Croaker's journal, being the writings of the last Sergeant of a Company of Mercenaries

[Mooj]

I have run into Mustache again, this time wearing new armours with a frightful codpiece wrought from the iron itself, I imagine commissioned by the blacksmith to accentuate his Sembian tackle.

Consequently, I have revoked Mustache from him, being my right based on conferring it to him in the first place, and should Kiran late of that name wish to take it back, he is free to do so, for the Sembian lech is now (and likely forevermore) called Codpiece.

[Mooj]

We were in Durlag's Tower, that frightful and evil landmark that pocks the placid landscape, so near as it is the serene Gullkin and the hin-folk what call that place home.

First, I must say I have known dwarfs, and they are their own sort, and good at many things, but they are a curious lot with the obstinacy and pride and strange logics, and I have know wizards, and they are their own sort, and good at many things, but they too are a curious lot with the obstinacy and pride and strange logics, and so what madness those two might make when combined was hitherto unimaginable to myselfs, on account of such things would boggle the mind of a fen-man.

Well, I finally have the answer. Firstly, what dwarf builds his tower to resemble his? Such a place is clearly evil, and will be plagued with evil, with its sinister architectures, and when Red told me the dwarf had gone over, taken by undead forces what kind we were whacking away at, I could hardly say I was surprised.

But as we ventured farther into the underbelly of his magical keep, I was astounded at the collision between the mind of a wizard and the mind of a dwarf.

There is, in that basement, a small monument to his self called "Durlag's Pride." A glowing sword fused forever to the rock, surrounded by shimmering lights and a pond of water. In the basement. On a dirt floor. Around the corner from a room without doors, all plush though it is with carpets and pillows what litter the stone basement floor, as one does in the middle of the hallway, next to a great stone hearth fit to host a roaring fire.

I can only imagine what conversations one might have with such a personality, inviting his hold-folk kin over to inspect his accomplishments.

"Oh, would you like to stop by and see the monument to my own ego and hubris sometime?" asks Durlag of his kin-folk.

"Of course I would like to see that. But if I stop by your monstrous tower of evil and you aren't home, and I wish to inspect this monument to your own ego on my own time, how might I find it?" asks his kin.

"Why, just head to the basement, you'll find it in the small, dirt-floored side-room, just around the corner from the open-concept sex lounge," says Durlag.

"But of course! How silly of me, where else would you keep such a thing," says the kin.

"Try not to be so stupid in the future, relative," replies Durlag, "for I know that you are only a dwarf and not also a wizard, but such a question is one even a mundane dwarf knows the answer to."

Wizards. Dwarfs.

Gods.

[Mooj]

Before I forget, and of less importance than this dwarf wizard's eccentric taste in decor, the following events also came to pass at Durlag's Tower, where Red and Codpiece and myself were turned to stone by basilisks in turn, each liberating the others, and we saw the bones of a great dragon, and there was a great demon in the basement of basements, what struck Codpiece down and required me to carry him to safety.

[Mooj]

On continuing the remembrancing, I see it only fit and fair that I introduce Dog-face, our elven quartermaster, on account of him being a quarrelsome bastard, but it being only right that he be remembered, as he served and fought and died along with us, even if the Captain's perversions of the gods (and I not one to pay much attention to them beyond their respects due) turned him into one of our enemies within, in those final days serving Ten Towns.

Near as I can tell, his nickname was both for his pricked ears, on account of them being triangular as a dog's, and for the elfen beauty of his face, given the Company's fondness for irony in its appellations of those what joined up.

Dog-face had been the quartermaster since before most of us had enlisted ourselves in service of the Company, being of the extended age of an elf, and having both the high cunning for figures and the low cunning for moving this or that from there to here, getting the Company what we needed at fair price.

Dog-face, bickering pig that he was, looked for reasons to dock the pay of those what served, as was his purview as the officer in charge of Company logistics, and did so with relish, turning to every reason he could.

Some reasons were legitimate, such as losing equipment. Soldiers are, of course, expected to provide for their own uniforms and weapons, as is the way of most armies, supplying our selves as play in turn for pay and prize. But there are rules what are bent from time to time, such as when a strong-backed fighting man wants to enlist, but fleeing destitution or criminal behaviours, finds himself with pockets turned out and coin purse empty, in which case the headquarters, and the quartermaster and the smiths and fletchers and bowyers will turn their attentions to sponsoring him, and issue him with kit, as was done for myself when I headed on the march with the lizard-folk before finding the Company and signing my papers of enlistment.

