Mumblings of a Mad Mage - The Journal of Timulty Keel

[LightlyFrosted]

*The following appears in the foreword*

While I've had no problem scratching down the occasional note of my adventures, ne'er before have I attempted to bring such stories together, in any real form or format.  Most of my notes have been lost, but I'll endeavour to copy some o' what's there t'here, as I find the pages in my pack.

An' there be else but I who reads these words, well met.  Though't may disturb me a mite that there is another perusing the tome as holds my enscribed thoughts, I do greet thee nonetheless.  I know not what ye seek in this book, but an' I live through enough o' my adventures as to ensconce them herein, I grant thee it'll not be a boring tale at least.

Moreover, if it is a boring tale, 'tis thy concern, and not mine.  Serves thee right for putting thy eye or nose where't belongs not.

-Timulty Keel

[LightlyFrosted]

*The following procedes a number of ruined pages, evidently having gotten quite wet.*

A pox on all bogs, swamps, mires and moors.  My socks may never be entirely dry.

I've seen the soul mother entirely too often in the last few days...  methinks it may be time to retire from proper adventuring for a while, and work on the more theoretical side of my magecraft.  I've rather grown attached to living, and a year in the Great Library served me well.  Still, there is something to be said for the rush of combat, particularly with strong, tough meat sh..  ah..  stalwart fighters in the front.

We shall see.

[LightlyFrosted]

*Undated entry, some fifteen pages after the previous.  Between are notes taken, appearing to form the basis of a treatise relating to the alechemical effect of cupric oxide on the reproduction of goblinoids, which the writer, presumably Timulty, hypothesizes to be a hastening effect.  In the margins of these notes are scrawled sketches of various costumes or formulae for different tanning solutions.  An array of stains that would perplex even the most skilled alchemist stain corners and edges of pages - those which are not singed at least.*

My time has been well spent, furthering my skill as an artisan.  My studies have yielded me new spells to add to my repetoire, of the greatest difficulty I can as yet master.  Further, I managed to acquire a cloak made from the skin of a bear, a gift from Johan the trapper.. or at the moment at least, tanner, as well as a hood of my own making.  The wind blows colder these days, and though it took some time, a fair bit of money, and a considerable amount of effort, I am well served in having made these items, to wrap 'round me as the snow falls.

It is, in fact, snowing even now - somewhat distressingly so.  I hope I can find some form of residence soon, be it bought or rented.  While the rooms at the Surge are reasonably priced and always clean, I do find that they are insufficiently insulated to fully block out the cold blast of air that seeps in each time the door has opened.  Gold for these rooms has not been a problem, as I've grown quite skilled at Creatures.  Indeed, I've just now ordered a new scroll to add to my spellbook from the Raven trading company, paid for by the proceeds of the wagers that most of the more experienced players insist upon.  In truth, while I am no stranger to winter (having some twenty or so under my belt, awake at least), I feel my time might be better served studying in a tropical climate.  Perhaps there is a room and office I could find in Port Hampshire?

Time has yielded me companionship also; I re-encountered a number of old acquaintances with whom I travelled when I first came to Hlint, but with whom I lost contact during my stay at the Library.  Praylor is, as always, in good health and spirits - I believe he has had a great deal of experience in combating the evils of this world by now, but he did not seem to have become jaded or cynical.  Certainly for the best.  Similarly, I encountered someone whom I had not seen in an even longer time, a gentleman rogue by the name of Kell Ereptor.  He had as a travelling companion a paladin by the name of Galan, though I do not believe I caught the second man's last name - or if I did, I have since forgotten.  We routed the goblin caves, a task with which I take some pleasure but more interest, considering my treatise (note: investigate effects of heat on the potential regenerative powers of RLG - do the fireballed stay fireballed?)  I can say with some pride that when we later all three of us went to the arena, I was the victor in most cases, save but once against Galan who overwhelmed me with melee attacks when I failed to press my advantage, and once when both Kell and Galan attacked me together.  The rogue is quite ept at dodging my area effect spells; perhaps my expansion in my spellbook will give him something to think about when next we meet.

