3. Isolde's detective files

Isolde's detective files


  • The following files are accessible to all of Isolde's trusted allies, through visiting the Ladies Detective Agency. A thick one at the top of her desk holds all the intelligence currently available on the Doppelganger known as 'The Unreal' - currently at large again, after a breach of security in the Smiling Monkey containment facilities.

    The Unreal - Collected Case Files

    A heavily armored man, face and indeed every part of him (or possibly it, knowing the Smiling Monkey's preference for constructs) covered in metal, approached Reyhenna and myself one day outside the Mermaid. He greeted us in a sophisticated accent echoing with iron past the helmet:

    "Good afternoon. I'm with the Smiling Monkey organization. I'm here to offer a consultancy contract to the No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency. The consultancy contract is on indefinite retainer. The pay rate is 1000 gold per month for the retainer. You will take mandates from me. If you agree I have one for you to be executed immediately. The agreement is terminable for our convenience. So please do live up to your efficient repute."

    The armored man, reluctantly giving the name 'Brit' to call him by, soon produced a notepad from his bag, and with it our first assignment:

    "Please visit Apartment 1-H in the Bottleneck Apartments and take a statement from the dweller there. Take the statement onto this notepad and insert your thoughts at the end. You may follow-up as deeply as you like with the proviso that you may not uncover all details or reach a satisfying conclusion. It is in the nature of the work."

    Just what he meant by that soon became apparant, in taking that first statement down. The nature of these assignments all fall into the category of 'mysterious', which I of course can never quite resist. I've copied select parts of the SM notepad's contents into these, my private files, for easy reference and sharing with my partners. Without further ado, I present...

    The Curious Case of the Tax Collector's Nebulous Neighbour

    An unremarkable but clearly distressed man in his middle age opened the door of 1-H upon our knocking. He bid us come in and politely put the kettle on, yet his unease was palpable even from the start.

    The man introduced himself as Billman, a tax collector, fidgeting as he began to explain the both strange and in a different sense mundane nature of his concern, pausing numerous time as though realizing precisely how weird it would all sound.

    Billman: "Oh. Alright. Well it's about my neighbour. She was .... Well it's ...
    ... It's the strangest thing. She's gone you see but ...
    ... I feel like I'm the only one who remembers her at all and -
    And even then there ... there's something off, you see.
    She's gone, yes, she's gone, if she was ever there at all.
    I asked around. I'm crazy, they tell me. They tell me, there never was a Miss Berkley in 1-I.
    The apartment's been up for lease for years, it's just so run down, no one wants to live there.
    But that's wrong. Miss Berkley lives there you see.
    Miss Berkley.
    Or she did... If she did."

    He appeared at once insistant and hesitant, as though doubting his own recollection. I asked for more detail on this lady and he continued thusly:

    "Well that's just it. It's almost like the memory's off too because...
    Well because it's almost like she was ...
    ... well she was ...
    ... strange or ... maybe I'm remembering her strangely?
    Like, in the back of my head, I think -
    Was it Mrs. Berkley, or was it a name that sounded like Mrs. Berkley?
    Like ... Herkley or ... Berklam.
    And then there's the appearance. I'm so sure it was ... similar but not quite that....
    She was a ... an old lady who wore these chemises, right, or was it... overalls?
    Something ... basic like that but ...
    I feel like she used to look far better.
    But ... Not just better. Different?
    But that's even if she existed at all!
    I'm not.
    Crazy.
    There -was- a woman in that apartment, even if I remember this odd ...
    thing ... about her, where she was ... different or ... not the same.
    I'm not crazy."

    Billman grew increasingly agitated, so I asked him how he knew the woman in question. Would he talk to her in the hall or maybe help her carry groceries in?

    "That's just it", said Billman.
    "I feel like I used to but then ... wasn't?
    In any case it all came to a head the last time I visited her.
    She seemed ...
    ... So pleased that I...
    So pleased that I had so much trouble remembering.
    I asked her, isn't it the case, that your hair is brown, and not black?
    And she said, 'Isn't it?' And smiled, like, it was funny. But it wasn't funny. It was very concerning.
    And then I asked her, 'How is the job, at the parlor?' Because she worked at a hair parlour.
    But she said, 'I don't work at a hair parlour, Billman. I work at the pub.'
    And then she smiled again, and watched me very closely, and I thought, why would she say such a thing?
    She used to be the one to cut my hair after all!
    Well it was just a week ago! Just one week!
    And now it's as though there never even -was- a Mrs. Berkley.
    Or was it Herkley? I swear her name changed too, it's ...
    Similar but .. not the same."

    Again he began to fret. A week since the last time he saw this mysterious neighbour, and she had not only vanished without a trace, but no one even remembered her ever being there. People in the building tells him she never even existed.

    Reyhenna asked why the Smiling Monkey - and it turns out they pay for statements like these. Adverts, pamphlets, though some sort of weeding process seems to be in place given the assignments I take on have seemed legitimatly strange so far.

    The ad reads as follows, Billman showed it to us:

    "SMILING MONKEY: Detectivery and follow-up for the paranormal and the bizzare. If no one else believes you, we do. Plus payment for all statements."

    "It's not a lie! It happened! I wouldn't make this up", exclaimed Billman, even without anyone outright accusing him.

    I theorized magic might be affecting memory in this case and he insisted his head was fine. Yet he soon grew hesistant for all that and allowed me to test his mind's resilience with a simple charm spell. He was of avarage receptiveness to it, as suspected.

    Did you like this Berkeley lady? I asked as he calmed down.

    "She was alright. I liked her better before. Obviously."

    Before she changed?

    "Yes. At least, before I think she changed. Or was it Mrs. Herkley. Or Birkham."

    Was she nice to you?

    "Well I think so but ... was she? really? With all that smiling and odd ... looks at the end?
    Like I was funny or something."

    Do you remember her eyes?

    "Well I think they were brown but maybe they were blue. Before I mean.
    I've been worried about this whole thing haven't I? It's not very fun is it?
    To have your neighbour change and then vanish?"

    To rule out magic affecting his mind, I tried Clarity, to no perceptible change. A cursory check of his neck revealed no bite marks or the like - vampire sightings have been few and far between, yet always worth checking.

    Exiting the apartment, we then headed over to 1-A, the apartment where our mystery lady, if she existed, used to live until a week ago. Far from being abandoned, the place had a grouchy, single male occupant who was quite reluctant to let us in. But I've charmed lesser men and we got inside for a quick chat and look around. At least, after I bribed him.

    There were some old leftover furniture and things like that in the apartment when he moved in, said the man, but nothing personal. Possibly an old picture frame. He was quite unfriendly and wanted us out of his hair after but a few short questions, yet Vic's canny eyes noted a relevant fact, revealed to us once outside. The man, quite noticably a slob, who didn't seem to care for cleaning up a mess Vic intentionally made, had a perfectly spotless home. This would not be the case if the apartment had been previously abandoned, now would it?

    As we debated, a gyrocopter came sputtering by with the following message: "Dear Smiling Monkey consultant. Your research assistant will arrive shortly. Please also do not forget to submit your reported statements."

    Enter Danson, a precocious boy who has proven himself to be quite a wonder at research assistance, despite my other associates constant complaints that he's 'creepy' for his adult mannerism. Danson delivered the precise sort of information I had previously been discussing, leaning me to the conclusion that the notepads are infused with magic that transfers the contents onto the Smiling Monkey's archive directly (wherever that may be). This theory is one that Danson too shares. Possibly it can be used for scrying too - I've yet to actually check.

    Danson's research report:

    "So. I checked into the leasing records and all tax records for one Miss Berkley and essentially, by all accounts, she never existed. However, there is a peculiar gap, in the leasing history. For whatever reason, the appartment was never leased for the past 6 years, up until very recently. Miss Isolde, you'll find that, on many occasions, we simply have to leave the statements open. With any luck we'll be able to piece this together later on, perhaps with more statements. Any theories? The Monkey people like it when we end on theories.

    Any ... Paranormal theories or?"

    Well, it's possible there's a less than paranormal reason, such as Vic's spy suggestion, I replied.

    "Inconclusive. To be expected then Miss Garibaldi. Don't forget to write it down."

    Addendum to Danson's research report: The city owns the bottleneck appartments. They're public housing. There's no reason on the record why 1-I would not be leased for 6 years.

    Of note, the Smiling Monkey had also collected statements from surviving villagers on Sally Williams. These, Danson shared with Reyhenna.

    Conclusions and theories are yet out of reach with this first case. But in ruling many other things out, the remaining parts are assuredly looking to fall into the category of 'strange'. Potentially paranormal, as seems the Smiling Monkey's preference in these matters for reasons yet unknown. More to come.

    Original files obtained through Trace & Company

    Statement of Magister Kane, Coastal Tower - Off Waterdeep:

    "The first thing you should know about me is that I am a mage, and no fool. I understand the basics of shapeshifting magic in particular. So you must understand that I am serious and honest when I tell you that my assistant was not shapeshifted. I believe - though I cannot prove it - that he was 'replaced.'