And in such cases, a sum is docked from the soldier's pay, until such time as the company's investment is returned, all conducted in good faith and without usury, for camaraderie is strong in the Company, and desertion rare.

But when equipment is loaned and lost, the headquarters and the officers and sergeants grumble, for a fighting man is no longer fit, and the Company less rich for it, and less prizes to share as bonuses among us as we seek to make up the lost materiel.

And in those cases, Dog-face was right to dock the pay, such as his thinking was, it was aligned with our own, and rarely did it take more than once to see the grousing and excuses made by the soldiers fail, and equipment was rarely lost by the same man a second time.

But other crimes that drew Dog-face's ire included returning from liberty drunk, on account of it being "disruptive" to those standing sentry. It made a kind of sense that those on watch were not intoxicated, being that any blithering idiot would associate sobriety with martial effectiveness, but the stupidity of that asinine elf's insistence that a man drunk on his leave could not slip back into camp to be in fighting form the next day (after much hydration) did not, and his reasoning of disruptiveness all the stupider for it.

Pay was also docked for reasons such as: when privies were constructed around the latrines, not leaving the door open to indicate when you were finished and the latrine unoccupied, when privies were constructed in bug-filled climes, leaving the door open invited in more insects and so that too was docked (and Dog-face did not tell us these rules had changed, and so the Company fattened its purse considerably the first time we campaigned in the tropics, and at the expense of those what did the campaigning, it being "common sense" that men that were bit on the arse a hundred times while relieving themselves may not be fighting fit, so Dog-face's mind went).

And also: for failing on certain days to pay respects to Tempus or the Red Knight or even Garagos, or for the mystics Mystra and Oghma or the elves Corellon or Shevarash or the dwarves Hanseath, et cetera and so forth, and for the gnomes too, and the handful of hin that took up with us, not that Dog-face was a god-botherer but such lack of reverence might bring us misfortune on the field, and so it must be done or penance paid -- in coin.

And pay was docked too for failing to eat one's ration of bread, because it was wasteful, which included not being hungry, even if one ate it when it had gone stale but their belly was less full, or gave it over to a man what was still hungry.

To say that Dog-face's litany of fineable offences within the company was great would be to understate what petty barbarities that elf was capable of, for he must have cooked up one offence for every day of his long lifespan, and had he not met such a grisly end in Icewind Dale, would surely have put forth more missives on the headquarters tent's flap, outlining new internal criminalities of which summary conviction was at his sole discretion.

Protestations as to the filth of his behaviour were met with dismissal from the Captain, who treated Dog-face as his left hand, insofar as his aide-de-camp, the Sergeant Major, was his right. No disputations to his nomination were made (on account of none of us being born yet by even when Dog-face had reached half the years of service he died with)

And all for that, the Company never starved thanks to Dog-face, never wanted for metals or unguents, never was more wet than we had to be in stormy weather, or wanted for lumber, and Ari's engineers and sappers and miners never wanted for tools, nor the smiths and fletchers theirs.

To call Dog-face an utter and complete arse would be an insult to all our arses what he was an incredible pain in, but I will miss him dearly for all my days, and he did not deserve to die like that, nor have that mind of his dulled by cultish devotions.

[Mooj]

I accompanied Red to a sea-board hangout this after, on account of her wanting socializing and thinking that I am the type of mongrel what can be sociable at times, though I suppose I can.

It too is a brothel, given the decor, and I was not surprised to find that, like the other brothel, it is owned by Fingal Darius (the man, not my horse, who is not fit to undertake monetary ventures).

Upon informing the senior Fingal of the junior Fingal's name, the latter became upset, and demanded my spine, at which point I informed him that he may not have it, on account of I am still using it, though he then threatened to make my ears explode, which I said was of a different matter, on account of I rarely use them, and so he may freely have him.

I am beginning to like the man, as he is full of vim and moxie, much to my great amusement.

I do not understand why he is invested in so many brothels.

