Journal (Kell Ereptor)

[darkstorme]

*The book is black, with the word "Journal" neatly penned in gold ink across the cover.  On the inside cover is the following:*

Well met!  I am Kell Ereptor, and this is my journal.  Now, there are two reasons you might be reading this.  The first, and far more fortunate situation would have you reading the words I've penned with my permission.  If this is the case, reader, welcome.

The other, and much more unfortunate situation would involve the theft of the book, and your illict perusal of the contents.  If this is the case, gentle reader, congratulations on doing so without my notice - you must be skilled.  But think on this:  no matter how skilled you are, or how fast you may run, there is nowhere on Layonara you can hide.  I will find you.   And I will take not only my book, but my retribution.  Think on that, before you sleep each night.

Now, then, regardless of your situation, dear reader, enjoy the humble pen-scratchings of a ne'er-do-well, a thief, a monster, and a fisherman.  (No one can be all bad, after all.)

[darkstorme]

** a half-dozen of the subsquent pages are burnt beyond legibility - the next to last of the burnt pages has a few discernable words **  ...reas, the 5th of Mai, 1399. ---------------------------------------- Going down into ..... ight Caverns with Aurvang, ....... Goblins haven't put up much of a fight ..... I don't expect the third floor to present much of a challenge - for all their numbers, goblins don't produce decent spellcasters.... (the remainder of the page is a charred wreck)      // A hard-drive crash took my journal with it, but the surprise fireball from the Goblin witchdoctor that toasted Kell serves just as well.

[darkstorme]

Mulnari, Jular 16, 1401
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One wouldn't think that sand would be so thrice-cursèd hard to acquire!  Two bags worth, I got from that reliable patch near Lake Palden, then the bloody thing ran dry.. or.. sandless, which is far worse.  A brief exploratory journey brought me to a place identified by the signposts as the Gulf of Bagira, or some such - there was a ship in the distance, all very pretty.  More to my immediate concern, however, there was an abundance of sand deposits!  Shovel in hand, I advanced on the hapless sand, ready to make it my own.. when a party of goblins sprang out of the ground around me!

Now, reader, you may say, "Oh, goblins.  Hardly a challenge."  This was my initial impression - until one of the little monsters hit me with a spell that seared my eyes with light and my flesh with fire from the heavens!  I managed to drive my blade into the back of one of the brutes closing on me, even as he smashed my head flat with his flail and everything went dark... the Gods know that I've wound up in the Void often enough, but that was rather faster and more one-sided than I'm accustomed to.  I was not appreciative, shall we say.

After waiting out my soul's contemplation of the afterlife from which it was untimely ripp'd by reorganizing my backpack (why waste time, I ask?  Just because I'm disoriented by recent death is no reason to have an untidy pack), I set out again in search of simple silicates.  Again to Lake Palden, only to find that the reliable patch had again been dug dry by another sand affectionado.  I imagine a tidy cottage industry could be established supplying sand to the ravening glassmakers of Hlint alone - I can't imagine the beaches, the deserts, that Leilon would consume.

Regardless, it was to further my own glassmaking efforts that I sought sand to begin with, so I decided to venture towards the kobold camp I spied across the lake.  Leaving my ox, Bessie, at a safe distance, I stuck to the shadows, following the shore into the camp - which appeared abandoned.  I went so far as to lift up a tent flap, seeking its reptilian occupants (or, at least, proof that they had been killed by a previous sojourner), when the entire camp materialized around me!  12 kobolds, all armed with varied weapons!  Thankfully, my skills in the stealthy arts increase by the day, and I was able to slip back out of the camp unnoticed.

And then, utter imbecile that I am, I slid around to the edge of camp, and drew out my bow.  Sighting on the sentry, I figured if I could draw his attention, draw him away from the camp, I could finish him at close quarters without much trouble.  Electricity crackled along the edge of my blade even as I considered it.  A sound plan, it appeared, on the surface.  I loosed a shaft from cover, and the arrow drove a distance into the hapless lizard's chest.  The kobold, heedless of common sense, drew his sword and charged in the direction from which the shot had come.  Just as to plan.  Unfortunately, his cries brought five of his compatriots with him!  Grimly, I stepped around the corner, and drew my sword.  The first kobold around the corner didn't even see my blade coming - the crack of electrical discharge covered his squeal as he died - but the other five surrounded me.  I found myself in a fight for my life, parrying thrust after thrust, dodging and weaving - but eventually I emerged victorious, if bloodied.  I unrolled some bandages from my pack, and considered the remainder of the camp.

From my vantage, I could see that all that remained in the camp were bowmen (bowkobolds?) and one kobold who appeared to be a spellcaster - a shaman or medicine man, or some such.  If I closed to close-quarters combat range, I ought to be able to take them all fairly easily.  Drawing on everything years of hiding taught me about stealth, I padded silently into the camp once more.  I think the old spellcaster saw me - he looked back and his eyes widened before my sword stilled his tongue and frantically gesticulating hands.  The creatures are undeniably nasty pieces of work, and their deaths soothe the voices in my soul.. but I still felt a stab of pity as I saw him collapse.  He didn't ASK to be a xenophobe, after all.  It's just part of being a kobold.

