*this small leatherbound book can often be seen on Drin's person, though regulars of the Temple of Tyr may also see it lying under the third cot from the door in the sleeping chambers from time to time*

My name is Drin.

I have spent over a half year in these depths, as near as I can recall. Half a year alive, anyway. But that is another tale for a later telling.

My village didn't really have a name that I recall among us hins. We simply called it 'home'. Even after I moved to Waterdeep, I still referred to my village as 'home'. Waterdeep was just a place to work and rest.

Home was a place that was usually pretty peaceful. It was large by hin standards, about 50-60 depending on the ebb and flow of families growing or shrinking. It was, as most, hin communities were a happy place, the fields and farms were maintained, the children played, the adolescents up to the typical tomfoolery and the adults minded and maintained it all.

Our particular community was rare in that it had a temple of Yondalla. Quite rare actually, come to think of it. Hins rarely have the dedication to a single cause or rather the attention span to keep focused on something as ambitious as building a temple. I wish I could say that my community was different in this respect but they weren't - we actually had found this temple.

Centuries ago, these used to be human farm lands. But due to the nomadic and often barbaric lifestyle of humans, war consumed this countryside and whatever or whoever used to live here, either left or died.

As the tales tell, an ancestor to the current Matron Mother was on a pilgramage to an annual festival dedicated to Yondalla in a distant hin community. When night fell and several wild animals persued him across the plains, he found this temple, originally dedicated to an unknown, but benevolent seeming human goddess. He took shelter in the temple until daybreak when the pursuant beasts fled back into a nearby forrest.

After the festival, the ancestor and several other hins stopped back at the human temple. Fascinated by it's rather obtuse location amid what was otherwise an empty, barren plain, they stayed the night looking for clues as to what diety this was originally erected for.

Most of the stonework that seemed to have etchings of the history of the temple was worn away or had been damaged in, what evidence suggested, was a great battle within the temple itself.

The following morning the small group of pilgrims were about to set out when they were besieged by the animals that had originally chased the Matron mothers' ancestor. The tell tale leader, a worg with a scar that reached from the bottom of its left eye down it's jaw and onto it's chest, growled as it's pack surrounded the pilgrims.

Cautiously, the pigrims moved back towards the safety of the temple.

Suddenly, one of the worgs lunged forward snapping down on the leg of one of the pilgrims. He grabbed the arm of another pigrilm and the two of them tried to wrestle free of it's grip.

The Matron Mothers ancestor extended his hand, calling upon The Blessed one, and stilled the beast in it's tracks. Just as the wounded pilgrim had freed himself the other Worgs closed in now seduced by the scent of fresh blood.

And with that several more lunged in, grabbing a single hin and tearing him to pieces before anything could be done.

The Ancestor and pilgrims then summoned what divine creatures they could muster to provide assitance. Though now nearly doubled in number, the pilgrims still were out numbered and without weapons.

The Worgs bore down on them as the hin retreated to the temple. The summoned creatures were able to take down several of the beasts before falling themselves, but enough time was bought to allow the hins, despite their wounds, to make it back to the temple.

For days, the pilgrims stayed in the temple, using summoned birds to retreive berries and small fruits for them to eat. The Ancestor tended to the wounded, exhausting himself each day and night by not sleeping as the Worgs patrolled outside menacingly.

The Ancestor setup a small shrine to Yondalla in a small nook in the corner of the temple. There the pilgrims prayed to The Blessed One consistently. The Ancestor gathered up that days berry gatherings from the birds and placed them in front of the shrine.

He glanced over his shoulder, and upon seeing, the dying and wounded among him, cried as he begged Yondalla to aid them, using their only source of food as an offering.

As the sun set on that day, the Worg's began clawing at the temple door. They were getting desperate and scratching could be heard along the walls as they tried to scale them to get to the broken windows to enter.

Then off in the distance a war cry could be heard and then a series of blinding flashes of light followed by a thunderclaps that shook the very foundation of the temple.

The Ancestor gathered up the pilgrims and together they prayed.

