Malcear Balfier: Journey through doubt.

 If you have never had the honor of riding for one month's time on a boat fully crewed and lead by men who despise you, the only words of advice you might receive from Malcear would be to bring a few books.

The Red Circus creaked and protested like an aching old codger against the wind and waves. The ship was in fine enough repair, but Malcear was convinced it sunk a little more with each passing day. He was also convinced each passing day was doubling in length. Perhaps just the madness of the sea speaking to his fears. They were being taxed.

Each night the crew assembled on deck before dark to share in dinner, drink, and sometimes old songs. His allies seemed to be doing well enough. The men drooled and swooned over the elf maiden, and while she seemed to appreciate the attention, it was obvious she was no fan of sailors, or the banquet of smells they brought with them. She spoke to them with dignity, and often moved the conversation to other things, sometimes distracting them with small shows of her arcane magic. The dwarf had drink, and that always seemed to be enough. Dethias was often hidden somewhere, the Gods only know where that man hides, but more than one Malcear saw him playing at dice and cards with some of the softer spoken sailors. Mal had keen eyes, and could see at least some of the tricks Dethias used to cheat the men out of their coin, but he was smart about it. He always let them win enough so he only walked away with a small profit. No one asked any questions. He was glad the others in the group could pass the time, but he felt outcast. Forever on display.

The sailors were large men. As the days passed they grew beards and the stink of salt and sweat surrounded them like armor. Malcear always smelled like fresh linen. He was tall enough, but slender. His hair was always clean and tangle free. He never brushed or bathed more than others, but it seemed to be in his nature to appear pampered and clean at all times. And he never grew facial hair. He was as clean faces as a boy in his tenth year. While others laughed and sang and feasted he simply sat wrapped in his cloak and watched the stars. Malcear could always tell which way was North. He had no idea why, but he just knew. It was clear the others viewed him as a joke. A strange silent city boy, clean as a whistle and soft as a lamb. They had no idea he was raised on the streets. They would never know the beatings and bruises he amassed in his training. Why did they make him feel so weak and foolish?

One saving grace of this horrible voyage was the night sky. It is a common fear in men of the temples that being away from your church for too long with sever your ties with the divine. Too long without reading the scriptures would alienate their meaning. Malcear found the opposite to be true, to his surprise. Gazing up at the endless star-scape made him feel a direct connection to his Goddess. The teachings and histories were inspiring, but here under the blanket of night he could see Noreal face to face. Her cold calm presence washed over him, and he could feel the warmth of some far off fire and hear her voice singing. Once after some nearby sailors erupted in a fit of guffaws, he realized he had been singing along to some strange song of starlight. Apparently it sounded pretty foolish.

In just over a week he would be home again, and back on the path he followed. Somewhere out there was a darkness that needed the silver light of the North to reveal it's secrets. Somewhere out there someone was cold and afraid, and the warmth of Noreal's flame would heal their heart and mind. The thought put a smile on his face, but a small knot formed in his stomach. On instinct Malcear reached down to his side and slid his Scimitar out of it's sheath. He wrapped both of his gloved hands around the polished hilt and displayed the blade outward, towards the Moon and stars. No matter what darkness lay in his future, he would bring to it the flame of his conviction. He would cut away fear and watch it bleed. He would burn cruelty and heal innocence. For her.

Like an pool of oil, the night horizon erupted with the swirling gray spirits of the Northern Lights. 

The Journal of Dethias: Capsized

The decision of whether to fight or flee, every life hinges on this choice.

I naturally tend towards the later, but since joining this group of heros I have found myself emboldened with courage to stand my ground and fight for my friends.

Lately I have learned a new lesson. What seems brave in one moment may turn to foolishness the next.

It is one thing to slip in unnoticed to cut the throats of sleeping goblins. But an entirely other matter diving into an ocean to dance with a giant octopus. I count my lucky stars that my new friends have the more sense than I, and are able to haul me out of a wet situation.

Yet here we are hinging on yet another choice at the precipice of this sunken fortress. Hopefully this time, I have learned a lesson that I will not quickly forget.