Kheops |
June 6th, Year 7 - Bobbers
The first order of business upon arriving in Hommlett was to find a good valet. I am not a shrewd businessman, and interaction with the masses appeals to me not. But, I now have other skills to compensate for my interpersonal shortcomings.
At the local tavern, I found a likely “candidate.” He was the very picture of hard-luck drunk: handsome but disheveled, and his attire was tailored yet grungy. Here was a man who used to be decently successful but has descended into the self-pitying madness of full-time boozer. I sat down next to him, politely clutching his forearm, and I muttered a few words. The initial alarm of being confronted by this well-armed and mean-eyed elf was replaced with a smile of absolute familiarity and trust. I asked him, “How have you faired since we last spoke, friend?”
He thought hard, agonizing to recall a meeting that never happened. Finally, I saw his brow unfurrow as he gave up and simply told me of his current state of affairs.
“My wife ran off with the cook. Then I started drinking more. Then I lost my job. That was last month. This month, I’m just drinking more.”
“And what did you do for a living?”
“I was a caretaker for lord G___.”
He’s Perfect.
“Well, friend, fear not! Now you work for me! Come to the tower at dawn. Get a good night’s rest: you are going to be busy. Just ask for your good buddy Fjord.”
“I will milord! I will!”
“I think I’ll call you Bobbers. It’s a nice name for my new doorman, don’t you think?”
“Oh, it’s perfect, milord. My last employer called me “Lumber Monkey!”
“Well Bobbers, I’ll certainly treat you with more respect that that, I can promise you. But you’ll have to promise me something in return.”
“Whatever you ask, milord! I am yours to command.”
“Promise me that you’ll lay off the booze. For good.”
His exuberance caught me slightly off guard as he leapt to his feet and declared for all to hear, “Math have mercy! I’m a wino no more!” And he staggered out the front door, laughing maniacally.
The bartender merely shook his head. “Third time this week he’s done that.”
I wonder if I should tell Faust that he’s charmed … I’m sure he’ll figure it out soon enough. Such a clever little gnome.
At the local tavern, I found a likely “candidate.” He was the very picture of hard-luck drunk: handsome but disheveled, and his attire was tailored yet grungy. Here was a man who used to be decently successful but has descended into the self-pitying madness of full-time boozer. I sat down next to him, politely clutching his forearm, and I muttered a few words. The initial alarm of being confronted by this well-armed and mean-eyed elf was replaced with a smile of absolute familiarity and trust. I asked him, “How have you faired since we last spoke, friend?”
He thought hard, agonizing to recall a meeting that never happened. Finally, I saw his brow unfurrow as he gave up and simply told me of his current state of affairs.
“My wife ran off with the cook. Then I started drinking more. Then I lost my job. That was last month. This month, I’m just drinking more.”
“And what did you do for a living?”
“I was a caretaker for lord G___.”
He’s Perfect.
“Well, friend, fear not! Now you work for me! Come to the tower at dawn. Get a good night’s rest: you are going to be busy. Just ask for your good buddy Fjord.”
“I will milord! I will!”
“I think I’ll call you Bobbers. It’s a nice name for my new doorman, don’t you think?”
“Oh, it’s perfect, milord. My last employer called me “Lumber Monkey!”
“Well Bobbers, I’ll certainly treat you with more respect that that, I can promise you. But you’ll have to promise me something in return.”
“Whatever you ask, milord! I am yours to command.”
“Promise me that you’ll lay off the booze. For good.”
His exuberance caught me slightly off guard as he leapt to his feet and declared for all to hear, “Math have mercy! I’m a wino no more!” And he staggered out the front door, laughing maniacally.
The bartender merely shook his head. “Third time this week he’s done that.”
I wonder if I should tell Faust that he’s charmed … I’m sure he’ll figure it out soon enough. Such a clever little gnome.
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
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 ...
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!
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.
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.
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.
September 10 - Aftermath
We have driven off the Norse, but at a terrible cost. More Bobs lay rotting in the field than return to Hommlet. The locals celebrated our victory, but the festivities were subdued with the specter of death and the very real fear of more warfare in the Spring. Until the next campaign season, Hommlet can rest, but every household mourns a father, son or brother; they prepare for a hard and lonely winter. I have ugly memories of the battle and can find no respite here. It had been my intention to ride off with haste, but Tyr'n convinced me to wait for him to teleport me and save weeks of travel.
As for our own party, we have few complaints. Sorak has claimed another trophy: a priest/bard this time, none of our company were slain (although Tyr'n's acid arrow wound nearly finished him off) and we have divided the recent spoils with our usual zeal. I have taken a Cloak of Protection for myself, a worthy prize, not the least because I saw Sorak eying it this past week.
