Siurlang and the Demon

The tengu said to call his name
The lord said call his name
And call we did, three times the demon's name
To us we called his name
And come he did

All wreathed in anger
Dripping venom
Wreathed in poisonous anger
Poison in his touch
His angry touch
With poisoned mind and hateful touch
He came to us.

And three did go into his heart
With sweet Sarenrae's sainted touch
To wash the poison from this place
Into the fountain at his heart
With all the hands of sweet Sarenrae
Three did go into his heart

'No!' did the demon say
'No!' once again his poisoned tongue
As he began to boil in anger
And in pain
As sweet Sarenrae's touch
Did work to cleanse the poisoned fountain at his heart.
'No!' as he did become aware
Of those three in his heart, alone
And swiftly gating to his heart
He went.

And those three at his heart
Beset by plague and vermin
Pestilence and death
Those three who reaching deep into his heart
To touch him with Sarenrae's sainted hands
To those three did he come.

And even as the plague was boiled away
And even as the demon boiled with death
He looked down on those three and he did smile
For they were three alone
Those three alone
Beset by vermin, plague and death
And though they valiant remained
The demon smiled
For they were done
For he had come.

'No!' said Siurlang.

'No!' said Siurlang
Though she lay upon the poisoned ground
'No!' said Siurlang
Though her wounds had laid her low
'No!' said Siurlang.  'No!'

Siurlang said to call his name
The mage said call his name
And call she did, three times the demon's name
To her she called his name
And come he did

All wreathed in fury
Wrenched out from his heart
With victory wrenched from out his poisoned claws
And knowing he had lost
The demon came with fury when he came
And with his fury rend Siurlang in half
When to Siurlang he came

And scream did he in rage but it was done
And in a fury havoc did he cause
And in his death throes devastation wrought
And as he boiled he chaos brought to bear
On those who stood against him even now
On those who in the fountain cleansed his heart
On those who on the stairs had called his name
On those who in the Downward stood against
But in his impotence his rage did naught
For Siurlang called his name
And he did come
And it was done.

Shades 007: Fuckin' Miracles

Well. There ain’t really a way to rearrange the words into a saner combination.

Today, under the sanction o’ the Great Downward Engineerin’ Company, an aspirin’ necromancer about as magical as elfshit brought a dead human back to life. And the guy ain’t no zombie or vampire or whatever corpsefuckin’ else the ever delightful Rappun Athuk makes possible. Our new friend Asa the freshly reformed bandit’s all walkin’, talkin’ and breathin’ like there ain’t no tomorrow, which for a spell was uncomfortably true for him. Karina was especially ecstatic to see her husband returned, and Javier was pleased to have his best mate alive. Barrick’s somethin’ o’ a black sheep amongst that lot, havin’ not been all that close to his comrades in banditry before we up and blundered into their lives, but he seems to have lightened up a mite.

Hopefully now the lot o’ them will take the gesture as a sign o’ good trust. Past few days musta been somethin’ wretched for them, but it weren’t no leisurely stroll in the woods on our side either. It does have a bird thinkin’ though. Accordin’ to that scrap o’ paper that bookworm Bent handed me, I’m the Lord o’ these parts. I ain’t no political weasel or lawmaker but I’d wager that means if made the effort to get that title recognized I might be able to make some changes to how petty crooks are handled.

This whole spectacle was Agamemnon’s idea, admittedly. Half-orc mongrel’s been usin’ his downtime to investigate our friend Ulmann. I don’t blame him the creepy bonefucker is almost as suspicious as ol’ Bristleback. Accordin’ to Aggs he ain’t actually as downright evil as his hobbies suggest. The man’s just terrified o’ the inevitable big sleep awaitin’ everyone on this mortal coil unfortunate enough to be born a mortal, perfectly understandable really. If guy has to poke some bones and sing some shifty chants to unlock eternal life then that ain’t really huge price to pay at all.

The service with Ulmann today marks the beginnin’ o’ a longstandin’ agreement between him and the Great Downward Engineering Company. Agamemnon has somehow coaxed the necromancer into agreein’ to offer his services at a third o’ his standard price, includin’ these amateur resurrections. As payment we’ve agreed that we’ll hand him any necromantic items we sift outta Rappun’s guts. Sure the feathers on my ass it’ll piss off any potential Great Downward recruits dabblin’ in such dark dank arts, but I ain’t gonna worry about recruits I don’t have when there’s cheap tickets outta death on offer.

So a bird earns his own roost without havin’ to even steal a copper, and a dead man lives thanks to the magic someone else ain’t got the capacity to wield. What can I say we’re made o’ fuckin’ miracles up in this godsforsaken castle. The plan tomorrow is to set foot in the Mouth o’ Doom- if I don’t write again it means some asshole don’t think their boss is worth even 1000 gold. Fair fuckin' enough I guess.

Communication and Introspection [Agamemnon]

I have not recording anything here in some considerable time, but in prayer at dawn The Elf reminded me in his direct, judgmental way of our understanding: both communication and introspection are required if I am to tread the very alien path of his worship.  In all honesty I have been neglecting both.  My orc blood revels in running with a strong pack; my human inclinations find easy comfort in camaraderie and companionship - but I was alone and nomadic for a long time, and for good reason.  My nature is to be wild and uncontrolled in action, overbearing in friendship, and vicious in defense of my comrades.  Darach-Albith, the golden-eyed bastard, for all his martial proclivities, does not look kindly on bestial aggression - 'considered expression' is his preference, a mode of operation I manage more easily when passions are cooled.  However instinctively I gravitate towards it, camaraderie does not incline either of my bloodlines towards measured action when a gnoll is charging spear-first at someone I give a fuck about.

The truth is I feel as if I have been an automaton these past few forays, as if I am not truly attending to events around me, merely going through the motions, reacting instinctively rather than with proper thought.  On the one hand I have been carelessly slipping into a pattern: go with group, stand near front, wave spear about, channel positive energy whenever anyone appears injured, ignore loot, traipse back to camp.  It is too easy to lose agency and drift into being a plus one numerical advantage on the field rather than a participant in events.

But more than that, I have been seeing these initial expeditions as so much necessary mundane labour, chores I need to complete in order to get to the important things.  Finally at the very outskirts of Rappan Athuk I feel the chaotic pull of fate so strongly that it is numbing me to the people around me, and that is not good - in either sense of the word.  Putting the responsibility on the paladin was inappropriate; as good a moral compass as he was, man can be led to good action but can only achieve good understanding by seeking it himself.  I can already feel several of my colleagues drifting away from good understanding through my inattention.  That is their choice, but my own choice is balanced on a precipice as thin as a hair and inattention will cause me to fall.

Communication, and introspection.  I need to know what those around me are doing, thinking and feeling, and I need to evaluate my own thoughts and feelings just the same.  Only in that way can I remain in alignment with the divinity with which destiny has paired me, and redeem in this place whichever of my lineages needs and deserves redemption.

Musings of an Orc 002 - I was a plough. Now I'm a fence. Just call me Metaphortimer.

Dying was a humbling experience. Mother and I did not disagree often, but the afterlife was one of a few things we never saw eye to eye on. I thought that it would be an eternal reward or punishment in line with your life’s efforts. Mother saw it instead as the Great Equaliser where souls are either beaten straight and recycled, or broken forever. Despite my experiences, I can't claim any expertise, but I think she might have been on to something. I can imagine her sly smile were she to hear that admission.

