I’m writing this on the back of a phantom horse riding down an icy, frigid mountain, covered in so many wounds that I’ve given up on trying to count. We’re making a dash for Winterhaven in hopes of warding off the attack that is to happen in a… day and a half? Something like that. It’s a colossally poor time to be riding, much less writing, but these things provide a surprisingly smooth ride (spirit horses don’t seem to buck and bounce as much when they’re not really alive, learning something new every day) and mine just follows the others anyway.
I need to write this because I’m getting increasingly uncertain about my chances of survival. I’ve seen far too many lights with tunnels in front of them as of late. This last fight saw me laid out in a field of spinning magical blades that were chopping me to bits. I need to write this because
Shit. I’m not even sure. It’s not like I expect anyone to be coming after me if I die. I use these for reference, true, but this drive is centered around me possibly getting fucking killed. I guess given the shit I’m involved in now, someone’s going to need the info here sooner or later. And I’d rather something of mine be left behind, even if no one listens to it later.
So. For you poor bastard who’s stuck reading this, sit down and get a drink. It only gets darker from here on in. And yes, you can skip the personal shit, it’s not for you anyway.
The Massacre at Whitetree: Not fond of calling it a massacre, but everyone else certainly is. We broke into a prison to rescue a bunch of guards from the Silvanesti. Managed to get in, kill a good number of guards before the alarm got sounded. Ended up killing at least twenty men in a matter of minutes, and the rest were fleeing for their fucking lives. Plus side: All prisoners rescued successfully. Down side: We’re pretty much now known as dangerous psychopathic murderers.
I hate taking personal notes here, but when did I become so damn uncaring about all this death? I poisoned four men and ripped out the throat of a fifth, none with their weapons out. Then a pile more outside, before they ran. In Sarthel, I could count number of people I actually killed on one hand. Beat a lot of them up, sure, but not killed usually. I beat that record in five seconds in that prison. And I’m constantly thinking of ways to do better because that’s what I’m here to do. Because Ambrose and the Silvanesti are too cruel to own the Vale, much less Sarthel.
Things have changed so much.
Locke: Elf. Eyes like spyglasses. Can hit anything with his bow, so long as its next to him. Pretty cold sometimes, but effective. Came from a different plane, wants to get back. He informed us of our next location.
Zombie Farm: Marek’s award winning bread has some fans in the Empire. They were feeding it to their prisoners and recording the results. Blue ribbon stuff, apparently. We found the remnants of a ritual which screwed up Nevun’s memory, as well as Arctus’. Remnants of a soul-sucking ritual, one which was headed towards…
Whitetree (again): Hahaha. Ha. Ha. The entire town was brainwashed and turned into obedient slaves of three mages with a shiny ball. And they all wanted to kill us. We killed them and disabled the ritual, found out it was the Empire’s fresh, hip plan to create massive armies.
The people who approved this run Sarthel now? By Sehanine’s silver blood, this is completely, entirely wrong.
Marek was also involved. But he was long gone, and we wouldn’t pick his trail up until later.