Journal of Shur Silverblade [Updated 11/22]

[TheSpaniard]

Echoes from the Past

///Before I start his journal, I would like to write a short story.///


On a secluded farm West of the Nether Mountains of Fearun, lives a gnome farmer by the name Thimbleus Attaborough. The farmer is well learned and has an eclectic taste of interests. Experiencing the adventerous life at an early age, the Gnome never lost the faith bestowed onto him by his ancestral family despite many hardships. Once, on an expedition North West of the Forth Peak mountains to purchase iron and ore, Thimbleus stumbles upon a grisly scene. Upon reaching a clearing not far from a large cave embedded in the mountain, the gnome finds a dying Drow woman clutching a baby firmly to her breast. To this day, Thimbleus remembers the light of her eyes burning bright and flaring with hatred, despite her limp body slowly dying. Unblinkingly she forces the words, "Shur Silverblade" from her death throes, her body convulsing, and her baby wailing. She dies moments later.


Thimbleus adopts the baby boy Drow the only clue to his lienage, a ring tied to him by a string across his neck. Growing up, all Shur knows of Faerun is the outskirts of the Gnome's the farm, the surrounding Glimmerwood, and parts of both the Many Arrow and Nether mountains. For much of Shur's early years, life is a routine which he finds difficult to appreciate. A life that the retired Thimbleus holds dearly. To alleviate boredom, Shur disguises himself and explores the land, staying away from main roads, always under the cover of darkness. Eventually, his restlessness seizes him uncontrollably- venturing forth in the daytime and sometimes for weeks at a time. Isolation embitters the young Drow, driving him to leave the only person in the world who knows him; his father Thimbleus. Though the old Gnome mentors the Drow, with each passing year he senses Shur slipping. . .

"T-thunk!"

Shur stands hundred paces from a large oak gripping a long bow in his right hand, he trains diligently, aiming for the same spot with each shot. In front of the Drow are several dozen arrows sticking up from the ground, ready to be fired. Reaching with his left hand he takes an arrow, cleaning the arrow head on his tunic before nocking it. He raises his bow to eye level, standing perpendicular to his target, before letting the arrow go, firing, ". . . Thunk!"

On this particular venture, Shur leaves for several days, and travels South West until arriving at the outskirts of High Forest. Despite Thimbleus's warnings, Shur trains in the ancestral home of the Wood Elves; in his own right, by a young age Shur's an eager explorer. After another hour passes, and his ammunition spent, he lets his bow drop to the ground and sits. Breathing heavily and sweating, he carefully removes his face wrap wincing at the few rays of light breaching through the canopy of trees above him. Right as he sits he reaches in his tunic pulling out a leather flask, tilting his head back, and gulping the water down greedily.

The water drips off his chin haphazardly as he drinks like a wild animal, eventually using both hands to get every last drop. Eventually he drains the flask of his contents and tosses it aside, stretching out his legs in front of him, and leaning back on his palms. Shur closes his eyes lazily, takes a deep breath of fresh air, and exhales loudly. The young Drow sits there for a few minutes, enjoying the natural aesthetic of the High Forest.

[TheSpaniard]

Twenty feet behind him a twig snaps, his heart leaps from his chest interrupting his rest. Bolting up and turning around he sees a helmted warrior in chain mail. The iron helm obscures the warrior's facial features, though the human's anxiety is obvious as it shifts its grip on a large pole arm. The warrior strides forward quickly, only giving Shur a moment's time to unsheathe his scimitar and duck the warrior's horizontal swing. The human jabs and attacks the Drow relentlessly.

On his heels and unable to counter, the Drow quickly finds himself with little room to move. The warrior leers at him, hoping to skewer the Drow with a thrust of the spear. Shur ducks, rolls forward, and back swings slicing across the back of the iron helmet. The blow is glancing, only stunning the warrior, but the helmet breaks and shatters on the ground. Long blond hair bursts free, draping over the warrior's shoulders. Shur's eyes go widen for an instant before they continue their bout. The human warrior is a strikingly beautiful woman, her hair long, and her eyes a vibrant green. They both gasp regaining their breaths, staring each other down. Shur can feel himself groan, as she lifts up her pole arm over head and brings it down powerfully with a shattering strike. She easily outmatches him in both strength and dexterity. Running out of stamina and options, Shur gambles and lets his guard down, giving himself time to to cast a spell that causes vines to sprout from the ground at her feet.