I struggle to describe exactly what happened to me that day. I accepted a blessing from the God Pharasma, and it killed me. My shade passed on to the Boneyard, where it witnessed the Line of Judgement. I had already been judged however, so I passed quickly onto Axis.

I did not like Axis. One would be forgiven for thinking that I would. But I didn't. Let me put it this way. I have always seen myself as a tool in the hands of Vanitthu. I was the scythe that clears barbarism from the land. I was the plough that tills the soil, ready for civilisation to be sown. Axis is a land with nothing to clear and nothing to sow. It is everything I dreamed of, and I hated it. My days were spent wandering streets that didn't need protecting. I practised skills that didn't need to be used. Artistry was too beautiful. Things ran too well. It sucked the life out of life. If I hadn't already been dead, I think I would have died of boredom. I didn't even see anything I found interesting enough to take as a trinket.

There was no ritual or ceremony to my resurrection. I simply disappeared from Axis, and woke up back in the real world. I don't remember exactly how long I was on Axis, but it was measured in weeks. Apparently I was only dead minutes though. Does time pass differently there? Or was it simply a dream given to me? I guess it doesn't really matter, as it doesn't change the experience I had.

This has make me question what I'm doing and what I'm trying to achieve. Clearly, civilisation can only be appreciated when barbarism exists to oppose it. Perhaps I shouldn't be trying to purge barbarism, but instead I should be like a fence, protecting civilisation and barbarism from one other. Once again, I feel the need to bow to Mothers wisdom. I never did fully grasped the true meaning behind her talks on balance, but recent experiences have given me some clues.

There is so much more I wish I could have learnt from her. I'm sure she would have had something to say about my magic die at this juncture. She would surely have said “Chaos framed with rules is useful. Your die has ten sides. If it were unbound by rules, you could roll it and get an 11^th side. This clearly isn't useful. If it were too bound in rules, you could roll it constantly and only get one side. Clearly this isn't useful. Only in Balance do you find meaning”

Or something like that anyway. I was never much able to penetrate the meaning of her lectures.

One...interesting... side effect of this is that I didn't return to my own body. While it shouldn't matter too much to me, as these hands can serve Vanitthu just as well as my old ones, it still hurts a little bit. Mother was always proud of her human blood, and so was I.

Shades 006: Regrets Are For Survivors

I ain't usually the type to wax nostalgic, but... it ain't been one o' my proudest days.

A bird gainin' his wings in Aberdeen ain't the the easiest process. From the moment your beak busts the egg open you're told that you're a thief and a hatched one at that. Got tall mouthy outsiders eyeballin' your claws even before you take a glimpse o' a store, let alone any valuables. Some shopkeeps even have the audacity to have a bird searched even after he's made a purchase legitimately, just in case the sale was but a ruse. Say what I will about Zelkor's Ferry, and I'll say a lot, but no one's needlessly hurled accusations o' thievery my way so that's gotta count for somethin'.

That all said, a lot o' tengu make a livin' outta baubles that othershave conveniently misplaced. The problem's hung like a bad smell over Aberdeen since long before anyone can remember, so long that no one can tell whether tengu set to thievin' before they was treated like thieves, or the tengu decided to just fuck all ideations o' social integration to the wind 'cause everyone treated 'em so first. Either way, Aberdeen's got a daikatana lodged so deep up its hole that it ain't able to shift its weight even by a toe, let alone change its stance on social relations and the dirt poor masses to a more flexible one. That daikatana is the law, and she's a sharp piece a work if there ever was one, and Aberdeen ain't bendin' over for nobody.

It's more common for a bird to die a starvin' cripple than it is to have his own roost, many o' them crippled when the law took his claws for emptyin' the wrong fancy pockets or his tongue for sharin' the wrong secrets. I might notta left the monastery on the best o' terms, but they saved my sorry tail a lot o' misery.

So today to my wildest surprise I found myself on the other side o' the law, wieldin' the blade as it were. Sure I'm Grand High Featherbutt o' the land somehow and I got myself the fabulous shitpile o' a castle to prove it, but that don't mean I know how to like it. The recruits o' the Company took a mighty shinin' to the bandit-kickin' plan, and sure as the beak on my face we found ourselves some bandits to bring to justice and strike outta the adventurin' picture. Unfortunately they was nothin' like Hengsha and her runners, or this dreaded Korlak I keep hearin' word of, but were everythin' like those birds back in Aberdeen. Our ambush had half o' them sorry bastards dead before they had the chance to surrender. Turns out their greatest crime was a single crate o' soggy furs between them, and the blanket penalty for any kind o' banditry in this county is the noose. 

I just couldn't let the law have its pound o' flesh again, so I've brought the survivors back to Castle Calaelen, under my custody. I ain't quite sure what to do with them, and I know they ain't going to like livin' with the hoons who dusted their comrades for gold in the slightest. In particular their leader Karina is a right mess, as anyone would be if they were cooped in with the lugs who got her husband's blood under their claws. It ain't ideal for anyone involved but it just has to be better than the big violent sleep that was waitin' for them in Tsar.

Shades 005: Hawks and Vultures

Some days a bird crawls outta his next to find that somewhere 'tween closin' his eyes and peelin' them back open in the mornin' fate's decided to slip you a bad hand. Mayhaps it just hates you today, or mayhaps its tryin' to push a bird into sleepin' in his own rachetty castle.

Further inspection o' the Calaelen rock has confirmed what we all sadly knew- as it barely stands the place ain't fit for no one but kobolds and gnolls and other mudfuckers keen to roll around in their own fleas and piss. Personally I don't count myself amongst the piss-and-flea rollin' number, but after securin' the premises the new recruits and yours truly headed back to Bristleback's for the night.

By sun up the changeling sorceror had already left us- didn't even take its share o' the swag. Frankly given the trauma the thing suffered I don't blame her. Him. It, dangit.

But in its place we was greeted by two new flatfaces on the hunt for some Great Downward style adventure. I now have the services of a one Mortimer and Fizzbann under my employ. Mort's a mean-lookin' lug, solid and tall. An orc farmboy coloured some shades o' wrong and angsty by whatever happened to produce an orc farmboy out in the unprotected sticks. The mountain o' muscles wields a fuckin' huge scythe re-purposed for reapin' heads instead o' bales. Despite appearances I ain't convinced the lad's evil, but sometimes he looks at a bird as if he's wonderin' how you'd taste roasted.

Fizzbann ain't exactly the type I was expectin' the Great Downward to attract. A wizened old husk o' an elf who, I'd wager, hasn't seen light o' day or smelt a fresh breeze for a good decade or two. Well, until he decided to leave whatever hole he resided in to join the Company. Fizzbann says he's good with potions, poisons, brews and concoctions, either to drink or to chuck at people. A niche set o' talents I gotta say, but I'll take it.

Takin' the freshies under my wing proved to be a lucky decision too. We ain't even travelled a squirt away from Zelkor's Ferry we was hit by a goblin ambush. Fuckin' goblins, I know, where's the pride in that. But these weren't just any greenskins farted outta Mosswood or some stanky crack o' Rappun- they were organized. And we didn't see 'em comin'. They hit Shnookums with the first volley o' their crossbows, sittin' him outta the scrap before it really even started. Nasty green twits wanted to trade our gold for our lives. I was ready to cut my losses and flee, but there was a reasonable chance that we could take 'em now that their crossbows were empty. Some would say that it was a foolhardy gamble but we flogged the little anklebiters and scored some intel on Rappun to boot.

