A bundle of leather and parchment...

[Stephen_Zuckerman]

Before you, lies a sizeable scrip of leather, bundled around a large assortment of parchment, papers, and scraps of canvas. It seems to be quite old; the leather is cracked, the leaves of writing folded therein in various states of yellowing, water damage, and general disrepair. An assortment of pouches, sewn onto the outside of the leather, appear to hold various oddments and mementos, some of which appear quite broken, others of which simply look as though removing them from thier long-time resting places would tear the entire bundle apart. The whole thing is tied with a length of cord that looks suspiciously like a bowstring, but which comes loose easily, and without damage to either it, the scrip, or the writings inside. Carefully unfolding the leather scrip, reveals the contents to be exactly what they appeared to be from the outside: an array of parchments, papers, linens, and canvases, all written on in either charcoal, or an ink which has faded slightly with age. There are more pouches sewn into the inside of the scrip, but the parchment laying prominently on the top of the pile of papers catches your eye. It is a fine leaf of parchment, only slightly yellowed with age, but the writing thereon is smudged, and in some places blurred, where water had dripped onto it. Still, it is clearly legible, entirely by virtue of the regularity of the hand it is written in, however angular that script is. Entirely in Common, the page is crossed with even lines of text, the angular letters somehow elegant in thier simplicity. At the bottom, though, is a note that seems totally apart from the rest of the writing, and appears, too, to be less worn by time and hardship. It is in the same hand as the rest, but slightly more stylized, and reads, simply, "What I thought to be the last, was only barely the first... Irony, a hallmark of my life."

--------

"Well. Herein lies the (possible) final statement of Pyyran Rahth, self-named adventurer and infamous bloody fool. I have always despised the necessity to write; fooling with inks, charcoal, or even a woodmarker has always been tedious. It isn't that I lack mastry of the language, or that I have any deficiency in the fine control of my fingers... Merely that I find it far too time-consuming. Amusing, then, that I take the time to waste my figurative breath, complaining on this parchment about having to go on with what I am extending by my own actions?

I'm not sure how I got here. Mentally, yes; I walked, ran, hid in the backs of wagons, sneaked, slinked, and generally meandered down whatever roads I could find, resting in shelters much like this leaking, smelly amalgam of warped wood they call a barn. But it still seems as if I could not possibly have done this of my own volition; what adventure is there in this? What pleasure, what excitement, what plunder or fame? Admittedly, I have seen small bits of all of these, and have thought my travels the best investment of my time and effort, but at this moment, I have little more than the gloom of my surroundings.

Almost, I wish I were home again, back to that little village that I can't even be sure is East, West, over or under me. Back to farming, back to practicing with Elder Fynnel at fencing, back to the knife-throwing, stone-skipping, racing, and riddle matches at the Festivals, back to everything. But it was so unbearably dull, there! There was nothing more a man could hope for but to one day join the Village Council as an Elder, or to some day own a farm apart from that of his family's. Nothing changed, nothing grew. And when that Bard came through... The tales he had told, I have not the parchment to record, nor the skill to merit thier repetition. But I saw that there was more out in the world, greater things! A grand adventure, that has become a grand discomfort.

A man who passed me in the road told me that there is a city a few leagues from here; if I'm lucky, I'll make it before dark tomorrow. However, the luck that would take would be incredible, as I have not eaten anything in days... The homes I have approached refused to even let me work for a meal, and I was never one for forestry. I am struggling to stay awake even now, and am thankful that this farmer had forgotten his lantern out here; it is by that forgetfulness that I am able to scribe these words, which may well be my last. If I am found here, I doubt I will wake, and if I do, it will almost certainly be to a pitchfork in my belly. But... I cannot fight the natural course of things, only try to weasel out of them, as always. I've tried to lead my life well enough, and I hope there will be much more of it ahead. Thanks be to Katia if I find something edible before I keel over, and thanks be to Shadon if I escape here. If not...

Perhaps there will never be anything truly remarkable about this son of a grain-farmer. Perhaps there never has been. But perhaps, whoever reads this (as I plan on burning this, if I live) will take my advice, and stay in thier homes, instead of setting out on some mad quest for glory. If there is a wonder at the end of my journey, it is not worth this interim. Heed me, and live a full life where you are.

Myself, I'm going to sleep."

[Stephen_Zuckerman]

A small letter falls out of the bundle into your hands, slipping out from the other sheets with the wax seal falling from the paper, brittle from age. The seal was pressed with what looks to be a blank signet ring, with a large caubochon-cut stone central to a simple knotwork design. As you example the letter, you see a name written under the flecks of wax left from the seal. It is slightly smudged, the angular Common script spelling out "Pyyran Rahth" in an age-faded charcoal. On the front of it, is another name, this time written in Dwarven letterling: Stonespirit. Simply Stonespirit, with no forname to add distinction.

The parchment crackles with age as it is unfolded, the strangely long leaf of specially-prepared hide bearing two messages, in very different hands. The first, written in Common, is clearly the writing of the same person to have signed both the back of the letter, and the bottom of each message on the page; the charcoal of the writing is so badly smudged that only the regularity of the letters has kept it in any way legible. The second message, in Dwarven, was scribed in ink, and has withstood the rigors of time much more successfully than its earlier-written counterpart. A name, recurring throughout the text in both parts, suggests that the second is merely a translation of the first, but one would have to understand Dwarven to know this for a fact. However, even in the Common, the feeling put across is clearly one of regret and mourning.

---------

"I begin this without preamble, as such would be pointless and inappreciable. It has been eighteen months since Derald's death, and I do not doubt in the least that I, too, am presumed dead by the people of our villages. In truth, I feel this is best, for I could not bear to return, even were I able. I merely wish to do the few things I can to honor his memory: in this, it is to tell you the truth of his death. Honored, his memory should be, for he died in defense of his closest friend. Me. He was the best of dwarves, and an incredible fighter. And it was at my urging that he came with me into the Endwood.

We set off, searching for the camp of the Wild Goblins who had stolen the temple's icons, and quickly found ourselves lost. Still, we kept on, and followed what Derald said to be the trail of a raiding party. When we caught up to our quarry, we found it to be not the goblins we had sought, but a band of bugbear warriors. Terrified, I could not keep from shaking, even as Derald crouched silently by my side, and when one of the bugbears turned towards me, my panic overcame my better judgment; I had not even the time to register my actions before I saw my arrow sprout from its throat. I had even less time to dwell on what a horrendous mistake this was, before the other bugbears, alerted to our presence, rushed at us, forcing us to fight.

Derald felled three of the creatures, but I was hard-pressed to keep the one left to me from putting his sword through my gullet. The bugbear lashed out with a foot as Derald's axe clove the next of the only other bugbear remaining, and I was knocked to the ground. When the bugbear again raised its sword, I thought I was to die, but suddenly, Derald Stonespirit, harmed by only a tiny cut across one arm, has between that blade, and my. The swing of his axe neatly decapitated the creature, but it was not enough to keep the bugbear's sword from sinking into his own neck.

I, on that moment, lost my closest friend, just as you lost your son. All that I hope, is that you may know pride in him, and honor his life as only family could. For me, the only thing I can do now, is strive on in pursuit of my own dreams, dreams Derald shared and supported. I only pray it will be enough to honor his memory as it should be.

And so I go on, in hopes that I may have made some small reparation.

Blessings on you,

~ Pyyran Rahth."

[Stephen_Zuckerman]

The remains of a journal, the cloth bindings tattered and moth-eaten to a poinmt of near-destruction, catch your eye in the midst of the disorganized leaves of paper and parchment jumbled into the scrip. It seems to be fine cloth, the skeins of cotton fibers woven tightly and evenly, but age has overcome even such crafstmanship; the cover to the journal is half-gone, only a few of the embroidered letters on the front legible. "Pyyra-" is all that remains, though the pages within seem to have fared somewhat better. All of fine, pressed linen pages, somewhat the worse for wear, are intact, save for a noticably burned corner, and the yellowing that all such materials gain with age.

