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The Diaries of Cailo Ziim
Undated Entry
The last I remember, I was in the most desperate fight of my life. The cruelly smiling woman before me, her hatchets moved like the wind. She twitched the right hand axe, as if to swing low at my left thigh, and I swung my longsword down, point out, to intercept it. Too late, I realized the feint. The axe in her left hand connected with my chest. There were a variety of wet snapping and tearing noises, and pain beyond any I had ever experienced. And yet I could not seem to draw breath, even to scream. My knees buckled, and I could not hold the hilt of my sword.
As I was collapsing, I wondered how long this agony would go on. As if in answer, the hammer-back of her other hatched whistled toward my head. There was a thumping noise, a brief pressure at my temple, then blackness…
How did I come to be dying on the needle-covered floor of the Narlmarches, so far from my native Varisia? One could say that I was following a dream.
I was born the wandering clans, in the shadow of the Storval Rise, in the month of Neth, 4792. My Family moved throughout Varisia, among the ruins and monuments of an empire so powerful that not even the great Earthfall could blot its works from the face of Golarion. My earliest memories are of the statues and ruins of ancient Thassilon – a name I did not even know until my apprenticeship. My people knew that it was a realm of mighty wizards, and that its magic permeated the land even to this day: Many a Varisian was born a sorcerer, the magic inborn to them. I, alas, was not such a one, but magic fascinated me, and I was always full of questions about the wizards of old.
Legends of the empire that was have a dark cast in the tales of my people, and my fascination – obsession, some might say – was not greeted with enthusiasm. Every time the wagons passed some lonely stone sentinel, my eyes would be locked on it until it was out of sight – and my Family’s eyes would be on me.
I read voraciously, and learned everything I could of the wizard’s art wherever I could. The old hedge magician outside of Abken, the dwarven smith forging an enchanted hammer in Jaderhoff, the student of Korvosa’s Academae that traveled with us on his way home to Riddleport, the wandering Forlorn elf that walked with us for a season.
It was Vezariel, the elf wizard, that spoke at length with my family about my future. You will not turn aside this fascination, he said. He is more a child of Nethys, mysterious divinity of Magic, than of Desna. He was even born in that God’s month. His ways will not be your ways. Thus they spoke for many days. I was just entering my fifteenth year.
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The Diaries of Cailo Ziim
Undated Entry
We swung further south, and much further east, that year than we had in our previous wanderings. We came to the very bottom of the Storval Rise, though far to the southwest of the pot of my birth. Above us, towering over the great cliff, was the City of Strangers – Kaer Maga. You have a choice, my Cailo, said my mother to me. If your heart cannot be content without the song of magic, Vezariel will take you to the Asylum stone, and there find you an apprenticeship with a friend of his. Know this, she continued, tears at the corners of her eyes, if that is your path, it is no longer ours. The stars, the cards…they speak of dark paths, terrible choices, and ruin for us if you walk among us as a wizard.
I will speak no more of the conversation I had with my mother and father, nor with the mother and father of the wagons. They did not turn me away out of rejection or hatred. Nor did I leave in anger. But they did not know the dream.
Since I was a boy, gazing open-mouthed at the monuments of long-gone Thassilon, I have been having the same dream. It is night, and I have slipped away from the fires between the Family’s circled wagons – as I so often had. I am standing at the feet of the statue of a grim, robed wizard, so high it seems to dwarf the sky. The statue’s head tilts down to regard me with its cold, stone eyes, and its massive left arm extends, slowly, with the grinding sound of an earthquake, to point to the east. Far, far to the east, I somehow know. Then its right hand, cradling a massive grimoire, turns out, and I know that it is telling me that my path is through such a book.
So when I was to be sent to Kaer Maga, in the east, to study under a wizard, I knew that my path lay that way. With heavy heart, I said my farewells, and followed Vezariel to the City of Strangers.
Of my time in Kaer Maga, I will , now, touch on only one event. Perhaps, when the shadows of those years do lay upon me so heavily, I can recount more, but for now, I will merely say that I have had better times.
Vezariel did indeed secure me an apprenticeship to a wizard. A sharp-tempered, drunken lout named Mereleus, who, I discovered, only took me to repay his debt to Vezariel. I should not have been surprised, then, when, after winning a hand of cards over another wandering Forlorn elf – the reticent Magus called only Dern – I was unceremoniously shunted away. My studies under Mereleus had not progressed all that far, so I went seamlessly from apprentice wizard to apprentice magus, and learned the path of sword and spell. After more than five years in Kaer Maga, Dern – out of clear blue sky – announced that he must return to the Kingdom of the Elves, and that my apprenticeship was at an end. Oh – and that he had enemies in Kaer Maga that would not hesitate to shed my blood. I should leave at once…
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The Diaries of Cailo Ziim
Undated Entry
For two years, I wandered up and down the coast of Varisia, aimless, half-heartedly asking for news of my family, but not devastated when I found none. I fell in, eventually, with one of the Boat Families, making the great pilgrimage across Avistan to the Lake of Mists and Veils. As I embarked, I began to have the dream gain, and knew that I was, perhaps, on the path of my destiny, and that it lay far east of Kaer Maga.
I took my leave of the People in Brevoy, feeling no call to return to the west. I wandered Issia and Rostland, and, as I neared the end of my guard’s pay, drinking in Restov, I heard of the charters being issued. The Stolen Lands. As I stood among the crowd in a snow-covered square in Restov, reading the posted notice, a clear vision struck me: my statue, the monolithic guide of my dreams, standing – in full daylight this time – with his arm extended, and I knew, with the clarity of the dreamer, that he was pointing here.
The charter as been well-spread among Rostland – I will not copy it here. But when I presented myself to the callus fingered Swordlord, holding court in a great hall of massive, smoke-stained timbers, he nodded approval. I signed his great ledger, my name was written on a copy of the charter, and it was sealed. I was on my way.
Kind directions by one of the Swordlord’s retainers led me to a tavern on the southern edge of Restov, one favored by travelers and certain scions of the great noble houses of Brevoy – the third sons and distant cousins. There, a few inquiries lead me to a table being shared by a pair of glum young Rostlanders . Glum, because they, too had taken the charter, and they were apparently the only two – doomed to fail, with so few.
And so did I meet Boris Medvyed, a priest of Old Dead Eye, an archer and woodsman in his own rite, a scion of his Great House. By virtue of his distance from the patriarch of the house, his family had deemed a temple life in his – and their – best interest, and he chafed for more. His distant cousin was Natasha Fatale. Her father was the son of one of the many Medvyed daughters of the last Lord, a respectable, if somewhat stodgy, merchant of furs and hides here in Restov. The youngest of five children – that constantly upstaged her brothers by outshooting them on the archery range – she, too yearned for more than the life of a city merchant’s daughter. They were friendly, and delighted when I showed them my copy of the charter, and over many a cup of vodka, we toasted the success that must surely come, now that we were three.
In the morning, of course, nursing the pains of a night of celebration, three did not seem all that much better than two. But we were resolved to try – much better than giving in even before trials began. But as we began to prepare our supplies – many generously donated by the Medvyed family and Boris’s temple – the gods chose to favor us with one more companion. As I was cinching my saddle, I was hailed by the most strangely dressed dwarf I had ever seen. He was dressed in well-cured hides, with fur much in evidence on his coat and hat. He led an animal I had never seen – a reindeer, I was to find out – by simple leather trace. And he clutched a sealed copy of the charter in his weathered hand.
And so we met Tor Olson, a dwarf from the Realm of the Mammoth Lords, shaman among his people, who had come across the frozen north, crossing south across the Lake of Mists and Veils, and eventually into Restov. He has reasons of his own, apparently, but, as I have said nothing of my dream, I can extend the courtesy of leaving him his motives until he is ready to speak.
Out first stop was to be an old border fort. Apparently a merchant, wishing to be away from the bustle and politics of Restov, accepted a charter from the Swordlords to refit this old fort into a trading post, sitting on the border between Brevoy and the Stolen Lands. Our four day journey was accompanied by snow, howling winds, and bone-chilling nights. We talked little during the day, and not much more at night – idle speculation about what monsters and wonders the untamed marched of the Greenbelt might hold. AS we neared, the month of Calistral in 4713 AR was coming to its close.