Upon our dogged return to the Castle we found that our literally hellish roostmate had also returned himself. I had the crew set up and positioned to blow the damned thing back to whatever fiery pit it came from, but Agamemnon suggested that perhaps we should try a more diplomatic approach first. I was happy to run with it as long as it was Agamemnon doin' the chinwaggin', the crazy fuck. And whaddya know the two o' them both speak the Infernal language. The demon bird's name is Afrit, and his only agenda right now is to keep nestin' in the tower and eatin' ponies. I don't have a real use for the tower right now, and we both got a mutual interest in keepin' intruders outta the premises, so I guess for now I'm leavin' him be. We just have to mark our horses from now on, 'cause apparently they make for delicious eatin'.

From the information we got beat outta the goblin ambushers, and from what I've been able to decipher from the slurry stories slippin' outta the ale-stained old fogies hauntin' Bristleback's Inn, the Mouth o' Doom is lookin' like the least terrible place to start a real expedition into the dungeon. But as it stands I really don't like the threat o' banditry. They got a good gig, swoopin' down on a band o' adventurers after Rappun's given them a royal chew over and hawkin' off with all their spoils. I don't take too kindly to such shameless vultures. Mayhaps a good bandit-kickin' is in order? They might be easier to deal with first, before whatever ass-faced monsters and evil-snortin' maniacs await in the giant dungeon. I'll pitch it to the recruits and see how them softshells feel about it- not that I particularly care but I gotta live with their whingin' now.

??? (Siurlang)

An excerpt from the newly renovated Journal Of Siurlang.

Musings of an Orc 001 - From the Middle

I feel it is perhaps time I started to chronicle both the unfolding events and some of my past. My feet are on the path that will lead to the founding of House Grey, and it is only right that future generations know of their lineage.

After years of wandering the frontiers of civilisation, I have inadvertently ended up in the employ of a Lord. He has hired himself a group of sell swords and is purging barbarism from the area surrounding his castle, with the ultimate goal of crushing Rappan Athuk. I decided to apply myself to this worthy task and only found out later that he was nobility. Happy coincidence indeed. While he is weak and needs rescuing from the most innocuous situations, he doesn't let that deter him. He does not ask anything of us that he is unwilling to do himself. I respect that. It should also be mentioned that he is a Tengu - in my idle moments I find myself wondering how much he tastes like chicken. Despite my curiosity, I should keep him alive. He might be the means by which I fulfill my promise.

Also of note is the Halforc. He has embraced the ways of our ancestral enemy which is unusual enough, and he carries himself with an air that reminds me of my mother - may Telophus and Vanitthu nourish and protect her soul. I do not yet know of his role in my destiny, perhaps he serves to remind me that all are equal in the eyes of the law. Or perhaps he is nothing more but a reminder of my past. Either way, I am glad to have met him.

The remainder are a rag-tag bunch of humanoids. I do not much care for them. They squabble and argue and babble about truth and justice and goodness. Then a light breeze comes, they fall over and start to bleed out. May the Gods grant me the patience to see this through to the end.

My journey with the Company thus far has been somewhat uneventful. We have killed a couple of groups of bandits and ventured into the Mouth of Doom. Strangely enough, the dungeon itself is more of a hazard than its inhabitants. The place is rife with traps and, judging by the frequency of the cave-ins, made by dwarves. Or kobolds. Or kobolds riding dwarves. Nothing would surprise me any more. The monsters found so far could serve as a bestiary check list. Jellies and oozes and blood suckers. All deserving of death, but hardly something one celebrates about after a victory.

Next time I shall pen something about my years of wandering. It was not a grand time, but one I would do well not to forget either.

Kruin 1 - notes on killing druids

The folk a my village always wanted to be one of them nature witches.  They said that the great cyclone raging when I was born left summin in me, that’s why ma eyes turned out the colour o the sky, and that it was the will of ole’ mighty Jah that I should learn to bend nature to serve ma people.  What a load a backwash.

I picked up the lightnin thing pretty fast, that was always good for snagging passing fish and such, and some other lil’ jank tricks came along, but eventually the ole grandmamma of my village said she’d had enough a tryin to teach me, I was too angry or flighty or some bull.  Kinda rich complaining I was flighty when they were so keen on making me control air an all.  Stupid people.

Anyway, other day I actually met one a these nature witch folk.  Was out hunting cause the folk I’ve been trawling them ruins with all managed to get themselves poisoned, or drained a blood, or set afire by stuff down in the undergrounds and they needed someone to feed them like a bunch of little babies only just getting used to life away from their mumma’s tit.

Anyway, I found a couple o beasties that soon ran off, I never ben keen on bows, but I probbly shoulda bought one with me huntin, ma lightning just don’t stretch far enough to nab most critters.  But then I found a nice little patch o mulberry trees, figured that’d feed the sick little babes good enough.  Got a full good harvest a them and took em back to that castle they all holed up in.

They mostly still were lyeing around complaining about poison in their blood the next day too, so I went back over near them trees see what more stuff I could find.  Bunch a wolves there this time, actin kind of funny looking my way, not like normal beasties ten ta act.  Then some nature witch actually appeared and told me these were her trees.  Since when do those type a folk lay claim to patches o land? Shades reckons he owns all the land around that castle, not sure if anyone else cares for that claim, but whatever the case, this dirty woman don’t own it.

I shouted at her a bit and she started pulling lightnin on me.  Just cause you can shoot the stuff out, don’t mean you’re safe from it, and her and her puppies didn’t seem like a good fight to have by myself, so I shouted at her an left.  Now I need to head back.

I figure best way to get this dirty witch be to burn down her trees, maybe if Jah is smilin on me she’ll be in one, lyeing with a wolf or summin, when they burn.  If not maybe I need to have a chat to the big ole crow that lives in the tower (the flyin one, not Shades) and tell him where he can find some tastey tame wolves to chew on. 

Or I could use some o the slime we found yesterday to eat her trees, her wolves an her all up.  I found you can use the stuff to cure poison, dropped some on the face o that fella Jax after he got hit with a dart.  Folk kept telling me not ta but for all their spirit magic in the dwarf and that orc with the tattoos they didn’t do any good. Eventually I put the slime on him anyway, and he got better, but then the other orc blew the room up, and poor fella ended up dieing despite ma help.  May he meet Jah light.  Maybe if they hadn’t gotten in ma way slime coulda saved him in time.  Anyway, the slimes eat plants and animals and spreads like the sea breaching a harbour, so maybe it’ll eat that witch’s trees.  That elf with all the bottles (who got him self all hurt trying to save me from a big ole snake, nice fella) kept some, so maybe there’s a night time run over to them trees on the cards soon...

Shades 004: Where a Rook Rests (Expedition 0)

Now I ain't a superstitious bird, but I can certainly entertain the odd flight o' fancy should the opportunity strike me. The Castle Calaelen rock has had a fair pile o' deed-holders. Some o' them are long-lived folk who fell upon desperate times and needed the gold in a pinch, or foolhardy hatchwits who pissed their gold away and used it to settle a mean gamblin' debt. Some o' them also gotta be dead, the rock's so old, and if those departed souls bothered to turn from whatever fancy afterlives they got and take a glance at their old keep, well I'd say that maybe they'd be a mite entertained today.

