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.

Malcear Balfier: The Cookies of Justice

The most interesting thing to note about Gnollish weapons is their strange duality in being both rustedly dull and razor sharp. Malcear became an expert on this fact in the deepest bowels of the Ofalum Cold Iron Mines. Rothyde and his personal guard proved to be the biggest challenge his team had yet encountered. Needless to say the battle had been a close one, and tested the skills and endurance of each and every combatant. At one key moment Malcear had seen an opening to dispose of the goblin archers, freeing his allies of their burden, so he spun on his heels and ran to accomplish it. It was that moment when one of the two massive terrible Gnolls buried his axe into Mal's spine. He fell.

He could hear the sounds of battle still raging around him, but all he saw was blackness, and all he felt was pain. Darkness was strange to Malcear. He had never had a problem being able to make out images clearly even in the darkest night, but this blackness was like an iron veil. He could tell his eyes were open. No doubt rolled into the back of his head. His lips struggled to form words but just flapped like a dying fish as he yearned to call out to his allies.

Suddenly everything was brought to full light. It was jarring. He stood in an empty chamber, under some kind of spotlight. It's source seemed to be a bright white energy dancing around in the darkness above him. Something in the back of his mind told him it was Noreal. The chamber seemed to go on forever. He felt a chill and every breath seemed to echo outward eternally. Where was this bizarre place?

The lights shifted and from the darkness emerged a massive metal disc. It was polished brightly and into every facet was etched tiny runes. It slowly spun on both axes. Mal was baffled at what he was looking at. He stood there dwarfed by the giant rotating iron wheel. He focused on the markings and came to understand it was a circular map of Corlace. Every centimeter was a metal replica of each city, every tree, river, and mountain. Parts shifted and moved, as though time was passing quickly. There where fires burning in every corner. White to the north, red to the east, blue to the west, and dark black flames to the south. Soon they began to spread and the entire disc was covered in a roaring prismatic inferno. It crumbled away bit by bit. It seemed to be falling in pieces to the floor leaving only a small piece left floating in the air. It was too far to make out. It looked like a smaller version of the original, but perhaps it was a crown? For some reason the burning made the smell of warm chocolate cookies. That is what really pulled Malcear out of the vision. The flavor lingered on his tongue and slowly turned into a bitter acidic flavor that filled his whole body.

His eyes focused and he was brought back to the world of the living. There was a potion being poured down his throat.

The journal of Dethias: Of the nature of magic

Never were all graces given to any man.

The anxiety to do well, and the struggling of the mind too constrained and too intent upon its undertaking, bewilder, interrupt and impede the intent. As happens to water, which by force of pressure from its violence and abundance, cannot vent itself in an open sluice.

As was my experience with learning magic.

Some men… or women wield it better without preparation; that they owe more to good fortune than to diligence. They experience an inborn disposition which cannot sustain eager and laborious premeditation; if it does not move joyously and freely, it does nothing that is worth while.

I used to say of others that ‘they smell of the oil and lamp,’ because of a certain harshness and roughness which labor imparts to those in which it has a large share. But in studying further magic with Gasadrael I find that it demands not to be set in motion and spurred by the strong passions, like the sorcerers (for that impulsion would be too violent); it requires to be kindled and aroused by outward circumstances, immediate and accidental. If allowed to move by itself unshaped, it does but drag along and hang fire. Excitement is its life and is favorable to it. And yet it is willing and supplicant to focused intent, not unlike the precision with which I wield my knife. 

Perhaps there are undiscovered synergies in the two compliments that I endeavor to harness.

Symbol of Noreal Idea

Malcear Balfier: Hen in a Kennel

The pounding of equestrian hooves into the soft soil sent jolts throughout Malcear's frame. In one hand he gripped the reins under white knuckles. In the other he tried to hold his curved iron blade away from himself so he didn't accidentally cut his own leg off. Both legs clung tightly to the saddle prolonging what seemed like an inevitable spill to the ground at a high speed. The smell of forest, blood (mostly his own), and horses blended with the shouting and wind blowing against his face made him all but blind and deaf. He had no idea what he was doing.

It had been an ambush. No sooner had they passed the sad excuse for a wooden gate than deadly whistling crossbow bolts came raining down on them. They caught him completely off-guard. His first thought was how he let his allies down, having lead them into this trap, foolishly proud of his idea to avoid any bloodshed. Then he saw spears to the right and men running through the woods to the left. He had to act.

It had been chaos. He had swung his blade like an angry woodsman. All power, no finesse. When he called on the white fire it belched from his hands burning everything in its path, even some of the horses. He looked like a fool. A child wielding the powers of an ancient God, hunting rabbits with a catapult. The dwarf moved with an air of experience, slamming and chopping those around him like a tempest. The rogue-devil seemed to keep disappearing in one spot and reappearing in another with a new knife in his hand ready to strike a killing blow. The elf maiden was even casting spells in this chaos. That level of focus bewildered him. But he put on a face of confidence, and pretended he knew what he was doing. And that had lead him to this.

He had exchanged shots with one of the guards who had been hiding in the forest. His arrows hit more trees than enemy, but the man had fled regardless. Without thinking Malcear leaped back into his saddle and chased the man down before he got away to warn the town. That dark confusing little town full of mystery and lies. It seemed like everyone there wanted to take a bite out of him and his friends. That night in the inn he had felt like a hen in a kennel. Just waiting to be ripped apart.

