<< prev The Journal of Phegrain kai`Vallenti pg. 4
It was foolish of me to seek out heroes in the Dreadlands. After the shining example young Kylerian set, even crestfallen and disgusted, I thought perhaps there was hope for the hunters. Although mere days had passed since I traveled through the frosty valleys of the Dreadlands, the battle had taken a turn. What was once a valiant struggle against massed beasts bent on destruction had become an orgy of looting and pillaging the likes of which I had never seen.
I stood atop a fallen pillar near the tunnel which lead to the Frontier Mountains and watched distant glimmers of spellfire, glinting weapons, and howling Drolvargs about the besieged Castle of Karnor. Scanning the parties of warriors from a distance was like watching ants attacking bees. Large
clusters of small figures would surround and slaughter a single, overwhelmed giant or drachnid. Blood and ichor flew through the air and the cheers of the victors were mingled with the death cries of their victims. I could see that this battle was over.
However, away from the action at the castle, I saw a smaller band of adventurers with more than their share of enemies surrounding them. I strengthened my invisibility and crept closer to them. They were a peculiar bunch, truth be told. I saw the telltale glow of bardic magic, the divine sparkle of spiritual healing, and the elemental fury of pure wizardry. I could sense death emanating from a native lizardman and sensed the elusive presence of a hidden rogue. Furthermore, I saw a dazzling beauty in the red
robes of the Spurned yet was unfamiliar to me. About them were amassed a mighty band of giants, drachnids, and brutes… clamoring for their blood.
I watched them in action for a time, noting that the dark elven enchantress was truly an Erudite in disguise. These heroes were obviously mercenaries (I watched the lizardman religiously root through the pouches of each and every fallen beast) but worlds above the craven lot clustered around the castle. I endeavored to join them, feigning ignorance of the enchantress’s deception.
They welcomed me, for the most part and I got a better handle on how they were surviving here. The bard was their commander and his close friend the hidden rogue was merrily hamstringing their opponents. The lizardman, a knight of Cazic-Thule, he professed, would hiss and posture ineffectually at anything in sight while the bard and rogue took a serious beating. Meanwhile, the wizard would hurl death from a relatively safe perch and the priest of Tunare would tend the wounds said bard and rogue took. The enchantress was granting celerity and clarity along with drawing strength and speed from their enemies. As for me? Well, I would inflict the enemy with the barking of Tashan and put their allies to sleep.
This went well for a time and I was enjoying the feeling of camaraderie which accompanies such fierce and constant combat when the lizardman (his name, Korasak, is burned into my Innoruuk-born heart) decided my presence was cramping his style. Perhaps it was my asking him to share the spoils…
perhaps it was my request that he spare the little bard and rogue some pain and truly join the fights. Regardless of his reasons, Korasak began to infect each and every beast we fought with stomach cramping diseases. He laughed at my struggles as the Tunarian priest burned his divine favors to
keep me alive. The wizard, however, fell first.
The priest begged the lizardman to sit and rest but, with a reptilian laugh, he shouted out to the massed enemies entering from the Burning Woods to aid their brothers in the castle, blasting them with a cloud of disease-laden smoke before feigning death at the first blow landed on him. While the
remainder of the party attempted to stand fast under the overwhelming weight of the beasts, Korasak lay still and silent. I took a mighty blow to the head, and the next thing I knew I was at the spires.
It was hard for me to concentrate for days after that. The band of heroes were nowhere to be found but I did see Korasak again in the Bazaar. He was selling the scalps of a halfling and an erudite. Perhaps there truly is evil in the world… and it is not from Neriak.
So here I sit, in the inn where I began this journal still nursing my bruised head. I thank the enchantress for saving me, despite the anonymity of her action, and am glad for this temper to my growing idealism. Heroes do not grow on trees, I’m finding. They must be found somewhere else… perhaps in the dark places in the world, where a light can show brightest. Perhaps I will find my heroes under the frozen steppes of Velious?
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