I ain't gonna lie it weren't pretty or glorious or like any elabourate yarn weaved by some king's royal bard. It was a bird and his eight-strong posse clobberin' the ever-lovin' shit outta some muckdwellin' kobolds and gnolls. And that's gotta be more blood-boilin' and excitin' than some deadswill dead-party packed with dead folk reminiscin' on how they died.

On the ride to the castle we spied this dank cave. The half-orc, the dwarf and the catfolk were all over that like it weren't no-one's business. When you're itchin' for a scrap I guess you just gotta scratch it, even when it's stirges. I went to oversee how this adventurous spirit would fly. Sure, the paladin mighta tried to swat the stirge latchin' onto his face with his hammer, and actually succeeded, but ultimately they all made a short bloody job o' the bugs and found a good spot o' coin amongst their litter. All smeared in bugshit o' course but coin is coin.

The next tussle was with them rude nasty gnolls guardin' the entrance o' my rightful castle. The faces on those mangy fur-chewers when they got acquainted with the business end o' my gun were precious. Finally got to see some o' the spell-slingers liftin' their fingers, addin' magic missiles and lightnin' bolts to the barrage. The half-orc got himself in a bit o' a precarious dance near the fine edge o' the bridge, but overall none too shabby. That's the last time any o' those gnolls will have the gizzard to tell a bird to get bent, on account o' them bein' dead.

Somethin' up in the most dilapidated tower screeched somethin' ghastly durin' that fray. Turns out it was a monster o' a crow with demons in its blood. O' course the new recruits took a moment to note the likeness between it and yours truly, but what's a bird to do. Certainly not make rude comments about the thing's devil mother, that's for sure. I know how mine can get.

One by dog-faced one the posse and I either scattered or slaughtered the kobolds holin' up in Calaelen itself. Lead by some delusional yippin' rat bastard by the name o' Jibjack, they got themselves set up in what might've been the original dining room o' the castle. What do you know, kobolds got themselves names now.

The resultin' scrap weren't our best. Agamemnon got himself all tangled in a net almost immediately, cuttin' him right out. Amerasu seemed to have contracted some nasty case o' missin-every-fuckin'-thing-she-aimed-at. Shnookums must've gotten himself all confused now that the enemy weren't on his face anymore- I had to get in there personally and behead Jibjack myself. However the sorcerors well and truly held their own against the kobolds' slings, as did Jax with a dagger in each hand and a backflip in each foot. The little rats were inaccurate with their weapons like you wouldn't believe, but as my keelbone will attest, when they hit, they hit good.

Havin' gone and murdered little Jibjack at that point we quite certain we had run all the unwelcome blighters clean out o' the castle. Had our guards down and our stupids up. A kobold cleric with an angry black mace and some skeletal underlin's in tow got the drop on us whilst Jax was failin' to get the master roost door open. I know I'm payin' Jax for somethin', but it ain't lock-fussin' for almost half an hour and still failin' to get inside without a key. The changelin' sorceror took the brunt o' the ambush, and by brunt I mean the roughest skeleton o' the pack with nasty ol' greatsword right to the face. The fragile thing was knocked out and dyin' instantly. I swear I was that close dockin' that damn river pirate's pay for all this mess, but then he almost literally danced past the undead and took the fight to the mean ol' boss man himself. Well, the mean ol' boss lizard at the very least.

It was lookin' right grim in the middle there, but after takin' out a small skeleton the rest o' them fell, and the big nasty bag o' bones quite nearly exploded on its own once the cleric was taken care of. Agamemnon got in and stabilized the changelin' in time. Jax's fussin' might've gotten us into deep trouble, but I'll gotta hand it to him, his smart tactics dragged the lot o' us out again mostly intact.

Overall, we cleared the flea-bitten varmints out o' the Calaelen rock, and no one done fucked up hard enough to get anyone killed for real. A part o' me hopes that once all the evil shrines, debris, and bodies are cleaned out the castle will start lookin' like a castle, but rest o' me knows that I'm more likely just gonna find more shit under all that shit. At least the smithy's in full workin' order, and I have some semi-reliable recruits to help get this business venture in the air.

An excerpt from the writings of a ranger

We are a highly guarded people. We do not readily share our secrets. We rarely write as we believe words have power that can be easily abused if they fall into the wrong hands. However, I have been promised a reward that may one day save my life for writing this journal entry for the company, so I have decided that this is worth the risk. I will not commit names to paper as that is too great a taboo to break, even for such as myself. Writing is not a skill my people value, I am not even really sure of the proper etiquette required and there are many details that I will omit simply because I was too busy surviving to observe every step the company took.

I did not attend the company's first outing to the underground caverns for reasons that will never be shared, particularly in written form, however they did all survive that jaunt and manage to return to the Castle seemingly intact. They are a very strange assortment of characters, I will endeavour not to let my personal judgement cloud these writings.

For the company's second expedition return to the caverns, we were lead into danger by our leader. I wonder what secrets he hides to have received lordship over this land so full of monsters and bandits. The company consisted of our brave leader, the sorceresses, the rogue, the scythe carrying behemoth, the paladin and the cleric. The last two did not seem quite like themselves, as if their spirits were off journeying rather than tethered to their physical forms. I wonder if perhaps this is something to do with their racial origins, though this is not for me to speculate on idly. Although I do wish to talk to the cleric about this matter another time.

Rather than travel by horse and risk the hired creatures being taken by one of the many dangers that lurks in this land, the company elected to travel on foot. It is not a long walk and I prefer to be on my feet in case of danger. With my superior vision I managed to spot a reflective surface in the distance, the rogue and I scouted ahead to look for any possible dangers. This is a task I always enjoy. I am in possession of such finely tuned senses, it is always delightful to be able to utilise them. We spotted tracks made by well shod horses but as they did not lead in a direction that was of interest to us, we did not pursue this any further. The rogue spotted a creature flying in the distance, too far even for I to ascertain its identity. A mystery for another day. Once we reached the entrance, we discovered more tracks which vanished leading to the were-pony theory. If something strange is discovered, it oft seems to be attributed to were-beasts. I wonder at the minds of those in this company.

The company chose to explore new areas rather than revisit those previously visited. Our leader was wise to employ the rogue as he is very talented at finding traps, of which there are many in such a dark place as this. In one pit trap bones covered in a mysterious black substance were discovered, the less insane sorceress took one to give to a business associate in the river town who is sure to find a use for such a macabre item. Our extremely large companion did an excessive amount of damage to the first monster we encountered, which was a stirge, which of course meant more stirges were nearby. How ghastly. They do so love to grapple the paladin, perhaps they have heard of his "hammer to the face" technique of fighting. This chamber also contained mysterious pools. The less insane sorceress shares my feelings about water and so we stood back from the company as they flailed fussing about magical water and apparently attempting to drown themselves. I seem to keep strange company at present.

Not long afterwards, we entered what appeared to be part of a catacomb. The walls were lined with skeletons. Bizarre. Though this was quickly surpassed by the oversized iron cobras. They were difficult to destroy, though worth it for the money underneath them. They were designed to spit poison and the money was to buy poison refills. They had been neglected for some time and were no longer serving their function.

There was a room full of dead spiders which was covered in cobwebs. The rogue set fire to the webs to make sure we were not going to be attacked by something sticky. Cobwebs are ever so difficult to clean off ones fur. Though he is sometimes rash, the rogue generally acts for the good of the company. This is unusual for their kind, but I shall not question this as he is always proving his usefulness.

