpse. A Bheur hag! I stayed hidden and observed. Exhilarated and frightened, I've only heard stories of them. A handmaiden of Auril, here in Narfell! The bheur seems to be tending to an offering on an altar, no doubt to the Frostmaiden. Surprised by my discovery and unsure of what to do, I retraced my steps back to Blackbridge to contemplate over this newfound knowledge. Do I dare to make contact and bring an offering of my own? I will prepare one anyway, should I decide to speak with the bheur. No matter though, my travels to these far-off lands has shown me much! My doubt of being here is now gone. I know I am on track to finding a source of power for the Frostmaiden.

Backstory expansion: Part 3 - The Tenets The next morning the blizzard had ended. Snow had filled the courtyard with massive snowbanks from the howling wind. Calistra emerged from her impromptu snow bank shelter seeing others begin to dig themselves out. Looking around , she was initially stunned by the beauty of the wind-carved snowscape within the courtyard, but that was short-lived as she began to see a few frozen corpses of some who were not lucky enough to survive the night. The village elders came out of the temple to begin taking note of who survived the initiation. Some of the Cold Cloaks and temple priestesses came to collect the dead in order to perform burial rites and offer their bodies and souls to the Frostmaiden. To those that had survived, the elders showed their first sign of being pleased with the girls. "Initiates! You have ENDURED the Frostmaiden's storm! She will take note!" This was Calistra's first memory of this "church." The elders did not linger in the city after the initiation. The storm had chosen its survivors, and the Frostmaiden’s will had been made clear. Within a day, the remaining initiates—fewer than half who had begun—were gathered, cloaked, and sent with the elders back towards Bryn Shander. Unlike the calm journey south to Luskan, the return trip home would be the Frostmaiden's true test. On the third night, when a storm rolled in from the Sea of Moving Ice—thin, needling snow that stung the skin and made the world feel hollow. Each initiate was to find her own shelter. No huddling. No sharing warmth. No voices. ISOLATION. Calistra found a narrow crevasse, just big enough to wedge her body inside and out of the needling snow. The wind screamed outside, the relentless pelting of the snow against the mountainside, but inside the crevasse she leaned against the rock trying to find a restful position. She tried praying, hoping that somehow her crevasse would be spared of the storm's brunt yet it continued. Eventually she gave up on prayer, it seemed the Frostmaiden was reveling with her storm this night. Calistra turned inward, just as she did in the Luskan courtyard. The isolation forced her inward, to listen to her heartbeat, to feel the cold settling into her bones, and let the silence strip away all else. It was just her and the clarity of the coldness. The next morning, when she and the other initiates emerged, the elders said nothing. They didn't need to. Everyone understood the Frostmaiden only removed the weak of will in Luskan, and she intended only those willing to embrace her tenets to survive. The journey home continued leaving one partial snow-covered body behind. The elders did not mourn the dead; they counted them. The next days were a blur of white and wind. The passes were treacherous—narrow ledges slick with ice, cliffs hidden beneath drifts, the constant threat of avalanches rumbling in the distance. The elders set a brutal pace, and did not slow for stragglers. Calistra learned quickly that protecting herself required focus on her abilities and supplies. She rationed her water. She learned to read the snow for signs of instability. She kept her cloak tight, her steps deliberate, she used the biting coldness to keep her senses sharp. One night, a blizzard descended so suddenly that even the elders were caught off guard. The wind tore at their cloaks, visibility vanished, and the world became a white void. Calistra nearly walked off a cliff. Only the sudden shift of snow beneath her boots warned her. She froze—literally and figuratively—feeling the edge crumble inches from her toes. She stepped back, with a shiver of adrenaline down her spine thankful there was still solid ground beneath her. There were no calls of warning, no hands out to pull her back. It was crystal clear now this far into the journey, everyone was focused on themselves surviving Auril's torment. PRESERVATION. On the seventh day, one of the younger initiates slipped on an icy slope and twisted her ankle. She cried out, reaching for Calistra, begging for help. Calistra hesitated. The elders did not stop, nor any of the remaining initiates. The Frostmaiden's storm was coming again. Calistra met the girl’s eyes—wide, terrified, pleading. She bundled up her cloak tighter, feeling the numbing winds pick up again and walked on. Not out of hatred, nor out of indifference. She understood, in that moment, this journey was not back to her home. It was to forge herself into the numbing coldness. Auril's unrelenting numbness. The girl’s cries faded behind her. Calistra did not look back. That night, as they made camp beneath a sky of cold stars, she felt no guilt. Only a quiet, heavy acceptance. She loosened her grip on her heavy cloak, inviting the chilling winds in and letting the numbness take hold. CRUELTY. Every time another fell, it became easier to keep walking. By the time the group reached the outskirts of Bryn Shander, Calistra was no longer the girl who had entered the courtyard in Luskan. The tenets were no longer lessons. They were truths- cold, merciless, and necessary. Forged into her bones and her memory. She had survived the storm. She had survived the journey. And in doing so, she had taken her first steps toward becoming something the elders had only hoped for— A daughter of winter shaped not by doctrine, but by the Frostmaiden’s own hand.