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The Diaries of Cailo Ziim
Undated entry
We arrived at Oleg’s – the aforementioned trading post, early on the 30th of month. (Winter's end, the calendar says. Brevoy's skies said different...) Four aged timber walls, showing some signs of recent repairs. Four square towers at the corners, cradling decrepit catapults. Oleg, it seemed, would have his work cut out for him, restoring this place. Our hails and knocks were eventually answered by Oleg himself, a gruff, balding man, tools at his belt, nails in his teeth, grumpy for out interruption. We were asked if we were his long-awaited help. Help with what, we asked in return.
In short order, we were sitting to a meal in his guest house, served by his charming wife Svetlana. It seems that shortly after Oleg had set up shop, trading with the hunters and trappers of the Greenbelt, word reached the bandits that have plagued the area. A few months ago, a horrible, hatchet bearing woman and her train of various brigands came riding in, bold as brass, and cleaned out Oleg’s stock. They even threatened to take Oleg’s hand, relenting only when they spied Svetlana’s wedding ring. Since then, on the first of every month, they arrived shortly after sunrise, took whatever stock Oleg had accumulated, and wandered back towards the forest, laughing all the way. Seeing that Oleg was in no position to put up a fight – the entire post was populated by just him and his young wife – the collection parties had grown smaller, with the last bringing just the hatchet-woman’s lieutenant and four others. Oleg had been writing to Restov for months, now, requesting some sort of armed presence, and had, just a week ago, received a reply that help was on the way. Seeing us armed and armored when we arrived, they assumed, quite naturally, that it was us.
We explained, rather apologetically, that we had heard nothing of their troubles, and that we had different orders: we showed them our charters. Oleg fumed, muttering about the uselessness of nobles and governors, and Svetlana looked near to tears. Tomorrow is the first, she said quietly, after Oleg stomped out of the dining hall to continue his repairs on the stable roof.
“And the things these people threaten….It is so hard for Oleg, for him not to fight, but they are four, five, six to one, and he is no soldier, no Swordlord. But they say…they say if the take is ever not enough…they say they take me instead…Oleg is afraid, and angry. It wounds his pride to need to ask for help, and angers him further when help does not come.”
The merest glance at my comrades showed that we thought as one on this issue. Boris pointed out that our charter calls on us to “strive against banditry and other unlawful behavior.” Of course we would help, of course we would not allow Oleg and Svetlana to be so used again. Svetlana was overjoyed, and ran at once to tell Oleg, and we spent the evening developing a plan to deal with our unwanted guests.
Before dawn, Oleg roused us from our bunks in his guest house. Svetlana served us a quick, hot breakfast of porridge, and we donned our armor and climbed onto the shaky catwalks and wobbly towers around the edge of the old border fort. We looked down over the courtyard – where Oleg would try to gather the bandits – the stable, Oleg’s house, the guest house, and the storage shed – where Oleg would give the signal to begin by slamming the door and locking it behind him. I was hidden in the southwestern tower, the gate to my right as I faced into the courtyard, crouching low behind the ruins of a broken down old catapult. I shivered in my heavy cloak, again bemoaning the differences between winters in Brevoy and those in western Varissia, and waited.
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The Diaries of Cailo Ziim
Undated Entry
About an hour after dawn, I began to hear the stamp of hooves, the jangle of harness – and the harsh jeers of men. I resisted the urge to peek over the stockade, kept my gloved hand on my hilt, ran my thoughts over the spells I had prepared, and waited.
“Oleg, you grumpy old sod!” a man’s voiced roared, its accent one that I did not recognize, “Get this gods-cursed gate open. My boys are freezing their bits off in this wind!” Jeers and incoherent shouts followed – there were at least a handful of men out there. None of the voices were female, so our vicious, leering hatchet-woman did not seem to be among them.
“Freeze, for all I care,” Oleg mumbled, somewhat louder than under his breath. I did not know the man well enough to see if he was nervous, but he seemed more angry than frightened. He reached the gate, slipped the bar, and opened one side just wide enough for a mounted man. One after the other, five cloaked and hooded men rode into the frosty courtyard. They all had bows slung across their shoulders, swords or axes at their belts, but they did not come in looking like men ready for violence. Oleg had not tipped them off. To me he might have sounded a bit too uncowed, but then, perhaps, they were used to his curmedgoenly ways. The men had all dismounted, moving towards Oleg, who was fumbling with the keys at his belt, unlocking the door of the shed where he stored his bulky trade goods.
Then I heard it – the slam of a door, the ‘thud’ of a heavy bar dropping into place behind it – and the indignant shouts of the bandits in the yard. I rose and raced to my right, dropping a heavy lead ball into my sling.
“Oleg, you son of a boggard, what the hells are you trying to pull here?” yelled the man nearest the door, pounding on it with his fist. “You trying to leave us alone with your wife?”
Then I saw the frozen grasses of the yard spring to life, green tendrils lengthening, flailing about, wrapping around the bandit’s legs, bows, arms. The men yelled in surprise, alarm, and anger, trying to wrench their bows off of their shoulders, heads spinning, looking for the cause of their predicament. Across the yard from me, Boris was stashing his holy symbol back in his tunic, having just finished casting his entangling spell on the court below. Just as the men began to catch sight of me and Boris, Natasha’s first arrow thunked into the thigh of the man bashing on the door. Tor scrambled over the peak of the main house's roof, flinging a javelin as he came. I skidded to a stop on the icy catwalk, hurling the sling bullet at a skinny, bearded man in brown homespun, even as he was fumbling to knock an arrow. The bullet whistled past his head, causing him to start, head snapping up. His eyes narrowed, and he raised his longbow, snapping a shot back at me. But for a timely twist of my waist, it would have taken me in the left shoulder, but as it was it merely grazed my heavy cloak and fluttered out over the pallisade.
The leaqding bandit, who had been trying to batter his way in after Oleg, shouted orders to his men and cursed and sowre at us, swearing he would burn the post to the ground and do unsepakable things to us - and to Svetlana , especially. Even across the yard, I saw Natasha's face harden as she sighted down her arrow-shaft. Her second arrow thudded home low in the right side of the leader's chest, and he slid senseless to the ground. Boris's next arrow and Tor's second spear both slammed home on the bandit most hindered by Boris's spell, so entangled he had not even had the chance to draw an arrow, and he, too crumbled to the ground. My previous target bulled his way through the grasping weeds to shelter, partially, behind Oleg's wagon. He sighted me again, and this time his aim was better - the shaft buried itself in my left bicep, evoking a very ungentlemanly phrase from my lips. My sling bullet cracked against Oleg's wagon.
His remaining partner was finally able to tear himself away from the weeds, and pelted as quickly as he could for the gate. Tor and Boris both shouted, pointing at him - our plans and discussions had stressed the importance that no-one be allowed to escape. I began to run along the catwalk again, drawing fire from my friend behind the wagon - which went wide, again, thank the gods - until Natasha planted her next arrow in his calf. Realizing my chance of finishing him on the run with my sling was minimal, I extended my hand, muttering a quick tumble of arcane words, and a purple mote of light sprang from my gloved fingers to streak to the bandit's forehead, detonating in a brief shower of purple and yellow sparks. He pitched back into the writhing grasses.
I had intended to leap gracefully down from the catwalk and block the gate with a drawn sword. The ice had other ideas. As I neared the point of my leap, my feet skidded out from underneath me, and I flailed out into empty space, hitting the ground with a loud "OOF" and a thump that would leaved me bruised for quite some time. I was still ten feet short of the remaining bandit's direct path to the gate, and was despairing of catching him as I painfully levered myself to my feet. Boris's arrow fell short of him, and Natashsa was racing along the catwalks to find an angle from which she could shoot. He was a few paces away from freedom and the ruin of our plans...
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The Diaries of Cailo Ziim
Undated Entry
It was at that point that I was treated to a very strange sight. Tor's companion, the reindeer, rounded the far corner of the guesthouse and began charging toward the gate, its impressive antlers lowered to gore the escaping bandit.
Magical weeds, a rain of arrows, his companions fallen, and now, a huge pair of charging antlers...it was apparently all too much. The brigand threw his bow away, shrinking to the ground with his hands in the air.
"Call it off!" he screamed, "I give up!" Tor whistled sharply, and his furry friend pulled up short, giving a loud snort and a stamp of its forehoof.