[Mooj]

I took a small job today, where I was asked by some weaker folk seeking to hone their skills in these hostile climes if I might accompany them, for they were adventuring and wished to test their skills against wyverns, Xvarts, Duergar, and the giants in the Cloud Peak range.

I agreed, though I grew discomfited with the glee with which they slaughtered the Xvarts, for even for a man of war it was excessive, and the Xvarts, for their part, are sentient of a sort, despite their strange bear god, and I have never felt particularly comfortable with wanton slaughter; that is, slaughter without a purpose, for which nothing is accomplished, neither goal nor grand strategy, and suggested we cease as we were, after all, interloping on their village (and I have, as before, never liked hunting the native populace for sport, as I think it's undisciplined and without scruples, and such war should only be waged should its outcome have greater effect), at which point I offered that we may hunt the wyverns who nest nearby, on account of their hostility and their more beastly ways, and the efreet who call such areas home as well.

The party declined, as I suspect they feared wyvern poison (which, having been poisoned with, is uncomfortable to one's constitution, though on account of me being less frail than most despite my middle years for men-folk, may prove fatal to these softer sorts), whereby they asked that I might accompany them to the mines outside Nashkel, as they said they were haunted by a fiend guarded by Duergar.

I accepted, on account of having ventured into those mines myself and being of some familiarity with them, and escorted them past the Duergar and their traps (leaving the cusses of the dwarves untranslated, for the ones with me did not know I spoke dwarfish, and their consternation provided some mirth, what with me taking less than my going rate on account of having my feet itching something fierce, that mirth making up the loss in pay).

Whereupon we arrived at the bowels of the place, where both were struck down by a fire demon in search of a portal nearby, what with me being stouter and all, I pressed forward to fetch them and egressed from the mine, bringing them to the nearest god-botherer in Nashkel. They were groggy in their ways after getting patched up at the temple, but no less full of verve for adventure, and asked that I accompany them against the giants of the Cloud Peak Mountains.

Being that I enjoy a challenge, I acquiesced, and we headed into the foothills, fighting giants and their great rocks that came hurtling down on us. What with me feeling mischievous, I suggested we summit the peaks. As we battled off yetis higher up the great hills, we chanced upon a cave.

Inside this cave -- which I had not yet visited and was not part of my mischievous plan to teach them a lesson in restraint (and this, coming from me, is saying something -- the walls were queer and twisted, and made me feel a strong sense of disquiet, though we pressed on-wards, before discovering a warding that had been set up.

One of the adventurers, the one with the long matted hair (cut at the sides like mine, though running down his back) and the spectacles who seemed a sorcerous sort, commented that the ward did not seem to be a barrier to keep us out, but rather to keep something in. As we rounded the corner, we discovered what, being a kind of revenant and its undead minions, who set upon us with fervour, and the adventurers were once again struck down. Once again, we ventured to the god-botherer in Nashkel. They chose to retire for the day, with Specs having informed me that my ideas "frequently get them killed," and I my pockets a little heavier for the escort duty, made a note to revenge myself on crypt-critter what dwells in the caves high up the Cloud Peak.

[Mooj]

I returned to the boat with Red and Patch, on account of them being more social than I, and them having an appreciation for the fineries, and at the same time an appreciation for old war-hounds, wishing me to accompany them.

I inquired as to the ship's status as a den of sin and perversions, where I was informed that this is an establishment for singers and musicians, though being that virtually all my musical experiences have been with the small cadre of fifers and drummers what accompanied us on campaign, I could not say that I know this is what town-folk call musical, and would only have recognized its soft colours and the massive collection of foliage as wanting to entice male patrons to indulge the service of high-class courtesans.

As I sat at the bar, I observed as a bartender introduced herself to me as "Sugar". Of concern was what with her introducing herself, she then introduced herself to each person paying patronage to this surprisingly floral non-brothel with the exact same words, as if rote practice was guiding her through her duties.

When another bartender (equally female, for this certainly contributed to my confusion, on account of virtually all the employees save the establishment's guards are women-folk, lending it the airs of a place where owners live off the avails of prostitution) relieved Sugar, she then spent the better part of several hours standing behind the bar, staring towards the aft bulkhead.

I finally asked the other bartender if Sugar suffered from afflictions what kind the priests of Ilmater say can only be observed through tics and behaviours.