The remainder of the bowmen were every bit as easy to dispatch as I had hoped - a crossbow is a fearsome weapon, but when you're a sword's length away, it's just a club with strings attached - and not a good one, at that.  Well, I had certainly shed enough blood for my trade - I pulled my shovel from my pack and started to dig.. when the rest of the tribe came home!  Easily as many kobolds as I had faced initially - but they were fresh, and I still had blood streaming from a wound in my leg!  No chance to hide; I set my teeth grimly, and stood back to back with Bessie - any kobold approaching her risked being gored, and I set about with my sword as best I could.  One by one, the kobolds fell, but Bessie had scoring along her flanks, and I could feel my own strength fading as the remaining kobolds pressed cut after cut past my guard.

I'd've been bound for the Soul Mother's realm again - twice in as many days! - if it weren't for the intercession of a most kind individual by the name of Jharl.  He didn't give a surname.. and as that is my own practice, I didn't ask for one.  He laid about himself with an axe apparently enchanted with bitter cold, since frost gathered from the air around its edge and dripped to the ground as he swung the weapon.  The kobolds were no match at all, and the remainder hardly had time to turn in terror before they died.

Apparently a simple glance was enough to assess that I was sorely in need of medical attention, for the newcomer raised his hands and began to chant.  Radiant blue light played over my body, and I felt wounds close, strength return.  I thanked him for his kindness, and determined that he too was seeking sand.  Though the pickings were meagre, I felt he had earned what little I had, so I offered him the sand I had previously extracted.  It was accepted in good grace, and we parted ways - only to run into a third wave of the ...able kobolds!  We fought them off side by side, and withdrew to a safe distance before we said our farewells.

I know not where he was bound, but I went back to the Wild Surge, with a locked door and a soft bed which I intend to take full advantage of when I finish my account of the past couple of days' events.  One of the advantages to my condition, I suppose, is I needn't worry about candles when writing this.  And now, to bed.

*a footnote in a slightly more hurried hand is penned beneath the entry proper*

Despite all the to-do about them in the Surge, I've not yet seen the spiders that are apparently plaguing Mistone.  I'm not sure whether I should be grateful or disappointed.

[darkstorme]

Wedlar, Seplar 25, 1401
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A pox on whoever decided that the dead ought to be buried with weapons.  A pox on alchemists.  And a pox on whatever dark forces animate skeletons!

That being said, I applaud all who decide to work against the popular idiom, "You can't take it with you."  This is true.  You can't take it with you.  But those of us who plunder deserving tombs - we can take it with us when we leave.  And I suppose it's fair that, if I intend to do this, you trap your treasure.  You can even have some wandering bone-piles to try and discourage me.  (This freedom extends to everything short of vampires - they give even me the creeps.  Shadows only drain your life - vampires drain it and replace it with their own.)

Regardless, I'm ducking down into the crypts in Hlint to complete an order for skeleton knuckles and pick up some ready cash on the way.  The skeletons don't even see me - I'm getting better, even I have to admit that.  Two of them die in a shower of bone shards before the rest know what's happening.  Everything seems to be okay.  And then, suddenly, the air explodes into flame!  As near as I can deduce, one of the other skeletons was buried with a thrice-cursed fire bomb!.  The initial blast of heat and concussion knocked me to the floor, and, bleeding profusely, I watched as the skeletons resumed their deathly patrol.  I, evidently, was no longer worthy of being considered a threat.  Not that they were incorrect, of course: I expired moments later, and write this while I can still peer through my own hand to do so.

Other than that, it's been a fairly productive week - I ventured into the Sielwood with Bessie, clearing the way for her, and made my way to the kobold caves - a team of adventurers went through again searching for that bard's necklace.  (Again.  You'd think the woman had a gelatinous cube fetish or something. Gahh.. that's a disturbing thought.  Moving on.)  Regardless, they were helpful in clearing the first bunch of kobolds, and I had a hand in the deaths of one or two of the little lizards in their second party... but that was enough to clear the way for some serious mining, so as they ventured further into the caves, I set to work.

I managed to get Bessie fairly staggering under the load of copper I gathered, and set off for Hlint, again dispatching a small group of kobolds who attempted to intercept us.  There, I poured ingots of green-flaming molten copper, and finally, finally crafted my first arrowheads.  Hickory-shafted, copper-tipped, with a stirge feather to add that little bit of extra "kick".  My quiver is now delightfully well-equipped.  Or at least, far better equipped than it previously was.

Now, all I need to do is clear-cut Hlint forest, and I might have enough hickory to successfully make myself a new bow.. to better deliver my lovely new arrows into their assigned targets.  I swear, I've ground up whole trees just making the sandpaper needed to successfuly craft what might eventually be the bowshaft.  Craft 'tis a harsh mistress.

