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The first portion of my pilgrimage is complete: I have arrived in Ephia's Well.

The trip from Baz'eel cost me nearly all of my wealth. I arrived with an empty purse and equipment ruined by the abuse of terrible ash storms. I was able to quickly replace what I needed, however, due to the generosity of Merchant Zizzo. It was only afterwards that I realized I should not accept loans from individuals I have only just met and barely had the chance to scrutinize.

Merchant Zizzo carries herself as a fine and faithful individual but what I have learned of the League of Gold does not press upon me a good impression. Additionally, there are many rumours that paint her as an opportunist and schemer.

The Merciful Mother would have me treat new acquaintances with respect and dignity. Therefore, I shall not hold Merchant Zizzo's league affiliation against her. Yet. Wealth, after all, is a soil where corruption can easily take root. I shall be like the gardener of Kula: watching the garden grow, blade in hand should there be a need for pruning.

This Well is my garden. I shall watch them all. Such is all I can do for now. Waterbearer Dina, Mother bless her soul, said my true purpose would reveal itself here in Ephia's Well. It has yet to reveal itself in any comprehensible way. So I watch.

My true purpose here in the Well still eludes me but there are many opportunities still to carry out the generalized duties of my oath. The Well's remoteness from Baz'eel leaves it susceptible. The surrounding desert is pockmarked with oasis and ruins. Places which the enemy--the criminal; the monster; the heretic--can gather and scheme. Neither my hammer nor my shield is at rest for long periods of time here.

And even when I am not scouring the desert of evils, there are the worms in the gutters to harvest. Not unlike Baz'eel, this place is awash in the meek; the poor; and the weak. They are scared and hungry and even the smallest act of charity sustains them. Unfortunately, I have quickly come to encounter that the downtrodden are are but pawns. Regardless of League colours, everyone speak over one another as if they know how to rightfully treat the refugees. Their arguments are circular and entangling. It is frustrating to listen to them as they intertwine virtues with policy with procedure and process. And frustrating even more to be incapable of hearing the truth behind their words.

Waterbearer Dina never encouraged me to study the art of oration, debate, and politics. My talents that lay elsewhere are worth emphasizing but it seems properly perceiving political machinations must be something I leave to my betters.

The truth is known to me, however, and my conviction is steadfast. Every refugee--every man, woman, and child--is called to serve the Merciful Mother and her blessed Sultan. They may be meek and weak now, but given the proper example, they may be inspired to fulfill their service.

I cannot describe the sensation that overcame me. I stood within the Krak, Miss DuPree having just arrived to speak to me. Then: panic? Inspiration? Some brief, minor madness? I felt the urge to flee--no, run. At first, my feet stumbled, then they quickened.

Seconds passed. Perhaps minutes. I do not know the path I took but I found myself within the deep Well. Upon my knees I bowed before the statue of the Pilgrim. In supplication, I drank of her cool waters. Slowly the strange and queer sensation I could not identify faded. Relief. I drank. My left hand a cup bringing her gift to my lips.

Then I saw the glimmer of a light within the waters. I reached down, my arm phasing into the water past its surface, reaching into depths unknown. My fingers wrapped themselves around a haft. I pulled a heavy weight from the water but gravity did not contest me.

The water was not the only gift from the Merciful Mother in that fountain. Within that holy place, I was bestowed a holy artifact. A hammer that glints like light glints off a pool of water.

I still do not know my purpose in the Well. But it is here. My purpose is here. The Merciful Mother tells me this. The reason why I have been guided to this sacred place will be known. And I will fulfill it.

The crusade against the enemies of B'aara continues. An ever present strife. Each day is the same for each day is one where I serve. Yet each day is different as each day is a new one in which I can better myself.

He called me faithless. Cort was wrong--of course. But I heard truth in his voice. The truth of his anger. I grew quieter when we continued on our quest. I needed to concentrate, I needed to focus. I would be indefatigable. I would prove him wrong. I would show Cort that with faith and piety, I could hold up the very world.