We bound the surrendering bandit and checked his companions. As it happened, though they had been battered, shot, and blasted, none had actually died yet. Boris called upon Erstil, stabilizing their wounds, and we bound them as well.
Tor worked a healing magic on my arm and my ribs, leaving me in a much better state than that in which I had finished the battle. I marvelled at my arm - when I brushed away the dried blood, there was not even a scar.
When the Bandit's leader awoke, he was greeted by four grim faces and a drawn sword. He gave his name as Happs, and, over the next half hour, he answered our questions. Sullenly, at firstuntil our icy faces and not-so-vield threats loosened his toungue.
He was second-in-command to, and occasional lover of, the cruel bandit woman named Kressle. She, in turn, worked for a mysterious figure called the Stag Lord. we discussed this shadowy figure - which Happs had never met - the organization of his bandit minions, and every other bit we could glean from him.
Leaving them bound in Oleg's stable, we paced the yard, debating the fate of our unwelcome guests. Our charter made clear the fate of 'unrepentant' bandits. What was not made clear was what exactly constituted repentance. We eventually agreed that there was no evidence of contrition that we could accept.
It setteld over us for a moment exactly what that meant. We stood, huddled together in the cold mornign air, just looking at each other for a moment. At last I sighed, patting the hilt at my side.
"Our charter, it says by the sword, or the rope. I am thinking this is not the time to build a gallows. I will do it. We'll take them mone at a time behind the fort."
And so it was done. Oleg, with a certain savage satsifaction that I found just a bit unnerving, mounted the heads on the points of the pallisade on the eastern wall - that is, the one with the gate. We built a pyre behind the fort, unceremoniously buring the bodies and blackening the ground so recently stained red.
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The Diaries of Cailo Ziim
Undated Entry
From the ill-fated Happs, we learned that he and Kressle worked out of a camp on a ford of the Thorn river, to the west, within the wood called the Narlmarches. The camp was a full day's ride, and the bandits were normally assumed to take an extra day to drink away some of the procedds and recover. This meant that this group would be missed soon. We resolved to leave in the morning, ride hard, and strike at this camp at the ford, possibly at dawn the following day.
I replaced my spear with a stout longbow, and Natasha took possesion of Happs's well-made composite longbow. Natasha, Boris and I also claimed horses. The rest of the gear and horses we sold to Oleg - to which we offered a substantial discount. He happily offered us credit, and, at Svetlana's urging, the use of his lodgings for as long as we were exploring.
Again, just before dawn, Oleg awakened us. With Svetlana's fine hot breakfast in our stomachs, we donned our gear and went west into the frigid morning.
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Ho there little tzigane, what are you writing there, may I see?
Well, a journal of our exploits here in the stolen lands! Splendid! If we become the game, then Erastil may bless us with good fortune, and your journal may survive where we do not. It is less the brigands that I worry of than this cold and the wind! May we soon reach the forest and some relief from the chill, and perhaps warm ourselves in struggle.
Come now brother, put the charcoal away, and let us find safety in battle.
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The Diaries of Cailo Ziim
Undated Entry
We left the rolling plains of the Kamelands for the pines and bare oaks of the Narlmarches. By late evening, we struck the Thorn River, and began moving south. Full dark claimed us soon, and we paused to confer. After a short time, we resolved that Boris, Tor, and I, leading the horses and reindeer, would proceed slowly south along the riverbank, while the woodwise Natasha would scout ahead, hopefully discovering this camp of bandits in time to warn us to halt. We would give her half an hour's head start, so, grumbling about the racket that we kicked up, Natasha slipped off into the wooded night.
It was a crisply chill, still night, and stadning around in the cold dark was no treat - atleast for me. I am not sure that Tor even noticed. When we guessed the time was nigh, we began moving, slowly and as quietly as we could, downriver.
In the shadows of the trees, creeping along, I had no sense of the passage of time. It could have been minutes or hours when, with barely a rustle of leaves, Natasha stepped out in front of us.
Now, my good friends may have stories to tell. Let me say it here, recorded for history. When, as a credit to her skill, Natasha suprised me that night, it was merely my cat-like reflexes that bade me step to an advantages position: I did not "Leap near from my thin skin", as my freind dwarf would have it. And, preparing as we were for combat, it was a mighty battle cry that escaped my lips, not the "pathetic squeek of a frighted chipmunk", in the words of the priestly Boris.
When laughter subsided, Natasha told us what she had seen. The bandits slept under the stars (is everyone in this ice-rimed abyss mad?), near fire in a clearing a few more minutes south. She had seen evidence of watch platforms suspended in the trees, and thought that she had seen at least one wakeful form standing atop one. There was plenty of brush and lower trees to provide us cover - we could probably approach within 60 feet of the slumbering vilians. We decided to get as close as we could, slightly spread out, and attack just before first light. Natasha would ply her bow to try to bring down the watchers in the trees, Tor and I would rush to bring the slumbering ones into hand-to-hand combat, and Boris would support us with his bow.
The plan agreed, we crept forward with agonizing slowness. At long last, we were in position. Tor and Natasha watched the patches of sky that we could see, and, after a subjective eternity of waiting, finally gave us a nod. It was time.
Slowly, so slowly, so as not give a betraying metallic hiss, I drew my longsword. Natashs, at a similar pace, drew back her bow. SHe stepped out, quickly sighting up and to her right, and let fly. I did not follow the flight to see if she struck: I broke cover and pelted full-tilt toward the campfire and the four recumbant forms lying around it.
A loud cry broke the quiet, somehwere above us, echoed further away in the woods. With an oath, the sleeper nearest me rolled to his feet, his blankets flying aside, a wicked short sowrd already in his fist. In that same instant, though, his bare chest suddenly sprouted a spear-shaft, and, choking, he fell back to the earth - I knew Tor had done his work well.
The second of the bandits was slower getting to his feet, tangled in his blankets, but he too was already armed. As I closed on him, he raised an Ulfen broadsword sideways above his head to defend himself, but I was able to change my stroke to undercut it, savaging his neck with the cut, and he too sank down.
So far, so good, I thought...and then, the woman - her sneer and her hatchets proclaimed she must be this Kressle, about whom Happs and Svetlana had both spoken, moved to engage me, and I began to truly fight for my life.
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The Diaries of Cailo Ziim
Sunday, Fourth day of Pharast, 4713 AR
As was written before:
"The last I remember, I was in the most desperate fight of my life. The cruelly smiling woman before me, her hatchets moved like the wind. She twitched the right hand axe, as if to swing low at my left thigh, and I swung my longsword down, point out, to intercept it. Too late, I realized the feint. The axe in her left hand connected with my chest. There were a variety of wet snapping and tearing noises, and pain beyond any I had ever experienced. And yet I could not seem to draw breath, even to scream. My knees buckled, and I could not hold the hilt of my sword.
As I was collapsing, I wondered how long this agony would go on. As if in answer, the hammer-back of her other hatched whistled toward my head. There was a thumping noise, a brief pressure at my temple, then blackness…"
So it was with a certain amount of surprise and relief that I opened my eyes thsi morning to see the woods of the Narlmarches and the anxious faces of Natasha, Tor, and Boris, as opposed to the Boneyard and the somber face of the Lady for whom this month is named. Tor's calloused hand held me down when I would try to rise.
"It's over, but for the judgeing" he said reassuringly. Indeed, in my ignoble absence from conciousness, my comapanions had accountd for the rest of the brigands. Glancing about, I saw three men, in the stillness that could only be death, sprawled by the now-rekindled fire as if dragged there. Hog-tied over one of the great logs they had used as seats were three more forms, showing signs of breathing, if not any more evidence of life. It had taken the spears and arrows of all three of my collegues to finaly bring Kressle down, but she had, at last fallen - and yet lived for our questioning. WHen she fell, the last stnding bandit had tried to flee, only for Natasha's last arrow to show him the way to whatever Judgement Pharasma had in store for him.
So now, it was time to question our prisoners and determine thier fate.
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The Diaries of Cailo Ziim.
Sunday, Fourth day of Pharast, 4713 AR
We awoke our prisoners, one at a time, for questioning. Little new was forthcoming from the men, but Kressle had more to say. Her words came amidst much cursing and threatening, but they did come.
