Author Topic: Aidan's Journal  (Read 839 times)

BlankStare

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Aidan's Journal
« on: September 24, 2020, 05:39:55 PM »
[Aidan's "journal" consists of a series of notes scribbled on scrap pieces of parchment, used spell scrolls, and even cramped into the margins of some of his other books.]

Quote from: First journal entry

I never would have thought that I, of all people, would have any use for a journal. There was a time when I was known for having a memory like a steel trap, and writing anything down would have seemed a waste of time. Now my recent experiences leave me unable to fully trust what recollections I still possess, or even my own perception at times; and so this has become a necessary exercise.


Where to begin? My name is Aidan Rathcore, of that much I remain certain. I still possess most of my memories from before I was first taken by the mist, as far as I am aware. Back then, I was highborn; a third son of a proud Cormyrian house, given to the esteemed College of War Wizards to apprentice as a Battlemage. I would have been well-suited to the life of a War Wizard, I expect, but for the intervention of the mists.

My memories of that first year or so after being taken have become hazy. I attempted to escape near the end, I think. I pushed deeper into the mists than was safe. I'd been warned that doing so was dangerous- that prolonged exposure to the mists could lead to memory loss, and worse things. But like so many other warnings rooted in good sense, I assumed it wouldn't apply to someone like me.

It was, in retrospect, perhaps a tiny bit arrogant of me.

I've washed up in Barovia again; and I've gathered that more than a year has passed since my mistake. It has been.. challenging. I feel as if a bit of the mist lingers with me, smothering my thoughts. Some days- particularly at first- I found it nigh impossible to focus on anything at all, and I walked in a haze; trying to think was like fighting quicksand.

That part has been getting better; but I have been experiencing more troubling side effects. Episodes come upon me like hallucinations; and I see people who are not there. Sometimes, I cannot hear or see people who are there. I have seen ordinary people break apart into clouds of mist even by daylight, like apparitions. Most alarmingly, during the worst of these episodes I have perceived those around me twisting and distorting into dark, wicked shapes, shoulders hunched, arms hanging long and tipped in claws-- I have seen these creatures before! But where? There is something my mind is trying to tell me, I think, but I cannot grab hold of the memory.

Beyond this, I have also witnessed hostile, skulking figures out of the corners of my eyes- they're not there when I attempt to focus on them more clearly, but I can sense them watching me with predatory eyes, sometimes.

Of course, this being Barovia- those might actually be real.

The episodes are, fortunately, becoming less and less frequent. It occurs to me that, whatever this condition of mine is, a powerful enough priest might be able to aid me in recovering more quickly- but I am hesitant. I have been taking some pains to hide these things from what few allies remain to me after my long absence. If I approach a priest and my allies begin to suspect that I might be mad through some failure of discretion, it's going to be all the more difficult to persuade them to go along with my plans- which sound mad enough to my own ears already.

The lack of trust is frustrating. Just because I see things that aren't there doesn't make me completely insane. Probably.

I am less than I once was, though. This much, I can tell. The man in my memories is not quite who I now feel myself to be. The Aidan Rathcore of my memories- those that I still have- was a man of great compassion and charisma. Somewhere along the way, I seem to have to have lost that. I find myself faking emotions more often than feeling them, these days; and connecting with people as I know I was once able to do has become.. difficult.

I don't think I was faking it before. The man in my memories cared deeply for people. I sometimes feel as though I have been hollowed out- that what remains of me is more shell than man. Perhaps this is all another part of my malaise? I hope that it is so, and that it will all pass with time. Perhaps the Mists function like a poison, and I simply need to allow it to work itself from my system.


Quote from: Notes on the Hospice

I was surprised to find that the old Hospice is still open. At first, I had assumed that it must have been abandoned and picked up later again by the Halans; but I have since learned that it has stayed open continuously from the days when I myself ran it, passing from me to Tess, to Hypatia, and now to the Halan order. In a way, I feel like the grandfather of it's current incarnation.

It lightens my heart, somewhat, to know that at least one thing that I did has served to lighten the burden of suffering here; even if my own role was mostly limited to throwing a lot of money at it and organizing the staff. I must seek out this "Sister Amelia", and see if there is anything I can do for them now.

More importantly, I must get inside the building. It has been locked down every time I have attempted it.

There is something there, I believe. Something that I left there? I have foggy recollections of locking down the doors at night to conduct meetings with.. someone. Someone who's face and name have become choked by mist in the corridors of my memory. We had guards on the door, traps, wards- something significant transpired, and it gnaws at the corners of my mind.

If I can just get back inside, I am hoping that the setting will jar my memory. I cannot shake the feeling that it is important.


