3. Laura's Letters

Laura's Letters


  • Candlelight illuminates the room adjoining the library in Moonreach Keep - in itself so full of books that it might be considered a library too, were it not for the chaotic jumble existing instead of any apparant order. The piles have shifted since the room's new occupant moved in though - sifted through like silt by the tide, forming new piles with a different, but seemingly as haphazard order. By the bedside, a battered backpack rests, half-unpacked, while the nearby desk holds a sprawling array of paperwork, scrolls and yet more books amidst a small sea of mostly burnt down candles.

    The young woman's seated on the bed, skinny knees pulled up to her ears as she leans over the sheet of paper resting against a thick tome placed on a pillow before her. The flickering light dances against the oval lenses of her glasses as she ponders her words, then puts quill to the page to write:

    "Barton, where are you?

    I know what you told me and in no uncertain terms, but the tone of your last letter left me uneasy. And when one month turned to two, then three, and you still hadn't written another, the feeling that something was wrong grew more than I could bear. You always write - that's the agreement! That's why I don't protest being left behind and why I don't question whatever it is that you do, even though I know it's dangerous. So when you 'don't' write, the deal is off. You can't be mad at me for breaking my end of it too!

    But you probably will be.

    In fact, I wish you were here, yelling at me for my foolishness. I wish you stormed out of the room and slammed the door right in my face, because at least I'd get to see you and could still this sick, coiling twist in my gut. I really am foolish, too. If you're in over your head, what can 'I' do? I can barely manage not to trip all over myself.

    I got here though. First to Spellweaver's Keep in Norwick, then on to Moonreach Keep - yes, that's right. That's exactly where you were, too, some two months ago. I found that out yesterday! (Please be just a little impressed) You must've chatted up the bartender, because she remembered you well. But true to form, you don't talk about the job - whatever that was this time around. I did learn that it took you below the Keep, to the seemingly endless caverns filled with goblins and who knows what else.

    I'm going to look for you there. The only way you can stop me is to find me first - if you don't I'm going down there, come what may! It's going to be 'dangerous'. Do you want me to die, Barton? Just because I practiced that defensive stance you insisted on doesn't mean I'll suddenly become some everlasting engine of destruction! Please, just.. please. Rescue yourself and come find me!

    You won't, will you? You probably can't.

    I thought it would take me forever to become strong enough to go looking, but there are others I can work with - in fact we've already fought both goblins and kuo toa. Not always with success, and for my part I'd say with constant terror rattling my knees. I haven't been very helpful in combat, I don't think. But outside of it, it's kind of strange. Moonreach seems to attract a fair share of loners and castaways, the odd ones out. In their midst I feel sort of... normal? Not that they'd necessarily agree, of course.

    Most everyone's rather guarded and tight-lipped so far. For their own, probably good reasons I bet, but it's kind of forced me out of my comfort zone. 'I' like to be the quiet observer, the one who listens rather than talks. But in this group I feel compelled to try and be more social. To take more initiative, getting to know people and filling the void of conversation with whatever I can think of. I hope it's not all blather, but I get nervous you know, and I'm terrible at hiding it.

    I'll tell you more about the people I'm working with in the next letter - perhaps you'll get to meet them too, in a not so distant future? You better.

    Your determined sister, Laura"


  • In room L3, a small area of Laura's main desk has been reclaimed from the various jumble of projects that previously occupied it. Instead, and resting on a soft, dense mat of red wool, are a handful of ancient looking small rune tablets. Nox is perched on a book pile shoved further onto the desk's surface, little cat nose leaning down for a sniff, when Laura waggles a distracted finger his way, only half looking up from her writing.

    "Dearest Barton,

    I feel better, I think, since my last letter. Or rather, I'm actively striving to stay away from that dark hole, those dark thoughts, that dark and lonely place that draws me in whenever my optimism wanes. In my heart of hearts I still feel it, but reason and determination have started to assert themselves more fully over the futility of this particular emotion. I know this to be true, because it was put to the test just a few days ago.

    Of late, I've been delving here, there and everywhere in the area, enthused by chance findings of certain runes which Murrin tells me are both old, rare and charged with a magic that can (potentially) be combined and fused into objects of one's choosing. While they could be of Aureate design, I'm betting the runes the system utilizes are older still and have had several spirited conversations with Murrin about it. Aen joined me for one such chat and only then did it strike me that Murrin's a rat. I tend to forget our differences when we're face to face and in the midst of conversation, for he has an interest so close to my own that I can't help but feel a certain kinship.

    In the hopes of finding more of these fascinating pieces of Moonreach history, and on the off-chance of locating a curious ogre merchant's hidden shoppe, we ventured down to the catacombs one day - finding an opening to a dark, forgotten corridor and several signs pointing towards a connection to the Tarnished Fane and the Aureates of bygone times. It was extremely dangerous - we all nearly perished several times over, from a long line of candelabra that turned out to be heavily enchanted! And that's just one example.

    The last, which at first didn't seem like such a big deal, was a mass of vines that grew along the cliff walls of a narrow alley we'd traversed to past an enchanted leafy area that brought Bertram's Weald instantly to mind. The serenity of that place must've lulled me into inaction, for when the vines suddenly burst into action around us I found myself slow to react. Or perhaps it just felt as though time slowed to a crawl, while I switched from offence to sudden and acute life-saving mode, but still could not keep up with the increasing frenzy of the vines. I was the last to go down, which I attribute wholly to the spells I'd been prudent enough to cast beforehand, but down we all went.

    My vision went black, then slowly flickered green and purple. Bioluminescent light met my bleary vision as I forced my eyes open, groggily coming to only to find myself firmly stuck in vines, but elsewhere, within a myconic structure alive around us. The 'wall' at my back was no wall at all, but living tissue, connecting to my bare limbs and naked back. I panicked at once, noticing this, but the struggle only saw me more deeply immersed in the vegetation.

    I was clearly naked, as were my friends nearby - Ashla and Aen's voices to my left, a new druid aquaintance to my right. Normally this might've made me feel self-conscious, but whoever had stripped us took not only armour and backpack, but even my glasses. I felt doubly exposed for that, but also strangely shielded. Nothing to see here, as it were - and we clearly had much bigger concerns anyway.

    A hazy creature appeared - a nymph, perhaps a plant, I can't be sure - but it had a female voice, crooning as it set about 'cultivating' us, lauding our potential for growth. I felt a wet, sticky something smear across my eyes, and my vision went from dim lights to greenish black. If I hadn't been afraid before, I definitely was now, for with the darkness I felt that too familiar pit opening up and I writhed, thrashed, fought to free myself from the vines, all to no avail. They tightened around me, til suddenly - oh Barton, this is the worst part.

    Til suddenly I ~saw~. I saw with such perfect clarity, from countless directions all at once. I felt my sense of self straining to encompass this dizzying, remarkable sensation and tried to remind myself through words, through insisting on the particulars of who I am - only to hear my voice echo from as many directions, flood from a myriad pores into as many receptors. It frightened me like nothing else and I instinctively withdrew, curling in on myself - finding then that the vegetation itself followed suit, cradling me in a protective pod.

    To my left, I was vaguely aware of Aen tearing himself free - I could feel the ripples the separation sent through the wall. He moved on to Ashla, the closest to me, and I knew surely he would help me next. I didn't doubt that, I knew I would not be forgotten or left behind - but I couldn't wait that long. Not when the collective so embraced me, inviting me to join them. Never again alone, never blind, never lost in the dark, sounded the Mycelium's siren song, the voices softly blending and reverberating to a soothing din, gradually drowing out my friends voices. I was so ~tempted~, Barton. The pull was such that I couldn't wait for Aen - I just didn't trust myself to say no for long.

    Instead, I tried to reverse the motion that had me so comfortably, securely cradled - stretching out, arching back til with a sickening, agonizing lurch, I fell out of the pod and dangled in the air, held by a single thick vine attached to my lower back. But it hurt! It hurt so much, but I couldn't stop - I couldn't return to that gentle embrace, because I wanted it too much. I thought of Dorron - then of Feowem's heartbroken, shattered expression each time they meet. I thought of you, seeing me in that same light.

    And then I spun. Making myself small, gaining a little bit of momentum through a kick to the wall, twisting, winding, straining the vine at my back to the point of breaking. The pain was like... it was like willfully trying to sever your own arm, then horribly succeeding! And yes, my comparison is apt enough, because I did have my shoulder bit off by a shark that one time. Not willfully, but still! Thank Mystra shock set in once the vine finally snapped. I just lay there in a limp, curled up heap, bleeding strange green fluid all over myself, even my consciousness feeling shattered with the severing.

    Slowly I came to - collecting all the scattered bits of myself, reorienting myself within my single, limp and shivering body, laboriously rising. The others were free too, but we were in bad shape, in a bad place, without sword, spell or armour to aid us. I knew I was nothing but dead weight in that state, but clutched Ashla's hand thankfully all the same. She and Aen somehow defeated the looming myconid that lumbered into our path - I let go of her hand, aimed a blind kick that probably hit the wall, and then we kept stumbling forwards, listening ahead, dashing around bends until we happened across our equipment at long last.

    My glasses had a crack in them, but thankfully it was an easy fix - curtesy of Farian. He still seems prone to avoid us but I have more hope in that being mendable than I did before. Moonreach may be filled with secrets, but not everyone who keeps them do so out of ill will - sometimes even the contrary. The quicksilver made me realize that. Still no sightings of the Octavia-like being that it manifested as, but perhaps that's just as well. We should remember that Whisperwick still has the batch he stole from Rheya's tower and perhaps more than that, still. While he has not been seen since that night either, I don't for a second believe he's gone for good.

    How we'll survive the next encounter, I don't yet know. The element of surprise is our only strong card right now and I can only hope we play it well enough - because I very much doubt he'd casually leave the aetherite and the quicksilver without some serious supervision, no matter how busy he may be putting out fires elsewhere.

    But that's tomorrow's set of problems. Farewell for now, dear brother - wherever you are.

    Your resolute sister, Laura"


  • Deep, deep underground, underneath an artificial starry night sky, Laura's made a makeshift camp next to a peculiar metal dome and various astrological and magical contraptions she's clearly studying. For now, however, she's taken a break and merely sits on a folded up spare cloak, contemplating the not-stars above her head. Nox is perched ontop of the dome itself, adopting a regally restful pose, amber eyes glinting in the dark.

    Conjuring a small orb of light, Laura rests her notebook against her knees, places a fresh sheet of stationary against it and writes:

    "Dearest Barton,

    I'm alive, in case it occurred to you to wonder or care.

    Sorry.

    I know it's unfair of me to phrase it like that, to act as if you could read each of these lines as soon as I write them. Childish of me to still hope, on some murky emotional level, that you'll come running as soon as I need you. That stopped being true so many years ago that it's not even funny. And I'm really self-reliant now! So why am I still accusing you for being absent, like you had a say in the matter this time?

    I guess of late, I've felt more alone than I remember feeling since I got here. It's not that I've argued with my friends; well I did a bit, but we talked it out soon thereafter and there's no grudge remaining. It's just this feeling I can't chase off or reason with, my old familiar ghost rising to haunt me anew.

    The triggering event wasn't even about anything of great importance - I mean we faced off with Adan Whisperwick and his cronies in admirable cohesion and unity of purpose. That fight, while it came with some unexpected fallout we've yet to deal with, we absolutely won together. This later event was sheer exploration for the sake of it and while dangerous, the risk was only to us then and there, in the moment.

    We'd gone deeper down the dungeon than ever before, broken through the radiant goldfire and flame that had stopped our previous efforts. I wanted to explore more of the main area before tackling what I perceived as the heart of the level, the most dangerous chamber, behind a door with a litter of scorched bones around it. In part, I was hoping to find a place to rest and replenish some spells, but mostly it's because I like to save the best for last. I like to take my time, savour the journey and not bullrush through to the end, because that way I've often got something left to look forwards to. I know I'm in the minority in this and could've been persuaded differently. But the thing is, Barton, no one tried.

    No one seemed to answer me either, and suddenly weary, I opted to sideline myself on the far end of the room we'd just cleared, well away from the door. And I get it - there was a tantalizing mystery on the other side of that door and everyone's curious, right? I was too, of course I was. I just wanted to wait a little longer to find out.

    As I stood on the sideline alone, the room seemed to stretch and expand, as though the door and my friends crowding around it grew further and further away. I felt myself growing smaller, felt my voice growing fainter. Faltering and suddenly afraid to be left behind, I began to cross the floor when a blinding light hit from the other side of the door, now half-open.

    I couldn't 'see', Barton. Everything went black and I'd foolishly abandoned the safe wall - now I stood reeling and rudderless in a sea of darkness. Blinking furiously in a futile attempt to clear my vision.

    Somewhere ahead of me was the door. I heard my friends call out, as the sounds of combat commenced. 'I'm blind!' shouted someone, then 'Ah, that's better!'. It'll wear off, I told myself, trying not to panic though my chest seemed about to burst and my hands kept feeling for my glasses, assuring myself they were still there. I tried to call out, to let them know I was there, let them know I was blinded too - but the darkness seemed to swallow everything. Did anyone hear? Did anybody care? I fumbled, hands outstretched, forcing my rigid legs to inch along til I found a wall, huddling against it.

