Professor Walden T. Ettinmoor's page

Of an average size for a gnome, Walden stands at approximately hip height compared to a human man of average size. Slight of frame and somewhat wizened, to the casual glance he appears almost to be a tiny, doddering old man, shuffling along in ink stained robes mumbling to himself quietly. Long, wispy white hair and small spectacles complete the image. Upon closer inspection one notices a faint blue tint to the petite man’s skin and hair, and dramatically large facial features: fat, floppy ears which stick out straight from his head, and a large bulbous nose. His eyes shine bright and blue, sparkling with a light which seems at odds with the oddly muted nature of his other features.
A little under middle aged, those who do not know Walden often guess that he is much older, a fact which can be attributed to the onset of the bleaching he’s begun experiencing.
A large satchel is slung around the gnomes shoulder and hangs to his hip, the insides stuffed with scraps of parchment, stoppered bottles of ink in various colors and several quill pens.

Born roughly 90 years ago (he has never bothered to actually count) to parents as curious and academically orientated as he would later become, Walden had the advenuresome childhood befitting a proper gnome. A dabbler in the arcane and a seeker of lost secrets, Walden’s father packed his partner and their young son on many of his expeditions and explorations. His mother, passionate about the flora and fauna of the natural world provided instruction and encouraged obsessive observation in her young son.
Their lives were wild and unpredictable, and while other races would shake their heads at the precocious gnomes standard for parenthood, to the Ettinmoor’s life seemed perfectly normal. This carefree life changed however when Walden was still a young man. Exploring lost ruins in the jungles of Mwagni, Walden’s father took a desperate risk that placed the young lad and his mother in terrible danger. While Walden survived, hiding in the underbrush as his father fended off the foul beasts that attacked their camp, his mother did not.
Plagued with a terrible guilt, Walden brought his son back to their homeland of Varisia, and settled into Magnimar. Using the expertise he’d gained throughout his adventures, Walden’s father soon found himself an employed academic at the Stone of Seers. He began studying from books and lecturing, and encouraged a down to earth pragmatism in his son that Walden had never before experienced.
Still shaken by the death of his mother, and seeking the lighten the burden on his father, Walden acquiesced to his father’s wishes and pursued academic studies at the Stone. The unruly gnome continued to struggle to reign in his wild and adventurous nature however, and often found himself before a disciplinary committee for some trick or prank he had perpetrated.
While they never spoke of it, Walden was increasingly worried about his father, who spent more and more time shut in, refusing to leave his study.
As the years progressed Walden graduated and continued pursuing his independent study in history. He was particularly captured by the ancient secrets Magnimar seemed to hold, the great monuments and feats of engineering that no academic could work out. The name of ‘Thassilon’ was but a whisper of something in a distant past, another time, and the mystery of it excited Walden and became his secret passion.
He took small trips throughout the surrounding countryside, visiting this ruin or that, but always when he returned his father would urge caution, prudence, and that he best stay within the limits of the city.
The Bleaching had begun working in earnest in his father, but rather than venture out, rather than attempting to turn the tides, Walden’s father devoted his life to researching it.
“If we could cure the bleaching Walden,” his father would say, “then our race would not be plagued with this needless frivolity. We could avoid so very much tragedy.”
Walden attempted to honour his father’s wishes, though over time his father fell further and further into the Bleaching, eventually going mad, and finally dying.
On that day Walden spent several hours noting and studying the interesting grain in the richly stained wood of his father’s casket.
Walden pursued his own career in academia, becoming a notable professor of history. While continuing to honour his father, Walden couldn’t shake the need to break the mold, and became much loved of his students, known for bringing his history lessons to life with various illusions and figments.
Nearing his middle years, the small explorations Walden has made around Magnimar and the excitement of his lessons are doing little to stave off the Bleaching.