I had failed Cort in his eyes but I would redeem myself in the end. Upon arriving home, we had a conversation without the weight of impending death on our shoulders. I apologized. As did he, in his own way, explaining what drove him to his passionate moment of mindlessness. We are both better people for having toiled not just against an undead scourge, but the inner demons that would darken our minds and hearts.

The entire ordeal was a good reminder that faith is not enough. That steadfast vigilance is also needed. Consistency. Every moment of weakness, real or perceived, is a crack which corruption could slip in. Whether it be a fall to heresy and apostasy or a route in morale that results in broken ranks; weakness begets weakness begets failure.

And so I better myself. Ever always.


Given my recent arrival, I expected more people to be skeptical of me. Yet I am well received regardless. What a bold woman I must be, to make a claim for Champion for the city I have known for less than a month. What audacity.

Yet great and renown figures reacted approvingly when I spoke before the War Council. Others seem sure the Warmaster will select me for the role even if extenuating factors--such as political neutrality--would be key in the decision. I know I am worthy of the responsibility but convincing others of the same is a different matter.

Regardless, selected or not, I will serve. Every day is an opportunity to do my duty.


The Cinquefoil Rose.

Before my arrival in the Well, I steeled myself to be wary of their influence for much is said of them in Baz'eel: the ruthlessness and power hungry mercenaries that is the Banda Rossa; the subtle and mysterious cult that is the Sisterhood of the Sibylline Vine; the Balladeers.

Who are they really? What are their true intentions? Would-be rebellious insurrectionists? Dissidents biding their time? A secret sect of heretics?

I was suspicious of them not only because of their antagonistic relationship with the Sultanate and those bestowed with authority by Sultan Osman IV but because the Sisters' pseudo-state of being persona non grata within Baz'eel cannot be without good reason.

I had planned on keeping a distance but yet it seems I have garnered their attention in a number of ways. Before I knew it, they had become good acquaintances, reliable comrade-in-arms, faithful fellows of the Mother and Wheel.

The Grandmaster's recent announcement proclaiming and confirming that the Rose is subordinate to the Well was good to hear. But the strange method of governance of the Well does not necessarily equate to loyalty to the Sultanate.

Vigilance, as always, is warranted. Perhaps becoming closer to them is an opportunity to be exploited, to watch and scrutinize them more carefully.

Ephia's Well should be ruled by decree and dictate. By a governor appointed by the Sultan. But such is not the case. In his wisdom, Sultan Osman VI has put into place the Asterabadi experiment. Wisdom I am too ignorant to comprehend but shall respect and defer to regardless.

I care little for participating in the political process of the Well but Serene al-Leyla has convinced me that to ignore it is folly. That the process is an opportunity to act and carry out the Mother's will. My strengths lie upon the battlefield but even actions of low effort and significance can contribute to something greater. As much as I loathe at having to sully myself at the prospects of becoming embroiled in petty politics, al-Leyla's rational arguments are marked with the Mother's wisdom and it is only right to heed them.

Her words and advice, however, juxtapose discordantly with the actions of the new White League legate. The Serene exhorted her loyalty to the Sultan yet the new Legate seems to revel in anarchy and chaos. Not even a day and I wonder if this Sayburgh's true character is that of a seditionist.

I pray the holy Serene can impart her wisdom upon this Legate. And I pray that the Serene is not disappointed.

Joy. Oh joy.

Joyous is it to face the enemies of B'aara and her blessed Sultanate. And in the war against the Thousand Clans, I am presented an ever flowing fount of happiness of which I may drink deeply. Duty is something that I shall never lack. Purpose something I shall forever have in abundance.

Every strike of my hammer. Every smash with my shield. To commit righteous violence upon the orc brings me such indescribable elation. Whenever I inflict torn flesh or shattered born upon the greenskin filth, I know that I purge a speck of sin from the world. Every single death of an orc is one step closer to paradise where the children of B'aara may live in everlasting peace.

