Dear Faust,
Fear not! I am alive and well. I have spent these past months at home resting, training, and above all, thinking. With all due respect, I have come to the conclusion that most wizards are conniving, insufferable, baseborn scum. I have been burned, gassed, petrified, feared, doused in acid, tricked, cursed, and even killed by these magic-making lowlifes, and I owe them nothing short of the cold, steel kiss of death! Note that I said "most".

I admit that at first, I returned home in humiliation, with little intention of returning to Gaul under any circumstance. After long talks with my father, however, I am beginning to understand that my suffering has only been in vain because I have not acted on this burgeoning hatred of the supernatural. No elf can despise magic without despising himself in turn. The paradox has cleaved me inside, baring my soul to the winds of corruption. But, as I have come to realize, there need be no paradox. It is not even abnormal for an elf to feel wronged when something so inherent to his own character is used against him so often. Nor is it abnormal for said elf to feel vitriolic disdain for beings of the lesser races who make such a bloody mockery of powers beyond their comprehension.

Naturally, my thoughts of late have turned to vengeance, vengeance in its most ironic form. You claim you know what I am really up to? Then you must also understand that nothing can change my mind. Since it was those Norse magic makers and their butcher armies that have wronged me (and my kind) the most, I will start with them. Who can say where I will finish?

But you, my dear friend, shall have clemency from my wrath. Not only for our comradeship, but also because you at least embrace an art that already flows through your tiny veins, trickster though it makes you!

I fear my dreams of Fjord the Hero have perished in the flames. They are ashes on my parched lips. I thirst for nothing but the blood that will drip from Euranna's blade. There will be no retribution from the crimes that I intend to inflict!

But you will see me again,

Fjord

A letter from the swamp

October 8th

Dear Fjord,

All is not well. Against my better judgment (as usual), several of us have taken up with a gang of would-be heroes on an errand of such lofty expectations that I expect to perish in a most brutal and violent manner within a fortnight. Coincidentally, I find myself thinking of you. How are you, my old friend? By all accounts, that business with the stone has sent you into a declination of epic proportions. I do hope this letter finds you hale and if not happy, at least somewhat contented. I would rather that than to learn that you have shed your mortal coil in a fit of blind despair and even now the crows peck at your rotting eyeballs whilst you gently swing from a noose made from your own hempen rope. You were always so fond of your knots ...

Thinking of your untimely demise has boiled the guilt within me to critical mass. I crave the relief of your forgiveness, Fjord! It was I who stole your journal and read so many of your entries. Though you know me to me a thief of some renown, I assure you that I stumbled upon your sacred texts quite by accident. It was during one of our more insane ventures into that vile temple and you were holding the front line as befits your rank and equipment. I had exhausted my spell-casting abilities and and retreated to our horses to hold the rear (hide). I remembered that you had one of the party's last Kheeotum's ointments and busied through your belongings to find it before one of us (even you, perhaps) was dragged half dead from that inferno.

At first, I only took note of it in passing, as the task at hand kept my nimble fingers busy rummaging through your surprisingly unorganized backpack. Afterward, it occurred to me that the ointment was probably in your belt pouch. In hindsight, I now realize that the ointment is always in your belt pouch and my search had been in vain from its onset: a moot point. After a time, I grew bored and the temptation of reading the most closely guarded (well, not really, since you left it with your horse while you went to kill trolls, bug-bears and the like) writings of a friend grew from the faintest flicker to a fiery passion that could not be denied!

Well, now you know. Perhaps I could lend my somewhat advanced authorial knowledge to a critique of your poetry as compensation? Fjord, you have real potential! I do hope you have kept at it during our time apart. Kheops mentioned in passing that you had gone to school to learn to read and write. I'm afraid our brave paladin is easily befuddled by higher intellectual pursuits. My pointed questioning of him has led me to believe that you are not merely learning basic literacy (since I know you have a full grasp of Elvish at least) but are rather studying the exquisite craft work of the Elvish epic! By now, I am sure that you realize that your own poetry is every bit the match of the ancients in vigour, yet lacks the refinement and subtle adhesiveness that separates amateurs from professionals. Yes, even I, a simple gnome, have appreciated the works of Isilwen Anawamane in my travels.