The End End Credits

The End

Xiulan is a soft-spoken herbalist, healer, and elemental practitioner shaped by a brutal palace upbringing that trained young girls to become obedient, emotionally controlled “dolls” for service and survival. Raised within a rigid system of discipline, punishment, ritual, and emotional suppression, Xiulan learned from childhood that her value depended entirely on usefulness, obedience, and the ability to endure suffering without complaint. Unlike her older sisters, who were admired for beauty, grace, or martial prowess, Xiulan was often regarded as weak. Small, physically unimposing, and socially quiet, she was underestimated by many around her. Yet beneath her gentle demeanor lies an exceptionally intelligent and observant woman with deep practical knowledge of medicine, herbs, salves, injuries, and spiritual rituals. She can treat severe wounds, identify medicinal plants, and endure hardship with remarkable composure. Xiulan speaks Common poorly. Her thoughts are far more complex than her vocabulary allows her to express, causing many people to mistake her for naïve or childlike. She is painfully aware when others misunderstand or underestimate her, but instead of reacting with bitterness, she compensates with warmth, patience, and kindness. She smiles often, projects calm energy, and genuinely tries to make others feel safe around her. Her emotional restraint is not natural innocence but learned survival behavior. In the palace, strong emotional expression invited punishment. As a result, Xiulan became highly skilled at masking fear, frustration, sadness, and loneliness behind tranquility and politeness. Deep down, however, she struggles with isolation and a longing to truly connect with people despite cultural and linguistic barriers. Xiulan’s elemental abilities reflect her inner self. Rather than using magic as spectacle or domination, she forms disciplined bonds with elemental spirits, especially fire entities, which fight alongside her almost like extensions of emotions she cannot fully verbalize. Her magic feels ritualistic and spiritual rather than explosive or theatrical. Through elemental control, Xiulan expresses strength, determination, protectiveness, and passion more clearly than she ever can through words. In battle, Xiulan becomes focused and ceremonial. Armed with spear and shield, she fights not out of rage or hunger for power, but from duty and the desire to protect others from suffering. Her herbal knowledge, spiritual discipline, and elemental summons make her a uniquely adaptable battlefield support fighter. At her core, Xiulan is a woman slowly learning what it means to be a person rather than a tool. Despite trauma, conditioning, and years of emotional suppression, she still chooses empathy over cruelty and healing over bitterness. Her greatest strength is not elemental magic, but her refusal to lose her humanity in a world that tried to take it from her.

(( On Maythor's behalf, who has troubles logging in to forums, writing a message: 'Story XP given by Maythor'. ))

[More Marty art] Marty in her "Beast Master" armour. (I asked Chat GPT to colour in the original pencil drawing. For some reason, it thought the sling was a "cat-shaped kettle".)

((//Making some updates with more accuracy)) Atlas Fullcrest seen wandering in the Giantspire Mountains Atlas is a young human man appearing around the age of 23 now, with pure snow white hair just long enough to cover half his bright ruby red eyes, with a scar still across his left cheek, and white scales are seen across his body that cover up to his chin and even parts of his cheek, these days Atlas is standing around 6 feet and 3 inches tall now with a physical physique trained and meant for fighting up close, defending until his last breath. Atlas's normal attire is still that of an old worn-out black scarf that he's never seen without as well as an amulet he carries under it, both he received at a young age when he still lived back in Norland, in the Moonshae Isles. Even though he was told that the amulet was to ward off evil and misfortune, that he still always accidently manages to find himself in either way. His clothes are a long sleeve shirt with another t-shirt like cloth over it, dark pants, a glove on his left hand keeping the arm and hand well out of sight with his scimitar sheathed close to it for him to rest his gloved hand their when he's anxious or on edge. Atlas is often seen with a grin and laughing, trying to have a good time with those around him, whither it be him sitting back to listen while maybe lightly teasing one of the people he his close to, or even with his face deep in his old worn notebook scribbling down who knows what about the things he; sees, thinks, feels, and learns. When he's not off training recklessly towards improving his skills in swordsmanship and thinking of strategies to cover short comings, you'll often see him either looking for his people or chatting with them and it always seems as if that group of people is growing by the day, even when some retired to a more peaceful life, Atlas wishes nothing but the best for them, even when he misses them dearly. Atlas's current RP titles (Mostly in order); """Insert back story Easter Egg Title""", Current leader of the knight order "Knights of the Sand Witch" in Peltarch, "Dragonslayer", "Starslayer" bestowed by; Peltarch, Norwick, and Oscurra. "Dragon-Man" is one thrown around title, "Turtle" is also a lesser known title, "He who Defends", "Apprentice to the blacksmith Gnarl Horst" who owns "The Edge" in Peltarch, "He who defends dragons", "Blessed of 'Old Iced Bones'" AND "Savior of 'Old Iced Bones'", "He who survived a surprise meeting with an Avatar of Death", "Norwick festival boxing champion" 3 times, "Norwick festival armed combat champion" 4 times. Atlas's rough list of "His People" past and current: Elliot (M.I.A.), Chea/Adeli (Current), Cormac (M.I.A.), Raazi/Rosie (M.I.A.), Reemul De'Costa (Current), Kay-tono (M.I.A.), Sebrienne/Rika/Noemi (Unknown/M.I.A.), Lence (Current), Varya/Esmeralda Tillers (Unknown/M.I.A), (((I'll edit some more in later, list isn't finished))) Atlas has a love for cooking and food, as well as learning, music, and trying to find some inner balance... Even when his inner balance is what he struggles with the most.

Asked Chat GPT 4 to colour it in for me. Actually turned out pretty good. Thanks robots!

Grimvug sits at the Defender barracks contemplating and confused. Mending his wounds and recovering from a resurrection at the Peltarch temple. He woke up at the altar of Mystra with the Priestess and Marty watching him open his eyes. Marty tells him, she found him near the Gypsy camp and he's been missing for a week. Lt. Arniss put out a call for a search party to find him after not returning from patrol. He does not remember much. He does not remember why he was out there or why Marty showed him an amulet of a devotee to Hoar. Apparently he had four more of the same amulets on his person after being resurrected. Rest and light duty will be needed for some time to recover from such a lengthy stay in the fugue, but that will give him time to read old reports and speak with either Lt. Arniss or Sgt. Everard.