    No one else at the tower believes me, of course. They all tell me I am mad. That my assistant, Joshua, has always been who he is, looked the way he's looked, behaved the way he behaves. I feel terribly alone in my insistence and yet I know it is true! I am telling you, here and now, that Joshua's hair was in fact, dark brown, not light hazel, and his eyes were green, NOT blue.

    And what's more, he was a quiet, reserved man, barely spoke a word. NOT a gregarious and verbose charmer the way he appears now. And every time I bring it up, everyone seems to feel sorry for him, like I am harrassing him.

    But he looks at me, and I can tell, he is somehow . . . delighted in my frantic allegations. As though, he -wants- me to make a fool of myself. I have no other choice, you see, but to come to you. Put it on your records, so someone, somewhere, sometime, can know the truth: Joshua Arnett, at the Magister's Tower, off Waterdeep, isn't real.

    He was replaced, by some kind of thing that is not Joshua. He has not shapeshifted. There is no magical proof. I am at a loss as to the how.

    But that. Is. The Truth.

    Here is the evidence. The one piece I can think of. Joshua Arnett's actual name is not Joshua Arnett. It is CLOSE. But not QUITE. His REAL name, is actually, Joshob Arnon. NOT Joshua Arnett.

    Like everything else about him, everything is just a LITTLE different. His hair, his eyes, and now his name. Except his verbosity, which I think , he knows, that I know, isn't different, and he wants me to know, because he wants me to accuse, and he wants to make a fool of me, and he delights in it. That is all I have for you. If I find more concrete evidence I shall let you know. Thank you for your time."

    Follow up notes:

    Joshua Arnett has left the Magister's tower some 2 years ago. The Magister who gave the statement, Magister Kane, was expelled from the tower 2.1 years ago, one month prior to Joshua Arnett's departure. Neither man can be found. [The statement is dated 7 years ago]

    Marquis Bisare

    In immediate proximity to our discussion following the Waterdeep notes, there was a knock on Jonni's door. In opening, there stood the elderly but spry figure of Marquis Bisare, a gentleman scholar and occultist who had, for some weeks now, been attempting to gain access to the Compass, supposedly to study it.

    Jonni had been giving the man the runaround, naturally wary of strangers delving into secrets best kept hushed, while I was struggling with a nagging sense of familiarity all along. The Marquis reminded me of someone, in fact he rather reminded me of Monsignor Abelard, though this was a notion only half formed and kept to myself for two reasons: the antipathy Rey and Jonni had towards Abelard might unfairly influence Jonni's decision, and in strange reversal, I found myself trying to find a similar affinity for this man but failing. I didn't trust him, in a similarily instinctive way to how Jonni and Rey had not trusted Abelard, but could not say why.

    Bisare had attempted, with no real success, to ingratiate himself by helping Reyhenna with the remains of her arm (possessed of a demon) and generally nosying about our affairs previously. He also liked to flaunt knowledge of the Compass, though this had made no positive impact on his gaining access whatsoever.

    Now, here he stood with a jovial smile, inside Jonni's private quarters, oh so close to the object of his desire, asking once more: "Tell me: what will it take for you to share them with me along with access to your device?"

    He seemed quite unhurried, yet took particular care to check, then twirl the pocketwatch he kept on a chain in his stylish vest's pocket. He even asked for the time, making a point of his watch being broken and then, upon the summoning of a surly Visum, smilingly apologized: "Oh, bully, it must be quite something for you. To have me nattering about your private affairs. Insisting and poking and prodding. I do apologize. I don't mean to be such a bother. Perhaps there's something I can do to help gain your trust?"

    Jonni, in denying the request, pointed out that Bisare being a stranger was the main reason and trust would take time. But, despite acting cavalier, Bisare claimed: "Time is of the essence you see. I'm on the clock."

    Throughout this exchange, that nagging sense of familiarity grew inside me. I'd initially thought the resemblance to Abelard was just in the type of men they were - scholars, eccentrics, cultured men of that certain age, but now I was starting to wonder: was he making a specific point of flaunting the watch?

    "You strike me as very familiar", I finally told him outright. "I felt we'd met before, even on our first encounter. If it was the first."

    "I'm sorry, Miss Garibaldi, but I don't know you, exactly. We met for the first time at the library that day", replied Bisare blithely. "Perhaps we met in another life?" He was smiling now, and I couldn't help but feel that despite his denied access to the Compass, he seemed rather pleased.

    Jonni, opting to see whether Bisare's knowledge of the occult might be helpful, asked: "What type of person, or creature.. might enjoy taking the memories of someone and possibly devouring them?"

    "Have you heard of an Oblex?", replied Bisare. "It is a powerful ooze that feeds on memories. If I were to hazard a guess at a creature that devours memories, that would be my guess. They are created by mindflayers. They use the memories to create duplicates, you see."

    With increasing amusement, as Jonni speculated on Bisare's ulterior motives and I insisted there was something he was definitely not telling us, he continued:

    "I remind you: I've been nothing but helpful to you and your friends. I identified the demon inhabiting your arm, didn't I? And I just provided you with the best plausible theory regarding the Oblex. Don't you think it's rather unfair and irrational to allege such a thing, against me? Does the record not suggest that your feelings and paranoia here is unjustified?

    I must say you are the first to have treated me so poorly. Yes, I may be something of a stranger, but even the most suspicious lords I've worked for have seen that I am a decent man in pursuit of academia.

    Does it weigh on you, to live above and to harbor such a device? I suppose I must not be the first to come insisting on seeing it. Others who have come down here or who have noticed it must surely have wanted to try it or learn about it. It must be quite the burden to keep it so secret. I will take my leave for now. I will see you again, no doubt, as I try to fathom some way to bypass your paranoid caution."

    He sighed and began to make his way off, though paused at the door, commenting:

    "I'm off then... Oh... This door here. It's past this door, isn't it? The machine, I mean. I notice this room and basement are the most heavily fortified areas of your inn. I further note, based on the discussions amongst pubs and the newspapers, that your inn was the site of an interplanar disturbance, some time ago. All of which suggests to me - and others, I reckon - that your device, which is more well known than you might think, is behind this door.

    Hm. Pardon. I ramble. Just thinking out loud."

    With that, Bisare smiled and finally left, leaving the room in spirits much more disturbed than when he came. Suspecting he may take alternative action if continually denied, Jonni went for a word with Visum, who despite the earlier cold shoulder now claimed Bisare struck him as a decent fellow: "Just a simple academic. I divined his past and saw that he is, truly, who he says he is. An occultist who serves lords and ladies."

    Jonni and myself, knowing by now that we cannot trust our memories completely, were both still ill at ease. "Visum's divinations might have been twisted.. depending on who or what he is", noted Jonni, though still wished to keep an open mind and not yet say definitely no to the Marquis' request. Reyhenna was firmly on the side of no, griping about it as we came back up the stairs to the bar: "I don't like this Marquis snooping and snuckering around."

    Rayella, ever chatty, interjected: "Didn't I see you hanging out with that Marquis guy before? And didn't Rey like, talk about how much she hated him and stuff. Jonni too."

    Now that was odd. Previously, both Rey and Jonni had been giving Bisare the benefit of the doubt, unlike Abelard.... Warning bells started ringing.

    "Yeah, I -do- hate him", grumped Reyhenna.

    Rayella responded: "Yeah I know you've been saying that forever. Jonni doesn't trust him either."

    "You don't mean... the other elderly scholar I knew, do you?", I enquired with a sinking feeling inside my gut. "Monsignor Abelard? Because they hated him."

    A blank stare back.

    "Monsignor Abelard", I tried again. "You know, the charming elderly gent with the marble pocketwatch?"

    Rayella: "No, Isolde, it's the Marquis Bisare, who was just in here. I have no idea who you're talking about. I'm talking about the Marquis Bisare, whom I've seen you with before."

    "When before?!" I all but cried out.

    Rayella: "You guys, came in, with the Marquis, like, two years ago? You and Jonni wouldn't stop shitting on him. I dunno, Isolde was like, wanted to help him or something. And you and Jonni were like, "fark that guy." Then you came and put a book in our library about it. Some book you said he wrote."

    "But that.. sounds like Abelard" I said dumbly, feeling faint.

    "No. It's the Marquis Bisare. I feel like I'm taking crazy herbs talking to you guys about this" said Reyella.

    We had to find the book. My steps were heavy and there was a chill down my spine, going down the stairs to Little Candlekeep. Adagus searched for some time, before finding it in the M.A. section, which at first appeared promising enough. 'A Leap and Back' was the current title, with an ornate, white, marble pocketwatch design on the front, with a man teetering on its edge here.... on the title page, the following dedication: 'To my dearest niece, for whom I collect many songs, around the realms.'

    Oh no. No, that's not right at all!

    The name was on the second page, and even though the book was filed under the initials 'M.A.', the author read: 'Marquis Bisare.'