I engaged in a riddle contest as well, though it was more of a friendly swap of such pleasantries than any real competition.  I answered a number, but I fear most of the ones I offered were quite out of date; this is what comes from not hearing many new ones in the last five centuries or so.  Perhaps my time in the Library served me to some effect however, as I could be clearly understood; perusing those tomes for an extended period, and speaking with both librarians and fellow seekers of knowledge has mostly updated my phrasology and idiom.  I find I only seem to slip into my more classical mode of speech when flustered or unfocused - and of course, every now and then I revert to it out of pure habit.

Kell mentioned something about some form of incorporation, but I'll not put it to ink until I know more.  I wouldn't mind having the gold, both to live in some degree of comfort and to further my studies into both alchemy and enchanting.  I've recently found that a merchant I know in Port Hampshire will give me a better price on my various experiment supplies than the merchant in Hlint.  Though it is somewhat of a trek, it is well worth it; another reason perhaps to move my base of operations to this port town.  I'm still not feeling up to scribing yet; perhaps some time in the near future I will be, when acquiring the materials is less burdensome or I've companions willing to aid me in this.  Still, despite the advantages of living in Port Hampshire, most everyone with whom I have even the most passing friendship resides primarily in Hlint.  Ah well...  who but the gods know what a life may carry?

[LightlyFrosted]

*A few pages of notes on glassblowing techniques, taken from a common book on the subject, separate the previous entry from this one, which is again undated.  Again, sketches and doodles in the margins suggest a sense of boredom or restlessness in the author.*

For reasons of posterity, I should like to take this opportunity to point out that, in fact, I can survive my own fireballs.  Just barely.  And only one.  There are, perhaps, safer ways to dry my boots.

Of course, the fact that everything I own is now lightly singed suggests to me that I may have simply been extremely lucky - luckier still that my troubles didn't earn me a swift and disastrous end at the hands of the goblins I was facing at the time.  Someday, perhaps I shall manage such precision in my castings that I can drop a spell so that it affects one member of a melee combat and not the other.  Regardless, today has been an... unpleasant day to say the least.

[LightlyFrosted]

*The handwriting for the next entry is shakey.*

I am not sure what the healer's term for my condition is, but were I to guess, I'd say it's probably 'very poisoned'.  I'm as weak as a kitten; thankfully I was able to craft a strengthening dweomer before I fell over under my own weight.  It seems that while I managed to prepare myself properly for the physical attacks of the ants that roam the hills near Port Hampshire, I still need some ward against their quite-potent poisons.  I felt little pain as they stung me; next to none at all.  However, though their blows activated my magical defences and killed them, doing me little actual damage, their venom got into my system.  I am little feebler than the average man usually, but I could hardly stand up to so many injections of the toxin.

I've already forced as much of the liquid as I could from the wound.  It will take some time for my system to flush the rest, so after wrapping the wound I dragged myself to the inn and got myself accomodation.  As I write this, I feel myself strengthening somewhat.  While not lethal, this has certainly taught me a lesson or two; still, the principle is sound.  I simply need some way of protecting myself from the toxin, and I'll be set. - Note.  Look into 'web' spell.  May detain insects allowing for ranged removal of threat.

[LightlyFrosted]

*The following article is in a firmer hand, and seems to be a treatise upon morality and ethics, particularly in relation to the truth.  Though much of the work is rough, excerpts seem to reflect the writer's state of mind.*

"...  For truth, I think, does not fall within the realm of good nor evil; the most kind soul may dissemble as the situation warrants it, and there are few things crueller than an unkind truth bared by one with wicked intent.  Whether it is better to give bald facts than to tell a gentle lie, I know not, but pain can be caused in its greatest degree when that which you fear is not a lie but the truth..."

*The prose turns a little lengthy and poetic at this point, quite uncharacteristic of Timulty's usual writings.  He evidently has something on his mind.*

"...  Evil found at the point of a sword may not be fairly judged; too often it seems tact and discretion are abandoned by the wayside in favour of more.. direct tactics.  It worries me greatly when paladins who use these tactics appoint themselves to be the enfocers of law.  Too many that I have encountered have adhered painfully rigidly to the letter of the law, or worse yet have decided that to be just IS to follow the law.  This of course raises the question of unjust laws and those who make them, something which most paladins whom I've encountered seem to feel are best dealt with by swinging a sword.  If these are the fair and impartial mediators of the truth, of justice, and of which liberties should best be made available for all, then I fear for all these things...

