Benjamin
Benjamin Bronte (a.k.a. Ben)
Where were ye all? and where wert thou
I saw an eye that shone like thine
But dark curls waved around his brow
And his stern glance was strange to mine
And yet a dreamlike comfort came
Into my heart and anxious eye
And trembling yet to hear his name
I bent to listen watchfully
His voice though never heard before
Still spoke to me of years gone by
It seemed a vision to restore
That brought the hot tears to my eye
I saw an eye that shone like thine
But dark curls waved around his brow
And his stern glance was strange to mine
And yet a dreamlike comfort came
Into my heart and anxious eye
And trembling yet to hear his name
I bent to listen watchfully
His voice though never heard before
Still spoke to me of years gone by
It seemed a vision to restore
That brought the hot tears to my eye
Physical Description
Apparel & Accessories
Thin-rimmed glasses. Crumpled and rolled up pieces of paper are stuffed in the pockets and folds of his clothing.
Mental characteristics
Intellectual Characteristics
Linguist, Bookish
Lost & Confounded
A Raven in a hiding hole
May not know where the seasons go
And by the time fear passes by,
The hole might invite hungry eyes!
So leave before the winter falls
And flee while whisp'ring quiet calls
To Power which consumes the whole,
Then forms a hunger in the soul!
The language of various creatures has always fascinated me, and nightly rumination upon them has oftentimes given me necessary repose when I heard our walls clamor and crack. Orcs do not write like goblins, and fey do not write as elves do, though in both you see similarities which perhaps arose from a shared script. Goblins and orcs have the same spelling for a word which means to lift, though in Orcish the word can also be used as a noun when describing an object or bundle of objects which may be lifted. This use doesn't exist in Goblin, but they do have more words for pushing, pulling, dragging, and tying. These kinds of distinctions exist in much the same way for elves and fey creatures. However, it may be possible these similarities and distinctions in writing came about purely from cultural influence. I don't know much about the origin of cultures and their written language, nor the impact script had upon the evolution of it, but this type of reflection gave rise to my own idle attempts at creating written language of my own. I would occasionally show these attempts to Addison to little effect, though he'd certainly act interested, but eventually we did find an unintended use for it in occasionally eluding the wrath of a particular town librarian. I digress under pressure, evidently. We've lost Eilyse, and I can only assume her and Mel were forcibly dragged in the presence of one of her unscrupulous siblings, as they are missing as well. We tried very hard to find her, but we could not, and have now decided we must move on. We've encountered a pattern of misery and progression which leads me to believe they must somehow be aligned, and I am led to wonder what this group would have done had the same misfortune befallen myself. I travel with reliable companions, but I must become more reliable if I'm to prevent further afflictions. I know there is something beyond my own capabilities and I've seen it recently! I am able to reach out and force a kind of empathy in others. If this is part of the deal, then I accept.
May not know where the seasons go
And by the time fear passes by,
The hole might invite hungry eyes!
So leave before the winter falls
And flee while whisp'ring quiet calls
To Power which consumes the whole,
Then forms a hunger in the soul!
The language of various creatures has always fascinated me, and nightly rumination upon them has oftentimes given me necessary repose when I heard our walls clamor and crack. Orcs do not write like goblins, and fey do not write as elves do, though in both you see similarities which perhaps arose from a shared script. Goblins and orcs have the same spelling for a word which means to lift, though in Orcish the word can also be used as a noun when describing an object or bundle of objects which may be lifted. This use doesn't exist in Goblin, but they do have more words for pushing, pulling, dragging, and tying. These kinds of distinctions exist in much the same way for elves and fey creatures. However, it may be possible these similarities and distinctions in writing came about purely from cultural influence. I don't know much about the origin of cultures and their written language, nor the impact script had upon the evolution of it, but this type of reflection gave rise to my own idle attempts at creating written language of my own. I would occasionally show these attempts to Addison to little effect, though he'd certainly act interested, but eventually we did find an unintended use for it in occasionally eluding the wrath of a particular town librarian. I digress under pressure, evidently. We've lost Eilyse, and I can only assume her and Mel were forcibly dragged in the presence of one of her unscrupulous siblings, as they are missing as well. We tried very hard to find her, but we could not, and have now decided we must move on. We've encountered a pattern of misery and progression which leads me to believe they must somehow be aligned, and I am led to wonder what this group would have done had the same misfortune befallen myself. I travel with reliable companions, but I must become more reliable if I'm to prevent further afflictions. I know there is something beyond my own capabilities and I've seen it recently! I am able to reach out and force a kind of empathy in others. If this is part of the deal, then I accept.