After a while the noise subsided and shouts of people could be heard. Finally there was a knock at the temple door.

When the Ancestor opened it, he and the other pilgrims' faces lit up with smiles bright enough to light the sky. For standing before them, dressed in tough leathers under robes with Yondalla's crest, were members of The Wayward Wardens.

Apparently they had been present at the same festival as the pilgrims but took a different route to the next town. When they didn't see the pilgrims, they went looking for them. And the birds used to gather berries eventually lead the Wardens to the temple.

When the ancestor glanced back at the shrine, the berries were gone - The Blessed One had heard them.

The Wayward Wardens stayed behind to protect the Pilgrims while they healed, providing supplies, scavenging for food, and fending off the Leader of the Worgs and what was left of his pack after they were beaten back by the Wardens.

Rumor spread to surrounding hin communities about these events and curiosity attracted more hins. Several families even decided to setup homes next to the ruined temple.

Eventually a small community formed. When the wounded hins were well enough to travel, they opted to instead stay behind, having felt a special connection to this location now.

The temple, was restored to one of Yondalla under the watchful and pious management of the Ancestor.

Eventually, when the community became larger, the Wardens felt it safe to leave and were given a grand sending off celebration.

And for centuries my home lived in relative peace.

My story was to start around this time. Among a flourishing community of hin. We were free and bound to nothing but the limits of our imaginations. Times were good.

There was much to do though. As much as we played we had fields to tend and other hin related duties - such as silly mischievousness and birthdays galore. My village believed that if a birthday celebration lasted less than a week, you really didn't have a birthday.

The Matron Mother, who was a priestess of Yondalla and descendant to the hin priest in the previous story, kept order and made sure we had our annual Harvest Festival on time. She also acted as a shoulder to cry on when unfortunate things would happen...which usually involved spilled ale and other mundane things.

Our trade was good with neighboring human cities, both human and elves of the nearby woods. We even had made friends with some dwarves that often came for our fruits and a special 'sweet' ale that Witherspitterspeed used to make.

He had our unfriendly contacts as well. There was a cavernous group of goblins that regularly would steal from our village and cause mostly minor problems. There was a pack of worgs that would kill some of our smaller livestock like chickens and so on. We had heard rumor's of a dark elf that had been lurking around the village stealing hin children, but most of us just considered that a ghost story told to children.

One would think that my life was much like what I described above - relaxed, merry and very hin-like.

Not quite so.

My father was quite rare for a lightfoot. He spent much time with dwarves in his younger years and for that picked up the trade of smithing. He was a fine forger of metal items. Though he could forge and make some wondrous armors and short blades, he primarily preferred to make copper pots and cooking pans. These were very popular among the cooks of home and even as far as Waterdeep.

While delivering a set of forks and other flatware to a nearby hin village, he met what he described as "a wondrous hin lass of unmatched beauty and grace. You could even smell her perfection alongside the scent of her perfume." This statement is even more powerful when you consider that my father is far from a poet or wordsmith. He actually had a hard time expressing what he wanted clearly, anyone who knew him had to have a sort of intuition about him to figure out what he wanted.

The woman he referred to was of course my mother. Truly a gifted woman she was.

Even in these depths of the Underdark, I find myself thinking about her. She's one of the few things that keeps me going, well the memories of her.

She loved reading. Books were her passion. It didn't matter the topic or the author, she just loved to read. Its no wonder that when she stumbled upon a wizards spell book that it fascinated her. Captivated her, more accurately.

She had been in that village following an elven mage who was her mentor as they needed some reagents for her further education. That was when my father and mother met.

In typical hin fashion, impulsiveness combined with the social deprivation that comes with dedication to a hobby or profession and a dash of physical and mental attraction, my mother allowed my father back to her inn room and together...well I'm sure you can guess.

Despite their efforts to conceal their attraction to each other from my mothers mentor, the Elf was wise as well as pleased that his young apprentice had found someone that made her happy.