The other bartender (who speaks as if she is holding in her mouth several dozen marbles) said no, and that Sugar was likely just observing her and supervising without wanting to interrupt.

Some hours later, several of us noticed that Sugar went missing, with Patch commenting loudly that she had abandoned her post. Eventually I observed that Sugar had wedged herself between the kegs of ale behind the bar and was simply lying still against them, camouflaged in her contortions.

I suspect that the marble-mouthed woman was lying.

[Mooj]

I met a man today whose hat was the head of a bear and his cloak its hide!

Wonderful!

I complimented the man, on account of his fabulous sartorial stylings, and he thanked me.

Secretly, I coveted his hat.

[Mooj]

Ari Thrice-Redeemed was the only officer what didn't go over the Captain's slavish ravings about the misery queen and his demented plan. I'd say he was a good man, but he was a dwarf, so instead I'll say he was a good dwarf, on account of he was just so.

Ari Thrice-Redeemed was of a hold he fled upon dishonouring his self in some fashion which he never disclosed to us, such is the way of dwarfs. His name wasn't Ari, of course, as is habit of the Company to rename its foundlings, as you well know by now, having read my journalings, unless you have opened it upon this page, in which case welcome, and let me say the Company renamed all its recruits, which you shall find if you skim the rest of this book.

Now, having recruited Ari, it quickly became clear that he was a skilled engineer, being a dwarf, and obsessed with inventions as dwarfs are. And a skilled miner as well, as befits those that clear out their holds from the raw stone of mountains. He was quickly placed as lieutenant of the auxiliaries, which was our name for all those what weren't involved in direct fighting, but supported the fighting in indirect ways, with the exception of the wizarding lot, what formed their own cadre under the Widow, and the smiths and fletchers and such, which were under the Headquarters and, by that, the Quartermaster (Dog-face, who you will remember).

This displeased the existing lieutenant of the auxiliaries, Short Yon (no relation to Tall Yon, excepting through brotherhood in the Company, and by contrast of height, where Short Yon was short, and Tall Yon was tall, and we had to rename Yon to Short Yon when Tall Yon joined, on account of needing to tell them apart by appellation).

But nobody cared what Short Yon thought, as he could just as easily have been called Old, Blind, Lame Yon, and been equally descriptive, and the Captain retired him effectively to Steward of the Headquarters, which was actually a fit position for a man of his experience, and paid better, but Short Yon was never the less insulted.

The auxiliaries comprised themselves of the engineers, what built the ballistae and catapults and trebuchet and towers and other engines of war, and miners, what dug under the walls of cities and castles (or into holds), the sappers, what dealt with explosives and alchemical fire, often to simply explode those walls, and the pioneers, what cut trees, laid roads (often of the planks of those trees), and marshaled themselves to combating fires what might break out in camp (often due to the sappers).

Now, when Ari first joined, he was just Ari, and didn't become the Thrice-Redeemed until his cousin showed up one day.

And here I must make a digression and point out that where dwarven cousins are concerned, the squattie could just as easily have been his uncle's brother's best-friend's step-daughter's cobbler three times removed, and still be his cousin, such are the ways of the hold-folk.

Now, I have no idea how this dwarf found us, or how he knew Ari had signed his papers, but find us he did, and we were baffled by it. Though dwarfs have a knack for finding things what don't want to be found, and sure enough it was like that.

"Ari," he said, only he didn't call him Ari on account of he called him his true name, which I don't see fit to repeat here, on account of Company tradition, and many of us learned his name that day and were angered by it, though we all pretended we didn't hear it out of respect.

"Ari, come back to your home," he said, "You've redeemed yourself twice over, on account of your actions," though he said such in the tongue of dwarfs (and the previous and the next, et cetera), which I'd learned years prior, on account of Ari not being the first dwarf what came on with us, and having an ear for tongues.

"I cannot," Ari said, "for I chose to disgrace myself at home, and gave up my right to a place in the hold, and in running disgraced myself again, so I failed twice and have been redeemed twice, and my debt is paid. But if I abandon these folk now, what need me on account of my dwarven ingenuity, then I will have disgraced myself again!"