Now See
Crepuscule creature calling out in
to a nig ht
that hounds and sh o
uts between muted beat
s of silent rain that washes s
u rging pounding pain then i
n side cain and cathy play a
l ong the dusty shelves and
e ndless books and time les
s tomes the secrets worth a
su ndered home that mus
t be le ft lest love be lost t
o twilig ht
moths in ever-falling shadow-flocks
Bah! Surely, someone mocks me. I awake to see my journal vandalized with a picture poem by a person who, I can only assume, despises all that is decent and proper in artistic expression. An imprecation upon them! Can I have no refuge from external malice? Rhetoric to the wind for all it's worth, I feel the strain of strife on earth. And what strife it was this time. We sought shelter from the storm in a well known inn along the trade route, but were unable to purchase our stay because four posing aristocrats had supposedly bought out the place. They were not aristocrats. They were four thugs who had threatened the lives of the innkeeper and his family, and they promptly attacked us within minutes of our arrival. I nearly fell to them. During the fight, Godfrey magically altered their minds and they became momentarily docile. Dillion had a suspicion that they were keeping knowledge of a stash of items secret, and he wanted me to show kindness to them to gain this information. This suggestion left me confounded. I should show kindness to people who threaten innocent families and my life? On the contrary; I became as adverse to them as they were to me. I drew my rapier and attempted coercion to no effect, and though they eventually gave us the location regardless, I cannot help but feel tired of being treated like a harmless plaything. For all it matters, I'd like to note that the bandits regressed to their murderous state after the magic wore off. They are now restrained and we intend to turn them in to a Duke Maldwin or Sir Estibal when we reach Daggerford, which is all the kindness they deserve. [While the content of Benjamin's journal entries tend to be sparsely marked with crossed out words, and notes in the margins, the writing below is uncharacteristically scattered and scratched. Few words and phrases can be made out among the disorder, most of which is entirely unintelligible due to the continual, irregular switching between Common, Elvish, Goblin, Sylvan, Orcish, and Draconic.] Koad ifn sda aream of three "daughters" and was tolmasd awee hisg hig woods. Pl uyr s meidue tasd fune zemi, but we evejgsdfn caso loid edsa ies iga iesa. Oithan, rens otto lagtrohef ies pewiek. Hef otto pewik! Kron hzes beas bef daiem, tnas ms oyyp pasd; awaiting meidue edsa qok yenosi jejed. I knew the ker reas oiwq Cyric asme treo, rens fors ugut Qorle, re imprecation indeeas! I jesas es Eilyse, poe edas em sadaefd dscsn wenj pjygb Mel! Pu aden Deigon! Juem iuhgo lmft dfsme e das qlwki poe oeiw.
Pledarfd, I excused myself to find the heda benas yudd, oirfn ruen vccjd shg. Ki nes ado. Jsdme ymnas edue mfgt Oghma, aelw a inclined to beasdme tund ejwnm nansujm Addison, aue lold oep qqfmd ede iiras Isstari. Ueda pla depok a dead god? I cannot fathom oeurt asdasma uetc gjdha sm Leiada oekja as Cyadic. Loeasd dmenm wdfas cec emad todas lfmme weicm bgos when we get to Waterdeep. I am either the most injudicious deka mon Faerûn or jas fernka kren Avroc.
