The Lost Journals

Fiction about Ravenloft or Gothic Earth
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High Priest Mikhal
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Post by High Priest Mikhal »

(Excerpts from the journals of Alexander Dreamfire, Mordentshire, Mordent, Aug. 14, 726 BC)
I can't keep lying to others about my feelings, nor can I continue to lie to myself. The simple truth is I enjoy the lifestyle that I saw. For decades I tried to say I didn't, to ignore the most basic aspects of my personality and character. Put simply, I'm a sensualist at heart. So long as things are kept, as a past lover put it, "safe, sane, and consenual," there's nothing wrong with such things on the grand moral scale. In admitting this I've felt a pressure lift from my chest and mind. It's really too bad most of society in the Core doesn't feel the same. There are numerous physical and even psychological benefits to open, healthy sexuality.

This is all ancillary to a question that's been bugging me since I left rotten Dementlieu behind, though. Where would those people get crimson jelly toxin? My inquiries have turned up the name of a chymist in Lamordia who was selling the stuff. I use the past tense because his subject died and the supply has since been exhausted. The poor man was unaware of the true value of what he'd created and sold his stock to a seedy merchant for the paltry sum of five gold pieces. He later learned the merchant sold it for as much as thirty platinum pieces for a vial containing one ounce, making an obscene profit while he struggles to pay his rent. For a little extra money I learned where he acquired his original specimen: Tepest.

While the crimson jelly can survive anywhere there's sufficient food (which bars deserts of all temperatures) it seems to be native only to areas with high ambient magic. This would lend credence to the theory that Tepest is a country where magic runs rampant when you know what to look for. The locals, I've heard, are some of the most ignorant and superstitious in the entire Core and view magic not wielded by priests as coming from faeries or leading to utter spiritual corruption. These views aren't unique. Most of the domains in this world seem to have an inherent distrust of all things supernatural. But the Tepestani in particular seem to believe themselves living under siege by magical forces. To date they remain cowed and more than a little timid, but that could change.

I don't know as much about this world as I would like. But I do know that there is a rhyme and reason for everything--even if it's not obvious. If the Tepestani believe themselves to be under siege by magical forces then I'd be surprised not to find a kernel of truth to it. I'd like to travel there and at least see if I can't find other crimson jellies lurking in the forests. What I'll do if I find one I can't really say. Maybe I just need to confirm that I'm not going insane and imagining this whole toxin thing. Or maybe I want to kill all the jellies I find. I just don't know anymore.

But until I do settle this thing I won't be able to let go. Goddess help me.
(End transcript)
"Money is the root of all evil...I think I need more money."
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High Priest Mikhal
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Post by High Priest Mikhal »

(Excerpts from the journals of Alexander Dreamfire, Mordentshire, Mordent, Oct. 2, 726 BC)
The last six weeks are a blur. I remember generalities but not specifics. All I can remember in detail is the face of that wizard who helped create the body Maxine now inhabits. Among the defenses against burglary and other crimes in my home are psychic traps, similar to magic ones but these can't be blocked by resistance to magic. That caught the intruder that tried to break in off their guard. In a rush to leave they left behind a bit of blood on the broken window. Attempts to use the item to trace my target failed, so I took another approach. The blood made it possible for me to see an image of who it came from: long, lustrous jet black hair, ivory skin, violet eyes, and a body stocking with a pronounced crescent moon and stars design.

Before my disastrous mission into the Abyss I spent quite a bit of time in the planar metropolis of Union. Among the more "colorful" characters that I heard about was a woman of either human or elven lineage that was also a powerful arch-mage: Serena Star. Unlike some, it wasn't just her power but also her strange fascination with designs using the moon and stars that kept her on people's lips. Magic and madness do not mix well. It was well-known even then that she was more fickle than the fey. One moment she'd cast a wish for you for nothing, another she might turn you into a pile of goo just because "she felt like it." Paladins and others who encountered her said her soul was free of evil, but was still as chaotic as the slaadi of Limbo. To call her insane would be misleading; she's guided by her whims, doing things not because she has to or because it advances a cause but because that's what she feels like doing. That is true chaos.

She's apparently also playful. I got a letter not a day after the incident that read, "Take good care of her." Signed as "S.S." While I doubt this is the last I've seen of her, at least for now she's content to leave Maxine alone. That's all I care about.

Maxine herself has finally admitted that her "desires" are raging out of control, threatening her status as a monk. Despite self-control exercises I showed her, she's returned to Paridon to train in the Divinity of Mankind's dojo once more. The time apart will also help us assess if our feelings are real or just hormones. I've already received and sent a letter to her. She's doing well, though now she uses an assumed name because the body she inhabits is not the one she was born with. The strict training and regimentation seems to have straightened her out a bit. When she feels she's learned all she can she'll return on her own. It is her life and I can only guide her.

As for my own obsessive need, I've found a reason to travel to Tepest. As I received reports from the scouts I learned of a plague ravaging several villages. Victims are covered by pox and cysts that often burst and ooze noxious pus and infectious blood. Those who survive are scarred for life in painful ways, while the dead a little better off. Shortly after death the skin shrivels and the whole body purges itself of fluids, mummifying in mere minutes. No doubt the resulting mess from the purging also spreads the agent of infection to anyone who tries to clean it up. The locals claim it's a curse from the fey. But I'm more of a mind to think it's the work of some vile sorcerer. The mummification sounds like mummy rot, or a variant of it created by magic. Further is an unverified claim that "the most beautiful in the villages" were the first to become sick and die.

One last note. Attempts at burning these mummified bodies proved to be fruitless. Even when covered in pitch and dry peat or set atop a bonfire the corpses don't burn, they just char like stone. Even stranger is that a few have actually disappeared or been dug up from their graves. Evidence of the local goblins doing the desecrations has surfaced in the form of crude wooden shovels left behind and of scraps leather-like material with pictographic instructions on them. Each scrap reeks of the goblins' unique foulness.

Goblins usually have no reason to go to such dangerous lengths. But I can think of a creature that would delight in the sickness and the end results, and who would have the magical skill and enough hate to do it.
(End transcript)
"Money is the root of all evil...I think I need more money."
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High Priest Mikhal
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Post by High Priest Mikhal »

(Excerpts from the journals of Alexander Dreamfire, Viktal, Tepest, Oct. 23, 726 BC)
Note to self: next time I travel east, avoid Markovia and G'Henna at all costs. Up until now I'd always used northern or southern paths through Darkon or Barovia. It's a long way to go, but it's not as perilous. Between half-man half-animal things in Markovia and those loony Zhakatan priests I've lost ten days of time. No wonder no one has really tried to go after Markovia's resources; the land is just too wild to be profitable. And as for G'Henna, I'm avoiding those fanatics out of principle. What kind of a god demands you starve yourself to death? Besides which I've never even heard of this Zhakata before. At least I've heard of Belenus and the others of the Celtic Pantheon--as they call themselves. From what I can tell they remain more or less the same as on other worlds, cultural variations aside.

Upon entering the domain I was hit by an overwhelming feeling that there was something just plain wrong with my surroundings. Maybe it was the twisted, gnarly trees that almosted look hungry. Or the sight of dried goblin husks hanging in giant spider webs. Or it could have been the eyes of the cat people--paka--trying unsucessfully to watch me unseen. When I turned the tables by disappearing into a copse of shadows I waited and watched as they searched for me in vain. I've never heard their peculiar language before, but I could tell what they were saying all the same. I was being followed on the orders of "the Mistress." In my research I'd come across anecdotes of the paka working for annis hags. So a hag had me in her sights? I guess the rumors were true. Tepest was home to at least one hag, and possibly many more. It would fit; the entire place feels like it's out of some bad fairy tale.

I managed to lose the cat people and continued on, avoiding the main roads for fear of running into the locals. I'd planned on coming up with some sort of a cover during my travels. But then I was too busy just trying to survive a series of man-animal attacks and zealots who wanted to sacrifice me to a god that might not even exist. As it was I had to think of one on the fly if I met someone. If I could get away without using any of my supernatural powers I might get out alive. The locals were not too tolerant of "witches," a term that was thrown around irresponsibly. Any power not originating from clerics of the native gods was thought to be "witchcraft." The lucky ones got quick deaths.

As the sun began setting I decided to find some place to make camp. Not that I was capable of rest. My skin has crawled ever since I arrived and I feel like the world around me is...I can't explain it. Things are just wrong. I kick a rock and it cracks open and bleeds, rain goes up into the clouds, and I saw squirrels gnawing on a wolf carcass. It's like every law of nature has been completely turned upside down. I've heard that powerful hags can corrupt the world around them, but this is far beyond anything I could have expected. It's more like the entire domain is warped by some great corruption. Granted it's not everywhere that these odd occurrences happen, but they're far more common here than in any other place in this world.

Despite my fears I wasn't disturbed that first night. Waking up the next morning I was greeted by a scream of terror just as I stepped outside my tent to stretch. It was still dark out, so I loosed an aura of holy light to act as a beacon--if there was trouble, I wanted it to come to me. Following the sounds I came into a clearing where two Tepestani teens were being attacked by some sort of malformed wolf. Bony ridges had grown over the beast's right eye, while it's left was enlarged and pus-yellow with thick red veins. It had attacked the boy, who lay unconscious and was still bleeding. The girl was unharmed, but she was clearly the next target. I just acted, firing mind arrows at the creature. It was dead after the first, but in my panic I nearly obliterated the carcass as well.