Highly intelligent, and intensely curious about all things, but lacking an awareness of his immediate surroundings, Walden often finds himself carried off in a direction that he had not intended. This attribute has led to both his success in his professional career, delving into historical documents, pursuing research and proposing theories that few of his colleagues have the tenacity to discover, as well as the setbacks he has encountered in a profession lauding stoicism and calm reflection.
The tragic end of his parents, and his own fears concerning following them in turn, leave Walden somewhat conflicted. He tends to avoid any manner of self reflection or introspection fearing what he might learn about himself and prefers to pour his energies into research and a curiosity for all things of the world and its history.
Walden is generally amiable and gregarious when one can get him focused on social interactions. He has had difficulty maintaining relationships with others as few can connect with his wild and frenetic genius. Further, often Walden misses normal social cues being so caught up in his own head. Those whom Walden does consider friends he is fiercely loyal towards.
Of late, though he won’t admit it to himself, the effects of Bleaching have been taking a toll on Walden psychologically. He’s become more apathetic regarding his research, and almost despondent in regards to devising new methods of teaching and in challenging the committee’s standards of instruction, something which he once took great pleasure from.
His decision to go to Sandpoint was something of a whim, and in the quiet moments between his flitting from thought to thought and conjecture to conjecture Walden has secretly hoped that the experience can halt the bleaching and bring him back from the depression and eventual madness his parents suffered. He’s found that he’s not contented with his life, though he rarely thinks of this, and of late a has felt a stirring within him, a subtle feeling that he was meant for something greater, something bigger, that there is a Purpose he needs to find. Although, as with most things Walden believes he will find this “out there” rather than within himself.

“E...Excuse me, Professor Ettinmoor?” A small, timid voice squeaked from behind a towering bookshelf. On the other side of a shelf a petite gnome sat in an overstuffed chair, his feet barely dangling over its edge and a large tome which made him appear comically small nestled in his lap. The gnome’s lips twitched furiously up and down as his eyes darted and lept across the page. A brilliantly blue lock of hair, all of which had been drawn up atop the gnome’s head like the plumage of an exotic bird drooped down over his face and he brushed it aside unconsciously.
A lanky human youth crept around the edge of the bookcase.
“Professor? If I might trouble you for a moment?” The boy crept closer. His voice mixed with respect and trepidation as he continued to speak. “Professor Ettinmoor, its about the assignment you’d given us on ‘Icons of a Lost Era.’” He paused, a few feet away from the gnome, who continued to read, and was now nimbly twirling the errant blue stand in his fingers. “Well, it seems that text you referred us to. The one specifically about the Lady’s Light. Well, it seems that its been damaged. Or, rather, maybe somebody has taken something from it.” The boy held out a heavy tome in front of him, as if in offering. The gnome continued his reading, now flipping a page and hurriedly scanning the next. He appeared entirely unaware of the youth, now standing beside him.
Unsure how to respond, the youth opened the book to somewhere in the middle. It was clear that a page had been torn from the book. He held it there for a moment in silence, waiting for a response. Finally, after several moments the boy dropped the book in the gnomes lap, turned to the torn out page, covering that which the gnome had been reading.