He allowed her to continue seeing him so long as her studies were not affected by such. She didn't want to bring shame to her family by breaking a promise to a family friend (as the elf was) and having great respect for each other, they both would meet at the same village and the same inn over the course of a harvest year.

After she fulfilled her obligation to her mentor she promptly married my father and conceived my brother, Remmy.

Remmy was quickly followed by my other two brothers, Mort and Tram. Together they got into much trouble at home. Though what they did would rarely be considered 'trouble' by the rest of our village, my parents wanted to maintain the family honor by not becoming a nuisance. He maintained a loose set of standards throughout their lives. And my father did enjoy ale as much as anyone else, my mother never drank a drop.

Amid some recent troubles of trade that my father had fallen upon, my life was different when I was born several years later.

From day one, my father treated me differently than my other brothers. While, Mort and Tram were off doing what they wished, my father held Remmy and myself to a different standard of living.

Some of the 'adventures' that Mort and Tram had engaged in had driven away several Elven customers. The details of what happened, never were fully told to me and my brothers never spoke of it ever either. This spurned my father to impress upon me the values of duty and self-respect and to let no action tarnish our family name, be it to a hin or any other race. Remmy seemed at least intrigued by what my father had to say, though it was obvious he was not fully embracing it, he at least listened to the words.

My mother being the quiet pensive of the two parents, became my favorite, mainly because I knew so little about what she did. Her skill in 'the craft', as I was told it was called, had grown considerably. It wasn't until many, many years later that I realized just how powerful she was.

But as a young boy, everything she did was of a wondrous nature. I was totally mesmerized by even the simplest things like the time she summoned the broom to sweep the floor. I'll never forget the smile I had on my face as I chase that broom around our cottage barefoot. My mother would twirl her finger and make it hop just out of my reach, occasionally, allowing me to tackle it and giggle with the joy that only a child knows.

My father often hoped that I'd take up either his trade as a smith or my mothers trade as a potion brewer. Being totally fascinated by what was possible with the craft, I took up studies as an adolescent under my mother. I learned that there are many schools of thought and that she favored Illusions.

However, I was a poor student. The incantations were difficult to memorize, since several spells of greatly different effects had similar sounds. I tried my best and was eventually able to master several minor cantrips. What made this even more difficult was that Mort and Tram were always creating distractions for me. I could never concentrate enough to really learn much. Though my mother never said a word and was always very encouraging to me, I could just sense the disappointment in her. I really don't know how I knew, but I knew. One thing I never did forget though was the names and effects of the spells. While I couldn't perform them myself, I could recognize when one was being cast and knew, by the motions, if it was a harmful or friendly spell.

Related to this, I also had a strange sense about who was trust worthy and who wasn't. This on occasion had spared my father some heartache in his line of work when, because of me, he was able to avoid a few unsavory folks. These feelings would come and go without warning and with out any control on my part.

As I grew older, my brothers started to settle a bit in personality. And by a bit, I mean just barely. Noticeable probably only to fellow hin.

Remmy had taken up archery and would join on local hunts for wild boars and other small game. He also was pretty nimble and so he was used for all sorts of odd jobs around the village.

Mort, was more reckless, he was constantly getting into trouble. He enjoyed pranks entirely too much. Though he didn't much like pulling pranks on Remmy as he was too keen on his surroundings and could usually spot one of Mort's tricks almost right away. Mort prefered to pull them on me, since I was less keen and was generally an easier target.

Tram, well, he was.....Tram. He was a storyteller. He always had a response for everything. A joke, a comment, something. Of the 4 of us, I'd say he was by far the most handsome. He had a way about him that made you almost believe every word that came out of his mouth.

Tram and Mort worked well together. They're somewhat reckless lifestyles seemed to compliment each other. I remember this one time during the spring, the Flatchin boys had been harassing Remmy about why he wore such funny clothes when he would go out to hunt. Admittedly, he did have this rather slick combination of leathers that he'd made himself. Though when he dyed them, he accidentally used what he thought was water to dilute the dye. Instead he accidentally grabbed a vial of something of my mothers that wasn't water. The results were that his leathers ended up becoming a light shade of pink, instead of the intended birch color he was hoping for.