To the south, on a hill above a lake, there was an old abbey. It was here that lurked the Stag Lord. A man, she says, or at least something like a man. A great bear of a man, always clad in a helm made from the skull and antlers of a stag. She spoke of his strength, his great temper, and the things, oh the things that he woudl do to us if we failed to surrender to her. She spoke of his unerring and deadly aim with his great bow. And of his desire, perhaps need for strong drink.
How much of her bluster and threat was the bluff of a desperate woman? Time will tell, it is to be hoped. If half of what she spouted turns out to be true we are in for a grim fight. Perhaps, yet, it is not time to try our strength agsinst this Stag Lord directly yet.
Natasha had the presence of mind and memory to ask about Svetlana's ring. The bandits told us that it was no longer with them, that a great deal of loot had been stolen away from the vile, fey Mites some nights back, and the ring was probably with them.
We stepped away from our prisoners to confer, once again. Again, we reached our grim conclusion. There was no eveidence that any of these could offer us of repentance. Kressle, in particular, had shown herself to be a thoroughly wicked one. Perhaps self-interest and fear weighed my arguments a bit too heavily htere, but having come close to the Boneyard at her hands, I knew that I , I would not sleep easily while she drew breath. We were once again agreed: These bandits would pay by the sword.
We hauled Kressle to her feet first. Even bound and bloodied, she spat defiance and contempt. Heroes and do-gooders. Soft, civlized fools, these things she called us. Tor shoved her roughly to her knees, and I drew my sword. Even then, she sneered, believing it a bluff, a tactic to coax her to tell us more. It was not until I began my swing that a shocked fear lit her eyes - and then it was to late, and those eyes were looking out from a head that lacked for a neck.
The reamining prisoners began to grunt and yell behind their gags, squirming and twisitng in their bonds, but we steeled ourselves to the bloody work, and soon all was silent in the clearing.
We conferred, once agian, about what to do with the bodies, how to send a message. In the end, we hoisted the bodies into the trees, tying them in place. On the foreheads of those we killed in battle - to wit, those that still had heads - we carved the word "Bandit". I spent a few minutes with pen and parchment, writing a copy fo our charter from the Swordlords, and we left it pinned to the headless body of Kressle.
We then took some time to examine what gear and loot the bandits had accumulated, and made ready to return to Olegs. There were a few items - a beautifulk music box among them - that weere obviously personal and stolen. We resolved to post notices at Olegs, so that their owners, if still alive, could come to claim them.
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The Diaries of Cailo Ziim
Eleventh day of Pharast, 4713 A.R.
Our explorations continue apace. Five days ago, in the early morning frost, we caught sight of Oleg’s trading post once again. As we approached, we realized that someone at Oleg’s had caught sight of us! Two people – heavily furred against the cold, and bearing long spears, were walking the battlements. When they saw us, they turned and shouted down into the courtyard. We reigned in, pausing to wonder if Oleg’s long-awaited help had arrived, or if the bandits had struck in our absence, and now held our refuge against us.
Our questions were answered in a few moments, when the figures on the stockade were joined by two more – and Boris’s sharp eyes identified Oleg among them. There was some discussion, then Oleg waved us forward. As we approached, he and the other newcomer vanished from the walls, and, a few minutes later, the gates opened to us.
Oleg’s newest guest were introduced to us: his long-asked for help had finally arrived. Kesten Garess, late of the Restov branch of that noble family, had accepted this commission, leading his three young soldiers, who gave their names as Ivan, Yuri, and Evgheni. Young recruits, these boys were, very obviously on their first deployment. We welcomed them warmly, introducing ourselves. Kesten gave a joking ‘Harumph’ at meeting ‘a pair of meddling Medvyeds,” but his easy manner made it clear that the usual tensions between the noble houses of Brevoy would not intrude in our dealings.
We dealt with our horses, unpacked, and cleaned up, then joined everyone (except Yuri, the unlucky lad who drew wall duty mid-day) for another of Svetlana’s excellent luncheons. Over a rich barley soup, salted ham, and a hearty brown bread, we familiarized ourselves with Kesten and his commission, and then broke the news that the dreaded Kressle would trouble our friends no more. Svetlana, bustling about, merely closed her eyes and sighed with relief for a moment, but Oleg’s rough face broke into a fierce grin.
We described the fight – Svetlana taking a moment to fuss over me like a mother hen before we assured her that my dreadful wounds were all healed – and its aftermath, those things we did to and with Kressle’s bandits. Oleg and Kesten nodded in grim approval, even if Evgheni, Ivan, and Svetlana, they blanched a bit.
“There has been a gauntlet thrown,” Kesten said firmly, turning to his young charges, “The men of this ‘Stag Lord’ will know that they are opposed, and that this place has defied them. Be sharp! Be vigilant!” This last, he snapped in a voice that would make any sergeant proud. We all stifled a chuckle as Ivan and Evgheni started, and stammered their assent.
We lingered another long, snowy day at Oleg’s , then set forth, this time to the East. Oleg had told us of an eccentric hermit that dwelt on the plains, about a day’s travel east: one Bokken, a herbalist and maker of potions and elixirs. Oleg asked us to check in on the old man, as he had not been by Oleg’s since the beginning of winter. “A bit touched,”Oleg had said, tapping his temple with one meaty finger, “but a good man. Maybe good to know, in your line of work.” And so that way we went. We spent a day zig-zagging back and forth across the plains, filling in our meager map, and near to sunset came to the fenced yard and sod-roofed hut that we assumed to be Bokken’s.
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The Diaries of Cailo Ziim
Eleventh day of Pharast, 4713 A.R, continued.
We hailed the house from well-off in the yard, so as not to alarm the supposedly reclusive Bokken with a heavily armed group showing up unexpectedly at his door. In a few moments, the door opened with a bang, and a figure burst out, wide-eyed, unkempt, elderly, and whipcord-thin.
“Bokken?” he demanded, echoing our shouts, “I thought I was Bokken? Is there another one? Did I make another me while I was sleeping? Where is it?” With this rapidly spoken rush of words, he half-ran, half staggered up to us, pausing to peer at each one of us in turn. He smelled faintly of apple vinegar and sulfur.
“No,” he said, looking up at Boris, and his half elven ears, “Too tall, too pointy.”
“No,” he said again, this time examining Natasha, “all the wrong bits! “
“Hmmm…,” he said, looking at Tor with some consideration, crossing his arms and tapping his finger on his thickly bearded chin. “Certainly beardy enough. Wrong height, I think…” At this, his head snapped over to me, and his hoarse, unfocussed voice sharpened and cracked at me like a whip. “You! In the purple coat! Which one am I? Am I the tall one or the short one?”
I could only blink at him, like a sun-blinded owl, for a moment. Then answered truthfully. “Shorter than me, taller than him.” Bokken’s face relaxed, and he gave a thoughtful nod. “And I’d never be caught dead in a purple coat – should really be orange, you know, if you’re going to wander out here in the wilds – so I know you’re not me either. “
I’m sure the surprise – that Bokken knew enough of Vasirian customs that he knew the import we place on the colors we wear – that I felt showed on my face, but Bokken had already whirled, unsteadily, and started tramping back towards his hut.
“You’d better all come on in! Can’t have you stamping about the yard all night. Its still in the frosty bits of the year, too! “ And with that, he lead us inside a combination hermit’s retreat, witches haven, and alchemist’s laboratory.
Too many to list are the strange things I saw hanging or bottled in the cramped space – and this, remember, from one who shopped the markets of Kaer Maga for years. Bokken rambled on about the land, his work, the effrontery of bandits, rabbits, his estranged brother Hobokken – “He wandered south a few years ago. Let me know he’s still alive, if you see him. No, I still don’t want to talk to him. Heh. You’ll see for yourself! Forty years isn’t long enough!” – and the tediousness of the politics in Brevoy, that led him to this quiet patch so many years ago. I did not see how a man so old and frail could be possessed of such burning, constant energy – until, when I noticed him begin to flag, I saw him open one of his multitude of strange bottles and take a heavy swig. He closed his eyes and shuddered a moment, but launched back into his nonstop stream of words with renewed abandon. He must have caught my look, and I was rewarded with a quiet aside and a rare, almost lucid look.
“I try not to sleep so much anymore, “ he confided,” She’s mucking things up so a man can’t have simple honest dreams anymore.”