[darkstorme]

Wedlar, Decilar 25, 1401
--------------------------

Progess, of a sort - the prototype of my device works!  It will take some work before I am able to produce it in a form small enough for adventurers to easily use, but right now, I need only enter my origin and destination, and the device will present me with the most expeditious path from one to the other.  Its only discernable limitation over magical alternatives is that I must enter each successive location into the machine's "memory" (as if a collection of wires and gears could think!).  To that end, I have begun an exploration of the length and breadth of the land.  Sadly, for one who, as yet, has acquired insufficient experience to hold my own in a fight, this can be perilous.  *A note is jotted into the margin - 'Redesign machine to cross-reference specific hazards with their locations?'*

I have also been taking note of various resources that can be used in crafting.. though that information, I think, I will keep close.  (Quite close, dear reader - in a book next to my heart!)  I've finally found the location of berries for use in potions and juices - and I remain astonished at the difficulty of acquisition for some materials.  Spiders, in particular, seem to take a liking towards the mighty Oak tree.  When I spotted this source of such desirable wood, I moved towards it in a circumspect manner.. only to be rebuffed when I saw giant armoured arachnids crawling all around them.  I shall have to return with the aid of a reliable swordarm or two.

Travelling further, I found myself in surroundings of greater and greater dire import.  With enemies closing in behind me (but as yet unaware of my prescence), I traversed areas of grimmer and grimmer mein, until I found myself pinned between an Ogre Mage hunting party (five of the beasts!) and what could only be Werewolves.  I know I was moving silently from shadow to shadow.. but either their senses were greater than my ability to evade them, or I hadn't bathed in too long a time.. either way, the monsters closed quickly on my location.  I gave up on all pretense of stealth and ran, in an attempt to acheive a distance where I might use my bow to good effect, but the creatures were too fast.  I drew my sword, and managed to wound one of the 'wolves before they all fell on me and tore me apart.  I'll say this.  No matter how many times one dies, it never becomes enjoyable.

My spirit slipped by the Soul Mother unnoticed (her, at least, I could avoid), and was drawn out of the aether in Hlint, as always.  I trudged my way to my usual table in the Surge, to sit, planning, contemplating and updating this journal.  As I was so doing, Tegan happened by, and despite my translucency, managed to recognize me, and hailed me appropriately.  The kind girl was nice enough to offer her assistance in returning to my gravesite - but burdened as I was by both my belongings (I really must look into storage of some sort) and my recent demise, I told her that I was best served by sitting where I was.  After she confirmed that I was not in need of immediate help, I thanked her, and she went on her way.

Once I recover from this latest debacle, I think I'll see what I can do about further expanding my machine's capabilities.

[darkstorme]

Satari, Mar 21, 1402
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This is what happens when you remain secluded for more than a moon.  My device works - but at what cost?  While I'm sure I could have been of little use in the battle against Blood, that I was hidden away in a stone chamber when it happened... is distressing.  Even so, much clearly remains to be done.  Pranzis is in the hands of one of Bloodstone's generals.. the dwarf, I believe.  Pyrran is organizing an assault force, and by whatever gods care to listen, I will be a part of that force!

But my skills are yet meagre.  I will need to procure supplies of some sort if I'm to be effective at all.  While explosives may have no effect on the beings spawned from the Pit, for normal duergar, as I'm assured there are, in great numbers, it should prove most effective.  I will replace and augment my weapons, and I shall make my blade serve the justice I have yet to see myself.  For all I know, mother could be dead in the fighting.  Until I know for sure, my blade will mete out justice from the dark.

At least the device will help me in coordinating my efforts.

[darkstorme]

Tunar, Jular 10, 1402
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At last, - *here, the page seems to be liberally sprinkled with fine sawdust* - I've done it!  A proper longbow on which to hone my skills before I purchase or create a superior weapon.  Two, in fact - I had material remaining, and one should never scoff at the chance to practice one's skills.  I'll have to see if any newcomers to Hlint are in need of such a weapon.  Perhaps... yes, perhaps I'll place it ahead of them on the path without their notice.  That would be an entertaining exercise.  A gift from an unknown benefactor.  Yes... I like the sound of that.  

*there's an ink blot, as would be created by a final stab of quill on parchment, then the entry continues in fresher ink*

A more worthwhile investment of time than mine in this bow has seldom been seen, I think.  The first shot was spectacular.  Creeping through the woods north of Hlint, I came across a lone orc, separated from the clan that inhabits that woods - I remained concealed in the trees as he stomped his way by, and I drew a careful bead, my arms straining to reach the awesome tension the longbow can acheive.  I'd nocked one of my special stirge arrows, and let fly.  Perhaps the 'whip' of the arrow through the air drew his attention, for his head turned a fraction of a second too late.  The shaft practically drove through his ugly head, and the brute collapsed without so much as a whimper.  I knew even before the 'snap' of the stirge feather as it drained his waning energy that he was dead, and looked in awe at the bow in my hands.  This was a potent weapon.  As fond as I am of the whisper of the blackened blade as it slides out of the darkness and between an adversary's ribs - my love of the whistling shaft has been revived by the sheer might of the longbow.

On the topic of the Hlint woods, I shall have to inquire with the Alchemist's laboratory on the hill as to their dumping practices.  The battle with Blood darkened the sky, 'tis true, but during the day, it's only the dimness of a bright overcast day - still more than enough light for the forests to grow.  And yet, the hickory tree which heretofore graced the hill upon which the tower stands has vanished.  My suspicion is one too many failed alchemical experiments were dumped at its roots, killing the tree.. or making it walk away, who knows with mages?  Regardless, to acquire hickory for any future woodworking, I shall have to employ my new bow at some length.  I cannot honestly say I object to this.  I'm off a-hunting... don't wait up!