Opening it, you find a variety of entries; all are written in the same angular, clearly-read Common, but some were penned in ink, while the majority of the others were scratched out in the same, blurred charcoal that is past legibility in some places. On some pages, there are what seem to be lists, ranging from pricing of precious gems and scrolls, to tables of dues, and alchemical recipies. On others, however, scraps of stories, legends, and even personal notes, cover the page with hastily-written text, the eagerness of the writer to record such things almost tangible in the roughshod forming of the letters. Many are legends that most children have heard at one point or another, but a few are more personal, and some (these written in ink) are even more intriguing...

"Four visions: One of dragons, ruling all with tooth and claw, raining torment on those mannish slaves who refused thier word. Another, of destruction, the lands ravaged by war, bloodshed, and eventual ruin, brought on the heels of great armies, meeting in uninhibited conflict. Yet another, of peace; prosperity, life, and richness of the land. And end to strife; an era of harmony. And finally... Nothingness. Emptiness; a Void of Being, encompassing all that is. The Soul Mother's embrace upon existance as a whole. And end, and a beginning.

I know not what this place is we have all been brought to; from those most newly summoned to this land, to those who have been here since Bloodstone himself walked the wilderness that would one day become Hlint. The tower, there, that I have never seen before, this near to Krandor; they say it belongs to the Shifter. Death took me, though, the moment I touched the door, warded as I was by the magics of Reventage herself, and I lay there for what seemed an eternity, one more vision floating through my mind.

A city, shrouded in darkness as if it were a fog, descended on that great metropolis... Swallowed up by shadow. A city... Sitting amongst a void, just as I was, where my ring cast no light, save upon myself.

Awakened, later, a gift of the Soul Mother, I heard tales from those others present of many things. An ancient spirit, wise with his years, yet whose soul had been taken from him; hidden, where none could find it. Others, like that spirit, who could lead us to Shifter, so we could find some truth in these events. And finally, a necklace, the Necklace of Souls, the purpose of which, even now, we know not, save that it is paramount that we retrieve it from its hiding place.

I know not what I can do, but my support against Bloodstone is always assured."

Several pages of charcoal records of business transactions later, there is another, more personal entry...

"Gold does seem to slip like water through my fingers, these days... And elderberries weigh like lead in my pack; those blasted Freelancers are never around in Hlint, it seems. The number of times I've had to shove elderberries at Calendel, too shaken to carry everything after a brush with the Soul Mother... 'Shadon's own luck' indeed. I can make it from Pranzis, to whatever that southern port on Dregar is, to Karthy, across Rilara to Point Harbor, to Port Hampshire and all the way up Mistone's southern half to Hlint, without even a scratch, but I can't go grab a few walnuts outside of Point without falling victim to a pack of insects? Injustice, I'd say. But then, it's my own rashness that gets me into scrapes like that. Better to stick to the Crypts, when travelling companions are lacking; good gold down there, oddly enough, and plenty of deanimated corpse bits for potion-brewing. Though I can't ever seem to catch Ayla idle, and Kali is only very rarely around. Silool... Well, she has her own issues to attend to, bless her.

I suppose, though, that as I'm writing this, it's as much for whatever lore-monger finds this improvised notebok as for my own memoirs. And, as such, I suppose I offer you, dear reader, an explanation of a few things. The other pages I've scribed before now, that are still in my keeping (though I assure you, some are not for lack of effort towards thier disposal), likely tell enough of who I was in the beginning, before, even, Derald's demise. However, more remains to tell, as my entirely egotistic penchant for flamboyance in manner and deed will not allow me to simply let my story die. At least, not now that I've already set pen to a page.

When I left my home, I had nothing in my mind but a terrified drive to be gone from anything that would remind me of my hand in Derald's death, to push my guilt and grief from my mind with fancies of adventure, and dreams for fame, and to gain skill that could inspire songs. Naturally, this was all nothing more than the ridiculous fantasies of a seventeen year-old boy, but it still drove me to wander the roads enough that every bit of gold I made that didn't go to keeping me from starving, went to boots that weren't worn through. I saw quite a bit, and met a great many people who I doubt, even here, I will forget. More than a year I spent, just walking from city to village to town to hamlet to bustling metropolis, stealing my supper as often as working or singing for it. Then, one night, in a cold, rain-soaked barn, I dreamed of a dragon, and awoke with my back not to the rough, wet planks of an animal's stall, but to the smooth, finely cut shape of a Bindstone.

It took me nearly a year to realise that I had not simply lost a day of memories, as had happened several times before, but that I had been summoned to help in the fight for Layonara against Sinthar Bloodstone. Supposedly, I was chosen for some great merit in myself; some potential in me that would blossom into a grand advantage for the forces of the Mistone Alliance, and for all of Layonara. Myself, I think that's ridiculous, but I've little choice but to try, eh?

In the time since my arrival, I have indeed grown greatly in skill and experience; I have some abilities in the alchemist's craft, and I am told I am as natural-born to a gemcutter's chisel as I am to a rapier. My more-or-less useless skills with a loom have produced little more than this notebook, and the clothes I wear on my back. Still, I can not only survive encounters with hordes of skeletons, zombies, even ghouls - Things that haunted my nightmares until I began ridding the local crypts of the foul creatures - I find myself triumphing over them with relative ease. Goblins, too; horrible little beasts whose arrows seemed to be drawn to my neck, early in my days here... Though weak they are, in comparison to some of the things I have seen, I am still proud, when I say that they offer barely any threat, even when I face many of them alone.

I have overcome a great many obstacles, gained a great many friends and allies, and let a great deal of gold pass through my pockets as if they had holes in them. And yet, for all of my grandiose words of myself, I am still young... Barely twenty, and not even halfway to my hopes of becoming a master of fencing. Still unsure enough of myself that I've little doubt I'll burn this book before I'm done; its contents be hanged.

If you're reading this, however... Perhaps you'll find, in what I may yet live to write, that there is some merit in this existance I've followed. And perhaps, you'll put it to use."

[Stephen_Zuckerman]

As you turn the pages of the small, tattered journal, a leaf of parchment falls from it, a hasty message scrawled out in what appears to be an improvised ink of some sort of juice, and ground charcoal. The pages it had been pressed between show stains, where the parchment had obviously been folded before it was allowed to dry.

"Club Llast looted - Closing? Investigate.

Silool evicted - Azaria & Co acting oddly - Investigate?

Everyone acting strangely - Investigate.

Shadon's luck."

Several pages later, there is a small note, written in a gap between alchemical recipies, which catches your eye.

"Must lie low; infighting among the Summoned. Pray for us all."

[Stephen_Zuckerman]

//Not part of the bundle, but worth filing in here, nevertheless.//

*Posted across Mistone*

The wake of Ayla Bineau

As my beloved Ayla has died there will be a wake at the time we should have been married.

The ceremony will be held at the waterfall west of Blackford Castle.

Ceremony starts at 8 PM.

*Pyyran, casually reading through the various notices on the Wild Surge's public board, suddenly stops breathing as his eyes fall upon this posting. He stands there, not moving, for a long time, before collapsing to the floor, body shaking in silent sobs.

Hours later, he slowly climbs to his feet, and draws a small, handmade journal from a pocket inside his coat, flipping to the middle and quickly glancing through the text of several pages. Nodding slightly to himself, he tears them out in an almost violent movement, and slips the cloth-bound book back into his pocket. From his belt he takes his skinning knife, and holds the pages against the board with his offhand, a cry of grief and rage coming up from his throat as he slams the blade through the linen sheets of writing and into the board with force enough to shake the wall.