Quote from: Notes on the Drow

The Mists seem to have acquired an unusual appetite for dark elves, of late. It seems that the area is crawling with them every time the sun sets. These seem to be unusually.. Mellow. I have had no prior experiences with drow that I have yet been able to recall; but I am familiar with the tales of them from my homeland. From what I have been able to discern thus far, these are indeed largely Faerunian drow, and largely Lolthite. (Though one apparently worships Malar. I had to double check several times to be sure I wasn't hallucinating his response. A Malarite drow? Wonders never cease.)

Shyael assures me that these drow are harmless, cut off from the resources and power structures of their homeland as they are, and left to an environment quite hostile to them. Everything I have witnessed thus far suggests that she is right. Except one thing.

By all I can remember of drow lore- Lolth isn't just a goddess, she is a demon goddess.

I have memories- fragments really- of contending against worshipers of a demon prince.

I remember a woman, a captured priestess, strapped to a stone altar in a damp and reeking cave. Her face is lost to me, but the feeling persists that I knew her well.

I remember the vampires- their faces, I can recall perfectly. They were leering down at her, taking their time, offering her to their master slowly. They'd drawn the monster's sigil with her blood; and it wounded something within me just to look at it.

I remember attempting to save her, though they were many, and I was but one. I remember failing.

I remember her screams, and the scars they left on my soul.

If that was a ritual to a demon prince, then how much worse a demon goddess? Can anyone who has bent the knee to such a being ever truly be harmless? These drow may be struggling and isolated now; but what will they begin to do when they have established themselves?

I must find this Matron of theirs and divine her intentions. I'd like to discern for myself just how harmless she is. Then, we will see.

Never trust a demon. Never trust a drow.

Quote from: Notes on the Dragon

My experiment with the dragon managed to take place much more quickly than I anticipated. It was also of highly questionable value.

The creature answered my questions. Indeed, it's answers even more or less verified what I suspected to be true.

But I cannot shake the feeling that it was all.. Too easy.

Can the dragon's testimony be trusted? Even if it can be trusted to be honest, is what it believes to be true actually correct? Can I trust Severine to have relayed everything to me faithfully?

So many possible points of failure. So many ambiguities. (Just as Severine intended, no doubt). In the end, there is only one firm conclusion that I am able to draw: This line of inquiry is a waste of time.

There are a thousand thousand layers of deception between me and the truth of the Mists. I could not hope to unravel them even with a dozen lifetimes. I have come to the conclusion that I cannot risk including the Ezrites in my plans; not unless I can conceive of a far more decisive test.

I've decided not to broadly publish my findings, for the nonce. Not only can I not be entirely certain of them- but the all-but-inevitable conflict and condemnation from the church would no doubt consume vast amounts of my time and attention that are better spent pursuing more fruitful lines of inquiry.

It was a little tempting, though.


Quote from: Notes on the Sisters

There are two (Three now?) vampires terrorizing the region by nightfall. Of them, I have only seen the one- a "Danya"- in action thus far. She fights in a manner reminiscent of the Deathsinger of old, though mercifully without the Singer's repertoire of mind-effecting spells.

At the moment, they seem fixated on satisfying their basic predatory instincts, with a dash of personal vendetta and vengeance thrown in. Nothing that concerns me overmuch. They're not going about trying to summon a bloody demon prince into a densely populated area because they're just that godsbedamned crazy. (May you burn in hell, Deathsinger).

I wouldn't be paying them much mind at all, save for one detail.

They have, apparently, been inside. Inside that place I dare not name, nor even write.

And I must, must, must squeeze them for every detail that I can, somehow. Every doorway, every corridor- every last trap, guardian and ward- any detail at all could be the difference between my life and death.

But how to make them talk? And how to do it without drawing his attention?

How?

They say he has his eyes and ears everywhere.

Every bird and bat and wolf.

Are you watching me, even now, as I write?

Have you somehow divined my intentions?

No- I've been so careful. So careful.

But what magics does he possess that I can't even guess at?
« Last Edit: September 24, 2020, 05:58:02 PM by BlankStare »
Current PC: Aidan Rathcore

BlankStare

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Re: Aidan's Journal
« Reply #1 on: September 30, 2020, 05:30:48 PM »
Quote from: Second Journal Entry

The symptoms of my mist-poisoning (if such a term makes sense) seem to have largely abated. I've not suffered another "severe" episode in something close to a week now. Occasionally, some few minor distortions still take place- I have, for example, on three occasions now hallucinated pools of blood forming in my footsteps and following me around for brief periods; limited to a span of twenty minutes or so. In the grand scheme of things, I do not consider these to be terribly concerning- as such visual quirks are easy to ignore; if a touch alarming when I first noticed them. I have not observed any more of the strange, distorted creatures or apparitions- for which I am thankful.

