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Dusty old journal

[bound in plain rothe leather, it's a cheap book full of blank pages. It's covered in a thin layer of dust, as are the pages that have been marked.]

I feel compelled to write. I don't want to write. None of this should ever be written. To drift away into obscurity is best. There is a pain in my stomach, like a fire, and I can feel it in my mind. Why do I write? I need to stop.

I need to remember. A long time ago, when I arrived in the employ of House Maerdyn, they left me in the stocks to break my spirit. Leaving my bare back exposed to the cold air, they would whip me for hours at a time, never tiring of my cries. No one around me was allowed to help me once they'd left. For that matter, no one tried. I was left there, starving; when my legs would give out, I would collapse and choke in the stocks until I could manage to stand again. My feet were cold, then shook and shivered like the knees of a young soldier, and then they went numb. My wrists were worn raw from struggling against the restraints, and the dull scent of copper lingered close to my nose. I could smell and feel my own death.

The rumble of war and battle above would shake loose pebbles and sand from the ceiling, and it covered my wounds, leaving deep scars. One day, when they sent their strongest one to whip me, a stone dislodged itself from the ceiling, accompanied by a single shout of peerless beauty and strength and a deep rumbling that threatened to overtake the cavern. The stone landed squarely on the back of my head, leaving me bleeding but with strangely little pain. Seeing how I was already suffering, the one with the whip laughed and left me.

Great Stone Spirit, you found me long before they did.

I remembered today the fight between Avuna and the halflings, when without warning they decided to have her killed. I didn't know why at the time, but later I was told it was because Avuna had been found in the possession of something she shouldn't have. Maybe that's why they took away her signature silver blade before the fight.

They used to like it when Avuna would fight. Some of them claimed that even with her blood tainted by humans, the power of her Drow side made her invincible; some of them enjoyed watching her suffer, hating her for being an abomination; the rest just enjoyed the rewards she earned in battle. They all had the same glare during that fight, as though they were all the same Drow.

I was fighting with the others for a view from the gates. I wanted to see her the most, so it wasn't quite fair that the others pushed me away over and over. What I did see proved my prediction to be true; she won, easily, with only a few scratches here and there, even with that dull iron short sword. Something about the way she fought confused me, and still confuses me now; why did she remove her armor before the fight? She looked so graceful, as always, but in that fight it was like a dance.

The reason it confuses me still is because I tried it today. The necromantic ratman had withered my strength next to nothing, and I could not give chase with Kalysta and Gorry. Falling behind, I had no choice but to rip my armor off and charge ahead naked. I was not nearly as graceful, but with the creature only using magic and no weapons perhaps I did not lose much of my safety. Had he decided to use that blade he had with him, I would have been in two pieces.

It was comfortable to fight without that armor. I'll try it again later when armor is not such a necessity.

[this page is stained slightly with a mysterious grease at one corner]

Cats and kittens, dig this crazy scene; some mad daddios and I tripped down under the town for a dance with those devil rats, you know the ones. Baby, it was

[the writing is stricken and abandoned, and far below...]

This enchanted hair grease is dangerous. I should have taken the scythe.

There's something very uncomfortable about the chairs in this city. I find myself preferring the ground to a chair. The only exception I've yet found is the chairs in the Frederick Hall.

When I started fighting it was very similar; I felt very uncomfortable with the weapon they gave me. Even right now I have an issue with maces. Maces are the worst. I found that in places the walls tended to crumble, and usually I would be lucky enough to find a loose bar that I could pry loose. I think that it was after my fight with the Malar Beast that they realized the cost of replacing the bars was worth it to have me win.

That day, I was sent up the ramp with a sword. It was the first time I'd been given one, but I had no idea why; at the time, I couldn't even conceive that something special was about to happen. Anyways, I found myself standing opposite a very frail-looking Half-Drow, her arms withered almost down to the bones. I felt a little bad about having to face her in battle, but it wasn't long before my pity turned into fear. A Malar Beast, covered from head to paw with steel armor, was the weapon of choice for that woman; she had to do nothing but sit back and let it rip me apart.

On that day, I stopped feeling afraid. I stopped hearing the roar of the crowds or of the Beast, and I began fighting like I was supposed to. In the usual place where I would find loose bars, I instead found a tattered stick of zurkhwood; about 2 feet long, jagged on one end, and bent a little from stress, I lamented my fate and took the debris in hand, forgetting entirely about the dented short sword at my side. I'd become so accustomed to finding a better weapon there that when I finally found a worse one, I still picked it up on instinct.

