To say Cereth was homely would be to call a stone homely; his face was the way the wind and the elements shaped it and no more. To say he was emotionless would be to call glassy sea still; whatever currents ebbed and flowed beneath did not disturb the surface. To an observer unaccustomed to the powerful hunter, it might have been a bit surprising when the stony face suddenly looked to the left after a prolonged period of immobility, unaccompanied by the sound of dusty, grinding stone.

"Don’t touch that," Cereth ordered in a husky baritone, his grey eyes on the small person business picking through the belongings of a dead giant lying on the ground.

The little fellow looked back at the hunter with an impish grin. "It isn’t magic," he replied in a surprisingly deep, booming voice, "and besides, I touch what I want, when I want. Your name isn’t Sir Cereth, Lord of the Loot you know." The diminutive man’s grin didn’t fade as he remonstrated the hunter, in spite of the human’s great advantage in size. He was a hobbit, and hobbits are known for their lack of fear. Some believe they are known for their lack of sense, but that is another matter.

"I don’t care about who gets it," Cereth sighed, "that spider is called a ‘death dart’. They aren’t common, but they live around mountains such as these and they are very poisonous."

"It isn’t a spider," the hobbit turned toward the hunter and put his fists on his hips, "It’s a clasp that is crafted to look like a spider that was used to hold this big lug’s cloak on." He reached back and jostled the corpse behind him, inadvertently putting his small hand on a gory part and then trying to shake a slimy piece that stuck to his hand off while pretending he wasn’t paying attention to it. His slight grimace gave him away. The hobbit was fastidious about keeping anything foul off his hands.

"Twice I have found brooches or pins smeared with poison in these mountains," the big man replied, crossing his massive arms and glaring at the hobbit, "once on an orc and once on an ogre."

"Phaw!" the hobbit spit as he hurled the clasp to the ground. Within seconds he had the cap off his water skin and was alternately taking a mouthful, gargling vigorously, and then spitting it out on the ground. After several cycles, he wiped his mouth on his sleeve and stared down at the clasp, now lying in the dirt. His face seemed a bit green. "I licked it," he admitted hoarsely. 

Another human, Braderick the merchant, was taking his ease nearby, smoking his long-stemmed pipe and flicking various bits of post-combat crud from his armor and clothing. "Ha!" he laughed uproariously, "why in Esteria did you do that?"

"mmplsss," the hobbit mumbled as he stalked off.

"WHAT WAS THAT NEB?" Braderick called after him, "I didn’t hear you!"

The hobbit stopped and turned abruptly. "I SAID IMPULSE," he yelled, "I do things sometimes because I think of them. Is that  a problem?"

Everyone in the camp stared at the small fellow for a moment, then suddenly developed an interest in something else as the hobbit glared at each in turn, his smooth face crimson. 

"Ah, no… that’s perfectly okay with me," the merchant said tightly, obviously straining with the effort not to laugh.

Moments later, the hobbit had forgotten his embarrassment and was gleefully looting the dead giants once again. Cereth squatted behind the first; reached down and picked up something from the dirt. He used the end of his sleeve to wipe it off, then studied it for a moment. He looked around nonchalantly for minute to make sure nobody was looking, then quickly licked the spider-shaped brooch; he closed his hand around it and stood, his hands behind his back. He strolled off, eyes darting to the various people in the group to make sure they hadn’t seen him.

My Name is Chisel Blackstone from the Water Seeker clan. My long journey to find the prophet of St. Cuthbert has finally come to an end. As I had been told he is a fair skinned Dwarf named Marques. He has a group of companions that would stick out in any crowd. They have a Goliath, an albino elf, a couple of humans and most interestingly a nomae. Many years ago a nomae visited our clan. He was an entertainer and told wonderful stories of adventure. This nomae seems to know magic and is an important member of the group.

I arrived with a group of other Dwarves who had heard of a sanctuary that was created by a group of outlanders who slew a dragon there. I doubted that the prophet of St. Cuthbert would be there but I wanted to learn more of the dragon slayers. To my great surprise it was indeed the prophet’s group that slew the dragon and they arrived in the sanctuary within a few days of our arrival.

I tried in vain to get closer to Marques upon their arrival but they had important business to discuss with a dark elf that was also waiting at the sanctuary. They spoke of things for which I had no knowledge but I quickly realized that they were not in Stone to simply spread the word of St. Cuthbert. There was a mission of great importance to them all and it revolved around a group of humans of noble blood from a strange land called Andior. The group made plans to leave after the sleep cycle. I decided that I would approach them to see if I could go along as a personal guard to Marques. I want desperately to learn more of the water god.