The girl, seeing me in golden chainmail and surrounded by a halo of bright light, dropped to her knees and sobbed in thanks to Belenus--a god of the sun and light. She thought I was a representative or avatar of the deity. All I could think at the time was how bare I felt; normally I wear a layer of clothes over my armor to conceal it. It took me a few seconds to realize what I must have looked like. Even more so when I used my powers to heal the boy's wounds and revive him. His reaction was more a show of fear than reverence.

A small number of villagers, led by apriest, appeared on the road. Now the cat was really out of the bag. The priest, a young man just ordained the high priest of Belenus, named Wyan, knelt before me in reverence and began to offer thanks to me and the gods. It looked like I would be impersonating some god's avatar during my stay. Gods forgive me, but this really is the best way for me to gain the people's trust. Especially given their insular nature and rather ignorant culture.

(Excerpts from the journals of Alexander Dreamfire, Viktal, Tepest, Oct. 24, 726 BC)
Wyan has offered to shelter me in his home during my stay "among the mortals." He doesn't seem to think my need for things like food and sleep to be odd. In fact I get the feeling he finds such reassuring. I wasn't sure why until last night when I heard the Tepestani creation stories. According to the bard I'm more "divine" than many others, but I am still one of Summer's Children and thus trustworthy. I share the same needs, fears, and longings they do. But just to be safe they did test me using what they called a "witch pin." I'd heard of such items, minor enchanted pins used to test for magical ability. Given all mine are psionic in nature it pricked my finger when it failed to detect anything.

By morning word of my presence had spread among the locals and likely beyond. I wouldn't be surprised if pilgrims begin appearing in the next few days, hoping for a miracle or some other "divine intervention." My first duty was to heal the sick, of which there were few in Viktal proper. It seems that the plague is in a decline, though the locals say that it's done so before and returned again. They blame "the fey," faeries and spirits of nature. I blame hags for brewing a vile disease and unleashing it upon the innocent people of Tepest.

My first real clue that this was just a mutated disease came from my time with the sick. In each case they were infected with a virus very similar to that of smallpox, though mutated by magic into something far worse. Curing them wasn't difficult, but if this was truly as bad as I'd heard then a mundane cure would be needed to stop it. Medicine is non-existent in this place beyond magic and the ludicrous theories of "humors" and astrological influences. I'd have to phrase any cure in terms they will find believable.

On a final note, I did notice a strange pattern: woodcutters harvesting a unique local species of pine were the least likely to fall sick and survived without much scarring when they did. Right now I have a bit of pus from a victim in a glass tube, along with the oils of said pine. The tree itself oozes stick sap and I was able to gain quite a bit just from one branch by grinding it up. If there is a link between these men's resistance and this tree this will hopefully show it. Going by the accounts of locals they'd tried a number of other remedies, from holy water to bizarre herbal draughts to soaking the infected in barrels filled with simple but strong liquor. None of it worked. Worse, many times those treating them were infected as well.

If this tree's oils do fight the virus, why? What's so special about it? Is it a natural remedy or something related to the magical tampering?
(End transcript)
"Money is the root of all evil...I think I need more money."
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High Priest Mikhal
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Post by High Priest Mikhal »

(Excerpts from the journals of Alexander Dreamfire, Wytchwood, Tepest, Oct. 23, 726 BC)
I must have been more exhausted than I thought, because I woke up in the middle of the night and found I'd fallen asleep at the table I was using. Going by my pocket watch it was around two in the morning. Then again there's no such thing as standardized time in the Core, so it's a moot point. When I looked at the tube I noticed the pus had turned from the yellow it came as to a sickly brown. Psionic scans revealed the disease was dead--in fact, it had been dead for several hours. If I had to hazard a time, it would have been mere seconds after introducing the sap and oil from the pine. Without anyone noticing I decided to conduct a little experiment. I mixed the oil into a mug of water and began to administer drops of it into the open mouths of the infected as they slept.

After returning for a couple more hours sleep I checked on my test subjects. Each one was in complete remission; broken fevers, cysts and pox turning brown and fading, and some had regained their lucidity. It's a miracle! That's all I can describe it as. The villagers, once told of the cure, rejoiced and began to chop up and grind logs from those pines they had harvested. Considering how potent it is even in water, this batch should be able to halt the plague dead in its tracks. To say that Wyan and the others are overjoyed would be a gross understatement; "healer," "savior," "hero," those are just some of the things they're calling me. But the battle has only just begun. Now that the infected can be helped, the next step of my grisly investigation begins. I have to investigate the bodies of those who died to find out more about the after effects.

There was one body left untouched by the goblins' thievery. It looked like a man, albeit twisted into a grotesque pattern with limbs curved and broken into a pretzel-like design. His flesh had been petrified like that of a tree turned to stone. It was truly bizarre to look upon, but even more so was when I cut into the body, having to use Repose just to get past the outermost layer of skin. While the outer skin is almost like granite, the insides remain entirely organic and--to quote a local--"fresh." The organs were still warm with body heat and no decay had set in whatsoever. This isn't how a flesh to stone spell works. At least not any I've ever seen before. If a person were to care to, they could harvest the bones and organs and use a simple mending spell to repair any openings made. It's a necromancer's dream and one of my nightmares.

Wyan immediately suspected "diabolical fey," but this is definitely not the work of faeries. Why go to all this trouble, to scar the survivors and then desecrate the dead? What fey would go to such lengths? No, this is the work of something far more hateful, more malicious and meticulous. This is hag magic at some of its most perverse.

Once whatever crone or crones cooked up this idea learn of its failure the Tepestani will be in danger. Hags are not known for taking defeat well. To prevent this I've had to gather the accounts of where it first started and see if I can't find a commonality. The only thing that the initial outbreaks have in common is they border the Wytchwood. I started out for there a lot later in the day than I'd have hoped. After the day's events I'm too tired to continue searching past dusk. Given where I am, and the number of malformed creatures I've seen, I've made my camp hidden using psionics and alchemical unguents that obscure smell--really just charcoal. From where I am I can see out for quite a distance, but nothing can see, hear, or smell me. It's a hunter's blind any ranger would be proud of.

(Excerpts from the journals of Alexander Dreamfire, Wytchwood, Tepest, Oct. 24, 726 BC)
I was awoken in the middle of the night by screams and curses. Outside of my blind I saw firelight in the distance and heard a language with very similar words to that of the ogres. Then I heard bones crack and goblins scream. Whoever it was seemed to be venting their anger on the goblins in a violent way. Finally I had to leave my blind just because of curiosity.

In a clearing strewn with humanoid bones I saw a greenhag, covered in pox that oozed yellow over her green skin. She was screaming at the top of her lungs and savaging a goblin's corpse with her hands. Through those ungodly howls I could make out, "my plan failed!" She kept saying it over and over and cursing in ways that would make a fiend blush. This was likely the hag that spread the disease and she was throwing a tantrum over having her plans thwarted. Off in the distance I saw some of the petrified corpses, half of which were cracked open and emptied of all contents.

I was about to unleash a volley of mind arrows charged with psychic strikes when I heard two other voices coming from the shack. An annis and a sea hag came out, yelling at her to stop making such a racket. The familiarity between the three seemed to indicate they were related and I picked out the named Laveeda, Leticia, and Lorinda or something along those lines. Their accents were thick and the distance between us was too great to hear everything. They were a covey, that much I could tell, and the greenhag seemed to be the only one who cared about the disease. The other two derided the idea using language I won't repeat. They even laughed at her and took a sadistic sort of joy in how she failed.

At this point I left, content that the creator of the plague wouldn't be trying to retaliate. Are these three the true rulers of Tepest? If so they're a rather pathetic bunch. The people of this land have more to fear from each other than they do these three. But I'm unsatisfied by this turn of events. I never found out why pine oil would stop the disease. Perhaps the land itself conspires to upset plots any of them take, denying them the one thing they want most: revenge.

As I made my way back to my campsite I came across the true goal of my visit. In the darkness a crimson jelly sat, quivering in content as it ate a rotten log. All at once the emotions I had felt came storming back and I was holding my mind blade ready to cut this thing down. But as I watched it I realized it wasn't responsible for what happened to me all those years ago. What nefarious plots could a thing no more intelligent than a trained dog undertake? What sort of malice could it feel? None. It was just a tool.

Old emotional scars have been opened anew, and for an hour I knelt on both knees and just wept. What good is it to kill something that couldn't be held responsible? The ones who tortured me, who stole away my innocence and nearly destroyed my soul, they are all beyond my reach. I will never know the closure of seeing them punished and I realize that now. I will head north to Darkon in the morning and head southwest back to Mordent. In the time it will take to get back I can face some memories I'd rather not. To delve into my own mind and relive these memories...it could drive me insane. Or it could help me heal even further.

My outlook has been and will be altered even further by this. I wonder how this is going to affect my relationship with my Mordentish peers? I'm already seen as fairly scandalous by them for my views on almost everything. This might put me across a fine line.
(End transcript)
"Money is the root of all evil...I think I need more money."
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High Priest Mikhal
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Location: It's dark and I hear laughing.

Post by High Priest Mikhal »

(Excerpts from the journals of Alexander Dreamfire, Tempe Falls, Darkon, Nov. 9, 726 BC)
I've finally arrived at Tempe Falls and chartered a coach west to the Vuchar River where I can travel quickly to Mordentshire. Even if I do get seasick on a tiny river boat, I'd sooner be sick to my stomach than have to deal with G'Henna or Markovia again. Or what happened to me just the other day.

