Lavanda-26
I’m writing this from a bedroll inside a crowded mill-tower-turned-tourist-trap in a decimated town that never recovered from the Collapse. I’m surrounded by hostile Unaf enemies, whose whims I have subjected myself to of my own volition. Jaonos help me, I’ve no idea how I end up in these situations.
The ambush Umis talked me into was an absolute shitshow. I see now that he played on my rage and humiliation at being bested in our initial attempt to acquire the automaton, convincing me this “ragtag” band of lowborns and critterfolk had merely gotten lucky. Our encounter along the West High Road was as clear an indication of Umis’s folly and poor judgment as one could possibly ask for. These mercenary barkeeps have no particular consideration for the Song of Harmony—not something I can necessarily blame them for, but Umis was convinced their haste to revive those of us who fell beneath their armaments on the Grasmerean street meant they feared the Song… or at the very least the Pillarguard.
I can prove my head was the furthest thing from clear: I let Umis convince me of their slavish devotion to the Song to the point that I failed to realize if they had little compunction about striking with lethal intent on the well-observed and oft-patrolled city streets, they’d scarcely pause to spill blood on the lonely roads of Grasmere Island. Poor Gosdrick paid dearly for my lack of foresight and lucidity.
In the aftermath of our second defeat in as many days, I suppose I snapped. With the rest of the task force scattered to save their sorry hides, Umis disrobed and disarmed and sent fleeing for his life, I stood rain-soaked on the side of the road. Nothing in my life—not even discovering the truth of the Mystarrian cache—had ever left me feeling quite so unmoored. Faced with returning to Sumina and the Weaver Council not only empty-handed but defeated at the hands of such piteous nobodies, I confess I contemplated a coward’s end right then and there.
What stopped me was the dawning clarity that these ruffians—the Trouble Brewing Company, as they’re fond of referring to themselves—were not ragtag, piteous, lowfolk nobodies. The gheor responsible for the automaton, for example, is no mere sorcerer or blacksmith. I suspect he has not even fully realized the feat of his accomplishment, nor how rare a gift he must possess in order to have succeeded where so many more worthy have failed. But even beyond the dragonkin, the others he has surrounded himself with are unique in their own rights. They seem to genuinely care about the gheor’s automaton, as if the device were, in fact, alive and fully worthy of their care and compassion.
Even now, I struggle to make sense of the inconsistency of this group. They disregard the Song, yet they adore a magically-animated metal creature as if it were an equal. They justify their lethal actions as defense of the self akin to wild beasts or monsters. But unlike Songless thugs destined for Obsidia’s, Trouble Brewing has some kind of morality. Or at least a version of it from their alien perspective.
I pleaded with them to allow me to accompany them, bound and gagged if necessary. There is something compelling about them, about the way they carry themselves. It’s masochistic and the height of folly, I know, but I felt—and still feel—that there is a lightning in the air near them. It’s something I haven’t felt since that day long ago when I located the last cache. The feeling surrounding me as I dug into that fetid basement, the one of purpose, of grand destiny, it clings to these deceptively unassuming folk like unrinsed soap.
Anyway, I threw myself on their mercy and though the consensus was hardly unanimous (the rabbitfolk in particular seems to harbor an unwavering grudge), they reluctantly agreed. They have not included me in their night watch rotation, and in fact have bound me—relatively comfortably, I should clarify—indicating I am nowhere near a point of earning their trust. I suppose the feeling is mutual, particularly after the revelation that the one seemingly normal Tower crewmember (I don’t count the dwarf who runs their shitty tavern and, seemingly, the crew—the sheer fact that he has hired this Unaf-heavy crew and a truly unnerving child makes him immediately suspect) is anything but.
What exactly they are, I cannot begin to fathom. They call themselves Riv and their natural form, presumably, is both awe-inspiring and horrifying. A body made of crystal-blue liquid like something made of the pools from the temple of Ruven. Yet, at the center, a restless glow of light and power, arcing lightning through the fluid-like form. It appears vaguely as a man, but with such stupefying alien features as to pull the breath from my lungs… I can scarcely keep from shuddering just from the memory alone.