    The battle continued, but it felt so distant now, far removed from the dark well I was trapped in. A world apart from mine. What was the point in shouting? And so I just stood there, frozen in inaction, for what seemed like forever. In reality, it can't have been more than half a minute at most, for when someone finally noticed my absence, the battle was still ongoing.

    It was my new aquaintance Bertram who came for me, cleared my sight and bade me hurry to the fight. And I did - I went through the motions, cast my spells, looked the strange creature and its surroundings over after it fell. But I felt numb and disengaged. I felt like nothing, like I wasn't really there, that the real me was still at the bottom of a dark well, alone and with no one coming to save her.

    Those long dark moments, however brief they truly were, have lingered in my heart and reason fails to disperse them. I know it's irrational, as irrational as it is to blame you for not showing up to respond to a letter you haven't read. I miss you. Maybe that's all there is to it. Or maybe some fears are so deeply imprinted on one's soul that you can never truly banish them for good.

    Your solitary sister, Laura"


  • Laura's slumped face-first across her desk, into a dubiously cushioning pile of ancient star-charts. Her fingers are smudged with ink and yet her boots are muddy, a dusty cloak flung across a chair and her spellchain in a crumpled heap on the floor. Nox, still perched like a watchful sphinx on the box of mercurial quicksilver, regards the room and his human with a certain degree of forebearance, like a parent would a messy child that they know is trying very hard. Eventually stirring, Laura sits upright, glasses slanted across her nose. She rubs fingers against her eyes, creating an blue-tinged panda effect that she's quite unaware of, reaching for her work before a look of near despair fills her weary eyes. Instead, she reaches for the top drawer of her desk, pulls out fresh stationary and writes:

    "Barton!

    I need to get this off my chest, but for once I can't talk to any of my friends and while it's awkward to imagine you ever reading these words, it'll just have to be written for you - for who else can I count on to always at least love me even when I'm being ridiculous?

    The siege and confrontation with Whisperwick's coming - I've prepared in every way I can, burning the candle at both ends with study and honing of my combat magic. While exhausting work, I do feel like my mind's expanded and just in time, too. It's still nowhere near enough to match Adan Whisperwick, so the other preparations we've made feel just as necessary as they did when we arduously aquired those sussur blooms. Anti-magic, Barton - it's very scary. But what about this situation isn't?

    I'm afraid of so many things going wrong, not least of which our own dividing opinions. When I consider the risk of Whisperwick utilizing our presence to 'harvest' his precious ingredients, my gut clenches. But for all that, it's something else that I can't stop thinking about, endlessly and uselessly, again and again and again.

    I met Astrologer Farian on the roof of the Keep, some nights ago. It was shortly after he'd fallen out with Ashla and Aen, shortly after I was forced to play unwilling gatekeeper to this awful chest that Nox is considerate enough to still be guarding. I still felt terrible about it all, but Farian said not to worry on his regard. I needn't defend him and end up in conflict with my friends, I was still a good student.

    We touched upon the subject of the mercurial quicksilver in discussing Whisperwick's goals - we'd both tried and both failed to divine the substance's past through Legend Lore. It's a static-filled blur, but Aen and Ashla's glimpsed visions seem to me to be clear pieces of that puzzle, fitting chillingly well in.

    'I think he's trying to replicate the creation of it', I said, adding that this knowledge is one of the few I'd agree best stay forgotten. Knowledge is like a sword, Farian countered. It's the wielding of it that's dangerous. And I agree, I do agree except I can so easily fathom reaching for that knowledge myself, thinking I could save someone I love with it. Perhaps not so far as to sacrifice another life for it - but when I think of Loke's desperation towards her sister, I can envision a good person doing terrible things with this same knowledge in hand.

    I wish I'd told him that. I wish I'd argued harder or that I'd said nothing when he paused, hesitating. I should've waited it out and let him speak. But no - I prattled on, filled the void with some meaningless phrase or other, because that pause sent flutters of nervousness throughout me. Now, I can't stop thinking about it, because ever since that night, Farian's been a decisive no-show in the library or even the halls of Moonreach Keep. I tell myself he's busy preparing for the siege, and that could be it. But what, then, was his hesitation about?

    Is he planning something he knows is dangerous or even questionable, something he thinks necessary to survive the ordeal ahead? Is he trying to learn the secret of mercurial quicksilver for himself, even? I know it intrigues him, yet at the same time he's not like Whisperwick, neither in that his field of interest lies towards transmutation nor, and most importantly, with regards to morality. Farian's detached, certainly - that's how most arcanists are trained to think, how he's clearly accustomed to function and view the world - but he ~does~ care. I know so.

    He waited for me by the roadside when I left for Peltarch, to say goodbye with kinder words than any other mentor's ever given me.

    He stormed up to Caldera Manor, when thinking Jhael and I were in peril, to demand our safe return.

    He scried us endlessly when we nearly died in Whisperwick's ambush at the aetherite impact spot.

    He always makes us tea, when we return to the library after a rough outing. This last part sounds like it's small, but to me it's those little kindnesses that matter. I feel like all of us have begun seeping through the cracks of the wall of indifference Farian's put up against the world. If so, wouldn't he actually have been quite hurt to be so called into question?

    I hesitated too, upon our parting on the rooftop, thinking this last thing. He's always seemed to thrive being on his own, but suddenly he struck me as lonely. I wanted to reach out, in some simple way reassure him that he wasn't, that he didn't need to be. My hand was half-way towards his arm to give it a pat, a squeeze, something, when I rethought that plan. Why would I try to console my mentor, wouldn't that be both inappropriate and strangely condescending? Wouldn't a gesture like that mean I thought of us as friends, or that I'd fallen into that age old trap of developping romantic feelings towards my teacher? The idea that he'd think either of these things true and disapprove of it gave me fright, but Barton, my hand wouldn't stop!

    I still reached out and then I didn't know WHAT to do with my hand. So I spied a piece of lint on his cloak and plucked that off.

    He looked at my hand and then at me, but said nothing.

    And now I can't stop thinking about THAT, either.

    Way to make it weird, Laura!

    Uuughhh.

    I know there's so many more important things to worry about than my own weirdness, but my mind still goes there, still nags and twists and turns that encounter around and around. Whispering that I should've done something more, something less, spoken other words, more freely, from the heart. Should I just have tried to be his friend in that moment, without fear of being rejected, because maybe that's what he needed?

    My mind's churning and the half-glimpsed scenarios it paints of what's to come are all terrible. That huge crucifix Whisperwick's cronies made off with, giant manacles and chains. Our anti-magic defence relies to a large part on him 'not' bringing a lot of backup, or the likes of myself, Jhael and Loke are in distinct trouble. Will the blossoms even make it to the show-down? What about the belladonna, should I get on with making those throwable flask 'bombs' or rather arrange traps around the chamber, taking Feowem up on his offer to assist? Questions, what-if this and what-if thats keep my mind reeling and time, by now, is running very short.

    Will all of us really make it through this alive and without falling apart, one way or the other?

    I'm trying to pretend that you're here, or that whereever you are, you're fine. But I can't, my thoughts are scattered in a million directions, chasing these what-ifs and why-didn't-you's to absolutely no avail. Farian promised that once this was over, he'd use the best of Moonreach's facilities to help me find you. But will he still be here, once the dust settles?

    Your fretful sister, Laura"


  • A large lead box sits omniously within Laura's room, claiming a good chunk of floorspace. Nox, perched ontop of it like a sphinx, blinks out of his seeming inertia as Laura gently lifts him up to slide a soft folded blanket underneath. It doesn't quite look as cool, but any dismay the small familiar may feel is soon countered by the obvious upgrade in cushiness. He settles in anew, into a more relaxed pose, yet the ears betray a continued watchfulness. Meanwhile, Laura herself rubs weary eyes and adjusts her glasses, clearing away a few strips of incense but leaves her scattered notes as she slumps across the table, sleeping a few fitful hours while a pale dawn begins to filter light through the many-paned windows of L3. Later, bleary-eyed and warming her hands around a cup of steaming tea, she writes:

    "I'm struggling, Barton, and I'm not the only one. I feel so overwhelmed by the weight of the choices before us, by both the known and unknowns in regards to Whisperwick and to this so called mercurial quicksilver which both we and he has aquired. This curious substance, liquid and mirrorlike, is superb with regards to transmutation magic - properly manipulated it can emulate practically anything, replicating and morphing both animate and inanimate subject matters, merging materials that would otherwise repel one another.

    As an arcanist, as a scientist, I'm fascinated and driven to study it. But viscerally, the shifting, liquid, almost lifelike quicksilver repulses me. My first instinct when I saw it move and reach towards me was to slam the lid shut - and I remain of the firm opinion that it's dangerous. Then again, many things that can kill you can also be used to the opposite end - anti-venom brewed from snakes, remedies from mild doses of the same herb that in high concentrations would cause death. I don't want to be ruled by my fear, opting immediately for destruction.

    At the same time, the Lathandrite's story of the mercurial silver's creation - through ritual sacrifice, through blood and pain and death - that story resonates with Aen's instinctive reaction, his deep-seated unease at being near the stuff. His and Ashla's visions of the past correlate well to the proto-Selunites having created the rippling, shifting fluid silver though horrid experiments in an attempt to mimick the qualities of the natural fallen aetherite. As a person of faith, as a moral being, shouldn't I find it easy, self-evident even, to eradicate the result of such terrible suffering?

    I would never ever condone creating this substance - though I'm increasingly certain that this is what Adan Whisperwick desires most of all. What better reagent for his many transmutational projects after all, not to mention to get rich from, to strike new deals and alliances with through trading. He mustn't be allowed to learn these lost 'arts' - I will even go so far as to say that no one should, not even myself, for I understand well the temptation that lies within. Sacrifice one for the many, or one for the person you love most of all, that's something you wouldn't even have to be a bad person to be tempted to consider, if the stakes were desperate enough. And if the one in question was already deemed a danger, a delinquent.... yes, it's a slippery slope.

    But now that it already is in our possession, its creation a thing of the distant past, is it truly so horrendous to entertain the idea of using it for a truly good purpose? Ashla asked me, if it was formed from your suffering, from that of Loke's sister and others we knew and loved, what would I do then? In truth, I don't really know. I said that the past couldn't be reversed, and that if something, anything good came out of all the bad, wouldn't that be better than to just destroy it? At least it was me, I think I'd prefer it if my untimely death to lead to something positive in the end. I don't know that you'd feel the same though, Barton. Ashla looked so horrified that I'm forced to scrutinize my own reasoning, though I remain conflicted, seeing both sides of the coin.

    The Lathandrite priestess claimed there's only one right moral response, but I'm less certain that it's quite so simple. Are we really complicit in an age old crime for utilizing the results thereof to save someone?

    Farian's approach is much like my own - I think that's part of why the criticism towards him stings so much. Like anyone of our trade, he wanted to learn, to analyze, to understand the function and composition of this mostly unknown substance through trial and error - and yes, to discover potential uses thereof. Specifically he wanted to find out if it could be used to cure lycanthropy and honestly, the results seemed to indicate that it can. He was ready to let it go though, after the agreed upon stay of grace to perform our examination. A compromise I thought we'd all agreed on.

    But Ashla feels betrayed, because Farian didn't tell her of his existing agreement with May Celine to immediately notify the clergy of any findings of mercurial quicksilver. She feels complicit in the breach of this vow, distrustful of him ever since and equally at odds with May Celine for having called her and our group into question and for having kept so many things a secret. So... the quicksilver is right here, sitting in a box of dry enchanted ice in a lead-lined box in my room, like a perpetual sore thumb pressing into my eye.

    It's giving me the worst headache.

    It goes against my researcher's fiber to destroy something old and intriguing like this, but I'm also understanding of the arguments in favour. Honestly, at this stage, I don't see that we have much real choice either, not unless we should spend our one favour with Rheya towards storing it. I postponed the choice mostly out of exhaustion and the desire to at least try to get a fresh angle through Legend Lore. But divination's still too unreliable and my head swam with fatigue at the attempt, soon followed by nausea.

    To make matters worse, we've yet to really decide on the fate of the quicksilver array below the Keep, either. The main idea right now, half-hatched in details though it may be, is to let Whisperwick come there and spring whatever trap we can around him. I'm more than a little wary that he's counting on us to do just that, and that our presence brings him eminently useful 'materials'.

    I miss you terribly. I wish you were here.

    Your floundering sister, Laura"


  • Huddled into a blanket and with her feet up to avoid the chill draft on the floor, Laura sits by her desk, her research scattered into more or less structured heaps and clusters. The subject of aetherite takes pride of place, alongside studies into a strange thread she's dubbed "Planar Spool" and various calculations attempting to pinpoint Adan Whisperwick's location. Or rather locations, for one revolves around a pocket plane, marked as 'Primary' while another's pinned to the southermost region of Moonreach province, dubbed 'Secondary (one of many)'. Nox is a black pretzel of fur, faintly purring on the bed in a tangle of yet more blankets while Laura writes:

    "Dearest Barton,

    It's clear to me that for as long as the aetherite's influence remains, I'll have no real chance of finding you even with Moonreach's best divination at my disposal. Though Farian views it as a menace and continues to be openly frustrated at his abilities being so hampered, I find the subject fascinating. I'd love to study the aetherite close at hand, but as that's hardly an available option, its influence is the next best thing. Though proximity likely enhances the effect, I've ascertained that the impact site itself and a radius of thus far undefined size (but huge, encompassing all of this northern region) is saturated with the effect of the aetherite.