Nursing a small cut, Pyyran walks out of the inn, noticing neither the small amount of dust that had fallen from the rafters, nor Yastin's protests at his treatment of the board.*

***

The pages, leaves of fine linen paper written with a dark, fine ink, are pinned in a margin, the blade holding them to the board having missed every letter of the text. Upon inspection, they are from the tail end of a journal entry, that had gone unfinished.

"...and that is, at times, a bit tiresome for such a 'troll-kissing fool of a brainsick barmy' as myself. Still, she is quite helpful to those in need, and quite a bit of fun, if one can keep up.

Next, is Ayla Bineau, priestess of a deity whose name I can never recall; the only person who I've known as long by a face not her own as by the one she was meant to wear. She has been human again for quite some time, now, but before then, I had only known her as an orc. Even as an orc, though, Ayla possessed a certain degree of elegance and grace, but once more in her true form... The only fitting words I have ever heard are in Elvish, but the closest translation I could give would be, 'breathtakingly beautiful.' By far, she is the most beautiful (if not quite the most alluring, to me, at least) woman I have yet seen. Though... It is not simply a fair face, and an artful figure that give her such a quality; there is a kindness and grace that flows from her that I cannot do justice with words.

She was given the appearance of an orc, some time ago, to infiltrate and bring down the leadership of a vast orcish army, only to be returned to her true form on that task's success. Others also took part in this attempt, and a long, and perilous journey it was. Succeed they did, though, and it was thanks to thier efforts that this entire continent was not ravaged by an Orcish onslaught. I have helped in what little ways I could, by bringing her ingrdients for healing potions, and I have always been helped in return; she has made potions for me out of those ingredients as often as not. She'll actually be married, soon, though, and I am left trying to think of a suitable wedding present..."

The writing leaves off in the middle of the last page, as though there were a good deal more left to be put down, but there is still a note of finality to the message. As for the knife... The blade is embedded deeper than all but a truly exceptional strength could remove. The pages suffer little, though, from being torn from it; however, there is something about them that compells the reader to reattatch them to the board, again in clear view.

Much as the notice above them has a sense about it that discourages one from taking it from plain sight, where all who knew her would see, and weep for the loss.

[Stephen_Zuckerman]

*Another few pages of supply manifests later, you come to yet another loose sheaf of parchment, folded into the journal. It is in an elegant, flowing Common, and appears to be correspondance regarding something of a great deal of note.*

//Originally written by Mandrake Shilling, player of Lepus Pox.//

To: The INESTIMABLE MR PYYRAN, Friend of SURFACE DWARVES, Aspirant SWORDSMAN, and Habitué of THE SCAMP’S MUG, Port Hampshire

Regarding the RECOVERY OF AN ARTIFACT

Sir - I REGRET that I was unable to continue our discussion earlier this week; I was in fact already about to retire for the night when you entered the tavern, but it is always encouraging to meet fellow adventurers who are not solely obsessed with honing their WARCRAFT, and wish to swap STORIES for a while.

Well, anyway - to the meat of this communication:

During our converation, you spoke of a SORCEROUS BLADE. I confess that privately I was a little sceptical at first - in troubled times such rumours of common. However, I find that it is somehow difficult to shake the thing from my thoughts; perhaps, as you intimated, this artifact is somehow connected to the war effort, to my purpose here, and to yours.

And so I propose that when we are able to free ourselves from other ADVENTUROUS DUTIES here on Mistone, and of course from the mundane requirements of daily life, we should form an alliance with the ultimate end of recovering the blade. Of course, I well understand that this would be no easy task, and I suggest that we should plan carefully before HURLING OURSELVES AT THE ZAINGE RIVER, and proceed cautiously, in the following (provisional) initial stages:

I. A meeting in the Scamp to discuss the matter further in pleasant surroundings, with proper refreshment. Tactics, possible obstacles, potential allies and so on should be considered, and we should perhaps make some discreet enquiries amongst the bards and sages of Mistone.

II. A short and relatively safe training mission - against the beasts outside Port Hampshire gates, for instance, or somewhere even less dangerous - in order to establish best practice with regard to confrontation: an exercise in luring opponents into snares, striking from shadows and so on; we should learn to co-ordinate our attacks before lurching into a head-on assault like so many of the warriors I have travelled with so far. I would always prefer to spend longer planning a battle than actually fighting it … [// of course, in pnp this always used to be the case … I am aware that with traps & tactical battles etc. it’s important not to overdo it or interpret “tactics” as “exploits”, but it would be nice to use those highly undervalued rogue skills]

III. A discreet scouting mission into the Zainge River area, first setting up a base camp in some safe corner. We should alternate “point” duties so as to apportion danger equally. It is my opinion that we should remain unseen, if possible; I have heard that there are ogres in the region, but they are as good as blind most of the time … should force prove necessary, we can fall back on the set routines we have already practiced. If you think it would be wise to recruit aid, I recommend that anyone accompanying us should be capable either of camouflage or at the very least of hanging back and following a battle-plan. We should thoroughly investigate the area, then retreat to discuss our findings and plan the next stage.

If you are interested in such a CAUTIOUS VENTURE, and you sense that it is possible to reach me on Mistone, send a messenger and we can meet at the Scamp to talk it over. The plan outlined above is by no means inflexible - I am sure a gentleman like yourself has many ideas of his own about how to proceed; it is merely an indication of my own preferences. As for the sword: well, I am tempted to say that it would be fitting to draw lots for it, but as the senior partner, you are probably entitled to the weapon - if we find it, that is … For the moment I am happy with a shorter blade.

I wish you good luck,

Your servant &c.,

Lepus Pox

[Stephen_Zuckerman]

Six years... How can it have been six years, already? I've seen, and done, so much in these six years... My bladecraft has become almost good enough to rival Elder Fynnel, my skill with a bow good enough to skewer a coney at an hundred paces... I've learned Alchemy, gemcraft, and I've even finally learned how to cook. To a degree. More gold has come and gone through my fingers than I would have thought possible, back at the old village. What I scrounge in a day is more than even most of the Elders would have seen in a year, and yet I'm still strapped for coin at every turn. Perhaps, if I practice the blade more, I'll be able to enter the Tournament in Leilon; I hear there's a healthy prize for the winner.

Lepus Pox is dead. The poor man fell to an illness which took him before he could get to a healer, and our hopes for finding the Final Strike together are dashed. Still, perhaps I owe it to the man to find it, myself. Some Adventurer, I am, if I give up on such a quest simply because a compatriot was lost. I have no more leads, but with things the way they are...

I've infiltrated a ring of spies... Faceless, or, as they're called here, dopplegangers. Masquerading as a Faceless is more than a bit tricky, but I don't have much choice, anymore; I've been given an assignment to spy on an enclave of drow. I'm supposed to meet the commander again rather soon, in Lorindar, but I honestly have no idea what to report, as I've no clue which drow I'm supposed to be spying on. Honestly, I'm mainly just hoping he'll buy my excuse about having accidentally stolen the face of a well-known adventurer, and having to play the part to keep down the suspiscions that would arise from his death.

Och. Ilsare grant me peace... I'm losing my bloody mind with all of this.

[Stephen_Zuckerman]

//I think I'll just discard the bundle idea... It was nice, but seeing as I have trouble keeping up with it, I'll just let it go and start updating this in whatever manner suits the update. Gods, but I miss the days when I could actually Write.