"And yet, by definition, paladins must be immensely lawful.  Their codes of honour bind them rigidly, even to the point of personal detriment.  Do I question their goodness simply because their views on ethics of law differ from my own?  Many are kind, even gentle as the situation warrants it, and by far more patient than most; certainly more patient than I.  If I condemn them for their strict adherence to their codes of honour, I run the risk of dismissing these good qualities as well.  Dare I bring myself to question honour then?  I often view it as a luxury, for I've oft seen those who cannot afford to behave as 'nicely' as do the paladins (chief among them, Toranites).

"The goodness of paladins is unquestioned then; though some have turned down a darker path, they have then truly left their calling.  It is in their inflexibility in dealing with the law to which they would lay claim that puts me on edge.  Magics used to divine guilt or innocence tear away the realities of situations.  Spells used to detect good and evil put their users at risk of viewing the world in only these two dimensions; if someone is evil, but has done no one wrong (as yet), can we therefore allow them free reign, to perform whatever evils reside in their hearts?  Conversely, can we arrest them, imprison them, slay them, or do any other such thing that would no doubt stay their evils?  One need not slay to be evil; this much I know.  Many 'adventurers' go forth and slay a multitude of creatures each day; the economy of Hlint fairly demands it.  Nor can evil be found in deriving pleasure from the slaying, for there are far too many (and with occasion, myself included) who feel joy at defeating foes who are realistically simply indiginous to an area.  Wickedness, cruelty, and tyranny must be struck down, yes; but first there must be some evidence of wickedness, cruelty, and tyranny."

*There are a number of notes that are scrawled between that last paragraph and the next; famous quotations by philosophers, referenced to tomes in the Great Library.  This, for now, seems to end the writings on this subject, but there is space left for these notes to be continued.*

[LightlyFrosted]

*Flipping forward a few pages (through a series of anatomy diagrams of the Giant Ant, beautifully depicted), it would seem that Timulty's writings have left their status as 'prose', and have turned more on an inward level.*

I begin to wonder to what end I exist in this place.

I am not, of course, nihilistic in any regard, and this question seems more fitting of being asked of a cleric, but of late my endeavours have turned up splendidly little meaning.  Since my displacement, I've accomplished remarkably little that matters to anyone but myself.  I am not so glory-seeking that I cannot find some peace in the fact that I've managed to accomplish things with at least some value to myself, but to what end do I strive?

I have no real need for gold - gold seems to envelope a fair bit of my life and toil, and yet I have little actual need for it, save that it keeps me from want.  I am, I suppose, no aescetic, but neither have I need for lavishly rich meals, fit to fill me to bursting.  As to power - what need have I for power?  To what end do I seek to develop my skills and abilities, if not to turn my head towards accomplishment?  I have power now; I use it to keep magelings, new to Hlint and the dangers in and about it, alive.  Of this much I suppose I can take some pride, because I have saved at least three new casters in Hlint from the natural perils in and about it - or at least, more accurately as two of the three have imperiled themselves within the tombs, the natural or unnatural perils.

It is perhaps this that I can find in all my accomplishments of which I can feel proud - I have done as is expected of me to do, and sought to perpetuate magic.  Not much else that I can claim to be a feat of my own making is such; goblins slain would surely be slain by other men or maids, to say nothing of what few ogres I've managed to defeat of my own devices.  Magic, and innovation therein, is one of the greatest marvels in this world; here I speak as a worker of the Art, and by my Art I've managed things that I thought never possible.  Yet equally, I recognize that while I've a good number of spells to my name and books, my skills are as nothing compared to many that I see every day.

I am no archmage.  Perhaps, should I ever reach that level, I shall take on an apprentice - someone to whom I can convey experience, train, teach.  Where and how to use spells to best effect.  Teach when to slay, and when to simply seek a different path.  That lesson many in this day and age seem to need dearly.  Though it sounds immodest for me to go on as if I'm some great bastion of knowledge, I suppose here, in my own writings, I may speak in this manner, with none about to contradict me.

My mind remains troubled with concerns of dislocation and purpose, but I cannot believe that I am here simply by chance.  I suspect no deitific intervention, nor do I expect any, but fate is never so cruel nor kind as to put a man somewhere without some greater purpose.  This I shall use to ease my heart, at least until when I find out what my purpose is to be, and then have something new to fret about.