I have to write this down, if only to get it off my chest. After my visit to the cottage in Wytchwood I tried going north. Soon I was lost in a fog bank and unable to see up from down. In my panic I began to run toward what I thought was the edge of the bank. My armor can fly at will, so I wasn't concerned about falling off or into anything. I just wanted out!

What I didn't count on was running into something--that something being a twisted stone spire. I slammed into it and fell backward on my back. For a moment I was too dazed to get back up, but the appearance of a sickly purple bolt of lightning in the sky did wonders to get me going again. With tenths of a second to spare I rolled away from its strike. I began to take in the blasted, desolate rock that made up the landscape. A few lichens were the only plant life around and the stones themselves swirled and curved in unnatural formations. Each was smooth as river stone and felt as if it pulsed under my touch. I knew where I was; I didn't want to believe it but I couldn't deny it.

That's when something--a piercing, crushing weight--hit my mind. I was able to resist but it had me on edge. Though I couldn't see them, I could almost smell the disgusting mucous all over their skin and feel the icy touch of their four fingers and tentacles. Illithids. This had to be Bluetspur and I was at the center of enemy territory. No one has been able to fully explain why these creatures hate my people so much. The Gith races they seem content to turn against each other, but ever since the Nautiloids first appeared all those millennia ago they've gone out of their way to destroy us. No quarter, no mercy, just utter hatred and a desire to annihilate my kind.

The creatures were using psionic invisibility, but my crystal eye could see them anyway. So when I unleashed a mind arrow at a large, six-tentacled specimen it caught them off-guard. The ulitharid had a hole in its chest the size of my head and bled out oily green-black ichor when it fell to the ground. At that point the others began to swarm me. When each got close enough I used my mind blade, concentrating not on destroying them but cutting off their face tentacles. Images of them using those things to tear off the top of my skull and extract my brain filled my mind and I was determined not to let that happen.

Before I knew what was going on I stood around numerous dead illithids, covered in their stinking blood and panting from exhaustion. The bodies, if that's what they were, had been savaged to the point of being little more than fleshy pulp. But I couldn't take it for long. The sights and smell had me retching even after there was nothing left to come up.

Once I was back in control of myself I looked around, reaching out with all my senses to find anymore attackers. That's when I felt this odd tingle in my mind. That tingle slowly turned to a throb and then a cold feeling of utter hatred. I was sensing the presence of the mind flayers. None came out to attack me, but I knew they were close. Every time I went for one of the groups they would flee beyond my newfound sense. None dared to respond to my shouts for them to come out. They were observing this new and highly dangerous enemy--me.

Then it hit me. The shock of what I'd done, what I'd literally become. As a psionicist I'd always heard of illithid slayers and shuddered to think of the raw hate needed to join the ranks of their numbers. And now I had become one of them. My body was covered in illithid blood and guts, my mind blade stained from where I had chopped up my foes like vegetables, and still I had only one desire: kill every mind flayer I could find. My rationality couldn't handle this epiphany and I ran screaming into the Mists.

I don't know how long I ran, or how far. Just that when I finally stopped I was at the bank of a river. Without hesitation I plunged in, still wearing all my armor and equipment. The icy cold fluid helped clear my mind and as I crawled out I noticed most of the viscera had washed away. There were a few places on my body and gear alike that would need strong soap and a scrubbing--or psionic power--to wash clean, but for the most part I had successfully washed away the physical evidence of what I'd done.

Yet the stains on my mind won't be so easily removed. I had peered into a part of my subconscious no one should access and drawn on power that taps into the darkest emotions. Since then I've been able to better make sense of what happened and of the path I've started down. The revulsion I feel for the undead cannot compare to what I feel for the illithids now. It terrifies me to think I'm capable of such things. But what's done is done. I can't take back my actions or un-become what I have. These new abilities will probably be necessary. Whatever being is trapped in Bluetspurt will not take what happened lightly.

For now I want only to get back to my mansion outside Mordentshire and relax. Maybe go on a few hunts with Rudolph again. Those are a picnic compared to what I've just gone through.
(End transcript)
"Money is the root of all evil...I think I need more money."
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High Priest Mikhal
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Post by High Priest Mikhal »

(Excerpts from the journals of Alexander Dreamfire, Mordentshire, Mordent, Dec. 21, 726 BC)
Memories of what I did in Bluetspur still haunt me. At times I think I smell that rotten egg-carrion aroma of illithid blood and I go on alert. But each day the pain is less and I find it easier to confront myself. I no longer get sick to my stomach when I see myself in the mirror, nor do I try to justify to myself what I did. I slaughtered foes that would have killed me just for being what I am. The horror got to me and I lost control. The narcissistic fantasy that I'm somehow above such fears is still quite strong. I'll have to work on dispelling that.

On another note the Archer Trading Company has finally begun work on a project I've wanted to do for years. All the marshes and bogs around the town of Mordentshire possess a wealth of bog iron, red clay, and peat. All of which are in high demand across the Core and especially so here in Mordent. The only problem has been getting the locals to work in the area even after it's been drained (thanks to some dust of dryness that Ren created). I've personally surveyed each area and assured them they're not haunted. It finally took an anchorite to confirm what I told them to get things going. So far, so good.

Rudolph has been rather insistent I accompany him on a trip to Valachan. He seems quite interested in the White Fever and is convinced it's from vampire feeding. While I haven't seen the White Fever myself, everything about it does suggest vampiric feeding. What doesn't make sense to me is that the victims usually recover to full health without magical aid. Most vampire attacks require a cleric to intervene for the victims to recover; is it possible these beings have found a way of lessening the damage done and thus preserving their "feed stock?" It's so obvious I'm not surprised no one has encountered it before. Most vampires probably don't know the reality. The simplest things...

(Excerpts from the journals of Alexander Dreamfire, Harmonia, Kartakass, Jan. 19, 727 BC)
Investigations into Valachani White Fever have been frustrating to say the least. Most locals seem oddly defensive about it. Those afflicted by this odd disease don't register as infected with any sort of disease. In fact the symptoms are exactly like those of anemia. Stranger still is the fact that the disease is widespread but not terribly severe in most cases. It's more like each person has had only a small bit of blood drained. If this is a case of vampiric feeding, then we've discovered another epidemic: those bitten by most vampires are charmed by them and remain under their sway for a time.

My suspicions were confirmed, or at least supported, by the fact that most of the folks we interviewed seemed more open to discuss things when I was carrying an adamantine longstaff--one of the gifts I received from the Celestial Hebdomad before voluntarily imprisoning myself here. All I know is "it will reveal its true powers only after shedding blood, sweat, and tears for the sake of good." Frankly I've never used it before; I'm not that good at staff fighting and it's never detected as anything special. Actually it was a run-in with a local that brought out its power. As Rudolph, myself, and a young woman named Claudia, were interviewing survivors of White Fever we encountered a rather brash young man who insisted he had vital information. One of us just had to beat him in a duel.

Being the group's warrior I was nominated. I couldn't use my mind blade or psionic powers lest I alienate people as "an untrustworthy arcanist," to quote a cleric of Yutow. Plus this was a "bloodless duel," so no blades and thus Repose was right out. The staff was the only other weapon I had and thus I was forced to use it.

The battle went on for well over thirty minutes. This man, Lial, was one of the best with his chosen weapon. Every time it seemed that I might land a blow or disarm him he turned the tables on me. Not being versed in how to actually use this large weapon I couldn't really pull off any maneuvers with it. Lial, on the other hand, was feinting me at every turn and nearly disarmed me over a dozen times. In the end it was only stupid luck that I won. Lial blundered a lunge at me and I was able to land two solid blows to his stomach and back.

I don't think he was expecting a hit to be that painful. He yielded as soon as he could at that point. By then my body was dripping with sweat and the staff felt slippery in my hands as a result. That's when I first realized I was feeling strangely tranquil and confident. The staff had begun to emit a hallow effect and it hasn't faded since. It reveals this power when my sweat comes in contact with it? That would fit with Domiel's wry sense of humor. Plus this was when I was pursuing the cause of good; Lial's information proved vital and entirely accurate, informing Rudolph and I of facts neither of us were too sure about.

Lial had been a guard for Castle Pantara and a Black Leopard. In fact he was a werepanther, though not of the same stripe as most. When he first transformed he remained well aware of what was happening and of a tug in his mind. Somehow he resisted whatever it was that tried to pull him into darkness and retained his freedom--and his moral compass. Unlike his fellows he wasn't a mindless drone to Baron von Kharkov and took in everything he could about the Baron and the Black Leopards before he was discovered and nearly killed by the other Leopards.

Baron Urik von Kharkov is a nosferatu--a vampire that draws power from the moon and can even walk about in sunlight without harm. It was he and his spawn that were the cause of White Fever--he had indeed found a way to feed without inflicting permanent harm. Worse still is that the bite victims remain charmed, no matter how little is drained. Von Kharkov has used this fact by draining only a little bit from up to eight different victims each night, creating a network of unwitting spies who are loyal to their ruler because of his powers.

Since hallow can suppress the effects of an enchantment, those who were in its vicinity were more talkative about what was going on. It was at this point that a pair of Black Leopards approached us--well, me. I was to leave Valachan immediately for face execution "for stirring up seditious activities and causing general mayhem." That they didn't arrest me then and there--much less kill me--said something was off. Why not just have a mock trial and behead the troublemaker? What good did it do to let me go since I might come back at some later time?