Twenty-five hundred gold on a necklace that doesn't work... Honestly, I'm beginning to grow tired of this sneaking about, just to place an effective blow. I paid Jharl twenty-five hundred gold for a pair of bracers and a crow-feather necklace. The bracers operate perfectly, gathering the darkness nearby into a globe where no light penetrates, thick as soup. The necklace, however, was meant to make me immune to that effect. Unfortunately, though I can plainly tell that the necklace is genuine, I cannot for anything figure out how to make it operate! If I could only find someone who could teach me more than I already know about the rapier...

But that's moderately immaterial. It's not as much gold as all that, after all. What matters more is that the war with Bloodstone is coming to a head. Tales of the things I've seen of late would span tome after tome, but suffice it to say that the climax of this world's struggle will be one that will shake the foundations of existance, if not crumble them entirely. I simply hope to survive.

[Stephen_Zuckerman]

Another step, and Pyyran Rahth, self-proclaimed adventurer, felt a tug at his soul. He couldn't quite describe it, but it was a strange feeling, one reaching down to gently pull at his core; pulling towards the center of the lake. Interrupting his many-scarred, greatsword-wielding friend, Cole Norseman, he turned to the island in the lake.

"Cole... You lot go on, I... I have something I need to do."

Cole, and the others who had joined them, asked him what he meant, but he waved thier questions away, stalking off toward the small ferry that crossed to the island. The island on which lived Rhizome, High Druid of all Layonara. The thought coalesced in Pyyran's mind, and he saw an image... An image of the Greak Oak, its arms spreading out to touch everything on Layonara, a single twig snagging the front of his shirt and pulling him closer.

Wrapped in the image, Pyyran barely noticed his surroundings until setting foot on the shore of Corax Island, when he found himself facing the High Druid himself. Rhizome was speaking with another, AnnaLee, but turned before Pyyran could speak, and waved to him, a warm smile on the old man's face. Pyyran stood there, stunned, but approached without a word, and sat near Anna, listening to the High Druid's words as the two discussed the responsibilities and diversities of Druidism, and the path that Anna might take.

As a demonstration, Rhizome cast a few dozen spells to immobilize opponents, and strengthen allies, to show the usefulness of the gifts of Nature. He stated as much, and Pyyran finally piped up.

"But what of those with no gift in magic or nature? My skills revolve only around killing things, and disabling various devices." He sounded somewhat dejected, his real question for Rhizome obviously just under the surface. However, it was not Rhizome who answered first, but Ireth Telrunya, the lovely elf who Pyyran had, perhaps unsurprisingly, with his concentration on the High Druid, not noticed until then.

"You say that like it's a bad thing, Pyyran."

He shook his head. "But what will I have when the war is over? When invaders are cast away? When... Well, peace reigns? Alchaemy? People won't have as much use for my potions, without battle to strengthen for."

"A family, maybe?"

"I'm no farmer... How could I support one?" He shook his head again, looking to Rhizome for guidance. It was AnnaLee who spoke next, however.

"You're assuming that peace will reign..." Her voice was subdued, quiet.

The High Druid looked from Anna to Pyyran, and smiled slightly. "Battles will always rage. When this war ends, and the vaccum of power it leaves behind becomes realized; a great many will struggle to assert themselves and thier agendas into it. There will always be evil. There will always be good. There will always be conflict between the two."

A thread of distress crept into Pyyran's voice, and he shooks his head almost violently. "But then am I fated to be, in effect, little more than an assassin for peace? I helped 'protect' people in Haven by killing the ogrish leader... And the trade routes between Llast and Hlint by killing the goblinoid chief. Killing... There must be more to life than that."

Rhizome nodded. "Of course there is. Just as there is more to your killing than just death."

Ireth piped up again, a smile clear on her face. "And there are children, love, and joy to life, as well."

"The fun part is starting one.  It's what comes after that makes all the trouble." Rhizome smirked playfully at his own comment. Anna merely blushed.

"But High Druid... A family..." Pyyran shook his head. "I can't even imagine that... It's something else I want from life, something I can never seem to catch up with."

"And what is that?"

A somewhat sheepish grin crept across Pyyran's face, and he lowered his eyes. "Adventure." His grin faded somewhat as he continued. "With every legend I hear, I hear also the tale of its conclusion. It seems as if everything new, unknown... Someone's already come along and mapped it out, plain to see."

Rhizome smiled warmly, shaking his head. "No, my friend... Adventure can never be taken from you. It can only be surrendered willingly. There is adventure in the details of even the most mundane existence." Ireth, nodding at the comment, stepped closer to the gathering, a smile warm enough to make the High Druid's seem cold on her lips.

"Pyyran... I am planning a wedding. Does that sound like an adventure? Because it is. The first time I saw my dress... The vision my designer created for me... It was magical. Picking the location, decided where we wish to make our vows, a true exploration."

The Rhizome and Anna both smiled at her statements, while Pyyran sat with a thoughtful expression on his face, nodding slightly. Then Anna spoke.

"And the adventure of truely knowing ones' self through it all sir..." She spared a gentle smile for Pyyran, whose thoughtful expression intensified. "Nothing is ever quite what others say, and perspective makes all the difference."

Pyyran nodded again, repeating her words softly. "Perspective makes all the difference..." After a few moments, he suddenly spoke up again. If you've done something a hundred times before, how is it an adventure? I have cleared the Hlint Crypts, the Red Light Caverns, and the Haven Mines dozens of times... The first, even fifth times, there was a spark of excitement, of newness... But... Once something has become commonplace; once something has become near-enough the same each time... What, then? The world is old... How can there be newness in a world where everything has been done?"

Ireth laughed, and said, "Because each time is different." Nodding, Anna followed her comment closely.

"When you hear a tale, do a thing, cast a spell... An open mind shows the newness of each doing, listening, casting."

Waiting for Anna to finish, Rhizome finally spoke. "I would rather say that you are letting a strange notion of adventure shape your actions in non-adventurous ways. There is newness in repetition. But if you can't find it to enjoy and respect it, then you've become a slave to habit and are slaying your adventurous spirit yourself." Pyyran looked to him, the impact of the High Druid's statement clear in his eyes. He nodded faintly, and turned to Anna as she commented.

"Half of what happens to us, we do to ourselves... In some cases... More then half."

Rhizome gave her a crooked smile, to which she blushed. "You certainly have the wisdom to be a Druid..." He turned again to Pyyran.

"You say the world is old. You are right... Yet... The world is made new, every moment. There is a relief effort by the Mistone Alliance for 'The People of Roldem.' But there are no longer such people. There are only the former citizens of Roldem who live on the islands of Calishan, Alibor, and so on. Roldem is gone. From its ruins people will rebuild new cities and kingdoms and such.  The world is new. It has been since its birth, and shall be 'till its death."

Pyyran looked up at Rhizome for a long time, meeting the High Druid's eyes with an expression of thoughtfulness, and, slowly, a growing relief. After a time, with noone speaking, Pyyran slowly climbed to his feet, and made a deep bow to Rhizome, the few tears that slid down his face seeming more of greatfulness than sorrow.

"Thank you, High Druid. Thank you."

[Stephen_Zuckerman]

//Due to Intellectual Property complications, this post is no longer valid for Pyyran's past. I'm ret-conning his origins to fit, as detailed here.

//Ooh, and here's a REALLY fun one to do. I finally get to elaborate on Pyyran's past, pre-Layonara. I'll be editing it as I get it posted in parts... There's no way I'm finishing it tonight. EDIT: Maybe I won't elaborate much. That'll be for a future post dedicated to his history with the Derakins. MAN, that'll be cool, though. For now, I'm just transcribing logs, and fixing THE MASSIVE SPELLING ERRORS that Ozy and Rhynn seem to love piling on. I love the two of you, but really, could you give a dictionary a chance and just read? [/playful dig]

Pyyran, ever a loremonger at heart, had been discussing Paladins, Priests, and the Deities in general for some time, when the subject shifted to how the gods became gods. Ozymandias explained that the majority of them had either gained an immense amount of power, or been born into godhood, but that Pyrtechon and Rofirein had arrived in Layonara as deities.