And in my work, I stand invincible against defeat. Shield and hammer parry aside the blows of brutish sword and axe. My donned armour endures their strikes, empowered by conviction. They may mob me, seek to tear me down. But even should I fall I will rise again, digging myself out from beneath their corpses to seek vengeance for the pain and suffering they cause.

Joy. Oh joy. A joyous life I live.

A page of paper of some sort of written draft is slipped between the pages of the journal.

Hide

Hark!

You read the words of Faith Kruehtzer, Layhammer of the Merciful Mother.

One step forward. One step back. Thus I am disappointed.

Now that the dust has started to settle, that is my assessment of the Well's governance. The new laws on blasphemy and apostasy further ensures that the Wheel turns Above All as it righteously should. That us faithful may better resist and be free of corruption and heresy born of foreign sources.

But so, too, do these new laws forget that the Mother-blessed Sultanate is the Wheel manifest. That the Sultanate, lead by the holy line of Maribid, wields its authority by divine right.

That the Well has willingly surrendered a portion of its sovereignty is an abhorrent aberration of good governance, an abdication of the tradition of wise and careful administration carried out by the line of Maribid.

Even one of the Banda's Capitanas has spoken out against this, though from a legalistic and logistical perspective, stating that the Rose's property rights in the Krak were adequate for their purposes.

Not too long ago, Grandmaster d'Auvergne clearly stated for all that the Cinquefoil Rose is subordinate to the Well. If she knew of the coming of these these new laws, then these laws have made her words weasley and duplicitous. If she did not, then the laws have merely made her words meaningless.

What I am most disappointed in, however, is the League of Purple. Legate Komemnos has sat upon his seat for how long now? Yet, in the span of a few weeks, the laws of this city were burned down and radically rewritten not just once, but twice.

If he was willing to allow the new Legate to upend the law, why did he bother acquiescing to Moretti's redrafting the law mere day before the election? Legate Komemnos has allowed all of this chaos and disorder to happen without imposing any semblance of a moderating influence.

The Well would do well to inherit the wise jurisprudence of the Sultanate: the law should be held near-sacrosanct, it should not be torched and rewritten every few weeks, as if the pyramid is a large seat which one warlord after another shove each other off of to impose their daily changing whims.

Legate Komemnos, your spoken praise of the Mother and the Wheel are welcome, but actions of conviction should follow less spoken praise become nothing more than lip service. The influence of foreign heretics may be diminished along with the League of Gold--

But do not forget to look to the League of White who would, in their desire and lust for revolution, overthrow a tradition of hundreds of years of divine governance. Do not forget that like corruption and heresy, revolt and revolution, too, may begin with small seeds.

[close]

A simple bellow. A short speech. Spurred on by Serene al-Leyla's encouragement to be more involved, I spoke my thoughts openly. And now I find myself suddenly far more greatly involved in a short amount of time than I anticipated.

Legate Komemnos is quick to thrust responsibility and trust upon me. I asked why and he answered that his position and responsibilities force him to make gambles often. He is right: I am not a terrible person to make a bet on. I am consistent. My opinions I have exhorted openly and the words that convey them are not corrupted by duplicity. If I speak, I speak because it is the truth and you need to be informed of it.

In our short discussions, he frequently referred back to how important decisions of governance often occurs away from the eyes of the public masses. Though it may be something I shall not personally partake of, either out of distaste or incapability, I recognize it is done. And why some must resort to it. I know where my strengths lie and in what role they would be best put to use. And I know where I have little to contribute. I am wise enough to leave the politicking to the politicians.

Member of the League of Purple. Voiced Citizen. Lictor. A number of changes made in a matter of hours. The first two I have been considering for some time.

The League of Purple, and its close ties to the Sultanate, is the closest thing to proper good governance that the Well requires. The mechanism of governance may prevent such from coming to fruition in a meaningful manner, but wearing a badge of allegiance is of no loss to me. It is just another case of the truth being stated.