Fortune favored me as the end of the sleep cycle brought the revelation that one of the group had left in the night. A rogue named Sly seemed to have had other plans. There was only a momentary shaking of heads and none seemed overly surprised at his departure. This would turn out to be quite fortuitous for me. I approached the group with an offer of service and was immediately welcomed into the group. Perhaps they trusted me immediately but I believe that their immense power allowed them to accept me without fear that I could harm them in any way. I would soon learn just how powerful this group of outlanders truly is.

The Goliath, Og, carried a great pack on his back. He opened the pack and began to pull out items that he explained he had carried for quite some time. One piece at a time he pulled immaculate parts of plate mail from his pack and handed them to me. I have only seen armor of such quality once in my life and I immediately recognized its value. This group of strangers did not think twice about handing over the armor to me. These acts of trust and kindness do not happen in Stone, ever. Something stirred inside me, this was right somehow, the way things should be.

As we made final preparations to leave I felt comfortable enough to ask for a tongue of water. My tongue had been dry for four cycles now and I had noticed more than a few bulging skins I assumed were filled with water. The knight of the group a white elf named Elijah offered me an entire skin. Once again I was overwhelmed. He seemed to think nothing of it and encouraged me to drink the entire thing. I believe my expression may have given me away. How could anyone drink an entire skin of water? I could not even imagine such a thing and said so out loud. Still, I was quite grateful and now had enough water to last me a month or more. I sipped carefully of the water then dipped the lizard tongue in the water and once it was fully gorged I placed it in my mouth. I felt the coolness of it in my mouth and was refreshed. The tongue would hold enough water for days, or so I thought. More on our adventure later…

I should speak of my new companions so you should know them through my eyes:

Og is a Goliath and big even for that race. I could walk freely under the arch of his legs without him even noticing. He is straightforward and speaks plainly, this I like. I sense no deception in his words or his actions. I felt trust for him immediately and his ability to inflict massive physical damage on his foes is unmatched as I would find out on the way to the steam pits.

Eli is the white Elvin knight. He is refined to a point and well spoken as you would expect from an elf. His words do not carry the bite of the dark elves and his eyes reveal the goodness that resides within. He carries with him great magic and when I happen to move near him I can feel the power of it almost as if he were burning with a small fire. He carries the most magnificent hammer one could ever imagine. In battle he imbues the hammer with his magic and crushes enemies with unnatural strength and skill.

Arlis is a great healer who follows the teachings of the god Varnus. He is quiet and reserved. There is a great sadness about him that troubles me. Stone has taken a toll on him and I believe he longs for his homeland more than the others. His god also grants the power of wielding great water. At one point in our journey he filled an entire tunnel with it. I was awed beyond words and nearly dropped my weapon at the sight. He erases wounds with the slightest touch or a spoken word, great and mighty wounds disappear at his command. His god must have great power indeed.

Rogahl is the nomae. He is full of mirth and mischief as are all nomae’s and I find myself liking him greatly. He is of great resource and only needs to be carried occasionally and even in those times I believe he is simply lazy. No taller than a duergar child he commands a great respect when in battle. He cast spells of great magic and seems able to move himself around a battle without being seen. Some of his magic affects the entire group making us faster and honing our skills for a brief period of time. Someday I hope to return to my clan and tell them of my adventures with this likable nomae.

Marques is the dwarven prophet of St. Cuthbert. He is of solitary focus and often shares the greatness of St. Cuthbert with those we meet, whether they wish to hear it or not. He is unafraid and shares his knowledge freely knowing that St. Cuthbert is the great hope for this world. He willingly travels with the others seeing his purpose and theirs closely aligned. We have had precious few moments to discuss St. Cuthbert as of yet but I hang on every word. I will learn many great things from Marques and I hope to stay with him for a long time. He is quite good in combat as well. His divine power manifests itself in powerful blows. In battle he sputters the virtues of St. Cuthbert while smashing in heads and breaking bones, which is a bit unnerving.  There is a certain something in his voice and in his eyes that at times seems to give light to nearly maniacal zealot within. He is not warm or endearing but no good leader is.

There is one other I have yet to meet. A human archer named Talon. He should be joining us shortly though his current mission has not been told to me.

