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.