My Journal, entry 87 (Lastday, St. Allie Waning, 1237)
I don’t usually write while out on a job. I prefer reflecting on the mission after its completion with both my impressions of the job and its conclusion—the final meeting with the employer.
Today, however, we are to remain at camp, and I’ve decided to write to pass the time. This is partly because of a group that arrived yesterday and partly because we’ve been at this job for over a week with no luck.
Honestly, if my incantations weren’t telling me otherwise I would believe we were on a wild goose chase. The tombs of the Magekings of old are lost, and to have the location of one resurface suddenly is disturbingly unlikely. I will have to ask the baron where he got this information, whether we find it or not.
We can survive here for several more weeks if need be. If supplies begin to run low I can trek to Port Nocturne and back within two days. The biggest concern for me is the other groups apparently out here.
We met the first a few days ago. They attacked us and we fought them off. They seem to be frightened of spells, so I’m glad that we had Mick with us. They ganged up on Simon, apparently thinking him our most dangerous ally. Unfortunately for them, we are all dangerous. Even little Brad is becoming dangerous on the battlefield ever since Mick started tutoring her.
Anyway, yesterday we continued to comb the area, with Grace at camp playing her music so we can measure our distance as we spiral outward. That afternoon we heard Grace stop playing, so we rushed back to camp. Sure enough, Grace and Brad were being held hostage by another rival group. Mick and I arrived together and tried to disable some of them, but they seemed to shrug of our disabling spells.
Luckily, it didn’t come to violence, although it may have been close. The other group was, indeed, looking for the Tireless Mageking’s tower, but they weren’t looking for trouble as well. Some of them seemed a bit shady, but once Brad and the thin, long haired one completed a trade I decided taht they were a bit reasonable. And though Brad may have come out worse on the trade, at least it wasn’t her bow. I would have had to intervene in that case, but then Brad wouldn’t have let it go either way.
They offered us a candle to ward off the undead at night (and it works!), and in return I offered them today to search for the tower. Mostly we just needed a rest, though. And what is the likelihood that they’ll find in a day what we haven’t found in a week?
Perhaps we will come to work together in the coming days.
In the meantime, the visions continue to burn within me at night, especially in the forest for some reason. Kenchalow, Kenchalow, what is this name that writes itself upon my eyelids at night? I envy the clerics who know the beings they serve, their vaguely kind Goddess, their vaguely fatherly Forger, and their vaguely militant Destroyer. Even a vague god is better than one that might not even exist, is it not? Than one whose nonexistance threatens to drive me mad?
Kenchalow. Ken Cha Low. Kin zha lo? I don’t even know if it’s spelled right. But I will find you one day, if only to find blessed silence.
Colin Weatherstorm Founder, Torn Asunder Association