Becoming a voiced citizen was simply a matter of time. Of accruing the dinari when it is not used to supply my eternal crusade. Time saved is time used wisely.

Legate Komemnos suggested a number of people I ought familiarize myself with. Some I already know. Others I must acquaint myself with. And an even smaller few I will need to watch very carefully.

Death.

How it reaped.

Death. Death. Death.

The sands tainted with green flesh and red blood. Dozens. Hundreds. Thousands. Like roaches succumbed to poison, they piled upon the sands in great number. Mounds of the orcan corpses becoming mountains. Monuments to our work. A feast given to the vultures and vermin that survive the desert sands by consuming what they can where they can.

Insatiable, death took not just the orcs.

Death touched many of the Well. Both well known and otherwise. They are mourned. Deeply and widely. The tears are endless. As are the soft words.

But pride should also swell. They died well. They died serving. Performing their duty to their ends. The Mother is ever proud of her children, ever welcoming of those who work towards the rejuvenation of Bel-Ishun. Especially when it is their own blood they use to water the ground.

I pray for a death like theirs. One where I serve till the very end.


At first, I thought my new position as Lictor would be a simple matter. But it has opened more doors than I would ever wish to step through. Into gardens. Into the halls of governance. Into private corners of the War Council. Into conversations no commoner would be able to eavesdrop upon.

Some of what I have heard disgusts me. The brazen begging for and exchanging of favours. Whispered insults towards those beyond eartshot. The grand strategists, governors, and decision makers acting like children.

Which is why I am thankful I am merely responsible for their safety and security. Should I be forced to participate in these conversations, every other word out of my mouth would be a scolding for their infantile behaviours.

My strength. My role. My use. Politicking to the politicians.

Slithering serpents. Venomous vipers. Reeking rats. Meek mice.

Every time I step into the Pyramid--metaphorically and literally--I catch glimpses of them in the corner of my eye. I look left. I look right. Everywhere I look, I see hints of corruption. Shadows cast not by furniture, fixture, and walls, but people sneaking about to do their insidious work.

But what can I do? Politicking to the politicians. I am no statesman. I am no inquisitor. I have not the mind to uncover the truth nor the voice to command others to do their rightful duty. I have been keeping notes and my own mind reels as I try to comprehend the puzzle of tangled written words I have cobbled together.

When I encourage virtue in others, it is because I have slammed my hammer into the face of evil. I cannot strike at intangible mysteries. I cannot bludgeon what I cannot comprehend into shape.

I understand now. I believe. At least some of it.

The secrecy. The collusion. All the happenings that occur away from peoples eyes and ears. The decisions made when the vast number of people are drowned in ignorance.

What I have seen and heard and learned is enough to drive some people mad. Enraged at the compromises forced. Confounded by the many variables that could be muddied by too many hands reaching into the cupboard. The decisions placed onto the leaders of the Well chosen by fickleness could shatter the disc if poor choices are made.

I have seen the box knocked over and the contents spilled upon the floor. None of it can go back in. I cannot undo the spill and return to ignorance. Knowledge weighs heavy upon mind and shoulder.

I do not envy those who lead and make these decisions. Though were I in their place, I would make the right decisions, the multitude of unintended consequences would be excruciating to bear responsibility for.

A coincidental series of events that unfortunately happened in reverse order. Squire Dandrik spoke with me (unfortunate casual conversation aside) about wanting to further promote the faith. Outreach and exemplification. The work of a cleric is not my forte but then I realized that does not mean opportunities should not be taken when they present themselves.

Hours earlier a Wyrmist heretic stood trial. I would not hesitate to fulfill my duty should an executioner be needed. But Magistrate Sobhy had in mind a less severe sentence. Just as I realized how I could properly display the Mother's mercy, a proper Waterbearer from the Temple arrived. So I stood aside and allowed her to do her duty. Had I been hesitant a minute less, a second less, I could have ushered forth a scene glorious to slack jaws and awe minds.