    Divination is in flux, which interestingly enough affects not only present and future, but also the past. In fact, I've found that the magical fallout, light as raindrops or even mist on the surface and more substantial going down into the earth, has the ability to open pockets or windows into the past. Presumably in those same places, and not entirely at random it seems.

    I saw you, after all. Right there, on the stairs leading up to the great hall, clutching a wound to your side with a grunt, with Feowem beside you. You'd just returned from a delve into the dungeon below, and the simple everyday nature of the scene clenched my heart. Not some grand happening, this - you and Feowem were no different from me and my friends, adventuring and gathering riches below. The jibes back and forth between you made me smile - the tone rough, but with friendship written in between the lines. I'd assumed Feowem your friend, but his warning words at times made me wonder if you'd still been lonely, brooding on your own. This scene reassured, despite your bloodied state.

    Then Dorron stomped up the stairs to join you. Dorron, heartily alive and very human, a light in his eyes. Feowem teased you about your mystery pen pal, giving the entirely wrong guess in presuming a girlfriend. The boisterous laugh Dorron gave saw Feowem's lips quirk into a wry smile, while you grumped and likened him to Henry. I can kind of see why! It was a simple but heartwarming scene, though fraught with underlying sorrow for the future that neither of you could foresee then. I wanted to reach out and hold time still, in that bubble where no calamity had yet befallen you or Dorron, but the moment passed and you were gone.

    My friends related other visions, both personal and not, scattered throughout time but each seeming somewhat related to their own spheres of interest. I should make a notice board like with the Cerebrelith, for each one to write what they saw on the board, shouldn't I? Though it's probably quicker to write it myself, based on what I heard, I worry that things will be lost in translation, as it were. Best I don't bore you with ALL of that here, though.

    We're chasing these pockets of past, mostly for the opportunity they bring to glimpse the aetherite's real location after the vision's played out - though you probably know full well that I'd still risk life and limb for the chance to look into the past, no benefit added but the scholarly value. It's fascinating and a unique opportunity that I'd be even more enthusiastic about, were it not for the pressing situation we face regarding Whisperwick and his allies - the latter are, as I write this, preparing to lay siege to Moonreach. Presumably to rescue Rixx, whom we captured recently, but each side seems to have their own motives.

    Whisperwick himself definitely has his own agenda, which likely is nothing to do with taking Moonreach, anymore than it was Caldera Manor. And though I ran into him on my lonesome in the Abbey, both of us possibly on a search for the same type of source material, he claims even taking the aetherite was nothing but convenience, an opportunistic grab for scrying cover. Which begs the question of what he is ~really~ up to.

    It was so surreal, standing there side by side in the remnants of the Abbey's library, browsing like we were just two normal scholars going at our day's work. He could so easily have killed me, yet made no such move. If I hadn't been so nervous, I'd have tried to ask more probing questions, or at least replied with more bite and well reasoned arguments! He even condescended to giving me 'helpful' advice about what a proper mage should do for defence, such as Clone and other contingencies I'm nowhere ~near~ capable of. Said it wouldn't be sporting if I were so ill prepared as now. Damn him for acting like some kind of unasked for mentor - after what he did to Caldera Manor and everything!

    Discounting my frazzled nerves and humiliation, I came away from the Abbey with two books of potential interest - one by a bard, seemingly not quite about my subject matter but bards often have a broad view I find can be rewarding. The other, unearthed from a collapsed section of the shelves after Whisperwick's departure, needs more restoration til I dare so much as touch the pages. I hope I have time for it. Who needs sleep, right?

    Your busy-bee sister, Laura"


  • Sludgey snow mixed with rain pelts the rugged rock walls of Moonreach Keep, coating the windows of L3 with ice and condensation. No matter, perhaps, for daylight's long since faded and within the room, with a cooling cup of tea beside her and wrapped in blankets like a fuzzy caterpillar sits Laura in her bed, Nox curled up in a softly snoozing pretzel beside her as she writes:

    "I begun to pack my bag, the moment I heard it from Jhael - your mission, your destination now known, sent off by that Peltarchian bard whose path crossed mine but once. The spitting image of Sune? I wouldn't go that far, but she certainly made me feel about as attractive as the sludge I scraped off my boots coming in from the cold today, by comparison. And I know, what point is there in comparison except for some stupid biological code that compels it? It's not the point I was trying to make either, brother dearest, though I do wish I commanded even an ounce of the confidence radiating from her and the group she was in, when we briefly squared off.

    I still don't understand how they got to the impact site first - each of them strangers to the area, whereas we had every advantage. The silvery-blue glow of the aetherite lended an otherworldly feel to the scene as we came upon them, a group about the size of our own, yet infinitely more shrouded in might, in story and reputation. The so called Golden Geese were already discussing possible uses for the fallen starmatter when we arrived.

    'It's not yours just because you were first', I objected, my voice ludicrously faint and uncertain. No one replied directly - I doubt they even took notice of me at the back, with Asha (no, not Ashla this time, if you can believe it) stepping forwards to mediate. Tall, bright-eyed and with the most spectacular shock of red hair, Asha is a Selunite priestess who's stayed at Moonreach for quite some time, yet focused intently on studies that have had little to no overlap with my own. I don't know her very well, but it's evident the other group did - and that this instantly quelled any open hostilities on their part.

    Not that Moonreach and Peltarch were in open hostility with one another at this point - but their group was still on our ground (though Kzagoth would and did call it 'his' ground), about to claim the very same thing we had been sent to collect - coalesced aether, fallen from the sky that same day, quite unexpectedly. The stuff's wreathed in legends - some say it can cure lycanthropy, other sources reference it being used to mend a fragmented soul. Various myths claim it can transform your very nature permanently, also that it's capable of piercing any veil or hurdle to divination and so on. In short, it's rumoured to be a miraculous, and therefore universally desirable essence, if volatile and only usable once before it dissipates.

    Need I point out that it sounds too good to be true and if not a direct trap, it must at least come attached with a serious catch? It does. Divination's in flux in a wide area of effect around it - rendering not just it and the people who possess it difficult to locate, but throwing all kinds of previous predictions into the great unknown. With just about every faction wanting it, the risk for wide-spread chaos is quite real.

    In that one respect, I suppose Adan Whisperwick's interference serves a purpose. For a trap was sprung on us there, where we stood, uneasily debating propriety rights - a trap that rendered all such debates moot, and nearly killed us all. Adan Whisperwick its origin of course - that's unsurprising. He's a truly despicable man, but a very potent spellcaster and adept backstabber and schemer.

    I was surprised to find that despite all probability pointing to the contrary, I was still alive - very badly injured, but alive, despite a massive cave in and violent bursts of magic that tossed us about like dolls against sheer rock. To my shock, when the dust settled I heard not only Whisperwick's voice but others too. Familiar voices - Lt Rixx and Olivia Gor, in obvious cahoots. But why? I know neither were much pleased with the tentative steps towards peace that had been taken, but throwing their lot in with Adan Whisperwick, really?

    Rixx lamented not seeing more of the Golden Geese dead - he had expressed a seemingly unreasonable terror of them before, so perhaps that's his motive settled. Gor, on the other hand, seemed to harbour more regret as she reviewed the damage done. But not enough to actually try to help us. Not enough to sway her from her chosen course.

    The trio walked slowly past the debris and the scattered bodies of myself, my friends, even the odd member of the other group. The silver-blue light was jarringly serene by contrast and discounting the muted voices, all I could hear was white noise ringing in my ears. The whole event felt somehow apart from reality, plucked from the pages of a storybook, or played out on a scene whose curtains would surely close as the villain exited, stage left.

    In hindsight, I wonder if the allure of the coalesced aether was so strong, its aura so pervasive, that it obscured the fact that we were alive from our attackers. I even wonder if proximity to it is the reason why we all survived, when realistically we should not have. Perhaps it skews the odds, perhaps as Ashla believes, it has an element of the divine to it. But I would say that, at least to Whisperwick, us living or dying was all the same, because he simply doesn't care. None of us are important.

    In taking the coalesced aether, however little he thinks of it, Adan Whisperwick has laid the groundwork towards uniting his many enemies to a common cause. And that, I sincerely hope, will finally become his downfall. I'm trying to work with that end in mind, and not think of what will become of the coalesced aether afterwards. Not even if it might show me exactly where you are, because out of all possible users, I don't for a split second see myself as the likely or even most deserving cause. Best to view it as a shiny bauble, or like Farian as a threat to be contained.

    We will find him, Barton. And when we do, it's possible that he won't see us coming, for the distortion of the aetherite. Sweet Mystra, let it be so.

    And I will find you, one way or another. It's just that after my first burst of excitement had settled down, with my bag half packed and a letter of farewells already composing itself in my head, the cold chill of reality reasserted itself. Just because I know where you were headed doesn't mean that's where you are now, nor that you ever got there. Apparantly the redheaded bard doesn't know either, and not from lack of trying said Jhael. And I can't just march right into Zhentarim territory on my own either, without so much as a plan. I know you wouldn't want me to, not even if you're in the most horrendous of situations.

    I hope and pray that you aren't. Please, please Barton, please just be hiding out somewhere, dodging danger, waiting it out. Please hang in there, until I can think of an alternate plan, or at least give divining one last, proper go. That won't be possible til we've dealt with the Whisperwick situation, though. Farian's even offered help, but frustratedly admitted he's all but blind as things stand.

    Earlier tonight, I learnt that the tentative peace brokered by the Peltarchian agents has broken down, their king Thalaman apparantly rejecting Caleb's offer. What this means for things to come is, like all things future at the moment, entirely uncertain. It remains my hope that Whisperwick's loathsome self can become the rallying force between factions, even Peltarch's, because I feel certain we'll need it.

    My bag remains half full - I find I can't bring myself to unpack. I find myself staring at maps, plotting paths west, though for now and for whatever brief future I can foresee, here is where I shall remain. I miss you. Please be safe.

    Your sensible sister, Laura"


  • Laura, with a crisp white apron and rolled up sleeves, sits in the Moonreach infirmary, moonlight filtering in through the windows to cast a silvery sheen onto the many rolls of clean linen bandages, rows of ointments, syringes and needles prepared in near militaristic order. Nox is sprawled out on one of the still empty cots, in full panther form as though expecting trouble, while Laura finishes up the preparations. Once complete, she remains in the room, plopping onto the ajoining cot to write:

    "I'm back, Barton - and in the nick of time too, for no sooner had our ferry landed than news of Peltarch's march was buzzing all around. The soft tromp of myconid feet came down the same moonlit path we took, knight Dorron explaining that a deal had been struck between Caleb and Rheya, the witch's forces moving towards the fortress now in preparation. Goblins and arcanists from Caldera Manor glimpsed in the gathering throng as well, though the two that halted us near the ferry landing had a different message to bring us. It's good to know Adan Whisperwick doesn't have ~quite~ so many supporters as it seemed on my last visit - without spilling any pertinent details, I still have hopes that the Manor will continue to be the sort of place that welcomes you, I and anyone who ever struggled to find a place to call home.

    Patrik and Jhael awaited us, with Octavia having been sent ahead by Feowem to join the growing party on my miniature quest away from the Keep. Nameless had joined us in Peltarch ... I know something is strange about that name, or lack thereof, but bear with me for now Barton. She'd returned from Silverymoon with a direct order to keep tabs on the Zhentarim presence lingering in or around the north, though luckily was not present when we stumbled onto a wounded officer along the hidden path marked on my map. We let him live, pretending not to notice his insignia.

    But I'm starting at the wrong end - I should probably backtrack, for the knowledge of this clandestine path through the perilous mountains where skirmishes still occurred was shared with us by none other than the very spy we were hot on the heels of catching, at Moonreach some months back. He definitely knew who we were - and I suspect so did the elegant white-haired woman referred to as 'Princess', with whom we found ourselves conversing. She noted that no birds were getting through the lines, you see, and that meant there was no way that Henry would ever get my message.

    I'd be lying if I said I wasn't nervous at this point. You're probably a little nervous yourself, if you're reading this now! Or maybe not? Ashla suggested I ask for you outright, but Motley Grey's words of you being imprisoned in Peltarch had me erring on the side of caution. I still don't know what it is you did here, but Feowem's constant warnings has me thinking it wasn't exactly nice. Better to hear it from Henry, I was certain of that, but to my great relief, both the white-haired woman and the Far Scout refrained from asking much more than we freely offered. It's possible they believed our errand truly was strictly personal, but I sensed that there was more to it; that maybe the possibility of us being there on Moonreach's behalf was silently accepted as a token of the same willingness for peace that lord Stockley harbours.

    Would that it is so. The wandering Cerulean we met on the way was certainly difficult to imagine as a foe, decidedly Mystran, decidedly a fellow scholar despite his armour and sword.