His thoughts focused as another crossbow bolt ripped through his chain armor and dug into his breast. He almost spilled backwards out of the saddle, but his hand never let go of the reins. He could feel his heart beating against the shaft of the bolt. That was an odd feeling. He grit his teeth, tightened the grip on his blade and spurred the steed into a full gallop. Another bolt came whizzing at him as the running man spun deftly and fired, but Mal was serious now. He could feel the fires burning behind his eyes. He struck out with his blade and slapped the bolt off course. That act slowed the man down enough for Maclear to overtake him.

Mal didn't so much leap from the saddle as go flying out of it as he tugged his steed to a halt. He crashed down onto the man blade first. That was an idiot move. He felt his wounds ooze out more of his blood. Why was it cold? He was a tangle of arms and weapons with the man. They both got to their feet, and as Malcear raised his blade to ready for combat, the man turned and fled AGAIN. Malcear had been trained not to curse, but he came pretty close. Throwing his blade aside in frustration, and halting his movement (mostly giving in to the pain wracking his body) Mal lifted his open hand towards his near murderer, and cried out for Noreal. He begged her to make it all end. The fighting, the pain, the anxiety.

There was a flash of white light and when his vision returned, Mal saw that the man had fallen, in smolders. All he could do was fall to his knees, say a thankful murmur to the goddess of the North, and crawl on his hands and knees looking for the sword he threw aside.

It took all his strength to get back into the saddle and ride back to the others. They were wounded as well, but their antagonists had been felled. Mal wasn't sure if he looked as shaken and terrified as he was on the inside, but nobody seemed to notice regardless. He rolled up his sleeves, climbed out of the saddle, and began to chant the prayer of healing. Where would he be without his goddess?

Where indeed.

Ruddy Tom's Flight

"Raymond, you're with me!" Tom roared among the confusion.

Raymond was pressed up against a wall staring blankly as city guards filed through the doors and began forcing their way through every part of the Beast of Burden Trading Company.

"Now!" shouted the red-faced man. Raymond crossed the warehouse floor and followed the swordsman outside. In the night-darkened street the hooded form of Tom's boy held the reins of three horses all kitted out for a long ride.

Tom snatched two sets of reins and pressed one into Raymond's hands before swinging up into his saddle and wheeling his horse around. Raymond dutifully stood there in place, holding the reins until Tom snarled "Mount!"  The bewildered young man scrambled into the saddle and moved to follow Tom and his son's forms disappearing into the dark night of Hub.

After the sun had been up for an hour, Raymond rode alongside Tom and broke the silence "Say, Tom, what happened back there?"

"We must not have caught all the intruders from the other night. One must have got away " growled Tom.

"Those four in the cell? Who are they?"

Tom laughed. "Must have started out as five or six. I don't know who they are, I don't much care."

"I see." Raymond looked around at their surroundings, the city giving way to small homes with overgrown gardens and tiny fields. "What now?"

"We ride to the mines. We see what parts of this mess we can save. YAW!" Tom kicked his horse faster and moved away from the bewildered young man.

It was a hard ride. Tom traded out horses at every opportunity and at great expense. On the morning of the third day a familiar sight slowed their progress. It was a wagon with its load covered by a canvas tarp. Two men sat in the front and two men with loaded crossbows stood at the back, looking around for danger.

"Hullo, Tom!" called out a grizzled man from a wagon. "Come to check up on us?"

"Aye" boomed the large fighter, his wide smile not reflected in his eyes. "How go things at the mines? Your load doesn't look like it'll make quota this month."

"Things are slow, yes. The lazy sots haven't kept pace I'm afraid. We've brought in new management to encourage them."

"Huh, well I'll have to see that for myself." said Tom, looking at his boy. The half-elf sat his horse hooded and unmoving.

"Any news from Hub?" asked the driver of the wagon.

"Hells, yes!" exclaimed Raymond from the back, and all eyes turned to him as he walked his horse forward.  No one saw Tom close his eyes, bare his teeth and clutch his reins tight.

"The Beast of Burden has been compromised! Some thugs from the agency next door snuck in through the sewers on some outrageous pretense. Strange crew they were. An elf woman, some battle cleric of Noreal, a foul-looking lurker and a dwarf, of all things. We caught a few of them but some must have got away and alerted the city guard! They swarmed in and confiscated everything. I saw them fighting Mr. Taro. All is lost!"

"All is not lost you damned fool!" Tom reached out an arm and shoved Raymond nearly out of his saddle. "You think we haven't planed for this?" Tom turned to the wagon. "As he said, the Beast of Burden isn't safe anymore. Get to town, find some place safe to store the wagon and the goods and wait for me. We've come to alert the rest of the operation. Taro's confiscated records are sure to give away something. We're probably being followed by the city guard or those damned sneaks Ray mentioned. Be wary on the road to Hub."

"Huh." the wagon crew looked at each other uneasily. The men in the back held their crossbows more firmly and nodded to their leader up front. "If we see anything, we'll be ready. Good luck, Tom. We'll be at the Low Rat." The driver flicked the reins and the wagon pulled away.

The three riders started to walk their horses towards the west. As soon as the wagon was out of sight Tom released a bellow and leaped off his horse, grabbing Raymond up in his huge arms and throwing them both to the ground. "You'll learn your place! Damn. your. big. mouth!" Tom landed a few heavy fists on the young man knocking the awareness out of him.

When Raymond could open his eyes again he found himself off the road, his travelling companions gone and his whole body tied to a tree. He hung his head. Nothing made any sense anymore.