I spared a startled glance at my colleagues, knowing that strange dreams had come to more than one of us of late, but Bokken had already launched into his theories about the benevolent properties of the Fangberry – some bit of local flora I had never heard of –and implored us – even so far as to offering us potions in exchange – for some when we found them. Try as we might, we were unable to bring him back to the subject of his dreams.
We finally bedded down on his earthen floor, grateful for the warmth of his stone fireplace, and left him to his work. Throughout the night, we heard his quiet muttering, or the scrape of mortar and pestle, or the muffled clink of glassware, but the night passed uneventfully, and in unexpected comfort.
{{{***Note for the readers. In our game, Bokken speaks with the voice of Christopher Lloydd…***}}}
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The Diaries of Cailo Ziim
Eleventh day of Pharast 4713 A.R., continued.
Despite the strangeness of our lodgings and our host, my dreams – and presumably those of my companions were undisturbed that night. In the morning, that being the tenth day of Pharast, we took the time to purchase a few of his healing draughts, and set out to continue our explorations. As we left, Bokken asked us to keep an eye out for a local fruit, he called them Fangberries, that he used in his concoctions.
“Make it worth your while if ya get me a bushel of ‘em. Save me wanderin’ around in the wilds.” Natahsa and Boris, they knew of this berry, and assured him we would deliver if we found them.
We headed southwest, my companions enjoying what they considered a mild day, and me still huddled in my furs. We roamed across the plains, glimpsing the forests of the Narlmarches to the west and the rolling hills rising to the south, off in the distance.
In the late afternoon, while cresting a low rise, we spotted a curiosity a couple of miles off. This thin, it looked like a large, grey circle, breaking the browns of winter grasses, distinct from the white patched of snow that glinted in the Pharast sun. We approached slowly, speculating amongst ourselves as to what we might see closer on.
As we closed in, an unsettling scene, it laid itself out before us. Settled in a slight bowl in the land – a roughly circular dish about a hundred yards across – were several large stones, and scattered bones and husks of animals, many draped in thick, grayish strands. Tor was the first among us to see them for what they were.
“Webs,” the dwarf grated, shifting his spear in his hand, “and cursed big ones!”
I must admit that I, I was taken aback. Some of the strands that we could see were near thick as ropes, which lead to some uncomfortable musings about the spider or spiders that spun them…
We walked a slow, careful circuit around the boneyard, noting that several of the desiccated corpses, they were large enough to be moose or horses. Natasha, sharp-eyed as ever, noted that the very center of this bowl was clear of bones, and that the webs , strewn with grass and leaves, were particularly thick there.
“Looks like a trap-door spider, grown huge,” Tor opined, never taking his eyes from the center. “Might be good news. The little ones are usually solitary.”
“Ah, good news indeed,” I replied, “There is only ONE moose-eating spider here.”
“Mayhap you’d prefer a nest?” the shaman replied, cocking one bushy eyebrow, even if he did not turn to face me.
“I’d PREFER none, but the gods to do not seem to see fit to grant that prayer today. What to do then? Obviously, such a brute is far too great a danger to leave undisturbed, if our charter, it is to tame these lands, no?”
My companions agreed, even if none of us was all that enthusiastic. We pondered for a few minutes, then, tying our horses well back to a stake that we pounded into the ground, began to cautiously approach the blighted circle.
Natahsa, Boris and I drew bows, and Tor readied his sling, but also picked up a large bone in his left hand. He inched forward, stopping every few steps to stare intently at the center. When he felt he was close enough, he hurled the bone with all of his strength. It fell a few yards short of the center – but that, it apparently did not matter.
A near-perfect circle, maybe seven feet across, of webbing and detritus flipped open like a hatch, and out burst a thing out of nightmare. A spider it was, its head larger than my own, sporting dripping fangs the size of daggers. Each of its multitude of legs were thicker than my arm, tipped with pointed chitin claws, flailing wildly as it scuttled into the late afternoon light. The body that it dragged into view must have been as long as a horse, and easily five feet in diameter, sporting black bristles and vivid red stripes. It rushed forward fast as my horse could gallop, and I confess, I was taken aback, stunned for a moment, as it bore down on Tor.
Our sturdy dwarf, though, was apparently made of sterner stuff than I. He whipped his sling through a couple of loops before sending a stone hurtling at the spider. The fist-sized stone connected with the red-and-black striped carapace with an audible crunch before flying over behind the brute. I drew back, taking a breath to steady my aim, as Natashsa’s first shaft whipped past me, burying itself unerringly in the beast’s body, just to the left of the multi-eyed horror of its head. There was a great, high-pitched hiss, a tearing, shrieking noise, that issued forth from the spider, and its many legs send to tangle on themselves for a moment, but the monstrosity continued on, pain and rage merely adding to the hunger that drove it. Tor was retreating from it, fumbling in his pouch for another stone, as I released my first arrow. It sailed wide. I snarled a rather ungentlemanly curse as I snatched at my quiver for another. Boris fared no better on his first shot.
The beast was much faster than Tor, even when he was not trying to ready his sling, and would soon must needs overtake him. I loosed again – my aim no better, and dropped my bow to the sward, drawing my sword and preparing to run to support the dwarven shaman. In the next moment, though, Tor had no need: Natasha’s second shot sank squarely into the great cluster of multifaceted eyes, the shaft entirely disappearing as it sank, all the way through its head, deeply into the grotesque body. The hissing shrieks stopped abruptly, and the many legs all tangled each other as the giant spider fell, twitching, and rolled onto its back. After a few moments of twitching, the legs all curled inward, a gigantic version of a dead spider on a windowsill.
“Humph” Natasha said, sliding her next arrow back into her quiver, “Not as bad as I thought.”
The Diaries of Cailo Ziim
15th of Pharast , 4713 A.R.
After dealing with the spider, we did a more thorough search of the surrounds, including lowering Tor – much to his displeasure – down into the spider’s lair, a cylinder five feet wide and twenty deep, carpeted with old bones. At the bottom was a more recent meal – a desiccated human corpse that we hauled up to examine. The silver stag’s head around his neck left us relieved – the world was no poorer for the loss of one of the Stag lord’s vermin.
Of more interest was the scrap of parchment that Boris found tucked into the left boot of the hapless brigand. A crude map was sketched there, showing a hill, a large, claw-like tree, and an ‘x’ scrawled at its roots. While none of us recognized the landmark, we resolved to keep our eyes open – for what else could such a map lead to, but treasure…
As we began our trip back to Oleg’s, both Tor and Boris began to feel quite poorly. Sniffles and sneezes began to give way to deep coughs and fevers, and we decided that our return to Oleg’s was not a moment too soon.
We arrived back at the trading post mid-afternoon on the 12th of Pharast, to find that another guest had arrived in our absence. Jhod, the name he gave, Galtan and, like Boris, priest of Erastil.
Stooped and hoarse, he was, bent from years, miles, and guilt. Overzealous and proud, he had fallen astray, and now wandered in exile. Of late his dreams (And here, of course, our ears, they perked once again…) had spoken to him ,though. Here, in these Stolen Lands, was his path to redemption. Somewhere in the trackless wilderness, there lay a temple of Erastil, long abandoned. Its tendant priest, like him fallen from grace, though far further than Jhod himself, it seemed.
“I am old, though, to be tramping about in the winter. I would fear to fall ‘ere I ever laid eyes on it. I would not fail my God, so I ask you for help. Oleg has explained to me your purpose, so I beg you, should you seen sign of this temple, please bring me word.”
We assured him, there gathered around Svetlana’s table where we heard his tale, that we would. Boris, particularly, was eager to see the eld Galtan redeemed. We pored over our scanty map with the old priest, but, other than noting it was probably in the woods of the Narlmarches, he had no other guidance to offer us.
Natasha asked him of his travels, by what route he came and what he encountered along the way. It seems that Jhod has been absent his native Galt for some time, drifting north and west through the River Kingdoms, spending some time around the sullen Kellids of Numeria, arriving in northern Brevoy last year. His path had not taken him through the Stolen Lands, unfortunately, so he had no insight as to the challenges that still awaited us.
We lingered a few days so that Boris and Tor could recover – no use risking the drowning lungs of a deep-winter cold – and made ready to depart, more of our charge to explore.
The Diaries of Cailo Ziim
16th of Pharast, 4713 A.R.
