Thaelandriel - Augur's Path

[Danuvis]

[Found amongst the Half-Elf's belongings, this tome-like journal is wrought of fine leather and embellished with intricate, silvery metal. Its thick cover is bound by equally lavish locks and swirling patterns that run across all the way to the spine of the journal, out of which a mithril chain protrudes and more often than not attaches the tome securely to its owner.

Featuring drawings, poems, loose ledgers and regular entries alike, its contents vary drastically from page to page. Some are smudged, fragmented, and occasionally torn, and they do not always seem to follow any particular order - the hand growing rough from entry to entry, neat and ordered to a frantic scrawl and back.]

[Danuvis]

[A journal page filled chiefly with a painstakingly detailed and intricate drawing of a blackened heart, the gaping maws embedded into it resembling that of a canine - though no ordinary one. A poem written in an unsteady fashion is committed upon the same parchment, directly below the drawing itself.]

Blackened eyes confess of a blackened heart,

O, a foul and wicked creature thou art.

Atop carrion banquets rests your seat,

From whence, O spirit, foul justice you mete.

The bloodless doth answer your sullen summons,

Led into the deep's dim, deadened commons.

Harbinger of the black; a tainted omen,

E'er shall we tussle with Death's foul foreman.

[Danuvis]

[An entry that appears to have been torn from some old ledger, written in a strange hand and found amongst various scraps of old texts and reports, kept folded up and precariously deposited between countless ordinary pages. It is old and yellowed, the corners turned up and in places it is flecked with something dry and dark, the script somewhat jagged and peculiar.]

Summer?

I know not the day, nor the month. Time is at rest in these parts, a sleeping beast yet to stir. Beneath these blackened trees, there is little light. Only the passing of the very seasons preach change. The creatures revel in their isolation, yet I grow fearful. They conspire against my very soul. They seek my undoing. It is as though the very earth, the very sky, compels them.

I thought this a gift, yet now I see that I am cursed. A natural oddity, my death is eagerly anticipated. The trees bay for my blood and flinch as I perch atop their limbs. The hatred etched into the very core of this land is palpable, almost tangible. It hangs in the air like a sour, heavy scent.

I cannot stay. The moon rises once more and the wood is restless. The worth of the lycanthropes has been judged, and we have been found wanting. 'Abomination', whisper the larks. 'Death', say the eyes of the beasts.

I thought myself, for my transformation, welcome. I was mistaken.

[Danuvis]

[This page has clearly been hastily scrawled, balled up and discarded, only to be reclaimed at a later date. Now it hangs loosely attached to the spine of the journal, haphazardly fluttering along to wayward breezes when exposed.]

The scarlet executioner wavers, sand slipping through his fingers.

The ashen clouds disperse, the mist clears. Yet, it lingers in the minds of many.

The boy made man treads carefully, but the path is narrow.

Columns of grey by the court confined. Guilty their verdict; a cage, made of ice.

Ancient forests weep, for a dark shadow falls upon its branches.

Bitter is the taste of defeat, but the victory is hard earned.

A feathered blade rests in its blackened nest, until gripped by pure hands.

The butcher's son lies in wait at the door.

Men turned defectors set foot on solid ground. Their eyes turn to the south.

The wind carries an ominous message overseas. It falls on deaf ears.

The blessed blade is twice lost, having served its purpose.

She of the raven locks sleeps uneasily, for her tongue is sharp and her sins are not forgotten.

[Danuvis]

[A drawing marks yet another page, with cryptic musings written in its wake. Several of the following pages have been filled with incoherent writing, constantly either devolving into small, lopsided jots or ending up twisted into enormous, upturned scribbles that overlap previous incarnations of the repeated words. What little remains legible proves to be frantic repetition of: "I have been awaiting you."]

[Danuvis]

[Letters penned with indigo ink stretched over a folded page that stands out from regular ones in quality and appearance, neat and rounded, though the fluid type was interrupted in places by stains and smudges. A poem has been scribbled on the very same parchment in a hand resembling that of the journal's author.]

Hidden: show

Dearest Thael,

I figured this letter would reach you – you wouldn't miss the pilgrimage for the world, I know! If it arrives in one piece is […] correspondence from where I currently find myself is hardly reliable. Here's hoping, and if this has ended up in the hands of someone else, all I'll do is steal a few minutes of time with worthless drivel. (If this hypothetical someone happens to be young Fizzlewick: Do remember what I told you about touching what isn't yours.)

Assuming that it did actually end up with the right person, though: I hope you are well, T. I know that we didn't part on the best of terms, and I often regret it. This place is so glum and depressing that you inevitably […] whenever left to your thoughts for too long, as if the foreboding feeling it brings out in you makes you want to atone for your sins and wrongs while you still have time.

Gods, I do paint a depressing picture of things, don't I. I apologise for that. The war is disheartening, morale is running low and we are constantly besieged, but I will admit that there are moments that aren't […] alive, for one. We're still not out of whisky, and the company is generally good. One of the men even offered to teach me a thing or two about farming, if you can believe it. You need to cherish what little change you can get aro […]

I doubt that you could get a reply through to me, and even if you could it might not be the best idea considering […] if you even wanted to. I just want you to know that you are far from forgotten.

Moving on to more important matters: You best return from this pilgrimage in one piece, you hear me? Stay sharp, make me proud. Watch out for that greenie with the gold teeth and the lazy eye, whatever-his-name, he seems to have a bone to pick with you for some reason.

Oghma's wisdom, Thael, and stay safe.
~ N
3rd Uktar, 1532DR.

PS: If you happen to stop by in Everlund, would you check up on Fairlady for me? Stored her […] harbor because I was in a hurry when we left, and I'm not entirely convinced that he won't pick her apart and sell her on.

PPS: It seems I'm getting mar […] what has this world come to?

[Danuvis]

[Following the same pattern as similar scribblings from before, each passage of this entry is hastily jotted down - the tints of ink ever changing.]

The mule's legs are much too fast for her to handle, and her ears - despite their size, only hear what they expect. Her back is streaked with blood, but she is the one holding the crop.

The Fallen spills the blood of the Children of the North, in service to the King. Two are gone, yet two remain in darkness.

The oathsworn are not what they seem.

The cruel wolf wears cruel sheep's clothing. WATCH THE TEA.

The Lesser, having lost all but his shining beacon of light, is broken by the will of the zealous. The demon's blade is broken by the paw of the bear - he, too, will be lost.

She paces worriedly, for her hopes are great and her fears are many. He curses himself, for his burden weighs heavily. Together, they make three.

He seeks that which those in grey once sought. With it and the tome, his struggle will be at an end.

He seeks solace in faith, but his trust is misplaced.

The leaves rustle in agony. The ashes settle.

[Danuvis]

[This entry has been torn away crudely and hurriedly, leaving behind only traces of a page once having been here.]

[Danuvis]

The man made wolf smells blood in the air. The chains creak forebodingly.

Grey cloth is crudely torn by Lion's claws.

Three wilted stems lay on mossy ground - birthwort, coltsfoot and fiendflower. Torn up with the roots, they will never recover.

The frog princess soars across the night sky.

The golden snake slithers through the grass. Never far, poised to strike.

The crown rolls over marble flooring, blood in its wake.

Something bubbles just under the surface. A hunter waits.

Blood shimmers on the other side of the looking-glass. Traitors spin tales of treason and murder.

Nothing is as ruthless as those with cold blood, and the ruthless are nothing without it.

There is no gratitude in this world. Only stone walls remain for those who do themselves a disservice.

Calm waters boil from the warmth of human touch.

Those who do demon's bidding should never be trusted.

The butcher's son, once more, rests.