Thaelandriel Ni'tessine - Augur's Path

[Danuvis]

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

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

[Danuvis]

[A journal page filled chiefly with a painstakingly detailed and intricate drawing of a blackened heart, the gaping maws embedded into it resembling that of canine creatures. A poem written in an unsteady fashion is committed upon the same parchment, directly below the drawing itself.]

Blackened eyes confess of a blackened heart,

O, a foul and wicked creature thou art.

Atop carrion banquets rests your seat,

From whence, O spirit, foul justice you mete.

The bloodless doth answer your sullen summons,

Led into the deep's dim, deadened commons.

Harbinger of the black; a tainted omen,

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

[Danuvis]

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

Mirtul?

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

I thought this a gift, yet now I see that I am cursed. An oddity, something unwanted, my death is eagerly anticipated by the people of this wicked place. Even the trees bay for my blood and flinch as I take shelter beneath their limbs. The hatred etched into the very core of this land is palpable, almost tangible. It hangs in the air like a sour, heavy scent.

I cannot stay. The moon rises once more and the wood is restless. The worth of the People has been judged, and even we of Blood Split In Twain have been found wanting. 'Abomination,' whisper the larks. 'Death,' say the eyes of the beasts and natives alike.

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

[Danuvis]

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

The scarlet executioner wavers, sand slipping through his fingers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Danuvis]

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

[Danuvis]

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

Spoiler: show

Dearest Thael,

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

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

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

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

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

Oghma's wisdom, Thael, and stay safe.
~ N
3rd Uktar, Year of the Spur.

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

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

I see a world across the stars,

On the bright shoals of the sea,

A house, sagging with age.

Within, a picture frame, covered in dust,

Yellowed and warped by long years.

Of two young lovers,

Divided by death, united by time.

[Danuvis]

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

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

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

The oathsworn are not what they seem.

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

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

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

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

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

The leaves rustle in agony. The ashes settle.

[Danuvis]

[An entry amongst many, bereft of a date and filled with the half-elf's musings of whatever it is that transpired that day. Smudges of ink and splatterings of blood render small portions of it illegible.]


So ends the first chapter of this undertaking.

I have spent many a waxing of the moon now contemplating whether everything should have transpired differently, for I have sequestered myself away in utter solitude. If I could be whisked away back to that crucial moment mere breaths before the ritual, where I could pass over the wild emotions that churned my stomach, perhaps [...]. Could I have, after I had led my companions over lofty peaks, beyond treacherous terrain and into the biting cold?

Mayhap I would, but what - if aught - would have changed? It is not a question I can answer, no matter how relentlessly I wrack my mind. What remains is a sense of overbearing guilt and, ultimately, failure. The [...] is lost, a large portion of [...] now needlessly turned to ash. It is a guilt I will wear for years, I know, lest I [...]

Their Justicar dead, [...] the cult scattered to the four corners. If he had not the crescent [...] then it had passed from their filthy hands. I had expected them to keep it as a trophy - perhaps they had used it for trade. Another impossible question to answer, only adding to my frustrations and feelings of failure.

So here I remain, a prisoner of this foreign land for which I have no love; a flightless bird dragging itself along a road with no end in sight. There is no escape, no warmth; no siblings in faith to rely upon. I am alone, at the precipice of inevitable doom.

But where now do I continue my quest? What path is left in this tumultuous land?

Why has She abandoned me?

[Danuvis]

[A touch calmer and more orderly than the previous entries, though nonetheless bearing the hallmarks of a trembling hand, the parchment upon which the scribblings have been committed appears frayed and torn to the point of risking crumbling apart at the slightest mishap.]

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

Green cloth is crudely torn by rat's claws.

Three wilted stems lay on mossy ground - hemlock, nightblight, and strychnine. Torn up with the roots, they will never recover.

The frog princess soars across the night sky.

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

The chalice rolls over wooden flooring, blood in its wake.

Something bubbles just under the surface. A huntress waits.

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

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

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

Calm waters boil from the warmth of human touch.

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

The butcher's son, once more, rests.

[Danuvis]

[A plain entry, written in a careless, scrawled manner that suggests exhaustion or a lacking quill employed in its creation.]

There was a time when doubt was all I knew. It was a pervasive, unwelcome thing, gnawing upon my mind almost every waking moment. So many things in this plane roused that dreadful sensation, and I could hardly fight it. It has been years since then, and I thought I would never feel that way again, especially with others by my side; with Anastasia by my side.

I was wrong.

I am stronger in faith than I have ever been, than I even thought possible; I have become experienced and well-versed in worldly matters that my countless decades of wandering the Old World never yielded me. How can it be, then, that I am still so very weak, so helpless and bereft of direction?

I feel invisible. As though my presence is meaningless, without influence, purpose. In all my years spent here, I have achieved nothing. I have watched friends perish, vanish, with nary a chance for making a difference. Good men and women, gone; like a candle flame snuffed out by the wind - as if they were never there. These vile lands remain as they were when I first appeared here, full of strife and suffering, darker for all the goodness that has been lost.

I am uncertain if I have ever truly affected anyone in the way I am meant to. Am I that beacon that She needs me to be, that luminescent flicker in the ever encroaching dark? I do not think I am. She knows I have tried, I have given it my everything, but in this moment I cannot help but wonder if I am deserving of the power She graces me with.

I worry for my dear heart. Anastasia has struggled so very much, she has suffered in all too many ways, yet I could do nothing to alleviate her pain. Even now, I do not think I can. My words have been empty, hollow, never enough, and my company scarce in the wake of duty, duties which seem to amount to nothing but more and more death. What is an oath worth when it brings about the dearth of joy? When one cannot even lift up their beloved, what truly are you? When even in her presence I feel invisible and alone, what hope is there?

Perhaps it is for the best that she is forced to face this world without me. I cannot watch over her forevermore, as these past few tendays have proved. I simply cannot be there to safeguard her from everything and everyone. I realise now that I never could, and in this truth I find the gaping void inside of me growing wider and wider until it tugs at my very existence, begging for release.