The company continued to quibble over direction, I did not care for this as it was a distraction from the task at hand. It almost seemed as if they were speaking to a force outside of us all, fighting against the will of a larger creature. I oft sense as if there is more than appears to this plane.

We encountered giant centipedes. It is to be expected that many of the creatures we must fight are bugs when we are underground. I just wish they were not all so large. It is unnerving.

Several of the company were rendered unconscious by some kind of poison gas which filled one of the chambers. There were bodies of the fallen dead in the room, we quickly rescued our companions from danger before such a fate befell them. It seemed as if the caverns were desirous of our blood as we were caught in a cave in. Our leader was almost killed by the rubble, twas fortunate for him that our party contains sufficient members whose skills include heavy lifting. As this is not one of my skills, I did my best to stay out of the way of further danger. I am fleet of foot and so managed to survive the catastrophe with little more than bruising and being coated in dust. My fur became an entirely different colour. Charming. Once all the party were clear of the danger, we made a hasty exit. Returning to the Castle was the safest option, recovery was sorely needed by all, especially our stoutest members. The other party members were insistent that the cleric and the paladin were to snuggle up for healing purposes. Perhaps those who share a common heritage can accelerate healing simply because of this. It is of no concern of mine. It is unlikely that those of my heritage will be found in such parts so it is not something I need to consider at this point.

The lightning loving sorceress went off to hunt and came back only with mulberries. The smells she emitted suggested she had done more than collect mulberries. I smelt fear and indecision, I suspect things had not gone quite to her wishes. The rogue and the woman who appears to be working for our leader in a steward's capacity went into the town on the river to sell some of the loot we had uncovered and to find more information, always a handy thing to have. They brought back news of a pilgrimage for dead gods. Is there no limits to the insanity of the common folk? They now revere the gods their ancestors saw as no longer fit for worship, methinks there is a certain perversity to this behaviour. They approached the Castle begging for alms, our lord donated silvers to them and promised to look out for a missing pilgrim. I wonder how this will affect our next set of adventures. 

Shades 003: Enter the Softshells

An outsider would think that spendin' some time in a quaint boghole town within shittin' distance o' the most notorious o' adventurer-munchin' dungeons would have its excitement. Believe you me an outsider would be the deadest kind o' wrong. Ain't much to do but some target practice here and there, but even then you get beaky townfolk askin' a bird what the blazes he's doin' and why does it have to be so fuckin' loud.

Freydann watched my face curl when handin' over Bristleback his coin for a second night here in the Inn, and offered me a place to stay in her home temporarily. I know it's a kindness motivated by the gold she smells on the Great Downward's name. But it's a kindness I'll gladly take until I've reclaimed the old Calaelen rock- which might just happen first light tomorrow. It took a whole week, but finally a gaggle o' aspirin' adventurers heeded the Great Downward Engineering Company's gilded call.

And what a gaggle they are. I know I ain't have no right to judge, havin' not left the cold stone walls o' the monastery for that long myself, but my gizzard is screechin' the soft shell alarm. At least if they're fresh they won't be expectin' too high a pay for their work.

At first glance the most strikin' o' the bunch is Amerasu, on the account o' her bein' a bipedal cat person-thing. Call 'em catfolk in the common tongue I'd wager, the creative language that it is. She says she's hunter o' sorts- swift, sharp and stealthy. Good bow arm on her by the looks o' it too. Amerasu didn't quite specify whether she preferred stalkin' the four-legged beasts o' the wild or the two-legged beasts o' the urban sprawl, but in this line o' work either will have their uses.

Next in line is a tall tusked gent callin' himself Agamemnon. Long fancy name for what, believe it or don't, appears to have hatched from the unsightly union of orc and elf. I weren't even aware that the uglies from either species were compatible, but there you go. If a shoe fits, I guess some horny critter out there'll find a way to fuck it. Agamemnon says he's a cleric, but didn't care to mention the deity he serves. He doesn't wear the usual gaudy ecclesiastical fare neither, but he's certainly totin' a cleric's decorated sense o' self-importance. Unlike most he's also got the muscle to back up all his hot air- so as long as the pointy end o' his spear is facin' the monsters the guy's welcome in my employ.

The real brawn o' the party is a solid dwarven man with most bizarre name for a dwarf I ever did hear- Shnookums. His parents must have been drinkin' deeply o' that dwarven ale when they named him 'cause I ain't able to even begin decodin' what the hell kind o' language that name is in. In contrast to his name, Shnookums seems to be the dry serious type, a paladin sworn to the service o' Dwerfater. I'll gladly pay for him to swing that hammer o' his in a profitable direction- but I hope he knows that Dwerfater's law don't cover all the quandaries a bird might encounter in the adventurin' business. Wouldn't want a scuffle with the guy.

Then there's the sorcerors. Well I never I am literally up to my gods-forsaken beak in sorcerors. There's Kruin, a human woman who's all lightning and rage. Stormy eyes and a body as hard as thunder. She has to be the meanest lookin' spellcaster I ever did see. I swear I can hear her fishin' with lightning outside. Suirlang is the other human woman sorceror, and couldn't be more different to Kruin even if she tried. Specializes in throwin' fire and force around, and likely has enough crazy bottled up in there to make it work for her. Those kobolds and gnolls are up for a right flamin' shock, that's for sure.

We also got ourselves a changeling adept with illusions- but I ain't botherin' with its name or gender because those changed at least three times during the meet up tonight. I know how changelings are.

Last and least physically interestin' is a human man by the name o' Jax. He says he's good with traps and subterfuge, the kind o' specialty that'll save a bird's life a hundredfold in a dungeon like Rappun. Quick, smart, and loaded up to the ears with adventurin' gadgets. The man suspiciously fits the description o' the river bandits I've been told run rampant here, but if a man wants to point his daggers at things for pay, rather than have things cough their gold up for him to stop pointin' his daggers at 'em, then who am I to judge?

For better or worse we set out to Castle Calaelen first light tomorrow- if I don't write again it means one of these fresh hatchwits done fucked up good.

Expedition 0: Questionable Alliance (Agamemnon)

I talked to Ulman again.  That man is out of his gourd ... but I don't dislike him.  I think he is a man who has been driven to extremes by being powerless in a dangerous world.  Thanks to my orcish heritage I am strong and fearsome, while my human side grants me intelligence and a powerful presence.  Ulman has none of these benefits.  But he does have the will to survive, and the balls to risk his life in the pursuit of that survival.  That has to be respected.

Now we just need to ensure he does not become so obsessed with power that he turns to the pursuit of evil.  Keeping him this side of that chasm is a worthy endeavour.

I hope one day he will tell me what actually happened to his wife, if he ever had one.  I suspect knowing that will reveal why he is who and what he is today.

In any case, I have struck a deal with the mad necromancer on behalf of the Great Downward Engineering Company.  I realised that money for Ulman is a means to an end, a way to acquire the deeper knowledge he seeks.  Our party is a much quicker means to a much more interesting end, and so he readily agreed to this proposition: We will gift to him any necromantic items we recover from Rappan Athuk, and consider that the establishment of a line of credit for his services.  Henceforth we will pay only one-third the price of his services, most notably his resurrections which now attract the far more economical pricetag of one thousand gold pieces - much more within our meagre reach.  Most usefully it also grants us immediate access to his restorative powers, even before we have furnished him with any items of interest.