[darkstorme]

Freas, Augra 20, 1402
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*On this page, the handwriting is the same - but messier, as if the author was shivering uncontrollably while he wrote*

The past few days have been... an education.  Normally, I'm not at all against the acquisition of knowledge - particularly that knowledge whose possessors are particularly against others acquiring - but having knowledge (of a sort) try to acquire me is a thoroughly sobering and unpleasant experience.  I should, perhaps, for the discerning reader, start at the beginning - three days ago.

I heard rumours around the various inns and taverns that a group of adventurers had been going on a series of quests that had come to be known as the "Lost and Found" adventures.  (How it acquired the nomenclature is beyond me, but it was apt.)  As I understood it, a halfling named Corius charged a group of adventurers with the task of finding and retrieving a number of items that were to take up residence in a museum of his design.  It was there that things began to go wrong, but I was unaware of precisely how wrong things had gone until I had a chance to consult with a number of the party members directly, when I met with the group of proud adventurers in Port Hampshire.

As it turns out, most of these items were a) guarded by creatures of vile intent and tremendous power, b) capable of exerting wills of their own upon their wearer, or c) both.  As an example, one of the party, with a grimace of revulsion crossing his features (a priest of Aerdin, I believe) recounted to me the tale of a pair of boots worn by a young girl.  They seemed to speak through her, imbueing her voice with a power of command great enough to overpower the wills of those who heard it.  As if this weren't ominous enough, the boots themselves had fused to the flesh of her legs, making them inseparable.  The party wound up having to kill the child to free her from the hag-riding influence of the boots.  All the objects displayed this strangely possessive property.  Not only this, but apparently there were two or more additional parties seeking the items - and they weren't inclined to be gentle about their interest.  One in particular, an "Epheris" had called down a pair of Pit Fiend allies in a previous battle, slaughtering all those in the party who did not flee as fast as their legs could carry them, while Epheris stood and laughed.

Girded thus with knowledge, I witnessed first hand Corius' delivery of another of the mysterious notes he had received which indicated the location of the items.  This time, however, his lip curled with barely-concealed contempt for the party (unearned by most, I felt, but kept my peace), and he was surrounded by wary, heavily-armed guards.  What need he had for that kind of hardware was beyond my ken, but I kept a dart up each sleve, and the peacebond off my shortsword.  A number of our partymembers hounded Corius with questions, which he quickly grew tired of, and withdrew with his guards.  I slipped into the shadows and pursued... until, rounding a corner not 20 seconds behind him, found that he and his entourage had vanished, into thin air, as it were.  Close examination of the ground confirmed this - their tracks led to a point midway along the wall, at which point, they vanished - no hidden doors, no trace of concealment.  Concerned, I hastened back to the party, and procured a mage, who came back and studied the area with whatever eldritch senses magic-hurlers are privy to, and announced that a powerful teleportation spell had taken Corius and his tin-can-soldiers and hurled them to Rilara.  This announcement caused some trepidation - particularly given what Cole (a ranger in the party) had overheard Corius saying upon their last meeting.  Had Corius been abducted, or was he powerful enough to pop from place to place at will, and was merely leading the group on the ol' runaround?

Eventually, the decision was reached that, runaround or not, the party couldn't allow another of these cursed artifacts to remain free, and so settled to the interpretation of the cryptic clue provided on the note.  References to "blood spilled on sand" led immediately to the Blood Desert in the more quick-witted among us, but "kneeling behind a span" was confusing.  The first thought that occurs to the mind, naturally, when the word "span" features in a sentence, is "bridge".  This, clearly, could not be the case - a cursed bridge might be a bad thing, but in the desert?  The suggestion came up that both a shield and a sword could be said to have "spans", and so we set towards the gate, intent on the Blood desert, and whatever sword or shield awaited us there...

[darkstorme]

*The beginning of this page has no date, suggesting (as does the text upon it) that it is merely a continuation of the story penned on the previous page*

Before we could leave the town, however, a few more players decided to make themselves known.  A sinister figure (and I pen this, reader, with no small amount of self-consciousness with regards to my own appearance) stepped from the shadows by the temple, tossing a dagger easily into the air and catching it, as is my own habit.  The intakes of breath and muttered curses from my party mates suggested strongly that this was not an individual they had wished to see.  Rhynn's sardonic greeting, "Good to see you again, Epheris", clinched it.  This, then, was Epheris, the man who counted pit fiends among his allies.  While he didn't seem to be a towering, demonic figure, he wore an air of easy, unsettling confidence.  The man openly mocked those in the party who drew weapons upon his sudden appearance, chiding them, "I'm sure you don't want to get arrested by the Hampshire guard for fighting in the city."

Epheris went on to state in no uncertain terms that we were either to give up our quest for this latest item, or surrender it immediately to him upon gaining posession of it, or it would go badly for us.  Much as I'd prefer not to gain his emnity, from what I've been told, to have done anything other than outright refuse (which we did) would be cataclysmically stupid.  We did so, and having said his piece, he vanished around a corner... and managed to disappear into thin air.  It seemed to be going around.