Instead the Hall of Jurisprudence filled with muted murmurings and whispers of disappointment. I wonder if Soldier Ristar could read my mind when I stared at him from across the hall, considering the conversation he was privy to between myself and Sergeant Nor.

The trial. The accused. Magistrate Sobhy's verdict. The guidance he received. Did Ristar consider the same coincidences that I did? I should ask him, perhaps, and speak plainly as best as possible even if they will not or cannot do the same with me at times.

It is ironic. My earliest days within the Well saw me proud to look upon the Sultan's Legion and suspicious of the Rose. Yet it seems their affections towards me are reversed. I can feel my respect for individual members of the Rose growing day-by-day (granted, some more than others) while I wonder just how pitifully the the Legion has been hobbled from fulfilling their duty.

How vividly reputation colours a first impression. Not even a first impression. An impression of a person before a glancing conversation is had with them. An impression before genuine, intimate conversation is had with them.

I have taken the words of a flawed person and I have allowed them to prejudice another. My carelessness may have costed me an opportunity but this strange conversation was an opportunity to begin with: to seek out the truth.

What is the true test of character I hope to evaluate? How shall I judge a person whom is an enigma to me through little fault of their own but mostly due to poor coincidence and circumstance?

I may have conveyed it poorly, but I think I did ask the question that cuts to the heart of the matter: would you care to suffer my scrutiny?

I have settled, I think, on how I can survive with my mind intact when becoming involved in the quagmire that is politics is unavoidable. Pretend an orc stands before me; strike it with my hammer. In such case, the hammer is the truth, my thoughts and opinions blunt and with just barely enough sugar coating to at least imply I care not to mindlessly insult whom I speak to.

Do I disadvantage myself by doing this? Am I open to exploitation? Open to being deceived? Yes, when I act honest and true, I may be taken advantaged of, but let them. I can only decide for myself if I wish to be deceitful, dishonourable, and conniving. And I choose not to. I cannot stop others from doing so, but I can choose for myself not to bend and compromise as they have.

I shall speak the truth. I shall disarm them with directness. I shall bewilder with openness. Should others connive upon me for doing so, I at least act as an example for what it means to be honest. And those who seek such character, those who seek the honest and true will know it is within me.


Legate Faith Kruehtzer.

Perish the thought.

Though I recognize Balladeer's d'Lyon's respect for and measure of me. I could barely keep my thoughts straight in that meeting. As I eventually said after I recovered from my bewilderment, if being a brave leader upon the field is enough to make one Legate, Marcellus would reign eternal.

The skills needed to manage insipid tongues and numbers needing calculations and spinning schemes is one I lack. I do not fear failure, but I can recognize when making way for better skilled individuals is the right course of action.

True faithfuls of B'aara can achieve much upon the Legate seats. But winning a seat in the first place is a gauntlet my sensibilities would not carry me through.


It has been a long time since anyone questioned and inquired of my past. I am happy to be ignorant of it. Such means I can focus upon the present and work towards the future. I thought I was clear when I said I do not lament the disconnect from the years I lived before, but for some reason Raventhia thinks there must be a deep meaning to my character hidden in the past.

How disappointed will Raventhia be when she pries open my armour and sees the same face she has already looked upon?

How many have seen Balladeer Aurelio d'Lyon as he revealed himself to me? A man tired. A man lonely. A man weighed down by the loss and death of peers and students alike.

He shows me great respect in making an offer of tutelage and squirehood. Some of it may have been diminished by me declining, but I know he has enough respect to at least make the offer to begin with.

Most especially, though, I am thankful for his warning. Imposters can take on the faces of not just mere men. And Aurelio gave me good warning to remember this.

Hide

5. Brooking:
A person found guilty of entering a pact with Djinn, Aberrations, Shades, Devils, or Demons has committed the crime of Brooking.

Capital Offense.

6. Illegal Worship:
A person found worshipping the cult of the Wyrm or spreading the faith of the Wyrm has committed Illegal Worship.

Capital offense.

