January 2, 3044

Good morning, Fea!

We're setting off today on a new adventure—of our own choosing this time! Well, in a way Brandon chose it for us, but it's nice for once not to be worrying about our patrons scheming to have us killed while we struggle along on their assignments.

It seems that up north there's a smallish clan of dwarves called the Goldhammers, who used to be under King Brandon's protection. The Goldhammers have been doing quite well since Brandon and his clan have moved out to Retriever Mountain, until just recently.

Then they found themselves beseiged by some strange winged creatures that shot poisoned arrows at them whenever they came out under the sky. Those struck by the arrows developed a virulent disease which quickly began to spread among the other dwarves. It also became clear to them that the water supply in their underground stream was being contaminated by disease, and many of them began to succumb to the deadly combination of illness and dehydration. Thus they had sent a healthy dwarf named Otto Goldhammer and his family to us for help—Brandon had told them that if they were in need of help, they had only to call on the Scintillating Company. (We'll be sure to return the favor with the villages in the Saffron Hills: "...and remember, if you're ever in trouble, you have only to call on Brandon of the Mountain....")

So now we're off to find out who these creatures are, and why they're picking on the dwarves. It should be a fairly simple matter to settle before we get back to whatever dirty work SkinEater and IronBreast want us to do for our final mission. We're taking care of some last-minute research and equipment-hunting before we teleport in, so I'll break this off here and catch you up later.

January 3

Mmmmm....I may have just done something that wasn't too bright, Fea. They sent me off to find potions of Healing, Neutralize Poison, and Sweetwater, so naturally I went to Avitar. He tried quoting me an outrageous price for Sweetwater, and I talked him down, but just because he was being so contrary (and I was buying so many potions from him) I shorted him about 400 gold in the worth of gems I gave him. He didn't notice then, although he's sure to later. And when he suggested that I might offer him a tip, I flippantly returned with, "Take a bath." I think your irreverent attitude towards his Mightly Alchemistness has rubbed off on me just a little too much! (That's right, I'm going to blame it all on you.) This really isn't the time to be alienating our VileRune allies; I mustn't let this Telperin blood get me into such trouble. Anyway, I'll definitely have to find a way to make it up to him when I get back.

Meanwhile, Nicholai and Cassia have found some interesting things out about these Cupids of Corruption. It seems they're called "Marrash," at least in the tongue of whatever ranger brought in these rather sketchy notes about them. They are indeed great lovers of poison and disease; in particular, they're known for spreading a rather nasty contagion called "Tahkliff." It comes in two flavors, of which the Goldhammer strain seems to be the lesser. (Here's hoping we don't have to deal with the greater form, since without the right combination of Blesses, Cures, and Dispels it will kill within a day....) The tricky part is that the Marrash are seldom seen on the Prime Material—they're usually summoned here by mages or djinn. So who brought them here, and why go after the dwarves? We'll soon be finding out far more than we might wish, I'm sure, but isn't that the way these things always go?

January 8

Gods and Goddesses above...and below and sideways, for that matter. What have I done? I might as well just stop thinking of myself as a Glenzorite, and proclaim myself a professional High Planes Drifter. Ye fishes and little gods....

Well, here I am, trapped on the Ethereal with Simon after a very weird sort of teleport-gone-wrong. (Yes, go on, tell me it could be worse.) I'm racking my brains for some way to get us home, but I'm afraid there's not much on the shelves. I'd give anything to have Mikhael or Nicholai, or even Callous, here with us....they'd surely have a way to get us out of this.