    It had happened to us this time. To our story! Reyhenna kept a cooler head than mine, for I was fuming with rage at this point, cooly noting: "The details are all altered slightly, precisely like the reports from the other victims. And people around us are telling us we are remembering incorrectly. Clearly, we are now also victims. As Jonni feared."

    I flipped through the book, finding our names deleted. Instead of Rey, Isolde, and Jonni, it read: "Raymond, Isilduir, and Jorn." A hot, righteous rage filled me, the kind I imagine drives paladins on their crusades! "I thought losing my memories was bad, but this is ~worse~. Changing the STORIES? Now I'm offended, to my bardic core."

    My little tirade did little but get us kicked out of the library, though we did manage to learn the book had never previously been loaned out (or even read, the dust on it was quite telling). After a little tug of war with Adagus, I calmed down and simply borrowed the book, until such time as we can restore it to its true state. Though I doubt we'll ever see 'Marquis Bisare' again, the creature inside his skin undoubtedly lives on and will continue its befouling of the narrative until stopped.

    Reyhenna pointed out that the "altered" person, in this case Bisare, doesn't usually seem to stick around long after rubbing the victim's faces in it. But Bisare seems to have an agenda beyond just the memory adjustments though, which is not something we've been able to confirm with the other cases. But is that necessarily true? Does he or it really want anything to do with the Compass, or was the real game to affect just this change? Does it only work if and when those targetted realize they are being manipulated, at that moment of recognition?

    He made such a point of fiddling with that pocketwatch, of mentioning 'time', as though wanting to be found out. Wanting us to know, and be seen as mad for insisting on a truth everyone else had forgotten.

    Despite the dust, there was a bookmark in the book. It was yellow, sticking out a bit and of a certain telltale brand: a Smiling Monkey, lifting a finger, with a caption that reads: "Lost your place? We'll help find it."

    Smiling Monkey archives, statement is made by Lein H., a hospice attendant:

    "I know all of my patients. All of them. Very well. I'm quite fond of them, and I have quite a knack for comforting people, even when their time is almost come. That's why I work in the palliative care ward. You know, where people that are sick go to die, peacefully, with care. Comfortably.

    So imagine my surprise, when one of my patients was kidnapped. Who would do that to a person? To kidnap them, at the edge of death? It's absurd, and what's more absurd, is that they hired an actor, to replace the person, as though, we wouldn't know, they were missing! I swear to you it's some kind of prank put on by a Bardic Troupe, and it isn't funny.

    I'm tired of it, and I insist, I insist, you see, I insist that this person confess, and tell everyone, exactly what's happening, right away! Right this instant! And I need your help to do it, because it's gone on too far, far enough!

    Certainly my colleagues seem to think me mad, at this point, as though I'm making it up, or somehow enchanted, by a wizard or something. Well I was checked. I paid for the checkup myself. No. Enchantments. Clean as a whistle! And I'm telling, right now, that the person, in Bed 3-C, in the hospice, is an actor. He has to be! And not a very good one either! His hair colour's off and the accent, too, ever so slightly. But oh, I can tell. I can tell.

    (Underlined). It didn't get past me, you see! Nothing does, nothing does, and I can see it, I can see what's wrong with them, and I know it, I see all the little signs here and there.

    I'm too clever, you see, to clever by far for this imposter. So you must get me out of here, and prove it. You must get me out of here, I don't belong in here, I'm perfectly well, it's him, it's the one in the bed, in 3-C! I'm not mad I swear to you, and you have to get me out."

    Driving people mad, or making others think they are, seems the favoured game of this changeling or imposter, but is it simply for its own great amusement or does it gain something else from these fraudulent tricks?"

    The Unreal - Capture

    The Docks grow foggy, every now and again. It always seems to be when the fog rolls in that one feel less sure about what's what, and where's where. That night, not so many nights ago, was just such a night. Reyhenna had dragged us to the Pissing Goat of all places, only to abandon me there in the company of Sebrienne and Vic.

    Through the open window, soft wafts of fog drifted in, veiling the tables with a damp haze. And then, through that same window, a whirring gyrocopter came gently fluttering through. It landed on the table, leaving a small runestone, then departed the same way it came.

    I found the runestone an odd means of information - usually a note suffices and what's more, a note would not have any of the flash and eye-catching drama of what the stone soon revealed - then again, was this the point?

    Once active, the runestone projected a glowing face, difficult to ascertain, with hollowed out eyes that focus on nothing in particular, but forward.The face began to speak, slowly and with disinterest:

    "Agents of knowledge and curiosity, good evening. Be aware that you are in the vicinity of a supernatural occurence.The entity classified as 'the Unreal' is in the current establishment.

    Be aware, the effects of proximity upon memory and recollection.

    Be aware, the ability of 'the Unreal' to narrow these effects, and isolate them upon one individual.

    Be aware, the Unreal's ability to masquerade as those from your past, with slight variations, to cloak itself before sating its appetite.

    Recommendation action: lockdown of establishment and identification of the entity. . . . An agent has been dispatched, and will arrive in the shortest order."

    Every fiber of my being felt suddenly wide awake. The Unreal - that's what they call it, this bastard of a being who had the 'gall' to alter the details of Abelard's tale? Well, it will not get past me again!

    A fine stroke of luck in Vic being present - as a Cerulean, she could do just what was recommended and initiate a lockdown of the Pissing Goat. Not without grumbles and complaints from the small but vocal crowd within, but still. So long as we got through our enquiries fast, I wagered no one would protest so much as to break out. Though the word 'monster' and Sebrienne's easy affirmal of it did not help the mood any, we managed with Othugg's reluctant okay to set a functioning line of questioning up, one by one.

    The fog didn't help, but there were just about shy of ten patrons in the bar when the lockdown was initiated. First was Sorfilia Dalley from the Commerce district's marketplace, fairly familiar to us all and easily questioned. The loanshark, Jard Fetten, came next. Quite a sharp chap, he noted that as we 'hadn't' met before, he was unlikely to be our suspect. With a few brief questions, we moved on to the next one.

    Leonard Gortescho had but one eye and stated his occupation as mercenary for hire. While I could not place the man, I also couldn't shake the feeling that he was familiar somehow - a feeling I'd had about another man I for some reason didn't like, that so called Marquis. A sudden stir of excitement.

    I looked him over again. Wreathed in fog, but not enough to cover that grizzled, brick-faced tough guy look. Some of his short-shaved hair was graying. The look of a mercenary, sure, but... he'd look different if he was wearing something else. Shouldn't he be wearing something else?

    "You're pronouncing it incorrectly", said the man. "LeonARD, GortESCHO."

    "Shouldn't it be pronounced "Escieu?" whispered Vic. The man, apparantly keen of hearing, grinned a bit at the line of questioning.

    That grin. I ~know~ it's him, and that amusement tells me he knows, too. Is he really going to slip through my fingers again?

    Leonard Gortescho: "Sorry I have a knack for detective work. I find your line of questions amusing. Escieu ..."

    Does he ~want~ me to crack it? In the repeat, it comes to me: that brick-hard jaw, the one eye, the greying hair - Fortescieu! I whisper it urgently and he hears it, eyes widening.

    "About time..!" he cries, reaching for his axes with a flash in his eyes. He lunges and I, filled with an irresistable wave of anger and determination, step up to the front. In truth, in this company, I would always be the front but like this? Unprepared, unbespelled? Not my smartest move.

    The first clash is swift, but in his human guise's defeat, the Unreal sheds skins, revealing a dark, swirling mass of shifting flesh beneath. The Doppelganger recoils and hisses a reverberating, otherworldly cry, lunging at me with long, razor sharp claws.

    "Return the tale as it should be!", I cry, careless of the greater power of this form, now unveiled. A searing hit to my side and I can feel something draining from me. It's a disconcerting, dizzying sensation. My mind feels suddenly muddled and I begin to forget what I did today.

    "NO!" I cry. "No, you won't take my memories, I won't LET you!" But my arm feels faint and the fog swirls around us, disorienting, softly cushioning.

    Was this all a dream? Why was I in that pub, with the sticky, disgusting floor?

    Why...

    was the floor rising up to meet me suddenly...?

    ...and then I was beyond the veil. It's been a very long time - strangest thing is, now that the fog lifted I remembered, we were sharing tales of our first deaths, before this all began. How ironic.

    Yet, when someone joined me it was not Vic, nor Sebrienne, but still a familiar face. I hope he took my words to heart - I feel he did, though the bright light that envelopped me may simply have been the tether pulling my soul back into my body. I woke to moonlight and Vic's worried face hovering over me.

    The nearby Smiling Monkey representative, an unnamed senior I vaguely recall having met before stated dryly:

    "Mrs. Garibaldi. Congratulations. Your friends and yourself captured the doppelganger known as the Unreal. There's ... one more thing. Can you verify something for me? A book in your possession. Can you confirm its contents?"

    The book. Yes, of course, the creature's death should restore it, shouldn't it? Only.. didn't they say captured?