    I've prepared the infirmary for the opposite though, hoping with all my heart that none of it needs be put to use. Hoping and praying that the Siamorphans we spoke to don't represent the spirit of Peltarch or even its royal family. They called us traitors, simply for choosing to stay at Moonreach. Uglier things too, but Henry put a stop to that at least. Our cousin may be overbearingly idealistic and not very clever, but at least he's got a good heart underneath all the baggage. Once he realized I did in fact exist (you let him assume I was dead, seriously Barton?), he immediately started puffing his chest up and telling me to stay - for my own protection he claimed (partial credit for caring), but mostly I think for the family's name.

    I would've been angrier, especially when he started harping on about what a disgrace you were, but I saw the haunted cast of his eyes in speaking of the past. Of rows of Cades awaiting the gallows, black hoods on and a noose around their necks. I have no right to judge his way of coping, any more than I do yours, Barton. My way is different mostly because I don't remember. Unlike you and him, I have no real sense of what was lost, nor can I imagine what my life would've been like if things hadn't happened as they did. It's all academic to me - and I suspect that's exactly what you wanted for me.

    But I want to know the full truth of it all, some day. And I need you to tell me, I obviously can't take Henry Cade's word for it, not when he's bought into the official story, hook, line and sinker, convinced he must make amends for all our family's wrongs by living a life beyond any possible reproach. He would've tried to marry me off to some boring old baron or duke by now if he'd been involved in my life, wouldn't he? Maybe it's just as well he was kept ignorant of my existence. At least in some ways.

    Nameless was huffing on my behalf for the harsh words bandied about before our departure, but if I'm completely honest, I didn't really take those to heart. I've met my cousin, who looks like and yet unlike you and I. I've held his warm hand and it is part of the same stuff that makes up you and I. So what if he didn't approve of my choices or even tried to understand me? He did, after all, have all but a minute or two to adjust to the fact that there was a Laura Cade in the world, when we spoke.

    I'll forgive Henry. I hope we'll meet again, in happier circumstances, with you. And he did give me the one thing I truly needed from him - a clue towards your whereabouts, and the description of a woman who might know more still.

    Hang tight, brother dearest. I 'am' coming.

    Come hell or high water.

    Your determined sister, Laura"


  • The sun shines from a clear blue sky over Peltarch. In the Residential district, near the soothing babbling of water from a fountain, sits Laura in a flowy green gown, studying the passers by inbetween enjoying her book and a sandwich wrapped in waxed paper. Every now and then, a small black paw reaches out from below the lid of her satchel, giving hopefull little swats to the sandwich or Laura's fingers - Nox is there, but seemingly not quite enclined yet to deign touching the cobbled ground. Sandwich devoured, Laura writes:

    "Dearest Barton,

    I feel strangely carefree, sitting here in a fine new gown that doesn't feel anything like me, in a place where no one knows my face. I could be anyone, just a city clerk on her lunch break, just a young lady from parts unknown taking in the sights while visiting family. It's not even that far from the truth, strictly speaking.

    As Ashla's opted to remain at the temple for today, any returning letter or visit from cousin Henry won't risk being missed. Jaxon is exploring as well - he bought fancy city clothes too and wandered the market with me. We even visited City Hall together to browse the library, but for once I didn't wish to remain amongst the company of books for too long.

    I found a wonderful bakery, following the tantalizing scent of freshly baked bread from the market, and bought a variety of fresh buns to bring back to dutiful Ashla. I bought a few scrolls, and even found an extremely useful set of magical bracers, pricy but well worth the cost. If I succumb to the temptation of an armour too, I'll have spent an ungodly amount of gold towards boosting the local economy!

    I had all but forgotten how pleasant it can be to spend time in a city - the ebb and flow of so many people, of which I am but one, liberated by anonymity. The hustle and the bustle, the sounds and the smells, the myriad of buildings! I would no doubt weary of it eventually, but here and now, simply being here provides a helpful distraction from my thoughts. My brain's too busy filtering through all the new impressions to worry endlessly about what might come next.

    I know it's just an interlude, the calm before another potential storm. But isn't that what makes it so sweet? A holiday from reality, brief though it may be, feels endlessly enticing.

    The dress, I initially bought with a vague idea of blending in for the message delivery on Lord Stockley's behalf. As soon as I put it on though, I felt that carefree sensation building into the wave I'm currently riding on. Will Henry think I look presentable in it, I wonder? Like someone he could take pride in being related to? Those other Siamorphans seemed like snobs, but I'm sure he's nothing like them. Jaxon said I looked nice, but he's always kind that way. Now if Feowem agreed, I'd be sure - he's so much like you in being blunt about these things, Barton.

    But I 'feel' nice in it. And perhaps that's what matters?

    Your sightseeing sister, Laura"


  • A different room entirely - spartan cots in a small, but clean room with a pale stone slab floor. From outside, the faint bustle of a city waking up filters through the windowpanes, accompanied by the ever present sound of gulls. 206, or Jaxon as Laura calls him, lies curled up on his side on one of the cots, Ashla on the other, neatly tucked into her blanket. Both are still fast asleep, though Laura was just woken up by a cool cat's nose pressed to hers and the tickle of whiskers against her cheek. Nox is exploring with the typical wariness of cats in new surroundings, belly low to the ground, while a yawning Laura sits, reaches for her glasses and her stationary to write:

    "Dearest Barton,

    I'm coming! Wherever you are, however badly in trouble, I'm coming to find you. Though the revelation of the Zhentarim being the cause of your absence had me so shook up that Feowem stepped in to big-brother me, I feel like I can breathe now that I'm on my way. Don't be upset that he didn't keep your secret, please Barton - he held it in for as long as he could, but it's obvious to him too that you should've returned by now.

    He called you a bad brother, for making me cry like that. I would've been angry, except I could tell he really does care. About us both, really. I'm trying really hard not to think about all the ways in which you could be hurting, but when he told me, the second he told me, I revisited the scene we snuck past outside Norwick. That panicked young recruit, his head cracked against the wall. The cold, almost casual cruelty of it and the haunted familiarity in Jax's eyes.

    I'm still frightened, but after Feowem calmed me down, that sense of urgency that I've tried to push down, telling myself to be patient, returned ten-fold. I can't just wait - it's too late for that now, the opportunity to act was almost gone already. Night was falling as we parted ways at the crossroads, the ferry making ready to depart in the distance. Too late to tell anyone else I was leaving - a strong sense of now or never pounding in my veins and driving my steps forwards, as the moon rose to light my path.

    Farian waited by the gleamstones. He knew I was leaving, of course he did - but he didn't try to stop me. Rather, he seemed there only to wish me well. To tell me he was proud, to tell me goodbye in so many kind words that I struggled to find mine. Surely I'd soon be back? I can't just leave everything and everyone for good, without a proper goodbye! All my friends, the 'best' friends I've ever had, all my work, all the mysteries yet unexplored - but I have to admit that the future right now is fraught with uncertainty. Peltarch might be marching, and win or lose, nothing in the wake of such a war would ever be the same.

    Moonreach dwindled in the distance, a wraith, a dream that seemed to be fading with every step. I heard the bells toll as the ferry called out for the last passangers, and it sounded like mourning. But behind me, muffled by the fog, came hurried footsteps. Metal greaves, a figure clad in plate armour emerging. It was Ashla! She said she couldn't let me head into danger alone, and I was too thankful to try and dissuade her. After we'd already departed, more footsteps - someone or something approaching through the mist at breakneck speed, hurtling through the air, tumbling onto the deck with a thud that had the other passangers reaching for their blades. It was Jax! How he made that jump I'll never understand, but it's clear he didn't stop to think about it. And I'm very grateful for that, too.

    Looking at them now, asleep in this small room at the Lighthouse, my heart aches with affection. It aches, too, for those we left behind, without so much as a goodbye. But if all goes well, we'll be back in just three days, Barton. As luck or providance would have it, the ferry we caught was the last going out for the foreseeable future, but it will be returning too. I wish the brave Lord Stockley the best possible luck in his desperate errand to broker peace. We've offered our assistance, too - even if that should prove yet another risk, it's one worth taking for the worthiness of his mission and the kindness he's always shown us.

    I should finish on a bright note, Barton, and here it is: Henry's alive! The knights we spoke to disbelieved my claim of kinship, unsurprisingly. The mockery seemed uncalled for, but all that matters is that they believed me and of that, Ashla made sure. I couldn't have done it without her - now a raven's being sent to Henry and with any luck I'll meet my cousin for the first time before the three days are up. I really hope he knows where you are.

    Please, please, please be alive! Hang in there, wherever 'there' is, until I find you.

    Your desperately seeking sister, Laura"


  • A pale, hazy moonlight filters through the many-paned windows of L3 as Laura enters, dejected and weary. She slumps down on the bed, kicking her boots off a good minute or two later, then groans and twists around, shedding her jacket as well. Nox, for once, is nowhere to be seen, the cat having gone on its own mysterious cat business in the twilight hours of the day. Grumpily, Laura sits up after another couple of minutes and reaches for her stationary and quill, writing:

    "Every day, I'm waiting, Barton.

    Waiting for you, for word of your whereabouts, for news on Henry failing that. Every day, I wander the halls and hear hushed conversations, an anxious buzz, comings and goings with hasted steps through the library. The confrontation with Peltarch's imminent, says nearly all of this buzz - they'll soon march on Moonreach, and that, I feel, is the end of the window of opportunity you have to get back here safely. I'm worried about the threat of yet another war, too - of course I am, but somehow I cannot seem to feel like it's my problem. I have no say in it, no real stakes except that I would defend all those who live here if attackers stormed through the gates, regardless of who they were.

    Patrik's disappointed with mine and several of the others attitude to this state of affairs. 'But they took us in!', he insists, as though that would make us honour-bound to fealty. 'Caleb trusted us!' And it's true that the Cleimants have treated all of us well, but even Mara Stockley, the most vocal in preaching their claim's right, made it clear from the start that we were not obliged to fight their cause.

    And I won't.

    My fealty, if I have any such thing, is more to Moonreach itself. These near crumbling ruins, the mad layercake mystery of the whole area, that's what calls to me. It was here long before the Cleimants and will remain long after we have all become dusty footnotes in the annals of history or faded completely. Yet here and now, it feels mine. We fought so hard for it, risked our all.

    And now, after all these months of near isolation in a next to abandoned keep, the clamour of a crowd grates on my ears. That not a one of all the people arriving is you makes it worse, makes me feel more alone, somehow. Resentful, even. Outside adventurers are finding their way here, delving headlong into the below like it were any old dungeon, good for treasure and challenge alone. I feel oddly protective, chafing at their presence. I know it's silly - at every turn it's been evident we were not the first to explore, nor will we be the last. So why not be glad of the bustle, happy to show newcomers around?

    But I'm not. I'm pacing and waiting.

    Maybe I need to get out of here, even for a day - to go looking for you elsewhere would at least be doing something, taking the edge off this frustration? I don't doubt that Peltarch is full of the same buzzing anxiety as here, though it is where I might need to go next. I might even find Henry, if I ask around for Siamorphans. But I can't, can I? I won't repay the Cleimants kindness very well by risking being made a pawn of by their potential attackers.

    And so I'm stuck here, waiting.

    Your frustrated sister, Laura"


  • The gulls cry and a playful wind whips at Laura's hair, fluttering the pages of her book before she relocates to a more sheltered spot on the ledge garden overlooking the crashing waves below the Keep. Nox has climbed the weathered old tree in a bid to challenge the gulls, perched as high as he can get with a hopeful stare - little cat jaws making a too eager, chittering noise whenever a bird swoops teasingly close.

    Laura shakes her head and grins, though her expression softens to a thoughtful smile as her gaze drifts to one of the lower branches, where a few buds of green have begun to sprout. The tree has appeared dead for as long as she's been at Moonreach, with herself, Lokelani and Florian as the chief advocators against the woodsman's axe. That little verdant sign of life feels deeply symbolic, thinks Laura, who settles in to wrote anew:

    "Dearest Barton,

    I'm alive! We all are, somehow, despite what seemed at several times insurmountable odds. I know we couldn't have done it alone - not without the aid of everyone behind us, for one thing: Farian, Ereda, Feowem, the Cleimants and the Selunites, even Kzagoth. It felt right and just for our familiars and animal companions to take part in the celebrations afterwards too, for several amongst them played a role in seeing us through the ordeal. Some more actively than others, I'll admit - though Nox has kept me sane and comforted throughout many a night that might otherwise have been sleepless, which most definitely must count!

    But most of all, we owe our success to Elias Houl. Despite being consumed by the Cerebrelith, despite being incorporated into the motley crew of its collected minds, the Selunite Theurge proved a tougher meal to digest than the demon could handle when put to the test. His voice, deep and measured, was instantly recognizable.

    'Duck', he said and instinctively I did, sensing more than seeing the others follow suite. A huge, dark shadow crossed over my head, vicious claws cleaving the air where once my head had been. We stood face to face with the Cerebrelith and instantly I could feel the weight of its mind press against mine - the force of its psionic attack dropping several of my party members to their knees in agony. I'd prepared the right spells, I 'had' - but as expected several of them had time to fade by the time we reached the final show-down. But thanks to Lokelani's last minute addition to my research, the Mind Blank scroll was still intact. The ace in my pocket, which I hurried to read, as quickly as my trembling hands and lips allowed.