Unfortunately, the vines are too slow, and the woman too quickly steps over them. In the same movement, she strikes Shur on the cheek with the blunt half of her spear. He falls, losing grip of his scimitar and lands painfully. Blinded by the attack, he tries in vain to crawl toward the blade. Before he can reach it, she steps on his hand, grinding it into the ground with her heel. He yells out in pain as he looks at up at the looming figure. Cursing he says, "Vithing human, what have I done to you?"

She stares down at him with cold and piercing eyes, "You're a Drow, aren't you?" She states simply to Shur who only pants helplessly at her feet.

"Are you kidnapping Elven children?" she asks, glaring at him,"Or are you here to burn the forest down?"

On the verge of losing consciousness, he only manages to shakes his head no. Expressionlessly, she looks up from the wounded Drow, surveying her surroundings for the first time. She sees his flask then, his face wrap, and the numerous arrows riddling the tree.

She turns her attention back to him and ponders the situation, she apparently, is not entirely ruthless, "It seems you weren't here to do either of those things . . ."

She lifts her boot slowly, to which Shur replies by grabbing his hurt hand and crawling away backwards until he bumps into a tree. Blood streaks down his face as he looks at her, his only visible eye, burning with hatred. The have an ocular stand off, the Drow a particularly pathetic sight. It's not long before Shur passes out and collapses on his side, his blood staining the grass red as it pours from his cheek. Cautiously, she approaches him, poking him a few times with the blunt half of her weapon.

She frowns then, looking at him carefully . . ."Hmm."

What happens is almost, a miracle. She places down her weapon and leans over him, moving aside his hair and looking at his face carefully, "He seems young," She thinks.

The Drow is not unattractive but his face starts swelling. She reaches behind her, untying the white bandana from around her neck, using it to clean the blood from his face. She takes some water from her own flask and pours it over the gash, Shur groans as he regains consciousness. His eyes barely flutter open as he focuses on the looming face staring at him expressionlessly. Her blond hair falls over him, and Shur can't help but enthrall himself in her sweet aroma.

"Here, do it yourself, " she states flatly, handing him the somewhat bloodied bandana. He winces as he puts the cloth up to his cheek. Her long eyelashes glinting from dusk's twilight, memorizing him with each blink. It is the first time he is so close to a woman, to touch one stirs him deeply, and the pain all but disappears as he manages to ask, "Why are you doing this?"

Frowning again, she shakes her head, staring into his yellow eyes. Her gloves are off, he notices, and she is sitting with her legs out in front of her. Wincing he looks at her feet and then back at the face, his left hand always on his cheek. Her hand moves to touch his face without purpose, so she stops herself and brushes aside his hair, she smiles now at him and says two words, "I'm sorry."

[TheSpaniard]

"Breathe, Shur! You have to breath!"

The dark elf growls and mutters under his breath, before he lets an arrow fly, "(do-me) human . . . Tell me one more time, and I'll . . ."

He fires the arrow powerfully, but it quickly veers off course, shattering against a boulder several hundred yards behind the target. He curses again, drop kicking a near by tree with his right foot, storming off to leave Zanya Soren alone with her thoughts.

The warrior watches sadly as her lover storms off, a human from Everlund and the daughter of a wealthy merchant, they become an unlikely pair; however, they spend most evenings and nights together in the North Western outskirts of High Forest, in passionate embrace. They often bicker and fight. They have just returned to the forest, having come from Thimbleus's farm.

He walks until he knows she can't follow and fumes, basking in his solitude, "Breathe she says, breath! How can I breathe when she's right there, in my face, the whole time . . ."

Untold hours pass by and Shur eventually makes his way back to their camp, where she waits sleeping alone. His outbursts are common but she is always there in the end, waiting for him. It's not fair, but there's nothing fair about their union, a union doomed by thousands of years of cultural hatred and fear. Like a gaping maw waiting to snap shut, the actions of their ancestors pave way for their inevitable demise, an end neither of them has the will to escape. Shur's feeling of abandon worsens, while he navigates with ease through the darkness.