Well Tram and Mort, decided to take it upon themselves and stop the harassing. Tram sweet talked the Flatchin brothers to meet them inside this old barn where supposedly the voluptuous Yarkin twins were waiting to kiss them. Sure enough, the Yarkin twins were there. And when the Flatchin boys tried to kiss them, they were slapped in the face with a pink cream pie. Tram and the girls laughed as it was an obvious prank.

Angry, the Flatchin boys stormed out in a huff, only to break a trip wire that was laid by Mort silently moments after they entered the barn. When they looked up, all they saw was huge buckets of bright pink dye raining down on them.

The dye, made with a more potent version of my mothers vile, stained their skin for weeks. I'll admit that I laughed every time I saw them.....as did most everyone else.

They never said a word about Remmy's leathers again.

The four of us brothers were a unique group. Tram and Mort always together, while Remmy and I usually spent our time separately doing whatever interested us. In my case it was usually hanging around with my parents.

I respected both of them greatly. My father was strict at home. Part of this, I believe was because he spent so much time with a group of mountain dwarves trying to get better at his trade of smithing. At times he even showed personality traits much like a dwarf - heavy drinking, boisterous laughter, taking offense to jokes about being short and so on.

He believed in family honor above all other things, except the love he showed my mother. While he was strict with us boys, he would go to pieces when my mother requested something. Tram and Remmy used to tease him about it, but he would always tell us that there is no greater reward in life than the love of a woman.

To this day, I have not yet experienced such. Though I believe my father may have known something much greater about life than I do, even with all my prayers and reflections.

It was my mothers calming touch and softer approach to matters of the home that kept us all in line. While my father would grow angry at some of the slightest things, my mother would remain calm. Though she when she did get angry, she never raised her voice, she simply expressed her disappointment with our actions. Something about the way she said it always made even Tram close his mouth and accept fault for his actions.

As we grew older, our father began pressuring us to do something with our lives. Around this time a band of goblins had become more and more bold. Sneaking into the village at night and stealing small things. Eventually this theft became more noticeable as whole wagons would end up missing or, worse yet, livestock would be found dead and cursed by goblin magics.

Seeing this as an opportunity for my brothers and I to better the family name, I spoke with them and the four of us devised a plan.

Tram went around to all the hin in the village and told them to go to sleep early that night and to leave the gates to the livestock pen open. Mort and Remmy then carefully set a trap near the entrance to the pen.

We stayed up all night long watching the pen from a neighbors hut. Shortly before sunrise, a pair of filthy goblins approached the pen. Mort snuck out of the hut and inched his way towards them. His hands grasped a rope as the goblins made their way towards a cow that was enjoying it's breakfast of grains and a few berries on a nearby bush.

With quickness, Mort pulled the rope and down dropped a net. With a second pull of the rope the net tightened on them, knocking them down.

Tram and myself rushed from the hut and confronted the goblins. They muttered something vile in their native tongue, laughing to themselves. When Tram asked what was so funny, they pointed behind us. When we turned around, there stood, Mort with a blade to his throat with a goblin standing behind him. By the time I turned back to the other two goblins, they had freed themselves from the net and now wielded a pair of crude, but sharp, little daggers.

Tram and I slowly backed away as Tram tried to talk them out of whatever it was they were thinking of doing. They however didn't want to talk and instead continued talking in their vile langauge. The one holding Mort pressed the blade harder against his neck, causing a small amount of blood to run down his collar bone.

It was then that I heard a 'thwip' and suddenly an arrow burst through the goblins head! Over his shoulder, as he slumped to the ground, I saw Remmy with his bow, knocking another arrow.

The other two goblins yelped in fear and took off running. Remmy was able to get one in the leg, but the other got away.

Seeing Morts wound, and the fact that he as passed out from shock, we woke our parents and Matron Mother.

