The Travels of Melis Lochlàn and Shanja Khan

[K2K]

Preface: Ever since I discovered Shadows of Esteren, I've been in love with it, like I haven't loved any other RPG. Quickly after purchasing Book 1, I hosted an online one-shot adventure over at the Drachenzwinge, a German community for playing RPGs via TeamSpeak.
Finally, after 7 agonizing months of trying to get a game going, it has all worked out. My wife and her sister will be the players in my 2-player-campaign, The Travels of Melis Lochlàn and Shanja Khan. We've had our inaugural session yesterday and are planning on running the game on a monthly basis. If time allows, we might manage a bi-weekly schedule.
Since one month can be quite long and a lot of details can get lost in the depths of a forgetful mind - mine -, I'll be writing up their adventures through the eyes of Melis in the style of a daily journal.
Apart from simply helping me remember things, I figured some of you in the English SoE community might like reading about this. Any constructive feedback is, of course, appreciated.
Our goal is to explore the world of Esteren together, to get a good feeling, before delving into the deeper secrets. We all envision this world as quite a dark place, but it might take some time before this actually comes into play.


Day 7 of the first tenday of Giblean, 907

Since the decision fell today that Shanja and I would start travelling the roads, I figured there'd never be an opportunity like this to finally start my journal. Where do I begin? The last few years were quite uneventful - what a tale they'd make, the grand and epic song of sewing torn clothes for wealthier folk, all for a few embers. Actually, Shanja didn't sew at all, she just always had a little money on her. I met her in Seòl a few years ago, newfound home for both of us at the time. I remember being scared of her, since she's Tarish and my parents had always told me to avoid that peculiar folk. We get along nicely, though, and I've never regretted befriending her. Her playing of the lute is exactly the musical backing I need for my singing. Performing in the taverns and pubs of Seòl has quite often gotten us a good meal and a mug of cider through the years.
Today, though, came with a shock. While at the market, we were met by Kàll, who works for the Guilds' Register of duke Mac Isaenor. Apparently, the duke had allowed the founding of a new Artist's Guild in his lands. As foreigners to Seòl, we'll have to pay two frost daols each just to gain membership of this guild. Of course, we can't afford this sum, so we'll lose the right to perform our trade in the city.
Of course, we had to run into Russ, a bard himself and born Seòlite. Oh, how I longed to punch him, to wipe the smug grin off of his face as he taunted us, knowing we'd have to leave! I loathe that swine...

Russ Kalghàn,
half pig, half man,
he plays the flute
quite devotedly,
a bending
his performance fee.

Certainly not my best lyrical work. I'll have to work on it, but then again - I'll probably never have to see his face again, since we'll be leaving on the morrow.
Our last performance went better than expected. We played and sung like we never did before and in the end, more than one azure had made its way to our tipping bowl.
I did also catch a most disturbing rumor: Aoda, daughter of Mac Isaenor, is said to have gone missing somewhere near the border to Gwidre. What kind of endevaour would have led the duke's only daughter so far away from his lands?


Day 8 of the first tenday of Giblean, 907

So, we were leaving... nothing more than our room, since we essentially lack every kind of travelling equipment imaginable by man.
Luckily, Seòl has a shop for any kind of trade a heart could wish for.
We made a good bargain at the leatherworker's store. Shanja bartered away some wooden statuette of a Caernid - I think she bought it at the market, yesterday. The old man who owns the leather store seemed to take more than just a liking to the curio. He claimed that it took away his aching back pains the instant he took hold of it, and quickly sold us some good boots, water skins, fur coats and studded leather tunics for what I'd call a bargain price.
Shanja quickly went to look for the trader of wooded curios, while I went to our rental room to take care of our newly-bought equipment.
When Shanja came back, she had bought another two of these strange stauettes - one of a woman, another of a Caernid. They really look beautiful. Surely, they are masterworks, the epitome of the Craft of Wood. She also bought some herbs and balms, foodstuffs and the like.
To be quite honest, I'm really glad Shanja seems to have thought of me while buying the statuettes. We didn't give each other gifts often, during the years. I'll make it up to her.
During the day, the founding of the Artist's Guild was made public, so tonight, we'll have to pay for our meal.
We'll be leaving tomorrow. I am a little nervous, since Shanja claims to have seen some people hiding in the shadows of alleys, stalking us. I never saw anything - is she seeing things, or am I inept?


