Journal #3

Entry #1

Braillen's mother is about what you'd expect from an elf that chose to live too close to the sea. Even when she's looking right at you, she's got this far-off, staring look like she can see a thousand years into the future. It's both creepy and it makes you want to grab her by the shoulders and give her a shake. Not that I'd ever do it, of course...I'm not my mother even in my deepest, darkest thoughts. Still...

She sensed the curse on Braillen before we were halfway up the coral-stone path. (Which looked like it had been laid with a straight edge.) She muttered something only Qyan could make out. Whatever it was, it wasn't "Welcome home, dear son." She grudgingly invited us to share her hearth.

I don't want to know the particulars of Braillen's curse. Seeing it in action is bad enough. From what I understood of what little I could make out when it took effect, the ritual conducted inside his body is slowly separating the parts of Braillen that make him...well, Braillen. He will become little more than a meat puppet for the piece of shit that flung the curse. Ixion can sense this malevolent presence. He gets all agitated and cowers away from Braillen when an especially bad bout is coming on.

We're all tired of reaching for our weapons in the presence of our friend. With his skill set and level of knowledge, Braillen has the power to blast us all into little soot smears if and when the curse finally overwhelms his sense of self.

With my ninja skills, I'm the only one in our group that has a hope of getting close enough to kill him. I won't be responsible for the death of a friend.

Not unless I have to.

Braillen's mother has given us some small grain of hope. There's a distant mountain peak on Shadowplane, one known by many names, where the Urdoin grows. A flower of immense power, it is guarded by powerful mages that practice the arts of illusion. The journey itself is perilous, a successful outcome is far from guaranteed. Even I am hesitant to go against the wills of the Ma'aka, the Guardians. The drow have little reverence for anyone or anything. Even my people talk in whispers about these beings that existed before time.

Entry #17

Long story short, the waters around Shadowplane suck. I don't just mean it's annoying as hell to fight your way through half a dozen sea monsters. I mean the waters are literally a line of giant whirlpools trying to devour anything that can't make a rapid escape on the winds or tide. Qyan (or maybe she's Qyar today...her constant changes in appearance can make it hard to tell) is a skilled navigator and Darcassian crafted us a sort of wooden fin that allowed the ship to sail as if it had wings. I could almost swear I saw to the bottom of the largest whirlpool as we flew right over the top of it. The ruins of many a ship lay at the bottom of that unforgiving pool. I think I heard the voices of the dead, begging for release from their watery grave.

Or it could have been the wind. Not even banshees can scream with the force of disrupted water.

We barely get three feet past the shoreline and we're surrounded by The Faceless.

I don't know what else to call them. Imagine giant nightmare spiders with scorpion tails, crab claws and ram horns. Oh, and they can shoot acidic green slime from the ends of their tails at will. All of that I could handle. It's the way they look into your mind and arrange their blank faces into the features of those you've known that had me wanting to kill every single one in sight.

My mother was before me, that pinched look making small wrinkles on the bridge of her nose. I felt a savage satisfaction at separating that particular head from its body but I could still hear her voice, a weird tin echo in the throat of a creature not designed to speak the intricate vowels of the drow tongue.

"Traveling the realms with weaklings and elvish trash. I guess I could expect no less from an unnatural traitor.

Firyin came next, wearing that cold, calculating look. It confirmed my fears that the brother I once loved was lost to me forever in a brainwashed haze of hatred.

"Remember our last fight, little sister? I can't wait to see the fear in your eyes when I cut your throat. I'll present your head to Mother, to mount on a pole outside the family mansion. A symbol against those that would turn their backs on their own people."

Darcassian conjured a burning fog. I watched with some satisfaction as the head shriveled to the size of a raisin and fell off. The rest of the monster's body was too stupid to recognize death right away. It landed heavily on its side, legs thrashing until they finally went still.

Entry #22

The Ma'aka were as terrifying as we'd been led to believe, though not at first glance. Appearances can be deceiving. To look at, they're no more than fluffy rabbits the color of spring grass.

I was the last to be captured by their mind-spell, a combination of evasion techniques...and simple drow stubbornness.

Once they get into your mind, they make a nest-guarding dragon look weak as a kitten.

I've never known such anguish. I witnessed the deaths of all my friends. I suffered pain beyond the limits of sanity. I lost all sense of self and for one brief instant I could seethrough Braillen's eyes, sense what he would become when the curse overpowered him.

Maybe the Ma'aka took pity or found us worthy. Maybe they just got bored. My friends and I lay gasping. Qyan worked up the strength to grasp a handful of the glowing white flowers, tucking them safely in her bag.

Entry #36

Is there some kind of ocean god that hates me?

Every time I get on a boat, some particularly pissed off monster or demi-god attacks. Every. Bloody. Time.

