No one can later be certain when precisely Neddar wrote these words, but the Sonnet and Haiku for his friends would not be forgotten.

Wander widely among the tors and graves
A grave mission and many a life to save
We found the stone a’squat upon the lake
Cross o’er the glass a’dancing with the drake

Within the hall the long-forgotten dead
Did bid us join them and our blood was shed
By fearsome axe from one-eyed nemeses
Blade, Bow, and Beak were raised against all these

Foes and more that blocked our darkened way forth
Not hostages but sacrifices poured
Out on a mad banquet table most grim
Our shining light upon that table dimm’d

A Sonnet is best penned for lighter verse
Our curse’s sorrows my words made the worse

A temple to power
Brought low by an oncoming gale
I did like his teeth

Journal,

You know by now that I’m sort of a superstitious guy. I have that ritual with pulling on my socks, that thing I do where I knock on the table before I pick up my cards, and that stupid thing I say to myself before I flip a coin (“C’mon You Shiny Circular Bastard”). And while none of these habits have really seemed to help me win a streak of especially good luck, I am certainly not stupid enough to tempt fate by saying something to provoke the gods. It seems that fates love showing you how bad things can be right after you notice how good they are.

Cayden warns us then that you shouldn’t talk about certain things—like how unseasonably nice the weather’s been, how lucky you’ve been on the draw at poker, or how fortunate you are that the in-laws have left you alone for a week or two. The rule is simple: You should never acknowledge that things are going well when they don’t have to be.

So Journal, I’m well aware the risk I run when I try to summarize how our exploration of Vordekai’s tomb has been going. I won’t say it’s going ‘well’, because I think that’s too dangerous. I won’t go into details on how we’ve managed to run right over the cyclops guards we’ve met, or how Gideon and Daargan have managed to keep us out of their traps. I won’t say how awesome I’ve been at putting crossbow bolts into things that need crossbow bolts stuck in them. No, all of that would be too much. I think I’ll limit myself to the assessment that things are “Proceeding according to plan.” That should be bland enough to absolve me of consequence.

Yes journal, I’m aware that reverse psychology doesn’t work on the fates—that’s clearly not what I’m doing. If I thought that worked, I’d start ranting about how terrible everything’s been going to guarantee that our good luck would continue. I know it does no good to complain about how it smells down here, or how jealous I am of my friends who can see in the dark. This is definitely not the worst tomb I’ve ever explored. Compared to the Troll Hole, this place is actually quite pleasant. NOT HORRIBLE.

Wait, crap, did I just write that? Just a second.

Strikethroughs work to cancel out bad luck, right Journal? Oh man, I hope so.

Also, a moment if you will on the subject of undead minions. Roaming around down here, I’m coming to understand the advantages of having an army of undying husks that exist only to kill for you. You don’t have to pay them, feed them, or even find a place for them to sleep or go to the bathroom. And the undead don’t complain about unsafe working conditions, lack of upward mobility, or absent benefits. Hell, they don’t even smell that bad after the first hundred years or so! I think I’m actually coming out pro-undead monsters. Maybe we could get a few for Castle Tuskendale, you know, just to guard the tomb or Marcy’s bedroom or something.

Oh wait…Gideon’s probably not going to go for that. And maybe Katya would be a little upset (though Jacek might end up on my side after I explain that we wouldn’t have to pay them.) Daargan would definitely be with me. Maybe Leilania too?

Maybe not.

So Journal, is this how one ends up becoming an evil undead overlord…by being overly practical? If so, we might be in trouble. I mean, no one would ever accuse me of being practical, but I know quite a few people they would.

Okay Journal, gotta run. Break time’s over and there’s more fighting to do. A few more levels and I’m sure we’ll be knocking on Vordekai’s door.

Don’t worry journal, I’m sure everything will be fine. ADEQUATE.

I can not see the moon here, the heavens are beyond my sight. For now I must trust myself and my friends to find the right path.

We have spent most of the day underground exploring Vordekai’s tomb. Deep beneath the earth, I find myself looking to the ceiling, seeking the distant pull of my goddess beyond the stone. I know she is still there, I can still feel her, but her face is hidden and her influence on me wanes. I imagine there are caverns deep within the earth where the moon is even further distant. I hope not to see such a place.

Beyond the stairs at the head of the Valley of the Dead we took to exploring the northern edge of the Tors. The land is gray here, not absent of life but drained of it, as if some curse has pulled the vitality from the trees and grasses. We have seen few birds or animals as we have climbed, and those we have seen are skittish and malnourished. It is clear that dark things walk here. As of yet they have not found us.