    "The entity doesn't only affect the mind, it takes physical measures, too", said the Smiling Monkey Official, who claimed to be the agent documenting that particular entity's escapades. "I would like to confirm whether that book is now back to normal."

    I checked, as soon as I could - the book is restored, Abelard's tale free of corruption and I feel I can breathe again. But there are still things I don't understand about the 'Unreal'. And I don't know that I'm at ease with the Smiling Monkey's official as he stated: "It will be kept in a secure containment facility."


  • "No word, as of yet, from Jurne's fortress where 'Dan's' rebels were to stir up a suitable diversion to allow Barton Cade to get in and out with a handful of prisoners. Realistically a handful, though my ever hopeful mind's eye painted the image of a full blown insurrection, spurred on by news of our victory, toppling Jurne and the dark legacy of the 'family exchange program' he and Geroldine created.

    Worrisomely, my Sending to Cade was left unanswered too. Was he too weak to take the challenge on? Did he get captured all over again or worse? I'd like to think he's enough of a professional to abandon a lost cause in time, but he's also a stickler when it comes to finishing a job. I have to hope that he's simply laying low, though I can't help but to feel a sense of growing dread with each day that passes without word."


  • "And just like that, it's over.

    The city and its people battered and bruised, but still standing, despite the odds. Victorious against the 'unbeatable' Zhentarim machine. There's cheering on the streets, spontaneous parades, drunken singing into the wee small hours of the night.

    I should be happy, shouldn't I? We took a stand for a free north, refusing to bow down to a bully. Refusing to deliver a broken champion into the hands of her arch enemy, nor her body to be paraded around the realm to show the world what becomes of those who choose to fight the tyrants. Regardless of any of our feelings towards Temperance, she was - and will now remain - a powerful symbol of light against darkness. All this is good and I would probably make the same choices all over again. But everything comes at a cost.

    Geroldine's downfall was, at the end of the long fight, a tragic scene in which I can find little reason to rejoice. All bullies are at their core cowards, and behind his cruelty, behind even the sputtering spite and blame that he spewed everywhere but at himself, Geroldine was quite simply terrified. Knowing full well that this same terror was what he inflicted with purpose unto so many others, my instinctive sympathy turned to a coiling, sickened knot in my gut.

    I didn't speak up when Rey presented the darksteel dagger. I'm not even sure that I regret it now, in hindsight - but I do wonder, with men like Geroldine, whether there's a point in their lives when real change is possible. I wonder, without the systematic tyranny framing his life, who Geroldine might've been. Would he always be the type to blame others for everything and build for himself a persona of superiority? I've known enough of his kind to suspect it might be so, but my hopeful side insists it's the people around you that can change everything.

    Fenwick's different - perhaps for the love of her child, but perhaps also for the person she once was, before being forced to become someone else in order to protect Loretta. Unlike Geroldine, in her I sensed an unspoken shame, an awareness that what she was doing was 'wrong'. Ava's redeemable, for that reason. But will she be given a chance? I can but hope, though the odds seem slimmer yet for our King's departure.

    The King, yes. Throughout his stay in this realm, I kept thinking he was a storybook king, a fictional creation with a dark inky shadow. I tried not to finish that thought, tried not to say it out loud, but the inky patch of living darkness that slithered free from Cormac in the Master's Quarters that time would, I was certain, be looking for a suitable 'host'. Someone desperate to be someone they're not. Out loud, I insisted it must be the Crown's influence, though the doubt kept nagging at me with every grand, every wise and bold action taken by our King Fisher. Too good to be true, whispered my insidious doubts.

    The truth, it turns out, had nothing to do with inky tendrils but everything to do with the Crown. Yet the desperate desire to change was at the heart of it - for Thalaman, desperately trying to become the King he wanted to be, the King a Peltarch at war needed him to be, put everything on the line in surrendering to the spirit of Tidus Fisher himself. I've no doubt that he knew the cost of such a possession. He, too, must have been so very afraid, of failing most of all. As Tidus' spirit left him, the crown split and fell of his head. His body seemed to shrink, become both old and too young at once. Since that moment, he's unconscious, a shrivelled shell of himself.

    A young squire from Moonreach witnessed it all - surely Caleb Fisher, though no such revelation was made. He ran away in apparant shock and what he'll make of it all is yet unknown.

    If anyone can restore Thalaman to health, it's Thaddeus. His life was saved by May Celine and the Moonreach forces, which I'll forever remember in gratitude, no matter what's to come.

    Not everyone made it through. Berlinne Toews died when our efforts were directed instead towards rescuing Adrian and his scouts from a persuing vampire shadowdancer. Tiberius of Helm lost his life in valiant protection of lady Alicia, and the Wealnor elves lost their leader as he broke his staff in a last ditch effort to save the rest. We had to make hard choices, throughout, with losses looming whichever way we leaned. I feel exhausted, still, the total tally too much to handle.

    But as endings go, there's a number of threads continuing in different directions. Though the Zhentarim seem to have gladly halted the Narfell campaign by writing Geroldine off as a 'rogue' officer, the Brotherhood of the Endless saw fit to interfere, attacking King Fisher. Ludwig Palehand knows many things about this group, or so he claimed in making the deal to save his phylactory from destruction by disobeying Geroldine's orders and enabling his final defeat. We can't be certain he isn't one of them himself - but I'd wager he isn't. And I'd wager saving Kasimir trumps destroying a lich, though Aoth's eye will be twitching with the itch."


  • "My friend 'Dan' confirmed the intelligence gathered thus far about the army marching through the Giantspires, but one-upped the Far Scouts by including a map to their current camp and a tip-off regarding an upcoming meeting between Ludwig Palehand and someone else in a high position. He also confirmed that the black dragon's injuries forced it to retreat after having inflicted heavy casualties.

    Restless with waiting, I decided on a clandestine scouting mission of my own, bundled up in my stealthiest leathers plus furs. The Giantspires were cold and foreboding, draped in ice and snow and a relentless wind assailed the mountain ridge I made my way along, surveying the camp below. Night was setting in and a great number of fires lit up the camp, soldiers, mages and wyverns visible in the flickering light - but curiously, as I looked closer, I found that the encampment had a second portion, of at least equal size, without a single fire.

    Figures moved in the darkness, glimpses of Zhentarim armour caught here and there - though as I maneuvred closer and angled my audio amplifier that way, no human voices could be heard. Just shuffling movement and a cold, unsettling, unnatural set of whispers and groans.

    Eavesdropping on the guards alongside the wooden palisade separating the two camps confirmed it - Palehand's 'vanguard' is quite undead, and if the size of the camps is anything to go by, actually comprises the majority of the army on the march. At least half, if not two thirds of this force are walking dead - though clearly at a distance they must appear indistinguishable from living soldiers as no reports as of yet have mentioned it.

    I shuddered to myself, quick to abandon any notions of a closer search of the darkened portions of the Zhentarim camp. Even if the zombies hadnt spotted me there, I didn't fancy my chances if even a single one of them was incorporeal. Besides, my night vision's definitely not anywhere near as good as Roslyn's.

    Instead, I spied the largest tent in the lit up section of the camp - black canvas stretched up over a wooden palisade, with ten mages and some twenty-five guards at the front. A thin stream of smoke rose from a slit in the top of the tent, and for a fleeting moment I contemplated a topside approach. Eventually my eyes made out a roughly trampled path around the tent, the back of which seemed quite unguarded and free of torchlight. I carefully maneuvred around, finding myself alone in the dark, the tent looming before me. The canvas was thick and black, without any form of slit or opening.

    I thought I could hear indistinct murmurs from within and tried to carefully tune my audio amplifier to listen in - but in the cold, the darn thing went on the fritz, emitting a crackling, high pitched whine. I quickly turned it off, but the damage was done - a guard's voice came from around the corner of the tent, instantly alerted. "What was that sound?" he said, talking to another nearby guard.

    "Kraaa!" I went, trying to throw my voice in imitating a crow, but my throat restricted with panic and the sound came out strangled and strange. "What the... is that some kind of demented bird?" asked guard two. "I'll go look" said guard one, who was closer than I'd anticipated because while I frantically searched for a hiding place, he'd already rounded the corner. The flickering torchlight lit up his startled face and mine, in a moment that seemed to be frozen in time. The guard's mouth was half-open, about to call out.

    In that moment, a thousand conflicting ideas all rose to the surface of my mind, roiling around and battling for supremacy. But spellcasting might be noticed, and any sounds made would too...! I was about to strum Draegoth's harp anyway to freeze the man in his track, but ten mages Isolde? 25 guards, let alone Ludwig Palehand himself, likely no further away than past the thick canvas of the tent...

    I spent what seemed an eternity frozen in that semi-second of indecision, staring into the eyes of the Zhentarim soldier. And then I grabbed a handful of snow, pelting him right in the mouth before he could shout! He spluttered and fell to his knees, but immediately began to get back up, spitting out snow. So I swallowed down my dread and struck the most eye-catching pose I could muster, my trusty Beeble earring doing its trick - and the guard boggled, falling to his knees 'again'.

