The revised Journal of Drayvie Zokyr

[DonnieDreams]

The Fading 15th, 1351 DR

So, I'm still trying to find out more about Magmire. I had a discussion with a lady wizard I've been adventuring with the other day. We came to the conclusion that the blightstaff that this magmire is looking for may actually be in Beregost, hidden away somewhere in that massive temple. It's a pretty logical answer after all. Beregost is a small town maybe 30 buildings in all, if that actually. Yet it's home to one of the largest temples to Lathander in all of the sword coast. My gut tells me that something isn't right.

We tried to pry some information out of the clergy. Though that didn't help much at all. Even though our cover story was really good and really thought through. It didn't seem to help much. All that was there was a lower acolyte and she didn't seem to know any more about the building than we did. Though it did seem like she was hiding something.

The next step is to practice my skill. The only way I'm going to be able to find out something about that staff is to sneak in myself and scout out the place. Problem is I haven't learned the ability to walk in the shadows again. I'm telling you prison really puts a damper on your skills. I'm almost there though. I just have to keep training and it'll all come back to me, but this time I'll be even better cause I have a bit more wisdom than I did when I first came to the gate eleven years ago.

[DonnieDreams]

So, I recently conducted some subterfuge on the clerics of the lathandarian church. I disguised myself as a scribe looking into the history of the temple. It was a pretty good ploy if I say so myself. Writing a guide book on the places and monuments of the sword coast. The night captian told me that he would write a letter regarding the history of the church. I told him to send it to the inn keep at the friendly arm in car of Edwin Rothchild. So, now to go pay off the inn keep to hold the letter, in disguise of course. I'm sure a small bag of gold or two and he'll have no problem holding a letter, even if the recipient hasn't "checked in" lately.

I'll have to keep checking and see what turns up. Hopefully something will turn up some information regarding the staff or its possible location. If not, then maybe it's time to just state the cold hard truth of the matter. Though, I think that if the church is hiding it, they wouldn't want to come out with that info. at least not to someone like me. Probably have some hang ups about a teifling looking for info on an evil artifact and all.

[DonnieDreams]

I received the letter from the lathandarians. It seems that they don't seem to speak about the original temple, the one before the Amnian war. I know I remember that temple though. However, the letter did speak about crypts underneath. Supposedly those crypts house the honored dead, but it could be very possible that something else could be hiding within.

Another possible location of the blightstaff would be if there were any cults of Talona. I have at least confirmed that Magmire is a Talonite. Which at least points me in some degree to a possible answer.

So, first I need to find out if there is any way to sneak into that temple crypt. The fesitval seems like it would make good cover indeed. But, i'm still not quite to the point that I can hide in plain sight. I'm close, very close, just need to train more. While I'm at it, I'm going to be asking around possible cults of Talona in the area, past or present.

[DonnieDreams]

So, word seems to have gotten out that I'm looking for the blightstaff. I've had numerous offers from guilds looking to recruit me. It's just been quite crazy.

I had this one lady, quite good looking, but my instincts lit up like a christmas tree. I don't trust people. First thing that comes to mind is how do I know that anyone isn't going to use this blasted staff for the harm of others. I don't really care about others coming to harm, I just know that it's hard to make gold when everyone is dead.

My first instinct is to find some way to destroy this artifact. If i have to I will traverse the nine hells themselves. Might not be to bad, it kinda is my family after all... though not for sure if devils take that into consideration.

The main thing i need is someone that i can trust. Sal has the same mindset that I have. Really it's not about who you kill and don't kill, its about who will pay you to kill. Who will offer you the best deal for your own gains. Right now letting some quack priestess with an army of undead run about isn't good for business. I wonder if he's able to dechipher runes and can help me find that staff.

Who can I trust with this? My first option is the lathanderites... But is that the best option? Even a paladin can fall from grace. That's where blackguards come from and Power, oh power is so tempting.