And with that, his kinsman left, saying many times over he respected his decision and his honour, and thanking each of us in kind for taking in such an honourable dwarf as his cousin, and that we were all honourable folk in turn, which was surprising news to us, on account of we were nothing of the sort.

And so that day Ari became Ari Thrice-Redeemed, twice for disgraces we did not know, and redeemed again for not dishonouring his self by abandoning his commission, even when his opportunity arose to return to the stones he was born in to short, welcoming arms.

And in getting a new new name, it undid partly the blemish of knowing his true name, so there was that.

Now Ari was a gregarious sort, all full of piss and vinegar, as befits a dwarf set to engineering and mining and blowing things up, and deft too with lumber, though wood is relegated to the surface, though dwarves often venture out to collect it to make their great beams and joists and artillery engines and arbalests and bolts, so fine with that too.

But I have never seen that tough dwarf, as gregarious and carousing though he may have been, more tickled than when three gnomes joined, and were assigned to him, for gnomes are as adept at such work as befits dwarfs, though their fingers, being less like sausages and more like nimble fly's legs, are fit to work with smaller cogs and such intricacies. And their assignment to him was in no small part to the blunt demands he made for them, and then immediately making them sergeants, so sure was he of their abilities.

Two of them, being surface gnomes, went to the engineers, where they made fine tinkers for the increasingly intricate cogworks of Ari's ballistae. Trebuchets and catapults and mortars are weapons of terror, damaging as much to morale as they are to walls, insofar as you can't really aim them, and an enemy that is confident that these weapons of great indirect fire cannot be aimed cannot know for certain that even if they run here or there, on account of you perhaps wanting to destroy their wall, you won't miss your target and hit where they've run to instead. And so you want those engines to be generally accurate, but not too accurate, on account of you don't want to give yourself the possibility to out-think yourself and turn your weapon of denial of an area into a weapon that makes you predictably unpredictable.

But ballistae are a different matter, as are the repeating arbalests Ari designed especially for us (and which could not be carried by one man, but had to be served by a crew of men, to load and aim and secure and crank them), which would throw great large bolts and many tiny ones quickly, and were terrors for their tighter accuracy (though still unpredictable to a degree, making it difficult to know where to run, so's you understand the mind-set of war).

And he set these two gnomes to designing and calibrating such intricacies in the weapons that they might be aimed precisely and then loosed, and his engines improved greatly for those two, and he said short folk had much in common and that he was proud to call them his adopted kin.

And the third gnome was a deep gnome, given to the dark below-surface. We called him Goggles, on account of his difficulty adapting to the light on the surface, with Ari and (to the surprise of all) Dog-face commissioning a fine glazier in Athkatla to make him some tinted spectacles with a tight leather band, that the daylight we're used to might be turned to the darkness that he has acclimated to.

And Ari made Goggles the sergeant of the miners, adept was he at squeezing into tiny spaces and leading the way, and assessing the lay and fragility of rock and stone, and knowing which direction to chip away in, feeling comfortable beneath the surface, even as war raged overhead.

As mentioned, though, Ari was the only officer of these men what didn't go over the Captain's derangements, refusing to capitulate to his ravings, even as what I suspect were magics behind the Captain's words swayed the others; such is the stubbornness of dwarfs.

He rallied as many men as he could, even if they were from other cohorts and cadres, and cautioned them against following the other officer's orders, and cautioned (with the support of many sergeants, myself included) that such was not mutiny, but that the Captain and his other five have likely already mutinied against the Company, and disobedience was requisite to prevent dishonouring our selves and to preserve the sanctity of the Company, and his words held sway and the Captain's cult stayed to those six, with Ari being the last true sane officer -- and as far as I'm concerned, acting Captain -- of the Company, Short Yon having passed some years previously (peacefully in his bed, of the cause of advanced years, and finally fit and content on his semi-retirement, though following us on campaign as he did).

Such efforts did not preserve Ari, and he was certainly among the three-hundred-and-nine torsos Laugher and Whisper and myself piled like cord wood and coated with lantern oil and alchemical preparations and set alight that day, the dwarfs being easily recognizable on account of so few of them their statures were distinct enough that even missing skin and limbs, we knew when we'd found Ari.