Just then, he hears the odd sound of dog-like barking off toward the South East. Shur walks on the high ground and can clearly hear the noise past the drop off of a large and looming cliff. He nears the noises slowly and sees a encampment of Gnolls, the same gnolls that had been making life for the Gnomes of High Forest and other inhabitants difficult. He can't help but smirk at his good fortune, and makes sure to ask Talona for a blessing. He waits there, forgoing his plans to meet with Zanya, and hides in the darkness. If you were to see him from the Gnoll's camp, you would only see his yellow catlike eyes, the rest of his body obscure in the darkness. The large and powerful hyena like humanoids eventually fall asleep, giving Shur an opportunity to approach their camp undetected. He slowly inspects their belongings, before he finally finding hishis target: their food stash. Inside a large cauldron there lies a dripping and soggy mound of flesh and blood. Expressionless, Shur recognizes bits of Gnome, orc, and centaur before closing his eyes and praying to Talona. After his prayers, he touches the the food with his outstretched hand, making sure the plague transmits fully.

After a few minutes pass, he turns to look around at the sleeping Gnolls and begins laughing manically. They wake to find nothing there and after breakfast, they are all dead.

[TheSpaniard]

"Where were you this time?" Zanya asks bitterly, looking at him in disgust, "Stalking in the shadows, looking for a wench too drunk to notice you're a Dark Elf?"

In an unusually good mood, Shur walks up to her kissing her on the lips before sitting down and leaning against a large oak tree, having spent the night decimating the small tribe of Gnolls. He takes out a loaf of bread and a knife in his other hand, the serrated edge cutting away from him as he steadies it with his thumb; he cuts small slices of the bread and flips them into his mouth one at a time, which he eats in almost an instant.

Zanya blushes at his kiss and stares at him as he sits nonchalantly, she stammers"W-well?"

"You really think that's how I spend my nights?" He asks without looking, seemingly unperturbed by the accusation, "I have more important things to do than waste my time with human women."

"How dare you," her voice shakes,"How dare you . . . You're pathetic, all you think about is food, sex, and training. I've had enough of this, I should have killed you when we first met, ran my spear through your smug face."

She walks up to him, her shadow looming over him as Shur looks up and simultaneously thrusts his knife into the dirt, he stands and stares at her unwaveringly, and flatly states, "Well, it's not too late to try."

She looks into his eyes and they betray nothing. Zanya blinks back the tears, her chest heaving with emotion, hands shaking as she tries to comb back her beautiful blond hair, "You're weak, you'll always be weak. . ." She sobs, "Maybe it's because you're Drow, your heart is cold, and it only flashes when angry."

She shakes her head tears flowing down her face asking him, "Do you feel nothing?"

He remembers those words now clearly, still to this day . . . He remembers that beneath his sublime exterior, his stomach churns screaming for him to say something, anything. He remembers his contradictory emotions fueling his complacency. He remembers freezing from fear. What he remembers most is the silent soft sobs of a breaking heart.

[TheSpaniard]

Shur stands motionless, letting her leave wordlessly, feeling she's better off. It's weeks before Shur finally makes his way back to Thimbleous' farm, having not been there in months. What he sees changes him and opens his eyes to the reality of life. Actions have consequences . . .

The Drow sullenly travels North through the Nether mountains, walking down the foothills of the mountain range. There, only a few miles South East of his farm, he sees smoking bellowing in the sky. A feeling of terror and realization grips him as he begins to run, he begins sprinting as he smells something familiar: burning flesh and hair.

Shur runs and doesn't stop, his lungs bursting, he discards his weapons, arrows, and bow; his knapsack hits the dirt path and ruptures , Shur never hesitates or slows. He is still a mile off when he sees the farm ablaze, someone hanging from a tree. His eyes widen, it's a small figure, with short stubby legs.

There are people, several humans around the trunk of the tree. Hulking figures wearing animal hides, Shur recognizes them as renegades, Uthgardt Barbarians. A sea of red blankets his vision at the sight of the humans lording under the gnome's lifeless body, speaking nonchalantly. He calmly walks, undetected, drawing closer to them as their backs are turned. Just then, only ten yards away, his heart freezes and shatters.

Zanya Soren lies there clutching her stomach heavily wounded, Orcs and humans lay splayed and dead at her feet but she it seems she is eventually overrun. They stand over her, the three humans, questioning and probing her. Shur can hear one of them sneer, "You know, we don't have much time, but we can still have our fun . . ."