[DonnieDreams]

Dray slouched against the chipped marble pillars gazing up at the giant that had sat on its stone throne for nearly a millennium. It watched with emotionless eyes as the world around it burned, crumbled, and was devoured by marshland. The ravages of time had assaulted the stone over the years, transforming the once bleach white marble into a mixture of green, red and gold. Tufts of moss and lichen bloomed from crevices and cracks, further spoiling its majesty. Contours, once set by the sculptor's chisel, were compromised by decades of exposure to the elements, facilitated by the collapse of the roof centuries ago. Tendrils of wild kudzu blanketed the statue from foot to crown, completing the desecration of its grand sanctuary. Yet the statue sat with perpetual indifference as time marched ever forward, as a god among men. Above the giant, covered by creeping foliage, words were etched in memory of the effigy. As Dray squinted in the fading twilight he was only just able to make out the final two lines, “The memory of Abraham Lincoln is enshrined forever.”

In the distance Dray could see a broken obelisk scraping the sky above a long rectangular mire. The green climbing up its base, jagged black lines that pock marked its surface, and dark rectangles from fallen chunks of brick were stark contrasts to its white face. Beyond that obelisk was the building that he sought, a repository of information collected from all corners of the globe by ancient men. There was no telling what treasures that building still held. Years of scavengers, water damage, time itself, all took their toll on those artifacts. Yet, his employer assured him that what he wanted was still there, locked away in some long forgotten vault, sealed by rust to the prying and grubby hands of the world.

Dray, of course, was pessimistic. In a thousand years a lot of stuff falls apart. He had seen that many times in his travels. The great towers of man in the north east, slowly crumbled away even if they were being held together by elven magic. He saw how nature had reclaimed the stone roads that crisscrossed Erde, how time had pulled down bridges, buildings, and temples built by the ancient human civilization; but he was promised a very large quantity of gold to find this artifact. Even if he was pessimistic, he had to be honest with himself, that gold was the only reason he agreed to this fool's errand in the first place.

He walked in between the cracked marble pillars and onto the weed covered steps, long grass slapped at his pants as his feet sunk into the wet mud. Inside the mire cattails had taken root and tadpoles danced from patches of moss performing a twisted ballet of underwater choreography. A cool breeze sent the cloud of gnats and mosquitoes buzzing above its surface hovering away as rippling the water and making the cattails sway. Dray could taste the pungent decay in the air. He really hoped that somehow the building he was after wasn’t under water. He could hold his own as a swimmer, but scouring through a submerged building was a task that he really didn’t want to pursue.

Ahead, beyond the pool bits of another structure ravaged by the passage of time stuck up out of the mud. A group of pillars poked out of the bog, some grasped a brittle metal wreath. On a crumbling archway, barely legible under the moss was the word Pacific, under it lying in a heap, nearly covered in water was a bronze eagle. He shook his head in disgust, it was a shame that such a great civilization was destroyed leaving this wreckage behind. He picked up his pace, circumventing the water, He wasn’t about to wade through waist deep stagnant muck if he didn’t have to. On the other side of the marsh he sat on a giant granite slab that poked out of muck. Another speech was carved into its surface speaking of Washington and Lincoln, leaders of a time long ago. Leaders that were all but forgotten by the world except for what lies in these decaying ruins.

From his little seat Dray looked up to the decaying brick and crumbling mortar of the towering obelisk. The sun had begun to set, and the mosquitoes were getting worse. It was probably the best time to make camp. Rumors that Pollywogs, horrible mutated frog-like humanoids, combed these ruins after dark. He was armed, he could probably take down a few if he had to, but he knew that if a whole hunting party fell upon him, he was most assuredly done for. He observed the bottom of the obelisk, sprouting from the ground and saw what appeared to be the top of a door frame.

He smiled, smugly, then spoke out loud to the approaching sunset. “As good a place to camp as any.”

He slung his pack from his shoulders and began to rummage through its contents. Pulling out a small shovel he began to dig down toward the door at the base of the monument. After a foot or so he could see that luck was on his side. It was cracked open, and it opened inward. That meant that he only had to get enough of the muck out of the way that he could slide inside. It also meant that it wouldn’t be a chore to fill his hole back up to make sure that no one, or no-thing stumbled on him while he slept.