Day 9 of the first tenday of Giblean, 907

By the brothers, how the feet can hurt! How can they hurt so much? I could kiss that girl like a newly-wed man for buying the healing balms yesterday.
We left Seòl today and travelled west. At dusk, the last rays of warming sunlight were touching the land, we reached an inn, the 'Blue River'. For the last handful of miles, I could barely walk. Every step I took made my legs ache and my feet sting with pain. The thought of walking a day like this in the simple leather sandals we wore in the city horrified us both. Since we didn't wish to sleep outside - we actually forgot to buy a tent and have only our cloaks and simple bedrolls with us -, which would surely had us seen attacked by Feondas, we had to keep walking until we reached the inn. Rarely have I felt happiness as in that moment, when we opened the front door and walked into a well-lit room, warmed by a hearthfire and filled with most delicious smells.
We quickly arranged for a little performance for the guests of the inn - after a meal and after applying a good portion of the soothing balms to our wasted feet, of course. We played some traditional songs of good mood and the patrons sang along, drinking more than their share of cider and beer and bestowing upon us not just a meal and a bed for the night, but also some embers. Apart from the terror I feel when thinking about using my feet to walk again, come tomorrow, I could get used to a life on the road.
Then again, Shanja claims to have seen the strange stalkers on the road, following us from Seòl, hiding behind bushed, trees, rocks and in fields of wheat whenever she looked for them. Like yesterday, I didn't see anything suspicious, just some wanderers coming and going. I trust her sight and I trust her mind, but do I mistrust my own?


Day 10 of the first tenday of Giblean, 907

I know I am echoing myself - the feet! How they hurt! They hurt so much. Shanja's feet were actually bleeding, as she seems to have ripped open a blister during the day. I almost had to carry her to the inn, which we reached after dusk.
I decided not to make a performance tonight, despite the place being quite filled up. Instead, we paid food and lodgings and I quickly applied some of the more potent healing herbs unto Shanja's bleeding foot.
I felt terrible, dragging her whining and yowling body for the last hour of sunlight and to the inn, but I couldn't carry her - though she's quite a lightweight and I've always been more sturdy than her - and surely, we didn't want to sleep with the Feondas.
Hopefully, our aching legs will recover and become used to this kind of life. Our supplies of balms and herbs might run out, otherwise.


Day 1 of the second tenday of Giblean, 907

We spent the day resting at the inn, a place called 'Mor Hoffeïr', though its nameplate is missing. The inn is run by a friendly fellow, Angus, and his wife, Nereïn. I arranged for us to perform tonight, thus paying for our meals and the room. We might also get an ember or two, tomorrow, depending on how much more we make everybody drink. Angus is expecting a group of miners coming through, on their way to Seòl from the Yellow Hills. The inn should be filled to the brim, come eve. We'll be playing some songs for good mood, hopefully encouraging the patrons to sing their mouths dry, thus drinking more.
Also, Angus has entrusted me with two messages; one is for his cousin, a man named Wylard, who's running the next inn, on the way to Ruochwòd. The other message is for the administration of Ruochwòd. He paid me five embers for my service of writing and delivering the message for him. In Seòl, I never realized how precious the gift of literacy can be - it always seemed like everybody could read and write, or at the very least, there was a paid scribe at every other corner. Neither Angus, nor Nereïn could have written this message, which was quite important to him.
Right before I came to write this entry to my journal, we stumbled upon the most curious coincidence. In the Mor Hoffeïr, there hangs a wooden carving, depicting a scene of ancient times, a mighty Demorthèn recieving a weapon from the spirits and doing battle with horrifying Feondas. As Angus told us, the carving is quite old, several decades at least, and was made in the town of Crail, in Reizh. Ever since he acquired it, he said, no ill had befallen his family or his inn, whereas before, he led a life stricken with disaster.
Shanja then told me that the wooden statuettes she had bought at the market in Seòl, especially the one 'curing' the old leatherworker's back, also came from a town called Crail in Reizh. I'll try talking her into going to that wonderous place. I wonder what its secret might be.