All right, all right, let me catch you up. (I do always start at the end of the story, don't I?) The Company teleported with no trouble at all into the Goldhammer fortress—they have a handy little room set up for the manuever, with high ceilings above and an empty streambed below, so the chances of a teleport error being fatal are minimized. (Count on the dwarves!) Callous set to work at once healing the stricken Goldhammers, some of whom seemed more than a little confused to have an orckish cleric aiding them. The rest of us began questioning the few able-bodied types who had actually seen the creatures, and consulting with their magus Ashe about strategy. These Marrash had done a very efficient job of covering the entrances and exits to the Goldhammer caverns, and shot their deadly arrows at anyone who showed their beards above ground. They seemed to be uncannily accurate marksbeasts, too; their bows have an extraordinary range, and they seem totally unconcerned about return missile fire. Certainly no dwarven crossbow bolt had ever hit one.

So we went outside for some invisible reconnaissance, and for once our enemies seemed to be fooled by the ruse; we were able to scout the area fairly thoroughly without raising any alarms. The main entrance to the Goldhammer caverns opens up on a small dell between four gently sloping hilltops; near one end is a small lake which fed the underground stream which is the dwarves' water supply. Nicholai found several of the creatures' arrows fouling the water, and carefully harvested a few as samples. Meanwhile, Simon and I discovered a carefully camoflauged "listening post" carved into the hill opposite the cavern's great doors, and we managed to get fairly close before one of us put them on alert. To distract them, I created an illusion of the cavern doors opening and Brandon stomping out in all his glory, Dwarven Thrower in hand. They played with the illusion for a bit while we took their measure, and 'Brandon' got to fight grandly, magnificently, and heroically before staggering tragically back into the keep with half a dozen arrows in him.

After conferring among themselves for a moment, two of the Marrash headed off to the west, with Cassia trailing easily behind on Akalina. We captured the rest and interrogated them under ESP, which is how we discovered that, first, they're not too bright, and second, that they were working for something called "the Ormyr." Other details were not terribly forthcoming, so we disposed of them, then rested, rememorized, and began plotting and planning.

Cassia reported that the Marrash escapees had travelled upstream until they came to a much larger lake and disappeared into a small strip of woods. After they had left again, she discovered kuo-toa tracks there, leading to and from the lake. Mikhael delegated Simon and I to go investigate—quietly, he said; like we had in the kenku village. No Problem, quoth we. (Famous Last Words, someone should have quoth back!)

Well, we investigated the lake shore and the woods and found a small camouflaged cache dug into the earth, and lots of squishy kuo-toa tracks. Before we could leave, the squishy kuo-toa themselves appeared, but since we were invisible and Wraithform, we simply cast Tongues and hung out while they scouted, hoping to overhear something useful. (We didn't.) Then we followed them back into the water. I paused just long enough to cast Water Breathing on the two of us. (If only I'd thought to cast Vocalize too—but it just doesn't last long enough....must rectify that someday....).

Anyway, we followed along discreetly enough, and they showed no sign that they knew we were there as they swam into the deepest part of the lake, where a great cavern mouth opened out of the side of an underwater hillock. The whole entrance radiated a faint magic, but Simon dispelled it without difficulty, and we swam through the center of it, as far as we could get from the kuo-toa guards ringing the edges. Quite suddenly they seemed to detect us, though I don't know how—perhaps just enough of our ethereal bodies remained on the Prime to create some kind of disturbance in the water...but who knows. Suffice to say that the alarm was sounded, and fishy soldiers began to converge from all directions. We were not terribly concerned at that point, since their weapons could not harm us; I willingly followed Simon and his usual modus operandi—deeper into the dungeon! I figured that if our secrecy was blown, the least we could do is get as much of a picture of the place as we could before we left, and as of yet they had no idea who or what was invading them. Unfortunately, I'm just not as strong as a swimmer as Simon, and we didn't get very far into the complex before we heard them blubbing for a mage.

"Time to go," I figured, and tried to D-Door us up to the lake shore, but the water in my mouth garbled the verbal component and I lost the spell. Frustrated, I asked Simon if he was willing to teleport, and he said sure, and so I did.