Now, naturally, no sooner had he disappeared then another player in this increasingly complicated game in which I've found myself enmeshed made an appearance - atop the ramparts of Port Hamshire, near the gate.  Garbed in black from head to foot, and limmed with the faerie fire of an unsubtle spellcaster.  Some of the party, including the half-giant, Gulman, immediately stormed the tower stair to confront the newcomer face to face.  This seemed inadvisable, but it was, after all, their skins.

As they quickly learned to their peril.  Two were magically held, and Gulman was left howling in pain, a symbol branded into the flesh of his back.  Others in the group drew weapons or readied spells, but the woman merely parted with a few cryptic words (indicating her own interest in the items we had been tasked with acquiring), and vanished.  Really, you'd think there'd be a law against things like that.

Regardless, Rawk did what he could for the big lummox, and apparently it helped to an extent - regardless of how much of an idealist Rawk may be, he does have his god's favour - and we set off for the Blood Desert, since, regardless of what we sought, the desert was clearly where we were to look.

As we traversed the desert, I began to understand just how puissant some of those with whom I'd thrown in my lot are.  Chimaeras and ogres burst from the sand before us, and few of those leading the party did so much as bat an eye.  A hand was raised with arcane fire wreathing it, or a sword glinted as it swung... and enemies fell dead like so much wheat before the farmer's scythe.  I did what I could; my special arrows, planted in the backs, necks, or abdomens of ogres as others occupied their attention often were enough to bring the beasts down - but I'd hesitate before ever facing them myself.  The chimaeras, in particular.  Ogres, at least, have to hit you to hurt you, and thus can be perforated from a distance.  Chimaeras perforate on their own - those spines are lethal... or at least, would be to me.  It was, frankly, disheartening to watch my colleagues shrug off what would have left me as cold as the nighttime sand - how long will it be before I can be as blasé about the creatures I face?

Pyy-*hastily scratched out word* Logan, scouting ahead, reported an unusually organized group of ogres, off to the southeast.  Naturally, the team drew weapons, englobed themselves with layer upon layer of protective magics, and forged ahead.  The ogres, organized or no, did not last long.  Beyond the fallen ogres stood a man, garbed in the torn uniform of a Mistone guard, and bearing a shield which he cowered behind.

The initial impression - that this was some captive, or (gods look down!) a meal-to-be, was dispelled by the man's protestations that we had "killed his protectors".  Beyond that, he seemed remarkably recalcitrant - it was hard to get any information out of him, and he would not permit anyone to approach.  His fixation on the shield he clutched desperately, combined with the riddle ("a span in the desert" indeed!) made it quite obvious what was wrong.. but any probing questions directed towards the shield pushed him into a practically trancelike state.

[darkstorme]

*once again, the story flows seamlessly from the preceding page...*

Careful, methodic questionning procured the following tale.  The man was in fact a guard of Mistone, who had travelled to Rilara to aid in the defense of Pranzis.  He had been placed in a batallion, but when confronted with the sheer magnitude of the demonic adversary, he had deserted and fled the fight, leaving behind the carnage that the battle eventually became.  Upon fleeing, however, he stumbled over what he initially took to be the fallen body of a comrade, but which, upon further examination, turned out to be the shield he now clutched so urgently.

Shortly after he took up the shield (and to the surprise of none in the group), the voices began.  Voices whispering to him that to be safe was the most important thing in the world.  More important than food.  More important than drink.  More important than sleep.  Consequently, by the time he made it back to Mistone (by what means, even he was unsure), he had had none of any of these for some time.

This, perhaps, was an opening we could exploit.

Though the man was visibly swaying on his feet, his stomach shrunken from hunger, he snapped into alertness any time the shield was mentionned.. or, in fact, if any of us approached within arm's reach.  Someone, Rhynn perhaps, suggested that he might feel better with a meal and a nap.  Bread and ale were produced, and after much coaxing, he accepted them - provided, however, that we all withdrew to a distance of ten metres.  We formed a perimeter of sorts, and he ate and hesitantly bedded down.  When none approached, he eventually drifted off into an uneasy sleep.

A druid in our party, only marginally more clever than Drogo, suggested that changing into a snake and approaching by that means would be more clever.  Despite his eager transformation, he was persuaded of the foolishness of this approach (for example, how would he snatch the shield, precisely?), and the group again convened a hurried, whispered discussion while behind us the guard.. or what was left of him.. snored fitfully.  Nyyana, an elven wizardess, insisted that she'd have no part of any deception, no matter what the ends, and further that she'd wake the sleeping man if any such thing were attempted.  She was dissuaded of this course of action by subtle and not-so subtle threats, as well as the readying by a handful of spells, all of which induce silence in their target.

It was eventually hit upon that Pyyran would attempt to hook the barbs of a fishing arrow over the edge of the shield, tug it from his grasp, and then an attempt would be made to recover the shield properly.  Pyyran made a remarkable shot, and indeed hooked the shield.  All the tugging he could do, however, could not quite disentangle the man from his fixation.  And so I, foolishly, volunteered to approach as stealthily as I could, and finish the job.

And I did.  I crept up to him, silent over the sands, and tugged the shield free... and the minute it slipped from his grasp, his eyes snapped open and he screamed, a hideous sound, that of a creature feeling its very mind being torn away.  The sound startled me, and the shield touched the skin of my wrist where my glove did not quite meet my sleeve...