7. Desecration:
A person found guilty of attempting to dishonor, defile, or animate the dead has committed Desecration.

Minor: Tampering with agave or retrieving things from it.
Serious: Destroying a grave or committing otherwise irreparable damage.
Capital: Animating the dead.

10. Sacrilege:
A person found guilty of knowingly and willfully attacking, damaging, or desecrating shrines or temples, pertaining to the Gods of the Wheel, with the exception of the Wyrm, and with the intention of causing such damage or desecration, has committed Sacrilege.

Capital.

11. Blasphemy:
A person who has been found guilty of blasphemy has spoken the names of the Gods of the Wheel in a manner without decorum, or has defiled the commons with the promotion of false deities beyond the Wheel.

Minor: Using the names of the Spokes as epithets, or speaking them without purpose of filial piety.
Serious: Advocating or preaching the doctrine o false Gods, foreign philosophies, or heretical interpretations of the Wheel in public property and forums.

14. Apostasy:
A person found found guilty of apostasy is to have been a follower of the Wheel who has opted to turn away from the goodness of the Gods of their own conscious volition; or to be a person whose material promotion and ceremonies of foreign faiths have been found responsible for corrupting pious adherents from the proper course of worship.

Serious: Renouncing one's faith in the Mother, the Wheel, and the entirety of its domain under the Spokes.

Capital: Encouraging or facilitating impiety in others by way of compulsion, deceit, or ceremony towards the domain of foreign anti-theistic philosophy, false Gods, or atheistic beliefs.

[close]

I have seen how it should be. Wise people sitting in contemplation. Discussing policy, the state of the Well, and how it should be. The wise recognize the wise. Respecting one another, speaking in turn, giving space for one another.

A shame that it shall not last. The Asterabadi Experiment gives; the Asterabadi Experiment takes. These wise minds shall be corrupted. The need to appeal to the masses shall overcome them. More and more compromise will be made to kowtow to one and another and another.


To crusade is to purge the heretic, slay the monster, punish the criminal. The orc is monstrous. Deserving no mercy; deserving only wrath. To crusade is to fight without doubt, without hesitation. And this I did. My hammer never hesitated before striking into the orc. My cries joyous in the face of their barbarism and their death rattles.

But when the last orc fell. When there were no more to slay. Nothing to contend against us. The greatest weapon we have ever wielded was turned upon a tree. Something old, ancient. Existing with a history my mind could not comprehend and my thoughts could not understand.

When all the orcs lay dead around me, I could do nothing but look at our prize and ask: why? What was that tree? What purpose did its destruction serve? What is the horror we have wrought with our own two hands?

I am not a woman of doubts but when I have no foe to focus my wrath upon, it seems my mind becomes empty and dark, filling with whatever tips over the lip of the jar.

Baltra was a sturdy rock that served as a foundation. On our quiet ashsail trip back to the Well, she could sense my mind was not at ease. A gentle prod from her and I voiced my confusion and my concerns. She had no answers but she asked questions.

Questions that I could answer. I may not know the mysteries of the tree. But I know the orc: barbaric, savage, murderous killers, crafting flesh like foul djinn, animating the dead as vile necromancers. I may not comprehend the grand scheme of things but I know the details of why and how when it comes to the orc I meet on the battlefield.

Defeat is not something I am familiar with. I have tasted it bitterness more than once but, thankfully, instances of it recoiling my tongue have been few and far between.

The second raid past the walls of Abulmahhu was not a disaster. It was not a collapse. It was a slow loss of momentum. It was a boulder having fallen down a mountain side come to a stand still as it rolled upon flat terrain for as long as its weight would allow it.

But even in loss does opportunity take the chance to flourish. We had, after all, killed hundreds of orcs. Thousands. And among their corpses, as I marched back towards the war camp, a glint caught my eye. A light pure and revealing.

Atop a high dune was piled an even higher mound of orcan corpses. I made my way up and kicked aside a corpse, watching it roll like a masterless puppet down the dune. Looking to where the corpse had been, I saw a shield atypical from the ones usually used by the orcs.