We placed orders for new supplies, which Oleg, he would get from Restov when trade passed back and forth. We also discussed among ourselves our need for help - not another adventurere, or combatant, but someone to tend the horses and camp while we explored. We asked Oleg to put out word for such, then made ready to depart.
At the end of the day, we stumbled apon a patch of odd-looking winter vegetables, short thick stalks sporting drak green leaves with whitish undersides. My Bevoyan friends called them Moon Radishes, and spoke of them as a delicacy. Svetlana had mentioned that they grew hereabouts, and would certainly buy them from us if we should find some. We made camp, and spent an hour or two picking the large, white round roots out of the ground.
22nd Pharast
From there, we continued on, slowly making our way across the lonely stretches of the Kamelands. There was on occasional sod house or thatched hut, a curl of smoke rising from an oven or chimney, but they were few and far between. The few residents we spoke of were wary or downright hostile: armed men and women knocking on the door were, previously, always bandits intent on robbery or worse. Even when we produced our charter - which few could read - they were only too happy to see us off.
The weather hovered on the border between freezing and soaking, and soon Boris, Natasha, and I were all feeling quite miserable, hacking and sneezing with another round of colds. We turned our path back towards Olegs and his warm fires and his wife's hot soups.
I write now from a corner of their guest house, my feet in a basin of hot water, wrapped in my thick fur cloak and a heavy wool blanket, trying not to let my leakign nose drip onto this parchment. Again, we will rest and recover, and set out again when we do nto risk further illness.
26th Pharast
When my fever finally broke the night of the 24th, it meant that the last of us were receoved enough to travel. We rose early, me still a little weak in the knees, saddled our horses, and headed to the south. We rode a little harder through the lands we had already explored, and returend to our previous campsite near the mood radish patch. Svetlana had been overjoyed when we delivered our produce. Oleg, she said, loves her Moon Radish soup. "He is always appreciative," she said with the hint of a giggle and a blush. That night as we camped near the patch, we shared a chuckle at what our hosts were likely up to tongiht in our absence..
The sun rose behind thick clouds that morning, but it had been a relatively warm night. It was not, when we set off, actively raining, which was a blessed relief. As we continued our exploration, the breeze stirred, and soon we enjoyed brief patches of sunlight breaking through the roiling clouds.
In the afternoon, we heard the rushing of a river, and soon came apon a ravine crossed by the remains of a bridge. None of us liked the look of it, so we completed our exploration of our bank - riding downstream for a few miles, then looping back east in a wide arc back to the bridge. We came apon the bones of simple farmer, beside his burned out hut, old arrows rotting where he had been pinned to the ground through his thighs and forearms: yet another victim of the brigands that now seemd to rule the Greenbelt. We paused to commit his bones to the ground, Boris quietly beseeching a benedition from Erastil, and we compelted our loop to the bridge.
The structure was not in good shape. As I pause to write these notes, Boris, Natasha, and Tor are vigourosly debating the best method to cross.
The Diaries of Cailo Ziim
27th Pharast 4713 A.R.
The bridge, it seemed, was more stable than we thought. By leading our horses, and goin one at a time, we were able to cross without incident. Still, we noted it on our map, making plans to reinforce or rebuild it at some future date.
We followed the course of the western bank for some miles, pausing every so often to sketch in empty spaces on our map. We had turned more norhterly, trying to get a feel for the lay of the Narlmarches, when we were greeted by a hail of arrows from the thick underbrush ahead!
With cries of alarm, we abandoned the gametrail we had been following, practically diving from our horses to gain cover. "Leave your horses and all their bags," a rough voice, tinged with the accent of Brevoy, shouted to us, "and we'll let you walk away!"
It was Natasha who replied, suggesting a course of action that strikes me as anatomically problematic. "Surrender to us, brigands, and you may find mercy!" she concluded.
"Don't try me, girlie!" came the reply. "I've got a dozen men, here, throat-slitters all! Last chance. Leave your gold and horses, or find what it's like to rot in the woods!"
Tor's keen eye, meanwhile, had spotted a patch of faded blue - a bit of tunic, perhaps - off to the right through the branches and pine needles, and, tapping Natasha on the shoulder, pointed it out to our ranger. Without dignifying the bandit's demands with a reply, she stood, smoothly, and loosed at the blue fabric. A cry of pain and the thrashing of the brush erupted from the spot, and the blue patch vanisehd from our view as its owner fell to the forest floor.
"At 'em!" the bandit leader's voice yelled, and, a moment later, a handful of figures launched out of the cover towards us.
It was a short fight, in truth. Boris and Natasha both lauched arrwos into the rough-dressed men charging us, and a pair of them fell, wounded or dead. I stepped into view a few feet in front of a red-bearded Ulfen, his crude spiked club upraised, arcene words already on my lips. His eyes widened at my sudden appearence, but he did not check his stride. I made a snapping, throwing gesture with my left hand, and a small green blob of acid dashed into his face. As he cursed and clawed at his eyes, I took a long, low step, sweeping my sword across his gut, and his curses became a choking scream as he fell. Tor stepped from behind a tall, weathered elm, spear braced on his foot, just in time for a tall, pale Andorman to run himself full onto the point.
The last of the brigands - far short of the dozen boasted of - came to a scrambling halt. The curse he uttered, wide-eyed at the red ruin we had made of his men - was in the voice that had threatened us - their leader, then. He turend to flee, but far too late. Natasha's arrow flew high, barely grazing his shoulder, but Boris's struck home solidly in the back of his thigh. He stumbled, giving me a mement to catch up and drive him to his knees with a heavy, two-hand overhand blow to his shoulder, and Tor, a stride behind me, finished him with a sturdy thrust of his spear to the bandit's side.
In seconds, it was over. Not a full minute had passed from when these ill-fated ruffians had loosed their first arrows.
Three of the men were not yet dead. We bound them, backs to a large oak, and setteld in. In was already late afternoon, so we decided to make camp and decide the fate of the wounded in the morning.
After sunrise, we made a show of dragging the bodies of the their comrades out in front of the surviving men and beheading them. I stood, cleanign my sowrd, glaring at them as Boris delivered a dramatic reading of our charter to them.
"So," the priest said, "you see the fate of the unrepentant. Will you give up this trade, move on, repent?"
Wide eyed, the bandits nodded, babbling their agreement. 'We repent! We Rpepent!" "I hear Daggermark is lovely this time of year!" "It wasn't my idea!"
We nodded our satisfaction, and Tor began heating the broad blade of hsi spear in the fire. As they watched this procedure, to scared of the answer to ask questions about it, I heard on whisper to the other..."Pssst. Gillie? What's 'repent' mean?"
Boris came to each of them in turn, pouring a stiff measure of the local spirits and helping them to gulp it down. Natashsa followed, a razor- sharp dagger in hadn, and, quick as a flash, cut the left ear from each man. And Tor followed just behind her, Slapping the glowing red spearblade to the bleeding sides of their heads, cauterzing the wounds.
So marked, we informed them that should we ever find them pursuing their banditry again, this mark would remove any possibilty of mercy: They would die without hesitation or quarter. When we were sure that they understood, Tor thumped each on the head with his spaershaft, sppeding them back to unconciousness. Boris took one of their hunting knives, cut their bonds, and stuck the knife in the earth between them.
And so we took our leave, and moved on to the west, deeper into the Narlmarches.
The Diaries of Cailo Zim
28th Pharast 4713
I write this morning with the wonderful aroma a cooking bacon in my nose. A harder-earned breakfast there never was.
Yesterday, after dealing with our newly reformed bandits, we pushed further into the woods. As we wandered, mapping and exploring, Natasha began to notice that the bark, it was stripped away from many of the trees. She explained that it was worrying, this sign – it was not on the saplings , like a buck might rub, but on eld, thick hardwoods, like a boar might scrape it tusks along. And some of the scrapes, they reached near to the height of my head. We rode on, quiet and wary.
The straining of ears, it was not needful, we discovered an hour later. We heard the monstrosity barreling through the woods nearly five full minutes before we saw it. When we heard the crashing and the deep, angry grunts, we quickly backtracked to a clearing we had just left, for to give us room for the fight. For none of us doubted that there would be a fight.
Indeed, whether it heard us, smelled us, or was just lead by fickle fate, the great bulk of the beast rumbled into the far end of the clearing a few minutes later. It was indeed a great boar, its bristly back man-high, brown and black, red-eyed, with tree-thick legs and dagger-length tusks of yellowed ivory. I do not know if my outspread arms would have been as wide as this primeval hulk’s shoulders.