That was what I found that day; not a stick, but instinct. I tapped into something wholly unexplainable, and when the Beast charged, I charged right back. When it sank its enourmous fangs into my side and ripped me open, I let out that terrifying shout of rage. That's when I felt It for the first time; my namesake, my birthright. The zurkhwood debris, put in front of such force as I had gathered, impaled the Beast through the neck three times before I awoke, dying on the ground. I'd been disemboweled that day, something out of a gruesome ritual, but I stood shakily to my feet over the corpse of the Malar Beast. The Half-Drow stared, terrified, and in her eyes I saw the reflection of something unworldly.

The Beast in Me.

The rock is missing. I set it down on the steps and forgot to pick it up again. Now it is gone. Somebody took it, or moved it. I will find them. I will punish them.

I remembered the face of my father today. It came in a flash, as I made my way up the stairs out of Lower. The smoke and charred bodies in the Shrine startled me out of my senses, and before I knew where I was, I had already reached the gate.

I'd spent some time thinking about it, trying to draw the face so I have something more substantial than my mind. Eventually I gave up, and wandered out the city gates, past Bunge's camp, and up the path. I sat for a while, and for the first time in quite a while I found myself looking up.

What a glorious sight did I see. To whomever should someday find this, I hope you someday get to see the surface on a bright, cloudless day, with blue that stretches far beyond anything you've ever seen. Light envelopes everything, and soft, green grass covers the earth like a blanket. For a moment, I was reminded of all this, and as I returned back down to where I was again I decided to spend the rest of the day alone, in thought.

The results of this day have been exciting. The face of my father and mother, and my younger sister, all come quite easily to me now. I can see the small little shop where my father would sell his masonry, and the even smaller rooms in the back where we would stay. Most of all, I can see the rolling hills of green, speckled with the yellow of flowers and stretching before me infinitely. That is where I spent most of my time when I was very young.

The longer I spend thinking about it, the more the sun begins to move. It wanders down towards the horizon, and in its place come enourmous, dark clouds. I think perhaps it is my mind telling me not to dwell overmuch in the past, but I'm smitten; I feel almost as though I'm not alone right now. It's the first time I've felt it.

Does this mean I was born on the surface?

Last week was very uncomfortable for me. Yesterday was as well. The day before that and before that a few more times were also quite troublesome. But something uniquely special happened today, and because of it I decided to take the day off from fighting and so on.

I started by taking a stroll through Lower, where by some stretch of fate's imagination I was not accosted by thugs, robbers, or adventurers. I went over to the tunnels underneath Lower and had a nice meal at the Kobold camp there while I thought about what I should do. It wasn't long before I resolved to make a trek back to the Blue Mushroom to enjoy their architecture once again.

It was a little dangerous in the mines, but nothing remarkable; a small tribe of goblins, more concerned with where to get their next meal than with me, were quickly dispatched on the off chance one of them had a distant third cousin in Slugcrawl or had perhaps lived near them any time in the last ten years. It was the sort of fighting I really didn't mind; recreational, productive, and simple (if not easy; damned shaman.)

Out by the Dark Lake I had a little trouble finding my way to the inn. There was a passage that someone had uncovered on my first trip out this way but it just wasn't available this time. I spent a couple hours examining the sheer stone wall, which, mind you, wasn't a particularly unpleasant way to spend one's vacation.

What else? Oh, yes, I spoke briefly with the gnome and got an idea of how much he charged for a ride on his boat. I've decided that it's money better spent on rusty daggers to put in my arms and legs. Oh yes, I think I'll just pay you to take me on a boat.

Gnomes are strange.

Regardless, I had a good time, enjoying the sight of the old inn and the cleverly-designed paths in the direction of Sslal'teesh. After a few hours and another quick meal I started home through the mines once again, a delightful trip marred in only a few places by the occasional bat. I think Yes, there is one still stuck to my arm; I hardly noticed.

Well, I'm running low on air so I should probably stop writing and reading aloud what I write. Or maybe just stop reading it aloud. It's hard to tell what the right decision is when you've been struck on the head a few times, the air is running out, and you're trapped in a veritable avalanche of stone. Oh yes, and if anybody finds this journal, please give my swords to Monica or Gorry. I think either of them would be good, yes.

Oh, nevermind. Found a hole.