We have a busy itinerary: I will visit my parents in Sweden and while there, find a worthy literary instructor to help me with my burgeoning poetry. Then it is off to Switzerland to visit the famous Dwarven armories. There, we will have our white-dragon scale fitted. I don't expect a warm welcome among the Dwarves, but fortunately their love of gold out-paces their hatred of the Elves. Finally, Tyr'n and I will arrive at the Portal, our ultimate destination, where I will rest and write. I will not leave there until at least early May.
If the Norse return, Hommlet will have to manage without me. I have other plans for the Summer, but I dare not put them down on paper here. I suspect certain party members have been reading my journal. Whoever you are, may you join Prindel in Faerie hell!
As for our own party, we have few complaints. Sorak has claimed another trophy: a priest/bard this time, none of our company were slain (although Tyr'n's acid arrow wound nearly finished him off) and we have divided the recent spoils with our usual zeal. I have taken a Cloak of Protection for myself, a worthy prize, not the least because I saw Sorak eying it this past week.
We have a busy itinerary: I will visit my parents in Sweden and while there, find a worthy literary instructor to help me with my burgeoning poetry. Then it is off to Switzerland to visit the famous Dwarven armories. There, we will have our white-dragon scale fitted. I don't expect a warm welcome among the Dwarves, but fortunately their love of gold out-paces their hatred of the Elves. Finally, Tyr'n and I will arrive at the Portal, our ultimate destination, where I will rest and write. I will not leave there until at least early May.
If the Norse return, Hommlet will have to manage without me. I have other plans for the Summer, but I dare not put them down on paper here. I suspect certain party members have been reading my journal. Whoever you are, may you join Prindel in Faerie hell!
To Man
May your kingdom outlast memory,
A slow death old in bed,
To reflect upon the struggle,
And pass on wisdom in its stead.
But remember that long after,
The elves remain and sing,
Of Man! the cursed and mortal,
Who died more than he lived.
September 5th - Practice
When have I last lifted a sword for practice instead of battle? While the wizards held a final meeting to make sure their tactics were in order (they are not, but what is that to me?), Sorak persuaded me to put down my journal and take a few cuts in the yard. We grabbed blunted longswords, wooden shields, and donned leather armour. Some Bobs gathered round to watch the spectacle of two Elves in a friendly duel. I suppose he had good reason for it, since he fights so often in complete darkness, but the crowd thought it a tremendous stunt when Sorak also donned a blindfold. “Come on Fjord, don't you want to learn a new skill? You fight beside me, and you're going to need it.”
“When do I ever fight beside you, anyhow? You're usually flying through the air or prancing around with the wizards.” I took an easy swing at his body and he spun away, slashing at me from the side, but I lifted my shield in the nick of time.
“Oh ho! So that's your problem, is it? Feeling left out?” He lunged at me, attempting to spear my ribs, but I slapped his sword aside and dodged behind him. For a moment's whisper, he didn't know where I was and I kicked him in the back. He staggered forward a few steps but I didn't get a chance for another shove. Again he spun away and this time came at me full tilt. I raised my shield to block the swing I thought was coming, but instead he slammed his shoulder into me and knocked me to the ground.
“Bloody Swede! Don't you forget who's stronger here! We're supposed to be working on swordsmanship” I rolled away and came to my feet in time to greet his rain of blows. He knocked the sword out of my hand and mercilessly pounded on my armour and shield until I again fell down and suddenly his sword was at my throat.
“I guess I win the first round.” Some of the Bob's hooted and cheered. Still blindfolded, he kicked my sword in the air with his boot, sheathed his own and caught mine, all in one fluid motion. I gathered myself up and he handed me my sword hilt first. Feeling slightly humiliated, I backed off to collect myself. Sorak took off his blindfold and looked at me earnestly.
“Honestly though, I know how it must seem. You look at me as some pawn of these magic makers, following their orders as blindly as I often fight. I know you judge me.”
“It isn't the magic that bothers me, my cousin, nor do I judge you any more harshly than I judge myself. It is simply that these young mortals are rash in their decisions. For a group that has been through so much death and bloodshed in so short a time, there seems to be no perspective, no reflection on our purpose here. A wizard, a druid, a bard and a Half-orc are right now locked in a room, as you said, moving us around on a map as if we were pawns. Yet, their ages put together don't add to even one of us.”
“It is their war, Fjord.”
“Then why are we here?”
“Well, I am here to bring misery and death to the Norse. I thought we at least agreed on that.”
“We did, Sorak, we did. Gods know, I have even more reason to hate the Norse than you do, but I grow weary of our methods.”
“Well, you did die a few days ago. That can't be a pleasant experience for an Elf. Perhaps you need a break.”
“Perhaps I do.”
“But remember this, my Scandinavian kin, I am no pawn. Every order I have ever received was interpreted as a suggestion. I am my own Elf.”