The only reason I can think of is that von Kharkov was afraid. Afraid of my strange effects on reality, of my skill in fighting the undead, of something I can't put my finger on. I just don't know.

Plus I was glad to be out of that place. My own faith teaches the light of the moon is the bane of the undead, not its source of power. Just as the sun dispels night, the moon keeps the worst darkness at bay and lights the path for those who walk the righteous path. For a creature to corrupt moonlight like that is almost intolerable. Worse than lycanthropes.

I don't think I'll be returning to Valachan for a while. It's just as well. I was kind of a third wheel with Claudia around. Maybe something will blossom from their relationship?
(End transcript)
"Money is the root of all evil...I think I need more money."
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High Priest Mikhal
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(Excerpts from the journals of Alexander Dreamfire, Mordentshire, Mordent, May. 1, 727 BC)
Every day since I returned from Valachan I've practiced with the staff. It's not unlike a quarterstaff in how its wielded, but its sheer size continues to be a problem in spaces less than ten cubic feet in diameter. Then again it's doubtful Domiel intended for me to use this as a weapon; the hallow effect it emits suggests more utilitarian use, as does another new power it manifested after an incident I'd as soon forget.

A little over a month ago a local family buried their only child. Yet not a day passed before he returned as a sallow, wild-eyed monster dressed in dirt-stained clothing. His nails had grown nearly six inches and his teeth were razor-sharp needles. Yet he didn't attack anyone who saw him walk to his old home. Instead he began to pound and scratch at the door, yelling to be let in "to repay their kindness." By the time I arrived a small hole had been carved out of the door, too small for him to even reach through. Out of habit I had grabbed the staff and its power seemed to calm him a little. At least enough that he stopped attacking and wailed about the abuses his parents had visited upon him for their own sick pleasure. As I listened I began to weep. There are crimes even I can't forgive and what they had done to him certainly counted among them. So with tears in my eyes I used the staff to break the door down for him. This wasn't the first time I'd sided with the undead for heinous sins of the living, and I doubt it will be the last.

By the time the constable arrived it was over. The boy's mother's throat was slashed almost to the point of severing her head. The father suffered a far worse fate, losing a hand and the entire other arm to his son's bites before his own throat was brutally torn out. In a numb daze I recounted the whole story, sparing no detail. The constable actually grew sick from it and had to duck into an alley to retch. By dawn the whole town knew what had happened and why. The bodies of the parents were burned along with the house while the boy's body was committed back to the ground, where I even laid a blessing on it using the Words of Creation. This child was an innocent corrupted by the evils of his own parents. Is there any worse crime than to so violate one of your own blood that they can't rest in death?

Not a day goes by that the incident doesn't haunt me. But it also unlocked a new power, an aura of consecration. The one time I've faced off against the undead since then, an animator inhabiting a butcher knife, the creature was hampered greatly. That in itself is a bit of a story. A widow in town recently learned her sister-in-law died, a woman few would mourn. She was something of a psychotic and had been implicated as the one who killed her brother, the widow's husband. Using a butcher knife. But she had wealth and was acquitted by a small jury of local shop owners who were known to be in her pocket. Her death was supposed to have been the end of her tyranny.

Apparently not, since her spirit returned to inhabit a weapon like the one she'd used to kill her brother to kill her sister-in-law. I was actually in town to shop for a pocketwatch when she came screaming out of her own shop. The knife was actually chasing her by flying through the air. No one else in the area heard it, but her spirit was shrieking in rage. At least until it hit the combined aruas of Domiel's staff, where the shriek died down to a wailing groan and the knife itself slowed enough that I could grab it's hilt. I took it to the local temple of Ezra where Sentire Felix Wachtern himself communicated with the animator. The creature admitted to its crimes even as it struggled to free itself of my grip. The Sentire condemned her actions and judged that she be forced to pay for her crimes in death. It was ironic then that his final sentence was that she be trapped inside the knife, unable to act on her murderous intent. I put on the act of casting a spell as I manifested impotent possessor and imprison possessor. The utter rage was almost amusing to listen to when she realized she was utterly trapped and powerless. The knife itself has been placed with her own corpse, to rust beside her decaying flesh.

For my efforts the church gave me a rather nice pocketwatch that never needs winding and whose face is visible in the dark. Standardized time is a concept yet to be invented here, though. So I'll have to adjust it whenever I visit another town.

(Excerpts from the journals of Alexander Dreamfire, Underground, Dementlieu, May. 9, 727 BC)
Six days ago Rudolph approached me about facing a suspected mummy cult. He'd recently had threerun-ins with mummies, each of which had left had left him determined to get my help on the next one. Ironically each of these cases took place within the same span of five weeks, not allowing him time to even return to Mordentshire. Sadly Rudolph's friend Alannthir was killed when mummies immune to fire grappled him after they had been set ablaze. The next encounter was with a mummy that didn't appear to be dead--a state of preservation Rudolph dubbed "pristine." Apparently it left Claudia paralyzed in fear and he's since taken to carrying his own holy water. The last encounter I couldn't get specific details on; after the mummy landed a blow to Rudolph his memory has been a little shaky. It's nothing permanent or dangerous, luckily.

After all that he'd decided not to take any chances and asked me to go with him on his latest hunt. Reports of a strange cult in Dementlieu had been circulating for a while. No hard evidence had come up but the rumors were too persistent to ignore. Thus I, Rudolph, Claudia, Gedlan, and even Jameld of Hroth investigated. We were led to an underground cavern that has yet to be fully explored even after two days. Thankfully Rudolph has a couple of lamps with continual flame cast on them this time. My own aura of holy radiance has helped dispel the worst of the darkness as well. Plus Gedlan and I can naturally see in the dark, though my crystal eye overrides my natural ability and reveals the unshorn truth at all times. There certainly are times I'd just as soon not know the truth, though.

For now everyone is tired, hungry, and a little dispirited. Two days and we haven't found one sign of the mummy cult we're after, plus the cavern goes on for several more miles by our estimates. It's entirely possible this is a wild goose chase. But Rudolph has insisted we go deeper before going back to the surface. An utter lack of any sign of human passing has me in a skeptical mode of thinking. Rudolph just quipped, "absence of evidence is not evidence of absence."

He's right, of course. If this is a mystery cult then they would go to great pains to hide any possible signs of its existence. Plus it's not just the rather claustrophobic conditions or lack of sunlight that's beginning to get me. Not as bad as most others of his home, Jameld is still extremely haughty and I am losing patience with him. His constant remarks about nearly everything have grated on my nerves this entire time. I swear if we don't find a cult or something else to fight soon I might just punch him out.
(End transcript)
"Money is the root of all evil...I think I need more money."
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(Excerpts from the journals of Alexander Dreamfire, The Land Between, The Nightmare Lands, Unknown, 727 BC)
We found the cult by following the sound of cryptic chanting to a cavern that was carved out of the rock and filled with the treasures of an Akiri pharaoh's tomb. Living cultists in ceremonial robes were kneeling on a stone floor and bowing as a mummy stood over an altar with one of their numbers. In a terrifying display the creature removed the cultist's innards and placed them in jars, killing him quickly if not painlessly. Then for a bit the mummy chanted in a dusty, dry voice and the cultist sat up--now one of the ancient dead himself. The others embraced this new addition as if it were an old friend returned to them after a long absence.

What happened next I'm not entirely sure of. One moment we were well hid in the shadows, the next we were fighting off the living and the undead who were not pleased to see us. Not long into the fight even more of the cult's mummies joined, three of which wore amulets with stylized scarabs engraved on them. Each amulet gave off an overwhelming aura of magic, so much so I had to close my left eye and block out the crystal eye's power to even look at them. What I did discern is that the amulets had an utterly evil look; necromancy even the greatest lich would struggle to use.

As I watched the leader of the ritual recoiled when Claudia threw a goblet of plain water in its face. Its dry flesh dissolved like acid at its touch. That gave me an idea and I used my decanter of endless water to drown the creature in a geyser. The creature was slammed against a wall and a gritty mud began to appear at its feet. I kept up this attack until at last the amulet it wore fell to the ground and the creature was nothing but wet sand and linen. When I lunged for the artifact one of the cultists followed suit. I used the decanter to propel her across the room with another geyser and grabbed the amulet.

One of the other mummies had been set on fire by this point and was now flailing about wildly and spreading the inferno. That's when I felt some sort of blow land against the base of my neck. Even as the world turned black I saw a strange mist coalesce around me. That's the last thing I remember.

When I came to I was in a bizarre cathedral of moving stained glass and the low moans of the tormented. Around me stood all six of the Nightmare Court--the Nightmare Man, the Ghost Dancer, Mulonga, Hypnos, Morpheus, and the Rainbow Serpent. None were happy to see that I was in their realm again, and the Nightmare Man in particular railed against me not taking their "generous offer" to escape during my first visit. Somehow I'd wound up in his cathedral, unconscious. Now he and the rest of the NC were there to make sure they exacted a price. My dreamcatcher was in Mulonga's hands, where it burst into flames until all but the crystal was ash. That's when they all converged on me in an assault, only to be held in place by the Dreaming Pact and its powers. This was an egregious act and it gave me time to grab the dreamcatcher's crystal and escape. It was almost a full violation of the ancient agreement and had they succeeded in drawing even a drop of my blood it would have been a total break. That would have freed me to act directly in efforts against them as well, but Fate seemed to have other plans.