It seems though that we have found Vordekai’s tomb. Using clues from Varnhold, we have matched the tomb’s location to a place of falling water and jagged rock. The structure might be called an island, but it is clear from within that it is the remains of an ancient fortress, one that has decayed with time into an ugly pillar cased in brown moss and strangling black vines. We managed to find entry and began our decent, through long-forgotten antechambers now inhabited by undead brutes. My friends and I have bested several cyclopes at this point and avoided the perils of their traps. Yet we do not know how deep this path goes or what horrors may lie at its end. We must marshal all of our courage to continue downward.

I am more thankful than ever to have Nibbs with me. Nibbs does not fear these monsters, and reacts with fury to see me or my allies in danger. He has stood in front of many a blow meant for me, and thanks to Gideon and my own magics, has managed to escape without serious harm. When we find our way back to the surface, I will have to find time to escape with Nibbs for a while. I think we both deserve some time away from danger and responsibility. A short holiday into the wilds will do us both good.

With luck, by tomorrow night I will see the moon again. When I do, I will sing a thankful prayer. This journey has reminded me how dark shadows can become. I will look to the moon’s light to push their stain away.

On an island in the middle of a lake is a squat cylinder of a building. Just based on that description, you might never guess the terrible evil it houses. Indeed, I am not particularly overwhelmed by such a description. But standing across the lake from that structure is a different matter entirely. The evil that saturates the Valley of the Dead, nestled in the Tors of Levenies, is palpable. It hangs in the air like an oppressive miasma.

There are, of course, objects and people that radiate evil the way a lantern radiates light. It is the blessing and the burden of the chosen of the gods to be able to perceive these things most clearly, but most folk can discern, without divine intervention, when things anathema appear before them. We are all aware, at some level, of our own light, and we know when it is dimmed – we feel despair or weariness, for evil acts as a paralytic to men and women of good conscience. It wants you to do nothing , to feel so overwhelmed by its presence that you sit down and let the darkness roll over you.

It is at these times that we need the Gods. There will be times when my own light is not enough. When we entered that foul tower, one-eyed zombies the size of tall trees assailed us from every direction. On my own, I would have been of little use to my comrades. With the light of Sarenrae guiding me, I was more than my sword or shield – I was an instrument of light. The Dawnflower transformed me into a lantern in the dark places of the world and, together with my friends, we have been enough to drive the darkness back.

We have hardly begun to plumb the darkness of this tower, which has squatted forgotten for millennia by men, and only dimly recalled by the centaurs who lives in the foothills beyond the Tors. No doubt the darkness will reach out to try and suffocate us again. Darkness wishes to smother us and put out our lights. Thanks be to the Everflame that our lights are more than the sum of our sparks.

So, we are, finally, here.

After breaking camp and entering the Valley of the Dead, we passed through endless ranks of tombstones marking the graves of long-dead cyclops. Despite the undeniable hold of death over the place, we passed unmolested and without incident. Arriving at the foot of a winding stairway leading up into the Tors, we met and overcame what I imagine must be the ‘Dread Guardian’ hinted at in the notes we had gathered—a single zombie which, while large of stature, was nevertheless a minor obstacle to our journey. Far more taxing was the climb up the stairs, which took the better part of a day. Although I could have ensorcelled us to fly up the stairs, we thought it prudent to save the expenditure of magical energy lest we needed it to overcome any other guardians (or denizens of the area) we might encounter on our climb, or else flee from such encounters. A sensible sentiment.

Ultimately, though, it was an overcautious one as we made the ascent untroubled by either the living or the dead. The top of the Tors is an abandoned, empty landscape. The days following that—the past four days we have spent exploring these Tors—have likewise left us unmolested, both during the day, and without any repeat attempts at nocturnal assassinations, such as that which followed from our destruction of the lich’s familiar.

Thus, my question: if we are truly walking into the lair of a lich, where are its minions? Where is this dire threat to the region? There is not even the rattle of old bones. I come to one of two conclusions. One, that the centaurs are, as I suspected, simple-minded and craven. They cling to their ancient superstitions and overstate the threat that this creature poses. In this scenario, the reason for the absence of guardians is simple; the lich’s power is at its nadir, and it simply does not have bodies to throw at us. In this case, I’d surmise that the apparent abduction of the folk of Varnhold was the lich’s entire attempt to this point to form an army, and as such our task of overcoming said army will likely not be troublesome. In this scenario, we have little to fear.