I have considered, of course, that if there are any subtler hallucinations taking place, I might not necessarily be aware of them. I cannot yet think of a way to test this, as a basic trust in the reliability of one's senses is a prerequisite for most forms of experimentation. Since I cannot test it, I have decided for the nonce to accept the basic reality of most of the things that I am seeing. If I were to begin to question the existence of everything I encounter with no means of ascertaining the truth- Well, that way lies a madness worse than the one I have been enduring.

Besides, many of the people I have been encountering are so strange that I don't think my imagination would have been able to concoct them.

The one symptom that has not subsided at all is this accursed dullness that I feel within. This apathy. I have began to question, though, whether it is fully the fault of my mist-poisoning (I will continue to use that term until I discover a proper name for whatever it is I have experienced, if there is one), or perhaps something more psychological in nature.

I reflected much on this, this previous evening. When I first emerged from the Mist- after I had regained some small measure of basic clarity- I was almost immediately subjected to litany after litany of the horrors and tragedies that had befallen nearly all of my closest friends during the year in which I had been absent. Perhaps, to some degree, this has begun to effect me in ways subtler than I knew. Ever before, I was secure in my confidence (Alright, fine, perhaps arrogance is a better word) that I was in control of my fate. That I, Aidan Rathcore, was powerful enough to protect myself and those dearest to me. The events at the end of the last year- and apparently during the interim between then and now- have shaken that within me. Now, I understand what it is to dread the prospect of loss. Perhaps this, exacerbated by my experiences with the Mist, is the true root of the difficulty I have been experiencing in connecting- in caring. There is, after all, no pain in losing what one does not care about.

Of course, understanding the root of a thing is distinct from knowing how to address a thing. My "epiphany", as it were, is no cure. But the burden of it does rest a little easier on my shoulders, for my understanding of it.

Quote from: Notes on the Hospice

I have finally been able to recover my lost possessions from the old Hospice. It took some degree of patience to find a Sister who could offer me a tour while I had Liss available and nearby to provide the necessary distractions. Sister Rimewood ended up being the one-- Though something seems off with her, now. She seemed somewhat out of it- a little slower, compared to the way she was when we'd first met. Perhaps the result of a curse- or perhaps simple overwhelming exhaustion. Either way, her condition made our job a little easier.

Taking advantage of an impaired nun to steal illegal contraband from a homeless shelter. This is what my life is now.

It was worth the effort, however. Aside from some largely personal effects, I was able to recover a small bit of writing that I suspect was at the root of my hazy desire to retrieve the cache.

Rhea Eleutheria was many things. To the public: a wererat, an assassin, a crimelord, and a monster. To me, she was a friend, a philanthropist, a damned fine scholar, and maybe even a good woman. It is the third of those qualities that is pertinent. It took me several read-throughs of her treatise to catch the implication that must have struck me the first time I read it, and led to me stashing it away. Rhea must have had some notion of the danger of it, since she attempted to hide it from the Erudites. Now, the thing she wished to conceal from them could well be a very important key to my future project.

Apologies, my friend. May whatever shade of you that remains trapped here forgive me for abusing your research in this way. If I get the chance, I'll finish that other project of yours.

Please don't haunt me.

Quote from: Scribbled in the Margins

On a completely unrelated note; I learned from Sister Amelia that the city is only charging the Halans nine hundred fangs a month in rent for the Hospice. Nine hundred fangs. I had to pay six thousand! Teresca, my friend, if you weren't dead- we'd be having words.

Quote from: Notes on the Nature of the Demiplane

I was recently able to get my hands on a sizeable collection of new scholarly works concerning the nature of the Demiplane that I'd not seen before, courtesy of my new friend and ally, Liss. It must be noted that I use the word "Scholarly" somewhat loosely here, given that the books lack a certain..

Well, alright: They're largely useless drivel. Completely unsupported speculations and grandiose claims that the authors haven't even attempted to defend. The sort of intellectual diarrhea that comes from ignorant neophytes looking to make a quick name for themselves among the masses who don't know how to spot the difference between true scholarly work and fantasy. Not a single source. Not a single listed experimental process. Not even a single supporting observation. I've known instructors who would have petrified me for a week and set me out as a lawn ornament to serve as a warning to other lazy students if I had so much as thought about attempting to publish work like this during my days at the College. (I'm thinking of you Mistress Kannah).

I weep for the state of academia in the Core.