Day 2 of the second tenday of Giblean, 907

Yesterday's evening went very well. We made an azure daol from tips and recieved a most generous breakfast today, free of charge. The honeyed pumpkin pie Nereïn had made might just have been the most delicious thing I ever tasted.
Also, our legs and feet weren't as sore as we had expected them to be, once we reached the 'Golden Nugget Inn', owned by Angus' cousin Wylard. Sadly, he's nothing like the former. He tried luring Shanja and me into his bed, claiming he had no other spare rooms. We opted for the common room, paying an usurious 4 ember daols each. We'll likely perform some songs for the inn's patrons, come eve, but considering the prices here, I don't think we'll be getting much of a tip.
On the other hand, we've almost reached Ruochwòd, a town of mining and trade. It's in the earliest reaches of the Yellow Hills, a region relatively rich with iron and copper. Many travellers from the western dukedoms, even from Reizh and Gwidre, come here, since it is said that the hills get their yellow color from enormous veins of gold ore. It's a myth, of course, but the Yellow Hills have inspired many poems and songs over the years. I wonder... will their sight inspire me, too?

[Kryptovidicus]

Nice journal, very realistic, it could easily be an excerpt from book 1.
Very nicely done, not much happens, but still I kept on reading.
Most of the time, players don't say anything about sore feet .
Looking forward to read what happens next.

[Clovis]

I found it enjoyable; a nice read whose continuation I will certainly follow with pleasure!

[K2K]

Today, we've had our third session, and I finally finished the diary for session two.
We're quite happy with how it's gone, so far. Tri-Kazel, with some adjustments in details, supports the style of play that we chose for this game very well, i.e. quite slow, with a lot of focus on everyday activities, travelling and the omnipresent threat of danger.


Day 3 of the second tenday of Giblean, 907

Today was... most eventful. I shall try writing everything down in the correct order – maybe it'll help me to make sense of it. We are missing something, I'm sure of it.