As the sun rose, and the story of the night before spread quickly, the temple was swarmed with villagers wanting to know what happened. The Matron Mother told them to be patient as she tended to Morts wounds and my mother hugged the rest of us, greatful that we had not been hurt.

Though, Remmy and I both knew, with one still on the loose, that this was not the end.

Shortly after our encounter with the goblins, rumors began to spread among the local Hin about a tall, thin dark figure lurking about the outskirts of town, always cloaked in a shroud of darkness near sunrise.

When Remmy would go out an inspect the area where the figure was supposedly seen, he found little evidence short of a few scattered goblin tracks that he said were several days old.

Despite having apparently debunked this rumor, I often caught him looking towards the edge of town, often with a slight look of concern on his face.

When we hosted a hunting contest, hunters from all over the region, including a rare appearance of a pair of lovely elves came to join in the fun. Our village had become known as a place of wonderful celebrations, especially those surrounding food - a particular favorite of the Matron Mother.

The hunt was a wonderful success! The hunters returned at dusk and I must say a more glorious display of animals could not have been seen anywhere! From boars to fowl were hauled in for our cooks to prepare for the feast that night. Thanks to a dwarven duo of brothers there even was a bear brought down! However, the talk of the town was something more local. Despite being known for their nearly legendary abilities in the worlds forests and nature, the elven pair had to actually split the top prize, a set of my fathers finest vases and cooking tools, with Remmy!

Both Remmy and the Elven pair brought in two absolutely breathtaking male deer. Both had a set of antlers so large and numerous in points, that the Matron Mother declared them both winners!

The Elves congratulated Remmy on his remarkable catch and he spent most of the evening talking to them about bows, fletchings and other nature related topics.

The evening was so splendid with all the food, wine, fine conversation and, of course, the show put on by Tram and Mort on the steps of the Temple.

Tram's way with words seemed to enchant nearly everyone there. Not a person present, could resist laughing at his jokes and the pranks Mort would, undoubtedly planned ahead of time, pull on Tram as the show went on. For every segment of the performance, the dwarves would stand up, ale mugs in hand, shouting and holding their jolly stomachs in sheer entertainment. Though, honestly I thought it funniest when Mort tried to have a drinking contest with one of them. He barely made it through 3 pints before falling off his bench!

As my mother provided fun filled illusions for the children to enjoy, the rest of the village danced and jigged their way through the night to the songs of my brother Tram, all was as it should be that night.

Towards the end of the celebration, though, I remember seeing Remmy and the elves standing, talking and gesturing, towards the edge of the village, much in the same place where the mysterious figure was claimed to have been.

They silently walked out into the darkness, returning a short while later. When I finally caught up with Remmy, he had a grim look on his face. When I asked what was on his mind, he told me that it could keep till morning and to enjoy the festivities.

I awoke at sunrise the next morning to the sound of Mort, still drunk, falling out of bed and crashing to the wooden floor of our room. I glanced over at Remmy's bed where it lie unused for the evening.

I walked through the sleepy village, the smell of dwindling rotisserie fires filled the air. I gazed outward toward the edge of the village, there was but a single path that lead through the center of it.

There, a slender silhouette stamped across the rising sun of the eastern sky, stood Remmy, with his bow in hand, scanning the countryside. He barely turned when I walked up alongside him, his gaze fixated on the horizon.

"Drin, I spoke with the elves last night. They showed me a few things." The tone of his voice was serious and the expression on his face is not one you see on a Hins face very often.

"It was here last night. Standing right where we are now." He turned and looked at me.

"We need to organize more Hin. We need to train. Even you. And Tram and Mort. It's not a rumor, it's real. And it's coming back."

His tone struck a cord deep within me. All of life's worst thoughts suddenly rushed through my mind. A small tear began to form, but I did my best to fight it back.

"What is coming back?" I asked calmly, mustering all the courage I could to hide the fear I suddenly felt.

His response nearly froze my soul in place:

"Drow."

