The Diary of Droots

The day after the calamity, as near as I can tell.

I am Droots.

I awake with three of my companions in a hall in the cold north. A small world tree seedling begins to grow here. Who planted it? We do not know. But there is a disturbing twist to this young lifeform. It calls to us, binds us together in a way not unpleasant, but still disturbingly coercive. There are swirls of leaves that form humanoid shapes, and other familiar faces take form. Noxala - thank Vauna, she survived. And several of her circle. I recover, and while Fredricka watches over the still unconcious Noxala I venture out into the cold to see if I can find others.

My form is...twisted. My scales have become a kaleidoscope of color. My breath has...spores in it. Even my weapon seems to carry the influence of my new form, this...something bids me to call it a gift. I resist, and term it what it is. It is a blight. I wrap my form in linen bindings until I can understand it more. I have no wish to start Elanora's newest plague epidemic.

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Ten days after the calamity.

I am Droots.

I have discovered more survivors! An old shopkeeper, Nola, and a temple guard, Haldin. They are very near death, but I am able to revive them. And they show no trace of whatever this blight is that afflicts me. Still, some instinct bids me be cautious. How did Nathrael penetrate the hall's defences? Were we betrayed? I cannot risk trusting them. But I cannot let them die, and there are others besides. We gather in an old armory - what is it doing here? It is a guild armory, containing several contraptions built by Lord Ironbrand. It should be in the Hall. But it is many miles north.

We are not far from Gree-ar's tomb. I can think of no more fitting guardian for our rest than my uncle's noble spirit. I will take them there, and we will fortify. Though it will take much effort to move the entire contents of this armory, it is vast. But it is not secure here, so close to the Temple of the Shifting Moon.

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Seventeen days after the calamity.

I am...not Droots. I am an abomination. We are all abominations. Droots is dead.

I now understand my affliction. We defeated Nathrael, but this is the backlash against his death, the spiteful remnants of his will reaching forward through time to try to achieve his victory regardless. For Nathrael isn't a god. He's an idea. A tired old argument that when we get impatient with trying to inspire each other, we can force each other to be better people.

I am souless. I am no more Droots than a simulacrum, or an animated snowman. I am a pile of rotten leaves. If I built a puppet of you, and gave it your memories, it would at first claim to be you. But the moment I pulled its strings, its true nature would be revealed.

If I have realised this, perhaps my companions have also. But there is not much time. Every time I sleep, I feel pulled to that damned seed! Spread the gift, it bids me. Create a world without conflict. I return now to Noxala with a ritual of atonement prepared. If there are no further words in this diary, you will know I was destroyed in the attempt.

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I have lost track of time. Four months since the calamity?

I have lost track of myself. I currently call myself Droots, for whatever that's worth.

I have failed. As soon as I attempted the ritual of atonement, my mind was linked with what lies beyond the blight. It is Nathrael that drives it, and drives us all. He is the puppet master. He has rewritten us in his image. And every time we die, the seed, now a small tree, revives us, and He rewrites us a little more like Himself.

I have taken the name of Lord Drake. As Lord Drake, my new masters bid me to bide my time and watch as the Brotherhood attempts to rebuild Lord Ironbrands works. They have taken great interest in the Noosefield device, which they claim could be used to spread the blight's truth. I am unsure, for Damien surely did not intend the device to be used thus, but even if they attempt and fail, they could do great damage.

That blighted sapling must be destroyed. The tree must be destroyed. But is that the only tree that links Elanora to the multiverse? Or are there Little Warriors still out there providing an alternative? I fear for our allies beyond the stars. There are worse figures than Nathrael that stalk the boughs of reality. There are armies of darkness. And there are dark reflections of ourselves, from other Elanoras, who act as tyrants instead of heroes. But this blight cannot be allowed to exist. The tree must be destroyed.

I forsee a stalemate. The Little Warriors are known to be strong divine spellcasters, and highly resiliant. My blighted companions are hardly the only ones who can repeatedly cheat death. They could go on fighting like this forever. They could tear Elanora apart with this war. They have already begun to do so.

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It is indeed four months now since the calamity. Time is short.

I am currently Droots.

How am I hiding these writings from my dark self? Or do I retain enough of myself even when under Nathrael's influence to forbid him from destroying them? Is this the nightmare Lord Bregan experienced? Constantly at war with himself, and never knowing if he's winning or losing?

Most days I spend fitfully dreaming. I dream of Rhillaine, and she calls to me. She offers a solution. A grain of sand to break the stalemate of war. It's an insane idea. So insane it might work.

I must block my former companions' attempt to prevent the resurrection of Lord William Bregan.

And so will come forth the Changebringer.