    Much of the fight that followed is a blur - I remember Jaxon's fearless approach, glowing golden - I saw Ashla's hammer shine bright with moonlight, held aloft as she followed, the light glinting off Octavia's axe already in full swing. The demon's otherworldly howl as Aen's arrows and Patrik's spear sank into its flesh reverberated inside my head, a dull ache in its wake. I recall Jhael's dash to coat Lokelani's blade with the devil's blood mix, Loke getting back to her feet with gritted teeth to fire off our second ace in the pocket scroll. The Powerword hit the demon, it hit and the Cerebrelith seemed stunned, unable to resist as I had feared - but elation was immediately replaced by fear. A barrage of spells was coming our way, four, five or seven, cast simultaneously and without time to counter even one.

    Summons, evocation, magic divine, arcane and downright deadly, all at once. Crystalline constructs, I can handle at range, but summoned right up in my face? I went down next to Florian, reaching in vain for his hand to channel an ounce of healing. By the skin of my teeth, I struggled up to my feet again, rejoining the chaotic fight only to find myself lashed by thunder and acid rain in the Storm of Vengeance another of the demon's collective had conjured. My friends cried out, some almost within reach, but I could not resist the storm for long enough to reach them.

    It was the end - if not now then soon, I knew it and grit my teeth against the inevitable. I sensed more spells building up, soon to be unleashed from within the demon. But bewilderingly, this magic was warding, countering, healing - and I saw my dying comrades begin rise, each chugging fresh potions, each clutching their weaponry. Each turning towards the still stunned demon's body with renewed intent.

    When it finally lay dying before us, we bound it - the collective voices revealing themselves first as though 'freed' souls, trying to trick us. All but Elias Houl, who gave the ruse away bluntly. As we chanted the words of binding collectively, past our rising voices I could hear them, the cacophany of protests, of promises of knowledge and secrets beyond our ken. But undercutting the din, a low and sonorous barytone, calm yet insistant, said clearly: 'Do it'.

    Elias Houl, knowing he would be trapped inside the demon, trapped with that din of corrupted voices and facing the same corruption over time himself. And still he insisted - calm and unafraid. 'Do it.'

    Can a soul be redeemed and condemned in one go? By all rights he should be the first, gone from a good man to a villain and back again, full circle. And yet, with the binding complete, he's trapped there with the rest of what remains of the Cerebrelith. I don't yet know if or what I can do to save him. But I swear, I will find out.

    Thank you, Elias. From me, from my friends, from all of Moonreach, thank you. You will not be forgotten.

    A day or two later, Mara Stockley rushed in, breathless and smiling. The war's over, the North has won, like us they defied the odds and the Zhentarim are retreating, their leader slain! While there may be some fallout remaining, and while the price payed is still to be revealed in full as the survivors come limping back to the Keep, it's still the best news anyone could hope for. Jaxon sagged in relief, then lifted me up and spun me around in joy! Nerrez disbelieved it at first, remaining cautious but I thought I saw a softening something in his eyes.

    The circle's closing on this, the first chapter of my Moonreach stay. The same seems true for many of my friends, but all is not yet concluded. Will you return with the bannermen and allies of this place, Barton? Will you limp in, arm in arm with cousin Henry? I can but hope, though a hollow little part of me warns against it.

    Please be alive, Barton. I managed to stay that way, so it's only fair! Please, please, find me.

    Your utterly spent sister, Laura"


  • Sleep eludes Laura as the time to confront the Cerebrelith approaches. She paces L3 at the small hours of the night, bumping into the corner of the desk with a muffled semi-curse, rousing Nox who's perched ontop of the tallest bookcase, golden eyes gleaming, then narrowing to mere slits again when it's evident she's okay. Laura abandons the pacing, for now, slumping into a mound of pillows to write.

    "Dearest Barton,

    If all goes badly, this is goodbye. You know I'm not one for dramatics, but the last failure has me set on leaving no such regrets behind. You are the most important person in my life, and though neither you nor I are the types to say mushy things out loud, here goes.

    I love you.

    There, it's down in black on white, okay? If you ever read this and I'm ~not~ dead, you're permitted to snort-laugh. But if it comes down to the worst, then maybe it'll be some kind of comfort. I don't know that words help, though. You already know how I feel, so maybe it's more about me wanting to give the sentiment permanence of a kind.

    I rarely feel confident, but this time it's worse. It's not just the Cerebrelith itself; ancient, cunning and cruel though it is - it's that our camraderie feels frayed at the edges, splintered like the gleaming moonstones. Everyone seems to have withdrawn to their own chambers, brooding or battling their own personal demons. I understand that we each deal with the preparations differently, but it's left me with way too much time to think. Over-think, Farian suggested, though in a not unkind way. He's not a man well versed in comfort, but I think he tried.

    Aen, too, seems to have dug himself a hole of solitude. He sent me a letter, riddled with remorse for acts that were never truly of his own free will's doing. I understand - he's afraid. Afraid to be shunned, afraid to be included only to hurt us again. But I'm not afraid. I only wish he'd trust himself more and see himself in the same light that we do.

    I 'am' afraid of the demon. Pep-talks ring hollow to me, because all I can think of is all those brilliant minds it already consumed. I compare myself to the likes of Houl and know that I'll come up short. Our solidarity is our one true strength, and until I feel that reinforced I'll not be confident in any plan we make.

    But we've got to take initiative anyway. We can't sit around waiting to react, not again. So, I guess here goes.

    Your nervous sister, Laura"


  • Laura, staring listlessly at the ceiling, lies sprawled on her back on the bed of room L3. Outside, the setting sun makes a valiant attempt to warm the heavy grey stones of Moonreach keep, filtering gently through the many-paned windows of the room. Nox, with the unerring instincts of a cat, has found the warmest spot of sunshine to bask in, ontop of Laura's paperwork in the middle of the desk. It seems she doesn't have the heart to shift him from it, or perhaps not the inclination. Instead, she reaches again for her stationary and quill, turning over to write:

    "Dearest Barton,

    The aches, pains and conflicts of recent events has taken a toll on all of us. I find myself unable to focus, and for once I don't think I can blame it on the Cerebrelith. I'm anxious but at the same time exhausted, to the point where I spent what feels like hours staring at the cracks on the ceiling, studying the pattern of the grain of rock, the cut from the chisel shaping it, the faint glint of crystalline gleaming here and there like a secret code.

    That near paralyzing sense of failure's left me, but a dull ache remains. Where's this sense of hurt coming from? Part of it is from the events of last letter, of course. From that sense of a wonderous gift, no sooner found than smashed mercilessly into bits. Aen's renewed lapse of control, deepening the shadows within his eyes. Patrik's inability to show remorse or insight of his error. It wasn't his fault that the Zhents came - and it's impossible to know whether it would still have come to blows regardless. But he can't decide for all of us, without agreement or warning. I'm no longer angry with him, that was all in the moment. I'm just sad now, wondering how and if the damage of trust can be restored.

    Other hurts are much smaller, trivial by comparison even. But somehow they linger all the same, churning around with the bigger fish like so much debris. Maybe if I write them down, I'll be able to put them aside for good? Maybe if you were here, you'd listen and say something cleverly insightful, to cut right through my convoluted woes. Would that you were.

    My friends and I don't see things in the same light, where Caldera Manor and particularily Kzagoth's concerned. That in itself isn't the rub, it's inescapable and often sound to have differences of opinions. Stimulating, even. The hurtful part is to have my view belittled as girlish fascination and romanticism. Like I'm some moon-eyed calf, so enamoured of Kzagoth for being handsome that I'm making up excuses for him. That just isn't true.

    I actually like to think I'm a fairly good observer. That my judgement is sound and based not on flights of fancy, but my observations, conversations and impressions from the places I've been and the people I've met. I've spent countless hours at Caldera Manor, more than most any of my friends. I've spoken at length to Marielle, to Mudein, to Feowem, Grolmor and at times Kzagoth himself to form these opinions. And while it's true that I enjoyed Caldera Manor for sentiment's sake in one sense (for you), it doesn't mean I'm blinded by emotion. There were things I didnt like, too - that callous uncaring of whatever went on beyond the Manor's walls always chafed at me. The idea that whomever wins did so by right of strength, and that this is as it should be.

    But those things were balanced by welcoming everyone in who agreed to the basic rules, even those who'd be shunned everywhere else. Moonreach tries, Mara Stockley really does see to that, but the sneers and judgemental stares are never far away. At Caldera Manor, the odd ones out aren't odd though. The shunned and misguided, the ones who took a dark path were still welcomed in, so long as they behaved. While for some that was only ever going to be a surface act, for others finding a place of acceptance changed everything. That's what I liked most.

    Kzagoth and his group of Underdark outcasts were instrumental in creating that feeling, that open door policy (alongside Marielle of course). Only those used to being scorned and ousted know just what it means to be welcomed into the warmth of a home.

    Adan Whisperwick's going to change all that, he said as much openly. He's the worst kind of wizard, Barton - the kind that makes me ashamed of my arcane leaning, ashamed to be human. I feel sickeningly complicit just by fitting the categories he deems as superior, and angry on behalf of all my friends who are in any way 'other'. Component parts, to the likes of Whisperwick - valuable for harvesting, but no more worthy of sentiment than a stick of incense or diamond dust.

    That's evil to me, more so than anything I ever saw Kzagoth do. Ashla almost died at his blade, after she'd grudgingly extended him a modicum of trust. I understand how she must feel, especially when her paladin senses and blood all scream that he's evil. I also understand that she wants to protect me. But change perspectives and try to imagine the scene from his side: returning to find us meddling behind his back, tampering with the ruby he forbade us touching and worse, much worse, finding Marielle slumped before it, senseless.

    I've never truly been afraid of Kzagoth, until that moment. Even his tempestuous rage at Whisperwick's betrayal didn't scare me, but as the scene above sank in, the Cambion grew very still. His voice was deathly cold, the kind of cold I'm trying to forget hearing in your voice too, recorded on that hidden crystal Houl sent me.

    'Out of the way or I will kill you', he said - though most of us had already shrunk back instinctively. Ashla, however, moved in the opposite direction. Towards him, fearless, trying to explain though it was not the time for words or reason.

    Ashla says Zamo Palewind's forgiven without hesitation for being possessed, but Kzagoth was not - his mind dulled similarily to ours though, through the ruby. 'We never tried to kill anyone in that state', she said when I argued the case. But isn't that just because we were never in Kzagoth's situation? Reverse the scene: I'm flat on the ground, seemingly dead, Kzagoth hovering over me with a guilty expression as my party storms into the room, a room he was specifically told to stay out of, near a magic device we were very protective of. With minds and wills frayed thin by the black moonstone, would this really be a moment of calm debate or would they take to arms in a rage, much like he did?

    It bothers me that I'm accused of 'making excuses' when I'm just trying to see the full picture. The jokes that I had a crush on Kzagoth were fine, because I thought they were just that - but if anyone really thinks I'm beguiled by a Cambion who never once turned his charm my way, then that rather makes me feel pathetic. He is handsome - of course he is, all sorcerors are - but that part only makes me feel uneasy.

    I thought I saw the real him, that time we met outside the Manor. His loneliness resonated in me. That obvious self-hatred that not even solitude (especially not solitude) can alleviate. Is it so stupid, so very naive of me to think that even if the world sees you as a monster, even if you yourself see you as a monster, you can still choose to act to the contrary? And that one day, with those repeated choices and the help of your friends, you'll no longer see a monster when you look yourself in the mirror.

    Isn't that what I hope for Aenhever too? We're all trying to support him, but I think that to Kzagoth, it's Marielle's acceptance that would mean the world. Restoring their relationship isn't about the politics or rulership of Caldera Manor, not when it comes right down to it. It's about that hope and I refuse to have it dismissed.

    Thanks for listening, Barton! Not that you had much choice - I'm going to keep writing until you find me you know. If you're cost-conscious, hurry up!

    Your wordy sister, Laura"


  • It's beyond late when Laura, exhausted, scratched and sootied, creaks the door open to L3. Nox immediately separates his sleek black shape from a cozily shadowed corner of the room, meowing anxiously and slinking around her feet as she makes her way towards the bed, each step a weary, defeated shuffle. She slumps onto the bed, while the cat insinuates itself into her arms, buffing her chin with its forehead and licking her jaw with a sandpaper tongue. Laura's lips tremble. As Nox begins a rumbling, soothing purr, she buries her face into his silky fur and cries.

    The next morning finds its occupants sleeping in late, Laura eventually and groggily waking to wash herself off, fetch a mug of tea and then sit staring at her notes blankly. While Nox sprawls out to a full sized panther, claiming the bed to himself, she abandons the attempt at studies to write:

    "Why does it have to be so difficult, Barton? Why so messy, so hurtful, so full of peril, fear and failure? Why, when calm and clarity of mind is so well needed against the Cerebrelith's many guiles, do I have to lose just that, time and time again. I want to be hopeful, but we've made so many mistakes, wrought ruin to every boon handed to us, or so it feels right now.

    The most pristine, clearly glowing moonstone, ruined! Didn't I swear I wouldn't let that happen again?