I still don't know what went wrong with the spell. I'd cast it before with no ill effects—certainly not that dreadful gut-wrench you get with Dimension Door. What I should have done is aimed for the teleport room in the Goldhammer caverns. I'm not sure it would have mattered for us, but it might have. Instead, I chose the air above the small lake where we found the poison arrows—Simon has Boots of Flying, and I knew the area well from the hours we'd spent scouting and casting illusions in it earlier. At the worst, I thought, we'd teleport into the water, still wraithed, and get a strange new experience.

Well, experience is certainly one word for what happened, Fea. I felt a horrible sense of compression as the spell veered off course and took me down, down below the lake and into the solid rock below. Teleporting is supposed to be instantaneous, but I swear to you I had time to think of a thousand and one better ways to die as the magic excruciatingly tried to find a way to merge my body into the stone. Finally, we were simply twisted and pulled out of the Prime Material altogether. I'm guessing that because our bodies were already partly on the Ethereal, the pressure was enough to force us through the planar barrier—but it's absolutely not a method I recommend for plane travel. I'm not sure I'll ever be able to teleport again—the very thought makes my mouth go dry!

At least we are still alive, even if we do seem to be stranded here and cut off from the rest of the party. I've sent a Letter off to Baldarien, who's supposed to be here somewhere negotiating with the Xill, but there's nothing to do but wait for a reply. Certainly none of my spells are of any use in plane travel. Sigh. I don't doubt that the Company can deal with the Marrash and the Kuo-Toa without me, but we don't know what this "Ormyr" is yet, and the group is going to feel the lack of Simon's fighting arm regardless.

The Ethereal's a strange place, dear sister. Have you ever traveled here? Baldarien's always avoided it; he prefers the Astral or the Elemental Plane of Air for travelling, but I don't really know what the dangers here might be. So far it seems very boring—all gray and misty, no sun or stars to keep track of time. Simon's getting restless, and I'm beginning to agree that we might as well keep moving. Anyway, I'm once again stuck in the silly position of writing a letter to you that I won't be able to send, so I think I'm going to stop here for now and pick it up again when there's news.

News ... well, I've been dead again. And I'm back in Glenzor.

And that, dear sister, is all you are ever going to hear about that, unless you are inclined to crack my brain open like a pomegranate. And if Simon should mention anything to you—well, let's just say that I don't have to be as crazy as Fharrl to find ways to keep you from repeating it.

The rest of the Company is still far to the north, dealing with the Marrash and the Ormyr. I have no way to reach them. Teleporting is not an option.

I have no idea where Simon has gone.

Fea, I feel so alone. I can't shake this terrible melancholy. It's so much worse than last time I died. Of course, I was in the middle of a mission then; I didn't really have time to think. And at least that was a noble death....

And now I have entirely too much time. I'm alone, and I have nothing left. I've lost virtually everything; my rings, my wand of lightning, my bag of holding, that thrice-bedamned cloak—and perhaps the only magical rapier in this graceless hack-and-slash empire. And my Company bracelet is gone as well—not to mention a fortune in lovingly collected mundane jewelry. Only the Closet and my spellbooks were rescued, and even they are somewhat the worse for wear. Simon apparently used the tomes liberally as Scroll-Books after my demise; a few of the spells even worked for him. But the remainder is a sadly tattered and burned mess...not that I begrudge it to him! It's only due to his brilliant, desperate, and completely unpredictable tactics that I am even here today. I'm not entirely sure your husband can be called a good man, Fea, but he's a magnificent adventurer. He may be by turns exasperating, evasive, or downright dangerous to the party, but I really do think there's an incorruptible core of loyalty in him somewhere, and I have far more confidence in his abilities than I do in my own.