We made good progress today and reached Ruochwòd some two hours after noon. On the way, we had met some travellers, who went to the town for a relative's wedding. They told us a little about the town, but it was nothing we couldn't quickly have found out ourselves.
As we reached the town, guarded by a grumpy milita-man and a sturdy palisade, we were greeted not only by the daily ongoings of a town of more than a hundred houses, but also by a group of arguing miners.
Ruochwòd lives from mining and its good location, having two mines of iron ore, and being the southernmost town of the Yellow Hills, the nearest to Seòl. Many caravans and traders pass through regularly, and its two mines have been another good source of income for many people. One of them, though, owned by a man called Russ Saòl, had been forcibly shut down after a gruesome Feondas attack inside of it that had caused a massive panic among the workers and probably cost some lives, as well.
Many of them, like those at the gate, would now have to find something else to earn an income.
We went to the Ansailéir's house, so I could deliver Angus' message. There, a bad surprise waited for us: Eilèn Ghomàch, Ansailéir of Ruochwòd, was dying from the wounds he had suffered when he was attacked by Feondas in the forest; their venomous bites had poisoned him and the town's Demorthèn had not been able to help.
His son, Hanns, who had been the Demorthèn's Ionnthén, had taken over his father's duties. As Shanja went to an inn in order to secure us a room and maybe even a performance for the night, I delivered the message to Hanns and made some inquiries about the town. Soon after, Demorthèn Warren showed up to check in on the Ansailéir. He is an old man, who has probably seen more than five, maybe eben six decades. We had a few words, and he commended me for my chosen profession, since travelling bards are one of the oldest traditions of our people. In his words, tradition was on the decline in Ruochwòd. Some weeks before his mine had been attacked, Russ Saòl had even bought some flux drills from Reizh.
I met up with Shanja in the inn, where she had organised a small performance for the evening, granting lodgingd and food. On top of that, she had met Celinè, commander of the militia, and her second-in-command, a man called Gorm. Somehow, she had gained the trust of these two, and had found out some additional details.
The Ansailéir had been attacked shortly before the attack on the mine, about a day before it. He had been found by Warren, who had been guided to his body by the spirits. Nobody expected it when he carried Eilèn's body into the town. He had born several wounds, none of them very deep or severe, luckily, but had also been poisoned.
Shortly after the attack on the mine, the militia tried clearing it from the vicious Feondas, but they were ambushed in the darkness by something they describe as 'a plant Feond', grabbing their bodies with long, cold vines, slithering into their clothes and stinging them with razor-sharp thorns. They left the Saòl mine, not having succeeded in their task. All of them suffered from poisoning, but Demorthèn Warren had been able to save all but two of them, who died from too much poison in their bodies. Another milita-man had been lost in the mine, nobody knowing more of his fate.
As if by the hand of fate, a milita-man burst into the inn, looking for Celinè. The third man's body had been found, not far from the mine. We went with them, though I wish we hadn't. The body was a gruesome sight, flesh torn apart, limbs and half of the head missing. The skin was pale, but pervaded with blackened veins. At his slashed throat, the flesh had turned completely black. The sight drove Commander Celinè into tears, as the young man had been a close friend of her's. Gorm commented on the exceptional severity of the young man's wounds, since none of the other militia-men, not even the other deceased ones, bore anything close to similar.
The four of us quickly went to the Ansailéir's house, since both Hanns and Warren, who we expected to find there, would want to know of this new discovery.
As we arrived, Warren was administering healing balms and a tea to the comatose Ansailéir. The news didn't seem to come unexpected, though everything else would've been a surprise, considering the count of dead at the Feondas' hands. Since Shanja and I still had to earn our stay at the inn, we departed and went to our room.

As I'm sitting here, writing this, I'm contemplating the severity of the situation. The whole town is suffering. Word of such a disaster will quickly spread. It's quite possible that soon, traders will try to avoid the town. Will one mine be able to sustain enough workers, or will Ruochwòd slowly fade away? It really is none of my business, but sometimes, I can't help but wonder: Why are our lands so grim? Is it because the spirits are angered, because of Daedemorthyr technology? Whatever it is, I feel a song in me. I don't know the words to it, yet, but I feel it in my heart.

There's another thing, though, that I'm feeling. Uncertainty. As he was told of the young militia-man's severe wounds, I think I saw a glimpse of... surprise in the Demorthèn's eyes, quickly replaced by a grim facade.