But I say now that Ari Thrice-Redeemed was now Ari Four-Times-Redeemed on account of his stepping up to responsibility and showing true Captaincy over the Company, even if it fell to the wicked onslaught of the machinations of the pit-folk.

[Mooj]

As a final thought, and since it is of much comment, and him being the prior entry in this journal, thereby directing my mind once more to it, Ari is the one I took my particular hair stylings from, the one folks call a holdhawk, on account of its broom-like extrusions looking the plumage of a hawk's tail, and its popularity with hold-folk, though people seem to mispronounce it "moe-hawk," and I am wondering if there is a contagious kind of speech impediment in this region, and all here will end up speaking like the marble-mouthed woman's nigh-incomprehensible gibberish.

I grew fond of the style on account of it called attention to me, thus giving me a virtually un-losable banner for my skirmishers to rally round (and, if I had lost it, would surely have lost my head with, thus making its loss no worry of import on account of me being dead) and grand bravado, what strikes terror in the hearts of enemies and debases their morale (for who wants to fight the man what calls attention to his self on the field of battle?)

And so Ari is not only the thrice-now-four-times redeemed, but so too is the dwarf the source of my stylings.

[Mooj]

Having passed through the Troll Claws, and into the claws of trolls, with Red (who is much useful on account of her mastery of fire, for that and acid are the only two things which make trolls stop a-piecing themselves back together, I being only a wall of meat, though nimble of foot and shield, can protect her from their harassments while she does a deft job of removing them from the environs around the dwarf hold there), we decided to retire for the night to the cliffs outside Gullykin, where it is most peaceful, and there we lay on benches by the small, smouldering fire, and listened to the crickets.

Red told me they make such chirpings when they are trying to find a mate.

We discussed more peaceful things after our perspirations against the trolls (though I was unpanged as I am at times in my assaults against the Xvarts, for the Xvart huts remind me somewhat of the fen village, and the trolls have no such reminders), and she asked what I would do if I was not campaigning, or fleeing from that what took the Company save three, and I commented that there is a small hut on a lake near Wyrms Crossing that looks pastoral, and I would like to take up farming in my retirement, and tend to a small garden, and she commented that such things seemed far from soldiering, to which I replied that rising with the dawn to break one's back in the much with implements of wood and steel seemed next door to soldiering, and as such would be a natural place for a campaigner to live out the last of their days before taking their final repose.

She in turn offered, when asked, that she was of the mind to open a potion shop, and serve her guide Mystra in such fashion, which is a fine sentiment, and equally placid, though not pastoral, as it seems she is of a more urban inclination.

The view at the cliffs of Gullykin is lovely, and calm, and made swell those dreams of pastoral life all again, seeing the hin in their quiet village, discomfited though I was by the near-by presence of a crypt of undead, though the hin seem not to mind, for they aren't ones to disturb things that are best left to lie, unlike men-folk, to whom such things are irresistible lures.

The hour getting late, we saw fit to retire, and Red suggested a tent, and commented to herself in chuckle that I had chosen the red tent out of all the ones there. The crickets chirped on.

[Mooj]

I have ventured out into the wilds of the Reaching Woods today with Red and ended up making my peace with the gods, as strange a journey as that may be.

We had ventured out on account of hunting gnolls, when some shamanic beast out there summoned to his side a specter of some sort, then when it lay its cold hands on me, I felt clutch my heart and the world go dark, and remember little but that, for there is no heat so searing as the cold of a dead thing's touch, and that feeling is indelibly burned in one's memory as they get terrible glimpses of death, here in front of them manifested, and over there what the god-botherers say is the promised lands.

I awoke in a temple of Red's patron Mystra, and commented that it was much bigger inside than out, to which she chuckled that it was magic, and asked if I had not been there. I answered in the negative, and said I had no much time for temples since arriving in Baldur's Gate, neither in my itinerary for keeping in form without the drill of the company, nor in piety for the abandonment we'd faced in Ten Towns, and she told me that here there was a temple to Tempus as well, and we might go if I was feeling of a sorts to see it, and I agreed, if only to confront.

I was hesitant, and then Red gave me a sapphire stone the colour of her eyes, such as she collects them, and it removed me from my reveries and hesitancies enough that I might enter through the threshold demarked by the flaming swords.