to a nig ht
that hounds and sh o
uts between muted beat
s of silent rain that washes s
u rging pounding pain then i
n side cain and cathy play a
l ong the dusty shelves and
e ndless books and time les
s tomes the secrets worth a
su ndered home that mus
t be le ft lest love be lost t
o twilig ht
moths in ever-falling shadow-flocks
Bah! Surely, someone mocks me. I awake to see my journal vandalized with a picture poem by a person who, I can only assume, despises all that is decent and proper in artistic expression. An imprecation upon them! Can I have no refuge from external malice? Rhetoric to the wind for all it's worth, I feel the strain of strife on earth. And what strife it was this time. We sought shelter from the storm in a well known inn along the trade route, but were unable to purchase our stay because four posing aristocrats had supposedly bought out the place. They were not aristocrats. They were four thugs who had threatened the lives of the innkeeper and his family, and they promptly attacked us within minutes of our arrival. I nearly fell to them. During the fight, Godfrey magically altered their minds and they became momentarily docile. Dillion had a suspicion that they were keeping knowledge of a stash of items secret, and he wanted me to show kindness to them to gain this information. This suggestion left me confounded. I should show kindness to people who threaten innocent families and my life? On the contrary; I became as adverse to them as they were to me. I drew my rapier and attempted coercion to no effect, and though they eventually gave us the location regardless, I cannot help but feel tired of being treated like a harmless plaything. For all it matters, I'd like to note that the bandits regressed to their murderous state after the magic wore off. They are now restrained and we intend to turn them in to a Duke Maldwin or Sir Estibal when we reach Daggerford, which is all the kindness they deserve. [While the content of Benjamin's journal entries tend to be sparsely marked with crossed out words, and notes in the margins, the writing below is uncharacteristically scattered and scratched. Few words and phrases can be made out among the disorder, most of which is entirely unintelligible due to the continual, irregular switching between Common, Elvish, Goblin, Sylvan, Orcish, and Draconic.] Koad ifn sda aream of three "daughters" and was tolmasd awee hisg hig woods. Pl uyr s meidue tasd fune zemi, but we evejgsdfn caso loid edsa ies iga iesa. Oithan, rens otto lagtro
A Hard Brew and a Flurry of Fear
To sway a monk master
Could lead to disaster,
But some monks can sway in return—
And later rebound
With glorious sound
So those that refused would return—
Thus, just teachings hold true
And may garnish stale brew
Which waits for his final—— A disruption of meter or rhyme can often be used as a point of emphasis, and I've seen many bards use this technique in their writing; a mighty hero's sonnet gets cut short as they meet their untimely end in a dragon's maw; or perhaps the tragic, wayward jester—while tempting the affections of a lady—trips over an intended rhyme the moment his pants comically fall down. This deviation of pattern in poetry can oftentimes be a representation of extraordinary, unexpected events that force themselves into our lives while we attempt to exist in normalcy. However, at the moment, my existence is anything but normal, so I am not sure if what I perceive to be extraordinary events are, indeed, extraordinary, or if they are simply glimpses of the ordinary, peculiar only in contrast to my typically unusual experience. So I am unsure if I should begin by saying something extraordinary happened today, or by saying something ordinary happened today, and which would be a more surprising statement given the occurrences of the past few months of my life. Something happened today. Hjlogarn came to me asking for advice on charming a romantic interest, which was odd, but I think he came to me in earnest; my inclusion in his schemes may have simply been a charitable gesture, though he was likely very desperate as well. I proposed that he talk to the lady of his desires, Tyjit, about her interests—which he claimed were "daggers"—and that perhaps they could also share a drink. I gave him the two portions of brew I had received from Deigon prior and began writing a short poem which I gave to Hjolgarn the following morning. To my surprise, he performed the piece right in front of her, and for a moment I felt the familiar chagrin associated with failed writing. Tyjit immediately stormed off, clearly abashed at his sudden vagary. I am not sure if the fault lay in my poem or his performance, but he was later able to gain her affections when he sung the poem to her instead, which just furthers my confusion. On the way to Dragonspear, we saw a very large deer with a golden coat and platinum antlers. We decided to follow the strange creature into the forsaken ruins of what seemed to be some sort of ancient manor. Upon entering, we saw a naked and perturbed Elven man, who spoke in a language that had similarities to the Elvish taught to me, but with a perplexing dialect. This man with no name claimed to be a prince, cursed—by the father of his lover—into the golden stag we were chasing before. During the conversation, Dillion pulled out a cameo of an odd-looking woman, a memento of his mother who died when he was young, and the man reacted quite strongly to the image, claiming this woman to be the last person he saw before the curse, in what is left of his nebulous memory. We are now taking this man to Waterdeep to seek a cure, perhaps from powerful wizards, I am not sure. When we finally arrived at the desolate remains of Dragonspear castle, we saw a stationary horse near the entrance and Eilyse found drag marks nearby. The castle itself was filled with an abundance of hoary webs and we soon found ourselves in combat with swarms of spiders, two of them being the giant monstrosities of which I had only read about. I was nastily bitten during the fight, which caused me to lose my grasp of the magical brace that restrains my overwhelming fear. When this happened, I found myself covered head to toe with crawling, biting spiders, and I fortunately had the quick sense to reject them by redirecting the internal, screaming terror I felt in my mind, outward, towards them. My hopes that they be sent straight to perdition came true, as they died soon after, and I then took a moment to recuperate. Afterwards, the "something" happened: we found a man—who apparently Deigon, Godfrey, and Dillion know—caught in a mass of webs. Then, Hjolgarn left us. Hjolgarn left us, entirely. Is this something that people do? They simply leave when they decide to leave and no amount of repulsive vociferation can stop them? What could I have done for Addison? What could we have done for Hjolgarn? I do not know. But I wish to know—and I wish for every spider, and sibling, and sapling to understand, and rejoice, and fear as each other do in a thread of knowing. That is the Poem. [The poem below is written in slightly smaller script, next to which the phrase "In Memoriam" is crossed out.] The monk with addiction to brew,
Had at this point drunk quite a few—
He looked pretty bold,
Though not very old—
I hope his monk teachings hold true!