After two feet of digging Dray was able to slip down inside the door. Inside he was greeted by near darkness. Dray’s boots struggled to gain purchase, the floor was covered in a slimy film of moss, mold, and decaying plant life. What light that managed to pour through the open door illuminated a set of stairs, rusted and treacherous. Another door, this one bronze, sat buckled out by the room it enclosed. The stench assaulted his nostrils like a wolf with rabies. He knew that he couldn’t stay on the ground floor, he had to climb the stairs.

Dray cautiously plotted each of his footsteps as he made his way toward the staircase. This dimming light of dusk didn’t help. After several well placed footfalls he brought his foot down on the metal staircase, it responded with a heavy moan. The grate in the middle fell apart, the step itself cracked in half. He drew in a deep breath and let out a frustrated sigh, then he asked the growing darkness “Is anything ever easy?”

Dray unslung his pack and untwisted the leather ties around a long flax rope. Affixed to one end was a piece of metal topped with three branching claws. Above him, the second story landing seemed solid enough, it was just a matter of getting to it. Had he known if was going to be this much of a pain, he would have found somewhere else to camp.

He let the grappling hook slide towards the ground as he started swirling it in an underhand motion. Outside though dusk was growing deeper, he could still see faint light pouring in from his entrance hole. Above him the cracked door illuminated his target on the second floor of the structure. The hook continued to increase in momentum, piercing the roar of the ocean and the cries of galls with a steady, thrum, thrum, thrum as it cut through the air.

As the hook passed behind him and he felt it start its upswing he let it fly. It traveled into the air at the perfect angle, not losing any momentum just as Dray had hoped. The hook hit the wall of the stairwell with a resounding clang, and ricocheted onto the second floor landing coming to rest with a loud clack. Dray winced at the noise, he didn’t want to be that loud but it was the only option he had to get out of this muck.

He tugged on the rope slowly hoping the hook would find somewhere solid to gain purchase. After a foot or so it snagged, Dray tugged lightly at first, then harder and harder to test its ability to hold his weight. When he was satisfied he pulled himself up the rope and clambered onto the second floor.

The steps climbing up from the second floor were less exposed to the elements, and while he wasn’t for sure if he could trust them in their entirety, they seemed to hold his weight. He began his ascent, higher and higher into the darkness he climbed, following the handrail and testing every foot fall making sure the steps weren’t about to give way. Finally above he could see the faint glow of moonlight and he was able to breathe in fresh air. He’d break camp up here, if anything were to attempt to make the trek up the stairs he would be able to hear them long before they got to him, giving him ample time to set up an ambush. It was also high enough that he wouldn’t have to worry about any mosquitoes.

He unslung his bag onto the cold stone floor, somewhere in the distance a wolf howled and its song was carried upon the wind into the broken windows that surrounded him. He rummaged through his pack and produced a small bundle of firewood. He fumbled through the pockets and tugged out a small rectangular metal box. The side of the box flicked open with the twitch of his wrist. His thumb struck a metal wheel, suddenly a small flame illuminated the floor and cracked rooftop above. He waited patiently as the fire starter licked the small pile of wood on the floor. Then he set back to his pack to rummaging through his pack, he could see that his supplies were getting dangerously low. Only one more bundle of the firewood remained, the cloth wrapped jerky he brought was reduced to nearly a quarter of its original size, and he saw that he only had one water skin left. He produced the jerky, water skin, and also grabbed a folded piece of parchment

With one hand he unwrapped the jerky, the second unfolded the piece of parchment and began to read by the dancing light of his little campfire. He felt his way through the jerky till he came to a nice big piece, his fingers closed gently around it he brought the whole thing up to his mouth and tossed it in. The salty sweetness assaulted his taste buds and almost made him close his eyes in enjoyment. He chewed slowly savoring the flavor and hoping to get as much out of it as he could. His jaw slid up and down excreting juices from the dried meat that he let slide down his throat. His eyes darted back and forth across the yellowed page reading its contents.