“Oh!” The small gnome squeaked and jumped a little in his chair. “What’s this then?” He pushed his small spectacles back up his nose and glanced up at the youth next to him. “What the idea here? Sneaking up on me so? And a student no less. You’re…..wait…,” he said hurriedly, holding up a hand, “just wait, it’ll come to me. You’re the Rosewater boy, right?”
“Its Rosland, sir,” the boy responded.
“Close enough, close enough,” the gnome waved his hand dismissively and then turned his attention to the book in his lap. “What’s this then? Come to confess a crime have you? There’s a page torn from this book lad. You know I take such things quite seriously, quite seriously indeed. Books are the repositories of knowledge, you know. We must treat them with respect. So,” he glanced up at the boy before looking down again, “what say you? What do you have to say in your defence?”
“No, you see sir, I was doing research on…,” the boy continued, before the Professor cut him off.
“Of course you were, of course you were. Good lad Rosewater, good lad. And I can see by the weathering here on the page that this tear is old. You couldn’t have done this. Why would you confess to crime you didn’t do? Doesn’t seem logical. Completely irrational. And a volume on the Lady’s Light. You know this would be an excellent resource for your paper.”
The boy tried to speak, but the Professor continued on , heedless of any attempt at interjection.
“If I’m not mistaken, this page was an illumination of the inscription on the monument itself. Quite well done too, if my memory serves me.” The gnome began thumbing his ear thoughtfully as he flipped through the other pages. “The inscription doesn’t appear to be written elsewhere. Hmm. This won’t do, won’t do at all.”
With a loud ‘thud’ the Professor snapped the large tome shut and hopped down off of the chair. Leaving the book on an adjacent table, he walked briskly over the the corner of the room where he began rummaging through bags and and containers, pulling objects from this one and that, and stuffing them into a bulging satchel at his side, all the while murmuring under his breath. The young man, his hands now stuffed awkwardly in his pockets, looked on, an uncertain expression on his face. For several moments he stood, would open his mouth to speak, only to reconsider his words and close it again. Finally, after some time the gnome appeared satisfied with his endeavour in the corner of the room and, whirling around, strode past the boy with quick, short steps to the exit of the small room.
The young man stood quietly, then pulled his hands from his pockets, reaching for the book that had been left on the table when suddenly he felt a sharp jab in his side. Spinning around, he found the small gnome, his hair now in wild disarray jabbing him with a walking stick!
“What’s this about then? Loitering around. Leave the book Rosewater, we shant need it.” He stood back and took the young student in. “You don’t have any gear. Not even a backpack. How do you do expect to last longer than a few moments on an expedition without any gear? Not prudent. Not wise. Hurry now, go and fetch your things and we’ll be off. There should be a ship leaving for Korvosa shortly if I recall the schedule.”
“Korvosa sir? I don’t understand,” the boy responded, genuinely confused. “You’re going to Korvosa?”
“Me? Of course not just me. I’m not going anywhere alone. I’m far too small for that,” the gnome replied rapidly. “You’ll accompany me. My research assistant. And why would we be going to Korvosa? The ship will drop us off at the Lady’s Light.”
“The Lady’s Light, sir?”
“Yes of course. The recovery the inscription from the torn out page, of course. Shouldn’t take more than a day or two. We can’t leave this wonderful volume absent from this potentially very important piece of information. Besides it will be good to get away from the Stone. See the wild. Have an adventure.” The gnome turned and began walking away, stopping at the doorway to look back at the dumbfounded student. “Well come along Rosewater, we haven’t got all day, the ship’s not likely to wait for us.”
The gnome scurried out of the room. The student stood silently stunned for only a moment before hurriedly chasing after the professor.

Rosland watched the marshland approach in the distance as the winds carried them swiftly over the deep blue waters of the ocean. Professor Ettinmoor sat with his back to their destination, staring off over the water, his lips moving furiously up and down. He wondered what the professor was thinking about, but then thought it best not to try going down that tangled road. He still wasn’t sure how it was that he found himself on this ship. He certainly hadn’t been seeking an expedition, or an ‘adventure’ as the Professor called it, and didn't’ feel prepared in the least. Looking back over at the Professor, he wondered if the manic gnome, whose lessons were equally frenetic, but amazingly detailed and richly descriptive, was prepared either. He knew the professor was something of an illusionist, possessing both the natural affinity that his race was known for, as well as schooled training, but was unsure whether Ettinmoor possessed any other arcane power that might help to keep them safe. Certainly the short sword strapped to Rosland’s hip was going to be of little use, the boy had ever drawn the thing by twice in his life.

Such thoughts ate up his time, and before he knew it Rosland was being lowered into a small boat with the Professor, who promptly plunked himself down in the bow, away from the oars. Seeing, his place the young man began rowing for shore.
The shore in question was a tangled mass of dense foliage, which came almost all the way up to the beach itself.
As they rowed, the Professor took on a lecturing tone and began sharing his knowledge of the development of this particular set of islands, how they likely formed, and the manner in which they’d likely changed over the last several millennia since the monument they were seeking out was originally constructed.

