Dear Diary,

Thank goodness I have finally been able to procure pen and parchment. The most recent days have been strange to put it lightly. If it wasn't for noble Polmund, I would probably have gone mad.

Recently, I learned something very interesting. Polmund spells my name 'Marowyn' when he writes. He says that that is how it is spelled in his tongue. I do not have the heart to correct his spelling; it is a marvel that he can find himself in the mood and sobriety for the pen from time to time.

But that is not why I write.

I do not know what the old man hoped to gain by hurtling Polmund and I through a hole and into another new world. But the fact of the matter is that I am here and Polmund is here and there is little we can do about that. And it is a strange world this time. My eyes are odd here, glowing faintly. And I have discovered this... talent... for flinging myself twenty paces over ground with a thought. It is startling to say the least.

I am called an 'eladrin' here. Elves are something entirely different

Honestly. Can the world get any more complicated?

I digress. Polmund and I immediately made ourselves familliar with a caravan group, becoming guards. It didn't help that not only we were an odd pair, but that I also resembled a child to their eyes. But we muddled on through it.

We eventually came to the town of Coldcreek. It was a small, unremarkable fur-trade town. But the festival was in full swing, which made it a pleasure. Even if I only had to guard the merchandise.

I noticed the Straw Dolls, though. This creepy old man, after sneaking a peek at the caravan's more risque wares (um, don't ask, diary) took out a small doll and whispered something into it. And everybody started doing it too. And then they burned them. I suspect that it's come ritual cleansing of sins. 

The cleric of Pelor who had come to oversee the festival made merry and received confessions until the full peak of the festival.

Then the Scarecrow came. It appeared out of one of our own caravan carts, one that I had not remembered seeing. It jumped out, clawing and screaming "The bigger the sin, the bigger the doll!' and 'Winter comes!'

Polmund, a Dragonman, an elven staff-fighter, a human wizard, and I managed to halt it before the cleric was slain. Remarkably.  We could not prevent a few casualties, sadly. I am getting better at violence. But I still do not like it. I do not share Polmund's enthusiasm, but I do appreciate his zeal when faced with a screeching cold-horror that absorbs all of my ice spells.

The battle was won, but the night was not over. Not long after, I heard the townsman, the wizard curse under his breath. "They shouldn't be here...the Frostfall clan shouldn't be here!"

-- I'm sorry, Diary, but the lamp's out of oil. I shall continue another night.

Tags: Morwynn Ashefoxxe Otoros Krave Terroth

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Ugh. If there's one thing that can hop up and bite a gamer in the face, it's this thing called Real Life. Never mind the fact that my buddies seem to be awful at keeping commitment. My DM is hopping mad to boot... Everybody else seems to be ditching and I'm the one who keeps getting the annoying disappointing phone call about how 'X can't make it, the game is off.'

Hissy fit aside, I almost feel bad for my character Morwynn. Last episode, she was crawling into a dark, godforsaken, spidery hole. And she's still crawling... crawling... for three weeks... And she's not happy.

It's kind of surreal. What if somewhere out there, time is stopping for weeks at a go because some greater deity can't be bothered to watch us play for a bit. What if he only watches us when he comes home from work or something, and we never notice because we don't know when the pauses are?

Crazy existentialism aside, I really need to get my boys in gear. I know that the past few weeks have been the Attack of Real Life. I know that the Real World is a harsh mistress, but there's got to be something I can do in the meantime while I wait...

Thus, another entry into the sob stories of BloodyArtemis. How trivial, how insignificant. 

And I'm ugly and I dress funny and I'm hanging around waiting for a session for weeks on end. What else is new?

Tags: Blah Annoying Argh

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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

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Dear Diary,

I apologize for writing this after the fact, but the truth is that I have had simply no time to record anything in the last few weeks. As I explain, it will become clearer.

We were rewarded for the goblin fiasco-- a few magic items that were beyond my skill to identify. But then again, my own skill is hardly anything to judge any magic item by. But one of them was a trading symbol of unknown power (I suspect he simply wanted to dump this junk upon us because he had no knowledge of any of it and therefore could not sell it) and a small pendant that I could only fathom carried some sort of light spell. It was fine with me; we received a respectable reward for the reacquired goods and I harbored no complaints.