This time it was a fury with foam strands of hair and glowing red eyes. She shrieked curses nobody (not even Qyar) could understand.

What followed was a long, drawn-out water race that ultimately ended in everybody getting thoroughly soaked. The fury...despite her best efforts...did not manage to get her hands (fins? tentacles?) on the rare flowers but plastered Qyar's fur to his body which made him spitting mad. (His people aren't called the Cat People just for that marvelously fluffy fur.) Braillen conjured up a stiff wind to separate our ship from the creature but lost his hold on the spell at the critical moment, dashing us against the rocks rather than giving us safe passage through them.

We're now stuck on a small, uninhabited island. Darcassian is repairing the ship but it will take some time. Time Braillen may not have.

I wish Inhokhiv was here. He smells like ten burning piles of offal but there's no ranger that can match his skill and he could tell which of the fruits on this uncharted lump of sand are actually good to eat. He's in the depths of the abyss, dealing with family issues. My deepest sympathies...except he at least has access to good wine.

I'd give a decade off my life for a glass of good wine right about now.

Entry #38

So...we finally get the ship fixed only to be attacked by an immature dragon. One of Ratanen's brood, judging by the deep blue scales.

She used her bulk to her advantage, flashing the sun in our eyes and dipping almost to the surface of the water so it was hard to tell the beast from the swells her sweeping wings made. Her battle roars had my ears still ringing hours after the final exchange of blasts. Braillen held together surprisingly well, launching stinging ice arrows until one struck the furious dragon on the tip of her sensitive nose. Had she been a battle-hardened mage, she would have answered him in blood but she was young for a dragon, still roaming the realms in search of a hunting territory. The threat to her sensory equipment convinced her to seek a part of the coast with easier prey. Losing sight or scent or hearing is no small matter to a creature that relies on all senses to eat, to mate and to cast spells.

I spent the last hour lying on deck, just looking up at the stars. I remember how bright they seemed, that first night when I emerged from the bowels of the Underworld, tasting the strangely sweet decay of a green forest. I nearly died, allowing that lulling calm to creep over me, to sap the strength born of fighting for every day of your life.

I'll never get tired of the sight of a clear night sky.

Entry #44

Curtains were drawn over all the windows, the air was electric with tension and I was on the brink of ripping my hair out. I hate rituals. Of any kind. Even this one, which Braillen's mother swore was the only way to free him of the curse ritual that's slowly tearing away his identity.

Braillen certainly looked fragile, dressed in a ceremonial robe woven from spider-silk thread harvested under the first new moon of spring. His breathing was shallow and hesitant, his eyes flickering restlessly behind closed lids. Every now and then his lips would twitch, as if he sought the words to some forgotten song.

Braillen's mother (would you believe I never once thought to ask her name?) looked almost like a dragon in a dress made entirely of sea shells and held together by strands of frayed nets that had seen battle with the sea. Two huge conch shells hung at her ears. She didn't seem to notice the weight. Her sea magic was her strongest ally, she had told us before the ritual began. Calling upon the waves and tides would enhance her already considerable power.

A power that would have to be enough, though she was old even by elf standards.

Darcassian conjured a breeze to keep the air flowing. Qyan monitored the fire, keeping the flames from getting too high or too low. I was charged with the task of providing the ritual items at critical moments. She wanted me near her son. Who better to recognize the calls of dark forces than a drow, after all?

I could hear the sickly sweet tones of the curse, a taint that poisoned Braillen's blood and coated his bones. It was like a sickness, one that would kill his body but continue to use it, turning him into an animated puppet for a necromancer.

Every hair on our bodies stood up as Braillen's mother began to chant. It looked incredibly funny on Qyan but I hadn't time to laugh. All of my concentration was focused on Braillen and the force oozing under his skin as the first verse pressed on our ear drums.

Sentinels of glade and grove
Look upon this stricken cove
Darkness in the light disperse
Lift the dreaded Demon's curse.

The darkness stirred uneasily, causing Braillen to stiffen and cry out. Qyan hissed and worked the fire harder. There was a chill in the room as notable as a blast of arctic air though the fire was blazing. I felt as if I was wandering the endless maze of caverns in my homeland, the notion of the sun a distant dream. It might as well have been me fighting the curse, for I felt Braillen's pain acutely.

Beings of the dew and light
Gaze upon this shade of night
Stretch your fingers, lift your hands
Grasp evil with your command.

I gave and took items without a conscious thought, keeping the rhythm of the chant in time to the hastily beckoning fingers of the sea-elf.

Sons and daughters of the dawn
Erase dusk and all it spawns
Make this body pure as snow
Cleanse the spirit, help it grow.