When they reached the shore, the small gnome hopped spryly out of the boat and began walking in a southerly direction. They continued on for some time in this manner, until all at once the Professor stopped, causing Rosland to stumble over his feet as he tried to avoid crashing into the gnome. He pointed excited into the dense underbrush, farther inland from beach.
“Do you see that Rosewater? Why I do believe that sprite of color in there is firethistle. Most unusual that. Normally, I believe firethistle grows in more tropical climates.” The gnome squinted through his spectacles at something far in the distance momentarily, and then promptly began walking in that direction. “Well, come along. Let us look for ourselves shall we?”

The two trudged up the beach, and then passed beneath the large trees into the shade they provided. The undergrowth was thick and tangled and the ground soft with moisture. The professor continued further in, heading towards some speck of colour that only he seemed to be able to make out.
After a short while the beach became a distant speck of light behind them and Rosland began to worry that they might lose their way.
“Do you think we should wander so far from the beach Professor?” He asked, concern in his voice. “This doesn’t seem the best place to become lost.”
“Lost?” The Professor replied, unsnagging his satchel which had gotten hung up on a nearby bush. “What makes you think we’re lost? We’re looking for...Aha, there it is!” He pulled his bag free and scurried over to a slender scarlet reed growing along the bank of a small stream. “See, definitely firethistle. I wonder how it's managed to migrate so far north? Perhaps it was carried here on a merchant ship from warmer waters. Most curious. Most curious indeed.”
While the professor continues to prattle on regarding the typical habitat of this particular species of flora Rosland began to look around. The beach was obscured from their view completely, and the jungle around them seemed to press inward ominously. Strange shrieks and squeals from creatures unknown sounded in this distance and a uncomfortable sinking feeling crept into Rosland’s stomach.
“Professor, I don’t think we should stay here any longer,” he stated, half to himself.
“Hmm, do you see this Rosewater?” The Professor responded, ignoring the boy’s concern and squatting down on his haunches to get closer to the small stream. “It appears as though several of the reeds have been pulled out, and there are tracks here. What do you make of them? Animal? Humanoid? Perhaps some other form of creature? What would be pulling up firethistle? Certainly nothing for sustenance.” He toyed idly with one fat earlobe as he continued. “Look here, there is a trail that leads away. Come, let us see what this business is all about.” The Professor, his robes soiled with mud and grime, stood quickly and shuffled through the small creek, continuing deeper into the forest.
“Professor!” Rosland exclaimed, “I really don’t think that’s wise!” But the gnome continued onward, head down following a trail. Now and again he stopped and touched a clearly visible footprint before continuing onward.
Sighing with frustration, Rosland hitched his pack up further and stumbled forward after the gnome.

They continued along a muddy trail for sometime, until suddenly Rosland noticed a collection of skulls hanging from a nearby tree. A little further along, a group of sticks, tied together to resemble a human figure and smeared with a dark substance lay propped up in a bush. The further they went, the more the small fetishes appeared.
“Professor…,” the boy whispered urgently ahead. “I don’t think we should go any farther.”
Again Ettinmoor seemed oblivious to his words as he fixated on the tracks ahead, now and again stopped to thumb his earlobe before continuing on.