Dray, in the lost capital of ancient man, beyond the temple of Lincoln and past the stone tower lies a group of twelve structures. The object of your quest lies in the largest of the twelve, sitting center north of the complex. Once you are able to enter, which I’m sure will be a task unto itself, proceed to the second floor of the west wing if it’s still intact. You’ll be looking for an area dedicated to Sumerian artifacts if my research is correct

There you will find what is called a sarcophagus, it is a stone box etched with strange markings and possibly pictures engraved upon its surface. The top to this box will not move by any normal means of force. Instead upon further examination you will see a trench etched into the top of the lid that leads to a small hole on one side of its surface and a bowl shaped pool on the other. Use your knife to cut your wrist, (Across if I have to stress that, not up the arm) and let your blood dribble into this pool. The trench should carry it into the hole.

If, by the time your wound has quit bleeding, the lid has not opened yet I instruct you to do the same for the other hand. Though the lid should not be long closed once the blood begins its irrigation. When it opens you will see a human body possibly wrapped in rags, possibly with its skin bare and drawn tight. It is important that I stress not to disrespect this corpse.

At the foot of the body will be a book. Though the detail of its appearance is not in my power to foresee. I believe it to be a large leather bound volume that will appear older than any other work of literature there. You’re instructed to take the book and then get out of the lost capital as soon as possible, preferably before nightfall!

Jerel of the Black Council

Dray startled as the crack of thunder echoed across his little camp. Outside he could hear the rain slapping into the thick bogs that covered the marsh. He folded up his parchment and placed it back into his bag. He grabbed another piece of jerky and chewed on it slowly as he sat in silence. The broken windows on all four sides of the stone room acted as a natural amplifier. Crickets strummed their violins in perfect rhythm to the deep pounding base of the thunder. Larks provided the vocals in chirps and calls as they spoke across the bogs. Bullfrogs kept time for the chorus croaking amongst themselves in the shallows. Dray found himself thinking of home as he lay back and drifted to sleep lulled by the chorus of the marsh.

He had never knew his father, and he wasn’t for sure if he ever wanted to, but his mother was an inspiration in his adulthood. She was never considered an overwhelmingly kind woman, nor was she weak when faced with hardship. She wasn’t a lady sitting pretty in some fancy town. Nor was she a homely crone locked up in a shack in the middle of nowhere. To put it simply, his mother was a (germbag). She was a good (germbag), which apparently was hard to find because men would come from as far north as the frozen coast, and as far south as the sinking islands to have the pleasure of her services. Yet Dray could remember that no matter how busy she was with clients, she always had time for him.

Once, some elf prince had traveled all the way from their city Ma'ha'tan just to see his mother, or at least that’s what she claimed. He had paid her more gold than any other person had to have her for the entire night and well into the morning. However that night, a storm rolled in that was fiercer than any in the little port town had seen in decades. Dray of course, only having seen five winters at the time became very frightened. He remembered his mother coming into his room in a long green cotton gown. Her disheveled brown hair framed her soft, graceful face in wet ringlets that cascaded around her shoulders.

She sat on the edge of his bed and wiped the tears from his eyes with a silken hand. Shushing him as she gently brushed his dark brown bangs from his brow.
“Hush darling, mama's here now.” Her sweet soprano explained with the quivered tone only a mother has when speaking to a frightened child.

“But momma, the wind’s so loud.”

“It’s only the sea gods throwing a temper tantrum, nothing will hurt you. And think when you wake up, the rain will have stopped. You’ll be able to go find all the shells the storm washed onto the shore. Wouldn’t you like that?”

“Yes momma, but I can’t sleep. I’m scared.”

“Hush child, momma’s not going anywhere.”

“Sing me song momma, please.”

She smiled softly. Her blue eyes twinkling in the candlelight. Her voice was magical even in a hushed tone.