They claim to be from another phase, though my shock at the casual discarding of a sorcerous disguise was such that I failed to ask any of the million follow-up questions that have been racing through my mind ever since. I wondered for a moment if perhaps they were from the Astral Phase, but the more likely answer is they are some sort of minor demigod from the Voidphase. I wish I could get a message to Sumina and try to pick the minds of the Sage Council for more theories. I’d ask this Riv for more clarity, but I now find myself as afraid of them as I am of the child. My best guess is the child is also disguised, probably also from another phase of existence.
The possibility exists that these two—the entire group for that matter—are agents of the Profane. Less well-educated captives of theirs would be convinced of nothing else, I’m sure of it. It does feel improbable that they’d be so cavalier about exposure if they were acting on the Profane’s behalf, but I won’t apologize for not comprehending the thought process of such evil. When Riv exposed his true form to me, I excused myself from the meal we were sharing and took a walk, considering very strongly a flight back down the North Road to the palace. Maybe High Regent Demetres would reward me handsomely for exposing turncoats and Profane agents masquerading as ordinary citizens. She might even grant me access to the automaton if the Trouble Brewers were jailed and kept in rags awaiting trial.
Ultimately I discarded the notion. Even if these lowfolk are engaged in perpetrating a complex, sinister plot, I have no evidence of such other than Godsrick’s body. And even then, I’d have to try to compellingly explain how unsanctioned—and armed!—Dwarven and Elven operatives came to be in a Human Kingdom without any kind of formal visa entry in our respective books. Self-defense is rarely seen as rational justification for violence under the current Songtheory, but we did outnumber them 2-to-1 and attacked them unprovoked, twice. Maybe their Unaf status would sway the Justikar’s prejudices enough to get them a prison sentence, but I doubt they would be willing to do what was necessary to expose them as possible Profane agents.
The best course of action for me now may in fact be to simply continue to travel in their company and, if clear evidence of their duplicity and sinister scheming presents itself, take it upon myself to be the bulwark against the Profane’s plots to regain a foothold in our land.
Lavanda-27
The crew broke camp at sunrise, inexplicably eager to return again to the cavern beneath the hill. As I did yesterday, I opted to stay behind. I’m still not completely over my claustrophobia from the basement where I found the last cache.
But after half an hour of listening to that revolting tortle’s incessant chatter, I excused myself to use the privy and instead snuck down into the cavern. I moved slowly, unable to find those who had ventured below and unwilling to light my way lest it attract the wrong sorts of attention. I found the abandoned camp that had been described the night before (thankfully clear heads had prevailed and they hadn’t decided to rest for the night in that ghoulish tomb!), and the remains of several creatures that looked to have been long dead but were covered in fresh wounds including crossbow bolts looking suspiciously like those the child loads into her hateful little weapon.
After what felt like hours, I heard some commotion coming from deeper within the cavern. It was only then that I caught up with the TBC. To my shame, I kept hidden and watched as they faced off with a room filled with vile monsters.
Here’s what I mean when I say there is something special about this group: while I gazed upon the shambling corpses of an investigative contingent the High Regent dispatched weeks ago to Mellow Stand, and the most horrifying perversion of a married couple, my mind locked into a state of fearful disbelief. I am not even embarrassed to say I soiled myself as even from an unseen hiding place in an abandoned alcove I could do naught but stare and quake in fear and revulsion. My reaction to these abominations was, I feel, the natural and appropriate response to such necromantic depravity.
The Trouble Brewing Company, though? They parlayed with the heretical Mawspawn. They endured the creatures’ obnoxious taunting and unhinged drivel. They traded insults and barbs, and hesitated not one moment to defend each other and engage with the abominations.
There was something perhaps far worse than even the ghastly couple, locked behind a rusty metal portculis. From my vantage point, I couldn’t see much beyond a bloody tentacle thrashing out through the bars. Mercifully it never escaped, but the struggle against the couple (who somehow expressed that they had names—Ballard and Albena Crowe, I believe they said) was hardly a breeze, even for the ferocity of the Brewers.
Ballard in his bloodred armor taunted Beeroy, slashing with a ghastly wound that didn’t just open the harengon’s chest, but seemed to draw the life away from him. His companions closed in swiftly, but were stymied by the undead. I tried to gather my wits and courage to call upon Ruvan’s strength and heal the poor lad, but before I could find the centering clarity necessary for my magic, he called out to Irkretsh.