    The exciting fossil recovered from that same moonstone, ruined. The chance to study moonstone formed into crystalline beings, ruined, alongside the chance of setting a servicable trap for the demon. And that's not even the worst part.

    The Zhentarim's arrival was a cruel twist of fate, in itself no one's fault. I knew we had no business fighting them - even leaving aside the slim chances of surviving the immediate confrontation they'd been itching for a reason, it seemed to me, to strike at Moonreach with the forces gathered near. A contingent of 300 or so well trained soldiers, according to the particularily nasty envoys of last. Jaxon stiffened, seemed still as stone beside me as the soldiers stomped into the frost-coated, glittering moonstone chamber.

    Their very presence felt a mockery to the virginal beauty of that place. The threat was acute, a pressure in my chest that I struggled to swallow down. Think Laura, think! Talk. We had to talk, had to negotiate, to throw them off Jax and Nerrez' scent somehow, had to...

    ...had to fight.

    Patrik threw the firebomb without warning. I saw it happen from behind, in a sickly slow-motion that made my life practically flash before my eyes. I knew it - we were as good as dead and still there was nothing I could do but watch that small, round, sealed little object sail in a lazy arc through the air. I had time to regret not having written my goodbyes to you, Barton. Time, even, to hope you wouldn't spend the rest of your life in sorrow and vengeance over my fate. Just enough time to pray you wouldn't hate me for having come here - and then all hells broke loose.

    First, the contingencies blared like sirens to my arcane senses. Alarm, Whispering Wind, everything you don't want going off when you know there are hundreds more where those present are easily enough to kill you. Secondly, the mages fizzled into sight, already incanting their battle spells. Thirdly, steel flashed and the cries of my comrades filled the room.

    I don't understand how I'm still alive. I feel like I shouldn't be - that I'm just dreaming, deep in a coma and clinging to life by the barest thread. Everyone was dying and I was running, trying to get them up, trying to peel myself off the ground next. It was madness and chaos and in the midst of it all, Aen, slumped and bleeding out on the ground, transformed.

    The beast inside, clawing its way out when death loomed imminent, was fury incarnate, attacking friend and foe indiscriminately. There was broken moonstone everywhere, in the air and underfoot, making the bloody scene bizarrely fragmented and filled with a twisted beauty. I tried Clarity while the werewolf still tore through the Zhentarim ranks, but it was to no avail. Later, when my friends too had fallen like broken dolls, I simply ran. Perhaps I could circle around and get someone else on their feet before the inevitable, I thought, in as much as I thought anything.

    My spear had long since been disarmed, but in my hand I clutched a single piece of gleaming moonstone. When a shadow of dark fur leaped over my head, I stopped in my tracks, held it aloft. My hand trembled, my voice waivering. Did anything I tried really matter or was it just that I was last, the last still on my feet? A part of him, the part that lives in the far recesses beyond endless rage and hunger, must have known that if I went down, the others would die too. And Aen's ever trying to protect us. Even from himself. His lupine eyes were suddenly filled with terror, meeting mine. Then he turned and ran.

    I got the others to their feet with bandages and my remaining healing. And then the weight of it all came crashing down upon me. The loss of that wonderous chamber, the one Farian found for us, the one that I am sure is what brought his rare and somehow troubling sunny mood on. He looks a different man with his eyes so bright, without so much as a scowl on his face - it's troubling in the same way that stumbling upon him in the bath was; suddenly seeing a man, and not an unattractive one at that. Not so old as I once assumed either. (Yes I know, fancying your professor like ~that~ is the classic, cliché mistake - one I absolutely won't make. Again.)

    Still, it breaks my heart to have to tell him the gleaming bright moonstone's all ruined and the amazing fossil with it. He's been going down into the dungeon a 'lot' to find such a thing and here I even stupidly questioned his good cheer as falsehood and trickery by the demon. I feel like such a failure.

    Aenhever, we found a day and more later. Mudein's Sending came unexpectedly but to great relief, for despite Granthim's search the trail had been lost in the Moongazing grounds. As if he vanished into thin air, said the imp. Turns out, that's sort of true. Kzagoth, bloodied and torn, sat wearily near Aen's strung-up shape, tending to injuries clearly wrought by fang and vicious claw. He brushed questions and concern alike aside, limping off while Mudein stayed on, as per instructions.

    Aen was ... gods Barton, he was himself and at the same time not, caught in an agonizing inbetween state. Too tired to struggle, but still not reverting to human form. Not fully. Mudein was troubled, said this was very rare and suggested we look into his lineage for explanations. The beast's lineage, to be more precise.

    The shackles, heavy, iron-wrought and goblin crafted, were strong enough to hold him securely, but to get him into them must've been such a struggle. It was written all over Kzagoth's bloodied frame and added to by the mangled goblin corpses scattered across the hill. The Cambion must've somehow managed to have flown the hulking werewolf here, before their bout continued to this end, upon which they contacted us.

    Aen's eyes were filled with shame. He pleaded for us to go away, to not look upon him in that wretched state. Octavia, as gentle as I've seen her, gave him water. He drank with a reluctant whine as I approached. What can you say, at a time like that? What can you do, except just to be there in support? I put my arms around his side, trying to console him as best I could while the others spoke soft words. I wanted him to feel warmth, to know I wasn't afraid or revulsed, that I simply cared. Eventually, between all our efforts, it worked.

    Restored, Aen dropped out of the too-big shackles, slumping forwards. Exhausted beyond words, afraid to know but still compelled to ask what damage he had caused. He's resting now, as we all are. Licking our wounds when we should be using what time we have left to prepare for the fight that matters most. The Cerebrelith won't rest. But at least for now, it cannot enter the Keep itself, at least not directly.

    I wish I could say the same for the Zhentarim.

    I love you, Barton. If all of this goes very badly, remember that I made my own choices and don't ever blame yourself.

    ~Laura"


  • It's late at night by the time Laura enters her room. Nox's golden eyes gleam down from a high shelf, the black cat nestled in amongst a pair of thick tomes, meowing admonishingly at her til she lavishes him with the appropriate amount of pets. She drags her boots off and changes into a ridiculously oversized, frumpy nightgown and thick woolen socks, finally taking a seat on the bed, where Nox deigns to join her. Laura lights the bedside candle and plucks a muffin from her pack, carefully wrapped since that morning. She sticks a single raven's feather into its top and contemplates it in prolonged silence, her expression bittersweet. Nox buffs her hand and starts to purr loudly, shaking her from her thoughts. With a small smile, she takes a bite out of the muffin, reaches for her stationary and writes:

    "Dearest Barton,

    Today was my birthday. Technically, I suppose it still is, assuming I write this on the right side of midnight which is hard to know for certain. But be that as it may, you've officially missed it. Again.

    I'll admit, 19 is an age which holds no particular significance, neither an even 20 nor a coming of age number like 18. And I always hated my birthday anyway - which is why I'm sat here in the dark, with only Nox for company though I could have tried to make things festive and shared it with my friends. But I'm invariably maudlin when this day comes and not only because I so often spent it alone. It's the time of year when the absence of our mother and father suddenly grows acute and palpable. What I want most of all on my birthdays has always been to be too busy to give that absence room to grow in my thoughts.

    This year, however, I feel like I was given a gift, albeit shared with all the group. We found Doba and with heartfelt apologies back and forth, all is forgiven! Not only that, but we also found a hidden entrance into the Tarnished Fane - an area even more huge than I'd envisioned, wreathed in darkness and gleams of fool's gold.

    We explored but a single corridor of a darkened prison-wing of sorts before coming upon the Kenku's nest, alight with candles from the Abbey and a curious, large metal slab with warm, glowing embers embedded within. Oh, and naturally we nearly perished as is tradition in exploring new places - fighting a golden-armoured undead dragoon, on the way in 'and' out. It's decidedly similar to the one in the catacombs above, yet instead of darkness and cold rot, this one seems filled with liquid metal. The corruption of both has similar roots, of that I'm almost certain (which is as certain as I ever am, with insufficient data).

    It was astrologer Farian who sent us after Doba - he's been going down into the dungeons for days now, returning dusty and scratched, yet as ever acting aloof and indifferent as though he couldn't possibly care for anything but the components the Kenku trades him. I know differently though. I know he cares, and I suspect that same care is why he took the black candle out of my unwilling possession. To study it, he says, and while that may be true, I think he wishes to protect us in his own way. I'm grateful to be rid of it as the only measure I could think of to safeguard it was to place it in a lead-lined container.

    The sample we painstakingly dragged back is man-made, much to my initial disappointment. I was hoping to learn the spell Farian's given me clues towards, but it wasn't to be. At least not today. But it ~is~ a curious specimen, older than the area we found it in most likely and bedecked with runes of a younger date as though repurposed for some unknown function. Likely it's part of a greater whole, which may await our future discovery. It's all very exciting, minus the risk of having our brains devoured that is.

    The second astrologer of the day, Attelo as he calls himself, might be another figment of the Cerebrelith's. Then again he might very well not be and provided the most interesting information about the area in times of old - in fact he speaks as though he visited a long, long time ago and in returning, found many things different. Even his yellow key, which he possesses and we do not (yet), came from a source long since absent.

    Attelo is quite pleasant, yet there's something about some of his conversation which feels probing in that same way the woman with the staff did. When he too asked 'Wouldn't you agree?', I felt distinctly unsettled, as though he was having a secret laugh at my expense. There's no way of knowing for sure - not yet. And I'd never spurn a fellow scholar, for if I'm wrong it would be more than merely rude.

    It was Attelo who pointed us towards the hidden entrance, after all. We wouldn't have found Doba without him and so gratitude seems in order. Except, helping us along the way doesn't negate the possibility of the Cerebrelith's involvement. After all, does it not seek those who seek the book? What if it's just nurturing our minds for a more full-bodied meal? Still - I can't go around treating every stranger with accusation at the top of my mind, that's no way to live. I'll thank Attelo but part of me will stay wary too.

    Sensible Laura. Is it a sign of being all grown up or more like the same as ever, though?

    Lieutenant Rixx, who just had to bring my mood down to my ankles before bed, assured me you were certainly dead and lost, for meddling with the wrong people. He didn't make much sense as to why a small clique of influential Peltarchians should be more dangerous than a Cerebrelith and the Zhentarim combined, though his fear was no doubt real. I'll choose to disbelieve him on your fate though, because you know how to handle the wrong kind of people, far better than the likes of Rixx, I'm sure.

    He also thought I was 25. I'm not sure if I should be offended or flattered when several of my friends expressed a similar surprise at my actual age. Maybe flattered though? I was never very good at being young. I hate parties, after all. I hate dancing and flirting and playing giggling games of who likes who. Patrik thinks I don't know how to even have fun - but I think I'm probably just an old soul, who knows what it likes and doesn't too well to pretend otherwise. Give me a cup of tea and good conversation, any day. Give me a good book and a cat on my lap and how could I possibly be unhappy for long?

    I do wish you were here, though. Nox isn't much help with this muffin and I'm too tired to go get milk to wash it down with. You officially owe me another birthday gift, so don't you dare being dead, Barton. That's no way of weaselling out of finding me the perfect present.

    Your officially ancient sister, Laura"


  • Laura, wrapped in warm blankets and with Nox purring on her lap, sits in her bed to sip a large mug of tea. Stormwinds rattle the many small windowpanes, the sound of distant thunder rumbling lowly throughout the Keep. On the nearby desk, a multitude of candles are lit, fluttering faintly at another gust of wind outside, though the open book's faded pages are carefully weighed down with smooth crystal. Laura's progression in restoring the text is slow going, and the chill of evening's driven her into her cocoon of blankets instead. Fingers warmed from the tea, she reaches for her stationary on a nearby pillow, adjusting the limp cat in her lap as best she can to begin to write:

    "Was it ever this way for you at Moonreach too, Barton? Whenever elation over some small breakthrough or revelation hits me, the very next moment tempers it with a chill - of fright, of worry, frustration or downright sadness. I wasn't always this way - I thought I was adept at keeping a professionally detached attitude, a healthy mental distance between myself and my object of study. But it's different here, I suppose because the stakes are far beyond mere academic credit. Even the likes of a strict scientific mind like Farian's has at times let glimpse a personal concern. In a remote and dangerous place like this, each person is that much more precious. Both for our collective survival and on a personal basis.

    Doba's missing. I knew he'd be hugely upset at anyone taking his candles, but could never imagine that I would be one of those responsible for such an atrocity in the Kenku's eyes. It cuts my heart to see the empty spot where he'd keep such constant shop, cozily lit by a candle or three. If only Florian had been present, perhaps it wouldn't have come to such a drastic head - but I was unable to properly convey to him the danger the black candle represented, wreathed as it was in powerful necromancy. And worse still, perhaps only by a fraction, was the hand from which Doba's deft thieving had taken the candle (despite my desperate dash to prevent it happening). The Zhentarim came calling and my one tentative hope now, short of throwing the candle down the nearest ravine to an unknown fate, is that the officer who owned it might be keen on shielding his true allegiances from his collegues. I admit it's a slim chance, but Jaxon seemed certain that Ravenhead was a rival of Geroldine's. Ashla's suggestion to leave it hidden by the side of the road as though by accident may still be the more sensible, but I'm worried that it will be found by some hapless wanderer who'd end up in trouble or dead for it. So for now, much to my unease and I'm sure yours if you knew, it remains in my pack. Doba ran off, hurt and confused, and hasn't been seen since.