I needed to clear this matter with Shades first, as it is his company for which we work.  The selling point for him was the restoration of Karina's husband to life: as a tengu he feels a great sympathy for those people condemned by circumstance to lead a criminal life, and as a lord - lord of a shithole, sure, but lord nonetheless - he feels responsible for his charges.  I proposed this ideas mostly for pragmatic, or perhaps selfish reasons: Ulman's power is not divine, and so I do not understand it, and cannot trust it until I see its effects with my own eyes.  This experiment, if it works, will not just slake my curiosity, it will also reassure my compatriots of the safety net we have woven when we face mortal danger in Rappan Athuk.  Timidity will win us no battles; the confidence to forge ahead into the darkness is an invaluable boon to us.  So I pray to the Elven Bastard Ulman can pull this off.

Of secondary concern are the three ... recently-retired bandits currently in residence in Castle Calaelen.  As I have previously noted, we underestimate Karina's grief.  Her grief has a perfectly justified outlet in hatred directed towards us, and though she seems to possess herself now, we cannot trust that she will remain so cowed if an opportunity for revenge on those who took her love away from her presents itself.  Winning her good will ensures that we remain safe, that we are not forced to kill her, and also gives us a chance to turn her and her colleagues to good.  Once again, this is a worthy endeavour.  Snook agrees - which is fortunate, because I would not proceed with this plan without having him on board.  The dwarf has a much more refined sense of good and evil than I do; he is an arch pragmatist - the very best kind of paladin - so if he tells me he considers a course of action to be too great an ethical compromise, I will bow to his superior moral compass.  I am fated to walk the grey line between right and wrong; I need people like him with me to ensure I do not fall.

Which reminds me: Shnookums and I need to have a conversation, and soon.

The paladin also informed me that he would be keeping a very close eye on both our friendly neighbourhood necromancer and the newly-returned ex-bandit, in case they slide too far to the black end of the spectrum, or bring something evil back into this world alongside the man's immortal soul.  I expected nothing less from my stalwart companion.

In one surprising but very welcome twist, however, Ulman had one additional requirement before he would agree to our partnership: that I ensure he is returned to life if, during the course of his enquiries, he dies.

I agreed immediately, and have made this my personal responsibility, and not just because I like the man and his ... family.  Ulman knows the danger inherent in what he is doing, and he forges ahead regardless, but not without due caution and contingencies.  Something in his mind is clearly broken, but he yet retains his reason.  This bodes well for him, but also means he can be brought to good, or at least influenced to steer clear of the worst excesses of the necromantic arts.  The man can be saved, and, I fancy, he wants to be saved.  I can respect that.

Expedition 0: On the Nature of Dice (Agamemnon)

It has been ... challenging to write this journal entry.  It is not readily apparent which of the details of this past week are most salient.

Two adventurers have arrived in Zelkor's seeking to join the Great Downward Engineering Company.  Mortimer is a quiet but fearsome orc.  I feel an immediate kinship to him because his demeanor and his behaviour are not giving us a bad name.  He wields a simple peasant weapon, a scythe, reinforced for war.  Fizban is a human alchemist.  I've never associated with an alchemist before.  I once knew a halfling with a penchant for firecrackers, but that ... ended poorly.  Fizban is much further up the power curve.

I suppose the three most significant events other than our newest compatriots are the bird, the bandits and the goblins.

The bird's name is Afrit.  He is a fiendish crow of great size who lives atop one of the towers of Castle Calaelen.  I talked to him.  He mistook me for a follower of Orcus because this mace we picked up apparently bears his markings - good to know.  Being an orc probably contributed to his assumptions.  We had a conversation in infernal and arrived at an agreement: we would try to avoid getting in each others' way.  We are marking all our animals with a mark to let Afrit know they are off limits to his predations, and otherwise leaving him alone; to his benefit is knowing that no adventurers will be storming the castle to de-roost him.  Yet.

The goblins ... I did not enjoy that encounter.  They were very challenging, as goblins always are if they catch you unawares.  They were a patrol of about twelve who severely weakened us with a vicious volley of crossbow bolts as their first action and attempted to force our surrender as their second.  Orcs do not surrender to goblins.  Shades was none too keen in the idea either.  Jax did not want to lose his acquisitions.  Mortimer, the heavily wounded Snook (they were wise to target him first; dwarves and goblins do not mix well) and I agreed that their first volley was by far the worst they could do, and so since we were still standing (except Snook who was more leaning on a horse) we might as well have at it.

And have at it we did, so that within a few strikes the yellow bastards turned and fled.  Not fast enough though.  The cat, the orc and I managed to keep pace and eventually we ran them down, interrogated their leader, then killed them all.  One less goblin patrol but, more importantly, we have a lot more of an idea what's going on down in the Mouth of Doom.  I am now certain that this is the best entryway for us into Rappan Athuk.  We have taken one of their patrols, we know that not all the goblins from that stinking hole are this well trained or this motivated, that they are led by an Orcite zealot called Tribitz who wields power from a city called Greznek, where Morask is king.  There are opportunities here.  As my father used to say, weak goblins are second only to a falchion in terms of tools most useful to a powerful orc.  There are options we need to explore.  Mosswood seems like an unknown quantity at this point.  That makes it a poor option.  Especially given the banditry in this area.

That brings me to point three: the bandits.  The patrol from Tarrent's Junction let us know of the bounty on bandits.  Their information was a little lacking in specificity, it later turned out when, at Zelkor's, we found out that the bounty was actually on specific bandit leaders.

We did ambush a bandit encampment.  We determined through observation that they were primed to jump the Brawler, a barge carrying furs for sale up north.  In retrospect I judge them to be reasonable combatants, but our planning and the stealth of our rogue completely neutralised them.  With their night watch knifed and the rest of them asleep in their tents, several 'judiciously placed' fire bombs and two charging orcs led to four dead and three surrenders almost immediately.  We took their surrender and escorted them back to the shithole.

En route we learned that they really were the very least of the bandits in the area.  They were selfish, they were inconsiderate, but they were not, by and large, sadists.  They had turned to banditry rather than make an honest living, but their modus operandi was to storm river boats for their goods, not to murder everyone in sight.  In fact they told us quite freely that they had ceased associating with the bulk of the bandits in the area because these others were far too ferocious and villainous.  I do commend them for this.  There is such a thing as a lesser evil.

Not all the party feels comfortable with the slaughter we brought on these people.  I am.  I do not revel in death, or in killing, despite my ancestry.  I did not enjoy their deaths.  But they rolled the dice.  They chose this life path.  They chose to deprive others of their livelihoods.  How many children turn to thievery because their merchant parents lose their livelihoods to bandits?  How many of those children become hard, become evil?  I don't believe life is just, but if you roll the dice, you accept the consequences.  These people inflicted harm on others for personal gain, and then they rolled badly and fate harmed them in return.  It doesn't matter whether they deserved this; this is how the dice landed.

I do not feel bad, but I understand why others do.  The stalwart paladin, unsurprisingly, took no delight in what happened but recognised that those who breach the law to harm others will be brought to account by the law.  However he also recognised that the intent of the law is to do good, and so realised an opportunity in all this.  Shades is actually an entitled lord in this place, and so on his authority we took the three surviving bandits into his custody rather than see them executed.  The paladin, the bird and I returned the bounty on these three out of our own pockets, and they are now resident in the castle with us.

I am not certain how this will turn out.  Javier I think will take to whatever task he is given.  Barak is harder to read.  Karina though ... it was her husband who led the bandits, and he died at our hands.  I think we underestimate her grief.  If we want to turn these three to good, we may have some work to do.  Still, we rolled the dice.  Let's see how it goes.

