Bidwick journal entry

[Vyris]

All this has finally started to sink in, all tht the lady in Spellguard had told us. The part about that negetive energy rift or some sort turning living folks into undeads, Eon on the loose and wandering Mistone. I know thres got to be something I can do to help turn this around. If I see the historian I'll ask him about what I've learned, also one other thing that lady said, those of us who know have to start sharing our information, seems theres only a few doing something, and it's going to take all of us to bring things back the way they oughta be.

[Vyris]

I met Cole today in Lorindar and finally delivered a house key to him, our travels have kept us apart for quite some time now, and it was good to be back in his company again, though our reunion did not take a sedate path. We met with the Historian just outside the castle, and aftr practicing some sword play he mentioned that there was a woman he needed to seek out in Willows Weep who may be able to help me advance my sword craft, and he wondered if we might escort him there. We readily agreed, I for the chance to find a true master and learn from her, and Cole for the opportunity to see new lands and chart them.

Our travels split the bredth of Dregar and ran near it's full length, there are other stories in this tale, of giants and the great desert sands, but I leave them to be told over an ale and to let them grow with each mug, I've embarked apon a journey that has called to me for some time now, and I'll be glad to see it's completion, but to be honest, the journey itself is worthwhile.

[Vyris]

I've found the ship captain who's to take Cole and I onward in my search for the elven swordmistress I seek, he seems a reasonable fellow, cool headed and rugged. The clues we were able to gather point us towards a small sting of islands reported to be populated by bands of bandits or mercenaries. Most of these people seem to think that those two are on in the same, I however know better. I hope it's mercenaries.

[Vyris]

Everything is wrong.
I've failed my mission, that much is certain. That Illiathia was a liar, and a scheeming snake is evident. Worse, I handed an enemy a powerfull weapon, and then watched helplessly as her evil unfolded.

Tediethiel...
I should have known my path. I should not have been so easily led as I was down this dark course.

[Vyris]

Bidwick tosses restlessly in his bed, his sleep troubled by his mental demons.

An elven woman with a flaming sword stands in a cave, her face is troubled by worries of her own, and she moves through the recent carnage of her battle with the former residents of the cave with a controlled grace most often associated with acrobats and dancers, but this woman dances with iron, and her moves are those of a master swordsman.

Bidwick frowns in his sleep and tosses restlessly.

The elven woman stops, and tilts her head to the side, listening beyond the drip from the damp cave walls for a sound, faintly heard, to repeat itself.

Bidwicks hand twitches, as if motioning someone forward in stealth.

The woman wheels around as she hears the scrap of metal against metal and sees an armored man bearing down on her, not cautious, but determined. His intent is clear, she raises her sword in a defensive pattern and recieves the first blow with her blade and lightly flicks it away. In the same instant she gasps as a raven fletched arrow sinks into her right thigh, wheeling away from the swordsman she turns and flings her only prepared spell at the archer, a cloud of acid, and dances quickly the opposite way, dodging a clumsy attempt by the swordsman to pound her to the ground with his shield.

Bidwick flinches in pain, his hand moving to his thigh and a grimace crossing his face.

Turn, parry.

Bidwick flinches twice more and moans.

Theres is no cover. The elven woman breaks off the attack with the armored man and turns to rush the archer, sha takes two quick leaps in his direction then her eyes suddenly widen in suprise as a black feathered arrow springs from her throat.

Bidwick gurgles softly in his throat, then stops breathing.

The elf woman stops, and drops to her knees. Her face draws pale and her eyes show sorrow. The sword slides from her hand as she pitches forward, she catches herself with one hand, and graps the black shaft in her throat with the other.

Bidwicks hand slides to his throat, clutching.

The elf woman struggles to sit up, looking to her attackers, her mouth moves, but no words escape from her lips. Her face betrays a hint of understanding, then sorrow. Slowly she lowers herself to the cold stone floor and closes her eyes, the last of her life spilling to the dirt. The armored man is kneeling near her, trying to staunch the wounds, but it is far too late for that, and she slowly relaxes into eternity.

Bidwick coughs and struggles from his tangled sheets, falling from bed, gasping for breath, spitting blood. For long minutes he stays there on the floor, his pose nearly identical to the woman in his dream. As soon as he is able he collects himself to his feet and shakingly pulls himself along the wall, into the common area and to the pantry, with shaking hands he gathers a large pewter mug and a bottle of dwarven whiskey, then to his large chair by the fire, where he sits and pours a generous portion.

Outside, the Haven town crier signlas eleven o'clock, and all is well. Inside Bidwick sits near his fireplace, warmed by his drink more than the flames. His mug, now twice filled and twice drained rests in his hand, a nearly empty bottle of whiskey in his lap. His demons still do thier deadly dance in his head, and all is definately not well.