Except for perhaps the asinine thief-type man, but I digress.

I had enough money then to afford exploring the town of Otoros, but all in all it was quite boring and in the end I hitched a ride to the more populated city of Krave. As chance had it, Polmund was there and so was Dolthin. The politician and the rogue had, thankfully, left earlier.

We arrived in Krave after a few days’ travel, unmolested. Upon entering Krave, we happened upon the politician and the thief again, unfortunately. However, one thing led to another and the whole motley crew of us was arrested for carrying weapons within the city limits. It would have been useful if the guards at the gate had actually detained us before we had to be taken away. How hard is it to put a sign up proclaiming 'no weapons allowed'?

I gave myself up without a fight and carried my grace to the jail as well as I could. Resisting arrest was another charge that I did not want to carry. If I had any hope of convincing whoever came to interrogate us that we were simply mistaken, a fight would defiantly mark my record. I shared a jail cell with the rest of my strange company. I guessed the time while I was in there based on how sober Polmund progressively became while behind bars.

Then it happened.

All of the police guards dropped dead. There was no light. No attack. Nothing. They simply collapsed where they stood-- all of them at once. We managed to escape the jail, and after some absurd gallivanting about (Dolthin insisted on obsessing over the dwarven settlement, something that I protested loudly to) we traced the cause of the calamity back to a large collection of 'blessed' daggers that had been distributed to the police force. The knives were actually cursed, naturally. Polmund, sort-of-sober (and after liberating the keys to the city somehow! Don't ask me how that happened!), traced them to a Necromancer in a nearby town.

To my amazement, there was another idiotic fiasco that nearly killed Dolthin. The fool attempted to pick up many of the cursed daggers at once and carry them about. He almost died due to the concentration of magic. Moron.

It was that last straw (and a sore throat from cursing the pompous BACK-SIDE out!) that made up my mind. These people had no idea what they were dealing with, and it would be fatal. I had to find out more about this mysterious necromancer before people died. I hadn't heard of any in this area, and I considered myself well-informed of the magical population of the region. I decided to leave this group and research while I still could, and then confront the necromancer myself.

The only one I told was Polmund. Drunk as he was, I trusted him more than the others. He was not a very likable fellow, but at least he was tolerable. He counseled me to find what I sought and then meet him (and the others, I supposed by extension) in a week or so in Dolumn, the town housing the supposed necromancer. I acquiesced to that arrangement, for I had little plan for beating a necromancer on my own, and set off from Krave as fast as I was able.  I prayed that I would have no setbacks. I had none, but I still am wary.

Poor Thestel. My familliar has hardly seen the light of day thanks to these events. I fear the fox will have to sleep in my bag a few days more. I've been combing my connections, and I'm still struggling to find any leads at all. I must make haste for Dolumn tomorrow, and I have no time to lose. The longer I tarry, the drunker I shall find Polmund when I return, I fear.

Signed,

Morwynn Ashefoxxe

Tags: Morwynn Ashefoxxe Otoros Krave Terroth

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Dear Diary,

After the strange events of the past few days, I feel compelled to keep a record of my travels. When I say that lately my life has been strange, I would be understating. This will take a while to write, I suspect.

Three days ago, I arrived at the small trading post of Otoros with nothing more than my bag, my cloak, my bow and arrows, and the clothes on my back. I had been traveling for a full year... sometimes I think that it was unwise to leave my parents at the Enclave. However, there's no use lamenting that now. The forests and the Great Library of the Elves are beyond me. It was hardly my fault that I was born a sorcerer, and if they cannot understand that, I was right to have left.

Completely destitute, I had little to do but sleep in trees and look over my maps in the tavern. It is now that I realize that I should have planned this whole affair out in advance... My plan was to go out into the world and prove that Sorcerers are not the power-crazy idiots my father makes them out to be, but I should have thought about how I was to accomplish this feat.

So, when that man burst into the inn, yammering on about goblins and lost cargo, I had to take the oppertunity. I had nothing left to lose, exept perhaps Thestel. But a fox familliar is hardly much to lose.

The man was immediately confronted by a dwarf with a loud, persausive voice. I regret to say that I shrank. I had no experience with dwarves, and a rather swarthy-looking rogue in the corner was giving me the eye. The only inquiry I made was as to what sort of goods the man was transporting.