    Though it goes against all my principles, needs musts when surrounded by an overwhelming foe. And so I read a scroll of Silence as quickly as I could, while the guard collected his wits. He opened his mouth to scream, looked perplexed as no sound came out - and before he managed to rise completely, I lunged to clock him across the temple with the edge of my shield. It was an all in, heart in my throat type of thing, but somehow it worked - less through force than simply speed and surprise.

    My legs buckled underneath me, but no rustle of movement beyond the tent followed, no alarms sounded. I buried the soldier in snow, hoping his friend wouldn't come looking, but of ~course~ he did. I tried to throw my voice to sound the all clear, but frustratingly I was still silenced - and dispelling wasn't an option with enemy mages so near.

    Plan B then - I activated my cloak and took the guard's image, then pretended to take a leak. But the damned guard two saw fit to ~join~ me! I froze, but he began to chummily chat whilst politely turning his eyes skywards. In hindsight, the silence must've ~just~ worn off as he approached, but right then and there, all I could think of was how to shove his face in the yellow snow, real fast, if he caught on.

    But it seems he thought his guard collegue a little bladder shy, apologizing for the intrusion and patting my rigid shoulder as he withdrew. Phew!!!

    Finally I had a moment's liberty to work. I breathed into the audio amplifier, warming it with my bare hands as best I could to prevent another disconcerting sound - then held my breath and activated the magic, pressing it gently against the canvas. Voices from beyond came through, one male and one female. Hers was sweet and filled with confident charm at first, the male voice more like a chill wind, distant and whispery.

    FV: "...suffered many losses in this unprofitable campaign."
    MV: "I won't be trounced by some backwaters northmen."
    FV: "...it's because Col. Geroldine has your phylactory, isn't it? You could have a cushy campaign in the West instead.."
    MV: ". . ."

    There was silence, then. The sort of silence that's fraught with meaning, a terrible and dreadful meaning. I could sense it, through the canvas of the tent. The air turned frigid and still, my breath misting and my teeth starting to clatter, forcing my jaws to tense to stifle the sound.

    I heard the female voice stutter, then laugh - a shrill and joyless sound, soon turned to sobs and pleading, begging him to stop. Apologizing without a shred of her former confidence, then gasping raggedly in obvious relief as Palehand relented.

    "...go back to your Ravenhead" he said cooly, dismissing the emissary.

    I caught a glimpse of a tall, striking woman with green hair as she left, though of Ludwig Palehand, not so much as a peep. Chilled to the bone and filled with the distinct urge to get very far away, very fast, I made my retreat back up the mountain's ridge, off into the snow and once far enough away not to cause alarm, teleported back to the city.

    Now if there's one thing really worth asking the crystallich, it's where that phylactory is. Without it, our odds will no doubt drop significantly as Palehand could return time and again, raising any soldiers who perished as undead."


  • "Note to self: try to locate the remaining audio amplifiers (minus my own rod). Roslyn should have one, Rey probably does too yet I suspect it's buried under a mountain of other geegaws in her vast gadget hoard. These might be utilized in several ways - either to simply enhance regular bardsong to an army scale, or, potentially, as triggers for avalanches of snow. Depending, of course, on the terrain and proximity to our own and allied forces. If we fail to find them, the mithral rod can still be useful to maximize my song - arguably the strongest contribution I can offer to this kind of fight."


  • "Porttown's been liberated with minimal to no losses on our side, while the Dreadfleet and the army on the march are bogged down in the snow and ice, the natural winter weather augmented in no small degree by the hands of druids and wings of a certain blue.

    Geroldine appears forced to hunker down and wait, with choice missives intercepted suggesting internal criticism is rising. More and more voices are lifted to the notion of withdrawal, though his known obsession with Gulderhorn's champion seems to make that unlikely even to the other officers.

    The stage is set and all that remains now is to wait. Somehow that part never gets easier. Already I'm second- and thirdguessing myself and our plans, balking at the numbers, queasy at the realization that as ever, those 'numbers' are each a life, a story connected to many others. I tell myself that if it wasn't here, the likes of Geroldine would still find plenty of ways to snuff out those lives and others with them. Worse, he'd trample and wither the will to dream and to hope for better things. This is true - but the scale of the conflict ahead still daunts me.

    300 additional soldiers should be a boon, right? But they're Thayans and less than well liked with our other allies. Posting them at the Witch and Seer is a plan pending Jonni's approval, and with the sort of gadgets and geegaws he possesses there, he might not be that keen on a foreign army of a known collector of rarities being parked outside. Still, Horgrim and the others there will be vigilant and secrecy no doubt tight. We'll see what Jonni thinks - the advantages of being a Seer, especially one with access to that particular borrowed scryball, are plentiful.

    There's a thousand questions I might ask that crystallich. But best keep it to the bare necessities for what lies ahead - each moment spent near it seems like standing naked before an unappreciating crowd of judgemental scholars, which admittedly rather helps against the temptation of using it more. A select query about the Thayans and on Geroldine's plans should do the trick, however."


  • "I can't believe that worked! I feel like doing a ~very~ smug victory jiggle, but away from prying eyes because there's clearly a good deal of distrust about the particulars of Loretta's rescue. But to me, it was an astounding success and an eye-opener at that! Because, if I harboured a certain degree of doubt before, I'm now convinced that the red velvet hallway, lined with tempting doors, is indeed my own doing. My subconscious clearly just decided to spruce up the old empty void behind the stage, into something more properly bardic! It reminded me so of the Red Kermis backstage area at first - this, coupled with my being shunted so abruptly out of it, time and again, had me in some doubt.

    Yet each time I woke from what could be interpreted as a dream, I found my vision half obscured by my own hair, draping my vision in red. Red, billowing velvet curtains, flowing crimson strands - if I was perhaps a 'mite' apprehensive about the similarities to Vanity and the Red Lady before, I'm less so now. If 'Behind the stage' is my own mind's domains, it makes sense that I should dress it up just so!

    As for my earlier failures, the rude awakenings and the recurring dizzying 'inch to the left' sensation (which I loosely attributed to MBH), it turns out the one responsible isn't the Red Kermis on that count either. It's Motley Grey, who appeared past several of my doorways, in each preaching some version of the same mantra: we shouldn't be trusted or even associated with at arm's length, for the risk of corruptive influence. I suspect she believes our former ties to the Far Realm entities are far from severed and that Danson's either too soft or too fascinated to put a stop to it. Most likely she's allied herself or struck a deal with the Planes Militant, because in her hand she held a device which she toggled as I peered through the door - and I felt that same abrupt shift to the left, followed by a sickening headache that very nearly caused me to black out.

    I feel like she's done this before, many times. Has she even tried that thing she did to May Celine on me? After a failed atttempt at swaying Celine from persuing our agreed upon course in the Giantspires, Motley Grey pressed a scroll to her forehead and then made her escape. I'm guessing the result was some manner of memory loss or tailoring of specific memories, because while groggy, May Celine soon came to afterwards. Later, visiting Moonreach to speak with Caleb, we learnt that Motley Grey was already cast out from the Council and on the run. But if the attack was not to safeguard her place in Caleb's good graces, what was it for?

    Rey thinks the device Motley possesses let's her detect and counter Signing. I think there's a difference between Signing and the various entities who seem drawn to Signers, but I can't deny it seemed as though Motley knew or felt somehow that she was observed. The question of before remains, it seems: is it Moonreach's doing that 'something's very wrong here' as everyone and sundry keeps putting it, or is it tied to our own actions?

    Also, having proven that I ~can~ Sign in this manner with a purposeful wish, can I also choose not to Sign, as Rey clearly wants me to? The last couple of times before this, I feel as though it happened for little other reason than that my mind was wandering, distracted as I often am by this puzzle or that. If it turns out that Signing has side-effects that really are harmful, I should stop, right? But how can I, when each time I'm pondering a mystery I find myself back there again? I can't stop being me.

    Instead, let's hope Motley Grey's simply wrong - that she knows enough to draw certain conclusions, but not enough to see the full of it. Perhaps, like Laurent Dupont back in the day, she's letting fear dictate her actions and it's leading her to a series of faulty, desperate decisions? It's also possible Rey is right, and Motley's game is anything but well intended, and that she's working for an employer as yet unseen. She ~did~ always seem so very fascinated by Cormac, which gives me an uneasy feeling as to the workings of our old enemy.

    Thalaman's transformation isn't something we can afford to stop and question, at this point in time. But it continues to grate at me and many others. Caleb's convinced that 'King Fisher' is no longer his brother and I'd be lying if I said his words didn't have a ring of truth to them. But it pains me too much to deal with now - we have the Zhentarim to deal with and if we fail there, the rest is a moot point."