Though neither they nor their direct minions can attack me, they can have others do so by offering them incentive. I'll have to remake my dreamcatcher to keep myself safe until I can find my way out. To that end I've been wandering the crystal spheres of the dreamscapes to find all the light dreamweavers I can, harvesting their silk as the first measure. In the times of peace I've been using my powers to reshape a chunk of ferroplasm into a top for my longstaff--a circle that will become a new and more powerful dreamcatcher. When I found I had a little extra I used it to fashion four hollow rings to be attached to the top like a Shakujo Staff. A feather from one of the most powerful Couatl's I've encountered has been added as well. As an extra measure I've collected the brilliantly hued stones scattered about the land, remnants of dreamscapes created by those who had the strength to oppose and defeat the Nightmare Court at their own games.

The final act to sanctify this new dreamcatcher is ritual bloodletting. I made the cut on my left palm and let my blood fall on the finished item as well as the staff. The top began to glow with a soft violet light even as the rest of the staff began to give off a bright incandescent light. Both did so for a full minute before dying down. A little experimentation has revealed that not only is the dreamcatcher complete, but the staff has shown its final power--a healing light that burns the undead. Only this power has a price; every few seconds it saps my stamina, though sometimes the light negates it. After only ten minutes I was exhausted and collapsed to my feet. I can still will it to shed light, but to activate its greater power will require it to draw on my own strength.

To allow the wound on my palm to heal by any means other than natural recovery would be to insult the ritual, so I've packed it with antiseptic herbs and wrapped it in linen. For now I've taken refuge inside an empty dreamscape. I'm too exhausted to go on without rest. I'd check my watch for the time, but its hands have been spinning wildly since I arrived here. The erratic flow of time in dreams overwhelmed its enchantments. I don't much care. I just want sl___
(End transcript)
Last edited by High Priest Mikhal on Sun Feb 24, 2013 6:46 pm, edited 1 time in total.
"Money is the root of all evil...I think I need more money."
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High Priest Mikhal
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(Excerpts from the journals of Alexander Dreamfire, Mordentshire, Mordent, Sept. 8, 727 BC)
Creating this new Dreamcatcher must have taken more out of me than I'd realized. When I woke up I was covered in spilled ink; I had to will a pond and two bars of soap into being just to scrub myself and my things clean. Four hours of back-breaking scrubbing. From now on I'm going to heed my fatigue and sleep before I write. Even if I lose a few details in memory, that's a price I'll pay to avoid having to go through that ordeal again.

It would have been easier to use my psionic powers to clean things up in a blink of the eye. But that would have touched on the Dreamweb more than even my manipulations of current reality. In particular the powers of telepathy and metacreativity seem strangely resonant with the Web. Like a particularly fat, juicy moth getting caught in a spider's web. Only the things at the center of this web are far worse.

I spent much of my day looking for dreamscapes I could use to escape to the western half of the Core. The closest I could find was in eastern Gundarak and I am not about to visit that land. Too many stories of Duke Gundar and his sick family. From a group of Vistani in Sithicus I heard tell of a strange portal kept open by the perpetually bleeding corpse of the Duke's own daughter, using his son's magic to keep things going. Few tales have the ability to make me sick to my stomach; that certainly qualified and the Wanderers who told me the story years ago had a laugh about it. Their raunie, Magda, scolded them for that I remember.

Unfortunately my wanderings brought me into conflict with Morpheus. The imp--though I doubt he's a baatezu--found the stability that surrounds me to be...disturbing is the best word. I felt something press against my mind and the world around me began to change from moment to moment. With all my might I pushed back mentally and the world returned to normal. But as soon as I did that Morpheus grew angry and transformed the world into a field of magma--save a stone platform where I stood. Instinctively I took my staff and shook my staff, giving off a loud jangling sound my foe found painful. In seconds the magma cooled into pitch black stone.

Though the Dreaming Pact prevents us from harming each other directly or through minions, it apparently doesn't cover using dreamscapes against the other.

Morpheus tried again to use the land against me by creating quicksand all around. My dreamcatcher glowed for a moment and I was encased in a crystal sphere that floated on top of the hazard. By now my foe was in a fury and launched a fireball at me--only to suffer immediate paralysis the moment after, even as his fireball dispersed harmlessly in mid-flight. Such a grievous violation of the Pact meant it was within my right to strike back directly; I was free to retaliate as I saw fit for this one instance. Yet something stayed my hand when I looked at this creature. Instead of some nightmarish monster, I saw a pathetic creature whose power was an illusion. He relied on chaos, randomness, anarchy to win whatever he wanted. Strip away that element and he was no more the threat to a mere peasant than a fly would be.

I left him (it?) behind as I continued to search the myriad dreamscapes. One lead straight into the forest outside Mordentshire, but I had to brave the Ghost Dancer's theater to get to it. Though to the mundane eye her audience appeared alive if enthralled, my crystal eye allowed me to see dust and bone where flesh and clothing should have been for many. Others were insubstantial--shades trapped in the Region of Dreams and unable to move on. As I looked I saw a spare seat and felt the same tug at my mind. It told me to sit, stay, and watch. When I resisted it grew stronger in its tug. But always was it something I felt like I could just brush aside. The Ghost Dancer didn't appear to be bothered by it, but her audience was. Her skeletal viewers stood up even as the shades moved in with moans of agony.

My instincts told me to jam the staff down three times. The first jangle of the rings brought them all to a halt. With the second the skeletons disintegrated into piles of fine dust even as the shades just faded away. With the third the Ghost Dancer herself let out a scream and collapsed to her knees on stage. She wept violently but for what reason I can't say. The bloody palm prints on her tutu were visible and I began to wonder if she cried because those palm prints weren't made by her murderer, but possibly her victim? Or maybe they were symbolic of whatever crime haunted her so much she would sacrifice her memories to the Dreamweb? Her own child killed because it threatened her dear dream of being a world-class dancer? A lover she drove to suicide? Whatever they were they had a definite feel of the symbolic--these were not literal prints, but the clinging remnants of whatever she had done to earn her station as one of the Nightmare Court.

Going backstage I found myself back in a large cathedral of stained glass windows that moved and moaned in pain. When I looked back the door had turned into two gigantic arched doors, barred by a massive wooden beam. In the distance I could see someone in a black robe sitting at a canvas with a brush and easel, trying to paint something and quickly screaming in frustration as he tossed his tools aside and knocked the canvas over. The Nightmare Man was still plagued by his curse of a lack of inspiration. It's a living hell for a former artist like him.

He sensed my presence and looked my way, sending a wave of dark dreamweavers at me. With a thought I activated the light of my staff and the tiny spider-things disappeared into puffs of sparkling smoke. Even though his face was hidden in shadow, I could still sense he feared me--feared me as well as the staff. He referred to it as the Dream Staff as he let loose a torrent of curses that made me blush. If I didn't find him so pathetic I might have been offended; instead I was just embarrassed by the swears. I doubt many sailors would feel much different, it was so bad.

Once he calmed back down I asked him simply, "Why have I been brought back here?" To which he said he wanted to know why I hadn't left the demiplane. When I explained there was still far too much for me to do here he just laughed. Then he stood aside and opened the doorway I'd been after since I encountered the Ghost Dancer. There was something in his glowing eyes that gave me a minute's pause. It wasn't malice or hatred, nor was it fear. I would swear it was respect. Some part of him was still human and I had touched that part. But I knew it would be short-lived and went through the door to the Waking World.

Musket fire rang out as soon as I came back into reality and instinctively I collapsed. To my shock it was Lord Jules Weathermay out on a pheasant hunt. Despite spoiling his kill, he seemed to be overjoyed to see me. When the others had returned without me they'd assumed the worst. And to my own surprise that was four month ago! Had I truly spent four months wandering the Nightmare Lands trying to get home? That's what everyone tells me and certainly I see the changing seasons have come far too early for it to be May.

For now I look forward to a quiet fall and winter season. This latest encounter with the Nightmare Court has taken something out of me, as has creating the Dream Staff. In hindsight I feel like I'm a pawn being used in a grand chess game. As I recount the events in my head I realize that too much of it felt controlled. Even the Nightmare Man's reaction to me seemed more like an unpleasant little surprise than an expected encounter. But that's for another time. Exhaustion makes it hard to keep my eyes open at the moment and I'd as soon let this all become nothing more than a bitter memory I never have to revisit.

Still, why was I taken to the Nightmare Lands like that? The question will no doubt haunt me for a long time to come.
(End transcript)
"Money is the root of all evil...I think I need more money."
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(Excerpts from the journals of Alexander Dreamfire, Mordentshire, Mordent, Sept. 10, 727 BC)
My absence has had consequences that, if I'd known, I'd have tried harder to escape the Nightmare Lands sooner. Rudolph and the others had the ill luck to encounter a child vampire. That first time is always hard, fighting off the instincts to protect even though the "child" is undead. This time it's cost another life. Claudia was killed by the Child Vampire and currently my friend is in Lamordia chasing after it. I wish him all the luck, but my gut is telling me this isn't going to end in victory.

