An Adventure Journal - or, a continuation of the Adventure Log

[Aia del Mana]

As I am told the Adventure Log doth lie at an indefinite hiatus, I did think to continue of its progress. I hope that mine narration, in the common-tongue, were enjoyable to read; if it were not so, I should like of constructive feedback.

It doth continue where the Adventure Log has paused, upon page 572.

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Memories in the Wind, Ch.1.

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Samon wiped the sweat from his brow as he walked inside from the rain. It had been a while since he had been called upon for a burial. Such a violent death, he thought; the image of the priestess's lifeless body flashing before his eyes once more. Such was the job of a Caretaker; at least it was something to break up the repetition of dusting the gravestones, trimming the poppies, and tormenting the Tormented Souls.

A tap on the door, then, muffled murmurs.  Samon rose hastily, but the messenger was gone; in her place a woven wreath of white flowers, and a small envelope with a waxen seal. Samon examined the seal briefly before breaking it; this was unmistakenly the Lorerootian royal seal. How odd, thought Samon; Lintara certainly preferred to communicate with enchanted butterflies. 

Ah, of course, thought Samon, as he read the flowing script-hand. He gently lifted the wreath and stepped out to place it upon the freshly filled grave.

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Lintara set out towards the Drywater Temple; her small entourage in tow, carrying all sorts of heat stones and erolin-spheres. A risk, perhaps; she briefly recalled the butterfly that had whispered advice from a far-away mentor. A risk worth taking. She directed her entourage to place the stones in the receptacle, and ignited them with the heat from the erolin-spheres, careful not to burn her fingers in the process. Before long, a roaring fire lit up the receptacle, and Lintara and her entourage stood and watched in solemn silence; broken only by the crackling flames, and then, by whispers...

faint whispers; but present, unmistakable whispers, in the old language. Lintara breathed a sigh of relief. "Aia! I thought we had lost you for good." 

The priestess's form materialised within the inner chamber of the Drywater Temple, and many curtsies and hugs were exchanged.

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Aia sat by the water's edge. The faint reflection of the moon on the pond at Raven's Peace always brought her solace; why was it so different now, she thought, as she racked her mind for her favourite memories. Mnemnosis was not kind to one's mind; she thought; some memories may be lost forever; but there was something important, just... gone. Maybe it would return to her, in time.

Aia sighed; at least she was alive.

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Necrovion stirred; an unusual state of matters for the once barren land. Dark beings shuffled within, agitated, for their Voice was gone; their Chaos apparent without its direction. Lashtal recalled watching a shadowy figure disappear, and a barrage of shades follow after. He could sympathise with their plight; after all, the humans of Necrovion had once had their own chaos, brought about by espionage and internal conflict; then had been exiled from their homes.

Patrolling the land was much too dangerous now; death would already find those that dared enter. He stashed his assassination rope into his satchel; he would no longer need it, and it would hardly do to appear threatening against a barrage of shades.

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Ailith awoke from her restless sleep. Again, she thought. Dreaming was hardly a luxury these days; if only they were more pleasant! Ailith paused to reflect before turning to a new page of her journal; the last two were already filled with visions from her dreams of the last few nights; dark figures; one a shadowy, humanoid; a blood-red moon; a tiny angien. She dipped her quill and began another expert sketch; this time the shadow of a little girl; illuminated by the glow of the faint embers of three newly extinguished candles. Such vibrant, familiar dreams, thought Ailith, as the final quill-strokes completed her artistry. Far too real for a dream - it was almost as if someone else had implanted this memory into her own mind. Frowning, she closed the pages of her journal. There were definitely some familiar places; maybe they would reveal the meanings of these vibrant memories.

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An easterly wind brushed the cheeks of Ailith's stoic facade as she ventured south past the solitary Gazebo. Ah, here it was - the tiny angien stood within the broken frame of the ominous Howling Gates. Ailith sat beside it, and procured three candles from her satchel, placing them in the soft Necrovian sands. Satisfied, she struck a heat stone to light them, and sat in seiza; closing her eyes to the world. Maybe a continuous dream might make more sense.

Three days did she keep her vigil, as travellers passed by the Howling Gates.