“Oh Dray my dear, the pipes, the pipes are calling
From glen to glen, and down the mountain side.
The summer’s gone, and all the roses falling,
It’s you who must go, oh and I who must bide.”

Dray smiled as his mother rocked him ever so gently. Even the thunder didn’t seem so loud anymore as his eyelids began to grow heavier.

“But come ye back, when summer’s in the meadow,
Or when the valley’s hushed and white with snow.
It’s here I’ll be in sunshine or in shadow,
Oh Dray my dear, oh Dray my dear, I love you so.”

Dray yawned a big yawn as his eyelids grew heavy as to lead plates. He nodded his head and relaxed in his mother’s arms.

“But when ye come, and all the flowers are dying,
If I’m dead, as dead I well may be.
You’ll come and find the place where I am lying,
And you’ll kneel and say a prayer for me.
And I shall hear, though soft you tread above me,
And my grave will warmer, sweeter be
For you will bend and tell me that you love me
And I shall sleep in peace until you come to me.”

Dray awoke covered in a thin film combined of sweat and dew. He looked about the stone room as the sounds of mourning birds called throughout the marsh below him. His little campfire had smoldered to ash, exhausting its fuel many hours ago.

He stood and stretched, ran a hand through his tousled dark brown hair, and walked to the corner to relieve himself. It was still early dawn, the heat of the day hadn’t yet set in, but he could tell it was going to be a muggy one indeed. There was no doubt the marsh around him would be any help. He laced up his cotton slacks and checked his daggers hanging at his waist then headed back over to pack back up his things.

He snatched a few more large pieces of the jerky then wrapped what remained and placed it carefully into his bag. Taking a few minutes he secured the straps and buckles that fastened the various pockets and flaps, then he slung it over his shoulders. He stamped out the coals to be sure that none still smoldered and looked to the stairs descending the tower. He was sure the rain from the night before would have pooled into the bottom floor, but there was no way that he had enough rope to climb down from his perch.

He shuffled down the steps even slower in the growing darkness testing each step to make sure that it held his weight before stepping down fully. This led to his descent being a long one. Dray felt like hours had passed as he counted each step descending down into darkness. After 878 he felt no step, he looked down and saw the shimmer of refracted light in the walls of the ground floor.

Below he could see he was right, rain water had puddled into his hole he dug last night and had drained into the tower leaving behind a pool nearly a half ankle deep.

“Well this is just great, I hate wet boots.” He explained to the empty walls.

He unslung his pack from his shoulders and then realized he never packed up his rope from the night before. It still hung over the edge, a brown snake twirling from the grappling hook attached firmly to a rusted iron beam. Though from here he could see that the fall wouldn’t be bad if he simply hung from the ledge and dropped, the only issue would be if he could gain purchase on the floor below.

He walked over to the grappling hook and pulled it loose from its anchor. Untying the quick knot, dray coiled the rope then affixed both the hook and the rope to the straps of his backpack. He rested his hand on the steel bannister of the stairs and set on foot down upon the stair itself. Gently he applied more and more weight ready to pivot back onto solid ground if he needed to. This process continued as he got closer and closer to the step that had given way on him the night before.

Finally, three steps from the bottom he hopped over the last, not wanting to take any chances. His feet hit the puddle covering the floor with a loud splat as the mud and wet grime that filmed the marble ground under the puddle gave way to his weight. The momentum of his jump caused his feet to slip. He struggled to keep his balance, his arms flailing for the wall so that he didn’t tumble down into the grime.
Gaining some semblance of composure he righted himself and took the several steps to the door leading back out into the sunlight. He looked around once again at the decaying monument with a sense of wonder. He slung his pack up out of the exit first, then he climbed out of the acrid, half buried vault and into the sunlight.

Back in the sunlight Dray turned his sights back to his mission. He knew that he had to circumvent the marble tower and travel another mile or so till he found his goal. Compared to the climb down the obelisk, this would be rather easy. He marched through the marsh humming the song that had been in his head since he woke up that morning. Spurned from his reminiscent dream of his mother many years ago.

