Chronicles of Martoushca of Peltarch II
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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!_
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((The ink in some parts of this diary entry have been smudged by drops of some kind of fluid))
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@a8e51808a7:
_Diary.
I've been encamped by this bridge for what feels like years. It may have only been months, but every day is beginning to feel like its own eternity. Monotony, tedium, punctuated by episodes of the most brutal horror.
And whatever sleep I manage to get, the dreams I have are no better. I would say nightmares, but that would suggest my dreams scare me. I dream of fly blown, matted fur. I dream of gnashing, snapping fangs. I dream of howls and cackles. But its not of gnolls. I dream of my fur, my snap fangs, my howls.
My days are so full of death and hate. What happens when you become what you hate?
I went on a "scouting mission" out to the east. If Gnolls be in bed with demons then I felt it may make sense to attempt some kind of pact with the demons that currently infest Jyyd. I found no trace of gnolls, nor any tracks, but I am not exactly the best tracker. In truth though my self-issued "mission" was really an escape. I wanted to go back. Back to my veggie patch in Jyyd. Back to the old Legion hall. Back to the old bat cave where I used to shovel up guano for the flower bed. It feels like some kind of sick joke that I would be trying to cradle my feelings by returning to a place that is now a demon infested hell hole. Children used to laugh in this place. Now - shite.
I'm back at the bridge as I write this. Spirits are high. I think our frost giant allies do a lot to bolster morale. Sometimes I think it's good to know someone bigger than you has got your back. For me, I'm grateful that they're here. Some question their motives. Not me. And I'd be lying if I denied still being mesmerized by Jay's mustache.
._
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@52cde0ab79:
_Beloved diary, (and I mean that)
Earlier I resolved never again to date a member of the tall folk races, taking into account the sorry mess I have found myself in in the past.
I have recently had to fortify my resolve on this matter. I won't get into a relationship with another man from amongst the tall folk, no matter how powerful his body is, or how formidable his sword is, or how mighty his mustache.
I will be strong._
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@7c05da8da2:
Eights month of the fourteenth year.
_Dear diary.
I've doubted myself before, but never like this.
Was talking with Nilo today. He mentioned that a "copy" of me once clocked him on the back of the head with a sling stone.
I've heard that "Copy" senators were executed in the market place. When they died they turned to snow.
I used to be a senator. So I'm told.
Is it possible that I'm a copy? Am I made of snow like those things destroyed in the marketplace? I've been discussing the issue with members of the Cerulian Star - trying to find out if there's a way to spot a copy. I didn't let on that I worried about being a copy myself. They believe that a copy would remember being created, so if you questioned one at length eventually you would be able to discern if it were telling the truth or lying.
Thing is - I have a massive hole in my memory. Everything between The N'Jast war and me returning after going "missing" is just a black hole. Some things I remember, but as if it were a dream, or as if I'm simply remembering something that someone told me.
Surely I'm real! I remember the orphanage. I remember the war. It may all be a little foggy but_
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The rest of the page is blank.
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@7b09893796:
_Well, I’m alive.
For you who read this, I’m sorry for being so slack at making entries into this diary. It’s just that I loath to make an entry that would bore me if I were to read it.
I managed to shape into the form of a parrot and fly out of giant country without incident. But “without incident” pretty much describes my days since. From time to time I see a group of adventurers leaving on some quest, and returning with stories of great, world saving victory. It seems very obvious that they have no need of me in any of their exploits. The days when I was of use seem to have come and gone.
I’m a veteran of wars that nobody remembers, tending to gardens that nobody cares about.
I would have thought that this would make me sad or angry, but it doesn’t. I’m quite at peace. Every life goes through its seasons. If I am in my autumn then so be it. There is something to be loved in every season. I’ll be happy being a hero to lost cats and blades of grass. Better that than to mourn over glory days I’ll never relive._
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this page is difficult to read. The ink runs as if the entry has been written in light rain.
@d00c41d886:
It's been three days since I've slept or eaten. I have no sprig of holly, and can't build a shrine, so I can't pray to get magic from Sheela.
I'm up a tree.
Only my second entry in this diary and it looks as if it may be my last? Figures. To the one finding this diary I wish all blessings upon you. If my remains are still about I'd be thankful for them to be taken to a temple or grove to be resurrected. If not, then please tell anyone who knew me, if any of them be still alive, that I died carrying out my duty.
To explain how I ended up in this particular predicament - I ventured into Giant country up in the Giantspires to gather information about giant movements and numbers. There was talk about a possible war with the giants a while back and I thought it best to keep the Legion aware of any potential threats. I joined a skirmish between giants and Peltarch Defenders just before the beach. After the battle I spent my prepared cure spells healing the injured soldiers. Then with the help of nature's grace I managed to sneak past the manticores, giants and ogres toward the Giantspires.
I made it thorough the cave without being detected, and made it out the other end. The last time I was out this way there were rolling hills at the base of the mountainside. Now the area has been totally overtaken by a tangled forest. At first, apart from the hissing of steam rising out of a chasm, the forest seemed quiet. This terrified me. Generally I don't scare easily, but silence in a forest like this usually means that a dire predator is close by.
I pushed deeper into the forest, and came across an ogre patrol. By Sheela's grace they didn't spot me, but I knew that I was pushing my luck. I made my way back to the cave that passes below the hills to make my way back to Peltarch. That's when I spotted a lone direwolf hunting. I managed to evade it, but my heart was in my throat. The wolf was of a kind that I have encountered before. Their jaws are powerful, their teeth are cruel, and their thick skin easily deflects most weapons. As the magic that concealed me began to wear off, I encountered a dire bear in the company of an ogre armed with a stone greatsword. The bear lifted its snout into the air sniffing. I knew I had been made. I bolted as it galloped toward me. As I ran toward the cave I took a blow across my back from the Ogre's stone blade that almost ended me.
By luck or grace I managed to give them both the slip. They both charged into the cave searching for me, the bear following my previous scent. I remained in the forest. So now my only passage back toward Peltarch is being scoured by a hungry direbear keen to tear me asunder.
I dare not go into the cave with that bear in there. It will sniff me out for sure and in the cave I would have nowhere to run. So here I sit, hiding up a tree, waiting for my wound to heal. I would take the form of a bird and fly over the mountains, but with my wounded back and the rain I'm not sure if I would make it.
I'm downwind of the cave entrance. With any luck the bear will wander out, and I will be able to slip past it and head back to Peltarch. But luck hasn't exactly been with me lately. In fact, based on my current luck I am prompted to pray for my sins to be forgiven so that I may find a home on the plane of my goddess when I die. May her mercy be upon me. Amen.