However. As I discussed with Liss- though the speculations within are largely worthless, some few things can be ascertained from reading in between the lines. For example, nearly all of the works attempt to speculate on the natures of observed "sentiences" within the Mists- Sentiences which are alternately referred to as dark spirits, dark presences, or dark powers. This suggests that, at the time these authors were writing, discussions of such "beings" were commonplace in certain academic circles- which means, out there somewhere, there might actually be something written on the subject by a competent scholar. Something I'd like to look into, to be certain.

My greatest takeaway from all of this is the confirmation that I am going to have to continue to conduct my own studies if I mean to accomplish anything.

In this regard, I have had something of an advancement. I have had a small stroke of brilliance (as I am sometimes prone to doing) and conceived of a clever trick that may aid in gleaning some amount of unique information. Actually, it's a very simple trick- but sometimes simple tricks are the best. I won't record it here, for fear of prying eyes, but much of my coming days shall need to be dedicated to the preparation of it to meet our schedule.

The costs of our plan will be high, however. First, a companion that I have had from very near the beginning. The other will very likely be the life of a newly-acquired friend. I mourn this- to the extent that this grotesque Serpent that I am becoming is capable of feeling anything- But it seems to be the only method with any likelihood of success. She knows and accepts this, for her part. We both understand that one does not get to fool the Devil on the cheap.

I have heard it often said that evil struggles to comprehend what is good. I'm not sure how much faith I set by that- I have known too many extremely good and honorable people twirled about the fingers of evil beings like chattel. But hubris- That much I am familiar with; I have indulged that vice myself all too often. Hubris has it's blind spots. We who are exceedingly arrogant tend to view everyone else as playing at the same games that we are. After all, the things that are important to us must be important to everyone else, no?

Those with greedy minds will view everyone else as greedy, and thus as a threat to their possessions. Those obsessed with status will view all others as the same, and name them rivals. Those with scheming minds will assume everyone else is a schemer, and scheme accordingly. (Case in point: I was invited to share a glass of wine with a woman earlier this week. I spent the first half of the evening convinced she was attempting to assassinate me with poison. After I discarded that notion, I spent the second half of the evening convinced she was a pawn of dark forces and was attempting to steal my research to twist to her own ends. As it transpired, she'd merely thought I was attractive and wanted a date. Go figure.)

All of that being so, I would guess that a person who plays the game of immortality must assume that all others hold their lives equally as dearly. A person, then, who is willing to lay their own life down to accomplish their ends- Such a one is difficult to anticipate from an immortal's perspective, to predict and prepare for. The key to beating a master at their own game is so often to be playing an entirely different game. In this way, the simple can confound the wise; and the weak may sometimes baffle the strong.

That, at least, is the theory. There is a reason "theory" and "practice" are different words. He could just be watching all of us right now, and laughing.

Quote from: Written on the back inside cover of a romance novel

1:27|7:13|6:1|5:4|
17:2|12:4|25:8|1:11|
9:4|17:40|8:1|12:33|
42:5|18:9|12:11|18:14|
3:12|12:33|1:4|13:6|
12:4|2:2|12:52|4:1|
4:2|14:16|2:15|22:4|
14:4|11:23|17:2

Just in case.
« Last Edit: September 30, 2020, 05:34:01 PM by BlankStare »
Current PC: Aidan Rathcore

BlankStare

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Re: Aidan's Journal
« Reply #2 on: October 16, 2020, 12:19:16 PM »
Quote from: Third Journal Entry, Reflections regarding Knowing What the Hell You're Doing
It's been three weeks since even my most minor of discernable hallucinations subsided. I feel more like myself again now than I have in a very long time. Even the holes in my memory have rapidly been filling in. This has been a somewhat bittersweet experience- the more faces and fond memories I dredge up from my past, the more disappointment I find in the present when I look into the fate of these lost friends.

I had the chance to meet with the sun priestess, Iridni Ren, last week. I had known her by reputation of old, though we'd never much had the chance to speak before this. Aside from matters of business, she was soon able to confirm the losses of nearly everyone remaining on my "list". Worse than mere confirmations of death, she wove stories of madness and heartbreak and soul-wounds. While not exactly unexpected, they were not easy tales to hear.

I've been finding myself thinking of these people often lately. Not long ago, in a conversation beside the Tser Pool, Liss and I discussed a concept we both had of the mythical "Person Who Knows What the Hell They're Doing". The idea that we, as orphans kidnapped to an unfamiliar and dangerous world, bereft of all that is familiar, often latch on at first to those few who seem to have some degree of confidence in handling the dangers of the Demiplane.