"Rofirein and Pyrtechon..." The Bard shrugged. "They came to this world from another and to my knowledge had already ascended."

Thomas Stormsinger, a paladin and member of the discussion, broke in. "Another?" Pyyran likewise looked intensely interested.

"Another world? You don't mean another Plane, do you. You mean something else entirely, aye?"

"No I mean another-" The Bard pointed down. "-World. They came to this one on invitation from the T'ol. Probably because they had destroyed their origional world in war like they nearly destroyed this one."

"Wait... Another world? On... The same plane, or something else entirely?"

"Same plane just a different really big rock floating in whatever. It's easier to jump planes than travel between Primes, though."

Pyyran frowned for a moment, looking thoughtful. "Ozymandias... Could the Dragon from the dream call someone from another of these... Primes, you called them?"

The Bard sighed. "No, actually, he can't. People end up on this world, and he calls them."

"What could bring a person from another Prime, though?"

"Heh, secret of the eons. I've a fair guess, but still a guess. I don't travel between Primes often. Infact, this is the third one I've ever been on. Half of Hlint is from another world, I've noticed."

Rhynn, a sorceress who had been very vocal in the debate on Paladins, yet strangely quiet, now, suddenly spoke. "So you've done it... And yet you're only guessing as to how?"

Ozymandias shrugged. "I know how I do it, not how they do it."

"And how do you do it?"

"Outer planes, come back into the prime following someone else."

Pyyran slowly nodded. "Like grabbing the back of a wagon and being carried along... Aye?"

Ozymandias grinned, nodding back to the adventurer. "Yep."

"Ozymandias, when did you come to Layonara?"

"Back when Blood opened the Rifts."

Rhynn spoke up again. "You followed him?"

The Bard scowled, and shook his head again. "No, the twit opened one up into the Negative Planes, and I happened to be caught in it. It nearly killed me and I landed in the Forsaken Isles and chartered a ship out. Three months later, just as I was recovering enough to gate back home, the Dragon showed up. He hired me and griped about how hard I am to find."

"You said something once about being a great and powerful mage... When you came through, you lost all of that, or is that something different entirely?"

"I lost every last bit of it Rhynn. It comes back when I'm in the outer planes but otherwise I'm tapped. The Weave isn't universal; it applys to this world and near the planer gates. Oh, and of course near Lucinda's fortress, wherever that is."

Rhynn frowned. "I'm sorry to hear it, Ozy. I couldn't imagine losing the touch I have with the Weave... Or magic... Or whatever you lost touch with." Pyyran piped up at this.

"The Weave is Lucinda, so of course it wouldn't go beyond her influence."

Ozymandias chuckled darkly. "Heh... Oh, Lucinda is not the Weave. She's just its guardian."

Rhynn seemed somwhat distressed at this comment. "But the teachings..."

"The teachings misinterpreted some things. Think about it, how would Lucinda's enemies use magic if she were magic? Why would she allow that? It's beyond chronically stupid. She's just its guardian and its balance, magic comes from..." He waved slightly. "It's complex to explain outer planar magic."

Pyyran, silent in this exchange, carefully thought over the things he had seen in his years of wandering, before he found himself in Hlint. "Ozymandias... Before I found myself in Hlint, I travelled with a group of gnomes, who told me a great many things about magic, but... None of it dealt with the Weave."

"Chances are you were from another Prime. Thing is, most people don't move around alot; when they get here they just assume they are in a different part of the country or whatever. Sleep in a funny grove, a gate opens, you fall through, opens up on the other, side you blame it on pixies."

Pyyran was silent again for a long moment, then sighed, shaking his head. "I had suspected as much... Does this mean I can never return?"

"Of course you can return, if you figure out how where and what. But really, is there anything truely left for you back there?"

The adventurer met Ozymandias' gaze for a moment, falling silent again, before dropping his eyes. "Some."

The Bard shrugged. "Life isn't easy or fair; you can look, but I don't know any such rift that's stable. It happens, it seems, nearly at random. Certain points, magic builds up, then releases."

"Then... Is there any way to predict these 'buildups'?"

"Not on this rock. This is the first place where I've ever been that magic has been controled and kind. Magic is gentle here, easy, soft, predictable, orderly."

"Mages were always great destroyers, in the old stories..." Pyyran's voice was soft, distant.

"Odd how not a single story like that exists here. Magic destroys the mage, consumes them, and that's that in all the old stories."

"The Derakins had a way to control it, though... I've seen similar things from the wizards, here." The young man offers no explanation of who "the Derakins" are. Ozymandias simply grinned.

"Are they really controling it? Or just using it."

"I'm not sure; they explained only that they manipulated certain 'laws' of magic..."

"That sounds more like the magic I'm used to. Uncontroled, powerful, harder then iron. Also angry and unpredictable, magic was exhausting really. You wouldn't see anyone throw down a full string of spells, it would kill them."

Pyyran nodded. "There were other things, that they swore wasn't magic, but... I couldn't very well tell the difference. Things with fire, iron, boiling water... Do you understand things like that, Ozymandias?"

Another grin broke Ozymandias' face. "Yes I do actualy, I'm always looking for a way around using magic. hen it feels like your being dipped in burning oil every time you cast a spell. You quickly look for other solutions."

"Aye... I would suppose so. They did have alchemy, with products similar to the ones I've learned to make."

"Yep, alchemy and things meshed slightly with magic. I once saw something that made pictures move." Pyyran's eyes widened at this.

"Move? But... Surely it was simply a clever illusion."

"It was weird and loud and strange...magic isn't the only way to do things just sometimes not the best."

Rhynn suddenly spoke up. "I once saw this large destroyer tube... It exploded whatever it was pointed at."

Pyyran nodded thoughtfully. "That sounds like the dry alchemist's fire the Derakins had. It didn't burn, like mine, just exploded. They guarded the recipie fiercly, though; I was only allowed to see it once."

Ozymandias nodded as well. "Alchemy, lots of alchemy. Alchemy isn't a joke either, its rather impressive. A keg of powder number four can put a serious dent in the dirt."

"Powder did that?" Rhynn was stunned, but Ozymandias kept on.

"Fortunatly the gnomes are the most peaceful race in Layonara. They have lots of things that make impromptu weapons by design, though, and many more not by design. If they need to, Gnomes protect their interests. While that digging machine looks harmless enough, it can dig through flesh alot easier than dirt."

Pyyran laughed nervously, nodding. "Aye, that's certainly the truth. The things they threatened me with, running me off after I caught Robyn's eye... But..." He glanced up at the sun, and frowned slightly. "I do have to be getting back to work. I was a pleasure discussing things with you, Ozymandias, Rhynn. I will have a great deal to think on, over the next few days."

He made his bows to both of them, and left.

[Stephen_Zuckerman]

The Fall of Pranzis.

Never before have I seen such solidarity in purpose among adventurers and tradesmen. Never before have I seen so many good people cut down so low.

At dawn of the first day, a full forty-two of Layonara's finest trackers, healers, warriors, and spellcasters, all gathered in Lorindar to prepare for the coming battle for the City. Freldo Jabutica and Katrien Hommel played the sunrise, thier violins singing hope across the docks as we gathered into four groups.

Two groups were to defend the gates East and West, while one, with our greatest heroes, was held in reserve. The fourth fell to my command, those who would go out and scout the surrounding countryside. Just as the groups were decided, though, a Pranzis guard stumbled into Lorindar, broken and bleeding. He brought word of attack on the City itself.