The cargo was magical goods-- a promising reward. If anything, I could possibly sell any spoils later and continue on my way. I slipped outside just as I heard another loud voice triumphantly explaining to the population of the bar that the goblins would trouble them no more.

As I suspected, a small party emerged from the tavern, consisting of the armored dwarf, the irrespectable-looking man, the somewhat delusional man with a pike (possibly some political figure, from the absurd delivery of his declaration?) and another dwarf that was leading them. It was stormy and hard to see, but I was a bit downwind and I could smell the stench of liquor on him. It was a wonder that he was leading them in a straight line.

For a while, I followed quietly. At first, they didn't notice, but when they did, they said nothing. I... was shy. In the past, nothing good had come from speaking up. Nobody ever seemed to take me seriously or even listen to what I had to say. But then again, I cannot blame them. I may be 119 years old, but I'm barely an adult by my own standards. And by their standards, I appear to be hardly more than a child-- elf or no.

Everybody seemed to introduce themselves on the way there, even the loudmouth politician who lagged behind. I said my name, but nothing else. Even if it was dark, the drunken dwarf (I later learned his name was Polmund) was all waving at us to be silent, and rightly so. We soon found goblins in the dark, and my very long night began.

I am not a very combative elf. I would much rather talk things out than fight, but with goblins, that was not an option. So, calming down Thestel, I readied my bow and aided this ramshakle party.

Needless to say, I didn't hit a single target. Ugh. I hadn't practiced in a while, so my shots were just a little wide. I would simply have to practice as I went along.

What really disturbed me were the tunnels. The goblins aparrently hid out in booby-trapped tunnels that were as smooth as smooth could be. Obviously magic-made. I couldn't determine what could have made it, but the overly-egotistical armored dwarf (his name was Dolthin) mumbled something about  dragons. I seriously doubt that.

So, after the seedy thief (Vincent, and I wish I had never met the man) determined that he could not disarm the traps we found, we simply jumped over them.

At our next encounter of seven goblins, I grew a bit fed-up with my bow and decided to try out a trick I had learned on my own a bit ago-- I sent a few of the goblins to sleep. Easy kills for the rest. Polmund seemed impressed and a bit more sober than before, which was relieving to me. I was scared out of my mind about that drunken dwarf, but he didn't seem all bad at the moment.

Thus ensued a few more hijinks with traps and a bizarre flame-operated lift. And lo and behold, at the bottom of his rat hole, was the king of the rats. I was feeling that I was getting the hang of this killing-things buisness, as much as I disliked it, so I decided to do my best to end the battle. I shot a magic missile at the goblin chief through the furious assault of the others and stayed back as the rest of them handled the goblins.

That is, until I saw the opening. It was so wide, just for a moment, and I lifted my bow and nocked my arrow, aiming clear at the staggering chieftan's head. It hit. Oh, powers above, it hit straight between the eyes. I don't take any happiness from killing others, but there is a sort of unholy joy that washes over you as you fell your foe, especially a foe you know is ruthless and unjust.

But it was only like that for a moment. The next thing I knew, I was face-up and seeing stars. Aparrently, in the time that I shot the arrow, a goblin had broken past the main line and buried his morningstar in my guts. The only reason I survived was the grace of the drunken Polmund's heart and the holy power of the politician Gustav.

Although the other dwarf Dolthin tries to win my favor, it is Polmund, that sotted woodsman that I owe my gratitude, my respect, and my life.

Gathering the stolen goods (and Polmund's brand new keg of spirits), we made our way to the exit... though the heavens felt to make life as difficult as possible by producing a hoarde of kobalds to bother us. A long battle, a grease spell, and and an incredibly lucky manuver on my part (I tripped a kobald stealing our recovered goods with a rock via a simple flourish of prestigitation! ) we made our way back to Otoros.

Oh, I'm tired. But I've gained a few new friends (I think?) and a new road to travel on. The spoils were great, and I think I see a dawn on my horizon!

That is, if I can get this creepy thief away from me. Ugh.

Signed,

Morwynn Ashefoxxe

Tags: Morwynn Ashefoxxe Otoros Krave Terroth

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