I was fortunate enough to have four such figures. The first of them was an elven woman named Earebrithiel Bedweth. On the night I was first "Misted", I had been brought to the Lady's Rest to receive the classic "So, this is your life now" talk. As if to punctuate all of the dangers that were being explained to me; some idiot proceeded to barge through the door with an entire pack of werewolves hot on his heels. Before I could even finish scrambling out of my chair to begin the process of panicking, the elven woman in the back of the tavern- Earebrithiel- had calmly stood, belted out a quick song, and cut the mongrels down with her sword in less time than the retelling might take. It was like a rope thrown to a drowning man- "Here is a woman who knows what the hell she is doing", thought a younger me. As long as someone like her was around, surely I could survive in this place.

After Earebrithiel was Sorayanna Witfield- she who taught me to brew potions; a woman I still think of as my mentor in most regards. She seemed to know everything about everything; and I'd have believed her if she told me she'd personally seen every last inch of the Core. It was Loredana Vaduva who taught me much of the value of words and inspiring people to hope. Morvayn Sven taught me how to kill vampires and other monsters that I once believed to be so far beyond my reach. These were the people who knew what the hell they were doing.

It is portentous, perhaps, that all of these people are dead now. Earebrithiel apparently driven into insanity and slain. Sorayanna, drained dry by the Deathsinger. Loredana having sacrificed herself. Vayn- invincible Vayn- left dead in a sewer, slain by an ooze and a broken heart.

All of the people who knew what the hell they were doing are dead now; and bizarrely, as the wheel turns, I find some few people coming to me with their problems and their fears just as I once did to those others. "Are you not a War Wizard, Aidan Rathcore? Can you not help us? Don't you know what the hell you're doing?" - No, I want to reply. The man-with-the-plan that you're looking for was Vayn. The woman who knew what to do in every situation was Sorayanna. Loredana could have found the words to say to keep you walking in the light. I am but a shadow of a shadow of my mentors, who remain etched as giants in my mind.

I wonder now, sometimes, if they were ever faking that unshakable confidence, as I feel that I myself do so often- or were they really every inch the heroes I thought of them as? I would sacrifice much to have them at my side again, even if only for a moment.

Quote from: Notes regarding Fiends
I have found myself with an increasingly urgent need to study the nature of fiends and how they and their summonings interact with the unique properties of our Demiplane. Indeed, so many of these cases have popped up recently that I have been forced to put some of my other projects aside for the time being.

I had initially- during what was in retrospect a burst of incredibly foolish optimism- assumed that the planar properties of this realm might work to our advantage just this once. Given that it is the case that Outsiders such as fiends are typically banished back to their home plane when destroyed on Toril, I had errantly theorized that their inability to escape this plane might result in a fiend's total destruction if it were to be forced out of it's corporeal form here. This was a grievous error on my part- as I have since learned through my studies that the demiplane apparently goes out of it's way to offer even greater shelter to summoned fiends than it does to undead creatures. Demons and their ilk are, apparently, tremendously difficult to truly destroy here.

Perhaps worse even than offering the creatures this nigh-indestructibility, the plane itself seems to react to the act of making a fiendish bargain. I have encountered more than one case now of a pact-signee being overtaken by a mysterious dark presence following the act of signing the pact- an event which granted them power (and corresponding disfigurations) in excess of that which was promised by the bargain- even, it seems, to the surprise of the fiend who offered the initial bargain itself. This description of a "dark presence" seems in line with other such descriptions I have heard of strange curses befalling those who succumb to the darkness within the confines of the Mist. The exact nature of the presence or processes that cause these disturbances is still extremely ambiguous.

The result, however, is that those who are entering into fiendish bargains are sometimes receiving even more power than they asked for. Not only is this problematic in making those cultists whom we might identify as "irredeemable" more difficult to deal with; but the increased power also presents a greater temptation to those who might otherwise be on the edge of atonement, encouraging them to reject efforts to help them. This is particularly frustrating in cases where the fiends seem to have taken advantage of duress in making their deals- in open defiance of all I have ever read of fiendish pact-binding. Either different rules apply here within the demiplane (which, admittedly, is not extraordinarily unlikely), or those particular pacts ought to be reversible- if only those who are making them would be willing to reject the boons granted thereby.
 
There is at least one dear friend of mine who teeters dangerously close to this precipice. It has been agonizing to watch her revel in the power gained from her inadvertent pact; foreseeing all-too-clearly her coming rejection of the efforts that I will offer to make on her behalf. I agree intellectually with the ideal that "Every soul must be free to make their own choice in the end"; but still I find myself lying awake into the night wracking my brain in an effort to summon up any manner of eloquence that might aid me in persuading her to choose one path over the other. Thus far, no such strokes of brilliance have occured to me; and I fear I may be running out of time before her course becomes set permanently.