Could lead to disaster,
But some monks can sway in return—
And later rebound
With glorious sound
So those that refused would return—
Thus, just teachings hold true
And may garnish stale brew
Which waits for his final—— A disruption of meter or rhyme can often be used as a point of emphasis, and I've seen many bards use this technique in their writing; a mighty hero's sonnet gets cut short as they meet their untimely end in a dragon's maw; or perhaps the tragic, wayward jester—while tempting the affections of a lady—trips over an intended rhyme the moment his pants comically fall down. This deviation of pattern in poetry can oftentimes be a representation of extraordinary, unexpected events that force themselves into our lives while we attempt to exist in normalcy. However, at the moment, my existence is anything but normal, so I am not sure if what I perceive to be extraordinary events are, indeed, extraordinary, or if they are simply glimpses of the ordinary, peculiar only in contrast to my typically unusual experience. So I am unsure if I should begin by saying something extraordinary happened today, or by saying something ordinary happened today, and which would be a more surprising statement given the occurrences of the past few months of my life. Something happened today. Hjlogarn came to me asking for advice on charming a romantic interest, which was odd, but I think he came to me in earnest; my inclusion in his schemes may have simply been a charitable gesture, though he was likely very desperate as well. I proposed that he talk to the lady of his desires, Tyjit, about her interests—which he claimed were "daggers"—and that perhaps they could also share a drink. I gave him the two portions of brew I had received from Deigon prior and began writing a short poem which I gave to Hjolgarn the following morning. To my surprise, he performed the piece right in front of her, and for a moment I felt the familiar chagrin associated with failed writing. Tyjit immediately stormed off, clearly abashed at his sudden vagary. I am not sure if the fault lay in my poem or his performance, but he was later able to gain her affections when he sung the poem to her instead, which just furthers my confusion. On the way to Dragonspear, we saw a very large deer with a golden coat and platinum antlers. We decided to follow the strange creature into the forsaken ruins of what seemed to be some sort of ancient manor. Upon entering, we saw a naked and perturbed Elven man, who spoke in a language that had similarities to the Elvish taught to me, but with a perplexing dialect. This man with no name claimed to be a prince, cursed—by the father of his lover—into the golden stag we were chasing before. During the conversation, Dillion pulled out a cameo of an odd-looking woman, a memento of his mother who died when he was young, and the man reacted quite strongly to the image, claiming this woman to be the last person he saw before the curse, in what is left of his nebulous memory. We are now taking this man to Waterdeep to seek a cure, perhaps from powerful wizards, I am not sure. When we finally arrived at the desolate remains of Dragonspear castle, we saw a stationary horse near the entrance and Eilyse found drag marks nearby. The castle itself was filled with an abundance of hoary webs and we soon found ourselves in combat with swarms of spiders, two of them being the giant monstrosities of which I had only read about. I was nastily bitten during the fight, which caused me to lose my grasp of the magical brace that restrains my overwhelming fear. When this happened, I found myself covered head to toe with crawling, biting spiders, and I fortunately had the quick sense to reject them by redirecting the internal, screaming terror I felt in my mind, outward, towards them. My hopes that they be sent straight to perdition came true, as they died soon after, and I then took a moment to recuperate. Afterwards, the "something" happened: we found a man—who apparently Deigon, Godfrey, and Dillion know—caught in a mass of webs. Then, Hjolgarn left us. Hjolgarn left us, entirely. Is this something that people do? They simply leave when they decide to leave and no amount of repulsive vociferation can stop them? What could I have done for Addison? What could we have done for Hjolgarn? I do not know. But I wish to know—and I wish for every spider, and sibling, and sapling to understand, and rejoice, and fear as each other do in a thread of knowing. That is the Poem. [The poem below is written in slightly smaller script, next to which the phrase "In Memoriam" is crossed out.] The monk with addiction to brew,
Had at this point drunk quite a few—
He looked pretty bold,
Though not very old—
I hope his monk teachings hold true!