  • A pencil drawing of a child with dark hair, dark eyes and pale skin tops the first page of this entry, the name Loretta Fenwick delicately added in cursive at the bottom left. The girl's expression is forlorn and her young shoulders hunched as though she's trying to fold in on herself, taking whatever cover she can manage in the corner of a sparsely decorated, stone-bricked room.

    "Loretta Fenwick is being held at a Zhentarim outpost, West of Zhentil Keep, north of Teshwave. She's no longer under Jurne, but pre-emptively moved to an officer called Windsam's watch and even replaced with a lookalike girl at Jurne's. The ever paranoid Geroldine suspected Fenwick had made plans free her daughter, when I'd barely just set them in action myself. I should revise Barton Cade's mission, both for his own safety and for that of the girl. But what of the other children, if I do?

    Can I ask more of Dan and his friends? Do I have the time, resources and capabilities to go myself?

    The crystalich who provided Loretta's details saw fit to question my motives, calling me desperate. Calling my ambition vanity. That last part stung.

    I recall with chilling clarity when Vanity overtook me. I remember the insiduous, slow and slippery slide from dream to waking thought, the tilt of perception. Most of all I remember my ambition warped, from the desire to make things right to the slowly growing notion that I was the only one who could make it so. And finally, that everything ~would~ be alright, if everyone just did as I told them. In fact, if the entire world was reworked to my liking, wouldn't it all be so very beautiful?

    I still want to make the world beautiful. I still want to set things right, to mend what's broken, give solace and hope where there's suffering and despair. And also simply turn a frown upside down, in the smallest way. My ambition is earnest, it's heartfelt and sits at the core of me. I refuse to call it vanity. But believing I alone can change things is, or that all things can be changed. Though honestly, haven't I always chafed at the notion of inevitability or impossibility? This dogged refusal of mine to give anything up as lost cuts both ways.

    I can't give Loretta up as lost. I can't, I won't. I keep reminding myself of the reasons this conflict sparked, the good reasons we had to not back down, but right now I'm just barely keeping my nose above the surface of all the blood, the violence, the dread and the sense of loss even when we're winning. I know full well I can't save ~everyone~, but is it really so vain, so naive and foolish to think I can help save one, two or three? A handful of stars to light the way for the lost and downtrodden.

    I need to feel like we're making something, anything ~better~ and I admit, I freely admit I'm imagining opening a door right to her and to those handful of children whose faces and names I now know. Just in and out behind the stage, with none the wiser. I've done it before, haven't I? Somehow. Just never when I actively tried.

    It's all kinds of annoying to be told people saw me in several places at the same time, when that's precisely what I'd love to make happen now that time's running out with such alarming speed, but failing at. I can't stop myself worrying about those I sent into harm's way either, including the dragon (who would surely swallow me whole if I ever uttered such a preposterous sentiment). For now, I'll try to simply trust that they each know what they're doing. But I will still need to arrange a Sending for Cade to update his intel. Maybe, just maybe he can coordinate with Dan's lot to do something at Jurne's outpost while he heads to Windsam himself."


  • "I've been determined to leave whatever's happening behind Moonreach's veiled walls til ~after~ the Zhentarim conflict is over, but of late I find myself uneasy. Barton Cade's obvious distress in recalling the creature in the ice, his insistance that something's very wrong here, echoed and amplified by reports from around Narfell of strange dreams and unexplicable sightings - of us, of creatures plucked from nightmares and beyond the pale. Is Moonreach's tallest tower a beacon, calling these too familiar, unfathomable creatures close to the cusp of our realm once again, or, perish the thought but let no stone be left unturned, is it somehow our own doing?

    For my part, I never went so far as to ask Beeble to invade the dreams of our enemies, but the nightmares seem to spread if recent reports are anything to go by. Sometimes it does appear that my moods and desires have a way of manifesting. Mostly in small, cheerful ways though. Surely only in small ways? Signing never does seem to work when I think about it, but what am I ~really~ doing when I don't?

    Why can't I remember sketching any of the drawings in the book of doors, despite the hand being clearly my own?"


  • "Barton Cade, marked by his recent captivity not only in body but it seems in spirit, nonetheless agreed to infiltrate Jurne's stronghold in an attempt at liberating select family members of Geroldine's officers. As time was of the essence and Jonni occupied elsewhere, I opted simply for the names that we know, four in total. 7-0-3:s two boys, Samson Farlow and Core Lt Fenwick's daughter. A bitter Cade refused to broaden the scope of his operation, and the former sense of camraderie I'd felt from the man, even while we were on opposing sides, seemed to have withered away with the cruelty of his interrogation whilst in Zhentarim hands.

    I can't blame him for wanting to run about a thousand miles in the opposite direction and he likely would have, but for George's insightful mention of Henry Cade. The Siamorphan knight could scarcely be more different than our Doctor Sleep, yet it seems they're cousins and that Barton Cade, despite his dejected stance on nearly everything else, still wants to see Henry's life preserved. I'll do all I can to keep Ser Henry alive, while crossing all fingers and toes for his cousin's success in the belly of the Zhentarim beast. 'Dan' and his friends stand by to wreak havoc outside Jurne's encampment, which will increase the odds significantly. I can't help but to hope a wide-spread prison break will follow, but even just one is better than none. I trust Barton Cade to know his limits as a professional, though as ever I cannot help but to hope he'll see some of his own suffering in all those inprisoned and take pity.

    Things are moving at a pace now, but with Geroldine on defence, it's evident that Temperance's experiences of before remain valid - he's much more stronger on the offence, predicting and dictating the battlefield. Now that he's stuck waiting, our plan to retake Cloudhaven with our newly arrived elven allies coupled with the Tuigans proved a resounding success. Rey's keen military mind picked the right target of strategic importance, Aoth's persistant diplomatic efforts found us extremely able allies (that arcane ballista, wow) and Cormac's Tuigans once again cut like a scythe through the Zhentarim lines. This is not to diminish the rest of our contributions, but credit where credit's due, dear detective journal.

    We're in a good position to strike the armada next, and also the ever elusive Hive, who I strongly suspect is making many preparations for the army's march through the Giantspires. Preparations best halted abruptly.

    Finally, while I tried to force down a meal at the Witch and Seer, with the stench of blood and death still clinging to my hair, my skin and my clothing, we encountered Temperance of Gulderhorn's trio of friends once more. It seems Temperance had left specific instructions for her burial, which they wished to carry out. We'll forward this to the Siamorphans in the city - I can't see anyone objecting about anything but the timing. Geroldine still demands her body, making a burial attempt subject to intervention by the Zhentarim.

    There will be closure on many counts though, and soon. I continue to cling to what glimpses of light I can find in the midst of this darkening storm."


  • On a lonesome moonlit walk, amidst the western woods, I chanced upon a clandestine conversation between Motley Grey and May Celine, suggesting all is not roses in camp Moonreach:

    Motley Grey: Glances around as she hears a cracked piece of branch What was that?

    May Celine: Glances around as well

    May Celine: . . . perhaps an animal. Are we finished here, then?

    Motley Grey: So long as you remember to mind your place when it comes to your station at the Keep.

    May Celine: I find your jealousy amusing, Missus Grey, particularly considering your reputation for skullduggery and deception. How long will it be until it's revealed you have deceived even your dear friend, Caleb's mother?

    Motley Grey: The point is to avoid, curtail, and diminish the influence of dangerous, otherworldly forces, May Celine. Your little cult of the Moon has its own repute for falsehood. Or are you unaware?

    May Celine: You mean the rumors spread by the Princess Elizabeth and her ilk? Against what, the credibility and legitimacy of the Celestial Sphere, Silvery Selune, our Guiding Moonlight? You mean to rely on adversary propaganda. Don't make me laugh. The weight and benevolance of our Lady Selune, the Moon, is undeniable. Much unlike your own repute.

    Motley Grey: Twists her mouth and clenches her jaw. This isn't over, Priestess.

    May Celine: Your questions against my Goddess are indeed finished, Motley Grey. Do not waste my time with them further.

    Motley Grey: Watches her depart, grimacing


  • "My wandering dark-haired bardic friend brought word, unexpectedly, that Barton Cade's been captured by the Zhentarim. It seems he was tailing them closely, and that despite his claims otherwise at the frozen caverns where the Beast in the Ice slowly slumbers, he remains 'loyal' to Moonreach Keep. Although by the word loyal, I imagine he is loyal to his original contract rather than a believer of any cause.

    All the same, I intend to rescue Cade, despite Rey's lukewarm respons to the news. I've got a mission in mind for him in times to come, and besides which, I rather like the man as a fellow professional. So while I'll of course try to sway the rest to join in, I'm perfectly willing to stage the rescue myself too, in a more clandestine fashion. They caught Cade, which is bit alarming for any stealth-reliant agent of chaos, but I daresay I have a few tricks he does not. Ideally with Roslyn for backup.

    That same evening, a spellcrystal was delivered to Rey, a shaky, seemingly hidden recording of a meeting between Quartermaster Hive and Caleb Fisher. The former was attempting to sway the latter to join hands, promising to put Caleb on the throne on favourable terms. But the buzzing creep was firmly rebuffed - I must say Caleb seems more impressive on home soil, though consistant in character to my previous impressions of him.