    He isn't the only one to up and leave, though - to a pang in my heart that I cannot explain as easily as Doba's absence, Kzagoth, Grolmor and Mudein have left Caldera Manor. Or perhaps I can explain it just fine - what I liked about the Manor was that it welcomed those that fit in nowhere else, in a way surpassing even Moonreach's hospitality. It's what you liked too, isn't it? That no one there judged you, they understood, even respected you for what others might shun. And for my part, spending time at Caldera Manor made me feel closer to you, even though I knew myself too soft to really stomach its callous disregard for whatever its members do outside the grounds. Even to each other.

    But with Marielle's awakening and the truth of Kzagoth's actions revealed to her, the Cambion and his closest allies have voluntarily left - to spare her the inevitable decision she seemed to be coming to, despite my vocal protests. Kzagoth broke the rules, and thus should be banished. It's a terrible decision on so many levels, personal and professional both - for shortly thereafter, Rheya's fungalmancers gained considerable ground in the hills outside. While her cure worked, I can't help but find her motives rather calculating as surely Marielle's rigid stance on house rules made the outcome entirely predictable.

    The only thing we could've done differently was to lie, which I felt would be wrong too, considering Ashla's grievous injuries. Actions ought to have consequences, too - but it seems so obvious to me that the whole outcome of that ill fated day was a combination of detrimental factors set in place by the demon: the ruby, with its many intricate enchantments clouding Kzagoth's mind and injuring Marielle's, and the blackened moonstone draining us of our better judgement. For surely we could have waited, could worked on convincing them both instead of going behind the Cambion's back.

    It seems painfully obvious to me that Kzagoth loves Marielle (is love too big a word I wonder even as I write this, but when I see his blind rage replay in my mind's eye, followed by his cradling of her slumped form, I feel no other word will fit) - though she in turn, ironically for being entirely human as far as I have been able to discern - is such a stickler for her rules that his devil blood pales by comparison. Even so, when he spared her the decision and declared his gratitude to her welcoming him there at all before leaving, I thought I saw her falter. He did break the rules, but he did it ~for~ her. As misguided an act as that was, as terrible as it hurt Ashla, I can still empathize. If someone hurts the one person you care most for in the world, rules are rarely the first thing on your mind.

    The Manor seems quiet and dimmed without them, as though part of its fire's gone out. I miss Grolmor's grouch and Mudein's bluntness, even the Malaugrym's strange preference to drift curious tentacles into one's hair or pack in that oddly gentle manner the elderly creature had. I even miss Kzagoth, for it seems his character, conflicted though it was, is responsible for most of the void left behind. As though something vital and vibrant was taken out of the heart of the Manor. The school of the arcane remains of course, but the nerve, the passion that set it apart from others seem faded.

    Meanwhile, the investigation into the Cerebrelith continues. A few days ago, I had an interesting encounter with a robed woman by the trickling waters by the stairway between level two and three of the dungeons under Moonreach. Only, in thinking back on the conversation and the woman, I seem to recall the former very clearly and the latter rather sketchily. More alarming still, in trying to fit together my memory of going from the dungeons to the Mycelium in the company of that same woman, I find the details foggier still, eluding my mind's grasp.

    I had been studying a smear of black ichor in the pool's water, when the woman came upon me quite soundlessly. She had dark hair and a robe, weilding a staff of some sort. Instinctively I knew her for a fellow scholar, but cannot in retrospect divine what gave me that impression, nor any of her robes details or insignia. The more I work at the details, the more they elude me, but our conversation remains clear and vivid like crystal. I shall record it here, for writing things down is a habit I believe wise to continue given our current adversary:

    She commented from behind, as I leaned down to study the ichor:

    Woman: A form of desecration, no doubt, and native to fiends.

    Me (minus the stutter of surprise): Yes, it does seem that way to me too. But does it affect only moonstone I wonder?

    Woman: Probably not. It just chooses to target moonstones, considering their potency. And the fact that they hide certain secrets. There is power in moonstones, like there's power in most of the deposits in this place. Moonstones shine with moonlight even in the dark. That alone is hint enough of their secrecy.

    Me: I'm theorizing that light might be a vunerability of this particular fiend, but that's only for its evident fondness for the dark...

    The woman pointed at a trace of black ichor lingering near the corner of the pool.

    Woman: You missed a spot. It was definitely here.

    I collected it with a vial, suppressing a shudder.

    Me: ... so it was. I think it's not too bothered with the traces it leaves.

    Woman: Could be. But this is a sort of fiend that collects safeguards against its own weaknesses. I think we both know that, don't we?

    Me: Yeah... it's daunting to imagine how much intellect it has collected over the years. And what skills alongside it, you know?

    Woman: Like a school of mages, collecting books and arcana that new students can then learn in a fraction of the time. A living library.

    Me: A friend of mine thought himself to be tracking a collective, in fact. And it does seem like it's both alone and not quite. It would be admirable if not for how... how cruel it is in applying all that knowledge.

    Woman: Can you blame it for adding to its collection? We seek scrolls and tomes. It seeks minds. Like skipping straight to eating the cow that eats grass, instead of eating grass first. Raw knowledge is one thing. Refined, structured, and organized knowledge is quite another.

    Me: Of course not, but it's .... it's such a cold and malicious mind. What would it do with a beautiful blossoming mind like say, a lovely bard friend of mine? How would it even stomach the concepts of beauty within? I keep thinking that's why it broke Houl down first. To avoid indigestion from concepts he held sacred.

    Woman: Everyone has a concept of beauty. No one is one singular thing. Those its devoured already had such a concept. The things considered beautiful can vary, but the concept remains.

    Tell me, is it not a beautiful thing to uncover a secret? A secret that has eluded you to date, which explains all the gaps, errors, and inconsistencies you've discovered and made so far? That feeling of cohesion and harmony, that the world actually makes sense -- the sense you feel when it's uncovered?

    Me: Yes, it's a wonderful feeling. But less so to my mind if you can't share it with others.

    Woman: Some would sooner burn you at the stake for the knowledge you study. They would kill you, for learning. Learning something that contradicts what they think they know . . . that is the true malice. The true ignorance. Are such people really worthy of a knowledge they despise?

    Me: The world has such misguided and narrow minds in it, but I believe once you open one door to their kind of mind, some of them will rethink. Perhaps not all, but... but as a collective we can move forwards despite the odd fanatical fool.

    Woman: That's right. As a collective, we can move forward, despite the odd fanatical fool. We're stronger together, working in harmony towards a common goal: progress of the mind, to learn the nature of the world, so that we can master and make it better. Wouldn't you agree?

    Me: That's why knowledge is best shared, you know? Because it's a collective effort to build and advance it.

    Woman: Shared with those who aren't the typical fanatical fools, for certain. What use is it to share truth with someone who would mock it?

    Me: Well those are the types more likely to bring a torch to a library than eager eyes and an open mind..

    Woman: That's right. They are. No point in trying to have a discussion with someone so keenly un-interested in actual discussion.

    Me: Really, they exclude themselves for the most part. But people are capable of learning, too. Not everyone's like that.

    Woman: On the other hand, and speaking of beauty, there is something quite beautiful in the art and practice of conversation. Is there not? With the right people . . . We all become much more enlightened for it.

    Me: A good conversation is an exchange of thoughts after all. What could be more enjoyable than that?

    Woman: Precious few things. Hm. The creature was definitely here.

    Me: I feel that way reading a good book too, in fact. That I'm conversing with a mind - even if the author's long dead, that's a form of immortality.

    Woman: It is a form, . . . yes, . . . even better, to read a whole library. If books are immortality, then libraries are the immortal afterlife. Aren't they?

    Me (with vivid recollection of a certain Tuigan's desecration of a library shelf): If only they were as sacred. You wouldn't believe what people do to books, in ignorance or just petty malice!

    Woman: Sharing is ideal, but only when done correctly. Share with the wrong people, and you end up with a torched library.

    Me: Perish the thought...! But - but I do think even those not naturally drawn to libraries should be encouraged to seek out knowledge that broadens their minds.

    Woman: Yes, . . . they should be, shouldn't they . . . ? Those who wouldn't be naturally drawn to libraries, should be encouraged to seek out knowledge, that broadens their minds.

    She was repeating my own words back to me, for the second time now. I found that strange and couldn't shake the feeling that we were talking about something far more than literal libraries, yet pressed on - for I do believe in bringing outside perspectives into research lest it becomes stale.

    Me: How else will we find fresh new angles, if not for those diamonds in the roughs?

    Woman: . . . After all, . . . a library is just a different way to learn. A different way to collect and share knowledge. . . . How true. Even novices can have a natural talent, . . . and potential - room to grow, capacity to think , . . . even if they have not yet learned all they could. You do not refuse an empty cabinet, simply beacuse it is empty, especially not if you have books to store in it. Provided it is built well, and has good capacity.

    That definitely gave me pause. Empty cabinet shelves is not at all what I meant, and I had the sinking feeling of having unwittingly encouraged a Cerebrelith to feast upon the uneducated masses. The strange woman had seemed oddly knowledgeable on the topic from the start, though I too had enjoyed the conversation and kept trying to keep that uneasy notion from my mind. It doesn't do to succumb to paranoia after all - and even now I was far from certain, trying instead to clarify my meaning.

    Me: What I mean is... sometimes you've got to nurture a mind to see it reach full potential. And libraries are such a nurturing ground, if not the only kind. It's the gift that keeps on giving.

    Woman: To nurture the mind is divine, in that I agree. There is no greater a thing for a scholar. It is why we must open the doors to the library, to those who are able to appreciate its contents. We must open the door, and invite them in. If they are a true scholar, they will accept the invitation. Don't you agree?

    She wanted me to agree again. I pushed aside the queasy feeling that I might be nodding along to a brain-eating demon's notions, trying to tackle the conversation with my full sincerity instead. And I do truly believe in the merits of an open library.

    Me: Of course! What use is a library that no one can access? The magic of a book is dormant and meaningless until it finds a reader.

    The woman veered off topic then, glancing back into the waters.

    Woman: It did something to the waters in the Mycelium, didn't it? Something similar to that which it did to the moonstones here, and the red gem at Caldera Manor.

    Me: I don't know what, yet. But the effect seems similar - poorer judgement, heightened aggression amongst it.

    Woman: The secret - its reasons why - must be observable within. This water must run from or to the Mycelium. We are, after all, only one level above.

    Me: I wonder about the demons that once ruled over the Mycelium. Was it one of them?

    As I turned my gaze up to her from the darkened waters, she began to speak - but here my memories blur. Time seems fragmented and hazy, til I stood at the Mycelium's waters and spied therein a similar smear of black. The woman, if there ever was a woman, was gone. And thinking back, I cannot quite shake the disturbing notion of having stood face to face with the demon itself, leading it blithely along to the Mycelium. Not along paths it didn't already know from Houl, I imagine. But just the thought of the ichor coming from it being 'right there' when we spoke, instead of an old trail I and the woman followed is deeply disconcerting. As is my unwitting encouragement for broadening its range of victims. Empty shelves with good capacity..! Dear Mystra, I hope I really am just paranoid, especially since I must admit that the conversation itself really was quite intriguing. At least until that niggling doubt began creeping down my spine.

    Again I wonder if the minds and souls the Cerebrelith consumes become wholly a part of it, or if they're somehow separate, hoarded like precious tomes in its living library. If so, can someone recently 'collected' like Houl reach out to the living? Was that woman one of those consumed, too - now a mental cloak to be worn to converse, if indeed that is its pleasure?

    As my friends arrived to the water's edge, I put the strange conversation behind me - that is until an elder Myconid echoed the words the woman had used, in speaking of the very same demon who had come to their realm an age ago to set a trap to lure victims in. 'A living library, devourer of knowledge more refined than text, book, or formulae, sought those who sought the grimoire.'

    Yes, that grimoire, Barton. The Lesser Key of Sullivan, same as the one Rheya desires and Wavesilver wants. Yet it isn't of the demon's making, but more likely hails back to the demonbinder era. My studies into its origins are far from complete yet, though.

    'The Catalyst of the Tarnished Fane, the Lesser Key of Sullivan and the lithic words of old', spoke the last of the elder Myconids we could find. 'Such was the attempt . . . it failed . . . seek not the older danger, . . . lest you wish it seek you.'

    The so callled 'Tarnished Fane' lies somewhere deep below, connected or so I believe to the areas past the Abbey which might run below the Mycelium too. A manner of temple area, past a yellow seal door. The Catalyst is a powerful artifact supposedly capable of great transformation - sought by many, found most likely by Lokelani's sister in her ill-fated quest to become a true fey. The ancient magic sparked a reaction in the poisoned seeds already planted by Houl, causing the present corruption within the Mycelium.

    All this is exciting progress in our search, but as ever it's a long way forwards, fraught with danger and riddled with uncertainty. Not least the very probable notion that it was the Cerebrelith who pointed us this way. Seeking, as it did before, the seekers of knowledge. And yet we must go on, for none of us can just abandon our quest, least of all Lokelani.