Add a Sin, For Whom?
Like ice that binds fire—
A cold, searing ire
Where complexities of
Contradiction melt,
Smolder, and rise,
Then give way to
A tortuous divide.
What gutter trash. If I have not been expelled by my absence already, I should be forever humiliated and exiled for my complete abandonment of form and structure. Lazy nonsense though it may be, I feel compelled to see it written; I do not believe there was a rhyme for the reason or, in this case, for the petrified dung heap masquerading as the inked poetry above. I digress. Recent events have been distressing and alarming, to put it mildly. One day we woke up to a sudden growth of purple mushrooms, expanded out as far as my eyes could see. I had read of these fungi before; their spores are mildly toxic and, worst of all, they emit a piercing scream to all who dare interfere with their uncontrolled dispersion. We had no choice but to interfere. The tales I had read of adventurers succumbing to their distressing wails seemed to have some hold, as there was a portion of the caravan obviously quite perturbed by the constant shrieking. Luckily, I came out unaffected, though I do not think I will be eating mushrooms in the immediate future. In fact, I would be fine if I never ate another mushroom for the rest of my time here, and if there are mushrooms offered in a place beyond I will refuse them there as well. Days later, we came upon a ruined area built around a ford, aptly named Trollclaw Ford. However, we were not the only inhabitants there. There were, seemingly, two traveling sisters who had also found shelter among the ruins. I use the word, seemingly, in particular, because these two sisters were, in fact, two doppelgangers—a disturbing reality which had eluded us until we found them in the woods, harassing one of our traveling companions. Whether they intended to cause further harm to him, I do not know, but he was out cold by the time we had subdued the two creatures, which was itself no easy task. We do not, typically, simply subdue creatures which try to actively threaten our lives, but we did so this time at the sudden request of Godfrey. He aimed to question both creatures, and I attempted to assist in exacting the truth with magic and the threat of Oghma, both of which apparently affected them with all the force of a bundle of decaying leaves. After failing to glean anything useful from them, one of the creatures did something that caught many of us off guard. It turned into the image of those close to us. So I saw Addison, lying feebly on the ground, attempting to provoke my sympathy. I saw him just how I remembered him, 10 years ago, before he abandoned me. The instant I saw him, I felt a sudden, uncontrollable jolt of poignancy and, for a second, I almost felt as if I had done something wrong—but, then I saw past it all. There was no excuse for any of this. I swear to Leira, Oghma, and all the gods whose attention I can muster—I had never wanted to strike a creature so hard, and with such fury, in all my life, than when I was staring in the eyes of my brother. I thought it wise to end the creatures where they lay, but Dillion and Deigon thought an execution unbefitting, and others in our party were conflicted. So we argued for a time, and I gave way once they demanded that I execute them myself; I almost did. I do not know if it was right; I still have my doubts, but I was seconds away from ending their cruelty then and there. I think some creatures are simply prone to their nature. These doppelgangers are creatures of deception and, once we let them go, they will just become better at what they do. We have taught them a valuable lesson in the ease with which absolution is gained. Damn it all, I wish I had the strength to end their malignity on the spot. Our allowance has either given these creatures a prolonged death or it has created another potential Gerki. I am so sorry, friend. Next time I will try and find more strength.
A cold, searing ire
Where complexities of
Contradiction melt,
Smolder, and rise,
Then give way to
A tortuous divide.