Day 4 of the second tenday of Giblean, 907

I guess it was quite premature of me to have written yesterday's entry at the break of dusk. After our performance – we played some ballads of hope and songs of good spirit -, we were witnesses as Demorthèn Warren demanded the closing and sealing of the Saòl mine, due to the Feond problem. Well, I was witness, since Shanja had fled his house at the sight of several petsnakes he kept around. We were assured they were harmless, that he was able to communicate with them through the spirits, but Shanja really doesn't like snakes.
Celinè seemed undecided about the mine, but in the end, she agreed with the Demorthèn. Since both were part of the town's council, they'd be able to officially make the decision in the morning.
However, Shanja and I were sure there was more to this story. Why hadn't Warren spoken of this before? Why now, at night, just to the ears of Celinè – who had insisted on taking us along?
On our way back to the inn, we made a fateful decision. We snuck into the Ansailéir's house, since earlier – I forgot to write it down, deeming it unimportant – we had caught a glimpse of an unfinished contract of purchase on Hanns' table, bearing the names of both him and Jana Mac Hurt.
If only we had known the implications then...
As Hanns seemed not to be home, we searched for more files associated with Mac Hurt or the mines, but what we foundwas profoundly more disturbing.
On the desk lay what looked like a smooth, round pebble. On it, however, was a runic inscription in a crimson tone, a sign neither of us could recognize. I quickly pocketed it, as Shanja found another most mysterious object: A letter, adressed to Hanns, in which a man calling himself 'Shelwèren' commended the Ansailéir's son on successfully gaining the trust of Demorthèn Warren. Just as we were about to make sense of all this, however, the door opened and it was only pure luck that kept the man who had entered the house, wearing a hooded gray cape, from spotting us. As he went upstairs, we could see it was Hanns. I grabbed the letter and we quickly snuck outside. Finally, we went to the inn to rest and think about all we had learned thus far.
In the morning, we had come up with a plan. We hastily went to the Demorthèn, intent on warning him about the letter by this 'Shelwèren' and Hanns' dubious motives.
He instantly knew what the curious pebble was – an Ogham, inscribed with a symbol of the Sigil Rann, the Demorthèns' secret tongue. However, he also told us this particular symbol was forbidden to be used for Ogham, though he did not know the reason.
As he learned about the letter to Hanns, who had, after all, been his Ionnthén until most recently, a deep sadness showed on the features of his face, coupled with new-found insight.
With a voice burdened with responsibility, he told us about the plan he had envisioned and almost seen through with his Ionnthén. He had lured Ansailéir Eilèn to the forest under false pretenses, then had commanded some wolves to attack the poor Ansailéir. This way, he had known where to find the body after the 'Feond attack'. Then, he had poisoned Eilèn Ghomàch, before commanding various snakes to stir up a panic at the Saòl mine. In the mine's shadows, nobody had been able to see their attackers; thus was born the tale of the 'plant-like Feond with slithering vines and sharp, venomous thorns'. He had repeated this heinous attack when the militia went into the mine to clear it out. He assured us he hadn't meant for any deaths, but control over his snakes had been shaky at the time and thus, two of the men had been severly wounded.
Their goal had been to get Russ Saòl out of business, because of his affinity fos Daedemorthyr technology, and then to have the acting Ansailéir, Hanns, to sell the land of the mine to Jana Mac Hurt – matriarch of a deeply traditionalist family.
The discovery ot the third missing milita-man, however, heavily wounded and lined with black poison, had not been of his making and now he suspected there truly was a Feond lurking in the mine.
All that remained was to confront the Ansailéir's son, Hanns Ghomàch. As we left Warren's house, we heard the cries – 'the Ansailéir's dead!'
We entered the house with Warren, Celinè and Gorm. Quite quickly, it became obvious that in fact, Hanns had murdered his comatose father, trying to blame the poison. As he was confronted by his master about the letter and the Ogham, he drew a dagger. I tried talking him down, but it was to no avail. As he went for a lunging stab at Warren, Shanja swiftly threw her dagger, piercing the flesh of his shoulder and pinning him to the wall. Quickly, Celinè and Gorm disarmed and subdued him.
Thus it ended.

We spent the rest of the day re-supplying. Most people seemed quite pleased, knowing that we did a good thing for the town, but sometimes, I couldn't help but feel animosity. Hanns, who, in the face of overwhelming evidence, had been hanged at noon, had been a well-liked face around Ruochwòd. Many seemed to be unable to grasp that he could have murdered the Ansailéir in cold blood.
Warren vowed to vanquish the Feond that lurked in the Saòl mine or die in the process. In case he'd survive, he would travel to the Tsioghair to face the judgement of his peers.

We'll be leaving Ruochwòd tomorrow. I am looking forward to the road, quite strangely. Maybe walking for a day or two will help my troubled mind. I can't quite grasp it, myself. All my life, the Demorthèn had been the men everybody looked up to. That one of them, admired by everybody in his town for all the good he has done, would be able to act in the way Warren did...
I wonder – what else will our travels teach us about life, about ourselves?

[Iris]

Thanks for sharing your adventures with us !

It's always interesting to see how players & game leaders do imagine and live the universe !

[K2K]

I'm glad some people seem to like it.
My players are also quite excited by this side-project.