Shur sees Zanya's face filling with fear until she turns her head and sees Shur behind the humans. The human is unable to finish his sentence as just then, Shur polymorphs into an enormous grizzly bear. He roars and catches one of them with a swipe of his paw, spilling the man's intestines onto the floor, he quickly pushes the one speaking on to the ground. Placing one paw on the man's chest, the human can not manage a word under the enormous pressure pulverizing his rib cage. Shur simply lowers his snout and bites off the man's jaw clear off, killing him outright. The third human runs away in terror, leaving his weapons at the scene.

Shur reverts to his normal form, and rushes to Zanya, picking her up and laying her down away from the fire and blood. He takes out the bandana she had given him years ago, and desperately dabs her wound. The somewhat bloodied bandana turns a crimson red, as he unsuccessfully tries to stop her bleeding. She looks at him peacefully, the color draining from her face, as Shur struggles in vain to mend the broken woman. "Shhh , Shur, it's alright," she whispers caressing his cheek.

Hours pass and he stares at the their newly dug graves, the farm still a smoldering pile of ash behind him. The Drow turns to look at what remains of the farm, his eyes look down at the bandana in his clenched fist, the cloth now completely red with Zanya's blood. Shur Silverblade slowly raises his eyes and looks directly into the fire. One would see the flames dancing in his yellow eyes, a look of rage sweeping over him as he slowly ties the bandana tightly across his forehead.

[TheSpaniard]

This will be an attempt to write my thoughts so that I may clearly see the path ahead of me.

I have never kept a journal, but I feel myself caught in a maelstrom, slowly pulling me into oblivion. Conflicting desires and needs, this is an attempt to make sense of my violent life before my ultimate day of judgement.

I must survive. I come from the gutter and I will be damned if I lose now. I've made mistakes, and I still make them but, now, I have a home. . . In S'shamath, in The Maw, in her.

What a foolish thought, one that could threaten my very existence. But what is life if not a constant struggle? Who am I to ignore the yearning? Who am I to say no?

How unlike most Drow, I am. I once felt torn between two worlds, too twisted and warped for the surface, but too foreign for most Drow to comprehend. Valshar, the Eye of The Circle , considers me non-Drow and, secretly, I understand his thinking.

However, it is the purity of my hatred which pulls me forward. My hatred for arrogance, for weakness, and for cowardice. I do not own slaves, because I do not see the point. Such a commodity does not help spill the blood of my shrieking enemies. Instead, I surround myself with strength, so that I may cause wanton destruction and dilute the poison filling my heart.

Kaltyra GreyFang speaks to me, her words flowing through me like a dream, she leaves and I almost do not perceive this shift. Strange how Druids flock together, even when we are so different.

In my meditations, surrounded by Mushrooms which ebb and flow around me as they breathe in the thick moisture of pungent air, I witness a gaping Maw swallowing a city. In the midst and center of this pitch black and beautiful darkness I see a glorious future evolving. One I hope we share. . .

Soon I will contact my Goddess, the hag of poison and plague. I have a plan to appease her, and it will be gruesome. Perhaps, I will sacrifice some Darthiir. The surface elves are twisted, sick, and completely wrong. . . They make good sacrifices. Their long lives make them both brutal and cowardly, they cling to life like a baby to its mother's breast. Their own blatant hypocrisy makes me hate them . . . And laugh.

My kin are correct on this point: the Darthiir are scum. The Baleful Maw is growing strong and everyday, our ranks swell. I have another new recruit this cycle, a promising Shock trooper so I must end this entry here, and continue her training. The dregs of the Universe do not get many chances so I can not, no, I will not fail.

[TheSpaniard]

The hours go by slowly. I can not explain my plans in detail, as my hand shakes with excitement at the mere thought of it . . . Loviatar is a Goddess I abhor and her followers even more. They claim to love suffering, but the true meaning of the word escapes them. I plan on giving those sick masochistic freaks a lesson in pain.

The Maw still has work to do, though our long hours of training and double shifts are finally coming to fruition. Zeerith is now the Commander of our Shock Troopers, easily our largest contingent within The Maw. He has potential for leadership, especially in battle where he can put his overbearing temper to good use. This will assuage his agitation and impatience, as he thirsts for battle and a good challenge, which lately is an all too rare occurrence. With this thought, giving him command of our Shock Troopers should develop and expand his leadership capabilities, it will give Zeerith some direction and benefit every one of our Shock Troopers.