Then Rosland heard something in bushes just to their right. There was a snap as a branch cracked just ahead of them and the sound of small shuffling feet could be heard.
“Professor!” The boy said, loud and urgent now. “Professor, I believe we’re in danger!”
“Danger? I don’t think we’re in any…”
Just then the bushes around them erupted into raucous cacophony of shrieks and shouts as small green shapes burst forth, their monstrous mouths split open to reveal maws of razor sharp teeth, and their beady eyes glowing red with hate. In their hands they clasped short, crudely made spears which they thrust violently towards the two. One, larger than the rest, cut through the shrieks and howls in broken common.
“Stabs it! Stab and bite and rip and tear it. We burn it, burns and eat it.” The beast rushed forward stabbing at the Professor, who tucked nimbly backwards avoiding the thrust.
Another monster, a long scar down its face, jagged across where its right eye should have been, leapt forward. Pulling a rusty short sword from his hip, it slashed viciously at the larger one, cutting it deep along its side. The entire troupe erupted into a hacking laughter as the scarred one spoke in a garbled tongue.
The professor stood as the other monsters levelled their spears at them again. “I believe, my boy, that we’re being captured by goblins.”
The fear that had been building in Rosland since they left the beach, broke, his head swam, and distantly he could hear the professor saying something about him not looking well. Then all went black.

When he awoke Rosland found himself laying on the dirt, the decomposing remains of some long dead animal lay next to him. He hurriedly scurried to his feet, only to bump his head on rough wooden slats, which promptly caused him to sit back down.

“Ah, good. Youre awake.” The Professor’s voice came from a small wooden enclosure next to him. He turned to see the gnome sitting in the dirt, chewing on some broad leafed plant. “Bringing you up to speed, it appears we’ve been captured by a local tribe of goblins.” He spoke in spurts in between taking large bites of the plant he was gnawing on. “It is surprising that they didn’t kill us outright and eat us in the forest. Fortunate for our sakes though. I believe we’re being saved for some purpose, though I can’t make out what. Goblin is unlike any of the other languages I’ve studied. Gutteral. It’s difficult to make out which portions are words and which is simply animalistic chattering. I believe I’ve narrowed down a few proper nouns. One in particular sounds important, likely “chief” or “boss” or something of that sort. It’s been used several times in relation to ourselves.” He took another large bite and then held the plant out towards Rosland, slipping his small hands between the slats of wood. “You’ll want to eat some of this, of course.”

Rosland took the plant, sniffed it and took a small nibble. It was the most dreadful thing he’d ever tasted. Instantly his tongue became numb and he felt bile rising from his stomach. Turning away from the cage wall he retched over the remains of the animal she shared a cell with.
“Ah,” the Professor commented. “Yes, it is quite potent. Still, very fortunate I was able to snatch some worm nettle up as they bundled us away here. You’ll want to keep eating it. Just have to get past the gag reflex.”
“It tastes like poison!” Rosland exclaimed, wiping his mouth.
“Oh, it is,” the Professor replied, “but only a mild poison. It shouldn’t kill you. Ah, here we are then, I believe we’re about to find out what’s happening.”

There was some commotion in the camp from within one of the larger ramshackle huts emerged a large, corpulent goblin. A raccoon skull, bleached white, sat upon his head like a crown and he waddled in the direction of the cages. The one eyed goblin dogged his steps. When he reached the cages the fat gobin spoke in broken common.
“Tiny man thing. We cook you up and eats you for big feast. Great Gurglemesh eat your pretty blue skin when moon is gone. But you is skinny, like little human with you. We know what human eats. We gives it badger to help it grow fat, but what funny blue man eat?”

“Great Gurlgemesh,” Ettinmoor replied, continuing to chew on the broad leafed plant. “I am a Blue Bandersnatch. A gentle and peaceful creature. It is true that I have grown small and thin, but that is because I have not been able to find food for myself. I eat the long red reed that grows by the water. It is the red that makes me blue.”
The obese goblin made some hiddeous noise that Rosland presumed must have been laughter. "Flower?" The chief responded, "blue man eats moon-flower?" The chief continued to chortle. "Blue man get moon-flower!" The chief continued his laughter as he waddled away.