It was not wooden or stone. It was not angular with sharp corners or vicious spikes. It was not stained with blood and viscera.

It was silver. Mirror-like. Embossed with the most beautiful filigree of water droplets clinging to vines.

I could not resist picking it up. Such a sight amongst a land marred by carnage. I wondered if I had found another sacred relic. The answer to my question revealed itself when I touched my hammer to the shield. The same glint I had seen earlier suddenly engulfed my hammer, glowing with a divine fervour.

We shall return to Abulmahhu soon. The Mother bids me return. The Wheel demands our shortcomings overcome. The taste of defeat shall be washed away with something sweeter.


I am ever thankful that Miss al-Farisyya has taken on the mantle of leading the League of Purple. Her skills and talents overshadows my shortcomings. A mind for tackling the nuances birthed from the Experiment.

A parent should never indulge the short-sighted ridiculousness of children yet that is what the Experiment forces. As righteous as my impatience would be, al-Farisyya is more results oriented and is determined to achieve the right ones.

She will know when to use the carrot. She will know when to use the stick. Were it all up to me, every disorderly child would have sore bottoms and hungry, dinnerless nights.


The plots are exhausting. The schemes exasperating. It is a duty for me to attend meetings with the people involved in governance when asked but rarely does witnessing such lead to more than me cursing the Experiment for what it imposes upon all of us.

Thankfully Ulfgrim and Cort were present so we could hold our own whispered discussion upon matters important: the war; the upcoming raid upon Abulmahhu. There is nothing quite like planning and discussing logistics to help one measure progress.

Victory in Abulmahhu.

To feel such pride swell within me was a new experience. Barring very minor issues (Reginald is bold, perhaps too much so), my team did incredibly well. We arrived at the final wall before the Tree at the same time as the team lead by Aurelio. Had this been a light-hearted race, I would be demanding the judges to scrutinize the results closely to determine who truly arrived first.

It is a shame we lost Horton in the chaos of the final melee. War and death takes from all sides. I can only hope that Horton was satisfied with his death. It was a glorious one in my own eyes: luring a score of orcs on his war pig steed into the epicentre of where the artillery landed, upturning stone and sand.

The sweetness of the victory was fleeting, however, for coming back to the Well was also a return of weight upon shoulder and mind. Besides the orc, there was a great plentitude of trouble and tragedies:

A meeting in an office which would prove deadly portentous.

Vizier Inanna Elissere's murder fresh in memory.

The attempted apprehension of Rowan--whom I thought brother. My eye has been lax in scrutiny. Even if I can only do so much and knowing Rowan's true nature would have been beyond me, I must remember that trust should be built over a great amount of time. For it can crumble in a second.

Visions of a waking nightmare offered to me by the cult of the Sibylline Vine.

Whispered words of Luther's trial and Lhyrian's brash action and judgement in the Hall of Jurisprudence.

Words exchanged with Cort. What a dramatic relationship he and I have. From our precarious beginnings to words now shared in quiet confidence. I would trust that man with my life. I would trust him with the security of the Well. Should the come--and I wonder if it will be soon--that he just fulfill the duties and responsibilities of his position, I believe he would make a competent Legate. But, so too, have I seen and heard and witnessed things that make me wary of him. How cruel is this game we are all forced to play. That even should I trust a good man with my life, I still cannot stop myself from scrutinizing him. Always must I be a hair's breadth away from complete and total trust.

It is arduous work already to wage a war. Life in the Well is a weight many times over.


The Crucible awaits. I have the entrance to it once before and I knew it a key objective that must be taken away from the orcs. Then I saw it a second time, via a work of magical scrying I could not comprehend yet still understood, and I knew it a horrific dream, the tormenting nightmare of a dreaming victim which must be awoken.