Amendel, our lead assassin, has similarly done well and continues to impress me. This cycle we go hunting Driders, and many of them fall to my arrows before I must rest and replenish my spells. Slowly, I make I leave the tunnels the Drider's occupy to regain my stamina, after I sit I look around to realize Amendel is gone. I curse vehemently at this point, thinking I must search for him and, probably, his corpse. However, Amendel's survivability is high, he learns quickly, and before I can set off in search of him the shadow master materializes from thin air. His armor drips of Drider blood and I nearly take a step back from the grinning Drow. I can't help but smirk approvingly back at him. His blood lust makes him tough and he will often push himself beyond his limit. His attitude will serve the Maw will, especially in the coming months . . .

However, at this moment an impeding darkness shrouds my thoughts even as I lean against the stalk of a large Mushroom. I am tired and the cycle's events weigh heavily on my mind, but soon, I will formulate my thoughts clearly and without inhibition.

Vith! Even in the recesses of the Under Dark, in the tunnels I love, I have trouble finding tranquility. Xas, the Mushroom Grove radiates an oppressing aura, which is disconcerting as I need to meditate badly. . . Perhaps that is it, my nerves may just be running thin. Either way, I must find peace of mind, and prepare for the coming storm.

[TheSpaniard]

It perplexes me, things that should not be. Things that should not be.

How else can you describe it? Impossible that the Undead were there, the ground splits and they materialize from underneath the soles of our muddied boots. A relentless army of undead rising from the ground to rip out our throats. We stand in a circle, shoulder to shoulder, our backs turned inwards. I remember the word impossible racing through my mind over and over, again. Wave upon wave they came at us. They attack en masse, eventually breaking our defensive circle to claw at our backs; we respond by splintering and fighting like mad dogs.

Jaluk Vampires, the stench of their cold dead flesh is hard to forget. It isn't long before I am completely surrounded, unable to see any abbil. They leer at me, brandishing great swords, and attack mercilessly with delight. I git hit once, twice, maybe more times . . . I do not recall, but before the finishing blow, something tells me to spring to action and I do. A burst of red energy surrounds as I feast upon their presences to revitalize myself. I feel my muscles contracting and spasm, while my body heals itself. Vampirism on vampires, i find the coincidence poetic justice. However, in the midst of the battle, i can not help but look down at their withering husks in disgust. They should not be.

I train tirelessly since then. What did the Orc Druidess ask? Oh, yes, "You don't ever take a break, do you?" Such a simple question, though it reverberates deeply. She probably doesn't realize the nerve she strikes. I once yearned for darkness to me envelope me forever. This feeling did pass and I return from it stronger, more determined, perhaps this the ebbing flow of life? It must be. The balance dictates it.

I sit here now, balancing my quill on my right index finger between moments of writing , and think . . . I must adjust the quill by centimeters for it to stay put, it sways from one side to the next, and I shield it from a draft with my left hand. I stop fate's unbiased charge. Moments later, I remove my hand and a strong draft does nothing but spin the quill in place. Once in balance, it remains. I remember my meditation after the undead onslaught and the bliss I feel then, I feel now. With more answers comes more questions yet, in the recesses of my mind, I accept it, and approach the challenge with delight. We've done well, and despite the turbulence that never ceases to ebb and flow, I now rest.

[TheSpaniard]

The hour of the ceremony is upon us, and still, we train frenetically. The Hive has become aware of our trespassing, they send patrols and all manner of strange beasts to hunt us down, all to no avail. By now, they must recognize my thoughts, and at times I can almost hear them whispering my name telepathically. Their taunts do nothing but fuel my hatred for them The true motivation, the memories of our last great battle, still fresh in our minds; it makes me feel almost sorry for the Mind Flayer scum and their Duergar Thralls we butcher relentlessly. Almost.

We try to halt the hand of fate, even an inch will do. To struggle is to endure. In the recent cycles, I have conscripted several strong and knowledgeable allies, thanks to Aazaxaa and my own growing reputation, who contribute immediately . . . For better or worse, I must get use to this. Since my forays on the surface, an unexpected string of occurrences brings me to the forefront. Those under my command may not realize it, I am a reluctant leader, though I suppose it is my trepidation, my own inner struggle, that makes me the most suitable for the position. It gives me the room to think things carefully, explore all options. Still, as always, I doubt. . .