I will leave it there.  I must return to Zelkor's Ferry.  I have another appointment with Uldman.  I have an idea.

Shades 002: A Shady Maybe-Elf of an Ambiguous Nature

Well, still in Zelkor's Ferry, unfortunately, waitin' for word of the work I'm offerin' to spread to nearby gold-hungry ears. There ain't a word in any of the tongues I speak to fully describe how lonesome this boil on the river's back is, and believe me I know some turns o' phrase that'll make an orc's mother blush. I've spent the bulk o' my daylight hours perched on some hill nearby, trancin' and drinkin' in the silence. I ain't heard a quiet so deep since the monastery after curfew, so it seemed only proper to do so. There's a mean tang in the air here. It sticks to a bird's feathers if you stay out too long. Maybe it's just the fumes waftin' off the cutsnake necromancer, or maybe it's the all death and bones on the very breath of ol' Rappun Athuk itself.

Most folks makin' their living here in Zelkor's Ferry live somewhere in the fields outside of town, leavin' about twelve folks left whilin' their nights away in Bristleback Inn. For the most part the locals keep their distance. I don't blame 'em. I've been told tengu all look alike to the untrained eye, so they see a bird who looks like the perp who robbed them, and often get all colours o' rage. Little do they know that the poor thievin' bastard likely got their snitchers lopped off for their petty crime. Speakin' o' petty crime, Bristleback certainly got himself a right rort here. In all my meanderin's I ain't seen a price like five gold a night for such an ordinary room, but where else in Zelkor's is a bird gonna roost? Nestled with the gnolls and kobolds?

Turns out the Great Downward Engineering Company's name still whispers a sweet somethin' for those listenin' for it. I was approached by the Inn's entertainer, Freydann, last night, when the buzz of the ale died and the stupors began. Slippery lass, that one. Or at least I think she's a lass. I thought I had a good eye for humanoids, but honest to whatever gods hold sway out here I can't tell if she's a human, high elf or wood elf or whatever the blazes kind of elf. Or some kind o' mongrel. Lass caught eye of my deed to Castle Calaelen and knew what it meant, Lords and all. She was quite bold in offerin' her services as a local to the Great Downward, notin' that business would likely gather more steam if its face didn't have a beak on it. I gotta admit Freydann has a point.

Shades 001: First Impressions

I don’t have much experience in inheritin’ things, but damn I’ll bet every feather I have that I’ve received the worst inheritance possible. My guess that Zelkor’s Ferry was but a lowly bog-pile with some houses that got stuck in it was right on target, perhaps even flatterin’. It has a town necromancer, for crowin’ out loud. No healer, no apothecary, just a necromancer, and his assumedly creepy bonefuckin’ ways. There is a gemcutter at least, so at least some gold must feel obliged to flow in here on occasion.

The castle ain’t doing much better. I couldn’t even get inside because there were nasty little robed kobolds and some dribbling gnoll toadies holing up in the place. Too many for me and my firearm to take on, unfortunately. There ain't no point in being yet another dead Lord of Castle Calaelen now is there? I've decided the best way to salvage anythin’ outta this whole fiasco is to hire some aspiring adventurers to help clean the angry shitkickers out, using the Great Downward as a face. Perhaps the old gal’s name still carries some weight around these parts, and can get some shit done for a bird.

Shades 000: In Which a Bird Gets Bent

So apparently I’m the proud owner of some old castle out in the middle o’ mudfuckin’ nowhere, and the new Lord of whatever civilization is still attached to it in deed only. Well, ain’t that a riot. It certainly ain’t everyday a bird finds himself at the receivin’ end o’ some past adventurer’s rottin’ fortunes, rather than begging or pluckin’ ‘em from their fat pockets. It has to be some kind of record.

The gentleman responsible for handing the deed over, some quill-pusher by the name of Bent, was a lot less surprised by the whole affair than I was. Turns out he’d been tryin’ to track me down for years. The deeds to the castle has changed hands more than a whore’s coin, he says, or some approximation. But also the goose was apparently lookin’ for someone who actually uses my name. I certainly don’t. I’m a mite concerned that he found me at all.

Anyway, my new castle lies a hour’s solid ride next to what I guess is a bog-pile town named Zelkor’s Ferry, which is technically in my Lordly domain. I ain’t never heard of it ‘til now, but that ain’t surprising. However, I have heard of the original owner of the premises. Orelinde Calaelen. The elven Goblin Queen o’ Mosswood. I guess it’d be best for her sake and mine that I at least go check the premises out, and take a peek at the town. The deed also includes a license to run a Great Downward Engineering Company, tax free, so perhaps I’ll go fishing for some potential enterprisin’ folk whilst I’m there.

Honestly I would not be surprised if I found Mr. Bent waitin’ for me in Zelkor’s Ferry tomorrow, to inform me that he made some kind o’ mistake. But then again, no one gives nothin’ to a tengu unless they absolutely have to, so maybe I just gotta suck it up and be a Lord.

Lizards and Laws (Siurlang)

Kobolds. Really, I would have expected the bird to be better at picking out lizards and disembowelling them on rocks by herself, but if she needs my help, all the better. There were no problems for my arcane might, barring the appearance of some undead. Bizarre, really. Kobolds tend to devious behaviour, not necromancy. Will have to look into it further, though I think that the halforc might have a deathgrip on the tome that we recovered from one of the kobolds. Some sort of priest, though not of a traditional dragon deity.

Note to self, get tome from halforc and read it. Offer trade of religious text? Pretty sure that he's some sort of divine channeller, though the dwarf is as well. There is so much overlap in this ragtag group of followers. I'll have to pay more attention to what goes on in the mundane as well. It's not entirely beneath my notice, after all.

There were some gnolls as well, which proved to be slightly more of a problem than the kobolds. Perhaps they were the reason that the bird could not handle the little lizards by herself? Regardless, I, and my followers, dealt with the hyena-folk in short order, leaving the castle open to us and completing the task.

Speaking of the castle, it is a dump. The place must have been abandoned decades ago, given the state of disarray and destruction, though no doubt the kobolds helped out there. In my professional opinion, the bird would be better off razing it to the foundations, and building a new castle in its place. One with a moat that could be filled with liquid fire of course, not a water moat. Water moats are stupid and lame.

A new castle could be made larger, as well. This ruin is little more than a wall and a slightly bigger than usual house. A larger castle could have room for an arcanist's tower, which I would grudgingly allow the other two arcanists to occupy the lower rooms of. It could also be better able to resist a siege, with the possibility of a high-arcing catapult in the courtyard. Or even on the roof of the keep?

Note to self, look into the costs of building an arcanist's tower. And the local laws. I'd hate to have a tower constructed only to find out that it exceeds some bizarre height restriction or something.

On the topic of a tower, I'd need items to put in it. That is, after all, what towers are for.

Rappan Athuk lies south. Not only should it be absolutely full of arcane paraphernalia ready for acquisition, but the rumours that I've picked up on point to it being a place worthy of being graced by my arcane might.

By which I mean fire and force.

Meetings and Moats (Siurlang)

Irori be praised, dry land! I know that there was always dry land on either side of the boat, but now I'm standing on it! The dry land, not the boat. I think I'll walk back to civilisation.