Another problem has been sabotage by the Boritsi Trading Company. In a report just finished the Archer Trading Company took major losses during the second quarter of the year. Products were seized by pirates or bandits at the worst possible times, or were found to be tainted by poison when they arrived. A little detect thoughts among the employees and I find my saboteur within five minutes. A little intimidation and he told me all of it in detail, even showing me documents that detailed where seized goods had been stored when they weren't re-sold by the Boritsi. Expeditionary forces have been sent out to retrieve what we can and offset the losses. In the meantime I've used a magic quill to draw a mark of justice on the saboteur and told him to return to his masters and never come back. I doubt I'll see him again; the Boritsi family doesn't tolerate failure well. In the meantime I'll be lucky to get half of what was stolen back and end the year only slightly in the red. That is unless I start playing some of the aces up my sleeve.

Lorelee Seawatcher, a half-elf bard and "honorable" pirate, has offered her aid in this matter. Not so much in piracy as in guarding the shipments with her own fleet and certainly sharing any "booty" she acquires from her ventures in exchange for supplies and port. No doubt she'll waylay Boritisi ships just out of principle (her own loathing of them excedes even my own). In the meantime I can begin counterattacks on the BTC using the very thing they shield themselves with: the law. How would Lamordian officials react to learning about honest competition being muscled out by truly dishonest means? Just what would Azalin do if he found out the BTC was doctoring their records to skim trade taxes? I'll find out soon enough. If the Boritsi have half a brain they'll get the point and leave me and mine alone. Then again they didn't get rich by backing away from a fight.

My final woe comes from, of all things, the wagging tongue of a noble. One Mademoiselle Juli Foxgrove, a cousin of the local Foxgrove family, has not been holding back in terms of gossip. This being Mordent her rumors are a bit different from anything in Richemulot. Among them are accusations of my trafficking among the dead, which I can't say is untrue; the little boy who returned to avenge his own abuse is a well known example. Further is my own supernatural abilities, which the locals certainly know about but aren't really sure what they are. Now that is a real point of contention as I clearly believe my powers have a divine mandate, but then I've never out and out claimed to be a cleric or other divine caster. In spirit if not in reality I'm little different from a paladin. I just draw on power that is not divine in and of itself. I've made that comparison before and certainly my actions have proven me an upstanding person. So what's the big deal about where my power comes from? Unfortunately for me it means a lot to the Mordentish.

For now the locals are split. Some still believe I'm a decent person with no dark secrets, others are doubtful and suspicious of me. To combat this I've volunteered to take on the night watch for the town--the vigil. I risk chilled night air and things that go bump. This is something I've volunteered for with no small amount of trepidation. The Mist grows thick in Mordent at night. Frankly I'd sooner brave one of the many abandoned estates than spend even a minute in those unnatural vapors after all I've been through with them. Still, I must honor my agreement and test my courage. Plus it's a pride thing, I admit. When things go wrong...

The one thing that's really eating at me is why this woman so bent on ruining my reputation?
(End transcript)
"Money is the root of all evil...I think I need more money."
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(Excerpts from the journals of Alexander Dreamfire, Mordentshire, Mordent, Sept. 13, 727 BC)
"Never ask a question unless you can take the answer." I remember that quote quite well, and I've ignored it just as often. My question was why this Juli Foxgrove was so intent on making me look bad. The answer came not when I had a chance to sit down and talk with her, but in passing and in a little underhanded spying. Yesterday I walked to the family's estate and insisted I be allowed to talk with Juli Foxgrove. She gave me all of five minutes but that was enough. My crystal eye revealed that hers was a heart of pitch and there was something else I could detect. Something at once familiar and repulsive. And on her finger I saw a ring of two asps intertwined holding an onyx in their mouths.

I must have blanched because she asked if I was feeling ill and told me not to infect her before slamming the door on my face. Taking my leave I realized what it was I could sense: fiendish taint. The only times I had ever felt that crawling repugnance was around fiends--or blackguards. The woman was supposedly a paladin of Ezra, though the local anchorites say she gave up her sword and armor for more scholastic approaches after an extended mission into Dementlieu. That she had returned at all was called a minor miracle by the clergy, given that her mission was to seek out and destroy a small fiend cult.

For the rest of the day I kept my eyes on her, learning Juli Foxgrove was in fact a seasoned paladin. Emphasis on "was." Her gait was certainly that of a seasoned warrior, but her mannerisms were off. Not just selfish, greedy, or disdainful--I've known plenty of holy knights who were like that--but more like she was deliberately malevolent and cruel. Certainly she'd an air that put many of the staff off (and made me uneasy), but she was in many ways mean just to be mean. A serving girl brought her tea that was too hot, so she threw it on the girl's blouse nearly scalded her even as she berated her with words too malign to repeat. At dinner she displayed a total disregard for the rules of etiquette and manners and never once tried to defend her repulsive behavior.

Finally I stole into her room and found her diary. My search was quick and dirty, but I did find out enough to confirm my worst fears. Her mission into Dementlieu was interrupted by the Fraternity of Shadow. Her zeal seemed to overcome her morals and she reports "a sudden feeling of emptiness." I didn't read much more, but I wouldn't put it past the Fraternity to train an ex-paladin in the ways of the blackguard. Further she seems not to be far into the path of the black knight, as today I followed her into a graveyard outside of town where she practiced her profane abilities. I never saw her rebuke the undead or use such power, but she did display dark magic by summoning skeletons from the Mists and proceeded to use them as target dummies. As I watched her attack them with a bastard sword I focused on her weapon's bizarre aura--darkness so total I couldn't see the blade after a moment. It wasn't just unholy, it was blasphemous. Plus I saw a magic circle against good surround her as soon as she drew her sword.

It was then that I retreated to contemplate what I'd learned. Certainly the Fraternity would have the resources to make an unholy weapon of such magnitude, but why bestow it upon a clearly neonate blackguard? In fact why send her back to Mordent at all? Clearly she had only minimal training in her new, dark powers. And what did this have to do with her attempts to ruin me?

At the moment I can only surmise that it has to do with the theft four years ago. When I and three others stole those documents from the Fraternity. They must have finally tracked us down. They weren't going for the direct approach, at least with me. Instead they were using politics and social opinion to strike back, and with someone who has sway over the minds of the locals. However her behavior and mine seem to be tipping the balance back in my favor. For three nights I've watched over the town as it slept. And for I can only guess how long Juli Foxgrove has been acting strangely both for a noble and a paladin of Ezra. Her attempts have not done much besides provoking me, though. Her new, black-hearted way has alienated her from the otherwise good-hearted folks of Mordent. But if she is an agent of the Fraternity after me for the theft, who knows what will come? To that end I've sent messages to the others, warning them and asking them to return here to discuss a plan. Given how slowly a message travels it may take weeks or even months to hear anything back from them.

Until then I've my hands full just trying to keep my good name out of the mud.

Editor's Note: When we queried Father about his cousin Juli, he refused to talk about her. Indeed, it was only in sealed family archives that we found any mention of her. Sadly she was indeed the villain Monsieur Archer portrays her as and was cast out of our family in the early-Thirties. To know we're related to a monster like her is disquieting. -- Gennifer Weathermay-Foxgrove
(End transcript)
"Money is the root of all evil...I think I need more money."
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High Priest Mikhal
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Post by High Priest Mikhal »

(Excerpts from the journals of Alexander Dreamfire, Mordentshire, Mordent, Dec. 5, 727 BC)
Rudolph has returned from Lamordia, his quarry having escaped him even as his eyes were opened to a new threat: ghosts. His lurid description of the Thundering Carriage certainly matches known lore of ghosts. What I'm a little shocked about is how he hasn't realized their full danger earlier. In Mordent there is no shortage of the incorporeal and then there was the case of the Valachan Miser earlier this year. Ghosts might often be unable to roam and cause havoc like vampires, but that's hardly a certainty. This latest entry of his has spurred on an all new wave of hunts. Fortunately it's not that far from Mordentshire to a number of sites that are certifiably haunted.

This will be a welcome diversion from both Juli Foxgrove and my own luck in business. Rudolph has offered his assistance in the former matter, but in the months since I returned things have settled into a low-level simmer. It would be nice if this woman would just go away. And as for the latter, the recovery by Lorelee and her crew, as well as the legal payouts from some lawsuits against the Boritsi Trading Company, have helped offset some of the debt. Still according to my accountant in Darkon, I'm several hundred crowns in the red. With my own fortune tied up elsewhere I can't cover the shortfall and my investors are not happy. If this continues I'll have no real choice but to start using more supernatural means of securing my goods and making sure they understand I'm not above healthy competition; their underhanded methods are another matter. Of course pride, especially familial pride, dictates they reciprocate for every slight. I forsee a long, ugly relationship with the Boritsi family.

As for Rudolph's newest project, I've been aiding him by going along on an awful lot of trips to nearby abandoned manors. Most of the time these are a lot less...intense than I'd expected. There seems to be a much wider and more varied variety of "ghosts" in this world than in others. To date the vast majority have been unimpressive, to say the least. Their evil, if any, is petty and simplistic; their afterlives dull; even their powers weak and in many cases very limited. Some can't even manifest and these "geists" are more an annoyance than a real threat to anyone.

From anecdotal evidence and his own experiences, Rudolph has begun the task of crudely categorizing ghosts by power--or magnitude. The vast and overwhelming majority of ghosts we've encountered are "first magnitude," fairly weak and even dull even by his standards. Their ties to this world are tenuous at best and only the most ornery have resisted attempts to go about setting them at peace. If they weren't so common compared to more potent varieties I'd be tempted not to bother. Their stories make for a dull read as well; death is often ignoble but not horribly traumatic.