We, all of us, set out for Pranzis, cutting through a small regiment of Bloodstone's troops as we marched, arriving only a few short hours before the full brunt of Sinthar's army. The City guards had taken heavy losses in the skirmish before our arrival, but when we marched in the gates of the city, cheers went up.

I mourn the fact that our resistance cost many of those cheering faces thier lives, but even more that we were not strong or numerous enough to keep Blood's forces at bay.

The first day, Rael, general of the troops Blood had sent, gave us a chance to surrender before the fighting began. Naturally, the defenders denied, and the first wave commenced.

My group, however, was running as swiftly as we could manage to Saudiria, to make sure that Blood had not ordered more troops in by that avenue. We passed a huge encampment as we left Pranzis, but our senses were fooled by thier spellcasters' charms, and we ran on, oblivious. Zanirth Nur Drichstarr, a drowess tracker, and I had just reached Saudiria at nightfall, the other lagging behind somewhat, when a runner from the City caught up to them. Upon our return, we learned that the City was under attack; Saudiria had been a ruse.

We made haste back to Pranzis, arriving on the morn of the second day. The defenders had weathered the first wave, and the Mouth of Rael had returned to offer, again, the chance for surrender. We, adamant in our belief that we could hold the City, refused.

The second day was a blur of fighting; the West and East gates were set upon with frightening regularity, the West defenders having to fall back from the gates and set up a line within the city. It was then that I found the first ballista.

It had been years since I had been close enough to touch one, but I remembered well the operation of such devices from my time with the Derakins. It was lined up with the wagons, as a sort of barrier, but I wheeled it back and loaded it, having to strain even with a young paladin's help to turn the crank. When ready, I aimed it for the gates.

The next wave to break through the gates found its first few ranks impaled by a two-thumb-thick spear of oak, launched faster than any bird has ever flown. It punched through the first of them, and was lost to my sight quickly, but I saw nearly a dozen dwarves under Blood fall. The paladin and I barely managed to load the ballista again before our allies were joining the fray, only missing Karana Elksoul by a few feet with the second loose. Seconds after that, though, the wave dispersed, the enemy defeated.

This was not to last, however.

Having found a station that required my skills in particular, I appointed Zanirth as acting leader of the Scouts, before they went off to patroll the northern and southern districts. The sounds of battle soon rose, but I spent my time teaching the paladin how to operate the ballista. I barely had time to show the man how to alter the angle of the siege weapon before shouts for help rose from the east gates.

I ran, with others, only to find few living targets to loose my arrows at when I arrived. The wave there had been defeated, but I had learned the power of ballistae. It was as I returned from the Temple of Toran in the city with another three ballistae and the priests to man them, when Varka's body slammed into the cobbles. I learned of his plan to use explosives to kill Rael, and an idea occured to me. The fire bomb I had so carefully carried around everywhere would work brilliantly to bring Rael's troops to the ground, and even Rael himself, if my aim was lucky.

Unfortunately, my plan was never to reach fruition.

Between waves, much deliberation occured among the defenders, centering around sending a preemptive team of shock troops to cut down Rael's men during the night. While the others argued, I took the time to raise one of the ballistae to a very sharp angle, securely fastening the bomb to the head of one of the massive quarrels. When fired, it would have decimated ranks of the enemy's troops, but...

Though I worked through the night, strengthening the defenses as well as I could, on the morn of the third day, just before we were to send our team out, cries of retreat rang out from the western gates. An erinyes, a succubus, had shattered the ranks to the west, and was bearing around to flank us. At the same time, the eastern gates burst open, and dozens of dwarves streamed into the city. Many Dragoncalled fell, and I was only barely able to cut the bomb free of its spear before dashing away at the call of Retreat.

We regrouped at the Citadel of Rofirein, but Pranzis had fell. The City was lost, and my hastily requisitioned siege weaponry for the defense of the Citadel went to naught, as Rael himself came to order our surrender, in exchange for letting us, and whichever citizens who wished it, to leave peacably.

The survivors were evacuated, but I remained. I remained, a fury burning in my heart against Rael, this dwarf who had brought the proud capitol of Layonara to its knees.

I remained, plotting revenge.

From the journal of Pyyran Rahth, in the weeks following the Capture of Prantz (formerly Pranzis).

[Stephen_Zuckerman]

//I should note: Pyyran is not the type to meticulously "wrap up" a storyline in his life just to appease some potential future reader. He does it from time to time, but some things bear remembering in his mind. Other things don't. Sorry for the haphazard fashion of all of this. Also, anything actually from his writings will be noted as such, while the rest is just narration.  

Falling...  

Falling, falling...  

Drifting and falling through the blackness of the void.

The glowing conch shell around his neck, inscribed by a mer-king, offered little solace, casting its light only on the tortured form of the figure falling through nothingness. Weapons and tools hung from the man's waist, but there was no wind to buffet them, the only proof of his descent in the void the wrenching feeling in his gut. Clutching his right arm to his chest, a grimace of pain twists his face, but not mark shows, the only visible oddity the unusual streak of white from behind his right ear to the end of his tied-back black hair.  How long had he been falling? He didn't know. Time washed away in the void. Everything washed away, lost to the eternal nothingness. Even the sounds of his own breathing were lost to his ears. Days, it must have been; hunger and thirst burned inside him, but he never lost consciousness, never died. Days, weeks... His only solace, that he had held firm against Perenar, and that the lantern was safe in Brisbane's hands.  Still. Little comfort, that.  

...  

Eventually, after such time as he did not understand, the man woke in Arabel, and, looking around fearfully, slunk off to the docks to charter the first ship that could take him off Xantril.

[Stephen_Zuckerman]

From the notes and journal of Pyyran Rahth, adventurer...  

Simmer 1 gramme crushed catnip leaf in 1/2 pint water and 2 oz. Essence of Knowledge. Reduce to 4 oz. Pour while hot. Makes 2 full vials of Awakening Draft. Will experiment with Essence of Speed in attemts to reduce side-effects (shaking and nausea for up to one hour after taking one 2 oz. dose.)  

~  

Sleep... Gods, what I wouldn't give for a good night's sleep... I've been awake six days, now, but I'm not out of Awakening Draft yet. It's to the point where I dread sleep, and the Dream that comes with it, only a little bit more than the taste of that horrid potion. Diluting it ruins its effectiveness, but chewing a bit of ginseng helps lessend the side-effects. If I could only get some almond oil... Essence of Speed might work better.  

All throughout these shakily-written pages is scattered the word "falling," written between lines, in margins... There is even a page written nearly black with it.

[Stephen_Zuckerman]

From the notes and journal of Pyyran Rahth, adventurer...

The Velensk Combat Academy

A more grueling day where my life was not at stake I do not recall. Three hours discovering and disarming traps, ten in constant fencing drills. Ireth was the instructor, and astonishingly enough, she didn't seem the least bit fatigued. A lovely woman...

The traps that were set for us were truly impressive; set into floors and walls, bloody well camouflaged, and with the tiniest, deepest little openings to get at the disarming triggers. How they were set, I can't imagine, but it took quite a while, and a bit of help from that wand Daeron gave me, to get them taken care of. The trouble was that I kept losing my focus... I couldn't concentrate on the task, which usually requires incredible patience. Mostly, I just wanted to let someone else take over, while I was inching my fingers further along the stone and between taut wires. Nearly set one of them off; a nasty flame trap that would have burned my hair right off. Mayhaps I'm getting too old for traps and sneaking... But no, surely that's at least another ten years off.

The fencing simply wore me out. It was a week ago, and my legs are still a bit sore; I vow I haven't darted about so much in my whole life. Much of my technique was very sloppy; the position of my blade was too low to properly defend higher, and I grip the hilt harder as I get wearier. I also tended to fall into very obvious patterns, which made the openings in my defense as wide as the gates to Hlint. Ireth taught me a bit of a trick for defense, however: The next movement is always dependent upon the last; watch each movement to see where the next strike can come from. Honestly, though, this would be much more useful if I didn't rely so much on my leathers. They pinch, too, with some of the contortions Ireth put me through.