    Your up-and-down humoured sister, Laura"


  • The warm orange glow of the fireplace at Caldera Manor illuminates the slumped form of Laura, curled up in one of the big armchairs with her chin awkwardly perched ontop of her knees and a book pressed flat to her chest. Her ever present glasses reflect the gently shifting flames, half sliding down the length of her nose as she drifts between sleep and waking state - unwise, perhaps, to let her guard down so at the Manor in which everyone's looking out for their own, as Feowem put it. But then she might not be entirely alone - in fact her satchel, half-open, reveals two pointy black cat's ears, twitching at any sudden sound. Nox is awake, even if Laura is not.

    Some time later, her own snoring wakes her and Laura bolts upright, looking around in mild confusion til she realizes her whereabouts and relaxes, rubbing a no doubt sore neck. With a huge yawn, she settles back into the chair and plucks a fresh page from her stationary, dipping quill tip into ink to write:

    "Sometimes when I speak with Feowem, if achingly rarely since he shunned us for associating with the Mycelium, it's reminiscent of talking to you, Barton. I can see why you're friends, and though my own friends think him prickly and moody (at least of late), he's precious to me for that reason. When at last his frost thawed, I found myself both seeking his advice and quarralling with him without reservation, much like I would do with you. He is as blunt as you too, and not afraid to tell me when I'm being an idiot.

    I really do feel like one, too. We came to the manor to discuss our findings regarding the monster from below - a Cerebrelith, as it turns out, a powerful demon employing both cunning, psionics and if need be, raw physical force. The book had the right of it, as did Ashla with her gut instinct; it is a fiend, and as such will have a range of unfair, annoying immunities besides its obvious and powerful mental abilities. Add to that all the tricks and skills learned from the minds of those it consumed, and it's a very daunting task going after it. We're not ready for that yet, though chillingly the longer we wait, the stronger its influence might become.

    Over time such a creature can grow to dominate entire communities, and so our efforts of peacekeeping seem more than worthwhile. Divide, isolate and conquer is the demon's tried and so far too true tactics, which I suspect it will employ on communities as well as individuals. Rheya's olive branch is hovering in the air, Kzagoth and the rest of this place naturally suspicious of its validity. I remain hopeful, on that front. So long as as the proffered cure works on Zamo Palewind, it could then help Marielle and Mills too. From there doors might open towards actual communication and even potential collaboration.

    Given this hope and our recent progress, why then do I feel like an idiot, you may ask? And the answer is Caldwell Wavesilver. In speaking with Feowem on the matter, it became blatantly apparant that I haven't got a single clue what to do about that man's upcoming arrival. I naively assumed you would turn up - I'm still hoping that you will, but obviously that cannot be my one and only plan. Feowem told me Caldwell's looking for a rare book, which may or may not be real, and may or may not be but a lure at the end of your pole in fishing for this mud-lurking slime fish. I can imagine what it is you meant to do, but what would you have ~me~ do in your stead, Barton?

    And what do I want to do, myself?

    I feel so very ill equipped to tackle this on my own. I wish I had some form of rage to draw on, but in thinking of our parents and all that which is lost and denied to us, all I feel is a hollow space inside my chest. An intangible sadness that doesn't even have a face, for I have forgotten theirs but for the briefest, shattered shards of recollection. How you forge that into vengeful, decisive action, I am at a loss to say.

    Ashla, in her usual calm practicality, suggested we capture the man and make him confess, printing the details thereof to spread all across Waterdeep to clear my family name. I suspect such an aim would strike you as too little, too late, but I can't go for blood, not when I don't know the details, not when I can't even summon up the anger I know I should rightfully feel. I'm just not a killer. I'm not even sure that I can ask my friends to do what Ashla suggested - it feels selfish and wrong somehow, for my personal life to become their problem. On the other hand, wouldn't I gladly offer my help to them?

    But it definitely can't be anything that I wouldn't be prepared to do myself. Surely that's the limit. Maybe if I learn enough pertinent facts about Wavesilver, about this book he's after, I can think up a plan along Ashla's general line of reasoning. Is it time to put my Legend Lore to use at last? The more I know, the more tools I'll have to work with.

    Compared to the danger of a Cerebrelith on the loose, threatening entire communities, the man who branded our family traitors is a small and personal matter. But in considering that you, I and cousin Henry (shockingly in Narfell too, throwing himself into peril by the sounds of it) are all that remains of the whole family, it's also deeply important. About Henry; should I reach out to him? It's shameful to say that I don't even know what he looks like, when he is my only family aside from you. And he's at the front, too! It might be dangerous, but if I wait, he may no longer be alive for all I know.

    I'm afraid, Barton. Afraid that I've lost you, that I'll lose him before we even have a chance to meet. Without you, what does it even mean to be me? And without you, do I even care about Caldwell Wavesilver? Neither punishment nor redemption of the Cade name will bring back what's lost.

    I feel lost, inadequate and fumbling for answers, but I know one thing. I have to still try and do ~something~.

    Your stubborn idiot sister, Laura"


  • Seated by her desk, Laura peruses an ancient, rotted but carefully preserved tome with equal parts avid interest and deep concern. Sunlight filters in through the many squares of glass in the lead-lined window of room L3, illuminating the desk, the book and its reader as well as the black cat Nox who is sprawled out with his fuzzy belly up, languid paws almost nudging Laura's elbows. She gives the occasional distracted pet, the silence of the room interrupted only by the turning of a page and Nox's soft purring.

    Only later, when the warm sunshine has withdrawn from the room, does she rise, stretch and fetch a small snack. By candlelight, spilling crumbs across a fresh page of stationary, she writes:

    "My head is finally, ~finally~ clear and the truth of our troubles revealed. I wish I could say that eases my heart, Barton, but the hard fact is that we failed. Or rather, we failed in one very important part, but succeeded in another. I pray that clearing the moonstone will still matter, when it comes to dealing with the monstrosity that's broken free of the ancient temple. But the harsh reality is that everything we thought we knew of our enemy must now be revised.

    Even the blackening of moonstone, I now believe had more to do with convenience than religion or farflung plans to open a rift to the Shadow Realm. For one, it was there, readily available, the corrupted temple sealed away by moonstone. Secondly, the blackened stone holds potent properties to cloud minds and render them more vunerable. Proximity to it makes coherent thought an ordeal, fritters away at memory and sanity. The shadows we thought kept assailing us en route to the temple were all illusion, phantoms of the mind. Perhaps that's true of all of them, though it makes them not the least bit less harmful for it.

    There was never any curse - there was only the monster and its spiderweb spread of darkness through the moonstone deposit, influencing us all. Thin, near imperceptible strands of it reached as far up as the floor above the main hall - small wonder that the commoners were acting like a mob and that even the clergy fell foul of the so called curse. The corruptive properties of the blackened stone were all around us and through it, a fell manipulator worked. A tall and towering figure we only barely glimpsed as it flung open the doors to its former prison, stunning all of us in the process.

    Even Houl, at what should've been his moment of triumph, mid-sermon with his arms outstretched. He knew himself duped in a single, cold, horrified moment of clarity before the end. A grisly end I wouldn't have wished on my worst enemy, let alone a misguided priest whose initial intentions were no doubt good.

    It 'ate' his brain. Cracked the top of his skull open like an egg to feast on the insides.

    I can't help but think the cruelty of having Houl realize the truth entirely intended. Thinking back to the voice we've heard through the mouths of Houl, of Palewind and Mills, reflecting on its persistance to bring about pain and loss, and comparing that to the tome recovered from within the temple, I find myself wondering. Selunites sealed the temple with moonstone, trapping both the monster and the heretical cult who had made use of it inside. Quite obviously it drove them mad and ate their brains - but was there more to the writer's madness than that?

    He thought himself to be speaking to his friend Silas, to see him clearly. Was that all insanity or does this monstrosity retain aspects from the victims it consumes - their memories, emotions, perhaps even skills? Does it hold grudges - targetting Selunites for spite? There's no doubt that whatever this creature is, it possesses a cold and calculating intelligence. And it seems to me to have a certain preference, a 'type' of mind it finds more delicious than others. If it feeds on more than mere brain matter, that makes perfect sense.

    The question is how to figure out that preference, before the bodies with brains scooped out start piling up. Not to mention figuring out how to fight it, when every weakness we thought we knew might be but another veil pulled over our senses.

    Sorry, Barton - this all came out rather speculative and disjointed, but in summary we recently went after Houl, finding several obstacles in our path to slow our progress. Some of them dealt with by our allies, others by us personally - Mills and Palewind among those, whom our enemy had very diligently attempting to murder themselves lest we abandon mission. We managed to thwart that ambition twice over, but it may have all been a bid for time to complete the ritual that broke open the temple below, a maddeningly slanted building encased in moonstone, now completely blackened.

    Though thinking back, perhaps it had been too late for some time already. Either way, I find I cannot blame myself when the truth was so obfuscated and my mind at such obvious disadvantage going in. I'd suffered horrific flashes for the week or two leading up to the event. I'd see your body before my eyes, broken and lifeless. I'd feel the hot blood gush over my fingers as I rushed towards a stunned Ashla, Kzagoth's blade painting a crimson arc as it split her side open. That paralyzing feeling of shock, of sorrow and defeat left me as much of a sleepwalker as ever my comrades, as Mills who'd stood staring blankly into space.

    I was falling apart and I knew it. Simply having my faculties restored feels in a somewhat selfish way a win. The ritual we performed at the heart of that hidden temple really was a win, cleansing the entire moonstone deposit! But it won't be a true victory until we deal with the root of the problem. In the blackened temple, we found evidence of an ancient binding circle, once used to hold the creature captive. The rotting book shed more light on the how and why, though parts are entirely illedgible and others difficult to interpret for lacking context and archaic wording. It's all very exciting, but I find myself ashamed to say so with the very real danger still at large.

    It's clear to me that identifying the true nature of our assailant is the imperative next step. But I'm struggling to find any relevant source material in all of Moonreach Keep to shed light on it. What little I've scraped together points elsewhere - towards Rheya's gloaming tower at the Mycelium and Caldera Manor, where we still have an uphill struggle to deal with the fallout of Houl's actions under the creature's command.

    I still hope to intercept Wavesilver at Caldera Manor, too. And I still hope you will do the same.

    Your busy sister, Laura"


  • The sun is setting, turning the mist that seems an everlasting companion of Moonreach Keep tinged amber, peach and fiery red. Out on the small garden ledge, a lonesome female figure sits, head bent over her writing - although on second scrutiny she isn't entirely alone, for carefully sidled into her shadow sits a small black cat, watchful yellow eyes gleaming faintly. As day fades into night, Laura writes:

    "Most beloved brother,

    I hope you know that you are just that, Barton. Beloved.

    I mean it in a genuine and deep-rooted way, I mean love in that it's you and me against the world, should all the world ever turn against us. But never will I be on the side that's against you - you have to know that. You have to rely in that, even if you yourself feel like I'd be justified in taking such a stance.

    I am not saying I'll condone everything you do, by sheer virtue of being my brother. I'm saying, plain and simple, Barton, that I'm a thinking, feeling, responsible adult now - and that you should trust that my judgement is sound when I say you're not alone.

    Is it vengeance you want? That's not a sentiment with which I'm intimately familiar, but please don't think I won't empathize nor that I will shrink from helping you, if help is what you need. I know that name by now. Wavesilver. Will that person coming here be what reunites us? Or wiill your hand waver from striking him down, if I am present?

    If it does, I'll punch that man in the gut myself and while he gasps for breath, I will bid you explain to me. Explain, if you can, why death is the punishment of choice, rather than stinging disgrace, financial ruin, public humiliation or any number of other choices available. It seems when it comes down to it, it's always a life for a life - even in hypotheticals, like the one Ereda and Lokelani debated.

    For my part, dear brother, I would like my enemy to be alive to suffer my retribution. For a good, long time, at that. Ideally they'd have the good grace to find actual remorse in realizing their crime. More ideally still, they'd work to rectify it for the rest of their lives, thus sparing others a similar fate.

    I'm not sure if that makes me an idealist or simply crassly pragmatic. Maybe it's a little bit of both. Aen called me vengeful when I suggested there was a way to make the collective pay for a collectively poor decision. Not with loss of life, you see. But loss of community. I found that fair, while Aen thought it cruel.

    But the premise of the argument was that this community had caused the death of one's sibling. Meaning you. And I cannot think of a retribution suitable for such a terrible loss, unless it too felt like a terrible loss. I'd just want everyone involved alive to feel it. Perhaps that is cruel, after all.

    All this is to say, my dear brother, that Houl's attempt to hurt me, to cut me in such a way as to create an opening for his attempts to make a puppet of me too, have got to me, but perhaps not in the way that he anticipated. He showed me a recording of you at your worst - not just professional worst, but with a bitter, acidic edge glimpsing through. A you you never showed me - remorseless and harsh. Killing a man. But throughout it all, all I could think was how lonely you must be, to carry all this anger yourself.

    It isn't yours alone.

    Even if I don't remember them, they were my parents too. Please, Barton. I understand why you kept me in the dark before, but I'm no longer a child. It's my right to be involved. It's my duty to share the burden with you.

    Find me. Include me.

    Let it be you and I against the world.

    As it should be.

    ~Laura~"