We could all hear the strain in her voice. Braillen made sounds to make any catfolk proud. Despite her frantic fanning, Qyan spared half a second for a grin. She would have one more piece of ammo with which to tease Braillen...assuming we lived to tell the tale. The darkness was streaked with angry red, a flavor of brimstone and dried blood that wasn't really on the tip of my tongue but in my mind.

It still tasted terrible, regardless of the source.

Braillen's mother struggled for each word of the final verse.

Spring of Elvish sorcery
Source of mystic purity
Steady my hand as I pour
This the everlasting cure.

Braillen drank from the flask that touched his lips, gulping as if he'd floated on the ocean for days without a drop. The presence in my head was shrieking a denial.

There was a sound like the fabric of the world tearing and then...silence.

Instinct made me dart forward to catch Braillen as he fell. We were all exhausted...but our friend looked like death.

He would sleep a few days. He'd have to be woken every two hours and made to drink more of the Infusion of Urdoin. We all thought longingly of our beds and worked out a watch schedule. I took the first hour. Braillen slept like the dead. As soon as my head touched the goose-down pillow, so did I.

Entry #50

After nearly a month cooped up in the small cottage of a sea elf, we were all glad to be back on the road. Our next adventure would find us, we had no doubt. Before we went seeking anything, we sought the welcome distraction of a pint and a plate of genuine food.

The Barrel & Cask wasn't one of your more lively establishments but their cooks are reliably skilled and they never water down their drinks. I had the platter of their house-famous Drunk Pretzel Sausage Logs, savoring each salty bite and washing it down with a bottle of Orc's Blood Chardonnay, so called because of its vivid red hue. (Orcs are too stupid to drink anything but that swill they brew from rotten vegetation.)

My love had his usual Dorso Dawn. If there's a tropical flavor not infused into that potent punch, I dare you to name it. Qyan wanted her Cat O' Nine Beers with a side of Venison Stew. Braillen (boring as ever) got the Seafood Platter and straight-up ale.

We should know better than to think any outing of ours could be a nice, quiet venture. The dwarf stumbled among us as we were glancing over the dessert menu, cursing fit to school a drow matron and half-heartedly tugging at the ax stuck between his toes.

"Arr. There ye are, mage. Not dead yet, I see."

I raised a brow at Darcassian. I hadn't heard the tale of this particular friend. My love can hide his face easily enough, yet he looked...sheepish. There really is no other word for it.

"Iri...I'd like you to meet Bhallen. He is kin to Dhoric Redbeard."

I knew Dhoric well enough. He was one of the best sources of trade for Darcassian's home village and he sold the best dwarvish necklaces to be had in the six regions of Dorso Mendis. Dhoric was...almost civilized for a dwarf. Bhallen belched and scratched his bum, licking his lips in anticipation as he roared for a mug of ale. I raised a brow.

"Second cousin."

Darcassian's voice was pitched at a level even bats would struggle to detect. I quirked my lips to show that I'd heard...and understood. Dwarves see all kin, no matter how distant, as part of the family.

Bhallen nearly drained the mug in one gulp, motioning for the serving girl to keep them coming. "Arr...that does the old bones good, it does. So here's my tale, lad. I was on my way to Mardra Ghill, with a load of those glowing crystals they like so much. Fool bunch of stargazers think a bit of shiny junk can tell their futures." He snorted. "It's not for me to argue fools out of spending their coin. Anyways, we were a few miles outside the town when two young spawn of Abanen swooped down on us from above, carrying..." He looked at me and hesitated. "Eh...what exactly did you say the name of your little friend here was again."

Darcassian was trying nobly not to laugh. "This is my fiance, Irikah Blackraven."

The dwarf's face turned a rather alarming shade of purple. "Your...a drow...hold on. Did you say Blackraven?!?!

I could feel the warm comfort of the wine draining out of me. There was only one member of my family that would lead raids aboveground. "You...know of my clan."

He sputtered a bit, somewhere between a grape and a blueberry before he came up for air. "It was that thrice-cursed, dung-spawned, dragon-licking Firyin Blackraven that stole my treasure!

My heart was pounding then as it is now at the thought of once again confronting my brother.

I'm not ready to relive my pain or to endure the torments of his slicing tongue and slashing blade.

I may never be ready.

Entry #53

I won't dwell on the battle.

In my dreams and visions, Firyin always taunts me, provokes me, takes away my spirit for the fight as he lands hits he could never manage in reality.

Our meeting was mostly silent. I could feel the icy malevolence creeping out from his skin, threatening to engulf me in a fog as poisonous as the tip of his dagger. He never got to use the blade. My friends were there, supporting me not only with their weapons...but with the strength they lent me. Neither of us could gain the upper hand. Firyin simply grew bored and abandoned our fight when the rest of his raiding party called for him to come away.

We both know it was no retreat. We'll meet again.

Credits

Pureflower

Sunrise