Within the swirling Mist (IC) > Biographies

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Song of Danta:
These journal entries, marked upon vellum with ink of ground charcoal, are bound into a rothe-leather cover and kept upon Malagdrin's person. All of the writing is in Undercommon.


--- Quote ---
FIRST CYCLE

Cold ash rains from the cavern ceiling here. A ceiling that I can not see with mine sharp eyes, for it is shrouded by a veil of mist. It is unbearably cold. My breath hangs in the air and my limbs seize if I stand still for too long.
Jabbress Claddrahel came to find me stumbling through the gloom. With a flame-wreathed sword, she beat the chains from my ankles and took me through a strange forest where the trees were not ghosts and the ground was not of stone and grey filth. The smell of life riddled the boughs above me and the stench of death permeated from the leaves and pulp below my feet. Delicate creatures, the likes of which I had not seen before, flitted through the woods. At first I was fearful, but I later discovered that they are a peaceful and gentle animal, as afraid of me as I am of them. A rarity whence I came.
As time wore on, the mist cracked above us, and a horrible fiery light spilled down upon the earth, whereupon we took shelter in a cavern.
There, the jabbress spoke to me of freedom, a thing I have tasted only once before, and for a cruelly brief moment. She told me that supplicants of the Spider Queen were few in this place that I know not the name of. That I would not find myself in chains again. Then, she fed me and blessed me and had me fight.
Potential. She spoke this word often.
I say that my potential is squandered so long as I am not guided by a master's will. There is no thirst, no desire, no hope, and my mind does not wander to thoughts of the next cycle.
I never became someone in chains.

Malagdrin of Guallidurth.
--- End quote ---

Song of Danta:

--- Quote ---
THIRD CYCLE

I have come to find myself  in a strange enclosure. Rather than being bordered by walls, this prison is bordered by thick mist. Caravans come and go from here, but I do not recognize the names of any of the destinations. I do not even know the name of the place whence I came.
Searching the notices here yielded one useful piece of information: a craftswoman is known to ply her trade here. I met her, and with the scant sum in my purse, I secured a suit of armor and a fine steel pick. The workmanship of both pieces is exquisite.
When the ball of light reared its face, I retreated to the darkness of a tent. A nesst clad in dark armor approached me, explaining that he recognized my speech. We took to a lengthy discussion in which I asked him many questions about this land, and how I might eke out a living: a difficult ploy for a cave-dwelling recluse.
He advised me that precious few places would offer me permanent work, but that I could bring plants and fungus to him for a hefty sum of coin.
This nesst knew a half-breed ilythiiri, and thought she may take pleasure in the presence of another who spoke her tongue. I warned him that our kind tend to see one another as competition for food, and made no promise that she would enjoy my company. He told me that he would propose our meeting to her soon.
A word or two was traded regarding my newfound freedom. Another who believes that it is a wonderful thing that my chains are broken and no jabbress bids me toil.
We parted ways, and I took words with the caravan master the next time darkness fell, inquiring as to the most mountainous region he could deliver me to. 'Barovia', he said, and with the last of my coin lifted from my purse, I was on my way.
For a time I roamed, but the cold air bit like a Cavvekan and the terrain was difficult to traverse. I moved uphill where I eventually crossed a craggy region, and a short ways from the trail, I found comfort in the cold womb of a cavern. It does not appear to be inhabited aside from some petrified creatures, but being so close to a path, I imagine that travelers may frequent this place, disturbing my solitude, and perhaps even going so far as to assault me. I will move on if and when this cold subsides. At least there is some fungus for food, and a few drips from the cracks to quench my thirst. As for the boredom, I know not how to allay it...

Malagdrin of Guallidurth.
--- End quote ---

Song of Danta:

--- Quote ---
SERMON I

Close your eyes.
You are in the Skulking God's domain, now.

To see spoils curiosity. It spoils the adventure for your other senses.
You can understand much of a thing by mere sight. In the darkness of the depths, that advantage is lost. All is dim and grey.
Could you find your way by touch?
Could you tell which fungus would kill you, and which would feed you, with your fingertips?
Could you feel all the beauty of a crystal with your palms?

You sneer.

You have a torch. Or a ball of magical light. Or a lantern.

But I ask, dare you draw the attention of that which lurks?

You are brave, traveller.
_________________________________

Embrace the darkness, and discover the shadow of the world you overlooked.

--- End quote ---

Song of Danta:

--- Quote ---
FIFTH CYCLE

I saw a figure come to the cavern today. The metallic reek of blood followed him. Though it was not the most pleasant change from the dank scent of mold-covered stone, it was different. I am always glad for a little variety to enrapture my olfactory sense while I am stuck here.
The stranger set down some bedding, but rolled it up again just as quickly and left. My scuffling must have been audible.
Judging by the wicked-looking tools laid across the table deeper in the lair, I am not surprised that interlopers would be hesitant to meet the inhabitants. The blood surrounding the macabre work-bench is ancient, however. The individual who created the 'statues' that guard this cavern has long since moved on.
Another cycle comes and goes, and the cold shows no sign of abating. I will continue to commit sermons and hymns to vellum. It is something to keep my mind active, for when I lay down my head, it is filled with harrowing howls, the crack of a whip and the syrupy scent of burning flesh. The only sensations I hate are those that my mind concocts when I am at rest, brewed from fragments of memories.

Malagdrin of Guallidurth.
--- End quote ---

Song of Danta:

--- Quote ---
THE HYMN OF WELCOMING

Come, all you, with blood on your hands,
And those bound from distant, plague-ridden lands.
If a price is paid for your untimely demise,
Or the songs of your homeland are harsh battle-cries.

Be it a deluge that breaches your lowland plot,
Or by a bitter blizzard, your body be fraught.
Seek shelter below in the long hollow halls,
Where we pitch our temples and our fortified walls.

Here, you'll find food, and shelter, and friends.
Until the storm in the light-lands ends.

--- End quote ---

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