Once in a while we run across a surprise. These "second magnitude" ghosts aren't terribly more powerful than their lesser cousins but are often more actively malevolent and have some more potent abilities. One was the Wailing Widow of Whitethorn Hall. In life she was a shrew of a woman who drove her husband to suicide and terrorized her servants until at last someone got sick of it. Her death appears accidental as the herbs put in her food were only meant to knock her out. Perhaps they should have been a little more careful about putting them in her soup. She drowned and in a fortnight returned to haunt her old manor. Her signature ability was a wail that chilled the bones and killed the truly weak-willed like a banshee. Hers remains the most aggressive specter so far. But then we've only begun our search.

On a similar note are what Rudolph has dubbed "third magnitude." So far all of these have been fairly benign spirits and usually not doing any harm. These ghosts roughly equal the ghosts I've faced before on other worlds, a rather sobering prospect since there are too many tales of more powerful ghosts to dismiss them outright. These third magnitude ghosts possess the same powers I've seen before and are certainly as strong, but none of the ones we found were too terribly interested in causing trouble. The Librarian of Whitebrook Manor, for instance, told me in an interview how it grew quite irate when "its books" were stolen or mistreated, but seemed to be quite happy when I used my powers to repair a particularly worn tome.

I'm sure these encounters are the exception and not the norm; the ghosts' magnitudes seem directly tied to their strength of personality and manner of death. In truth the majority of haunted manors in Mordent are not quite as bad as locals would believe. Most are either weak or harbor little ill will toward the living. Strangely they all speak of a tug that takes some effort to ignore if they get too close to Gryphon Manor. Beyond roughly two miles it's easily ignored, but the closer one gets the harder it is to resist. If my theory is correct, that would explain the distinct lack of incorporeal and ghostly activity within a radius centered on the Manor. That's one mystery I won't mind leaving unsolved for now.

(Excerpts from the journals of Alexander Dreamfire, Mordentshire, Mordent, Jan. 4, 728 BC)
I received a letter from Niela, who has been forced into exile from her own homeland. Apparently the Lawgiver's church and the other Hazlani didn't like it when she began telling people they were products of the Mists. Trust in a land such as Hazlan is not to be given lightly. Her own Mulan friends, whom she thought she could trust, sold her out to the Iron Inquisition. Now living in Nova Vaasa, she's recently had trouble with a strange wizard that has stalked her everywhere she goes. He wears the same ring as all of the Fraternity do and I've no doubt he's been sent to silence her. If she needs to escape for a time I've opened my home to her. But given how long this last message took it may be months before I hear back.

As for Dratha and Orwin, there's been no word. I'm tempted to scry on them using my crystal ball. But then I'm not too worried about them. Dratha is an accomplished priestess and has the trust of the insular Tepestani if some outsider goes looking for her. Plus Orwin is one of Darkon's best and least known thieves. If Azalin can't find him so easily I doubt the Fraternity of Shadows will do much better. All I can really do is wait for them to reply and hope for the best.

The final quarter of 727 ended with the Archer Trading Company seeing an ever so tiny reach into the black. Had I not been more careful--or lucky--it could have been a disaster to trade with Borcan merchants like that. But in the end it paid off and I'm off the financial hook. It's too bad I can't risk a little more trade with them; they're good at business but practically under the thumbs of the Boritsi family. That was a gamble I'd as soon not take if I can avoid it again.

Then there's Rudolph and his newfound obsession with learning all about ghosts. For the past three weeks he's been compiling notes in his home and hasn't accepted any visitors. No doubt he's feeling the frustrations that come with this kind of research. There are no hard and fast rules for those things we call undead, just commonalities. Muddying the waters of knowledge further are two cases of deathless ghosts. The cleric couldn't harm them with cure spells, but inflict worked just fine. Once again I've tried to explain the differences, but he treats my advice on their sources of power as an adult would a child's tall tales.

And he wonders why I've asked not to be mentioned in these guides he's writing.
(End transcript)
"Money is the root of all evil...I think I need more money."
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(Excerpts from the journals of Alexander Dreamfire, Mordentshire, Mordent, Mar. 17, 728 BC)
Ren has returned from wherever it was she had gone to, a big stronger and with even more spells in her book. I'd say it's weird how she drops out of the picture like that so often, but she's an elf. Elves are flighty and do as they please a lot of the time. Not that I'm much better in that regard. If something grabs my attention I go after it.

But so far it's turned out to be a quiet year. Other than a few tainted goods found in the warehouses the Boritsis haven't really been bothering me. All it took was a cleric to cleanse the poison and their scheme was so much dust. This time I'm not doing a thing; I figure the bitter taste of failure in the Boritsis mouths will be payback enough. The fiscal quarter ends in two weeks and my ledgers are showing the Archer Trading Company firmly in the black. I'll let reality speak for itself.

Perhaps the one interesting note is a rumor of a new Sea of Saragasso in the Mists. The very name fills me with a strange sense of danger, though. Certain species of sargassum seaweed can be so thick as to trap ships and large debris, entangle rudders, and even be solid enough to walk on. That wouldn't be any good. For now I'm not planning any expeditions out there; saragassum seaweed does have medicinal value, but not enough to justify the lives of people or my fleet. Besides which no one really knows how to get there.

I also finally got letters back from Dratha and Orwin. The priestess noticed someone asking about her, but as I expected the locals weren't going to cooperate with an outsider. All she could tell me was the stranger wears a ring that matches that Fraternity of Shadows' style. Fortunately she's versed in the magic of Trickery and can protect herself from attempts to locate her magically. I've made the same offer I did to Niela--that she can come to my estate for protection if desired.

Orwin has been forced to be a little proactive in his defenses. Granted he's a spectacular thief, but he's spotted a scrying sensor near him too often to believe it's not deliberate. To that end he's traced his voyeur and found an ornate crystal ball in their home. He's taken it for himself and so far hasn't had any more trouble with magical detection. In fact he's used it to stage more daring raids on the wealthy of Darkon and given the money to those in dire need. While I admire his intentions, I've warned him to avoid stepping on Azalin's toes too much. The lich may decide to take matters into his own bony hands.

Then there's Juli Foxgrove. Not long after my last entry she disappeared for a while. I'd hoped she'd been recalled to her masters. But no, she was back last week. Only this time stronger and better versed in her unholy powers. So far she's not been giving me trouble, but this may not last once she has her affairs back in order. By now it's become more or less a bother not unlike a persistent housefly. Only this is one insect I can't crush without consequences--at least not yet.

The first day of spring is coming soon and that means a rise in the demand for tools to start sowing crops. Business looks to be good for a while.

(Excerpts from the journals of Alexander Dreamfire, Port-a-Lucine, Dementlieu, Mar. 31, 728 BC)
A simple snag in the train of supply forced me to Dementlieu personally. It seems that my suppliers in Port-a-Lucine have had some difficulties over a levy the nobles have put on several trade goods, notably iron. Ore from the Sleeping Beast mountains in Lamordia is funneled south to some of the best dwarven smiths to make steel implements that I in turn trade all over the Core. But now it's being demanded that everyone buying such goods pay upwards of three solars per item being moved through their lands. To survive merchants have to increase their prices to stay afloat. And then peasants can't afford basic necessities like food and clothing. It's a nasty little rule of economics.

It's also bizarre that the nobles would hand down a tax without first going through the Council of Brilliance for tacit approval. It's easy to assume the nobles in question want to avoid paying their own taxes and line their own pockets. But that just doesn't sound right. Besides iron they're taking a cut on everything from soap to weapons to fine jewelry. Couple that with the fact that trading season has just begun to get started and it feels like there is more to this than simple greed. This isn't Borca, after all.

Figuring out why there was a sudden levy--and why they were trying hard not to let their peers on the Council of Brilliance know--meant taking in the ghastly company of Dementlieu's upper crust. Their phony natures aren't so bad compared to the true horrors that lurk underneath respectability. In no less than half an hour of flattering the wealthy at a local party--and all that time swallowing my own bile--I was given an invitation to something called "The Hydra Club." From what I could gather it's a new, exclusive establishment for the truly wealthy. Lineage matters less than the bulge of one's coin purse and the attractions offered are worth every coin. While it makes more sense why the levy was imposed, it only raises questions that I want answered. Who is behind this Hydra Club? What exactly are these attractions? And why are the nobles so willing to go behind the backs of the government to pay for them?

I think I'm going to be stuck in Dementlieu for a while. There's something about all this that puts me on edge. Something familiar. I can't quite put my finger on what, though.
(End transcript)
"Money is the root of all evil...I think I need more money."
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(Excerpts from the journals of Alexander Dreamfire, Port-a-Lucine, Dementlieu, April 1, 728 BC)
All day I've been telling myself this all has to be some sort of a sick joke. I know it's not, but a part of me just won't accept what I've learned. Denial is a luxury I can't afford right now. Somehow, in some manner, the twisted and vile teachings of Elisime have survived the destruction of the ones that led me to this unnatural world. Lessons in utter depravity and the total and complete perversion of all things that even the most jaded tanar'ri would find offensive. I had those ideals crammed down my throat for a century and a half. I'm entitled to grow wroth at the mere idea that the teachings of the Queen of Perversion survive here.