The next few days were terror for Rosland. The goblins brought Ettinmoor his Firethistle and Rosland other dead or decaying animals, which he could not force himself it eat. Nor could he stomach the foul broadleaf that the Professor continued to chew. The monsters contined to harass and threaten them day and night, going so far as to occasional stab at them with sharp sticks or throw small stones between the slats. Ettinmoor said little, spending most of his time observing goblin tribe and listening to the tumult. While most of his papers had been pulled from his satchel and torn to shreds by the goblins, he'd managed to secret away a small scrap of parchment upon which he occasionally wrote notes to himself using a charred stick which one of the goblins had used to poke him awake one morning.
When not observing or writing or mumbling to himself Ettinmoor worked the Thistle they'd given him between his thumbs, turning it into a wet pulp.
"I thought you were going to eat the Thistle?," Rosland asked him one day, watching the gnome at work.
"Oh no, my boy, on no!" The gnome chuckled at the thought. "That would go very bad for us, very bad indeed. For me , in particular, but ultimately for you as well." He laughed again, his eyebrows wiggling as he imagined the scenario in his head. "Actually," he said, regaining his composure, "perhaps you can help."
Ettinmoor proceded to direct him in making small earthen balls of clay, and to then poke holes in balls, hollowing them out, and to place them on top of the roof slats to bake in the sun. When questioned about his odd request the Professor simply stated, "Presentation, my boy, every good bit of magic requires the proper presentation!"

For two days they engaged in their labour, each growing weaker, and the goblins becoming bolder in their torment. On the third day Ettinmoor asked for the small clay pots and promptly began spitting in them.
"A little something I picked up as a boy in the Mwangi," he stated, winking.
After filling the pots with his saliva, the professor, fed the pulped end of a small reed into each. He placed several of the small pots back on top of his enclosure and instructed Rosland to do the same. "Be careful with them boy," he cautioned, "the time isn't right yet. Unless I'm mistaken tonight's the big night." His eyes twinkled with a mischievous light.

That night the camp was wilder than usual, the goblins lit great fires and shrieked as they ran amongst them, playing cruel games on one another. When the door to the large hut opened, and the obese chieftain waddled out Ettinmoor whispered to Rosland from the corner of his mouth, "stay low, and keep your head down. And run back away from the camp fires."
"Run?" Rosland began incredulously, "how am I too run..." But the professors stern gaze cut him off. He was focused, determined, a look the young student had rarely seen on the gnome.

As the chief approached Ettinmoor called out, standing as he did so, "Great Gurlgemesh, be ware for the fiery Red Bandersnatch comes!" Then Ettinmoor began gurgling and gesticulating wildly to the gathered goblins. It took a moment for him to realize that the Professor was speaking goblin, barking and hacking in the odd language. The goblins began to look nervously at the brush around them before the chief cut Ettinmoor off, responding to whatever threats the gnome had been making. Just then the Professor turned towards the brush behind him, continued gesticulating but his voice slipped into an arcane language much more familiar to Rosland.
Immediately thereafter a loud roar erupted from behind the cages, and the goblins began scrambling about the camp. Ettinmoor continued his incantations as the chief attempted to regain order over his tribe. A moment later a giant red creature, scaled, with a huge maw of dagger like teeth and eyes which erupted in flame appeared next to the cages in the clearing between them and the bushes.
Madness filled the camp as goblins began screaming and running in every direction. A few hurled their spears at the creature, while other scrambled for other weapons.
"Down Rosewater!" The Professor shouted and then a deafening explosion erupted above the cages, first Ettinmoor's and then Rosland's. The wooden slats above him exploded in a hail of wooden splinters and the cages fell apart.
Rosland fell to the earth, a ringing in his ears, when suddenly there was an insistent pull on his collar. Ettinmoor tugged furiously at him, "Come on boy, make for the bushes."

Around them was chaos and panic and still the monster loomed threateningly above them. The gnome ignored the creature and scurried past it, plunging into the darkness. Scrambling to his feet Rosland followed. A dim light appeared in the darkness and he made for it. Ettinmoor stood there, his hand illuminated. "Come, we must hurry, our presentation has confused them, but they'll see through the illusion soon enough." And then he plunged hurriedly into the darkness.