Father says that time can heal any wound that doesn’t kill you. Nikko’s death hasn’t killed me yet, so I suppose I’ll get over it. I spent the week after we cremated Nikko mourning, and being comforted by my sister, Renea. She was not close to the wizard, but she knows I was and shares my grief the way only a close sibling can. Renae cared for me throughout my entire childhood. It is in her nature, just as it is in mine to take responsibility for those I care about, and to put their safety ahead of my own. 

When I was only eight or nine, my father took me to Cooper Wells to visit Duke Pikk and his large family. I remember being delighted at the sheer number of childred and grandchildren that overran the Duke’s sprawling estate. We spent two weeks there, and every day I met children that I hadn’t met before. Pikk was a handsome older gentleman with a sharp wit who took great pains to explain to me the burdens of responsibility that fall upon leaders, and the virtue of leading by example. He called it soft leadership, and I found myself mesmerized by the concept of someone that people would follow because he elevated them above the limitations they placed upon themselves. Pikk was one of the heroes who rescued my father when he was only a boy. It is ironic that another set of heroes would have to rescue me, and that one of those heroes was a vassal of Pikk. I think that some day I will go to visit the Duke, and from there go to the village where Nikko’s mother and father live. I need to tell them about their son.

Renae says that I will make a new friend, but I don’t think I will. I will have friends, if I live that long, but not like Nikko. He was both friend and mentor. He treated me like an adult, but kept me safe. He was the kind of friend you can only have when you’re a boy-becoming-a-man. For good or ill, I have crossed that rubicon. Any friends I have from this day forward will be a man’s friends, and a man’s friends are held at a certain distance. Read the rest of this entry »

Why, Lord? Of all of us, Pelor, why did you have to take Nikko? How does that make any kind of sense? What kind of twisted, insane reasoning led you to that conclusion? Was it because we needed him? Was it because I needed him? Why not Marqes? He is taken by madness and everyone would feel a bit relieved if you took him. Why not the hateful thief? He believes in nothing but his own welfare and comfort. I would see him dead a thousand times to have Nikko back. 

Why not me? I may just be a boy, but I serve no particular purpose here, as Sly has pointed out endlessly. My sisters can rule, if my father is dead. He must be, right, else he would have broke the world, having us back? I am young, but I have perhaps sixty years before me. Nikko had a thousand. What a rich harvest you have reaped, Pelor. How your basket must overflow! I am so glad that he now wanders your halls. It is not as we needed anyone extraordinary here, for our purposes. We’re just trying to rescue the world from enslavement. Don’t let us disturb your lofty ruminations.

Forgive me, Lord. I do not hate you, though I must sound as if I do. In your wisdom, you must understand how desperate I am to blame someone for this terrible thing. I never really believed that, someday, he would be gone. He was bigger than this small world. He was eternal. Things that I can barely grasp the concept of, he knew in their most intimate and finite detail. In this hour of our greatest need, it was especially cruel to have such a good man ripped from our grasp. What bard could help but spit to have to recount this tale?

Aye, we must carry on, for the sake of the world if not our own. My mouth is full of ashes and my heart, lead. I no longer care for my own life or anyone elses’. I go on because I must. It is my duty to my father, my Kingdom and to you, my God to continue until my time here is through. I will do my duty because I will not bring shame to my family’s name. I will not have it be known that a son of Keilrand gave up because of the pitiless meaness of life. If I must, I will embrace cruelty myself, and cast pity aside. If my only friend must die, who then deserves to live? Who then is worthy of mercy? Of forgiveness? I see none.

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Hi, Reneel again. No, I’m afraid Nikko isn’t any better yet and I will have to continue to add to the journal myself. I am sure that Echi would be glad to do it instead, and I find his writing to be entertaining, but without Nikko’s cooperation, that can’t happen either. I guess you’re stuck with me for the time being.

With Arliss’ daily allowance of divine magic nearly depleated, we were forced to retreat back out of the Drow lair without finishing our exploration. As far as we knew, we’d killed them all and could have finished this exploratory venture with a few more minute’s effort and return back to the dragon’s lair to rest, but it was too dangerous so we left. Nikko used a wall of stone to wall-in the door where it has been sealed before by the Ancient Order of Stonewalkers.