Do not be insulted, by good friend! If your writing was poor, I would not be offering this advice at all. It is only because I believe in your talent and confidence that I would even venture this criticism from a festering bog betwixt forays into a temple overrun by lizard men, trolls and magically enhanced alligators. I say again, do not despair. Find yourself. Improve yourself. Return to us a new Elf, if you wish, but remain Fjord. I miss the oft overlooked comfort of intelligent conversation. Your replacement is an idiot Satyr piper who seemingly begs for death on every mission yet survives to the vocal disappointment of all. His playing is so terrible that half the time he puts his audience to sleep and the other times they flee in terror!

Your colleague and friend,

Faust

p.s. Another confession: I know what you're really doing in Sweden. Tyr'n did his best not to tell me, but I have a knack for hearing the unsaid. Your secret is safe with me, but I would encourage you to abandon this madness! Too late, you say? Well, when you get back, there is much that I can teach you ...

That an Elf should despise magic ...

In retrospect, this should not be surprising. An otherwise intelligent being puts his faith in a magic stone and it fails him, bathing him in a wash of humiliation. It is not irony. It is the furthest thing from irony. It is the most likely outcome.

Should songs be sung of me in later years, let it not be said that Fjord the Elf was without flaw. Too conceited for a journal? Perhaps. And I suppose I must put to parchment the whole sordid affair so that future adventurers might learn from my folly.

Yes, that's perfect. Fjord's Folly, the cursed stone, the great prank of the Temple of Elemental Evil. It lies on a river bed now, waiting for it's next victim to tease with promises of greatness. I do not regret leaving it intact. Only when it has someone else in its clutches will I ever truly feel free of it. I have no doubt it will be found.

No. I am simply too angry to speak of this right now! The short version:

1) My comrades and I slay some lowlifes and we divide their possessions.
2) I happily choose the so-called "magic stone of earth" with dreams of gaining unimaginable strength and power. Others in the party offer generous trades, but I wisely refuse.
3) I must wait 30 days to feel the effects and it becomes the longest month of my already long life, not the least because we waged unceasing battle against the Temple of Elemental Evil and a large Norse army intent on capturing Hommlet.
4) Finally, I feel the power of the rock flowing through me and even my muscles seem thicker and more taut than I have ever felt them. I feel that I could lift a boulder over my head and sling it into the heavens!
5) My associates aren't convinced, however, and inform me that they've never seen me so hunched and frail. Incredulous at their obvious jealousy, I prove to them my awesome strength by lifting a local Celt (one Ernst DeGaul "the Small", who weighed at least 25 stone) over my head and hurling him 15 yards across the courtyard.
6) Actually, I get him barely 3 inches off the ground before my back crumples and Ernst the Small lands on top of me, breaking two of my ribs. It takes three men to lift him off and I am carried away to a chorus of cheers, sneers and guffaws.
7) To add to my suffering, I discover that this rock is not only useless, but actually cursed and I am perhaps half as strong as I was a month ago! The rock is now bound to me and I could not cast it away without it finding me again in short order. I learn I will slowly wilt away to nothing within the year if nothing is done.
8) Marcus, Tyr'n and Vortigern come up with a solution involving several spells and I am saved from that dreadful fate, but the regret, the sense of loss and most of all the humiliation and hatred will remain with me forever.

I am supposed to be savouring a great victory (which I will discuss at a later time when I am feeling more victorious); fo now, the only thing on my mind is revenge.

And I will have it. I will have revenge on magic itself and all those who dare to use it against me!

Elda Alda Talantorne

A fluttering petal, to land in silence on the frozen world.
Encased in deep thought, wisely waiting for the sun to appear.
From the last tree on one earth, to the first in the new.
The first eon was ours, and we planted alone.

And now we recede to a withering stem,
where once the whole world reflected our souls.
What powers remain in our roots cling desperately
to creation, but our grip is not eternal.