*the writing becomes shaky here*

I heard the voice.  Insidious.. but sweet, and comforting.  All I had to do was hold on to the shield, and I could be safe.  Safe from enemies.  Safe from those who would hurt me, who had hurt me.  Safe from the whole, malicious world.. as long as I held the shield.  It took every ounce of willpower I had not to clutch the shield to my body as had the wretch who was still screaming in agony next to me.  I held the shield at arm's length and managed to croak "Help me!" as the fire of the shield ate through my leather gloves.

Pyyran managed to tackle me to the ground, and the shield flew from my hands.  A quick-witted individual threw a magical cloak over the blesse*scratched out* cursed thing, wrapped it and placed it in her pack, even as I was shaking and staring at my smoking fingers.  The man, they eventually quieted, but he did not speak, nor do anything but follow where he was led.  His body was there, but his mind was simply gone.  I shudder to think how near I approached such a fate myself.

The shield stowed, its casualty in tow, we set out for Fort Llast, and the temple of Toran there, which we considered the most likely place to have the facilities to deal with such an artifact, when the final chapter of our little adventure made its appearance...

[darkstorme]

*you turn the page, and start into the final page of this elongated entry*

... as we walked into Fort Last, the first of our party stopped with a quiet "Oh no...".  Following their gaze, I saw... Epheris, grinning, and stepping out of the shadows surrounding the stairs into the temple.  He must have been shadowing us, or observing us by some magical means, for the entire journey.  He had his sword out, and it glittered with that odd greenish sheen that only comes from a weapon coated in some toxic substance.

In no uncertain terms, he demanded that we surrender the item (Klaug corrected him with "shield", to my disgust), or there would be "trouble".  Now, surrendering the shield to Epheris seemed such a colossally unwise decision that everyone in the group was inclined to agree against it... at which point the demon incarnate shrugged, slipped a dirk into his other hand, and waded in.  The most puissant fighters in our group seemed hard-pressed just to hold him at bay, and that sword of his seemed to nip in past their defenses again and again.  While they struggled, the shield was being passed around from member to member, in an attempt to circumvent the dervish that Epheris had become and make it safely into Toran's temple.

Perhaps sensing this, Epheris shifted the combat to the base of the stairs leading up to the temple, blocking the only direct route.  A few of our group, however, were now on the upper half of the stairs, above him.  The shield's bearer caught the eye of one of the mages, up near the door, and at an unspoken signal, lobbed the bundle underhanded up and over the combatants.  Unfortunately, moments before the cloak left his hands, an errant leg from a fallent comrade struck him, and the bundle wobbled in the air.  All three of our allies who were not actively engaged in swordplay dove frantically for it, and, by some miracle, one managed to snag it before it fell neatly into Epheris' grasp.

Having narrowly averted disaster, he clutched the cloth-wrapped shield to his chest and tumbled through the door of the temple.  Epheris drove his sword through the guard (and breastbone) of his current opponent, then, his prize beyond his reach, and the clank of the city guard on the run echoing through the streets, leapt over those of us still standing and disappeared around the corner.  And when I beat my way around the corner in hot pursuit.. found he had literally disappeared.  Either he had some magic on him (certainly likely), or he was such a master of stealth that he could fade, unnoticed, into the shadows.  Would that I had such an ability...

Regardless, Corius was not delighted with the news that the artifact he sent us after was now ensconced, waiting for destruction, in a Toranite temple, but he did seem pleased that Epheris didn't get his hands on it.  The Toranites were good enough to raise all those who fell in combat against Epheris, so no permanent harm done, I suppose... but that shield....  I still hear it whispering...

*a spot of ink, such as might drop from a quill when the writer holds it absently above the page*... right.  Enough of that.  I'm going to take some target practice in the crypts with a bundle or two of Eararier's finest.  That might clear my head a bit.  Gods know, it needs clearing.

[darkstorme]

Tunar, Apreal 3, 1403.
-----------------------

So, here we are again - back in Port Hempstead, no trace of Corius, just a note.  I imagine he's a bit disgusted with us after we dropped his precious cursed shield off in the hands of the Toranites.  Oh well, so be it.  I didn't have that much invested in the little man anyway, and that shield.... is better off behind reinforced walls.  It is.

Oh, looks like the discussion's starting.  

*an ink-blot, as from a pen held idly over a page*

Bad news, it would seem.  Ifion went to some lengths in his research, and the name Epheris came up in reference to a little-known ancient plot against a god.  Branderback, to be specific.  I can't say I can speak against the methods of his followers, simply their motivation.. regardless, the god himself is apparently a fairly nasty piece of work, and upset the Devils under his auspices to such a degree that a small cabal (thirteen, to be precise) teamed up to oust him from his position of power (godhood itself, presumably.)

Unfortunately for the conspirators, one of their number was a traitor.  The devils, even massed, were no match for a riled god with his powers called up about him, and they were, one by one, imprisoned, bound into the forms of artifacts and scattered across the surface of Layonara.  This, then, goes a ways towards explaining the power and malevolence of the items.  Entrapped devils.  I feel somewhat prouder with myself for resisting the shield as well as I did.