Oh Dray my dear, the pipes the pipes are calling
From glen to glen, and down the mountain side.
The summer’s gone, and all the roses falling,
It’s you who must go, oh and I who must bide.

But come ye back, when summer’s in the meadow,
Or when the valley’s hushed and white with snow.
It’s here I’ll be in sunshine or in shadow,
Oh Dray my dear, oh Dray my dear, I love you so.

It wasn’t long before Dray stood in front of another collapsing marble building. He explored the exterior with his gaze as he climbed its broken stairs. His eyes were drawn to the moldy banners that hung from the archways in between the vine wrapped pillars. The east wing had collapsed into a mess of rusting steel and broken stone, and it looked as if the domed roof had started to crack. Only the west wing still seemed structurally sound, and that was tenuous at best and left Dray hoping that he didn’t have to go digging through the rubble.

The large entryway seemed solid, though any of the glass that had once fitted it's doors had long since broken. Inside weeds sprouted among the rubble that littered the floor. In the center of the rotunda was a free standing structure with a sun faded map inside it. He was able to barely make out the text, but it was enough to guide him; on the second floor between the northwest and northeast staircase was an area marked “Special Exhibit: Sumerian Studies.”
He walked past the decaying revenants of what looked to be an elephant while surveying the damage to the east hall. Rubble blocked off much of the archways to the east, though the second floor balcony seemed to be intact. Satisfied that no damage had been done to the "Special Exhibit" he shuffled toward the stairs. They creaked at his presence, but luckily they held fast. Topping the staircase he turned the corner to his left, his eyes widened at the artifacts on display.
Broken glass cases displayed tablets of stone and clay with strange triangular markings across them among the plants that had begun to grow within. Crude sculptures of men and dolls were grouped among broken pieces of pottery. But the most magnificent sight was the large stone box that dominated the room.
Set upon a raised dais its etched sides depicting scenes of men and women around a grand table. Upon that table rested a human being laid out like a suckling pig. Many of the guests around the table raised glasses to honor one another. A woman at the head of the table sliced the man’s neck as the nearest patrons greedily brought their glasses to be filled with blood that poured from the wound.

Dray shuddered with disgust and a touch of fear. He walked up to the stone box and observed its lid. Just as the letter suggested he saw etchings of a trench that crisscrossed the lid emanating from a single bowl shaped depression at one end.

Dray unsheathed his dagger and held out his wrist above the depression. He brought his dagger to bear and sliced in one quick motion. The pain was sharp, quick, and intense as his blood poured from his veins and into the bowl. He saw as his precious bodily fluid filled the markings across the lid and poured into the center. He thought he was insane, but he could swear he saw the markings on the lid of the sarcophagus begin to glow with a faint crimson light.
Suddenly the lid began to move. His nostrils were assaulted with the foul stench of thousands of years of decay. He curled his nose in disgust as he fought back the urge to vomit. Curiosity had grabbed him though, and he was bound and determined to see what was inside.

Laid out on a decaying crimson velvet cloth, was what appeared to be the remains of a woman. Her skin, grey and dry, was pulled taut against her skeleton, but didn’t show any sign of decomposition. Her long red hair flowed in tight curls down to her waist, she was dressed in a white gown that had decayed around her. Her arms were crossed against her bosom, a talisman clenched in each hand. Tucked into the corner by her feet was a leather bound tome.


But when ye come, and all the flowers are dying,
If I’m dead, as dead I well may be.
You’ll come and find the place where I am lying,
And you’ll kneel and say a prayer for me.

Dray picked up the tome and placed it into his pack. He looked over the woman once again. He thought himself mad, but the grey skin seemed a little lighter now. Her arms seemed to have moved ever so slightly. He watched with curiosity, thinking that if she were only alive she would be the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. He turned ready to leave when out of the corner of his eye, he saw the corpse’s foot twitch.

And I shall hear, though soft you tread above me,
And my grave will warmer, sweeter be
For you will bend and tell me that you love me
And I shall sleep in peace until you come to me