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.