We made time. Now time unmakes us.
It is the oldest tale; it is older even than vengeance.
But where the kingdoms of men burn quickly,
ours are left to rot in introspect ...

The march to battle is shortened in preoccupation.
Naith complains of the stable food with a regal air,
As if the stable hands were incompetent servants and he their all-too-forgiving lord.
The last hill is mounted before I soothe his offended mane.

And there are the nemeses, gloating almost tangible pride beneath their banners and their volitant lord.
“Wizards!” I mutter in a sudden mood of hatred or fear.
I am consumed with the irrational desire to loose all my arrows and flee.
Now it is Naith's turn to soothe me, and I avoid the coward's humiliation.

Together we descend, and the fear morphs suddenly to the lust of war,
Down comes the sword, an ally of rage and insanity -
Let fly the the arrows in a furious rain of anonymous destruction!
If in madness I could consume them all and myself, I would perish in fiery content!

And the lust exhausts itself – or drowns in blood and fire, and Naith and I survey the ruin.
The wizard escapes, our attentions on his minions. A general and a catapult is he.
Victory is fraught with conditions and failures, which many among us name defeat.
But the skirmishes are brief and the war eternal. For now, mistakes are permitted.

April 1 - Strength Bow

My father taught me how to fashion bows and fletch arrows. When he was still a young elf, he served as an archery captain for Thurinir Thand, the notorious campaigner against Norse strongholds on the borders of our land. Against the wishes of our greatest lords did he lay waste to many a company of these barbaric foes and seek (unsuccessfully) to provoke a much greater conflict.

For twenty years Thurinir dashed to and fro, destroying, burning, exterminating, and also eluding the elf patrols sent to stop him. When they finally caught up to him, he was found all alone, exploring a virgin forest in the far north and singing to himself. He had received timely counsel of their closing pursuit and ended his campaign, releasing all of his men (and women, I might add) to return home and live in peace. My father's parting was one of particular anguish, for Thurinir had been more like a father to him than a leader. As the wary patrol approached this living legend, he drew his longsword and laid it on the forest floor and knelt before it. He asked his fellow elves for two favours: that his soldiers be dealt with mercifully, and that they execute him now without prejudice or delay, for he refused to live in a realm where elves slowly wilted into oblivion, like a majestic elm choked of its nutrients by lesser weeds.

My father returned home and promised to never take up arms against the Norse again unless elfdom itself was in dire peril. He said nothing, however, of his children. And so father taught me everything he knew of warfare, from the making and using of weapons and on to tactics and strategies as learned from one of the greats during two decades of constant warfare. Many of our kind were raised to hate the Norse, but I was raised to slay them as well.

No composite bows for us, son. They are beneath the skill of elves. Find a worthy yew and carve your bow from a single piece of it. Heartwood in, sapwood out, as the tree itself exists in nature. Do not rush the construction - yew takes time to work, but is worth the effort; your patience will be rewarded justly. If you find a yew with no flaws, treasure the wood as your own offspring, for even in an elf's span of years, you may not find another. From this wood you will fashion your greatest stave.

Father told me this and much more. He spoke of elder times, when even the world was young and the yew was a lesser species, reserved for the use of man yet to come, for more noble trees existed that were both potent and malleable, and from which bows and arrows could be produced that when used together could pierce heavy steel plate at a hundred yards.
Everyday I would train, spending twice the time on the bow as I would on the sword, for it was imperative that I possess the skill required to bend a bow of the strength that my father insisted I use. To this day, I must train regularly or risk losing that ability forever. It has already been overlong since I ruined my own strength bow and was forced to borrow this common version, made from oak and strung with hemp. But even as these memories flow over me in waking dream, I am already half-way finished my new bow, and with any luck, it will surpass the power of my old one.

At my best, I could pierce seasoned oak up to six inches. With my strength stone and this new bow, perhaps I could set a new personal best. We shall see. The stone has been in my possession for nigh on three months now, and I can already feel its potency rippling through my flesh.