My entry into the Hydra Club required extensive smooth-talking and more than a little gold to grease the right palms. Even with an invitation. I went through at least a half-dozen magical scans before being allowed into the main room. There I was greeted by lascivious nobles of both genders and a smattering of wealthy merchants. They were imbibing copious amounts of strong wine, opium, abfalduz leaves, and even luhix, terran brandy, and mordayn vapors. Other, more exotic drugs were being passed around and I sneaked a sample of a few for later analysis. This went on for several hours until most had lost all inhibitions and were engaging in various acts of carnal lust, sadism, and masochism. This was way beyond safe or sane, and in some cases consensual since quite a few were too drugged to know what was going on. At this point I was ready to leave and write off the club as a gathering place for the wealthy's sickest pleasures.

That's when I saw the Hydra.

A noblewoman with dirty-blonde hair and brown eyes came out dressed in a gown covered chest to foot in precious gems, her bosom only barely hidden. Around her neck I could see the outline of a three-headed snake with slightly human faces that drank in the depravity with glee. Suddenly I remembered why the name "Hydra Club" sounded familiar. The first time I saw a jahi--an incorporeal spirit that takes a living host and uses the unfortunate to build a depraved cult to itself--I thought it looked like some ghost hydra. While this wasn't any giant, multi-headed snake, it was just as dangerous. Some of these spirits were also in service to the Succubus Goddess as the two had so much in common. I had stumbled into a jahi's cult of personality.

Once the Hydra, as she--it--called itself was present, things got even more depraved. I can't bring myself to describe the things I saw. It was just like being back in Elisime's Perversion Pits all over again. But the worst was at the end when they brought out a young woman--a wizard who had fallen to the jahi. Her ex-familiar, a tiny coure eladrin kept in a forcecage, was also brought out. The poor thing was covered in bruises and her coppery hair was matted with blood as she lay unconscious. Even her outfit of gawdy, contrasting blue and orange was in tatters. Despite that all the people around were rutting or glutting, I was outnumbered by at least a hundred people and the jahi itself. Not that I was too worried about what it could do to me. Rather what it could do to others. Clearly these people were deep in the creature's thrall...or were already very depraved. It's a little hard to tell with Dementlieuese nobles.

So I did the only thing I could. I sank back into the shadows and used my rod of stalking to turn invisible as I waited out the decadence. In all that time the jahi and its host never once moved from a throne at the head of the room. As I watched the jahi itself drank deeply from everyone there while the enthralled woman looked on with a smirk of glee and even giggled at odd times. After several hours the "festivities" had more or less died out as folks passed out from sheer exhaustion or from taking in too many drugs. Only after this point did the jahi and its host move, going into a back room even as the host complained about "how heavy this infernal gown is." That many gems? That thing must have been heavier than full plate armor--and probably offered almost as much protection if those were real gemstones.

Quietly I sneaked over and disintegrated the forcecage, barely catching the coure as she fell free. Unfortunately I'd been careless; an alarm spell had been cast so that if the cage was destroyed, it would go off. Nobody saw me, but it did rouse the crowd and the Hydra, making my escape an almost acrobatic trial as I dodged, weaved, and jumped over the congregation in my race for the door. Just before leaving, though, I got a small gold sphere out of my pocket and tossed it at the feet of the Hydra. From behind the door I heard people cry out in pain, though none of them would suffer more than a mild sunburn. The jahi, on the other hand, would be blasted by rays of pure sunlight. I prayed that would be all it took to destroy the foul creature. But if the jahi is half as powerful as I'd detected it would survive even that.

I'm not quite sure where I wound up, but it was definitely in the warehouse district. The coure was still in my arms, out cold from her wounds--and not just the physical ones. I did my best to clean her up and heal her physical damage, but I also had to delve deep into her mind to heal the psychic scars. By the time I was done I was in tears over the treatment they had put her through as I relived it firsthand. Even after all that there is still part of her being--her very soul that has been destroyed. No amount of magic or psionic power will restore what was lost.

As I write this she's still asleep, wrapped in the fur lining of my cloak. I'm also tired and struggle to write this down before I simply pass out. I hate to use her as a resource on this jahi cult, but she's the best best I have. If I also know eladrins, she'll want to repay the "kindness" she received in her own way as well.

Plus I have a meeting with my supplier in the morning I forgot all about. If my luck holds out as it has, I have a good guess as to what he's going to tell me. And then I'll have an even less savory decision to make.
(End transcript)
"Money is the root of all evil...I think I need more money."
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(Excerpts from the journals of Alexander Dreamfire, Port-a-Lucine, Dementlieu, April 2, 728 BC)
I guess I fell asleep at my room's desk. When I finally came around the coure was awake, wrapped tightly in my cloak, and whispering, "Are they gone?" over and over again. By my watch it was around six in the morning and time for me to get up anyway. She recognized who--or rather, what--I am and fell into my arms sobbing. Her name is Kaylee and I was half-right; the wizard I saw had attempted to take her as a familiar, but the coure was also a divine bard and unable to be bonded to an arcanist. Still she had acted as a companion and ally all the same. Only once they found their way to this world the wizard fell to her own ego. The poor creature had tried to redeem her, but her former friend was seduced by the jahi cult and she ended up a "sacrifice" as a means of securing the wizard's place in the cult. Abuses I dare not put into words followed for days. Until last night when I rescued her.

Although I hated to leave her alone in that state, I had a critical meeting with my supplier from Lamordia to attend. Fortunately it was in the inn's own eating area so I didn't have to go far. My new friend actually hid and watched me meet with Jurn Coalbeard, manager of a dwarf mine in the Sleeping Beast mountains. What he told me didn't surprise me: the ore in the Beast had been tapped out. I'd heard the dwarven reports that the area was all wrong for iron, but the only other domain that has sufficiently large deposits of iron, and is close, is Falkovnia! I'd sooner shoot off my own foot with a pistol than deal with people who use slave labor. That's when Monsieur Coalbeard offered an alternative--switch from iron to diamonds. The Sleeping Beast is rich with deposits of them and I could easily make up the loss of Mordentish markets from the sheer demand for gems from all over the core, both for jewelry and spell components. It would cost me a little extra now, but I'd potentially see a return by the end of summer. Besides, diamonds are crystals; I need crystals for my own psionic work.

That won me over and I agreed to pay Monsieur Coalbeard and crew for diamonds in lieu of iron. He did mention that a cousin of his in Darkon has a thriving iron mine. Fortunate in that iron is kind of a necessity, but also unfortunate in that I'd have to pay tariffs for Darkon, Lamordia, Dementlieu, and then Mordent that will drive the end price up unless I buy in truly massive--and I do mean massive--quantities. Also M. Coalbeard's cousin will only agree to the deal if I also buy high-end dwarven-crafted tools and jewelry. Depending on how well I can negotiate with this Korgin Ironrock, which will necessitate a trip to Darkon, I might be able to shave off just enough of the final cost to make this work. That, or it's back to using bog iron from Mordent; even the amounts pulled out are inadequate to meet the demands. I need iron to stay competitive or I lose out to the Boritsi Trading Company. Which reminds me, I'd best have the shipments guarded by by the best if I do agree to this new deal. No doubt the Boritsis or their Dilisnyan cousins will try to stop the shipments. The jewelry, if I absolutely have to buy it, should sell for a premium in the markets of Dementlieu, Borca, and Richemulot. In fact, it may be a better idea to buy such since I can resell them for a premium.

With that concluded I returned to my room to gather my things and leave. It was there that I was attacked by someone--a noble from the looks of his clothing. Only he had no real life in his eyes. It didn't take more than a few seconds to knock him unconscious and call the gendarmerie. When he came to his mind was gone--a lost one. More than likely he'd been put under magical domination and sent after Kaylee, who had reported that an ephemeral eye was watching her as I talked with my contact. Her former master, or someone else with sufficient power, had scryed her location and tried to bring her back. While wrapped in my cloak she'd been subject to its mind blank power and thus shielded, but without it she lacked protection. At least until I put her under her own mind blank with my powers. The attack by a lost one could only mean I had failed to destroy the jahi and it had healed itself by damaging the force of personality of its own followers. Fortunately a jahi can only temporarily damage a person's psyche like that; given a little rest its victims would recover fully in a few days. But even that was little comfort. Now I'd provoked an entire cult and put Kaylee into serious danger, possibly myself as well if they realized who she had been watching.

Simply breaking into the compound again and attacking the jahi directly was out of the question. If the jahi could survive an attack from an enhanced globe of sunlight like that it had to be even more powerful than I'd feared. Worse still, I knew next to nothing about who was in this cult and what kind of forces it could muster. Or even if the creature knew I was involved. Certainly Kaylee was out of her league here; she'd offered to help fight, but her abilities are no match for a creature like that. Plus the cultists themselves risk being caught in the crossfire. Not all of them are so wicked as to deserve death; the wizard and the Hydra, certainly. But I'd be betraying my own code of honor to endanger people who don't pose a direct threat. This is going to be a lot more complicated than I'd thought. If I could go it alone this wouldn't be so difficult; Kaylee, however, refuses to leave my side even for a second. This has made it rather difficult for me whenever I've desired even a little privacy. There's no way she'd let me go long enough to take down the undead creature behind all this.

At least I'm not due to meet M. Ironstone in Darkon for at least a few weeks. I'll have time to investigate the jahi, its cult, and its followers. That should allow me to come up with a plan of attack that will not put Kaylee in danger. I just wish she'd let me have some space. Is that too much to ask?
(End transcript)
"Money is the root of all evil...I think I need more money."
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