Hammer 1st, Sanctuary Year 152, 1374 DR

Another year passes by and with it an old face, I have been in this wretched little town little more than a month and I have already managed to find a place for myself; unsurprisingly, distrust of magic and its wielders is evident, even in the deepest parts of our world. The citizens of this remarkable irregularity mutter and whisper about political corruption; most of this is fuelled by the ‘rebels’ of the infamous (I use this word loosely) “Sewer Town” a cess-pit of disreputable murderers and anarchists. These miserable excuses of existence somehow managed to lead a rather vicious rebellion and I thank them for this. I find myself staggered by my own thought trail as I write these words, however, it is true, though not in a conventional sense of the word; I do not thank them for murdering citizens, or members of this town’s guard (the Watch), but I thank them for inviting me to view firsthand their magnificent slaughter at the hands of a Spellguard Agent. It was at this very moment that I knew my place. I was to wear those red and black robes and exercise the power that comes with them, I was to elevate myself above the common citizen whatever it takes. My journey to said robes was easier than I expected. It became obvious after I begun wearing them, however, that I was an outstanding candidate for their Order and thus it was my exceptional skill in manipulation of the Weave that made Agent status obtainable. ‘The Test’ as I have come to know it, was devised to show my superiors not only my power with the Weave, but my skill in choice of spell sets and tactics. In an attempt to show my ruthless power, I prepared several of my most powerful evocations and used a powerful summoning reagent to call forth an ally. I believe this achieved what it was meant to and I was accepted into the Order under ‘The Oath’, which I took gladly. So, here I sit in the Tower of the Spellguard; Ilmryn Illiandrio, Agent of the Order of the Spellguard; Arcane Defender of Sanctuary. Such irony! The favoured Apprentice of a failed Golem Crafter, soaring to heights unreachable above ground, below it.

Hammer 9th, Sanctuary Year 152, 1374 DR

I eat breakfast, one of the few times I can find solace enough to sit and reflect on the last tenday and record it. My accomplishments exceed previous beliefs. I have had major triumphs in both field work and research. Full reports pending publication in the archives. Applications for the Order have taken a turn for the worse, not only do the applicants seem to think we take on everyone and their mother, but they repeatedly attempt to gain my favour despite being unable to complete the most menial of tasks, or even follow the orders from their betters, so I shun them, subsequently making their attempts only more vigorous. Here I am, stuck in an ever cruel circle of unfathomable stupidity.

In other more important news, Tymora has graced me with her smile; “Goblintown” has been struck from existence. My only regret being that I was trapped beneath a torrent of research files and was unable to show the scum who lived there a true, painful defeat and so, most unfortunately, this was done without my aid. Reports suggest the survivors have found themselves a new area of our town to cover with their filth. I visited the remains of Old Goblintown, only to be faced with a stench beyond belief and the walking corpses of the slain goblins. Dead do not rise on their own accord, I am intrigued as to who their master may be.

Agent Blake is finally showing some worth, despite her pitiful performance during ‘The Test’. I am truly starting to believe that with rigorous training she can find herself worthy of wearing those robes; that is if she doesn’t die first. Agent Daheron still executes her plans with her own brand of tactlessness, but such is expected from a sorceress; however, I cannot argue with her results, something other Agents are lacking. Agent Graden still manages to infuriate me greatly. I’ve yet to see him do anything worthy of notice. I provided him with an Animatron Core as he lacked the ability to find one himself; disgraceful. If he continues in his attempts to look down his nose at me, he’ll soon find himself on the receiving end of my ire.

Fenwick is dead. Finally. I still cannot believe that fool called for my resignation. Whatever poor excuse for a brain he had behind that mutilated face of his should have been put to better use, in fact, he is probably making better decisions now he’s dead.

Hammer 10th, Sanctuary Year 152, 1374 DR

Idiotic whore. Defiant fool. Useless pleb. These are several statements I’d use to describe my colleagues. It all went to shit, if you’ll excuse such a vulgar term, but I’m in no mood to change it now. Daheron’s tactless nature finally got the better of her; she started that damned riot which cost me my artifacts, magical items and gold, in entirety, let alone my Law Enforcement effects and a huge dent in my pride. Blake, oh how I wish they’d kept her body; I can tell when she’s making an attempt at some kind of sarcasm or word play, she’s so easy to read, even in her writing. Graden, that self-righteous bastard, swanning around as if he actually means something. Gods above, if I didn’t know that these miserable little parasites will probably be dead soon, I’d do something about it. I suppose I'll have to remain content with that thought and continue to scribble unceasingly about their failings in my loyal little book...

[Ilmryn's diary lays on his bed in his quarters at the Spellguard Tower, the last entry unfinished.]