But land! And buildings! Only a few buildings. Somehow I get the idea that I will have to walk for a while to get to civilisation. I didn't really look into what all the buildings were for, to be honest. Maybe I should have, just to categorise them into 'important' and 'not important'. I think that there's a gem cutter. Which could be kind of useful, I suppose. I'm not all that big on the enchantment side of things, so I figure that I won't get too much use out of that place. The other arcanists that are hanging around might, I'm not sure what their particular strengths and weaknesses are.

Note to self, find out other arcanists' strengths and weaknesses.

Anyway, it turns out that the other people on the boat and myself were here for the same reason. Well, at first appearances. All of them are here for a task, from the curiously named tengu, Shades. Apparently the bird came into possession of a deed for an abandoned castle in the region and, of course, needed my help to clean it out. The others as well, I suppose. At least the halforc and dwarf might be useful in getting in between any foes and myself, should it be required.

Writing this during the walk to the castle, of course. No time for writing at the ridiculously overpriced inn. I believe that the castle lies ahead. Hopefully it lacks a moat, or at least water in the moat. Why would people use water to fill a moat anyway? I can think of at least five things that would work better, and not be traversable!

Entrances and Evocation (Siurlang)

Rivers.

The birthplace of nations, the arteries of commerce and the most boring method of travel to exist. How positively mundane it is, to stand on the wooden planks of an ironically named boat of all things, and watch the land drift past. One day, I will not need to travel in this terrible and dull manner, on a boat on a river.

Hydrophobia kicking in again. Get a grip, Siur, it'll be fine. Just another hour or two, then we can get off the boat and back onto hopefully dry land. I hope that the stupid thing doesn't capsize or anything. It sounds like everything is fine, but what if it isn't? All I can do is blast arcane force and fire at things, that's no use on a boat that's sinking!

Maybe I can burn the water away. No, that's stupid. The water just keeps on coming, it's called flow for a reason. So I'd have to find the source of the water, and then I can stop it and the boat will stop sinking and I'll be fine and won't have to drown.

Wait, that won't work, I'd have to get off the boat in the first place to find where the river starts. Irori help me, this is not helping! I need to think of something else to take my mind off the motion of the boat on the water, and the creaking of the boat as it floats along, and the potential for a catastrophic failure of the structural integrity of the boat and SHUT UP SIUR SERIOUSLY THIS IS NOT HELPING.

Think of something else. Something other than the boat. People. People aren't boats. Okay.

Heh, that's a cat. Seriously, a cat, dressed up like people. I think this boat is driving me mad.

Expedition 0: Calaelen Castle (Agamemnon)

This is a good party of people.  They all have confidence in what they are doing, and with good cause: they are good.  We make an effective combination.  This bodes well.

En route to the castle we spied something atop a hill in the middle distance.  Shnookums, a stout paladin of Dwerfater, has a ridiculous name, a fact I got over as soon as I saw him swing his hammer.  Warhammers are not known as weapons of grace, poise or great accuracy.  Using one to obliterate a stirge that is actively grappling your head requires a deftness of touch and the sort of control that cannot be disrespected.  His reluctance to investigate the statue atop the hill was born purely of pragmatism; similarly his holding back at the cave was simple, sensible caution.  This has not stopped me ribbing him for his 'cowardice'.  He is, after all, a dwarf, and I am, after all, a priest of Darach-Albith.  There will be banter aplenty - banter he will be able to hear very clearly as I will be standing right next to him when the fighting starts.

Amerasu, a ranger of the catfolk, was also keen to investigate the statue atop the hill.  Catfolk I have met in Elven lands were known for their curiosity rather than their caution.  As a fellow archer and a fellow worshipper of the First Elf we had an immediate rapport, and I respect her adventurous spirit.  I am sure we will have many conversations in the future.

Ami entering the cave with the dwarf and I was not a great surprise.  The three mages remaining outside was also not a great surprise - as humans they would not see well anyway, and it is not wise to wander into a dark cave when your line of sight is your only protection.  What did surprise me was the tengu joining us.  Shades is contracting our services.  She does not need to venture into danger herself, she has hired us to do that for her.  This wasn't even her castle; this was a random dank hole in the ground full of decay, stench and stirges.  I don't know if she was driven by curiosity or a love of the fight - tengu faces are not easy to read.  I do know that her boomstick is fucking loud when it goes off ten feet to your right in a small cave.

The sorcerers came into their own once we had reached the castle.  I had thought Kruin's fishing with lightning bolts back at Selkor's Ferry either an affectation, an attempt to impress or just plain frivolousness.  Nothing of the sort.  She seems to live lightning - as the kobold, gnolls and skeletons found out to their cost.  For a sorcerer she is very resilient, and seems to have a keen tactical mind.  I get the feeling she doesn't so much call forth the lightning a few times a day as keep it restrained the entire rest of the day.

Suirlang and the Changeling (I won't waste the ink committing their name to paper) made an effective pairing.  Combat is a lot more enjoyable when the odd ball of force flies from over your shoulder and smacks the gnoll you're facing clean in the eye.  For me, anyway; not so much for the gnoll.

The castle was guarded by four gnolls who were about as tough as you would expect gnolls to be, fleeing as soon as one of them went down - although I had a narrow escape myself when one of the belligerent fellows attempted to charge me off the bridge.  I'd thought his self-sacrificing charge was a sign of bravery, running at a man with a spear being a very risky maneuver, but I later downgraded this to stupidity when he ignored the dwarven warhammer swinging in at about knee-height and taking his legs clean out from under him.

The gnolls did pique our curiosity by howling up at one of the towers.  We never managed to get up there, but it apparently housed a fiendish roc, who flew off as we were finishing off the last kobold.  We will eventually have to check up there to see if we can find any explanation for what it was doing there, but that can be left for another day.  The castle is ours now, though it took some significant fighting to get to this point.  We first had to clear a group of kobold who had set up in what I presume was once the great hall.  The dwarf kept two of them pinned down in one corner while spells and ranged attacks made short work of most of the remainder.  Two of the little bastards were getting about with oversized weapons whose inertia alone was a threat, but they had no idea what they were doing with them so in the end we ended them without much trouble.  I spent most of the fight trapped in a net thrown by one of the gnoll attendants, unable to lend much assistance, though I did summon Gwerif, my celestial friend, from my prone position, who was enough of a distraction to allow Jax, the human rogue, the opportunities he needed to get in there.

Jax is an odd fellow.  He is handy with locks and knows his way around traps, he carries surprising quantities of gear for a man of such unmuscled physique, and he seems, on the surface at least, to be purely motivated by money.  At this point you would usually write him off as a self-serving thief, someone to keep around for his expertise but not to rely upon.

So why then did he roll through the swipes of three summoned undead at great personal risk in order to face off against a blighted priest of death, on his own?  This wasn't reckless abandon or an attempt to flee; it was a tactical decision that paid off, but it was one hell of a risk to him.  Out there on his own he couldn't even flank the bastard; it was just him and two daggers face to face with a mace radiating such evil that even the untrained could see it.

I'll have to keep an eye on him - and this is the first time I've ever said that about a rogue and not meant "in case he steals my stuff".  I get the feeling that creating space for him to work is going to occupy a lot of the tactical decisions the paladin and I need to make going forward.  That, and stalling long enough for the massive amounts of ranged firepower this party brings to bear to decimate our opposition.

It will be very interesting to see how many of these people are interested in entering Rappan Athuk.  I hope it is all of them because we are one hell of a team.  Although I will need a better set of armour because I am going to be spending a lot more time on the front line than I had anticipated.