We've finished our third session and I've already completed the diary; it's currently awaiting approval by the players.
Oh, all of the horrific stuff that happened...

[Iris]

Nice news !

[Hyrulian182]

I'm deeply impressed

[K2K]

Day 5 of the second tenday of Giblean, 907

Today, we killed a man. In the hours that followed, until now, that I finally come to write this entry, his death has haunted me, lingering in the back of my mind. I tried pushing the thoughts out of my head, tried not to let Shanja or Jeromè see how it has affected me. But I cannot forget. Before my mind's eye he lies at the ground, shadowed by a fir tree, grass and leaves reddened by the blood from his shattered arm. I still hear his cry of agony as Shanja's arrow pierced him and split the bone, the gurgling sounds as Jeromè slit his throat. Spirits have mercy and carry his soul.
He was a bandit. Bandit's deserve death, as do all criminals; everybody knows that. He tried so steal from us, he might have tried to kill us – but still, his death haunts me.

The day's end draws near and I should already be asleep, since we'll be heading towards the Inguard in the early hours of morning and my shift of our night watch will come all too soon, but I feel that I need to write it all down in an ordered fashion, lest I forget how everything happened.
We left Ruochwòd in the morning and travelled northwards for several hours, on our way to Kel Loar, where we'll probably be spending some time before travelling further, to Crail.
Not long thereafter, we first spotted Jeromè, though we didn't know him at that time, of course. He travelled the same road, but since we hadn't seen him leave the town, we were a little bit scared, suspecting him to be a highwayman.
As the sun neared its apex, we rested at the spur of a small forest. The man who had followed us was nowhere to be seen, so as we ate our whole-grain biscuits and some fresh fruits, we kept our eyes and ears open, wary of an attack. It was Shanja who spotted him first. She sprung up, bow in hand, and as the haggard man stepped from the brushwood, a short sword in hand and fierce determination in his eyes, she had already put an arrow on the string. The man, dressed in rags and what looked like an old leather armor, threatened us, demanding our possessions and food. Of course, we denied, not willing to part with either belongings or life. He stepped closer, clutching his sword tightly – and Shanja let the arrow pierce his forearm with lethal precision. His cry of anguish was accompanied by the sound of splintering bone and followed by the thud of his body hitting the ground. I drew my dagger and stepped closer, wary of any action he might take, but the man had nearly passed out already. He looked malnourished, emaciated and desperate. The strain that the wound had inflicted upon him seemed to have been nearly too much for his weakened body to handle. He was unshaven and stank, his hair was unkempt and dirty. As I took a closer look at the grievous wound – the arrow had pierced his forearm at an angle, clearly shattering the bone within -, another man stepped from the brushes, a bow in hand, but not drawn. He greeted us, clearly not harboring malicious intentions towards us, yet still, he startled us. He introduced himself as Jeromè Wayladh. He said that he had kept an eye on us since spotting us on the road from Ruochwòd, knowing the area of the Yellow Hills to house groups of bandits. After all, two young women travelling the roads on their own are still a welcome target for many criminals.
As Jeromè inspected the bandit's wound alongside me, he came to a grim conclusion, and drew his sword. The man's arm was injured beyond hope, the loss of blood had weakened his poor body further, and we had no realistic way of helping him. The next station to the north was the Inguard, to the south lay Ruochwòd, and both were too far away, considering we'd have to travel with a man at the doors of death.

Walking the road towards north did nothing to lessen the impact his death at Jeromè's blade had left upon me. I tried distracting myself through brief conversations with Jeromè, learning of his Reizhite origins, his wish to travel the whole of Tri-Kazel, and of his time learning the ways of the Varigals.
I asked him about Osta-Baille, Kalvernach and the other towns he had seen, about his adventures and experiences. Sadly, though, there hadn't been many of those he could've told me about. He had managed to sneak around some bandits here and there, had hunted some wild animals for food and had met some interesting people, but there had never been anything truly interesting. Thinking that Shanja and I have experienced more of an adventure in Ruochwòd, than he had in several years on the road, is quite exhilarating; but it also saddens me. I've always though of the Varigals as, well, heroes. Courageous men and women, travelling the roads of Tri-Kazel on their own, using ways only their kind can see, delivering important messages to remote villages, wandering into the deepest and darkest of forests, helping people in need with their skills and knowledge. While he's quite nice and polite, Jeromè is... hardly more than a simple messenger.