The gentleman we know as Epheris used to go by Johan, and was the priest of Rofirein entrusted with the delivery of the scabbard to a safe location.  I seem to recall that Epheris wore a scabbard about his waist, despite seeming fonder of dagger work.  I suppose it would be more apt to say that the scabbard was wearing him, then... an awful thought.  This has caused some particularly (some might say foolishly) optimistic among our number to suggest that the devil might be driven out by appealing to the remnants of Johan, buried within.  If you ask me (and, dear reader, you've little choice), there are no remnants.  I touched the shield for a moment and was almost consumed.  Epheris has had weeks, months perhaps, to consolidate his control over the hapless priest.  I doubt even the strongest mind could hold out against an archdevil that long.

It's almost a given that Corius and the lady with whom he met are another two of the devils - which might suggest some hope.  If the factions can be pitted against one another... ah, but here Rawk is speaking up.  Apparently dealing with devils is foolishness regardless of whether it could be to our benefit or not.  Myself, I think I'll be a bit more open-minded and see what Pyyran might have by way of connections.

Apparently Ifion's sources indicated that Epheris was asking after the boots that the group had previously obtained, and.. wait, who's that over there?

*the last line is smeared, as if the book were snapped shut in a hurry.  The following lines are of neater text*

Well, Epheris got his (or Johan's) hands on the boots.  He also seemed to have taken to referring to himself as "we", which I do not believe was being used in the sense that royals prefer.  Epheris is quite clearly still the dominant personality in the body, but I believe the boots made themselves known several times during the conversation.  Chilling thought, really - the priest's body has been reduced to a puppet, a vehicle by which the devils can once again assert their power on the world.

Oh - the priest.  I had thought Rawk foolishly optimistic, but I grossly underestimated the depths to which this foolishness extended.  We had the golden replica of the Ankh of Toran that had once belonged to the priest.  I (and others) thought that the necklace could serve us in good stead should it come to blows - if sprung on the devil by surprise, it might buy a crucial second in which something could be done.  So what does Rawk do?  He pulls the bloody thing out of his pocket and dangles it in front of the devil, intoning encouragement to "Johan" to drive out the devil.

But then the look in the man's eyes changed to confusion, and he began to show signs of doubt on his face... and he seemed to be struggling with himself.  I was incredulous, but suddenly hopeful: could Rawk's optimism not be so misplaced after all?  The man broke down into tears, shuddering to his knees, and asked if he could hold the Ankh.  This request set off alarm bells in my head so clamorous that I'm surprised others didn't hear them, but Rawk, the idealist, handed the golden chain over.  The man continued to sob... or at least his shoulders were shaking, but with what turned out to be cruel laughter.  As I had surmised, the whole thing had simply been an act;  Rawk had been neatly duped, and any surprise the holy symbol might have bought us was now wasted.  The devil sneered at the token and threw it back in Hawk's face, then made his way for the city gates.  I pursued as stealthily as I could, but he turned and drew blades, staring me down until I put up my own blade and went back to rejoin the others.  I don't believe a devil should roam the lands unfettered, but neither am I an idiot.

Having peacebound my weapon again, I rejoined the group, and there was a heated discussion.  Rawk refused to believe that the man who Epheris now occupied had been subsumed, and was stubbornly repeating his belief over and over, as if this might persuade those of us who had long since consigned the man to the only release he'd ever see: death.  Whether or not we could drive the devil out of the shell, it was a certainty that there would be nothing of the man left to save.

The two notes referred to a mountain range on Dregar, where some sort of cloak might be found - a cloak of Darkness.  Gods above know that we'd seen enough Darkness by half, and this is from one who loves the dark!  The other item did not seem any more appetizing, however - a lantern, a Light.. to be found on Xantril.  The very name of the continent sends chills up my spine.  For all my demonic countenance, I've no desire whatsoever to meet up with true demons.  I opted to travel with those who would seek the cloak... our lives will likely once more be placed in mortal peril, but to do otherwise would be remiss.  Eventually, Epheris could make his way to these items, if we do not do our utmost to keep them under some sort of guard.  And if we wish them guarded, we must first retrieve them.  It will simply be... arduous.  (Which is to say, terrifying to the marrow of one's bones.  But then, danger I'm accustomed to.  It's simply an increase in volume.)

In addition, I conferred with Pyyran, and he suggested it might be meet to talk to the priest of Branderback who runs the temple in Pranzis... now Prantz.  While I'd be disinclined to trust such a character, I did have to admit that he could be a powerful ally, and likely one of the few we'd have available to us who would be of some efficacy in the coming battles.  The suggestion has been made to acquire both advice and a bribe from Ozymandius Llwellyn, the Bard.  Apparently, for all his apparent frailty, the elf has some experience with demons and devils.  So seek him we shall.

For now, dear reader, I shall leave you to ponder today's events.  I shall seek lodging for the night.  A soft bed and a locked door will do me much good.

[darkstorme]

Satari, Jular 28, 1403
------------------------
Well, I will say this for group endeavours - wile they take forever to come to a consensus, once consensus is reached, they, and the events they engender, roll forward like a juggernaut.  The juggernaut in question is, of course, the group to whose tasks I've devoted the last few pages of my journal.  The group also, it appears, contains an individual whose abilities I.. but I'm getting ahead of myself.

