“The strongest memory is rendered impotent in the face of the palest ink.”

I’m not a fan of hollow proverbs, especially Waterdavian ones, but they do, from time to time, hold a modicum of truth. I have come to the inopportune conclusion that my memory seems to be failing, much to my chagrin. There is a brief compendium of logical causes for this most unfortunate effect at my disposal, and I shall document them at a later date. I have come to the conclusion that a log is needed to preserve my movements and resources.

Things in Waterdeep have been progressing smoothly. We have made contact with the head of W’s replacement and have begun working with her to track the movements of the assassin or assassins responsible for his demise. Head of W’s replacement, a miserable shrew of a woman, briefed each of the half a dozen agents from our detachment who will be reporting directly to her and their seconds. I am ashamed to say that it was only logical that Burke would name me as his lieutenant for our section of the investigation.

Our base of operations, a miserable safe-house in the Dock Ward, was not to the liking of anyone in our detachment. Despite my time away, I still know the area very well, and we had little trouble tracking down the contacts who would be most useful to us. Burke trusts me as his eyes and ears in the area, and it would be most advantageous to my position to perform as expected.

Most fortuitous was contact with an old associate who brought to my attention a helpful group that, as per my investigation, appears to be based in a warehouse half a block east blocks from Dock 118 on Fairington Lane. Curiously enough, it appears to be indirectly owned by a rather prosperous and influential merchant living in a more opulent area of the city. How influential this syndicate must be, and how fortuitous it is that they’ve lent us their aid. The price for the information they are willing to impart to us will undoubtedly be steep, given what I know of agents of similar groups to the north, but it may prove invaluable in finding our target.

Mr. Korvale, the man I have been directed to locate as we cast our nets to expose our agent’s killers, seems to be a rather intriguing bedlamite. I have read the report on him that was provided to Burke, and I don’t altogether relish meeting him. His brutality is well known in the Dock Ward, though the rumors of his being half-demon, a shapeshifter, a Zhent assassin, or an archpriest of Cyric seem to be little more than speculation. The information provided by the aforementioned cabal on his associates and holdings in the area have been quite costly, but I am confident that they will lead us to our quarry.

[The next entry is hastily written]

Burke is dead. I have been given the reigns of leadership for the Dock Ward division. Many of my spies and informants in the area have turned up missing as well. Karl's torso was found floating near the end of one of Dock 42, Jacobin was discovered in a pile of refuse, an arm bearing a tattoo that Farin had was found in a barrel of old stout, etc.

All victims have similar black burns, but certainly not from fire. The patterns and the condition of the flesh suggest something else, but what? Perhaps negative energy. Collect samples and test with negative energy first.

Sample One:

Sample too small. Consumed by the energy.

Sample Two:

Sample color is of a slightly different tinge than I would have wanted, but the results were similar. The wound was as black, but the initial discovery remains slightly different from the usual results of negative energy.

Sample Three:

Again similar, but too different to make an accurate comparison.

I have never seen wounds that were quite like this. I must investigate this further.

No breakthroughs on the exact fates that my contacts suffered. I fear that it will simply remain a mystery. No matter.

I am scheduled for another appointment in SP. My instructor pays well for what I bring him, and there is much knowledge to be gleaned from his informative - if disjointed and intermittently archaic - teachings.

[The next few pages are dedicated to detailed and well organized sketches of the human body. First a skinless human body with a thick layer of muscle is detailed with notes and theories on functioning crammed into any free space. The next three pages are dedicated to the skeletal systems of humans, elves, and dwarves with similar cramped paragraphs of notes. Special attention is given to the shape and character of the skull of each race and possible parallels between behaviors for which each species is known. The next half a dozen pages is dedicated to drawn cross-sections of various organs and theories about their purpose in the body. A rather curious edition in a society that does not rely on medical science...]

The Second of Marpenoth

[The next entree is written in a slanted, angry hand. Blood and occasional tears in the paper mark the page]

Damned drow. So obvious. How did I not see - [sharp scratches mar the next few lines]

Can only run. Can't be forgotten. Can't be forgotten.

[the next paragraph is similarly scratched out]

I'll have that bastard's head. As soon as I find a way back to - [the lines are again scratched out]

[a sharp looking sketch of a man who vaguely resembles Lucius hacking a sinister looking drow male in flowing black robes into large, gory pieces takes up about a third of the page. Numerous cloaked figures lie broken at the drow's feet]

[The next few lines are written in his usual elegant script]

Illusion that it may be, it will be mine. It is a fleeting thought, a hopeful wish of humanity's imagination, but I shall forge it nonetheless.

The Ninth of Marpenoth

Transmutation is a powerful force in the world. A simple deep gnome, as a result of some malign curse, can mutate into a fearsome Chosen. I have never been more certain that my path of study is the correct one.

[A single page is devoted to anatomical cross-sections of a hunched, rat-like creature easily recognized as a Chosen wererat. Most of the notes concentrate on the thin, sinewy muscles and the size and structure of the creature's brain when compared to that first of the common gnome and then the deep gnome. The diagrams are not terribly in-depth, and most of the comparisons involve the brain's shape.]