I think I'll go try on those cobalt-spun clothes I bought from the 'Lancers...

[Stephen_Zuckerman]

From the submission for Duelist...

For the past eightteen years, the entirety of the time Pyyran has spent on Layonara, many goals have flitted through his mind. Temporary goals, set on finding money, housing, equipment, women... Legends, magic, wealth. They meant much to him, but throughout, one goal has remained firmly in his mind, a goal he was constantly working towards, with each time he drew his rapier from its sheathe. "To be a master fencer" does not adequately describe Pyyran's yearning; it was an almost abstract idea of a blade-wielding dervish, the metal almost a living part of the man. With combat prowess, too, came the confidence and acceptance of life around him, as it went hand-in-hand with the idea of the man Pyyran wanted to be. Hardships innumerable, near-madness, and recovery from all have brought him closer to the state of mind for which he strove, though purest chance, and those same troubles have given him every chance to hone his skills both offensive and defensive with a blade. Sadly, also, he has been forced more and more to take the front in a fight, and his practice has been more and more for combat rather than exploration.

Always an advocate of speed and precision rather than brute force, Pyyran has been expanding upon and perfecting the careful aim that the man who taught him the blade, the Elder Fennyl, had drilled him so thoroughly on. Pyyran's greatest intent, in regard to this, was not as much to be able to do more harm with a strike from the flank, but to apply this study upon every blow he made. While still a ways off from perfecting this technique, he has been striving to master it from the moment he understood the concept.

Defense has been a prime subject of debate for Pyyran for many years. At different times, he has worn everything from iron-spun cloth to heavy hide armor, and he has been striving for a balance between restriction and protection, always acknowledging that there would be a point at which his dexterity and skill would keep him alive more readily, totally unhindered, when the protection even of leathers would not compensate for the restriction of his movement. He has reached that point, and passed it, and studied ever harder to improve his skill at simply not being hit. His studies under Ireth Telrunya, and his careful observation of those more combat-able than he, have yielded a font of information and technique, which Pyyran has striven to incorporate into his own style of combat. Already one to duck and tumble about, the most useful concept was one only recently learned: watching the opponent's balance can allow you to anticipate his attacks better than merely watching his hands, and thereby avoid those attacks.

For all his progression, he has finally stepped foot into the paradigm which he had imagined long before even leaving for the Endwood with his friend Derald. His skills have room to improve, that is certain, but his study of traps, locks, and the arts of stealth has waned in the face of struggle for betterment with his blade.

--

His current description:

This slender man moves with a lithe grace, weapons, tools and pouches hanging from his belt making little sound as he steps along. Usually wearing a calm, friendly expression, his cold blue eyes sparkle with some inner mirth, and are touched at the corners by the finest of lines, belieing his otherwise youthful appearance. A small, simple beach conch hangs from a cord around his neck, but the unnatural streak of white following from behind his right ear to the end of his shoulder-length black hair draws your eye.

--

The shell Pyyran wears around his neck was a gift from Jethradialin Anraleckiathi'zaa Nonethrelem'noil Grythilenthelia Oreth'calaghad, a mer-king known more commonly (by Acacea at least) as Jango. Pyyran doesn't remember his full name, and can't honestly be expected to... What he does remember, however, is the lesson he was taught by the very gift of that shell. At that point, Pyyran had focused on gaining material wealth as a compensation for his feelings of worthlessness... However, it generally didn't work.

There is an inscription on the inside of the shell, which reads: "Worth comes from things that grow from within. Find your worth first before finding that in things external. Then you will truly see how to love what surrounds you. Take it from me..." These are the words Jango spoke to him upon giving him the shell, which glows brightly when he concentrates on it.

Pyyran's materialistic nature took a rapid turn at that point, and from then on, he took a more minimalistic approach to equipment, gold, and often even healing supplies, focusing on his own skills and relationships with others.

--

The shock of white hair behind his right ear is a product of the truly immense stress he was put under during his time falling through the Void, and his lack of sleep afterward. He suffered from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder for several years afterwards, which caused the dreams, but has since coped, acknowledging how much stronger his mind is against torture and hardship.

--

Just some notes on his development that I'm not sure how to properly frame IC and preserve the chronological order I prefer.

[Stephen_Zuckerman]

With a great sigh, Pyyran Rahth, adventurer by trade, tossed his copy of an unnamed druid's essay on the Balance into the storage chest at the foot of his bed. He would learn little more from it, he was certain; that all things, civilized or not, fit into the Balance seemed a given, from which sprung naturally all the other ideas presented in the book-length publication. He leaned forward, onto his knees, propping himself up with his elbows, and shook his head slowly. "I need to find more..."

"I need to find Rhizome."

The aging adventurer stood, and began to pace back and forth in his small room in the Independant Inn, his mind shifting between subjects as a bee flits from blossom to blossom. The druid, Kyoro... His crimes in Hampshire. Drogo's increasing vigilantism... And the upcoming rent due. Seven hundred fifty True each month; not a great sum, but when one's hours were all spent in Blackford or the Great Library, that sum became more and more difficult to procure. Then again, the price one pays for learning...

Kyoro. His mind settled on her, as it often drifted during his studies, or travels, or... Any time of day, really. She was so young; indeed, she was older than he by three times at the least, but there was an innocence to her that struck a chord in Pyyran's heart. For all the troubles she had met since coming to Hlint, there was still a lightheartedness to her, a freshness that was a cool autumn wind... "And other poetic rubbish," he muttered with a grin. The grin softened into a smile, though, when, for the dozenth time, that he hadn't felt this way since he was sent on his way at a run, with gnomish contraptions racing behind... Since the only girl who'd meant enough that he'd considered leaving his traveling boots on the doorstep for good. And it was honestly rather obvious that she felt the same way...

A first, since coming to Hlint. Not even Silool, the only woman he had ever been with, had made him feel like this; with her, it had only been a gentle fondness, and even then, he had been so young...

Youth had altogether left him now, though. Just as it had left those mercenaries in Hamp. Taken from them by his hand, his blade... They had attacked first, laid traps all about, and several even had poison coating their blades, but it never would have happened had he not taken the unknown job in the first place. They, the good and the bad, would have lived on to protect other people, other homes and shops. They would have lived, had feastdays with their families, perhaps met a lover, married and had children... Lived full lives. But these were not Dragoncalled, nor the lucky adventurers who the Bindstones took to. Death was final, for them. And Pyyran Rahth, adventurer by trade, failed Dragoncalled hero, had been their killer. At the time, he had had no choice; he accepted that. And, in the end, their deaths helped disrupt a group of very dangerous criminals... But it didn't matter. They were dead, and Pyyran had been the one of his little group to kill most of them.

The package his group had been after was found without too much trouble, and taken to Krandor, where they were met by a man claiming (probably in truth) to be the head of a group called the Moral Initiative or somesuch; it escaped Pyyran's memory. In the package were bags full of an incredibly expensive drug... Which this man destroyed with some spell. The price was offered for the service, but Pyyran had still been reeling from the realization that that many innocent mercenaries, not unlike himself at that age, had been killed out of hand just to dispose of a drug that would harm only those who chose to use it.

He had refused the money, and left in disgust with himself. He was not one to dictate another's morality, nor was he some assassin. No. Drogo, perhaps, but...