I'm rambling, Fea...I feel so peculiar. I'm not used to being alone anymore. I'm beginning to wonder if I'm really cut out for adventuring. For all that I've got nearly seventy years on the humans in the Company, I still feel like such a child sometimes. I know Mother and Father would still consider me just a baby, not even capable of reaching basic decisions on my own. They're not right, are they, Fea? Perhaps I've just been fooling myself, thinking I could play by my own rules, by human rules or orckish ones; seize the moment, live the moment, rather than wasting decades looking forward or back...But I'm really not so mature, am I? My mistakes are getting my friends—and me!—killed or worse. Maybe I'd be better off giving this up for another hundred years or so. Or altogether. But then what would I do? Go home to Mother and Father, and the Library? Admit I was wrong to leave home so early? Let them groom me to be a "proper" Teleperin? Even if it weren't abysmally stupid to defect to the losing side of the war (and let both sides call me traitor), I don't think I could face their disappointments, or their expectations. There's no one left for them now, is there? Fharrl's long gone into the Dark Night, Draug left the very plane to escape his heritage; no one seems to know what badger-hole Kemendil's hiding in. And you and I, so heavily intertwined with orckish Glenzor...no one in Sindamir would ever trust us again. There is no such thing as a proper Telperin anymore, is there? They'll be the last. It's tragedy, Fea...true and terrible tragedy. Yet how can we change what we are—what we had to make of ourselves?

Fea, Fea, Feanole Alatalinde Celfinril Telperin...maybe I shouldn't have come back from the dead this time. Maybe I should have just crossed that last threshold into Arvanaith, and never come back at all.

Am I in the wrong place? Am I on the wrong side of this stupid, stupid war? I don't know what's right and wrong anymore. I don't even know how to look at it. I'm a traitor to my race, that much is clear, no matter how many niceties I can put onto it. It's true I didn't rain fire onto the defenseless troops in Slaughterhouse Canyon, but I backstabbed their sentries. I didn't put elvish captives in chains to march them back to Glenzor, but I stood guard over them at night. I don't visit the slave markets in the city, but ... I don't visit the slave markets.

I became a Glenzoran a long time ago. I love this city, in all its brutal, rough-and-tumble charm. It lives, in a way no elven town can ever live. But do I love the orcs? More than my own kind? Could I really allow them to rule this continent, this world, so completely that nothing else can thrive? And yet, what can I do?

Who am I really, Fea? What am I? And where do I belong? I can hardly abandon Mikhael and Nicholai and the rest.... The Company is my family now, and I could no more betray them than I could cut out my own heart. And how could I break my oaths to Emperor Chullin, throw away everything I've fought, dagger and claw, to achieve here? I've earned every ounce of respect I've ever gained in Glenzor, and I've won it from the most vicious and hostile gallery in the world.

Yet how can I stand by while the slaughter and the slavery goes on? How long can I bury myself in the immediate struggle for my own survival while the orckish armies advance on my homeland? Perhaps no elven lord would tolerate the chaos and freedom that made Zed's Glenzor so wonderful to me, but does that freedom even exist in Chullin's war-torn Empire? And if it returns, can it be so sweet in a world without elvish music, elvish wine, elvish wisdom? I hated the confines of our Library with a passion that only we young Telperins can understand—but my guts clench at the thought of soldiers, or even the Flintlock Brotherhood, pawing through three thousand years of my ancestors' life work. This war is wrong, this passion for destruction is wrong, and yet there's nothing I can do to stop it, Fea.

Ai! It hurts, it hurts....I can't change it alone, and who would listen to me? What uruk, high-ranked or low, would not slap me in chains for even suggesting that I might sympathize with the elves? Any action I take, any decision I make, any life I save or destroy is black treachery in someone's eyes. Which people are my people? Which city is my true home? What religion, what philosophy, what moral compass applies? Who are the real monsters here?

Help me, dear heart...I'm drowning. There are no answers, and no way to hide from the question. No drink, no drug, no sensual indulgence distracts me—and I've tried them all. I haven't been able to sleep or study. I haven't even begun to replenish my wardrobe, or my jewels—I find myself wearing simple whites day after day. Who am I mourning for? I need you, Fea, sister of my heart. Come help me, please... I'm not who I was, anymore. I don't know who to be, anymore. I can't....

Fea, am I losing my mind?

Your Lairunya