We fought the next round without the blindfold or the tension. He was stronger; I was quicker. His experience was barely matched by my fencing skills. The Bobs were treated to a fine dance as we slashed and parried and whirled, and although I managed to poke him a few times with subtle feints and counters, he slowly wore me down. In battle, it wouldn't have taken him long at all. Not to mention that his sword would have us dueling in a sphere of darkness.
Perhaps I should learn blind-fighting.
September 5th - Dragon Slaying
My heart just wasn't in it. It was everything I look for in a mission: a worthy foe, excellent coordination, a specific and daring objective, and gods yes, an exit strategy that we all agreed upon. Even Kheops the Paladin, he whom we often had to drag out of the temple (unconscious or otherwise), was satisfied with just the dragon. And what a dragon it was! An elder white with breath as cold as the Scandinavian dawn and a tail that could snap a troll in two. It was almost beautiful. The tracers of light from Euranna's swings inscribed a composition of bravado and glory in the crisp midnight, punctuated with roars of agony from the great lizard as the blade bit into the neck.
I even bring home a souvenir – enough hide to fashion a new suit of beautiful white scale to match the well-worn black. Sorak grinned at me like a madman as he carved out his own piece. “It's better quality than the black, you know. If those fucking Norse think they can't lay a finger on me now, just wait until they meet me wearing this!” Good ol' Sorak, priorities always in the right place.
Speaking of madmen, Helmut swaggered up to me as we prepared to leave, laughing at some private jest with his sword (which, he claims, talks to him in a voice that only he can hear) “Hey Fjord, wanna lick my sword clean? HAR!” But as I stated, my heart wasn't in it. The usual snide comebacks weren't forthcoming, and I didn't feel like playing along by actually having a taste of the blood. Instead, I ignored him, and he was soon distracted by an opportunity to make offensive gestures toward Kella. “Maybe she'd like to lick my sword, eh? Or she might if her face wasn't buried between Cedrica's legs all the time. HAR!”
The thrill of victory eluded me. I had hoped that rushing back into battle would be therapeutic after my death at the hands of that vile lich. The humiliation of dying with nary a scratch on me was a chilling reminder that each moment was heavy with mortality. Why would the gods give any individual the power to kill without contact? A wave of a hand, a few dark mutterings and Fjord falls lifeless to the earth. What prevents this from happening again? They tell me they got him in the end, that the battle was a great victory. It consoles me not at all. And slaying this dragon wasn't slaying my inner demons.
It won't be long before the real battle begins. Time to put these thoughts aside. Soon I can rest, but for now, the daily bloodbath continues.
Memories of the Temple
I remember the trolls bleeding bile and burning,
I remember the smoke rolling through the deep,
choking out the darkness, challenging vitality.
I remember the window into heaven,
the nonchalance of those semi-deities,
the break from the norm of slaughter and downward traversing.
The final curtain, the human gods and their fantastical struggle,
the wonder in Kheops' eyes. In my century of life, can I say I have seen stranger?
I remember it all, except ...
Why did I come in the first place?
I remember the smoke rolling through the deep,
choking out the darkness, challenging vitality.
I remember the window into heaven,
the nonchalance of those semi-deities,
the break from the norm of slaughter and downward traversing.
The final curtain, the human gods and their fantastical struggle,
the wonder in Kheops' eyes. In my century of life, can I say I have seen stranger?
I remember it all, except ...
Why did I come in the first place?
September 3rd - Resurrection
The giant had fallen, in which I had some small part. With no other foe to challenge me in melee, I sheathed my sword and pulled out my bow, intent on snagging earthward some vain enemy who had managed to kiss the sky. Unscathed, unnerved, unwavering, I bent the bow and ...
died.
And suddenly I was alive and well and back in Sweden. There was Tyr'n observing me with his cool, dispassionate eyes, his hands hidden within the folds of his robe. Another priest of his order (a master, I discover later, and the one responsible for bringing me back) exhaled in relief, nodded at Tyr'n and excused himself.
This was no house of Elrond, full of life and song, but a cave of surgical purpose, dark and dreary, clean yet saturated with the stench of death. There was light, but it seemed to draw the shadows in rather than cast them away. I had never seen Tyr'n look so comfortable as he didhere. We were both in Sweden, but only one of us was truly home.
"You passed away, but have now returned. Rise, there is work to do." I never expected Tyr'n to smile, and he didn't, but can a Elvish Necromancer make a joke?
And then I remember seeing Prindle drop lifeless to the ground in much the same fashion as I must have. "How is our little cousin?"
"He has gone wherever Pixies go when a Lich would see him dead." Poor, sweet, inane Prindle. He had nothing to trade for life, like my own potion of longevity.
"And so it was the Lich after all?"