Inxun, she was to be our true leader . . . I tried to reach her and I tried to bring her to us, to smother the hatred consuming her, but I could not. I only managed to stave it off, and in the end, my efforts only warranted a single and final gesture of friendship: her leaving us. Why do my thoughts wander so? What a fool I am, before our most important hour, I reminisce about the psychotic hellfire Warlock who long ago escaped the confines of Abeir-Toril.
T-ttcht . . . In the end, a coward.

I, however, will not bow down or flee from my destiny. I could suffer annihilation, utter destruction, the end of my dreams, or even lose all hope to be with her . . .

Even if all that were to occur, I would not stop, I would not stop until the fire licking the depths of my soul are forever snuffed out.

May Darkness be with us.

[TheSpaniard]

Quaggoth Yeth, the hunter who never tires . . . A formidable foe , perhaps the strongest I've ever fought, but in the end, he fell. It stood there demanding my soul, his voice like the sound of agony, death, and mutiliation. A God seeks me, Shur Silverblade, and hopes to devour my soul yet my mercenaries stand and fight the beast along my side. I still clearly recall Aazaxaa raising her blade as if to challenge the foul demon. I will not easily forget it, this gesture. I remember leaving the battlefield, the surface, my armor and cloak in tatters . . . My body burdened with fatigue and anguish. Soon, I will have nothing, but what I built with my own hands. I suppose it is fitting, that I must drag myself from the dregs once more.

More importantly, the Cult looms and continues its plot. I sacrifice much to pursue them; I feel it is the only way. Since birth I struggle and it continues. Perhaps, it is my destiny? Perhaps, there will be respite for me after this ordeal? Perhaps, this ordeal will be my last?

I do not know and ultimately, it does not matter. I will fight. The Baleful Maw is strong, very strong. The mercs grow in strength and number almost every cycle, and soon we will have a home to call our own. So many trials, tribulations, failures, and successes. I yearn for it to end, yet I live for these moments, they are often my best. My largest trial lies ahead of me, and the stage set. We are merely players in the grand scheme of the Gods, and soon, Talona will disfavor me. I have been meditating, searching and praying for a sign, and found some guidance. I've been sitting in the Lava lake for hours, deep in the confines of the Duergar Compound. A dangerous place, but it suits me.

I forge my path and like tempered and reinforced steel, I am more resilient. The crucible, my enemies . . .

[TheSpaniard]

I've done it . . . Quite a journey, and my destination, Malar the Beast LOrd. The thrill of the hunt, it has been there with me since the beginning, it is how I approach all combat and battle, perhaps, at one point unknowingly.

In the ruins, the great Hag of Plagues leaves me forever, after over a century of loyal following. Vith her. In the middle of combat no less, my divine might drains and I am left with nothing but my bow and wits. My blood boils and scorches my insides thoroughly with an unadulterated rage I have not felt in a long time, I almost had forgotten this feeling. I have little time to think as my wards drop and Renegade Drow of Ohgrann swarm me. They sneer and taunt, their filed teeth bared as they descend for the kill, twirling their blades in circles as they lunge and scream. I barely have time to evade the attack as I back flip, shooting two of them mid air through the top of their skulls, their brains splattering against the floor before the other three are even able to swing at me.

Damn, how it is to fight without magic! It's exhilarating!

They swing at me menacingly, two warriors and a monk, I avoid death narrowly as the warriors swing with their heavy blades and the savage pummels me. Thankfully, I still have my speed. I begin to sweat, back peddling constantly, my stamina is running low and soon I'll slip.

Just then, they make mistake, with a primordial and bellowing yell the monk pushes the other two aside and leaps in an all or nothing attempt to pin me. I only have a moment's time to react, but it is enough. I quickly grab the largest bomb I have strapped on my bandolier and throw it behind the leaping fool. It detonates between the two flat footed warriors and instantly vaporizes them, the concussive force of the blast launches the monk into the wall of the ruin behind me, and he falls to a daze. I am otherwise unharmed, the amulet around my neck protecting me from the scorching flame, though I still hold my shield up to make sure I don't take most of the blast. I Amble over, limping from my wounds, and stare down at the barbarian as he shakes his head groggily. I speak to him in Drow and say,

"You fought well . . . you're the only one left alive, though not for long, abbil. You will make for a good hunt." I almost spit these words out as I say them, remove my mask.