The second possibility is that the above are merely the sentiments that the creature wants us to believe, for some purpose, and that holding these beliefs is to our detriment. However, I do not hold much credence to this possibility. Only in bad theatre does the villain welcome the heroes into his lair, gloating maniacally over them, only to be overcome in the end as foolish pride proves to be his downfall. No. In reality, victory is bought by swift, overwhelming strikes. The absence of these is evidence either of the creature being incompetent (mind addled by millennia in the grave?) or weak. Again, either way, I believe we have little to fear.

In either case, I do not particularly care at the moment. This morning we have reached what must be our destination; a tall pillar of stone lies in the middle of a lake in front of us. Even when I close my eyes I see it in my mind; the magic here is strong. I feel it and myself getting stronger as we approach this place, pulsing with my heartbeat. It is like being in the chambers below Candlemere. When I awaken from my sleep each morning, I feel new energy burn within me. I can do things I could not do short days ago. I do not think I could turn around and leave this place if I tried. But that is immaterial, for I do not want to.

After sundown, I found the moon rising among dreary mists on the Eastern horizon. She came up slowly, with purpose, lighting the low cloud with ghostly light. I sang a song to her that Selene taught me, but it brought me little comfort. There seemed a great coldness between us.

After investigating the Spriggan layer and a local lookout, our party has exhausted our leads as to the whereabouts of the Varnholders. The only option that remains now is to push into the ‘Valley of the Dead’ and seek out the evil the centaurs have warned us against. With hope and luck we will find the people we seek held captive and be able to free them to return to their city. If not, we will at least be able to lay back to rest what has risen and see that it doesn’t take anyone else.

Gideon is quick to warn us that this task will not be easy. Though he remains brave and confident, I can feel the conflict in him. He wants to be more cautious, to act valorously but also wisely. He knows we have come to depend on his leadership here—in this place of doubts—more than ever before. And so it weighs on him that we are always looking to him for the right thing to do. He doesn’t know better than any of us.

For my own part, the ‘right’ thing seems quite different from what is expected by the others. Through this journey, the moon brought me to the Nomen, and I feel I have much more to learn from them. I would like to sit by their fire and sing with them, to know the night as they do. Surely we could learn from one another, surely we could be friends if we had time to bathe together in the white light from above. I hope there will be time for that when this is done. I hope I live to get the chance.

As for the Varnholders, their fate concerns me, but seems to be out of my control. If this ancient presence had evil purpose for them, surely they have been put to it by now. Our chances at rescue, or even vengeance, seem slim. But I keep these doubts to myself. Voicing baseless dissent would be of little help.

I worry, I doubt, and I want to turn away. I feel as if I am riding a current of wind sweeping me up in this conflict, following friendship rather than wisdom. Instead of lighting my way, the moon stands at my back. She pushes instead of pulls. I go blindly.

The light of the moon shows things that the sun could never see. It light paths in the darkness and empties shadows. I know this…I’ve seen it. Now I study the land and look for signs among the mists. But the night is darker here. The moon seems further away.

When the moon rises again I will say the hundred word prayer. Perhaps she’ll answer with a prayer for me. Perhaps then the way will be clear.

Hey Journal,

So while we’ve been wandering around out here I’ve been thinking a lot about evil, specifically, why there seems to be so much of it to go around. I guess I’m feeling a little discouraged. After dealing with the Spriggans and a couple of…somethings…that could take other people’s faces, we’ve decided to head down south to the valley of the dead to see if we can find out what happened to the Varnholdians. According to the centaurs, the place we’re going is the resting place of Vordakai, an ancient Cyclops necromancer who was so evil that…well…let’s just say that he was a super evil guy. He’s totally evil and very dead, but not so dead that he can’t try to resurrect himself thousands of years later from the middle of a giant necropolis of his own design. The Nomen have warned us that Vordakai’s surrounded by undead minions hungering for our flesh. Our only way to Vordakai is to kill them all.

And I guess that’s what’s I’m upset about. You never hear about the ancient GOOD temple that has somehow endured through the centuries to leave a scar of health and well-being on the land. No, it’s always that something evil has survived, or is hiding, or has risen, or has yet to rise but is on its way and boy should you be ready when it gets here.

So what is it about ‘Good’ that makes it so transitory? Why doesn’t it endure like evil does, setting up great empires, secret societies, or sprawling temples? Why is it that ‘good’ people are so often corrupted, but ‘evil’ people are almost never redeemed? Is it that ‘good’ is simply not as powerful? Is it that ‘evil’ has some kind of fundamental advantage? And if it does, what does that mean for us?