We settled down in that room and began our usual post-battle rituals of tending to the wounds that remained, preparing food and drink to give our bodies the energy needed to aid in the healing process, and passing around the spoils of the battle so everyone could test the heft and feel of any items. An item that caught my eye, or rather two items, where the twin scimitars that one of the Drow heroes had used. I am untrained in the art of two-weapon fighting, but the weapons were extremely well-maid and felt good in my hands. I passed the blades on to Marqes, who was sprawled on the stone floor with this head resting on his bedroll and composing limericks about Saint Cuthbert. He took the swords, glanced at them for half a second, then passed them on to Sly. The thief was squatting on the floor in his favorite posture, arms resting on his knees and gaze focused somewhere far away.

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My name is Reneel, son of Keilrand, King of Mythgar. Yes, my dad is a king, but don’t worry about me looking down my nose. I have six brother and sisters, all older than me. The odds of me ever having the throne are remote, and I’m okay with that. I would be content to be the Monarch’s Spear, and lead his or her armies into battle. Someday, I might be a pretty good fighter. Father says that a leader has to keep his head about him and let the soldiers do most of the fighting, but first he has to gain the troops’ respect. That means being able to do any job that you order them to do, and proving it now and then.

But enough about me. I am, by far, the least interesting of all of the people I am questing with. I am writing this because my friend Nikko is not feeling well and can’t find the will to continue his journal. But the journal is more than just his reflections on what is happening in his life. It is also the chronical of this quest, and a way to make sense of all of the brutality and loss that we must live through to fulfill the prophesy. Nikko is a big believer in the prophesy, though lately he is reluctant to discuss it.

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I am succumbing to the despair of this place.

It is no longer a vague fear that haunts me. It is a fact. Each day I feel myself slip further and further into the darkness of my own thoughts and there is nothing that I can do to prevent it. Another month, perhaps two, and I will be a different person altogether, and probably not worthy of returning with the rest of them, should we manage to fulfill the prophesy.

I could blame Echi, and I often do, but it is something far more subtle and insideous that stalks me. Back when the world was sane, I’d spend days cloistered away in my long-lost academy in the great wood, studying and experimenting. But I could walk out any time and see the brilliant sun shining down on the world, feel her warmth, and smell the rich smells of the forest. There is no relief here. There is no weak and diffused ray of daylight that finds its way through a crack into this place. It is dark and stony and unforgiving. There is no hope here. I brought hope with me, but have lost it.

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 We slogged out of the mess that I’d created in the intersection. We’d avoided the inconvenience of being riddled with hundreds of darts, probably poisoned, but my companions were more upset about the gritty mud sticking to their pretty clothes than the pain and death that I had deprived them of.

Left, right or straight ahead. We went left, which was fine by me. FINE. Sly led, as he is prone to do. It wasn’t that long ago that he might as well have walked backward, so blunt were his skills of perception and stealth, but he had come a lone way in a short time. He was almost as quiet as an elf when he walked now, and little escaped his probing eyes. The corridor went a short distance and then cornered to the right. There was a door of iron another twenty feet up.

"Door," Sly whispered back. It was a relief when he identified what had plainly baffled me before he named it. So that was what a door looked like. Read the rest of this entry »

 The muck once again threatened to rip Magrus’ boot from his leg and swallow it.  Even for a thick and strong Dwarf, the Evernight swamp was a treacherous and difficult mixture of sticky mud and poisonous critters hidden in the black goo.  Evernight got its well deserved name from the curiously constant canopy of ominous grey clouds that prevented all but the most minuet traces of light from the shrouded sun somewhere above.  At night it was said that the darkness was similar to being under-ground without any source of light.  Magrus had no desire to find out the truth of that, night vision or no.

His ability to see in the dark had kicked in shortly after he and his three friends entered the swamp some six hours ago.  They had heard of the ruins and the hidden treasures there located to north and east, supposedly in the dead center of the cursed mire.  Adrenaline and greed had fueled them as they suffered the thick mud grabbing their feet at every step.  It was slow and tiring travel and the main reason they were unable to avoid the blood hunter.  They first spotted the cloaked figure off in the distance.  He was just sitting there upon his black steed watching, seemingly disinterested in the four adventurers.  He watched them for nearly and hour as they slowly made their way north.  Then without so much as a flick of the wrist, his mysterious black horse leaped forward and charged across the mud as if running on dry fields. Read the rest of this entry »

Malice’s current character.  Although he is not lawful good he’s neutral.  I’ll change that for next time.