The savage merely laughs piercingly and nervous, "T-tehe . . he he he. . ."
He struggles to sit up and is very obviously insane, like a deranged Imp. I sneer at his weakness, his frailty of mind, bring the hilt of my blade crashing to the back of his head, and render him unconscious. I through the crazed jaluk over my shoulder and slowly board the raft, exhausted I slowly start to row toward the Mushroom Grove cave.

[TheSpaniard]

I meet with Fecca, the Baleful Maw's powerful and sometimes unstable Mage, a fanatic about teleporting. He scours the Under Dark and, rarely leaves the auction house when in S'shamath, always searching for gear to improve his range.

I explain to him my circumstance, and the plan I've been developing for scores of cycles. He agrees to help, and soon, the three of us teleport to a secluded forest on the surface, not far from the spot where I once attempted to call forth Talona's avatar of flame. I unbind the Jaluk as he withers under the sun, it bothers Fecca and I, but we tolerate the searing rays.

Fecca finds himself a nice shaded spot atop a tree, he rests against the trunk and extends his legs across the branch, and watches the hunt that will soon unfold with amusement. The terrified Drow Savage runs aimlessly and I can not help but burst into laughter as he scrambles . . . However I soon get serious, close my eyes, and begin to pray. After a short prayer to Malar, the beast lord, i brandish a spear and thrust it into the ground. Kneeling, I grab a clump of soil with my bare hands and rub them together, this act soothes me and reminds me of my youth. I look to the sky, thinking of the crazed savage by this point fleeing wildly and lost, "Bwael, the sun is coming down . . ."

I look toward the alter and i start to notice several beasts of different forms and sizes prowl around it, with the red markings of Malar on their faces. I pull out my bandana and grin, brandishing the spear, its tip jagged with a serrated edge. I tie the bandana across my head and run then, to hunt the Jaluk, using nothing but the strength in my heaving muscles. It takes some time, but soon, i find and skewer him . . . He is not so weak and his death comes slowly, though he ultimately meets his demise in a feeding frenzy to the paragon beasts of Malar.

They tear at his flesh, his limbs torn asunder, and i can't help but smile at the grizzly scene. It assuages the pain that has been growing in me, the loneliness, and it steels me. I'll be strong regardless of what occurs, for I am Druid now of the Beast Lord. With a quick word to Fecca, he jumps down to the ground, and with an incantation we return home.

[TheSpaniard]

My reemergence, how exhilarating, but the hunt continues . . . For my ultimate prize.

Who would have foreseen such an ironic twist of fate? For nearly two centuries a loyal Druid and follower but now I'm on the prowl to pluck out the Hag's Eye, as she calls him. I won't just pluck out her eye, but I will sever her hand, and let the looming caverns of the Under Dark run red with their blood. I will not stop until our dream bears fruition, until their bones are crushed into dust underneath our boots. Sacrifice is the nature of success, without it, there is nothing. No glory, no dream, no ecstasy. It won't be easy, but nothing worth achieving ever is.

Her plagues are terrible, capable of making the most powerful of civilizations crumble, yet I remember what happens to those who invade S'shamath. Their fate's, often enough, are worse than death. To survive, S'shamath must make a call to arms, yet, many are unaware, many do not know of the blanketing mist which slowly envelopes us all. The ignorant vie and struggle for power, yet there will be nothing to steal, thieve, or plunder if the Hag's needs are met. The Maw will struggle on and we shall achieve what others deem impossible. I am confident that those who know will strike back devastatingly. The strongest survive.

Of this, I am sure.

I can almost smell the coming blood, it intoxicates me during my reverie. A series of great battles will ensue and I greedily will accept them, as will my mercenaries. I offer S'shamath and the Conclave the protection of my army, the opportunities will be great during and after S'shamath's victory. Soon The Baleful Maw will set in motion plans to construct a symbol of our power; finally, a home to place my trophies. For you Malar. . . A den to foster my warriors, to steel their will, and to further their own ends.

We will hunt for riches, we will hunt for glory, and we will hunt our enemies from this bastion for the City of Dark Weavings.