Maybe my experience is skewed. Since coming to the stolen lands I’ve killed a lot of bad things and quite a few evil people. Most of the time I’ve felt pretty justified doing it. I’ve also met my share of really good people, but the ratio between the two is probably at least three to one on the side of evil. Now given that most of the evil souls I’ve met didn’t survive the encounter with me, you would think that we’d start seeing a shift towards the hegemony of good. But if anything, all our work has just seemed to invite greater evils take a look at us. Brevoy’s getting antsy, Varnhold’s gone missing, and random weirdos are sending armored owlbears to wreck our town. And now we’ve got undead cyclopes (cycolpii? cyclopux?) to worry about. It never ends.

Where are the good forces to counteract the bad? Where are the metallic dragons? The archons? The warrior-poets? And why do I believe that even if they were here they’d just end up fighting among each other over whose version of ‘right’ really is right? I mean, we can’t even have the fey on our border without tempting them to war. Shouldn’t we be able to do a little better? I’m not asking for an army of Sashas, Dyimis, or Antons, but I want more than the handful we have. Why is it so hard to find people who just want to do the right thing?

I guess (maybe naively), that I assumed that once Ursundova was set up and people started realizing what we stood for that we’d be inundated by the ‘good’ folks of the world. I thought that if we could just get a foothold, a light on a hill for others to see, that the righteous of the world would rise up to meet us. But now, even with the beacon lit back in Tuskendale, it’s still just us against the endless hordes. How long must we fight before the battle is joined?

I can accept that someone has to fight this evil, and I can even accept that one of those someones should be me. Hell, I want to do it. I want to fix this and go home. I want to plug ole’ Vordakai right in the eye with a bolt from Springsnap. All I’m really asking for is a little parity in the fight. We’re going out to fight ancient evil tomorrow. Is it so wrong to want a little ancient good on our side?

I’m sorry journal, this entry may have descended into whining. I really don’t mean to, and I’m really not ungrateful for what I have. Between Gideon and Lani I’ve got two of the most honest-to-goodness saints on the planet to show me the way. I know I’m lucky to have the friends I have and a good home to go home to. And I even feel lucky in a way that I’m here to face Vordakai and his minions. Not everyone gets to put evil in its place. Not everyone has the chance to fight back.

My father used to tell me that all goodness was was ‘not giving in to evil.’ The way he saw it, every kind of evil was just a kind of weakness. And he’s right. It’s easier to be cruel than kind, easier to despair than to hope. It’s easier to give up than go on, easier to hate than forgive. It’s easier to wait for someone else to fix the world than to do it yourself. It sure would be great if there was someone here to do the right thing for us. But there’s not. So we’re going to step up and do it ourselves.

Sorry for the heaviness journal, I guess I’ve been feeling a little pensive of late. Next time I promise I’ll aim for something a little lighter. Maybe it’ll end up being about what a push-over Vordakai ended up being and how much fun it was to bullseye cyclopses right in the noggins. More likely though it’ll be about how the battle goes on, and how we can never let ourselves give up.

To do good is not an event, but a process. The reflective life of virtue must consider an action both in its moment and in the moments that follow. Failure to consider what comes after can make us short-sighted and blind us to peril. We look without fear on the road behind us and before us, the Dawnflower’s blessed light illuminating our path, if we will but look.

When our comrades from Ursundova arrived in Varnhold, they immediately began the process of putting such things as they could back together. I believe this is a part of our best selves – our urge to mend what has been broken and right what has been knocked askew. At the same time, my definition of “right” or “mended” may not match that of my neighbor. When we take it upon ourselves to mend the lives (or even the trappings of the lives) of others, we must bear in mind those differences, lest we slip from rendering aid and hope to imposing our will. I like to tell myself that it is my abundant faith that grants me confidence in my own judgment; however, I must admit that sometimes I just have a swollen head. My mother always warned me never to stray so far into right that I would deny the possibility that I was wrong. I thank her almost every day for that axiom.

From Varnhold, we travelled to three dens of evil, each with a different window into the nature of evil. One was abandoned – the Spriggans that had infested a nearby cave had all gone to Varnhold and had been driven off by our efforts. Now their lair is an empty cavern, its dark corridors waiting for more who would embrace the darkness. There will always be those who prefer shadow to light, and I fear demesnes of shadow never remain vacant for too long. One lair was occupied by squatters – a pair of soul eaters who had appropriated the guises of men whose duty had been to see to the safety of their neighbors in Varnhold. The dark creatures exploited these men’s wish to protect their neighbors – to lift from their friends and family the burden of constant worry – and attempted to turn it against them. I cannot countenance their wicked behavior, nor their dire intentions. I am not sad that they are gone.