What gutter trash. If I have not been expelled by my absence already, I should be forever humiliated and exiled for my complete abandonment of form and structure. Lazy nonsense though it may be, I feel compelled to see it written; I do not believe there was a rhyme for the reason or, in this case, for the petrified dung heap masquerading as the inked poetry above. I digress. Recent events have been distressing and alarming, to put it mildly. One day we woke up to a sudden growth of purple mushrooms, expanded out as far as my eyes could see. I had read of these fungi before; their spores are mildly toxic and, worst of all, they emit a piercing scream to all who dare interfere with their uncontrolled dispersion. We had no choice but to interfere. The tales I had read of adventurers succumbing to their distressing wails seemed to have some hold, as there was a portion of the caravan obviously quite perturbed by the constant shrieking. Luckily, I came out unaffected, though I do not think I will be eating mushrooms in the immediate future. In fact, I would be fine if I never ate another mushroom for the rest of my time here, and if there are mushrooms offered in a place beyond I will refuse them there as well. Days later, we came upon a ruined area built around a ford, aptly named Trollclaw Ford. However, we were not the only inhabitants there. There were, seemingly, two traveling sisters who had also found shelter among the ruins. I use the word, seemingly, in particular, because these two sisters were, in fact, two doppelgangers—a disturbing reality which had eluded us until we found them in the woods, harassing one of our traveling companions. Whether they intended to cause further harm to him, I do not know, but he was out cold by the time we had subdued the two creatures, which was itself no easy task. We do not, typically, simply subdue creatures which try to actively threaten our lives, but we did so this time at the sudden request of Godfrey. He aimed to question both creatures, and I attempted to assist in exacting the truth with magic and the threat of Oghma, both of which apparently affected them with all the force of a bundle of decaying leaves. After failing to glean anything useful from them, one of the creatures did something that caught many of us off guard. It turned into the image of those close to us. So I saw Addison, lying feebly on the ground, attempting to provoke my sympathy. I saw him just how I remembered him, 10 years ago, before he abandoned me. The instant I saw him, I felt a sudden, uncontrollable jolt of poignancy and, for a second, I almost felt as if I had done something wrong—but, then I saw past it all. There was no excuse for any of this. I swear to Leira, Oghma, and all the gods whose attention I can muster—I had never wanted to strike a creature so hard, and with such fury, in all my life, than when I was staring in the eyes of my brother. I thought it wise to end the creatures where they lay, but Dillion and Deigon thought an execution unbefitting, and others in our party were conflicted. So we argued for a time, and I gave way once they demanded that I execute them myself; I almost did. I do not know if it was right; I still have my doubts, but I was seconds away from ending their cruelty then and there. I think some creatures are simply prone to their nature. These doppelgangers are creatures of deception and, once we let them go, they will just become better at what they do. We have taught them a valuable lesson in the ease with which absolution is gained. Damn it all, I wish I had the strength to end their malignity on the spot. Our allowance has either given these creatures a prolonged death or it has created another potential Gerki. I am so sorry, friend. Next time I will try and find more strength.
Divers
A diving flame, pluming roars—
A heart it seeks for light reborn.
A wrathful Nature consumes its soul—
A Mother's tax; the timeless toll. We were assaulted on the road by two Perytons a couple days ago. I had only read of the creatures before, and I will admit their supposed rarity caught me off guard when I saw them flying above us. Perytons are a strange mix of deer and bird, and they need to consume fresh hearts before laying their young. I had hoped the beasts would soon understand the futility of attacking our group, but we struck them down quicker than they had even arrived. The priestess of Aerdrie Faenya, Chenna, disagreed with my description of the beasts including any relation to deer, which struck me odd. You would think any intimation of their relation to birds would cause her greater vexation, but perhaps this was a more personal disagreement than a religious one. Does such a difference exist for a cleric? I also noticed Dillion sketching the Perytons after they had fallen, as he does with many other creatures. I wonder if he does this for study or for amusement. I took some notes as well to aid in crafting the poem above, though it was interesting, purely from an academic perspective, to see the differences myself between the descriptions of Perytons which I had read and the actual creatures before me. I had not expected their wings to be so expansive and their talons to be so fine. Farther down the road, we came upon a horde of hobgoblins. These, in particular, were savage and intended to harm a merchant and his guard, who were cowering behind their broken wagon. Many of our unforeseen encounters are violent and impetuous, and this was little different, though we did split the party in a seemingly tactical manner before engaging. Before heading to the front line, I made Hjolgarn invisible and read Dillion a poem I had written for him a couple weeks prior: An unborn, toothless dragon
Was carried away in our wagon—
Then its shell shimmered and opened
An egg and argument broken.