I have been pondering the relationship between sacrifice and reward. If I were to come to possess a powerful sword that would be of great use in my pursuits, would I keep it? As obvious as the answer appears, what if it were a weapon that would hinder me in another way if it were discovered that I happened to be connected to it? What then? Would it then be a wise choice to discard this tool, especially if doing so would bring a greater reward in time?

I was faced with a difficult choice, and I have made my decision. Swords are commonly made, and another will find its way into my hand before too long.

The Tenth of Marpenoth

A number of exciting developments as I work to fulfill my immediate ambition. My network of informants continues to grow steadily, and a recent breakthrough on a case might also serve as the spark that allows me to continue further along my chosen path.

The recent elections were rather surprising. It seems that a pair of paladins happened to get elected to office. I've always held that one can't get involved in politics if one is unwilling (or, as it were, conditioned through negative reinforcement to be unable) to lie or otherwise get one's hands dirty. We'll see how things go.

[Half of the page is devoted to a sketch of a large summoning circle. The runes look complex and carefully drawn. The location of the cave in which they were found is noted near the bottom, just above a few lines on what the circle could have been used to summon.]

The Thirteenth of Marpenoth

I've been under the weather lately. That seems like a rather meaningless saying now, as all things in Sanctuary are 'under the weather.' I've caught myself reverting back to old maxims once in a while. It reminds me of home, I suppose. The sun, wind running through my hair, real beef - it's all gone now, and even their memories have been so poisoned by my loathing of my current situation that they are like ash in my mouth. A single memory stands out clearest in all of this. I remember playing with Hubert, my cat, when I was a boy. I couldn't have been older than nine or ten. There's just something about the sun shining so brightly over the harbor and even with my fellow Waterdavians bustling about all that mattered was Hubert's contribution to my enjoyment of the summer day. With the many misadventures I've experienced since my youth, that memory seems aburdly out of place and meaningless, but it sticks with me more clearly than ever. I think I'd like to find a cat down here.

[A brief sketch of a sitting tomcat adorns the side of the page. It's eyes are dull and it's fur seems to be a tangled mess.]

As I said, I've been feeling ill. I inquired with the temple of Ibrandul about one of their acolytes tending to my Fish Rot or Moander's Touch or whatever the Hells those malefactors are spreading. What I got was another example of the pitiless unfairness of existence. Here I was, ashen in my bed, and my attendant left me after a few hours of prayers. I had paid him for the whole day! Invasion be damned, if a man can't stick to the contracts he signs there's even less hope for humanity than I had thought. I was forced to spend the rest of the day trying to struggle against the disease's symptoms on my own, unable to sleep because of all the damned screaming.

[A few symbols holy to Ibrandul are sketched along the sides of the page, as if he were hoping for divine healing simply by paying homage through art.]

I have no idea which of my contacts, if any, survived the assault. I certainly hope they were intelligent enough not to get themselves killed.

[A note is jotted down at the bottom of the last page.]

I have come to what is often called an impasse. This settlement faces almost certain destruction, and I do not have faith in the current deity before whom I bow down. Any well educated man knows what happens to those who do not make a deity sufficiently happy, and this puts me in a precarious spot. I can no longer continue in the religion that my Waterdavian contacts exposed me to shortly before I was [a word is hastily scratched out] relocated here.

I have heard of another that fits my liking, however. Some companions of mine in Luskan followed this Power, and I think I’ll begin researching on this figure in earnest.

The Sixteenth of Marpenoth

An interesting day. I saw a small gaggle of children laughing and playing around the rotting corpse of a goblin earlier. The people of Sanctuary have become so used to life's many horrors that it's almost as if they didn't exist.

This got me thinking a bit about my own childhood, particularly my father. Forgetfulness is not a feeling I'm accustomed to, but I've found myself unable to remember much of anything about him. His teeth were rotting out, and he smelled like beer and garbage the majority of the time. The only hint of personality that remains was the last thing he said to me:

"Keep your word, boy. Things are generally easier when you do"

Simplistic advice from a helplessly stupid man, I suppose. I seem to recall hearing that he got stabbed in a tavern brawl - surely not the end of an intelligent man. Still, I can't help but yearn for a time when I would see him stumbling around the Dock Ward. Perhaps it's simply my desire to return to the surface; longing for the unattainable has a habit of rearing its head in unusual ways.

I've found a figure who seems to identify with this missing figure in my life. He has all the crude respectability of the man I knew and the sharp intellect that I demand of those I respect.

[something is scratched out]

I need some stew.

The Twenty-Seventh of Marpenoth

Much has happened since I last wrote a few weeks ago. Both of the men I needed to get into the Spellguard are dead. Most vexing.

I was able to help kill a drow wizard with another magus. He was an extremely shrewd fellow, luckily for me; he recognized my companion as an Agent and burned him to ash instead of me. Servitude does have its occasional perks.

One of my contacts is dangling a truly succulent morsel in front of my nose. I know what he wants for it, but I still feel uneasy about accepting his terms. I'll have to sleep on it. Again.

A theoretically possible route to the surface has revealed itself. The logistics need to be finalized. I want nothing more than to rub this in the face of that idiot, Lucas. [something is hastily scratched out] Discipline is needed. No need to overplay my hand.