The third and final evil den is where we are just as I write this. A vast garden of monolithic stone surrounds us and speaks to a power dark and ancient. We have but crossed paths with one denizen of this dark and terrible place and the encounter was enough to give us all pause. But we can only pause, for it is not in my nature to see evil of this kind and allow it to remain, especially if I feel I can do something.

I very nearly wrote “godforsaken” in my description of this place, but that would be wrong. There are no places where the Healing Light does not touch, where her flame of hope and faith cannot batter back the darkness. Sarenrae is the blazing lamp set before us, able to pierce the most ebon of shadows and warm our hearts in our darkest hours. I fear that my darkest hour will be met somewhere amidst these cyclopean headstones or within whatever lies at the heart of this Valley. Though we walk now through the Valley of the Dead, I shall fear no evil, for the Dawnflower is with me always. I do not yet know what we might leave behind in the aftermath of this sojourn, but there is one things I am certain of as I wrestle to conquer my fretful nerves.

It is the evil that should tremble.

We sleep tonight outside the Valley of the Dead. The mood in the camp is mixed, nervous. We know that the next days may be the last for some of all of us. And yet, I find myself untroubled.

The air sings with magic. It is heavy. I can feel it, all around. Perhaps the others do, too? It is a source of apprehension, but also potential. We walk into the lair of the lich, Vordekai. That word – lich – a being who has shed its mortal coil to become sustained by magic, and immortal for it. The methods, rumour has it, are abhorrent, as is the resultant degradation of the flesh. But the result; immortality, is it worth the price? I do not know.

There must be other routes to immortality. I feel the magic burning within me, stronger every day. Is it this land, or the purpose with which I walk across it? I do not know what we will face in this land of death. I am not foolhardy enough to think we will pass unscathed to our goal. But I feel in my blood that I will prevail here. I will learn from what we face, and grow stronger.

Ulgar sniffed the barrel he had uncorked, his nostrils flaring appreciatively. With a grunt of approval, he pulled the pewter flagon from his belt, filled it, and dropped some silver into the till under the counter of the Waterhorse. Alla was busy directing some pikemen in the removal of the large spriggan corpse from the common area. Although she frowned at her commander’s actions, she said nothing.

“Cheerful Delver Stout,” Ulgar read aloud from the brewery stamp on the side of the cask. “Not bad.” He drained his flagon and poured a second, belying the faint praise, then tossed a couple more coins into the till.

“The brewery is here in town,” piped up Neddar from the doorway. He looked a little green around the gills; the smells of rotting food and rotting spriggan were offending his delicate gnomish nose. “Founded and created right here in Varnhold.”

“Dwarven brew?” asked Ulgar.

“The founder of the brewery is a dwarf, but I think the rest of the staff are human,” replied Neddar. “’Scuse me.” The bard ducked outside in search of more pleasant olfactory sensations. Ulgar frowned at the idea that a dwarf was sharing brewing secrets with humans, but did not share his thoughts, to his sergeant’s relief.

The party had spread out through the town. In various places, people were taking charge of carting spriggan bodies to a spot chosen well outside the town limits and burying them in a mass grave, along with the animal remains they had found. One crew fished a dead spriggan from the well asElder Rastilov prepared a prayer to purify the water source. The work of clearing out the town was conducted in relative quiet, as the lack of people—or even their remains—unsettled everyone. Jasquan Balmot, a new recruit to Ursundova’s army, had been given the task of assessing potential temporary living quarters and assigning people to them. He wandered from place to place with a small notebook, writing down the state of each building, taking stock of belongings and goods in each while making note of the number that could comfortably bunk there.

In a hut built into the side of the hill, Adeptus Yermolov absently petted a contented calico cat and thumbed through a book. He had refused a room in the bloodstained fort above him, opting for privacy.

Meanwhile, in the fort amidst infantrymen busy with cleanup, Galina Maximov counted what little was left of the kitchen stock with an air of annoyance, making lists of what would need to be replaced to feed the small Ursundovan force that had come to occupy the town.

((NB: This necessarily takes place a couple of days after the game starts back up, based on the presumption that you all sent messages home, as per the brief forum conversation. Someone needs to give me the details contained in those messages.))