And some might think the inherent risk
Couldn't be worth a Malaekliss,
But if to enemies our dragon fell,
I'd kill them all and then myself! I am still not sure if my poems have any effect and, in hindsight, perhaps ending the poem with a suicidal pact wasn't the best of choices. I know I can create magic through them, but Dillion's countenance did not seem to change upon hearing it, as if I had been a lizard trying to recite the holy verses of Oghma. Unfortunately, in moments like these I feel like we have not a minute's security, so there is no time to inquire. We must all push forward, and so we did. Hjolgarn and I nearly died to the hobgoblins—if I could not magically brace myself, I'm not sure what I would do—and while doing so the guards continued to cower. I did not think this was acceptable, so I tried to procure some form of payment from them afterwards. They were able to provide us a handful of armor sets. I gave all these pieces to Dillion, so that he could ascertain their properties. He seemed to suggest that this was foolish considering Godfrey is capable of doing this through magic. However, I think a fresh perspective is generally beneficial. I do not know how Godfrey's magic works and with what degree of accuracy it does. Further, I do not know what Dillion is capable of, or of what magic he knows. He begrudgingly took the sets, looked them over, and was able to discern the magical properties of 3 of the 4 armor pieces. Magic, be damned. A wizard, indeed. Before the night was through, Godfrey and I discussed my approach to learning about others. In my weariness, I attempted to explain the usefulness of appearing unassuming in the presence of certain individuals when trying to gain information. He suggested that people appreciate it more when you are forthright, and when they unknowingly receive what they want. I do not know what people want, but it is possible Godfrey has a point. I am so accustomed with seeing Addison get his way with such approaches that I never seriously considered alternatives. A diver should mind to mend its course, but not for too long lest it catches upon the leash.
A heart it seeks for light reborn.
A wrathful Nature consumes its soul—
A Mother's tax; the timeless toll. We were assaulted on the road by two Perytons a couple days ago. I had only read of the creatures before, and I will admit their supposed rarity caught me off guard when I saw them flying above us. Perytons are a strange mix of deer and bird, and they need to consume fresh hearts before laying their young. I had hoped the beasts would soon understand the futility of attacking our group, but we struck them down quicker than they had even arrived. The priestess of Aerdrie Faenya, Chenna, disagreed with my description of the beasts including any relation to deer, which struck me odd. You would think any intimation of their relation to birds would cause her greater vexation, but perhaps this was a more personal disagreement than a religious one. Does such a difference exist for a cleric? I also noticed Dillion sketching the Perytons after they had fallen, as he does with many other creatures. I wonder if he does this for study or for amusement. I took some notes as well to aid in crafting the poem above, though it was interesting, purely from an academic perspective, to see the differences myself between the descriptions of Perytons which I had read and the actual creatures before me. I had not expected their wings to be so expansive and their talons to be so fine. Farther down the road, we came upon a horde of hobgoblins. These, in particular, were savage and intended to harm a merchant and his guard, who were cowering behind their broken wagon. Many of our unforeseen encounters are violent and impetuous, and this was little different, though we did split the party in a seemingly tactical manner before engaging. Before heading to the front line, I made Hjolgarn invisible and read Dillion a poem I had written for him a couple weeks prior: An unborn, toothless dragon
Was carried away in our wagon—
Then its shell shimmered and opened
An egg and argument broken.
And some might think the inherent risk
Couldn't be worth a Malaekliss,
But if to enemies our dragon fell,
I'd kill them all and then myself! I am still not sure if my poems have any effect and, in hindsight, perhaps ending the poem with a suicidal pact wasn't the best of choices. I know I can create magic through them, but Dillion's countenance did not seem to change upon hearing it, as if I had been a lizard trying to recite the holy verses of Oghma. Unfortunately, in moments like these I feel like we have not a minute's security, so there is no time to inquire. We must all push forward, and so we did. Hjolgarn and I nearly died to the hobgoblins—if I could not magically brace myself, I'm not sure what I would do—and while doing so the guards continued to cower. I did not think this was acceptable, so I tried to procure some form of payment from them afterwards. They were able to provide us a handful of armor sets. I gave all these pieces to Dillion, so that he could ascertain their properties. He seemed to suggest that this was foolish considering Godfrey is capable of doing this through magic. However, I think a fresh perspective is generally beneficial. I do not know how Godfrey's magic works and with what degree of accuracy it does. Further, I do not know what Dillion is capable of, or of what magic he knows. He begrudgingly took the sets, looked them over, and was able to discern the magical properties of 3 of the 4 armor pieces. Magic, be damned. A wizard, indeed. Before the night was through, Godfrey and I discussed my approach to learning about others. In my weariness, I attempted to explain the usefulness of appearing unassuming in the presence of certain individuals when trying to gain information. He suggested that people appreciate it more when you are forthright, and when they unknowingly receive what they want. I do not know what people want, but it is possible Godfrey has a point. I am so accustomed with seeing Addison get his way with such approaches that I never seriously considered alternatives. A diver should mind to mend its course, but not for too long lest it catches upon the leash.