It paused as it gained the clearing, slightly uphill of us. Its great, bristled head turned side to side, fixing us with its baleful eyes one at a time, then bunched up its massive legs to charge.
I stepped slightly ahead of my colleagues, left hand moving in a spell, as arrows and spears flew past me. The timbre of the beast’s squeals, they barely changed as my bolts of arcane energy, as well my companion’s weapons, struck home. I shifted both hands to grip my sword, but underestimated its speed…
Nethys, he must have had his light side turned to me, on that yesterday, for the brute’s tusk missed me. I was not so lucky with the gigantic shoulder that caught my chest, me with my arms raised for the strike, and flying back to the forest floor went Cailo Ziim…
My luck, such as it was, continued, for the beast did not turn to trample me under its pounding hooves. It carried on, straight towards my friends, and there was its undoing. Tor, his other spear in hand even when he threw the first, once again braced to receive a charge – and it must be dwarven blood, of stone is it made, for I do not know that I would have had the nerve to stand in front of that beast so. But now, in a burst of blood and the crack of a broken spearshaft, now did the beast’s cries sound of pain. Tor scrambled back, whipping out the strange blade, the leuka, that he carried, but Boris and Natasha were still busy. As the beast circled, trying to find a way to worry the spear free , the Brevoyans sent shaft after shaft thudding into its flanks. After what seemed like hours, the beasts squeals trailed off, its frantic circling ceased, and the great form thudded to its side, unmoving.
“That,” Tor stated simply “was a very big boar.”
The Diaries of Cailo Ziim
8th Gozren 4713
Later in the day that began with bacon, we stumbled apon a deep pit - a trapper's tool, it seemed. In the bottom, its leg in a steel trap, thrashed one the long-jawed thylacines that raom the plains and woods of the Greenbelt. I had never seen or heard of such an animal, but Natasha was able to put a name to it.
There was little we could do - the wounded beast would tear into any that approached to free it - but we felt we could not leave it where it lay. I sent my freinds some few paces back, then pelted the creature with arcane bolts of acid until its creis were silet and it lay still. Painful, I know, but better than the slow death that awaited it, we thought.
From there, we spent several days exploring the woods in the southwest portion of our charged area. We saw little beyond the deep, quiet woods - little evidence of people, and none of the bandits for which we were always on guard. Once, in the distance, we heard the repeated thud of an axe, but, b the time we made our way, only an unattended, hacked-apart deadfall awaited us.
Yesterday, we came apon a strange and sad sight. In a shallow pool of still, black water, lay a silvery, horse-like shape, in a stillness beyond any sleep. As we circled it warily - Tor going so far as to press the spirits to see if the land or water was trapped - we saw the ragged stump of a horn extending from the fine, argnet forhead. A unicorn lay dead and mutilated before us. We were cautious as we examined - beyond its horn, the noble beast had not a mark on it - it looked so hale and healthy that I would not have been surprised had it risen and galloped off - but it was quite clearly dead. Given the way it had setteld, and some debris had settled on it, it looked like it had been so for some time. Yet it showed no sign of rot, not the least whiff of corruption, and no scavanger had laid a tooth to it.
We talked amongst ourselves, and Tor and Boris and I came to the conclusion that dark and powerful magic may well ahve been at work. There are spells, we know, far beyond the command of the likes of us, that can extinguish a light as easily as a snuffer over a candle. So thoroughly, at times, that even rot cannot take hold.
We resovled to stay the night nearby, so that Boris might, in the morning, ask Erastil for the rites to properly lay the sad unicorn to rest. I was long in falling asleep, last night. If there was some fell being in these parts capable of weilding such magics, would some future explorer find Tor, or Boris, or Cailo Ziim on hsi back, untouched by rot, sightless eyes staring up at the boughs and stars?
The grey morning (and the gentle toe of Tor's leather footwraps) woke me all to soon. WE preapred to depart as Boris pronouced Erastil's sancitification on teh poor beast, and we made a low mound of earth and stoens over it. We worked in uneasy silence, and left the same way. My freinds have apaused whiel I finish these scriblings - so now we are off again.
((For those of you following at home, yes, the campaing is still going on. We are just about finished up with Rivers Run Red. Pleanty more of these entires to come...))
The Diaries of Cailo Ziim
13th day of Gozran 4713
My friends and I, busy we have been! There are wonders and terrors aplenty in these Stolen Lands, and I feel it is our fate to meet them all.
We left the grove of the Unicorn and moved west, and northwest. In time, we found a riverbank, and followed it north. Given the sulfurous stench wafting from the waters, we judges this to be the Skunk River, about which Oleg had spoken.
A short ways upriver, our pleasant walk was interrupted in a most unpleasant way:
From a tangle of fallen branches erupted a foot-thick serpentine horror, a green wyrmlike creature with a tiny pair of grasping claws and a great gaping fanged mouth. While I was still struggling to draw, the beast launched itself at me, clamping teeth painfully through my armor into my shoulder, bearing me from my horse to the muddy ground. I tried to roll away, and the wyrm rolled with me, coiling around me like the rock pythons I had seen in the southern reaches of my native Varisia. As my companions reacted, a second one of the beasts exploded out of the hollow of a rotten tree, launching itself at Tor's reindeer, Gladshanks. The fangs scored his flank, but the nimble animal was able to skip aside before the ten-foot long flailing tail to coil around him.
The rotten miasma of the creatures breath roiled my stomach, even as I exerted all of my strength to try to break its hold. I need not have worried. I heard a hiss of air, a meaty 'thwack', and the thing went slack. Right next to my own head, the serpent's head now sprouted one of Natasha's arrows, neatly traversing temple to temple. Impressed - and a little unnerved at how close that shot was to my own delicate skull - I shrugged off the dead-weight coils of the first beast and drew my sword to engage the second.
Boris had cast a spell to weaken and sicken it, and, between another well-placed arrow of Natasha's, Tor's spear, and my own blade, we made short work of it.
As we took the heads for trophies - Oleg' place would soon be quite the stuffed menagerie - Natasha studies them and proclaimed them to be Tatzlwyrmen - thankfully rare reptilian predators, on the order of the least of dragons.
Our explorations continued (A curious reader should see the notes we have scribbled on our map, as we strive to fill it in.) A few days later, we came upon an ancient statue, worn with age, covered with debris and bird-droppings. It depicted a tall, regal stag-headed man holding a bow - Erastil, Boris informed me reverently. It was already late afternoon, so we made camp in its shadow, and spent a some time cleaning and mending it as much as we could.
Looking around, we found the crumbled outlines of what looked like a wooden structure, long crumbled into the forest floor. The statue and what bits of stone and metal we found led us to believe that the structure possibly predated Brevoy - a relic of Taldan expansion ages ago. Erastil, Boris tells me, was a popular totem for the hunting lodges of the nobility, and we may stand in such a site.
This morning, Boris paused to lay a benediction on the cleaned statue. In response to his blessing, a soundless pressure burst out from it. Excited, Boris snatched his dagger from his belt, testing the edge - the gentlest pressure giving him a bloody line on hsi thumb.
"Friends, we are truly fortunate: the Hunter has laid a blessing on our weapons!"
The enchanted sharpness would fade over the next week, but each of us made sure to mutter a prayer of thanks to the one called "Old Dead Eye".
The Diaries of Cailo Ziim
19th day of Gozren, 4713
Our days, they have been eventful, and Jhod, he has found his purpose, though it nearly proved fatal for us.
Let me explain.
Our explorations continued to lead us through the forests called the Narlmarches. In a pond-filled glade, we came across a crumbling stone house, inhabited by, of all things, a Boggard and his pet Slurk – which my friends and I have taken to calling a saber-toothed frog. Oddly enough, from what we all knew of Boggards – they are a menace in the southern marshes of my native Varisia – the frogman was not immediately hostile. It could croak a few words of common, but we did not speak its batrachian language. Boris supplied an enchantment that allowed us to understand his speech, and we soon negotiated a truce – for now, we would leave him and his home in peace. Resolving to keep an eye on this strange, exiled Boggard, we move on to the North.