As in my account of the last meeting of our group, the (reluctant) consensus was that we'd best contact the Bard of the Blood Wars, Ozymandius Llwellyn, for information pertaining to both our quarry and their master.  So did our group set out - myself, the magess Rhynn, Pyyran, Klaug, and a ranger by the name of Cole Ettinfall.

Now, it seems that Miss Rhynn had an in with the illustrious bard, and so was able to contact him in advance about the situation.  He appeared at the appointed time, and his shadowed face (ha! Listen to the forever becowled criticizing another's fashion statement!) grew more grave with each sentence that passed from our group to him.  Finally, he spoke.

Apparently, the Bard is tasked with keeping demons and devils largely in line when they tread the surface of Layonara.  Who would have known?  Regardless, he was most unsettled by the concept of the Thirteen being free, and sought (which is apparently most unlike him) to help us in our task.  To that end, he led us on a rapid route through a portal that whisked us a continent away, to Dregar, then across a twisting, turning route to an inauspicious little house.  This, apparently, was where the Bard hung his hat.  Or cowl,  or whatnot.  Regardless, the place was crammed full of bookshelves, rivaling the Great Library itself, and some magic must have been worked on the place to give it such a cavernous interior.  What space was not occupied by shelves was filled by chests... which were in turn filled with exotic items from gods know where.  Into one of these chests the elf dug, and emerged with a gleaming silver box.  Inside, an assortment of deadly traps and poisons, arranged to appeal to the High Priest of Branderbacks... particular tastes.  Having trafficked in both myself, I suppose I cannot censure, but I still hesitate to use the phials and triggers I concoct, and I sincerely doubt that Branderback's clergy would be as hesitant in the use of these new "toys".

That being said, needs must as the Devils drive, I suppose, so we thanked the Bard, who was kind enough to allow us the use of his own portal.  It was then just a quick, disorienting jump through the ether to Pranz - where Pyyran again adopted the blue hooded cloak of Logan, as 'tis in Pranz that his name means death - and from the portal site just a brisk walk to the temple of Branderback.  At this point, Klaug had to leave us, but did wish us success in the day's endeavours.

All the while, Cole was chafing at the idea of going to the Branderbackians at all - he was under the impression that no ends justified these means.  Perhaps he had a point, but as we had already decided on the course of action, had it verified by an outside source, and were in fact at the temple, it seemed a poor time to announce fresh doubts.  We had our heading - I felt we ought to keep to it, and deal with the rocks as they came, but Cole continued to seethe, even when he was told to be quiet.

Regardless, into the House of Branderback we went, and Pyyran called forth the High Priest.  Not much to look at - a halfling like any other - until you saw his eyes.  Those eyes promised not simply death, but a death wherein you would be tortured in every way available before you died - and gleefully, as well.  I cannot imagine what could so contort a man's soul that his eyes would appear so - nor do I truly wish to.  This halfling, however, was our key to prying apart the devils and striking when they were weakest.  More to the point, once presented with the "gift" and informed of the situation, he confirmed that Branderback Himself could be counted on to deal with his recidivist minions, if we could get the Crown into the High Priest's hands, even for a moment.

This seemed too good to be true - and probably is - but Cole chose that moment to have an outburst.  Pyyran drew the priest aside and conversed in whispers, an act that seemed to infuriate Cole all the more, raging on the topic of the Priest's ambiguous or absent morals, parentage, and choice of linen undergarments.  I attempted to corner the man, to calm him down, and then, dear reader, I saw something that took my breath away.

As I backed him towards the wall with careful argument, the man stepped into the shadow of a pillar... and his form blurred, twisted, and before my very eyes, vanished.  I felt none of the tingle I get from the use of magic - he simply bent the shadows and light itself about his form from some innate ability, and vanished from sight.  By screwing up my eyes and listening carefully, I could hear his footfalls as he crept about the room, but he had managed to hide himself in the shadows, while I observed him!  Dear reader, you are well aware with my goals in terms of the arts of stealth - I must have this ability.  I must find out more, even if it means debasing myself to ask that Cole teach me.  This is to my own ability to hide as a matchhead is to a wizard's fireball.

*a few drops of ink mark the final flourish on the preceding line, where the text became more vivid - it continues in the original even hand below*

Regardless, Pyyran conveyed to me by means of the handsign familiar to thieves, cutpurses.. and my ignoble self... that the negotiations had gone well.  He continued to assure Rhynn, Cole, and myself of this fact verbally once we had left the temple, but Cole was having none of it.  He eventually flew into a rage, and screamed Pyyran's full name for all to hear.  Pyyran fled as if the hounds of Hell itself were after him.. which, I suppose, they very well might have been, at that point.  When cornered by Rhynn and myself, Cole again performed that astonishing disappearing act, and, then, presumably, left the city under his own power; we certainly did not see him again.  We found Pyyran hiding behind an abandoned building - with some careful illusions from Miss Rhynn, and a borrowed cloak of my own, we had Pyyran looking sufficiently unlike himself to fool the passing eye, and we too left the city.

With luck, dear reader, the Devils will soon be incarcerated, and any affairs with individuals as thoroughly nasty as the High Priest will be behind us.