That word haunted me for days. While the rest of our family went about their lives as if nothing had changed. My already beleagured arcane studies became impossible to concentrate on. The rumors and stories I'd heard as a young Hin became the only things I could think about.

I was too scared to ask anyone else in the village about it for fear of being called superstitious or scared of the dark. But that latter part is what worried me. I had heard that Drow could summon a darkness that was like nothing ever seen before. So dark that not even dwarves or gnomes could see in it, so dark that not even the sun could pierce it.

So dark, that some thought it was the invocation of death itself surrounding whatever was trapped inside of it and that none whoever went in, ever came out. All you would hear is the screams and agony of those inside. It was said that the darkness would flay your body while you still lived before devouring it and swallow you up, soul and all.

Remmy knew what was on my mind. For every time he would look at me he would nod subtly, as it would seem he was thinking about the same thing.

I'm not sure if it was fear or desire to know more that compelled me to finally break down and ask my mother about Drow. But when my father and all my brothers were away, I posed the question to her.

When she asked me why I wanted to know, I told her about that night of the festival and Remmy's conversation with the Elves.

With a deep breath and a serious tone, she relayed to me information that her Elven mentor had once mentioned in passing.

She told me why the Drow were exiled underground and told me of their vile goddess Lloth. She said they indeed could create a darkness, but that it was simply a magical kind of night, not some soul-consuming cloud like the childrens stories.

Though the stories of their utter and unrivaled cruelty were, as far as most accounts stated, completely true.

She also told me that because of their love for and bond with Lloth, they were more powerful than surface counterparts. Much more powerful, and that I had every right to fear them.

Despite her warning about them, just simply having the conversation made me less afraid of them. For some reason, just knowing that they were flesh and blood like everyone else, and not some mythical never-before-seen-creature, made it seem less scary.

Though to this day, I still do consider them a dominant menace of the Underdark, I have encountered creatures that are vastly more powerful, far more unknown, and certainly more worthy of ones fear than the Drow.

*entry 010*

Mother was also spending more time traveling back and forth from Waterdeep as she had been contracted to make potions for several of the more wealthy nobility of the town - an arrangement her mentor had helped negotiate.

My father would occasionally go with her, offering his wares to them when they would request them as well as checking out the local human smiths for supplies.

This left us four brothers to keep the household running. We were old enough to do so and even, Tram with his often roving eye for excitement was willing to pitch in.

Remmy was different. He seemingly wouldn't sleep...ever. For weeks after Remmy and I's conversation, he trained harder, hunted longer, created huge stockpiles of arrows for his bow and generally became more distant from the rest of the family. He would complete his chores, apparently during the night, as every morning the pots and pans would be clean and his bed neatly made.

He would leave notes for us as to approximately where he could be found, but we rarely saw him in person. In a months time, I think only Tram, having had a late night with a sassy Hin lass, saw him once and even then, it was in passing as he again left.

One morning, I awoke and headed for the common room where Tram and Mort sat eating cold barley grain stew, a favorite among my family for the morning meal.

As per usual, the two were bickering over something, in this case a book that had been left by Remmy the night before.

Tram had usurped it as he often had a love of great tales and yarns and this one was "a raucusly noble tale of probably one of the greatest Hin's ever to be written about", as he put it. Of course Tram was known for his bloated overexaggerations of, well, everything.

Mort on the other hand, just simply wanted the book for the sake of having the book and tormenting Tram with it. These two always fought for things, usually ending up in one of two results: Tram conning Mort out of it, or Mort playing a trick on Tram, getting it by sneakier means.

It was a warm day that day and the Yarkin twins were always known to dress quite scantily during those types of days. I mention this because they happened to walk past our hut, catching the eye of both of my brothers, who quickly abandoned the book and darted from the hut for the more pleasant vista of the Yarkin bossoms.

As I sat down to my own bowl of cold barley grain stew, I stared at the book, lying open on the table. Mind you that most of what Tram and Mort were interested in was usually along the lines of 'Ooooo! Something Shiny!" and thus was only a minor, fleeting moment of intrigue. Personally, I liked things that held my interest for longer, thus my wish to learn, unsucesseful as it was, the Weave. But for whatever reason, I decided to set down my spoon, pick up the book and begin reading.