Quote from: A note in the margins
On the subject of those cultists who have gone beyond the level of merely being tricked into making a pact and have actually begun actively assisting these fiends in harvesting souls, I will spill little ink. Anyone who would knowingly endanger the soul of another merely for the sake of their own personal power is little better than a Mortal Fiend themselves, and deserving entirely of destruction. When dealing with demon cultists, you save those few you can- and stop the rest by any means necessary.

Quote from: Notes regarding Planar Properties
Though this business with demons running amok has slowed my other investigations somewhat, I did still experience a small breakthrough from a most unexpected source- A travelling kenku merchant that I encountered while traversing Barovia's equivalent of the Underdark. This charming creature pointed a pistol at my forehead and then offered to sell me a variety of wares. I've chosen not to speculate overmuch regarding how he actually acquired such things, given that purchasing a few of them was rather providential for my research.

One item in particular- a book I've never seen elsewhere- offers increasing evidence toward the confirmation of a theory I have been developing regarding the relationship of our demiplane to the Plane of Shadow. A recent interview with Katja Vinter, who appears to be shadow-touched, was also very enlightening in this regard. If I am correct, this may offer some insight into this "Time of Unparalleled Darkness" that the Ezrites seem to enjoy discussing recently; but the only person who might confirm such a thing for me has proven remarkably elusive of late.

I may have to see what other rare tomes that kenku is capable of acquiring for me.
Current PC: Aidan Rathcore

BlankStare

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Aidan's Journal
« Reply #3 on: October 02, 2021, 02:36:45 PM »
[After a substantial gap, the old journal is picked up again]

Quote from: Fourth journal entry, musings on wearing purple

I find myself returning to Dementlieu often of late. It is not that I particularly enjoy the place- in truth, it comes closer to rousing me to genuine frustration than any other location in the Core- but I find Barovia less and less welcoming of late, and most of the other countries within the Mists are objectionable for some reason or other. (Borca sounds interesting, but I am not sure I would ever feel comfortable eating anything there). As a new friend of mine- a bardess named Dhelindria- recently said, "If we're to be outcasts everywhere we go, we might as well do it where there are comforts."

As ever, I find myself of two minds about the place. On the one hand, I find that the nobility are largely composed of vapid, preening fops. They spend their days speaking of little substance, in a big circle that seems to exist just so that they can pat each other on the head and feel superior. This circle is, of course, closed to foreigners- unless you play by the rules; which seems to involve entering the retain of one of the houses. In so doing, an outlander might find himself elevated to such a status that he might enjoy one head pat for every ten or so of his own given. It is better than nothing, I suppose!

On the other hand, though the system irritates me mightily, there exists a level of energy surrounding the possibility of ascent. Wherever there exists a system and a hierarchy, my mind cannot but help to turn to the challenge of trying to scale it. The idea of joining the system and seeing how far my skills can take me up the pyramid of head patting is an alluring one. This is by design, of course- in creating an 'inner circle' of such appeal, those outside of the circle cannot help but want in. It is a cunning spiderweb designed to catch foreigners such as myself- for the only way to step into that circle is to surrender your individuality. You must speak their tongue, obey their sense of propriety, discuss only the empty subjects they deem appropriate. To stand among them, you must be indistinguishable from them- thus does Dementlieuse culture prevail over all attempts to erode or dilute it. Yes, culture is the real power here- and those who set those rules are ones to watch. I suspect that the cultural advisor, this Regnier Chaboteaux, is a much more powerful political force than might be readily apparent from the outside.

For myself, this enforced cultural conditioning is the one thing that keeps me from trying to play their game. While the idea of becoming a servant to a polished Dementlieuse dandy is a blow by itself, I suspect I could stomach that much. But the idea of surrendering my very self to the flow of the Dementlieuse current- that is a step too far. To a degree, I have come to view Dementlieu as a microcosm of the same effect in the whole of the Land of Mists. For even as Dementlieu hungrily seeks to devour outsiders into it's own culture, so too do the Lands of Mist seek to devour outsiders into adopting it's bleak outlook. For me, this idea has become bound up to an extent in the colors I choose to wear. Dementlieu would paint me some other color on the outside, the Land of Mists would paint me grey within. Both would change me in ways I cannot bear to surrender to. The color purple is a silly hill to make a stand on, but I find meaning in it.