Drogo. Pyyran sighed, shaking his head at the thought. Drogo had seemed more and more violent against any who would do what he saw as harm to the forests. The death of a pair of bear cubs... And for this, he would kill some young elf every time the poor fellow stepped off of a road into the woods? I fear I see my old friend descending into madness... Is it not the Druid's purpose to protect the Balance? Even if a hunter kills an animal just for its skin, leaving the carcass there... The carrion-eaters have a rich meal that night, and the worms and insects that crawl find home and hearth as well as food. Drogo's protections only disturbed the Balance, from what Pyyran could see.

But there was nothing he could do...

"So," he said to himself, "I suppose all there is for it is to go earn my monthly rent."

[Stephen_Zuckerman]

THE LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT OF PYYRAN RAHTH.

1. Regarding personal effects.

• I am to be buried in full kit, bracers, gauntlets, belts, moccasins, boots, with my sword laid across my chest, and my helm beside me.
[/I]

• My other weapons shall be auctioned off, and the proceeds shall go to the Tower Academy, to fund research in new magical techniques and applications.
[/I]

• My jewelery is to be divided thusly: my charm necklace, to Felix Rahth, with the emerald charm and my shell upon it. My enchanted rings and charm of Grace shall be auctioned off, proceeds donated as above.
[/I]

• My banner shall hang in the Four Stars Tavern, in plainest view.
[/I]

• My notes, books, and journal are to remain in the Four Stars, in the care of Karn and Felix Rahth.
  
• My blue bearskin cloak is to go to Felix Rahth - may it protect him always. My dice, as well; perhaps his luck will improve.
[/I]

• The other contents of my pack, magical and mundane, are to go to Kell Ereptor. What he does not wish to keep or use is to go to the Explorers Guild.

2. Regarding other belongings, properties, etc.

• All properties in my possession shall go to Karn, along with all goods and equipment therein, not otherwise accounted for in this document. What he does not wish to use or keep for memorial purposes, is to be auctioned off, and proceeds donated to the Chuch of Deliar.
  
• All debts owed me are released; I will not haunt the living through guilt-stained money.
[/I]

3. Final wishes and requests.

• Apart from the above listed, there are another few things I thought it prudent to include... I wish to be buried in a solitary grave, far from any site of undead activity, in ground hallowed by Deliar. I would like a full pound of wildflower seeds scattered on and around the site, and would like for the site to be in direct sunlight for the majority of the day - that is, not in the depths of a forest or canyon. Preferably, I would also like it to be easily-accessible, even to those without skill to move about unseen.
  
• I would also like to request that my funeral be a joyous affair - a celebration of my life and the things I hoped to accomplish. Rather than mourning me, I ask that you further my goals, which are known to not a few of you, and spend at least three days lounging or reveling as you choose. Karn, Felix Rahth, and Sallaron Tempest are to be heads of entertainment.
  
• I would like the use of my study in the Explorers' Guildhall to be opened to Karn, and an honorary membership be given to him (if he has not joined as an official member).
  
• Enjoy time with your families, if you have them. If not, do not forget that those friends and allies you have are as important as any brother, sister, cousin, or parent, if you but hold them close to your hearts.
[/I]

A final request:

• I am gone, now. Do not forget me, but do not dwell gloomily over my passing. Rather, each whose lives I have made glad, I ask to accomplish one worthwhile thing in my name. Bring peace to a village, write a ballad for the bards to sing. Uncover a relic long-lost. Remember me in adventure and discovery.

[INDENT]Remember what gave we Dragoncalled strength.
[/INDENT][INDENT][INDENT]~Pyyran Rahth
Minstrel, Scholar, and Adventurer
[/INDENT][/INDENT]

Witnessed by Dillon Kasis of Brenuth

Mar 26, 1440

[Stephen_Zuckerman]

I'm beginning to grow sick of this. Foiled at every turn by those I trust, and expect to trust me...

For the record, for whomever is reading this: I AM NO BLOODY THIEF.

I have striven to finish what tasks I set myself to, and complete the jobs I'm hired to do, consistently for the past ten years. I go in first and leave last, and have fallen more times than I can count in defense of another. I am DRAGONCALLED; I fought at Pranzis, opposed Rael directly for years after the Fall, and still do; I have fought devils, been tortured by the same, and given nothing up... I have been the soul of the trustworthy man, when dealing with any but those who would hurt me or mine.

And still, noone seems to trust me, save a very few. Frustratingly enough, those few are listened to roughly as often as I am, which is not to say terribly much.

Kyoro is gone... Didn't even leave a note. Another source of solace and perhaps eventual peace, gone. The only new friend I've managed to make is a fellow named Karn. Odd fellow; not sure why I mention him in the same breath as Kyoro, but... Well, I suppose I had to record my thoughts at some point in this meandering entry.

Every other time I fall, it seems, I lose another piece of myself. If the stories are true, the Soul Mother steals away a tenth, when she decides to claw at your soul. If that is the case, then I have just over a quarter remaining. Three more, and... Well. The next great adventure.

Dalliance and daydream between paragraphs... Perhaps folly. Perhaps simply not wishing to state my intentions in writing. The latter is certainly folly.

If I cannot find the Coup de Grace before I find myself with only a scrap of my soul remaining, I will retire from Adventuring. I can serve better by studying my alchemy and training others in the blade than I can by getting myself killed for good.

I can only hope, if mayhap foolishly, that I can find someone with whom to spend my "retirement."

[Stephen_Zuckerman]

Assorted notes, scattered throughout the book Pyyran writes in...
   
  A Shifter(?), no name, assimilates into other races to "truly understand" them, met by Haven. | Tried tracking, failed. Found bandits. Bandits dealt with.
   
  KARN - Interesting book, Xeenite; find copy. Interesting fellow, Xeenite; continue drinking with. Good to talk.
   
  HURM IDIOTS - Bugging the Plague again. Plague has cauldron needed for Seeds (Seeds will heal Oak and fix sky faster). Selian wants cauldron for own ends, can kill Oak. Rhynn wants sand (glass -> crystal) to bargain w/ Plague. & Polishing oil. Kobal & Co. bargaining w/ Plague, will come along. Sall joining, bringing Scion. JUST IN CASE.
   
  27 Chestnuts, box coming in - need phenalope, amethyst. Need catnip for Grace. Need aventurine for Cranberry, hawthorn for Strength.
   
  EXPLORERS - Ruins of Madness Satari, Minotaurs.
   
  "Prosperity comes in the most unexpected guises, from sources one never thought to encounter. To spurn happiness merely because of the source is truest folly."
   
  How in the seven hells can ten pounds of venison become a third of a pound of jerky!

[Stephen_Zuckerman]

*In the blank space at the back of Pyyran's book, several pages after the rough drafts of a number of stories that are clearly still very unpolished, is a section in ink. The handwriting is careful and even, and will likely be legible to the day the parchment is dust.*

Karn...

At the time you're reading this, you'll have likely paged through the rest of this, reading tidbits and oddments I've recorded, with a mind and heart full of our most recent meeting. Perhaps you'll have waited with this in your pocket for a few days before reading, but I rather think you'll have cracked this little red book's pages within moments of seeing it where I left it for you to find.

I have given the subject of us a great deal of thought, poring over my own emotions and experiences just as I have thought so carefully over the expressions you've shown me. However, I've come to only two real conclusions.

That I think far too bloody much, and that I want the relationship between you and I to go as well as possible.

I considered quite a bit very carefully, and at great length, and in the end, made a simple enough decision.

At the time I write this, my feelings are somewhat unclear to me... I feel caring, fondness, longing for you, Karn. And more... But that more is only sharp enough to put into words when you're near, or perhaps I've simply not grown used to the feeling. As you read this, I'm sure that uncertainty will be washed away by perfect clarity, but...

You'll already know that, by now.

The decision, though, is very simple. I plan to stop thinking so hard about what is and isn't best, and trust that our feelings will guide us true.

Respond as you will, Karn. I await.

~ Pyyran