Thursday, August 18, 2011
From the Journal of… (Return to Secomber)
Although it disturbs me greatly, I cannot deny using skeletons to transport the fallen Wayne is a good idea. I watch Chadwick and hope he does not act out against the undead, such an act would cause me to question loyalties. I don’t want to choose sides.
Tonight brings no rest for me as I am still troubled at the magical change many of my items have experienced. Indeed I must focus on my new weapon. As I write this I can hear Wayne’s random blathering but I can also detect Eva quietly singing lullabys in her sleep. There is something unnatural at work with her.
The next day offers nothing but rain and growing tention amongst the Nine; I for one cannot wait to return to the city. The messenger-drake has returned with replies to Tauron and some of the others but mysteriously none to anyone else. I wait for a sign from Mielikki to no avail, I pray and fear the distance may be too great.
The bitter night invites more nightmares about the last two months and something I can never remember when I wake except I seem to hear the maniacal laughs of fey.
(Griffith) Bordane has insinuated himself as party leader in my book. It was the fourth day on our return to Secomber; it was Bordane who got Chadwick to back down when arguments flared about our undead entourage. Chadwick had been silent until the subject of waltzing back into Secomber with our undead concierge came about.
“In our condition mayhap they think us all undead and come down upon us!” Chadwick asserted. It was clear to me he was increasingly prejudice regarding the undead.
The cooler night brings cooler heads as the whole point was argued down because Chadwick had never said anything until now. Bordane as well was silent until Chadwick lit his temper. I believe Bordane has changed in the months since we left Waterdeep; He has personified his fighting style; he is often underestimated, you just never suspect it is him.
Day five. I have discarded chances on retrieving the mace and talisman and have instead embraced the new powers of my items. A mace was too simple of a weapon. A blessing from Mask I warrant; it seems that many of my items have taken on the properties lost on other items. A theft has occurred, gratitude to Mask. Furthermore there is a sword back in the city that will elevate me and with the chance that Mask has indeed manifested, mayhap Mask would venture to a city. I feel Waterdeep should be our ultimate destination.
Midnight brings the feast of Saints Justus and Pastor, two street urchins killed by a priest of Waukeen over a basket of fruit. The nights are getting longer now, gratitude to Mask.
(Chadwick) Day six. Until the cult intervened in my course, I held on to the image of my older brother Panricon, the shining image of the family, and coveted that image; I have since reevaluated my course. What does he know of trials or of quests? Wardens Walk indeed; what has he taught me through instruction or deed? While I did mourn his death, I feel no need to peruse further in his honor or footsteps. Eden and Griffith have shown me a new course to tread upon one that more complements the nature of our ka-tet.
It has stopped raining tonight; the Peddler’s moon regards us all with distrust. Tomorrow we shall see Secomber before the rise of the Peddler. I will watch Damian closely as he rejoins society with his deadly progress; he is a lightning storm looming over the horizon. Damian is his father’s son, mayhap I will follow in his wake and reap the rewards.
(Wayne) Carried aloft upon a litter of useful items by a pair of skeletons, Wayne often has his eyes wide open: one all white and colorless, one a black dead thing; he speaks in random… “History is written by the victor. Never forget the Face of your Father. A soldier will fight long and hard for a bit of colored ribbon. The White Stallion heralds victory. In war, there are no unwounded soldiers. Only the dead have seen the end of war. Time is the thief of memory. When the rich wage war, it's the poor who die. Older men declare war, but it is the youth that must fight and die. History is written by the victor. A Black Stallion portends death.”