[TheSpaniard]

Neron's dead. I have not seen him , or his corpse for that matter, but I believe his visions have finally come true. The crazed Cleric of Ghaunadaur perishes for the Maw.

His death makes us stronger and his legacy lives. Many mercenaries flock to us by the cycle, and I spend much of my time training with them. On the side, we follow through with the odd job and delivery, though our focus remains the Cult and their overlords. I feel the Circle's attempts to win over the Lolthites are foolish, even if it works, we won't need them. Best to pool all our willing forces and attack now. For the 7th Circle, wanting their help is ludicrous, it would only give the Temple more political leverage, something which the 7th should avoid. Something which we should all avoid.

I am no politician, and the thought of it all makes my head swim. . .However, the Maw will not stand idle, we will scout our enemy's defenses and look for possible weaknesses. If we can risk a surprise attack, with a surgical strike force, we will attack them on our own. I am sick of the needless deliberation. We have other contingency plans set, if things appear to be hopeless. Time slips through one's hand like sand, we must act intelligently, but with decisive action. This is a war.

Besides that, the Maw is profiting from the tensions in S'shamath. The gold flows and our bastion is all but ratified for construction. Recently, we've smuggled weapons and equipment to the surface for some good gold, selling items which complement the weaker rivvil. I am planning to breach the surface personally to deliver some special packages back into the Under Dark. I will go myself to ensure nothing goes awry. I must prepare diligently . . . The stresses are taking their toll, and I owe myself some rest and relaxation if I hope to continue on effectively. I must ratify this myself.

May Darkness take us.

OOC/////
God Grant Me
the serenity to accept
The things I cannot change,

Courage
to change the things I can,

And wisdom always
to tell the
difference.
////OOC

[TheSpaniard]

I am back . . . I look around this chapel and it surprises me, I have spent many cycles here hiding, and I feel a connection with it. Memories. They wash over me as I sit on this bench and write. Memories I won't ever easily forget.

From my first visit to the Sword Coast , I've used this as a hide out and it works, it works well. I write these thoughts down as I wait for Merek Asher . . . Hours have now passed since we struck at Beregost. Vith that town, and their guards.

More memories.

I can't shake them , this place is rich with them, though I can not let my mind wander too much. It may cost me my life.

This latest job, it is an interesting one. Our employer, an Old Hag, I have yet to meet. It seems she works on a basis of contracts, where each piece , each employee, works to the letter with their respective contracts. Her two constituents were oppressively annoying with their mentioning of the Contract. Always, "The Contract does not allow it . . ." or the "Contract demands this" or the "contract is fulfilled so I am pleased." It's almost like the damned contracts are like a God for these people.

The Maw served as such a piece, but now our contract is over, as they have their blood. That's what they wanted, blades and to spill as much blood as we could before having the entirety of the sword coast at our heels. And, damn, did we ever deliver.

I can't say I liked killing civilians, they offer no resistance and their necks break too easily. Pah, a rather unpleasant part of the job, at least I was able to negotiate that we spare children . . . We were still paid well, but the gold would have been more had I submitted to this stipulation. I refused, and our pay was cut marginally. Ultimately, gold is gold, and we will continue to participate in similar grunt work . . . The Maw is growing in power, but we are still too young. So we must continue with these modest jobs, even if they are beneath us, to some day achieve greatness. Still, this dark syndicate intrigues me and I will not mind working with them for now . . . Perhaps I can learn more about them, somehow take a look under their ever so impressive veil of secrecy. . . I should task Amendel to spy on them the next time we work together, they pay well, but I wonder how well they'll pay us not to divulge their secrets?

Maybe it's not a good idea to black mail them . . . But regardless, I want to learn what I can , if they hold their secrets close, then I will stealthily pry the information from their fingers.

And now, I'm on the surface again, in hiding . . . Personal job. I have been patient for this next step and perhaps things are happening this way for a reason. Still, I feel split, something is always nagging at me it seems. . . Perhaps it is why I am often busying myself with work, busying myself to be complete, to be good enough. We are like meteors cascading through the black oblivion of space, and I await the day our paths align. I will wait on this unforgiving hellscape for the chance to see where it will take me, if we are truly destined. It will be worth it, no matter what occurs from it all . . .

Hark, someone draws near. . .