The remainder of that night was beyond terrifying for young Rosland. They stumbled, mostly aimlessly through the swamp, and on several occasions stopping to listen to the sounds of pursuit before heading in the opposite direction.
By some miracle they again found themselves on the beach as the sun began to rise. There were sails in the distance, and Ettinmoor scurried over the row boat that still sat beached upon the shore.
“Don’t dawdle lad, don’t dawdle,” the Professor scolded, turning back to the young man, “we’re very lucky that the lunar phases aligned with our timing to meet the good captain’s sister ship on its return voyage. Very lucky indeed. Why another night and we’d have been stranded out here, miles from help.”
Rosland walked woodenly over to the boat, pushed it out into the water,and then began rowing mechanically in the direction of the sails.
For the first time on their trip the Professor seemed to take note of the boys condition. “Oh don’t feel too bad Rosewater. It is a shame that we never got a chance to mark down the inscription on the monument, but look on the brightside! We learned quite a bit about the structure of the local goblin tribes, and even had an opportunity to learn their odd tongue right in amongst them! A rare opportunity!”
Rosland stopped rowing and simply stared at the gnome perched at the other end of the boat.
“Oh, of course,” Ettinmoor said snapping his fingers, as though he’d just put a particularly difficult problem together, “of course you’ll get the extra credit you were looking for as well. Sometimes I forget about the motivations of a student!”
Rosland opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it, and just kept rowing.

5 Rova 4707

Brodert Quink esq.
Sanpoint, Varisia

My old friend,

Regarding our previous correspondence, the suggestion put forth by yourself regarding the nature of the structure locally known as “the old light” is quite simply the work of fanciful imagination. The hypothesis that the building might have served some defencive purpose is plausible, certainly, but manner in which you’ve proposed that it operated and the range you suggest it may have functions are quite ludicrous indeed.
Nonetheless, I put forth your findings to the committee here, against my better judgement on account of our long and amiable friendship. This was the one rare occasion in which I agree with the ruling of the committee, who deemed your findings to be primarily conjecture and lacking of enough supporting evidence to be considered a teachable theory. You know my history with the committee. None more than I know of their shortsightedness and blind adherence to tradition, but in this you must agree they see the picture clearly.

Speaking of my history with the committee, I must admit that the cause for my writing is beyond simply notifying you of the results of your proposal. It seems the manner of my teaching has upset the committee again. They ignore the results I’ve achieved in molding and shaping young minds, in exciting their imaginations and fueling a passion for our history in a way that dusty old tomes could never do! I mean really, how am I supposed to know that the son of a wealthy diplomat is marked for marriage to a Chelaxian noble, and that he has an obsessive fear for all things related to hell? There is no way I could have predicted he would fling himself over the bannister at the mere sight of a conjured image of a devil. I mean really, the boy knew we were studying the history of Avistan’s more powerful nations, and what nation has been more influential in modern history than Cheliax?
But I digress, yes due to the nature of the “incident” the committee has deemed it prudent that I take a sabbatical away from the Stone of Seers here in Magnimar. As such, I’ve decided to come for a visit. Officially, I will be representing the cand recording this moment of history for your small town. My understanding is that you’ve erected a new Cathedral, correct? Unofficially, it will be good to see you again old friend, not many here at the Stone share our passion for ancient Thassilon.

Again, that is not entirely truthful either. Yes, I’m being ousted from my home, and yes it will be good to see you, but if I’m really being honest Brodert, my legs are starting to itch again. I know my parents, Desna watch over them, had my best interests at heart when they taught me to stay home and settle into a career as they did, but the bleaching has been hard on me. I yearn to travel, to see new sights, to experience some of this history we read by the fireplace! It shall be good to be out of doors once more and away from my cushioned chair.

Look for me in two weeks time at the Swallowtail Festival

Yours in friendship,

Walden Tyronius Ettinmoor