Dear Diary,
Too much has happened since I last dared to put pen to paper. Far, far too much. For my century's worth of sight, I've scarcely seen so much in a few months. I can barely bring myself to write now, but I shall have to try. This record must continue, for what I've seen has been to fantastic, too terrible, too horrendous for me to bear. Perhaps it will serve another when I am long gone.
I returned to Dolumn with all speed after I had determined that this 'necromancer' did not in fact exist according to the foremost minds I could find. Was the man (or whatever he or she) was so powerful as to fool those with the longest, truest sight? I did not know, but I feared all the same. By calling in a favor from a sorcerer friend who was no ally of my parents, I was able to barter for a teleport back to Dolumn to make the rendezvous.
A little had happened in my absence. The others had been delayed more than once upon the road and their travel had been slow, whereas mine had been swift. Whatever god(ess?) blessed my journey, I thank him or her now. Not only that, but undead had passed through the terrified village and caused a mass panic and a grand, foolish fiasco for my compatriots. Apparently in the chaos a trap had been sprung and the moronic politician had been liberated of his holy symbol... amid a mass crowd of undead. I shudder as to how they managed to survive. Polmund must have been pins-and-needles with his axes to fix the situation.
Or he may have simply been drunk off of his rear. Whichever it was, I'm sure he handled adequately; all of them were still alive when I arrived. They were somewhat discouraged when they learned that even the best and brightest had never been able to detect necromancy in the Dolumn area, but we set off anyway to what we hoped would be a just and fruitful quest.
I could have not been more wrong, now that I look back. How could I have been so blind, so naive?
The tower itself was somewhat short and squat, with huge doors at the bottom for us. Bravely, we forged inside, ready for any trouble we would have to face.
Not ready enough, I despair. Ready and waiting for us was the most horrific magical trap I could have imagined: an enormous ballista wound and ready. The doors shut behind us, and the monstrous machine fired with a magical trigger. The trap was completely undetectable to both me and the swarthy rogue. I managed to press myself to the side wall in time, to get out of the deadly line of fire...
Vincent, Dolthin, and Gustav were not nearly so lucky. I shall never forget in all my days of living the beastly sight of three men impaled dead through their stomachs on the same hellish arrow. I'm sure I screamed, but I distinctly remember Polmund cursing loudly in surprise as the missile barely missed him.
The three slumped dead to the ground and their packs fell open from the jolt. Out of Dolthin's bag the trade symbol rolled silently out and flashed brightly. Then the catastrophe happened-- the roar of magic and my own cry lost in the white blankness that coated the room. The symbol's powerful magic had activated on it's owner's death.
When I awoke, I was somewhere in the woods, naked. It was a very disorienting thing, but I managed to force myself past my grief and find clothes for myself. I shall skip the next few days lost upon the road, but I will say this.
Whatever world I had fallen into, it was up-side-down. All the places were the same. There was a Dolumn and a Krave. But Dolumn had never heard of a necromancer; it was a jovial little crafting town. Everything seemed backwards. I knew without a doubt that this wasn't quite the Terroth I had grown up in.
I may love my parents after all. In fear, it was the Elven Enclave in the western forest I turned to. I was scarcely a hundred and twelve-- hardly more than a child-- and I feel ashamed now for becoming one again, even if for a few days. I met my parents again and they too were backwards and inside-out. Instead of wizards, they were sorcerers, just like I always dreamed.
But it was no rescue for me. They were the same ostentatious windbags as ever. They disowned me this time, instead of caring for me. I was not powerful enough to be their daughter, they said. I was a mockery to them. I was a disgrace to them and their treasured sorcerous bloodline. Once again, I was the black sheep.
It broke my heart.
I set out again upon the dusty road, with a barren heart and heavy boots. Even Thestel is downtrodden-- she sits in the bag, drooping her tail. She is a lazy enough fox, but her eyes were tarnished with sadness rather than sleep. I solemnly made my way back to Dolumn, tarrying as I went, for I truly had no place to go in this bizarre, backwards world.
It was halfway to Dolumn when I beheld a true sight for my sorry eyes. Polmund had somehow located me, and he encountered me on the road. For once, I was sure he was completely sober. Never in my life have I been so happy to see that besotted dwarf. I nearly cried when he recognized me in a world where no one else did. Savior of my life, now my sanity... what next? Bless his liquor-pickled heart.
He swore never to let me out of his sight again (which was a little creepy, but it was the thought that counted) and we made for Dolumn where he worked as a smith for a few short weeks. I managed his book-keeping for him when he was too drunk-- drunk! As it turned out, he had turned away liquor for a month when he fell into this world, and it warms my heart that he partakes of it again because I'm near. He turns out to be a dear friend indeed in dark times for all his nonsense with the drink. I sit by him in the pub while he drowns his sorrows in ale, reading the latest text from the local book-lender. For all the world, we seem a ridiculous duo.
Soon after, we received a very peculiar offer from a bizarre old man. It involved gold, but I couldn't tell much about the nature of it: the man was hopping around too much. Again, we were joined by a few hangers-on: this time far stranger than the last.
The first was an uncouth, foreign man whose name I entirely forget. He is crass, and I do not consider him worthy of note. Good riddance.
The second was a strange character that rode around on the other's back in a basket: a odd fish-frog-monkey creature with a hollow of water in his brainbox. He squeaks and looks for toads to eat and is generally impossible. I do not like him either-- he smells funny and is sort of gross. I think his kind is called a Cup-ah. Or a Keepeh. Or a Hoop-lah. Or a Kaa-pah. Whichever one... I honestly think he's so repulsive I don't care what he is.
I won't detail the absurd encounter we met on the road. It was a single, dancing, unarmed goblin. Naturally, the idiotic swordsman ran and killed the creature before he even thought that he might be dancing all by his lonesome in front of enemies he would usually flee from without question for a reason. But the dingbat isn't even capable of that sort of higher thought.
The goblin exploded on us.
Exploded.
Yeah.
To make a long, bloody fight short, the men who were chasing that goblin appeared behind us and attacked us for 'obstructing justice.' I'm sad to say I killed a human being. It was an awful thing I would not like to repeat. He threatened my life, and I had to defend myself. I attempted to reason with the men, but they would have none of it. The swordsman didn't help by taunting them, either.
I honestly don't choose these companions. They keep getting forced on me (and Polmund, I guess) and I don't know if this is some sick retribution or not... but it's getting irritating.
I felt huge guilt as we arranged the dead bodies around the exploded goblin, to make it seem as if the creature had blown up the men. It took many tries, and I'm still sure we didn't get the effect right. I feel awful for it. Call it a guilty conscience, but I don't take to murder well.
Enough. I've written plenty. Now it's time to follow that absurd bouncing old man into the hole he crawled into, and I must shut my diary. Polmund is calling me.
Signed,
Morwynn Ashfoxxe.
Tags: Morwynn Ashefoxxe Otoros Krave Terroth