    Who recorded it and why it was sent to Reyhenna directly is as yet unknown. I'm hoping it was Asha's doing, though she may not be trusted with access to those kinds of meetings just yet. Nor, if Bennek Sepret's example is anything to go by, is the pirate.

    Moonreach can't be the only stop on Hive's tour, though. It seems likely the Zhentarim march through the Giantspires has been planned out in orderly fashion with regards to the locals, striking deals where possible. Jonni's no doubt got his work cut out for him in the days to come."


  • "The plans have been laid, for both the 3000 and the Dreadfleet. Taking a lesson from Geroldine's playbook, we'll launch the first part of the former at the same time as the latter. The rough draft is decided, and what remains is fine tuning and as much preparation as we can possibly muster in the few days remaining.

    12 barrels of flux acid are obtained, our Underdark raid successful thanks to Jonni's precise scrying. It was another close, gritty, painful and dirty fight, though. I worry, as I always do times like these, that I'll become irreparably jaded. And I tell myself that once the moment's passed, I'll shed the hardened skin I had to don to endure it.

    Towards the end of the fight, once it became clear we were going to come out on top, I urged the remaining soldiers to surrender. None did - one even began to hack away at the flux with a manic gleam in his eyes. After witnessing what they do to deserters, and knowing full well the evils of the family swap programs, I shouldn't be surprised. We ended up killing everyone save Laywell, including the near three hundred waiting below the mining shaft as they clamored to get up.

    Numbers-wise, it's a great result. We also obtained the barrels themselves and our intended scapegoat for Geroldine's ill graces, Laywell. It's just that when you start thinking of those numbers as individual people, each with their own story, friends, family and dreams, the satisfaction of the win turns sour in your mouth.

    I tell myself there's greater things at stake here, and I know that's true too - victory here will give hope to untold others that resisting the Zhentarim is possible, even for what most consider a backwater part of the frozen North. That is worth the bitter taste of acid that seems to flavour everything in this conflict - it has to be. If we can even come out on top, all the better to this end.

    I long to actually save someone in the midst of all this death, though. Even just one, even just Samson Farlow would feel so very good! Is it possible to plan such a strike immediately following the big show-down, thus also ensuring Geroldine's reign is ended for good, regardless of whether or not he hides from the field of battle?"


  • "The black dragon is a card that's soon to expire, if we mean to keep it out of the blue's way as would be ideal. Perhaps I undersold it's daunting qualities in the chaos of that meeting, with ideas thrown out left and right. The dragon is both ancient, cunning and possessing of a powerful grudge against its former captors. Out of the handful Karrick, I and our small team liberated from their skykeep all those years ago, it is the largest and the most fearsome. It ~will~ decimate their numbers, though I'm still not certain to what extent it can be expected to risk its own hide. I am, however, convinced that no matter how resentful it was at the ask, the desire for payback was always there. Otherwise, wouldn't it just have eaten me or, like the others, ignored my plea?

    The time to move on it is now. I should visit the war room promptly."


  • "The war rages on, with progress and glimpses of hope, alongside setbacks and renewed moments of despair. I brush the latter aside as we all must, as regret and what-ifs do not serve us well except for whatever lessons we take from them. For the army on the march, the three thousand, an abundance of plans circulate and my mind's spinning with it all.

    The plan I feel the strongest for remains the same: to strike at their western region, under Commander Jurne. Springing Samson Farlow and whoever else we can from the so called family-swap arrangement is doable, I truly believe so, especially with Jonni's newly aquired edge in intelligence. Strategically we should focus on family members of officers close to Geroldine, but I'd be lying if I said 703:s family wasn't also on my mind.

    Crumbling Geroldine's supporting cast from under his feet is a sound plan, though not the only one we must forge. To that end, I wonder if Barton Cade's services could be aquired. His skillset's well suited for such clandestine missions, but I'd like to partake myself if time allows. My main idea is to use the insurrections already planned to create enough chaos that we could make our way in posing as the classic Zhentarim officer with prisoners in tow. And from there, bust out the actual prisoners and the family members we seek. With the intel Jonni's orb can provide, we wouldnt be going in blind.

    As for the black dragon, harrying the army on the march up until the Giantspires seems a plan to me. Three thousand soldiers is a daunting number, though. My mind boggles at that much death, even if we should come out on top."


  • "Thaddeus is up on his feet again, awake and with returning clarity and vigour!!! While neither he nor the Zhentarim captive could properly make sense of what happened in that basement, I'll choose to interpret it as a cosmic form of justice. A heartfelt amends, a righting of wrongs which may have cost Temperance her life but also returned her immortal soul to Siamorphe's light. Anyone who protects my loved ones with such fierceness despite impossible odds is worthy of all kinds of grace.

    While endings always fill me with melancholy, this is the best kind of end I can imagine for her. Going out in grace, in a blaze of glory. Geroldine can ~never~ defeat her now.

    Thaddeus was saddened at the news of all that transpired in his absence, but also filled with determination. He spoke of his dreams in that strangely slumbering state; of the desolace and family dinners at the Fisher estate when Thalaman was little. He dreamed of City Hall, of Reyhenna stomping through the place on boisterous baby feet. Of Damian's warm smile at a humble farm, long before Thaddeus knew him.

    If doubt in Kordamant's secret was the cause of his malady, doubt in the words spoken that night in the College's lounge - then I declare his own words and actions part of the cure. For Isaac Thaddeus' warmth and strength of character, gentle though it seems, has touched all our hearts in turn. If the right choices were made in his absence, it's because he taught us so.

    It is ~so~, so good to have him back.

    I'm beginning to feel real hope again. Hope that we can not only survive this by the skin of our teeth, but actually, truly win. The talk with the Zhentarim prisoner added to that surge, opening up new avenues to persue. It still won't be easy. But I think, no, I know we can get through this to still find light at the end of the tunnel."


  • This page bears scattered notes, seemingly jotted down without a particular order or polish:

    "Sahuagin, sea elves and pspspspsting at giant sea monsters (strike Dreadfleet from below possible?)

    Temperance of Gulderhorn - if news of her death become public, would it change anything? My guess is that Geroldine would just demand her body instead, to parade around grotesquely. If news spreads, make sure it spreads with full and amplified disclosure of Siamorphe's intervention. People need hope and while I'm too spent to yet put this into song, it's fodder to inspire many. He'd really hate that she got one over on him even with her final breath, too. Also: make sure her friends know first, whatever else is decided.

    Grovelling at Ostromog's court for guerilla warfare in the Rawlins?

    Visit Moonreach while still an ally? The Moon might let us glimpse matters of importance to the Zhentarim conflict, but is it too big of an ask? Might need to go alone. Plan B: Silvia's pool in Deepwood.

    Is it time to start raising hell in Zhentarim holdings?"


  • "I'm too tired to gather my thoughts, yet here I find myself regardless, pouring them onto the page in some vain hope that the very process of writing will make the world sane again. I find myself tossing and turning between regret and resolve, sorrow and a rage running cold instead of hot, ever present past a heavy blanket of fatigue.

    Cerulean 3rs Star Reeving's name had already come up in previous speculations of a leak. I brushed it aside, because we had no tangible reason to suspect him. Besides, his teleportation at the end of the last mission had definitely saved our lives. Even so, I hesitated to confide Adrian's whispered message to the others in his presence, because that uneasy feeling lingered. It's strange, thinking back, that I had no qualms about the rest of it. Even Reeving's advice to spell up 'later' raised no alarm flags, because that had been his advice the previous time as well.

    This time, we landed straight in the proverbial witch's cauldron, a hail of arrows and spells raining down from above and a magic dampener at our feet, disabling any attempt to flee. It was a harrowing fight, but one we managed together as we so often do, even if by the skin of our teeth. The frantic scramble, the mad cackle of Flux and my very real terror of melting away in acid was still, for the most part, par for the course of wild geese in flight. Thankfully it appeared that my fly on the wall purposefully neglected to send reinforcements in time, though whether Geroldine will catch on to that fact or not is unclear. And, like Reeving, it could simply mean that we're allowed a small win to ensure we'll trust them next time around. Nothing in this game is a given.

    Aoth's call for immediate retreat went unheeded, as we scrambled out of immediate harm's way and stared up at the factory walls. I keep thinking back to that moment, hearing her words hang in the air, considering their merit all too briefly. If we'd Recalled then and there, countless lives might have been saved. Yet the acid factory is in ruins, Flux is slain and I must give Cormac some credit, insisting that this is a win, insisting I take it when all I could see was ruin.

    There were just 'so' many dead. A mere five of their elite task force took out all of City Hall in our absence, after Reeving dismantled the anchor to open a portal. Defenceless clerks and logistic officers, cut down without remorse. The injured and bedridden, slain in their cots, alongside the few guards and soldiers left on watch as Geroldine's three pronged attack had stretched our forces thin. The throne room, littered with bodies, shrouded in a haze of soot and acid from the vat left there to explode.