As we arrived inside I did all that is proper when one wants to show both reverence and anger to a war god, which was to promise to make war on him should he have abandoned us, and that when I shuffled off to meet him, I expected to see three-hundred-and-nine familiar faces, and The Laugher and Whisper too, should I depart after they, and I cussed him out and disparaged his name for abandoning his post when we'd not abandoned ours, for being undisciplined, and pleaded for reasons why, and told him that the men-folk of the Company revered him and his consort the Red Knight most of all (for the higher one went in the ranks, the more that Grandmistress worked her ways, and we sergeants were torn between them, knowing we were in the field away from the flag, there were Tempus reigned, but still we had to think and move tactically, where the Red Knight held sway,) and told him that he had better not have judged those that paid heed to his enemy Garagos, for they were the private soldiers that wanted only strength in arms and knew only chaos, holding no sway over the orders, and turned to what worship they could in the muck and blood and piss-filled breeches that was the front.

And I promised again to wage war against him, meeting him on the field of his choosing, which to other gods would disparage them, but is a way to both quarrel and beg for intercession with Tempus, for it is the language he knows.

And I made an offering first of ten coins, then twenty, then thirty, then felt my skin turn as hard as stone, and knew that the first rebuke of the donation was for disparaging him, and the second for ignoring him for a time, and finally the third time granted for promising to wage war against the war god, and then only was the boon given as I was disciplined and rewarded for merit each in kind, as a soldier should be.

And so there in great ironies I made my peace with the god of war, as one must not quarrel with their comrades too much, but bluster nonetheless when angry and betrayed, such is the nature of conflict that it must conflict even with itself, in so far as it does not choose sides.

I deposited the sapphire in my strong box at the commercial exchange.

[Mooj]

We ventured out to the Reaching Woods again today, to settle what scores we could, Red and I and her employer, a fellow by the name of Fenix Wandersoul what owns the boat I remain secretly convinced is a floating brothel for slaking physical lusts.

He seems an able and capable sort, running thither and yon with his crossbow, and the trio we made was a fine team, they engaging the enemy from a-far, and me harassing them if and when they closed in, drawing them to the flashings of my khopesh so as to force them to defend against the deadlier blade, while the bolts and arrows truly did the work, as a man fending off a rampaging bear might forget to defend his self against a thousand bee-stings.

There is one complaint about the synergies between us, in that they enjoy teleportations, which I am of a mind are unnatural, for when we teleport, whether mere feet or whole miles, we go for but a moment to a place where even if I close my eyes, I can still see, and this is much to my dismay, as well as the dismay of whatever food is now in my stomach, then on the ground.

It seemed to be a try-out of sorts, as Red was fixing for a promotion (which she received, along with the commensurate upgrade in quarters), and thereby, as master-at-arms of the ship, the right to recruit stout fellows, she asked if I may be seeking employ, which would involve working under her, which I do not know if I should take as an offer of true hiring of a subordinate, innuendo, or both.

But she knowing that dogs must hunt, and I a war-dog, saw fit to offer me employ in truth, and, having cleared it with Wandersoul, did make me a member of the crew, in arms, and of a unit most militant in its hierarchy, and I found some comfort again, being that it is my nature.

Being as that I'm not a prejudiced sort, on account of having served with all kinds of folk, and Widow herself, the lieutenant of our wizarding cadre, being a woman, I was most inclined to accept the offer, where other men might have balked at Red's racial and genderly directions, in so far as social goings are concerned (though she is most capable, and knows the land better than I), and besides I have a fondness for the woman, for she is gentle with an old stray dog when none rightly ought to be, and I remain confounded as to why.

And so now I guard that strange lust-boat-that-is-not, though I am promised they are redecorating to make it a venture more fit for standard commercial trade and less so for attracting the sorts of men what need to be thrown overboard on account of wandering hands, and either way suits me just fine, for the new boat is promised a tighter eye to its interior design, and the old one, well, it provides me what I need on account of sometimes itching for a fight.

[Mooj]

I cannot believe I forgot to chronicle this, though in flipping through my pages I see that I have, and I have my suspicions as to why, for on the second day I arrived in Baldur's Gate, I travelled to Beregost and there retired for the night, the hour being late and the road back long, and there as I slept was accosted by thieves, though I did not know it until I awoke, and in my distractions did not have time to write about them, but they deserve remembering if only for what I lost.