The gheor god of revival would not be my first—or even eleventh—choice of deity to call upon in an hour of great need, but by Jaonos these Brewers must have a direct line to all of the gods. Irkretsh’s light and power flowed from the boy’s wounds, mending them and ridding the withered appearance from his body. He sprang back into the fray with a ferocious intensity on his face. I’ve heard the saying, “kick a rabbitfolk as often as you wish, but never stop before they lie still” all my life but never really understood what it meant until that very instant.
The obnoxious and clearly unhinged male wraith retaliated by injuring the tabaxi warrior. Something about the creature’s foul magic must have overwhelmed him, though, as I saw his face screw up into a tortured expression beyond the ken of a physical wound. I’ve steered clear of that one—who calls himself Bold—since he bashed in my head during our attack along the High Road. But I confess I found myself rooting for his wicked hammer to find purchase in the specter’s decaying skull. Instead, the counter-attack was missed Ballard. Bold took the opportunity to toss a weapon at the ghoul called Albena, which incurred an even greater degree of ire from Ballard.
Riv and Beeroy wasted no time mercifully dispatching the zombified Town Patrollers, though Riv sustained some friendly fire from the rabbitfolk’s retaliatory attacks. Having seen the harengon in battle thrice now, I realize my initial assessment was mistaken. I had thought at first the hive of bees he carries on his back like some kind of honey addict was a mere distraction, a quirk of culture or ritualistic show of intimidation similar to those I’ve heard about from the elders in their descriptions of the scourgefolk. But it seems to be a far more complex bit of symbiosis; the insects seem to obey Beeroy’s commands, blending with a rudimentary form of wild magic that allows the young rabbitfolk to fight alongside the creatures. It’s quite unsettling to behold. Though, given the obviously unintentional effect the swarm had on Riv, there seems to be a limit to the precision of Beeroy’s influence.
Ballard seized the opportunity while Beeroy apologized to Riv to slash at the harengon again, a blow so violent and ghastly I nearly gave away my position by letting out an audible gasp. But as I’ve come to expect, the Brewers seem to find renewed purpose when one of their own is in jeopardy. Bold pounced on Ballard’s vulnerability during the backswing and was able to connect a heavy blow and shove his wounded comrade to a safer position. I lost sight of the harengon then, his attention seemed drawn to a shadowy corner outside my view for a few seconds. Whether he was recovering or praying or consulting with his hive of murderous bees, I can’t be sure. But when he came wading back into the fray, he excitedly shouted at his friends to focus attention on the southern cavern wall, babbling something about sunlight.
Albena had already retreated further to the south, trying to select a better vantage point to rain her hateful arrows at the shifting battle happening in the center of the chamber. While Riv and Bold continued trading gruesome-sounding blows with Ballard, Beeroy picked up a heavy rock and flug it southward. I thought his intention was to hit Albena, but the rock looked extremely heavy for the slight-framed harnegon, and the throw was very wide. Imagine my shock when it turned out to be not a miss but a direct hit on the intended target: the loose rubble forming the south cave wall.
With a tremendous crash and a shaking I thought might bring the whole hill down onto our heads, a segment of the wall collapsed, letting in a bright shaft of sunlight. For a moment everything was washed out and I had to blink half a hundred times to reclaim my focus. When I did, I saw the two ghouls looking remarkably more withered and unstable than they had a few moments earlier. I learned later that Beeroy had spoken to a sickly-looking woman claiming to be the much-sought Kharchu who informed him Ballard and Albena would be weakened by sunlight. I suppose it’s a mercy the Brewers decided to fully explore the cave during the light of day instead of under the cover of darkness. Whose mercy, I can’t say, but as I suggested above, I’m beginning to wonder if this odd group has some secret influence from the gods.
Riv took advantage of Ballard’s distraction and grunts of discomfort as the light washed over his hideous form. As part of the ghoul’s skull hit the cavern floor with a wet slap, Riv actually bothered to mock the abomination, affecting Ballard’s irritating cadence. But Ballard was no longer concerned with his prey, focused solely on Albena, writhing in the hot glare of the morning sun. Bold also connected a solid blow, loosening a kneecap though I don’t understand and have no intention to learn how skeletal creatures utilize their remaining bones upon reanimation.