    The door down to the Defender barracks, where most of the injured and fleeing had gathered, was welded shut. The air felt thick with the residue of the magic that had been unleashed. But by the time we arrived there was only silence. Only stillness as I anxiously darted in and out of the Ethereal, hoping to catch a glimpse of events unfolding. It was chillingly evident that we were, once again, too late.

    Rey, George and Cormac pried the door off its hinges with collective might and a flood of warm, white and golden light spilled out. Something about it felt familiar. I saw Rey's shoulders drop as some of the tension seeped out of her, but I still couldn't shake the despair that had sunk its talons so deep into me. My feet felt like lead, forcibly moved from one step to the next, my eyes unwilling to focus on the scene that opened up downstairs.

    They were all dead. All of them, the light's serenity jarring in contrast, almost a mockery to the pools of blood and the empty eyes of the fallen. Despite the sick twist to my gut, the quietness of the room felt entirely different than the tainted haze of the throne room. This was the stillness you find at the aftermath of a divine occurrance, though it utterly failed to soothe me. Was Thaddeus the cause of it, his last heroic stand before he perished? He'd been moved down here, along with the rest in need of shelter.

    Yet as my eyes adjusted, I couldn't see him anywhere. Instead, surprisingly, three Zhentarim-clad bodies, slumped like broken dolls around a single cot. A spear had been brutally driven into the chest of the woman who lay upon it, painting a heart of deepest red against the white-golden radiance emanating from the body of Temperance of Gulderhorn. A half-finished letter on the floor beside her, edges soaked in blood.

    And sheltered behind her cot lay Isaac Thaddeus - still and pale, but breathing, miraculously untouched by blade or bow. Temperance's last words were meant for him. A form of confession, perhaps even an apology. For all her faults, Siamorphe's grace returned at the end, in the defence of a man important to not only us but clearly to Temperance herself. That he'd already forgiven her seemed only salt in her wounds when I told her. But in saving Thaddeus, I believe she salvaged all the rightful virtues of the godess she spent her lifetime serving. It feels a fitting end, though I still struggle to think of it as a 'win'.

    A survivor from the Zhentarim strike-team was found three steps into the General's office, wide-eyed and babbling inaudibly. The fifth, a bard, is still at large. Hiding somewhere in the city, it is believed. Better make sure the College isn't the where.

    Summing up, the Witch and Seer held fast, as did Cloudhaven. And though Porttown was abandoned, Adrian and his friends have managed to evacuate many of the citizenship, quite against Gom's orders. I'm thankful, though not thankful enough not to tease him about becoming a hero. Someday far from this day, when we can all look back at this from around a cozy fireplace, goblets in hand and safe within our deep, comfy armchairs.

    Right now, looking into the how and the why of Reeving's betrayal feels key. Reforging the naval plans is also a must, as he overheard far too much to risk the cavalry on icescapade. Though I wonder if he purposefully kept from selling Adrian's rescue mission out or merely deemed it less important? These types of questions, alongside a search for the errant dirgesinger, are all that my weary head can muster right now.

    The armies still on the march will wait for no one, but for today I'm spent. Am I any the wiser for writing? I don't know, but anything that keeps my thoughts from free-fall feels a comfort. Time to try that sleep thing again."


  • "It was mostly a joke when I told the cynical Far Scout that the reason D'Cameron was still alive was her heaving bosum. Turns out I was kind of right, though to no particular satisfaction given the haunted look on her face after rescue. Quartermaster Hive considered Norwick's long-term Herald his 'toy' and I for one cannot find it in me to regret that we sprang the rescue sooner rather than later. Hive's true puppeteer may yet elude us, but I wouldn't have wanted to leave D'Cameron exposed to that horrendous creature for one minute longer than necessary.

    We struck hard and fast, just as her cage was readied for transport off the Norwick docks. From under the cover of invisibility, Perom took the ship's mage out with a single shot fired from their own ballista and from then on, it was a chaotic scramble to stay alive and get D'Cameron out before their reinforcements arrived at the scene. Looking back, it was a matter of mere minutes, but thickly laden with dramatic near-deaths, surprising maneuvres such as mud wrestling and gnome flinging (he flung himself, I swear), as well as three consequitive dispersals of Hive's atrocious cloudy filling.

    We not only succeeded, but managed to wreak acidic hell on the hundreds of troupes that came pouring in from Norwick proper. Their own vats of acid used against them should feel like poetic justice, right? And I'll admit, in the moment it felt grimly satisfying, somewhere past the acute fear of being caught up in the same blast ourselves. But afterwards, in particular looking over my own words in the previous entry, I find myself reflecting on how Trusho's view on the world certainly has rhyme, reason and an insidious appeal, times like these. If those hundreds of men and women weren't 'real', it all be much easier to stomach, even enjoy. We're already treating them like they're all "The Zhentarim", faceless pieces of the enemy machine, despite knowing it's a lie. I guess it's a lie we need to tell ourselves in the face of conflict - in the face of a conflict I myself deemed necessary.

    I mustn't falter now. Even if I went to the rendez-vous with the would-be informant, even if I believe that taking the risk of trusting their word is worth it for the possibility to return peace to us sooner. It started with demands from their side, but at my reluctance the offer came regardless. This suggests truthfulness to me about certain officers being dissatisfied with Geroldine and at the accusations of his interests here being personal. I find myself wondering if even Bennek and the dragon were an excuse, or at least the lesser target, the threat he'd not have bothered following through on. If we'd put our foot down the first time, would it still have come to this? If it was all about Temperance, likely so.

    All the same, can I really trust my fly on the wall? The very word 'fly' has me cringing and thinking only of Hive, but the real rub is that it's the broker of our meeting that I'd have to trust. His judgement and untold negotiations beforehand is what lead to this encounter, and it's clear to me that my 'fly' had already made their mind up. I'll listen well, but when the time comes to act, what will we do?

    Thaddeus wouldn't want this sort of colluding with the enemy. Past my normal concerns of entrapments, I think that's what worries me the most. I feel as though his life hangs in some precarious balance, the strands of which I can not yet see, but my heart tells me to act in ways that would make him proud. That the right choices will somehow see his energy returned, but the longer this bedridden state continues, the more I worry. I worry over that inky patch of loathesome manipulation, slithering out of Cormac but off to who knows where. Into who knows who.

    I tell myself the Ringleader's too weak to continue to hurt us, but even so I recognized his voice and know his tricks. He'll seek out others who feel weak, who feel like they're drowning, and in "helping" he'll attempt to make puppets of them. Thalaman is wearing the crown though. Surely his confidence is the crown's effect, not that he made a foolish pact with that runaway patch of inky flesh?"


  • "War

    Now that it's here, I'm abruptly and viciously reminded of all the reasons I abhor it, including the cruel insight that struck my heart at the end of that first bitter day: those we fight are victims too. The real enemy is the systematic tyranny of the Zhentarim organization; it's ideology, practices and beliefs. ~That~ is easy to hate, but seeing fear and suffering in the eyes of the person you've struck down? No. That part is as unpalatable and painful to me as it ever was. Especially coupled with the realization that the individuals we face may have precious little choice in being cogs of that abominable machine.

    I tried not to look at that family portrait, blood-stained from Seven-Oh-Three's mortal wounds. His last words, that sudden plea cut short. I didn't want to hear it, didn't want to see him or any of them as human, but that isn't a lie I can tell myself for very long. As much as I need my anger to fuel my fighting spirit, I also need, absolutely need to remain myself. To succumb to hatred is a loss I'm not willing to cede to any foe. To feel it in the moment is one thing, but I write now to try and let it go. Even though Norwick's loss burns at the back of my mind, acid and bitter, robbing me of sleep.

    So much easier to be like Geroldine - to just not ~care~ who lives or dies, past their strategic value. Or like Trusho, to simply not believe anyone ~real~ but a handful few. If at times like these, I feel a pang of envy, I must remind myself that for all the rest of my days, I much prefer being me. So bear with it for now, Isolde.

    Bear with it, despite the red-veiled vision replaying in your mind's eye, hearing Seven-Oh-Three's choked sentence completed: 'Could you save my family?' When anger and adrenaline left me, as weariness washed over me and my eyes struggled to stay open, it came to me. And in an aching surge, I wanted to heed his words. I wanted to save them, improbable though it is. Even if I find them, why would they listen to me? I was not only part of killing their family, I've also just sent a freaking black dragon to rain acid and death right back at the Zhentarim holdings!

    Still.

    I'd like to think what we're doing here and now will at least save others from becoming like them. That our stand will inspire to resistance, maybe even from within their own ranks, if we succeed in such a way as to spread ripples of hope. Seen in this light, saving the few we can is more than worthwhile. It still stings that our choices then lead to the death of so many defectors from the Zhentarim side. But we can't turn back time, only work from the present and learn from the past.

    We best hit the ground running."