They stole into my room at night and took all, including my pants, leaving me only in my skivvies. As I ran back to the Gate, most all my possessions being lost except for a few things which seemed of little value for their weight, this journal included, I was rising with fury as I noticed my locket was missing.

It was naught but a tiny cameo, wrought by the hands of fen-folk artisans, which is to say, crudely. But that cameo was of my ma, inlaid with filigree of electrum, which is abundant enough in Rethild (though again, crude filigree), and the locket she gave me as I departed with the Servants of the Royal Egg, with a peck on the cheek, and though it has been decades, every time I touch that locket, I felt the warmth of my ma's lips on my cheek, and the love therein for her son, and I swelled with pangs of nostalgia, and that crudeness reminding me of a home I'd left behind.

The locket was quite special, and it gave me a certain charisma, whether people found it charming that a rough man had such a feminine accouterment, or on account of finding that a man coming on the latter years of his fourth decade was still a young babe to his ma, and so too did it fortify my constitution, giving me comfort in troubled times.

A kindly dwarf gave me ten full bags of coin, on account of my destitution and I suppose knowing well enough that I had been friends with dwarfs, as the stout ones are known to talk amongst themselves and such things pass between each other. And so as I took the gentile dwarf's charitable contributions and went to re-arm myself, that what I had smithed for arms of war being nothing personal and, given that it was my own design, the Croaker special for skirmishing, easily replaceable by commission, I chanced into Maltz's shop.

And found my ma's locket.

Maltz wanted near forty-five thousand gold coins for it, all crude though it was, and its value at market purely from electrum, of which there wasn't much, and its true value being purely sentimental. I first threatened the man, seeing as it was stolen property, and then pleaded with him, for how many packages had I delivered to him when short on coin, and orders for arms and armour placed with coin paid in kind for such labours, and all that in but two days, and could he not see fit to return it? I even plead to the gods, that they might intervene, and alight on my breast once more with the rough rendition of the beloved fen-woman's face.

Maltz would not budge, on account of I had no proof it was my ma, and I asked him what idiot could describe such a bauble without familiarity, and why was he charging so much? To which he replied that it was on reserve for a buyer, and some men had brought it in earlier, and they too charged him much for it, claiming rare properties, and thereby he did not believe it was stolen, for those fencing goods sell them for low, that they might get rid of them, and he paid twelve-hundred and fifty for it, and in my fury at his raising of the price so much, I made more threats, and not wanting to see the countenance of disgust on the Fist's faces when they discovered the blacksmith's body, I retired from his shop and resolved to find the money and purchase it, it being the path of least resistance.

When I had scrounged enough coin from errands and looting all the slavering beasts I could, stealing wyvern eggs and rummaging through kobold infested ruins, I sought out Maltz once again, to find my property missing. The man is lucky he strays not far from his home, and always under the watchful eye of the mercenaries in these parts what guard the city.

If I ever find the thieves what stole my ma's locket, the last of them will watch me march over the slippery, piled dead, and he will know the number of his days.

[Mooj]

The crew of the floating brothel, I being one of them now, organize hunts regular it seems, and organized a hunt at the other brothel, the Muse, and this time the hunt settled its sights on Durlag's Tower again, they and I being of some familiarity with that place.

Not all in the party knew of the place, however, and I informed them that there was such curios to see there, such as the magical monument to his own hubris, and the open-concept basement sex lounge, and I regaled them (however briefly) with I and Red and Codpiece's exploratory journey to the place, and us finding such landmarks, the assorted feminine tieflings of our group, many having not yet ventured to the the tower, finding such things befuddling and arousing their curiosities.

We by-passed these however, and struck out at places that our earlier trio did not feel comfortable assailing, what having been accosted by the demon-knight in Durlag's throne room having weakened us some, and the new group took these challenges on instead, giving my explorations a fuller body, making short order of them of the challenges of ice, and earth, and air, and fire.

But we did not go to the basement pantry that housed Durlag's Pride, nor pass through the hallway what leads there, with its velveteen carpeting and cushioning, and so they also did not see the open-concept sex lounge, and I looked like a tall-tale telling fool because of it.