Enraged by the agony Albena expressed within her sunbath, Ballard once again targeted Beeroy, this time cutting him so deeply the makeshift portable hive slipped off his back and landed on the hard ground. Poor Beeroy slumped protectively over the hive while Bold used his hammer to clear the harengon away, allowing Riv to restore his wounds enough for Beeroy to continue fighting, though not without a little admonishment from Bold toward his young companion for not exercising a little more self-preservation. Albena finally gathered her wits enough to rush Beeroy, falling on him in a smoldering fury of screams and claws. He pushed backward, a nauseating crack emanating from the hive, but the rabbitfolk got a knife into the ghoul. The bees swarmed over Albena’s face, choking off her enraged screams. It was enough to force the once-woman backward into the hated sunlight as she retched on the cloud of bees.
With the last of the—well, mundane I suppose is the only word I can use, though there is nothing so ordinary about the walking dead—zombies other than Ballard and Albena dispatched, Ballard focused his spiteful attention on Bold. “I’m starting to not like you very much,” it quipped at Bold before becoming incorporeal and sliding through the tabaxi. Bold’s face bore an expression of frozen horror for a moment as Ballard used his new position to pierce the tabaxi through the back with his weapon. Bold looked down as the blade retracted from his body, the shock of what must have been excruciating pain clearing his senses enough.
If you’ve ever seen an old tomcat, slow to anger, finally get tired of torment from a cruel boy with a stick, you might have an idea of the expression that folded across Bold’s face in that moment. The casual rudeness thought so stereotypical of his people came out in full as he whirled himself around using his hammer as a counterweight, and the hammerhead found Ballard’s skull. I confess I could not fully enjoy the catharsis of the moment, however, having myself recently been on the receiving end of such a swing.
Ballard Crowe staggered backward, his speech distorted by the damage to his head and jaw, mumbling something about dinner. Bold wasted no time following up with an axe that appeared in his hand as if from some sort of illusory magic and the axehead found its final home in Ballard’s partially exposed ribcage.
I forgot myself for a moment and let out a whoop of exultant joy at the demise of such a horrid, infuriating creature, but my outburst was lost in the otherworldly wail that escaped Albena at the very moment. Stricken by the loss of her—and I shudder to characterize it as such—lover, the vengeful ghoul screamed so loudly it seemed to come from every direction in the cavern all at once. The sound filled not just my ears but my head, my whole body. I can’t tell if the ground quaked under the force of her lament or not, but I would have feared again for the cavern to collapse if I hadn’t been so overwhelmed by the sound that all rational thought fled.
When it was over, Albena was gone. Vanished, somewhere, hopefully forever. I did not bother to stick around any further and fled back topside. My nerves were shot, my comprehension of what I had witnessed so discordant and unsettling that I feared for my very sanity. Despite having only awakened a few hours earlier, I found myself back in the Nivertois Mill Historic Society tower, tucked under the countertop in the fetal position, somewhere between sleep and waking with who knows how much time had passed in between.
The tortle found me and informed me the brave lads who had faced the Crowes had unearthed a cache of treasures—presumably stolen from prey the Crowes had dispatched over the years. They were apparently sifting through the bounty. I was not offered a chance to participate in their treasure hunting, nor would I have accepted an invitation were it offered. If I never step foot in that cavern—or any other—again, it will be far too soon. Apparently there is some intrigue regarding a letter and a map discovered among the detritus below, but I cannot bear to inquire about it. It has taken me several hours to regain enough composure to put this all to quill and parchment and only now as I wind toward the present has my hand stopped shaking enough to even read the words I’ve written above.
Somehow, despite fearing for my life and my sanity at every moment among the company of these incomprehensible brigands, I find myself no less convinced that my decision to join them was the right one. If anything, I am more certain than ever that I am precisely where the goddess wants me. May she spare my body and soul, if the Trouble Brewing Company doesn’t end my life and their antics don’t inadvertently lead to my demise, I will at last discover my true purpose.