On the 14th of Gozreh’s month, we broke through dense underbrush into the south side of a vast clearing, showing the signs that it had once been inhabited. A wide stone plaza ran East and West, surrounding a long, low stone-rimmed pool, filled with brackish, green-topped water. To the West, perhaps forty feet beyond the pool, the crumbling, weed-choked flagstones led to a broad set of stairs, leading up to a large, irregular opening in a towering cliffside. Peering through the branches, vines, and moss, it appeared that the cliff-face, it had been elaborately carved. A great elk’s head, it was, dipped so as to frame the cave entrance with its massive antlers. As we walked, tentatively, into the plaza, we saw that it was ringed by thick stone pillars – in various states of disrepair – which also bore some relief carving, where bare stone could be seen.
Boris’s face was reverent as he said ‘I think we have found Jhod’s missing temple!”
But over this place – surely a beautiful sight when it was maintained – hung an air of menace, of sorrow. The air, it was still and heavy. Even me, no initiate of Erastil, could feel the wrongness of the place.
The ear-splitting roar that came from the cave mouth reminded us that Jhod had spoken of a guardian…
Hands went to weapons, and I spun a spell of protection, creating an invisible shield that hung near my left arm. We arrayed ourselves between the pool and the stairs, and, as usual, I stepped a little forward of my companions, sword drawn.
Coming down from the cavern’s entrance was a monstrous bear, a scarred, frothing Grizzly , easily twelve feet tall as it stood on its hind legs to roar at us once more. The creature’s coat was ragged, and its muzzle bloody, as if it had been cutting itself in its mad gnashing and gnawing. It turned its head this way and that, and I shuddered, for in its eyes I saw a malign intelligence – and a raw, screaming madness.
And then it was upon us. With a crash that shook the stairs, it dropped to all fours and charged me. Desperately, I wove a spell of tamed lightning, feeding blue tendrils of light through my sword, and stepped into the charge, throwing all of my weight into the thrust. The tip of my Varisian longsword scraped the creature’s forehead, discharging the tiny burst of lightning, and sank deeply into the great shoulder behind it, evoking a roar that near to deafened me. Too late did I realize that the paw it raised, it was a feint, for I felt those bloody, foaming jaws clamp on to my left shoulder, and, with a twist of its bleeding, smoking head, it tossed me like a child’s doll half a dozen feet backwards.
I rolled desperately to my feet, left hand near-useless and dripping my own blood from my ruined shoulder, as my companions brought their prowess to play. Boris’s chant to Erastil filled the glade, and I felt my terror recede, and my sword-arm steady. An arrow flew in from my left, burying itself in the beast’s side, drawing a deep ‘woof’ of shock and pain. A small ball of bluish flame arced over my head from behind me, Tor’s shaman’s fire, burning away a sizeable patch of fur on the beast’s left shoulder.
But, all of our efforts, they were not enough. The snarling creature advanced on me once again. Gritting my teeth, I extended my blade to fend it off while my pained left hand attempted the gestures of a cantrip – and failed. Disheartened, I lunged with my blade anyway, scoring another stab into the furred belly below those great jaws, but I did not slow the creature enough. The first great paw, topped with four-inch curving claws, whistled past my face, but the second, it caught me square in the ribs, ripping through my leather like wet parchment. I felt a warm, wet cascade down my right side, and my vision began to go grey. Then the bear’s teeth clamped down on me once again, and it faded to black.
An indeterminate time later – how long, I truly cannot say – I felt a rush of pleasant warmth wash across me. My eyelids fluttered open…
…to find myself on my back on the flagstones, staring up at the great ursine foot coming a-crashing down towards me. I did not need the desperate shouts of my friends to prompt me to roll aside, thankfully finding my sword still in my hand. In my manic roll toward survival, I glimpsed Natasha, still feathering the beast with arrows, and Boris, his elk-carved symbol of Erastil raised above his head in supplication – providing, no doubt, the healing warmth that had just saved me.
I scrambled away, and to my feet again, spinning to face the rampaging beast, fearful that I was about to face another charge. The bear’s way, however, was blocked by the study, spear-wielding form of Tor, who lunged into it, plunging the steel point deep into its belly. The beast’s cries now contained, amid the maddened rage, notes of pain.
Frantic to end the fight, I called up my last evocation – again, Shocking Grasp, and rushed in, ducking under a swiping claw, and swung downward with every ounce of remaining strength…to send my blade crashing to the ancient flagstones, my spell discharging with a disappointing ‘pop’ on the ground. As I frantically backpedaled, my upwards-travelling back-swing did connect, scoring a line along the great bear’s belly, but hardly a battle-ending injury.
Unlike the one the deranged beast’s jaws inflicted on me, clamping onto my right arm and shoulder. I knew agony, and then, again, nothing.
The Diaries of Cailo Ziim
19th day of Gozren, 4713, continued.
Too familiar, this experience of waking of waking up after battle to find the worried faces of my friends looking down at me. But, awake I did, and the agonized groaning that I heard, it was from me.
“Why is it that monsters spend so much time biting you?” came Natasha’s question in her rolling Brevoyan accent.
I smiled weakly, “Ah, my lady, it seems to be my fate to be delicious…”
I thought the eye-rolls extreme, until I saw the expressions that greeted Boris’s interjection: “And, as you are Magus, you are magically delicious!”
Less said about that the better, no?
My friends, they said that when the bear fell – again, an arrow of Natasha’s providing the killing blow – The beast sighed, almost gratefully, then collapsed, swiftly transforming to a feeble, ragged old man, then crumbling to dust in the space of a few heartbeats. His final breath became a warm breeze that flowed from him out to all corners of the temple grounds, washing away the filth and decrepitude. Indeed, as I struggled to sit up, I saw that, while the pillars were still worn down and some stone still cracked, the vines, moss, and detritus had all vanished, and the granti flagstones near gleamed. The water in the pool was crystalline and inviting.
We stayed the rest of that day and all of the next – the 15th – me, resting, Tor and Natasha, watching, and Boris, conducting what rites he could to restore sanctity to his god’s temple.
Between soild rest and the healing magic of Boris and Tor, I was soon on my feet again. Nearer now to Oleg’s than we had been for days, and bearing a great deal of ham that would need to be preserved, we resolved to return to the outpost. Out journey northeast was uneventful, and we reached the trading post just after noon yesterday, the 18th day of Gozreh’s month.
We gathered – we, Kesten, Oleg, Svetlana, and Jhod – in Oleg’s dining room, and told them of our travels. A look of relieved grattidue settled on the old priest’s face, eyes closed and a tear tumbling down one weathered cheek – when he heard of the temple and the release of its cursed guardian. “You will take me there?” he asked in a quiet, trembling voice. Of course, we answered, unhesitatingly. Oleg and Svetlana agreed to pack supplies for the Erastin, planning for an extended stay.
Oleg was impressed with the remains of the giagantic boar we brought with us. He laid a fire in his small smakoehouse, then excused himself, saying that there was someone that needed to hear this news. With only that briefest of explainations, he took one of the horses we had liberated from the bandits and rode off to the northwest. Svetlana was as puzzled as we.
When Oleg returned, he was not alone. A grizzled old hunter, a silver-haired, scarred and maimed man who gave his name as Vekkel Benzen accompanied out host. He dismounted carefully, and we saw that the lower half of his left leg was gone. “Show me!” he said, abruptly. “Show me Tuskgutter!”
It seemed this boar, he had a foul, if legendary, reputation in the Narlmarches. Tuskgutter, the locals had named him, and Vekken was one of the fortunate few to meet it and live, though it cost him a leg and his career as a hunter. He regarded the massive head we presented for a long time, squinting furiously, then threw back his head and laughed. “Ha! You old b@#$%^d! Swore I’d outlast you, I did!.” He clapped us heartily on our shoulders and backs, then hobbled back to his horse.
“Ever since big pig took my leg, no need for these. Least I can do for those that avenged my suffering. Please. Take them. It is s shame that they see no use, now.” Unwrapping a long oilskin bundle, he presented a lovely, -polished-wood and horn composite bow and half a dozen marvelously crafted arrows. Enchanted, he told us, to help bring down the beasts of the wild. We expressed our gratitude with a meal of , if I may quote Vekken, “Tastiest d@#n pork I ever did taste!”
After the drinks which accompanied the meal, Vekken was in no shape to ride home, so we poured him into a bunk in the guesthouse, clutching the tusk we had cut away for him and smiling in his sleep.