[LightlyFrosted]

Bah.  Humorous or alliterative titles aside, I MUST be mad.

I know well enough that while my glamour of invisibility will keep me safe from most perils, it will scarce save me from all harm.  I know this, and yet I constantly take my life into my hands, wandering about and poking into places so blasted or destroyed that the very act of traversing the same place is suicide for one of my meager experience; indeed, today it cost me my life once again.  I dare not return to that grave; such foul things walk those broken halls that to do so would be more reckless or foolhardy than I usually muster in my most crazed of days.

I must admit, I found myself wondering what could have broken such a keep so.  With but ruins left above, I thought that the expansion of my knowledge of the land would be best served traversing below, much to my own ruin.  When the first few halls I walked within seemed safe enough, I grew incautious; so much so that when I stumbled upon a black pudding, it not only got the jump on me but burned me viciously with acid.  Beating a hasty retreat and ensuring I was not followed, I rested to heal myself; how was I to know that such jellies would be there, to say nothing of the fact that they could evidently see through my protective dweomers?

At this should I have turned back; there was naught left in these halls but death, all lesser perils and great treasures lost to time.  Still though my need to explore pressed me ever-onwards, to my own ill-fortune.  It was within the next chamber I sought to explore that I beheld a great and mighty beast, a Wyrm of Mud; I know not its proper name, but it resembled in many ways a dragon, and spat a burning acid.  It pursued me not, like the ooze, but managed with its blast what the ooze could not.  The burning acid bit into my flesh, and my wounds bled me to death.

To say that I was pleased by this would not only be untrue, but in fact would be one of the most baldfaced lies ever spoken.

I'll not vouchsafe where I encountered this wyrm, even here; the day may come when I feel it safe to disclose the location, but that day will not be today.  I know some as might have the capacity to slay the beast, but even of this there is no assurance, and I'll not have one of noble or great deeds spend their lives needlessly.

Today has not been a good day.

[LightlyFrosted]

I knew the crypts of Krandor bore many perils.  I'faith, how could I not?  I've fallen there before, at least twice; did I expect the perils to diminish themselves so immodestly to my benefit?

Had I fallen there again, then would I not be plagued so with nightmares of what befell.  Though our initial assault was successful to say the least, it was our withdrawl that brought about the group's demise.  I had thought to sneak ahead unseen, and so had my spells of invisibility cast when from nowhere sprang again the bones of the dead.  At first my instinct was to fight, but to no avail; already spent were my spells of blasting and destruction, and little could I do to spare those that valiantly fought their lives.  Had the beasts seen me, perhaps I would have made a valiant last stand, rather than to lead them out into the greater city of Krandor, but I was unperceived, and yet I moved not.  All I could do was but to stare in horror as my allies fell.

All dead or dying, save for those who had made it out before the ambush sprung, and me with not a scratch on me, but neither a spell to blast or a potion to heal to my name.  I admit here that I did give in to remorse and despair, if but momentarily, before something caught my eye.

One of my comrades, a cleric of Aeridin with whom I had journied before, still lived; indeed, though knocked out by the damage dealt her, I detected that Mirrim would soon stir again, with what meager skills at healing I have attained over my varied adventures.  The instinct to stir would be her last however, as the skeletons and ghouls still traipsing about would take sight of the movement and finish her properly the second time through.  Though it was too late for most, this one could I still save.

Having a dweomer of invisibility left, I knelt by her, casting quickly but as quietly as I could.  As she stirred, I told her to be done of the cold and musty tombs; I would follow as soon as she was clear.  Once her safety was assured, I followed, leaving the bodies of my friends and comrades to the beasts that had slain them.  Again, once clear of the place, did I give in to remorse; I pined that I had little right to survive unscathed, while so many had fallen.  At this, my lady Mirrim did remind me that it was only by that happy fate through which I had survived that saved her life as well; my place, at least in this skirmish, had not been to fall, but rather to live and aid another.  Sufficiently chastised, I sought to make what reparations I could.