No Godfrey for Bold Ben
The road is fraught with merchants bound
To horses, guards, and wayward towns–
Where chapels, inns, and houses lay
Atop the ground where people say:
"We want to buy what can't be found
In hopes it makes a holy sound!" So the merchants bind the horses, too
And guard the road to keep their loot
To sell to all the ones that lay
Atop the ones beneath that say:
"We hope to make a holy sound
To ensure that we are sooner found!" I said the word "ass" today. I'm not completely sure how I feel about it, but something about it was off. Maybe I'll get used to it more, but no one here seems to mind. There was a man behind us mistreating his horses. I tried to make a deal with him: half my pay to ensure better treatment of his horses. He seemed to agree but, shortly after, one of his horses collapsed. Chenna and I revived the horse and brought it along with our group instead. This angered the man, who claimed we couldn't take his horse despite him recently abandoning it. So I told the man I disagreed and that he'd have to take it up with my employer (who is a nice enough man with many exotic birds...I want to buy one. Maybe I can get a discount). This irritated the man further, who was then confronted by Godfrey. Seeing the situation worsen, I promptly slapped the man on the back of his head AND pulled his pants down with a magically conjured hand. Our party managed to subdue him, but the events thereafter confused me. Godfrey confronted me about the whole situation, and though he seemed to be on my side prior to the fight, he did not approve of my actions and I'm not certain why. He talks in vague language (being a poet, this is something I know a lot about). I just wish people would be more direct when discussing things like this. There was a bad man treating a horse badly. My companions and I confronted and put a stop to him. To me, that is all there is to it. Perhaps there is something I'm missing, but what it is I have no idea. I'm becoming increasingly frustrated with current circumstances, as well as my inability to learn anything about Addison. I wish I had more power. The power to seek and the power to stop awful behavior. The world is simply too massive and mean.
To horses, guards, and wayward towns–
Where chapels, inns, and houses lay
Atop the ground where people say:
"We want to buy what can't be found
In hopes it makes a holy sound!" So the merchants bind the horses, too
And guard the road to keep their loot
To sell to all the ones that lay
Atop the ones beneath that say:
"We hope to make a holy sound
To ensure that we are sooner found!" I said the word "ass" today. I'm not completely sure how I feel about it, but something about it was off. Maybe I'll get used to it more, but no one here seems to mind. There was a man behind us mistreating his horses. I tried to make a deal with him: half my pay to ensure better treatment of his horses. He seemed to agree but, shortly after, one of his horses collapsed. Chenna and I revived the horse and brought it along with our group instead. This angered the man, who claimed we couldn't take his horse despite him recently abandoning it. So I told the man I disagreed and that he'd have to take it up with my employer (who is a nice enough man with many exotic birds...I want to buy one. Maybe I can get a discount). This irritated the man further, who was then confronted by Godfrey. Seeing the situation worsen, I promptly slapped the man on the back of his head AND pulled his pants down with a magically conjured hand. Our party managed to subdue him, but the events thereafter confused me. Godfrey confronted me about the whole situation, and though he seemed to be on my side prior to the fight, he did not approve of my actions and I'm not certain why. He talks in vague language (being a poet, this is something I know a lot about). I just wish people would be more direct when discussing things like this. There was a bad man treating a horse badly. My companions and I confronted and put a stop to him. To me, that is all there is to it. Perhaps there is something I'm missing, but what it is I have no idea. I'm becoming increasingly frustrated with current circumstances, as well as my inability to learn anything about Addison. I wish I had more power. The power to seek and the power to stop awful behavior. The world is simply too massive and mean.
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