The Journal of Karl Dreghorn (Level 4 Dwarven Barbarian)
Day 1: Keeping a journal is a practise I settled into during my long captivity in the dungeons of the Elf Queen. In those days, I would scrawl gibberish onto the walls of my cell with whatever I could find to write with. For five decades I rotted in the deeper darkness of the drow kingdom, ignored for years at a time between visits from my gaolers. To this day, I still don’t understand what they hoped to learn from me, what secrets they believed I harboured. With the help of the Golden Man, I escaped from that black hell, yet I left so much behind; several fingers from either hand, an eye and maybe even my mind. It’s been ten years since I returned to the surface world, yet I sometimes wonder if I ever truly left the darkness. Perhaps the drow have left their cruel barbs buried deep in my flesh; like a splinter, festering and poisoning me still.
Since my escape, I’ve been travelling with a motley crew of trouble-shooters assembled by the Golden Man, each with their own stories, some as strange as my own. The closest thing we have to a leader is Rasmus the Dragonborn, a human paladin who claims he was hatched from a golden dragon egg (and people call me crazy!). Merveer Sage is the group’s healer and somehow he’s managed to keep us all alive throughout our misadventures. For a skinny fella’, he always seems to be stuffing his face. The third member of our little group is called Hurl Rees and he’s a bloody wood elf. Now it weren’t no wood elves that kept me locked up and cut off my fingers one at a time, but they still answer to the Elf Queen and that means I can’t bring myself to trust the bastard. It probably doesn’t help that Hurl is a rogue, so he’s always sneaking around and sharpening his knives. Scrape. Scrape. Scrape. Just like the drow sharpened their own blades before they came to pluck out my eye. Last and strangest of all is Gandolt the Magnificent. I ain’t rightly sure what manner of thing Gandolt is, but he calls himself a homunculus. He’s smooth and bald and tiny as a baby, but his eyes sparkle with the wisdom of the elders. He’s not much for walking and gets carried around every which way by a creepy, mechanical man. Whatever else he may be, he’s proven himself a powerful wizard, a stalwart companion and a pretty decent cook. Not a bad package, all things considered.
A few days ago, Rasmus received a scroll from our patron and when the Golden Man calls, we come running. I didn’t have anything better to do, so I followed on as Rasmus lead us to the rendezvous; some squalid, nameless hamlet in the middle of nowhere. The Golden Man was waiting for us at the inn. He explained what needed doing while we washed the dust from our tongues with a round of lukewarm ale. Apparently, the wards on an old wizard’s tower to the north-east are failing and we’re being sent to make sure whatever the Archmage has got cooped up in there doesn’t get out. The Golden Man produced a simple stone disc with a hole in the centre. He told us we would need it to find the tower. Merveer took the magic stone and slipped it into his robe.
The Golden Man left us to finish our supper. Who knows when we will see him again? We ate and drank and prepared to depart the following morning.
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Day 4: After several days following the road north, we reached the edge of the Blasted Waste, a listless, grey wasteland devoid of life. The Golden Man had warned us that horses cannot be coaxed across the border of that ill-omened land, so we were all afoot (excepting Gandolt of course, who was comfortably slung across the back of his mechanical toy). A simple shack stood on this side of the border, from which a man emerged to intercept us. He unfurled a roll of scratched parchment and told us that anyone foolhardy enough to enter the Blasted Waste must leave their mark, so that their next of kin might be informed of their inevitable death. Cheerful fellow. When he offered me the quill, I waved him away. The rest of my clan already believe I’m dead and I could see no reason to correct that belief. Maybe I am dead already, or just looking for an opportunity to die. Maybe the Blasted Wastes will oblige. I doubt anyone will shed any tears over my corpse.
Crossing the border had an immediate effect on my companions. Whereas on the road they had bantered and sang, once into the Wastes they withdrew into themselves. Ash fell from the sky and settled on our heads and shoulders. Strangely, the light did not dim as we travelled and we soon realised that even the darkness had forsaken this cursed land. Unable to ascertain the time of day, Rasmus called a halt and we made a cheerless camp. We each took a watch and the ‘night’ passed uneventfully, the suffocating silence disturbed only by the sound of Rasmus struggling out of his noisy armour.
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Day 5: Our second day in the Blasted Wastes promised to be as dreary as the first. We ate a joyless breakfast from our trail rations and were soon on our way once more. With no scenery or landmarks to speak of, my mind wandered back to my dark cell and I fell behind the rest of the party. I was roused from my reverie by a booming roar as a huge lizard - larger than a cart! - rose ponderously from where it had lay hidden beneath a blanket of ash. It swung its’ great, scaly tail and sent Rasmus, Merveer and Hurl sprawling in the dirt.
A second lizard rose from the ground behind Gandolt and lunged for the wizard, jaws agape. There was a thunderous detonation and the great reptile was thrown back, killed outright by the wizard’s magic. The first beast was not so easily slain. It trampled over the others as they struggled to rise and barrelled into me. I felt several ribs break and was tossed a good fifteen feet through the air before landing awkwardly amongst a cluster of black rocks. I groped for my axe and then cursed as I spotted it lying in the dirt half way between myself and the great lizard. A third monster had appeared between me and the others, I could expect no help until they had dealt with it.
The lizard had been watching and sensing my vulnerability, it took a step forward, claws gouging the grey dirt. With no real alternative, I summoned a throaty dwarven battle cry and charged! The lizard trundled forth to meet me. As I reached my axe, I rolled forward and reached for the shaft. I feared my missing fingers would cause me to fumble the weapon, yet my grip was true. Regaining my feet, I saw the lizard was no more than 10 feet away! With all my strength, I hurled the axe, aiming for the soft, scaly spot between its hungry eyes. The blade sank deep into the beast’s skull and it rolled to a stop, kicking up a cloud of choking ash. I tried to wrench my weapon free but the pain in my chest was too great and I slumped against the side of the beast I had killed, waiting for Merveer to patch me up.
I guess the Blasted Wastes are not so devoid of life as we had been led to believe.
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