I don't recall specifically how many days I stayed in the hut, but it was many. For this book was truly as captivating as Tram had said it was.

When I finally finished the book, I felt as if something inside me changed, something was inspired, something was alive.

I headed to the Temple of Yondalla and asked the Matron Mother one simple question that, in hindsight, changed my life forever.

"What do you know about Arvoreen?"

*entry 011*

While the Matron Mother was, of course, most knowledgeable about Yondalla, she did have a few useful bits of information about The Wary sword or The Defender, as Arvoreen is sometimes alternatively called by his followers.

She told me that he unwaveringly protects all of Hinkind against harm, particularly against goblins and the power hungry human gods. She said that she might have a few historical scrolls laying about the archives of the Temple and if she could locate them I was welcome to come back and read them.

I thanked her for her time and was on my way.

As I exited the Temple, the part about protecting us against goblins kept repeating in my head. Was he the reason we lived that night? I know that Remmy is a fine archer, his shot was perfectly placed on that goblin holding Mort. Was it his will that guided it?

The conversation had created more questions, but I knew no one would know these answers so I just hoped that in time, more evidence of Arvoreen's presence would present itself. Perhaps if the Matron Mother found those scrolls, those would grant some answers.

*entry 012*

In the meantime, I resumed my usual household chores. Being physically stronger than my brothers, usually I got the more labor intensive jobs around the home. Things like carrying water from the creek, digging irrigation trenches for our garden, and chopping firewood for the stove and stone hutch in our common room.

My father had this very fine family axe he kept and used for all sorts of tasks from skinning vegatables to chopping wood, it was the tool for all occasions and when he wasn't around, I became quite fond of using it in his absence.

It had this wondrous handle made of a wood from a distant Elven forest. It's head had been forged from a unique combination of metals - mithril and Adamantine. According to my father, these two substances could not be fused together into singular object, since both had radically different compositions. However, the dwarves that he often associated with had found a way to mix the two. To this day they are the only clan of any race in the known world to be able to forge such an object. And they did this for my father.

Why, they did so would be the natural question. Really the answer is quite simple: He saved the life of the dwarves Prince.

Long after he had begun his apprenticeship under one of Clan Mountainfoot's smiths, he had been asked by Prince Gorgar to accompany him to a nearby mountain basin, where supposedly a new vein of ore was thought to originate. The Prince wanted my father to inspect the site and determine the quality of metals located there.

Nightfall had come as the two reached the basin and it was decided to make camp there and do the inspection in the morning.

What was supposed to be a peaceful night under the stars, turned into a fight for their lives when my father woke suddenly to the sounds of the Prince struggling with what looked like a man-wolf.

When the Prince drove his axe into the beasts torso, the wounds healed instantly. It heaved the prince clear across their camp with ease as whatever gave this beast life, also gave it immense strength and more.

Though that did not daunt my father, he did the only logical thing he could - grabbed a pair of his finest silver dinner knives.

The creature bore down on the prince, knocking his axe away. It lunged in to take a tasty bite of his flesh when my father lept out from behind and stabbed the creature in the lower back with the knives.

It howled and spun around hurling my father into a tree, knives still in hand. The Prince looked up and notice the wounds did not heal. Seeing it go for my father, the Prince ran up and grabbed it's legs, taking it down. My father scrambled to his feet and stabbed the creature in the chest many, many times.

Eventually, bloodstained and dead, the creature lay lifeless and still.

In gratitude of this act of courage, the King commissioned the forging of "the finest hin sized axe ever created in the history of the Mountainfoot clan."

With the Mithril and Adamantine alloy head attached atop the Elven wood, a Mountainfoot Battle Priest, blessed it with the might and strength equal to that which my father displayed that night.

The final product was both extremely light but ridiculously strong as my father, often out of frustration, would often demonstrate when he would smash it against the stone walls of his forge.