Why find meaning in purple?
It is the color of House Obarskyr, of Cormyr, and of the War Wizard that I once was. I am not likely to see Cormyr again, and so it has become largely pointless to continue to look the part. And yet, the color means something to me. The purple comes from Thauglorimorgorus, the Purple Dragon of Old- the Black Doom of the forest country. A beast of vast age and power, and legendary wickedness.

On the very oldest maps of Faerun, which depict the boundaries of the empires of legend- Netheril and Illefarn and Mulhorand- the territory of the Purple Dragon was marked. It is difficult to imagine the might of this oldest of dragons, such that in an age where men sheered off the tops of mountains and built on them flying cities- this beast's territory was respected as if it were it's own kingdom! Surely to the people of his time, Thauglorimorgorus seemed undefeatable- an evil that always was, and always would be.

But then, by fateful stroke of Orbyn- the Edge of Justice- did the Purple Dragon fall to Azoun Obarskyr, and Cormyr was forged. The maps were redrawn. The Purple Dragon was taken for Obarskyr's sigil- not to gloat in the glorious deed, though he had surely earned such a right- but as a symbol that good had triumphed over the very mightiest of evils. Justice had laid low that which all had believed beyond it's grasp- and an age of tyranny was replaced by an age of stability, goodness, and peace.

This is what the purple represents, then, to me. The belief that good must triumph over evil, that the righteous should not have to flee before the wicked, that ultimate justice will always be done. That a man ought always do whatever is right, no matter the cost. That true love endures, and that mercy can save the lost. That the strong must protect the weak, for the value of every man is equal in the sight of the gods. These were the ideals that were built upon the fall of the Purple Dragon to the Blade of Justice. And if such a beast as he- the scourge of empires- could fall before such simple force for good, could the same not someday be true for the wicked powers that now reign in the Land of Mists? That is the hope that sustains me, and so I wear purple.
I have been mocked, and often, for clinging to those 'fairytale' ideals. Particularly in these realms of grey. The real world, I am told, is not so clean. Here in the Mists, the power of evil is too strong to be defeated that way. Here in the Mists, we make compromises in order to survive. I know this, I know. I have seen the darkness prevail too often, too consistently, in these lands to be entirely naïve. Yet still, my heart rebels, and tells me that the way it is here is not the way it ought to be. Should I live then for the world that is, or for the one that should be? What value has a conviction if you set it down when it is not convenient to follow?

I have stepped on some toes with this, particularly of late. Even now, Liss seeks to make such a compromise with the darkness, in a manner I find unconscionable. Her intentions are good, I know. But one should not have to succumb to the dark in order to save others from it. I intervened in this, perhaps sloppily, and drew no shortage of her wrath upon myself. I am still torn on whether I was wrong to do it. Who am I to interfere in the lives of others according to some lofty standards that I alone care about, after all? I have no right, to be certain, and it was perhaps arrogant of me. And yet, I see her treading down the same path that has claimed Shyael, Solanacea, and so many others that I care for. What sort of man would I be if I did not at least attempt to do what I believe is right for those I love, when their very spiritual self is on the line?

The temptation, the pull of gravity, to do otherwise is strong. To let things come to pass as they will. To stop trying to fight against the current and look out for myself instead. I have never yet succeeded in steering anyone from their course, after all. My fighting thus far has never accomplished ought more than to invite pain upon myself. And perhaps, were I more willing to bend, I wouldn't find myself snubbed to such a degree in Dementlieu. Perhaps I would not find myself at such odds with those I care about. The very inertia of the realm itself, it's reality rejecting these ideas that I cherish, has begun to weigh against me perpetually like a millstone about my neck; grinding pieces of me away to such an extent that I find rising in the morning takes a little more strength every day.

Still, for some reason, the more and more convenient it becomes for me to set my past and my ideals aside, and the duties that I perceive to come with them; the tighter I find myself gripping them. They are the sole rope of truth cast to a man otherwise drowning in the tides of uncertainty, mist, and grey. They are the heart of who I am. I wear purple.


Quote from: Notes regarding Dementlieuse nobility
[This scrap bears many amendments and scribbles- a desperate attempt to keep up with "Who's who" in Port-a-Lucine]

House Desrosiers: Flowers, atrocious colors, related to a marquis
Brielle Desrosiers- assistant to the Cultural Advisor. Someone to watch.
Emeric Desrosiers- Brielle's brother COUSIN. Dandy. Poor painter.