Shortly before dusk, we reached a small cave with enough room for the three of us. The cave seems to be a secret Varigal hiding spot – we found some stacks of dry wood and a place for a camp fire.
As I'm writing this, the smell of a nice chicken breast, being cooked with pumpkin, carrots and cabbage is filling the cave; Shanja is quite the cook.
I'll have the last shift of our vigil.


Day 6 of the second tenday of Giblean, 907

We've reached the Inguard after, what I'd call, a quite mysterious day. It began with being woken up by Shanja at dawn – though she'd been supposed to wake Jeromè in the night, who'd been supposed wo wake me a couple of hours before dawn. She claimed that she'd been unable to wake him up, so she had just stayed up for the whole of the night. He was embarassed, so much was clearly visible, but any semblance of embarassement or anger quickly vanished – just some yards outside of of the cave, the ground was marked, grass trampled by what looked like the trail of a giant bear, but its tracks were larger than those of any bear should ever be. Jeromè quickly led us away and none of us talked all that much, until we finally reached our destination.

The Inguard's situated between two mountains, a spacious stronghold of stone, its courtyard housing a barrack for soldiers, a nameless inn, stables, a smithy, a general workshop and a house for the commander.
We'll be playing some songs for the soldiers tonight, though we wouldn't have to: Food and lodging has to be given to travellers for free at Inguards, as per the King's Law.
Commander Mac Orram offered us to accompany the patrol that'll be heading out tomorrow, since it will also go north for a while.

I wonder – what kind of Feond did lurk outside of our cave, and why didn't it come for us? Over the door to the commander's house hang two large horns, both as long as a grown man and as thick as that man's leg... Mac Orram told me they are dating far back, maybe even to the time of the Aergewin...

Day 7 of the second tenday of Giblean, 907

Never have I longed for home like I do now. Memories of my earliest years are what I'm clinging to, just to keep the dark events of the day from overwhelming me. Memories of a warm fireplace, of a rich potatoe stew.

Truly, we fought for our lives today. Around noon, the patrol split up. Most of the soldiers went into the woods to investigate some suspicious tracks, most likely those of bandits, and we were charged with setting up a small camp and preparing lunch. A single soldier, a battle-hardened veteran by the looks of him, stayed with us. Just as Shanja was about to drop some chicken meat into the cooking pot, we were attacked.
They were five, bandits with blades and clubs, dressed in leather and heavy furs; among them was even a woman, bloodlust and greed in her eyes.
Two of them went for the soldier – I never even spoke to him, and now he's dead!
Jeromè and Shanja both fought valiantly, while I desperately fought off the last of these cruel attackers.
We fell to the ground, fighting over a dagger. I slammed my elbow into the man's face, grabbed the blade's hilt and blindly stabbed at him. I scored at least one hit, albeit by luck. He rolled away from me, looked around and started running away.
Three of the bandits had been cut down and Jeromè was bleeding at the side. Shanja was unharmed, but the poor soldier who had been with us lay dead on the ground, his head split open from what looked like a heavy strike of a club.

Shortly thereafter, the patrol returned. The soldiers were in shock as they saw the camp, the wounded bandits and their dead comrade. Revenge came swiftly, as they kicked and stabbed the surviving vagabonds to the brink of death before leaving them on their own. I can hardly fathom the levels of violence I was witness to. Death is all that awaits a man turned criminal, but in death, they find absolution. It should come as a release from their troubled lives, not in the form of a savage beating, leaving nothing but broken bones and raw flesh.
I pray for their souls and I pray to the spirits to safely guide us to Kel Loar.

[Iris]

Thank you for giving us this new chapter of the story !