He never used the axe in combat, but he has told me that if it is ever used to defend any short-folk, be it gnome, dwarf or Hin, the true extent of its enchantments would become apparent.

*entry 013*

A few days later an acolyte of the temple was sent to get me; the matron mother had something for me.

When I arrived at the temple, the Matron Mother led me down into the basement. It was a dark and cool cavern that housed several hundred years of documents, scrolls and books about various Hins and Hin religions.

In the very back, stood a small three-shelf bookcase. On it's hickory shelves, were piles upon piles of scrolls, all covered in a thick layer of dust and earthly soot.

The Matron Mother slid her hand under one of the piles and fumbled around for a bit. Finally, with a smile, she with drew her hand. In it was a small journal, bound at the edge by thick string and protected by a thick leather cover.

With a deep exhale, she blew the dust off it and then wiped the cover clean with her hand.

"I believe this may help you find what you need," she said with a comforting tone that was her trademark. "You can't take it with you, but you are welcome back any time you wish."

She then handed me the journal and left me with a candle to provide light.

I peered down at it's cover. Sewn into it's cover were two tiny silver daggers, their blades crossed. As I ran my fingers across them, the metal was surprisingly warm to the touch, strange since the room was actually quite chilly. It was as if whatever words lay on the pages inside kept them warm and this book whole.

I took the candle and the journal with me to a nearby table and sat in the stool that was beside it. I gently sat the candle down and opened the book gently, it's leather cover creaking from recent lack of use.

"The Accord of an Initiate of The Wary Sword"

After reading the title, I flipped back to the outside cover and looked again at the stitched-in blades, smiling to myself at the simplicity and meaning of them now.

I honestly have no idea how long I was down there, but I read that journal until the candle finally faded entirely. When I left the temple, night had fallen it was time for dinner with my family.

Despite the lively conversation and Trams always interesting stories, I couldn't stop thinking about the journal. I just couldn't get enough.

*entry 014*

Day and night I would sneak away into the temple to read more of the journal. Something spoke to me through the writers words, something powerful.

The author was a female Hin by the name of Eryvyl Gracefoot. Though she was no poet or wordsmith, though the way she described the events of her life were captivating to me.

She often wrote of how she felt Arvoreen guided her when she was at a loss for what to do when faced with difficult choices. She also spoke highly of fellow Hins, never stating a single wrong word about any of them, even if they sleighted her.

I could feel through her feelings that she was a strong willed Hin, her dedication was so powerful, so inspiring, that it was as if I could feel her in the room with me.

On one particular night, I hear noises up the stairwell of the archives and much comotion.

As soon as I ascended the Matron Mother spotted me and told me that someone had set fire to a farm on the south end of the village.

Without hesitation I sprinted from the Temple of Yondalla and grabbed the buckets at my parents home and rushed for the creek on eastern edge of town.

Remmy and Mort had already begun a line of Hin's to carry ferry water from the creek to the fire while Tram tried to calm three children who were crying.

After an hour of dousing, the fire was reduced to smoke, but the damage had been done. The farm and farm house were burned to the ground. And the parents of the crying children had perished in the blaze.

As we sifted through the ash and rubble, we found an even more disturbing sight - a fourth child tied to the stone stove with the parents. This fire had been dilberately set to murder these Hin.

As soon as I saw this, I felt my blood boil. I clenched my fists so hard that I felt my nails break the skin of my palm. I didn't even notice the small stream of blood that ran down the length of my knuckles and onto the ground. Few times in my life have I ever felt so angry.

But for as angry as I was, I also felt empowered. Determined. Focussed.

When Remmy approached and showed me the goblin tracks he had found, my resolve was set:

I would fight.

*though most of the pages are skipped, on the inside of the back cover, there is a list of names:*

Mother *deceased* Father *deceased* Mort *deceased* Tram *deceased* Remmy

Cadets in Drow Hands: Trit Humas Kir Lingerfoot Mr. Flatthumb Shara