House Corbeau: Restauranteers(?) Social climbers.
Marco Corbeau- Fingers in many pies
Basile Corbeau- One of the few nobles with a tolerable personality
Ella Corbeau- Mage and alchemist. We'll likely get along.
Nadia Corbeau- She of the eternal nose-in-a-book

House Vaillant: Some familiar faces here
Alexandre Vaillant- Baron of someplaceIcan'tremember FINCELLES. Husband of Francette, who is apparently dead. I tried to ask about her and got the stink-eye, apparently something bad happened. Alexandre seemed to imply he was interested in acquiring me as a retainer. I'm tempted- he's a good man; but I fear he's a little too soft to know how to make use of my particular talents.

Fleury Vaillant- Alexandre's brother cousin (?) Is he a commoner now? Something strange happened there.

House de la Rochenoire: Gone(?) What happened to Jacinth? I have a meandering suspicion that it would be a bad idea to ask.

« Last Edit: October 02, 2021, 03:05:22 PM by BlankStare »
Current PC: Aidan Rathcore

BlankStare

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Re: Aidan's Journal
« Reply #4 on: December 19, 2021, 04:02:02 PM »
Quote from: Fifth journal entry, dreams of darkness

Port-a-Lucine is proving less than healthy for me, it would seem.

As has become my norm, it has been some months since last I wrote here. Most of that time has been spent in Dementlieu, this culture that on one hand repulses me, and on the other perpetually lures me in deeper.

I am married now, to one who feels much the same. Dhelindria Rathcore. We have set about the task of making a home for ourselves; something neither of us has had in all our time spent trapped in the Realm of Mists. Port-a-Lucine is the place, if anywhere is. Here, where I can practice my arcane studies more or less openly; and where she can perform for a people who are able to appreciate the finer arts. Here, where the luxuries are finest; where the food excites all of the senses; where you can find no direction to rest your gaze without your eye falling upon some manner of beauty. Here, where politeness and civility are all-but enforced on the surface, in the public square- and where every face is painted with a friendly smile.

And behind those smiles; poisonous, poisonous hearts.

We pledged ourselves to House Desrosiers, who at the time struck us as the most honorable of the available options. This, it appears, was a mistake.

Valerian Desrosiers, the Marquis de Valey. I had thought him a good man. He wears an honorable face, and carries himself with a regal disposition. I have served him with the loyalty and faithfulness of a War Wizard serving at the behest of any Obarskyr Prince; and for weeks introducing myself as being in the 'retain of the Marquis de Valey' has been a point of pride.
We stood by his grandchildren even when fortune turned against his House, and their fortunes were at their nadir. When the heat of scandal turned half the city and more against Emeric, and we found every social circle closed to us. We scoffed at every offer and recommendation that we abandon the 'sinking ship' that was House Desrosiers. I alerted Emeric to every plot that reached my ears; defending him even at strain to my marriage. We saved their alliance with House Vaillant; and with it- the Marquis' own marriage to the woman he loves. We stood by his House even when the supposedly-honorable Paladin of Tyr walked away, breathing venomous slander.

Our reward for this service has been a knife in the ribs; carefully measured to strike where and when it would hurt the most. We made bid for citizenship before the Council of Brilliance; and the Marquis de Valey waited until the very moment we took the floor before the cream of the realm to withdraw his support; on maddened reasoning of us having 'allowed' a dark elf to attend our public, open-invitation wedding. Not a whisper or a breath to us beforehand of the issue, not a hint that we had lost his favor.

In doing so, he opened the floodgates for others to speak against us. A vapid, second-rate performer envious of my wife's talents managed to overturn our bid with cowardly lies, twisting the spineless Baron de Duchbourg into withdrawing his support; invalidating our paperwork in the process.

I managed to remain calm throughout the rest of the session. But I confess that I have seldom seen such red. I woke late last night from dreams full of fire and blood; the like I have not known since I was a younger and much worse man. Betrayal and indignity have been an acrid taste upon my tongue; burning my sinuses, making me thirst for retribution like a starved dog salivating over scraps from the table.

Every day in Port-a-Lucine has smothered me. A part of me has felt like a giant forced to wear a suit of most delicate lace; forced to restrain every movement, to avoid so much as flexing a muscle, lest I tear my garments away. How I long to do so now. I look upon my wife's broken spirit and I hunger from the deepest recesses of my being to remind them what I have been in the past, and what I could be again. My dreams tempt me with the prospect of how gratifying it could be to see the fear in that old man's eyes, as he realizes what an enemy he has made.

I still don't know whether it is strength, or weakness, that stays my hand. The lines that were once so clear to me become blurrier every day. Instincts I thought long-buried boil to the surface in my fitful sleep. Demons I thought vanquished rear their heads once more.

I don't know anymore.
« Last Edit: December 19, 2021, 04:23:13 PM by BlankStare »
Current PC: Aidan Rathcore