[LightlyFrosted]

*A brief and unfinished treatise on comparative religious practices - specifically, the evolution of intra-religious practices over time - seems to have captured Timulty's fascination but briefly.  A couple pages of notes, and a few half-hearted efforts at prose upon the subject are all that make up this writing, and it would seem that while an idea upon the subject may have entered into Timulty's head at one point, he retained little spark to continue research or inquiry into the same.  A short journal entry proceeds this half-hearted attempt to branch out into studies of the divine.*

I met a cleric this past day.  This is no great fact; the representatives of the deities are not so uncommon as to provoke interest in and of themselves, but this was one of the first novice clerics of my own faith - a Lucindite - that I have encountered in quite a while.  Most refreshing was his interest in the casting of spells; I found myself forced into a role which, if I am not quite so familliar with, I am at least content with - that of the scholar.  My scribblings herein may have inspired the gentle reader to consider me somewhat of an academian already; else perchance a mad-scribbler with delusions of grandeur.  Nonetheless, I found myself quite at ease answering the questions posed, and I was more than happy to give a demonstration of the magics he wished to see.

Still, there was something troubling about this encounter.  I 'demonstrated' the spells upon an encampment of kobolds I knew of nearby, on the principle that they would be easily enough dispatched with minimal effort but would provide enough of a challenge to throw more than one spell.  I have few moral qualms about the slaying - the beasts are truly vile, leastwise in my sight, and prey upon travellers besides.  Still, to be congradulated by a person of faith, and told that my goddess was pleased with my actions was surprisingly troubling.  I found myself wondering if I had in fact done the right thing - why now, when I was being lauded for doing exactly that?

I have grown to have, if not an admiration, at the very least a healthy respect for all life I encounter, whether it be benign or monstrous as we perceive it.  To slay for the furthering of magic, for survival, or even for the reason that I found myself so doing that day, the demonstration of magical spells - these seem, if not genuinely 'good', at least explainable.  Acceptable.  To find myself congradulated in the name of a goddess for an act which is in its very nature destructive is troubling if only in that I should like to think that it should be greater things for which a goddess is pleased than the destruction of some kobolds.  It is far easier to destroy than to create, and though the beasts were vile and vicious, I found myself remorseful for my actions - or if not my actions, then at least the congradulations.  It cheapened it, somehow.  It was as if I was instantly a hired slayer.

I am confused to say the least.  I try to keep myself to a personal code of morals, but the lines seem not so absolute.  I like to think of myself as furthering the cause of 'good', but I worry about the longer-term effects of my actions.  Gods but I must be growing old to speak so.

My friends; Kell, Galan, and the lot - they do not, will not see this side of me.  To them I am just a spell-hurling maniac, a juggernaut of fireballs, a mage made of slaying spells and little else, least of all discretion.  I hope not, but sometimes I grow concerned about how I appear.

Lucinda save me from such crises.  I miss the days when life was simpler than this.

[LightlyFrosted]

Ant-poison I can deal with. It is in their very nature to BE poisonous - even the smaller ones often have venom, even if it isn't quite so potent as that which belongs to the giant ones I face on a semi-regular basis.  The sticking point for me, really, is when lizardfolk begin to use poison.  I know Mirrim must swiftly grow tired of healing my sad and sorry bag of bones every time I get sufficiently hammered by lizardfolk or whatnot to keel over.  I fear perhaps she believes that I invest part of my own vitae into the casting of any spell - an obligation not found in any but the most powerful - because I stagger back so pale each time.

Really, what I need a swift kick in the pants, with a reprimand reminding me that I am not, in fact, a front-liner.  Just because I know which end of the sword to hold by no means guarantees that I should be rushing into combat with one; I've a long-bow, too, but for some reason I just don't find it as satisfying to use.  When the meat hits the metal, I'd much rather be holding the metal, as it were.

I begin to worry that the extremely religious folk about me will grow disillusioned with their notions of my 'goodness'.  While it is true enough that I aim to do as much good as I can for those that I can do it for, I'm neither particularly religious nor infallible at being 'good'.  I know I have a tendancy to rebel against authority, which has at the least irritated Galan in the past.  I have great friends - Galan is as good a sword-arm as ever I could hope to travel with, Mirrim as good a healer.  Kell I see not so much these days, but he has aided me immensely as well, both in the advancement of my personal agendas and my growth as a mage.  Even the lady Arynne, with whom I have but seldom ventured, is as good a friend and comrade at arms as any I could choose to so journey with.

I don't want to lose them - I affirm now and in this place that I'll raise spells against any who threatens these friends of mine; the deadliest I know.