"Of course. A powerful spell. You should consider yourself honoured to fall to such a worthy foe."
By now I'd gotten off the bed and I was reaching for my gear. "All wizards are cowards. I have looked every being I have killed in the eye."
Tyr'n nodded and this time he did smile. "So have I. But some I have had to ... animate after the fact in order to accomplish the task."
I intend to work out my frustration on Norse armies.
died.
And suddenly I was alive and well and back in Sweden. There was Tyr'n observing me with his cool, dispassionate eyes, his hands hidden within the folds of his robe. Another priest of his order (a master, I discover later, and the one responsible for bringing me back) exhaled in relief, nodded at Tyr'n and excused himself.
This was no house of Elrond, full of life and song, but a cave of surgical purpose, dark and dreary, clean yet saturated with the stench of death. There was light, but it seemed to draw the shadows in rather than cast them away. I had never seen Tyr'n look so comfortable as he didhere. We were both in Sweden, but only one of us was truly home.
"You passed away, but have now returned. Rise, there is work to do." I never expected Tyr'n to smile, and he didn't, but can a Elvish Necromancer make a joke?
And then I remember seeing Prindle drop lifeless to the ground in much the same fashion as I must have. "How is our little cousin?"
"He has gone wherever Pixies go when a Lich would see him dead." Poor, sweet, inane Prindle. He had nothing to trade for life, like my own potion of longevity.
"And so it was the Lich after all?"
"Of course. A powerful spell. You should consider yourself honoured to fall to such a worthy foe."
By now I'd gotten off the bed and I was reaching for my gear. "All wizards are cowards. I have looked every being I have killed in the eye."
Tyr'n nodded and this time he did smile. "So have I. But some I have had to ... animate after the fact in order to accomplish the task."
I intend to work out my frustration on Norse armies.
Longsword
You North have found the right of it,
The sword must needs be long,
But ere you hammered your first iron flat,
We had put our great steel into song.
My favourite, Anor, that fell from the sun,
Tempered by Tethrin Veralde',
Wielded to end a great darkness that gripped
Our shores and our skies and our vals.
The sword must needs be long,
But ere you hammered your first iron flat,
We had put our great steel into song.
My favourite, Anor, that fell from the sun,
Tempered by Tethrin Veralde',
Wielded to end a great darkness that gripped
Our shores and our skies and our vals.
A Song for the Lich
Can that which is dead die again?
Undead is different you say?
Living or no, bone shall eat steel,
Euranna! I'll sing as I swing.
Undead is different you say?
Living or no, bone shall eat steel,
Euranna! I'll sing as I swing.
September 1st - Prindle Day
A voice in the dark: "Let today be known as Prindle Day!" Today I donned my new Elvish chain. A nice fit. Nice and free after months in the dragon scale. There was this tree-climbing "incident" where it came in handy. Gods know I would still be on the ground being eaten, left for dead by my party, if I had been unable to climb.
Damned wolves. What have they left in my blood? And that nerdy gnome and his fortress cube; of all the times to be experimenting! These wizards and priests will be the death of me - our side or theirs, it seems to make no difference.
Damned wolves. What have they left in my blood? And that nerdy gnome and his fortress cube; of all the times to be experimenting! These wizards and priests will be the death of me - our side or theirs, it seems to make no difference.
August 27th - Ashes
So the Temple of Elemental Evil has burned for its sins. Now what comes? A Norse army, intent on stamping out yet another wildfire, some undead monster with bagpipes (sigh), perhaps a dragon as well. Does this land not know rest? Would that I could retire long enough to at least make a new bow.
Still, I long for battle beneath open skies after so long in the dungeon. I feel as though I have been through the forge, folded and hammered into something sharper, stronger and greater than I once was. Now is the time of Fjord! May Odin and all the rest take pity on these vile raiders. I will be rid of them long before I have become a god myself. Now, which rings to wear into battle ...
Still, I long for battle beneath open skies after so long in the dungeon. I feel as though I have been through the forge, folded and hammered into something sharper, stronger and greater than I once was. Now is the time of Fjord! May Odin and all the rest take pity on these vile raiders. I will be rid of them long before I have become a god myself. Now, which rings to wear into battle ...
Ring of Free Action
No wizard can hold me, beguile, defeat me,
No priest can call heaven or hell down upon me,
No warrior save one could press an attack,
And hope to gain still standing and hale.
A ring, one of many, so subtle and great,
Is but a part of my raiment of refuge,
The greatest of which can never be parted,
The blood of an Elf, the undying flesh.
No priest can call heaven or hell down upon me,
No warrior save one could press an attack,
And hope to gain still standing and hale.
A ring, one of many, so subtle and great,
Is but a part of my raiment of refuge,
The greatest of which can never be parted,
The blood of an Elf, the undying flesh.
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