Ailith awoke from her trance to find her candles extinguished, and her satchel full of delicious, smoked bacon, its aroma rudely interrupted by the caustic scent of belladonna. How long have I been here, she wondered. Putting this thought aside, she opened her journal and began sketching her visions once more, rapid, coarse brush-strokes making quick work of several pages. Leaving the pages to dry, she paused to consume the bacon before reigniting her candles. The gentle sway of the flames in the wind distracted her only momentarily before she closed her eyes and continued her motionless vigil.

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The second chapter were forthcoming; if there do exist events which I cannot observe and yet were worthy of this journal, I should like to know - do send myself a message in private upon this Forum.

Edited June 3, 2019 by Aia del Mana

[Aia del Mana]

Memories in the Wind, Ch.2.

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The Howling Gates towered over Syrian's hooded figure, as a familiar cold wind welcomed her from within Necrovion's walls. She drew her cloak ever tighter around herself in response, taking note of a slight, motionless supplicant sitting beside three extinguished candles. A closer look revealed her identity; Ailith's facade remained entranced and unmoving; it would not do to disturb her. Syrian reached into the pockets of her cloak; finding a small ration of wrapped pickles, she gently placed the offering beside the candles; brushing her fingers lightly over the still glowing candle-wicks; their now restored blaze illuminated the pages of a nearby codex. Syrian could just make out an illustration of a meek, elderly man standing inside a golden circle drawn in the sand.

Drawing her cloak near again, Syrian walked through the still imposing broken frame. The bittersweet recollections of exile momentarily distracted her from the surreality of the fine Necrovian sands between her toes; she was home.

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The mossy wooden door of the Lore Manor creaked open. A cloth-bound figure looked up from his study of the codex on his lap, its pages open to a rough sketch of a decaying cathedral adjacent to a large crevasse. Recognising the priestess, he closed the pages and stood to greet her; she curtsied in return greeting before sitting beside him, amongst the many shelves.

"Ah, Lazarus; mine noble knight. Knowst thou how one may retrieve of lost memories?"

Lazarus nodded; the light click of memory stones in his hand his answer.

Aia frowned briefly. "And how may one find memories unbound to stones?"

Lazarus shrugged, placing the stones back into one of the cloth-folds of his tattered burial-garment. 

"Dreams, perhaps, or a dreamer?"

A smile materialised on Aia's face. 

"Let us find them, then."

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A trail of dainty footprints lined the soft sand paths of the Well of Tears. One could just make out a string of steps from the western entrance, then two, maybe three circles around the well. A closer examination suggested their creator must have brushed over them with some floor-length garment; obscuring their onward path. Lashtal frowned - shades did not leave footprints; which being dared tempt their wrath? A brisk stroll toward the western Necrovian entrance revealed a small congregation in the distance - just outside the Howling Gates; Lashtal could just make out a faint, flickering glow in the centre. 

Lashtal cursed under his breath; avoiding the shades was hard enough without rescue missions. Selecting two trusty ropes from his collection, he knotted some intricate loops; then tested the newfangled bindings on his wrist; they held firm. Concealing them under his cloak, Lashtal continued onward, approaching the small crowd lingering under the northern part of the entrance.

He paused; this was no festivity, but a solemn gathering. The soft howl of the winds broke the silence at their namesake gates; the congregated remained at their silent vigil around three blazing candles.

Lashtal sat among them; none stirred. The candlelight illuminated some facial features; some he recognised as once being Necrovian, especially the woman kneeling closest to the candles - this was unmistakeably Ailith, although she now wore her hair in a loose bun. Flickers of light passed over the woman kneeling beside Ailith; Lashtal caught a brief glimpse of her bowed head, obscured by locks of her golden hair. Could that be...? Lashtal blinked; the dead priestess was here. Several questions passed Lashtal's mind; he set them aside, lest his presence be noticed. Patience; Lashtal disciplined himself - now was not the time to ask.

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Syrian bowed her head as she passed through the low-hanging entrance of the Accursed Growth. A chorus of chattering greeted her; the soft glow of many turning specks monitored the intruder's movements. A faint smile passed across her features; none noticed. Not all your inhabitants have been exiled; not yet; and so there is hope for all of us, thought Syrian. She leant against the sapwood and slumbered under the watch of a thousand eyes.

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