Komemnos said to me long ago that the orcs were like us in a way. They, too, sought to water Bel-Ishun, to return the ash desert into a vibrant and verdant land as it once was. The Trees further this thought: pockets of life within Abulmahhu, small parcels of land lush and wondrous. But the roots travel down and deep into places which belies the orc's would-be virtuous goals.

Within a ruin deep in the sands, a ruin of an age long past, do the orc work pain and torment into fleshcraft so horrific that even djinn would be envious of. From fire and cruel alchemy they create creatures that know only pain. They create a mimicry of life that is a mockery of true-life that is virtuous and perfect.

We mortals are all imperfect. We mortal men and orc. We can only dream to be as virtuous as the Spokes. But we are flesh and blood. We are base instincts and free will. Hypocrisy makes victims of us all. Including the orcs. Especially the orcs.

And I am thankful for it means I need not feel guilty for seeking their eradication.


The Sisters and Acolytes of the Sibylline Vine, despite having a reputation for being a secretive sect, have taken a liking to me that would make me uncomfortable were I less familiar with their individual members.

I did not know what they intended for me to witness but I kept my eyes and ears open regardless. And what they did show me I had no reason to believe. But when our consciousness was transported into that place--the Crucible, I knew I was witnessing the truth. I looked, heard, smelled, felt things which I had felt some time ago. Though more curtains were pulled back, I looked upon what I had seen before.

I had already seen the precursing hints. I had seen the entrance to the Crucible, I had seen the monsters birthed from the imprisoned thing within. And what I saw within the scryed vision was more of the same.

I have no choice but to recognize the truth revealed to me. I have no choice but to recognize the Sibylline Vine capable of things great, respectable, and powerful. I can only hope they put their capabilities to Good, that they ever act with the Wheel Above All in mind.

Even should they be shunned from Baz'eel, it seems the Sibylline Vine has a place in the cog that is this disc. They have a destiny. I hazard to dare that it is one I ought witness.

He sounded like me.

Stubborn. Full of confidence. Righteous.

The thought struck me mid-conversation and that was when I knew our meeting was fruitless. I would get no answers. He would give none satisfying. We would part further afar than we began.

He is insistent. He shall continue to call me SIster. But he is no Brother of mine. Should we ever meet again, he shall not have the protection of my promise for words alone.

The next time we meet, he shall be treated as the heretic and murderer he is.


Miss Greta Maddern has been avenged. A vengeance weeks in the making but now finalized and achieved.

Gudari Ariixaka Astakhov, too, avenged. Though the hour between her death and us exacting our vengeance was short, seeing the orc smith responsible for her death struck down was deeply satisfying.

I do not know what exactly it was we freed but I am confident the right thing was done. Thankfully, no last resorts needed to be implemented. What remains to be seen is if anyone else will seek to imprison the creature yet again. If anyone else will look upon the creature and see an opportunity to do wrong.

Finally. Release. A weight off my shoulders.

The secret beginnings I have witnessed months ago has come into the open and if need be I can speak my mind on them.

But the release was fleeting. The weight quickly replaced.

When people spoke of the war against the orc as something near its end, how they were near defeat, and how the Well was so close to knowing peace, I bit my tongue. Witnessing what I have, I knew these people spoke in ignorance. Hopeful, but still ignorant. I knew those hoping for an end to war with the end of the orc would be demoralized at the thought of war with Kha'esh.

And demoralized they have become. Eager words about life after the orc has been replaced with bemoaning lamentations of the Well's relationship with Kha'esh. The peace they desperately grasped for has been pulled further away. More battles will need to be fought. More lives will be lost.

The disappointment is palpable. It lingers in the air like the stench of rotting corpses. People grimace and retreat in revulsion at the truth that lays before them. And yet they do not even realize what truth lies still buried beneath the dead.

The heretical whom contest the Wheel are many. The enemies of the Sultanate are spread throughout the desert.

Komemnos was a strange, brash, foolish man. But I am thankful to him for preparing me for reality on this disc.

The orc will not be our last foe. Kha'esh will not be our final enemy.

The crusade continues. The crusade never ends.