Yuria's Log: Day 1
by Margaret Krohn on February 6th, 2012

As requested, I will begin writing short story snippets of my adventures during my current Dungeons and Dragons campaign. I will label them, so you can find them easily on the sidebar if it's the only thing you're interested in reading. Enjoy!

10/10/2011
Day 1
We convened at our usual meet up in the City Core of Neverwinter “The Staggering Lion’s Alehouse”. It wasn't the fanciest of places, but it suited us just fine. When I arrived, it was clear that Sir Thoran, my fellow dwarf comrade, had already had quite a few drinks. His long beard swayed as he sang and danced along with the local bard. His shiny armor looked as though it had been recently cleaned and waxed. What light was within the alehouse reflected off of it. He had always held onto what Earthly treasures best suited him at the time. An odd thing for such a noble knight. Perhaps, one day, he'll find something better lived for. He was accompanied by Lament, the newest member of our party. Lament seemed so misplaced within the alehouse. His large horns spiraling from his head, wearing robes of the black arts - a clear sign to those around that he was a warlock. Very few wore such robes and walked among the Light. Most warlocks were not allowed within any town untouched by the Darkness that lurked throughout the world these days. Those who were, were watched closely and looked down upon.
      I made libation my first priority and found my way to our table once the liquid was in hand. We always sat at the same table. It was in the corner of the alehouse near the fireplace. Dark and secluded, yet not too suspiciously ill lit. Master Sampson always made accommodation for us and did so with no complaints. My short break from the adventuring life was coming to an end. I had recently establish and fully organize a Church of Pelor within Neverwinter. It was an honor to do such a great deed, but there was still much to do else where and my mission was to spread the Light of Pelor.
     Through the bardic songs and clinging of mugs, I could hear the alehouse door creak as Drogo and Loogan, the final members of our party, entered the room. We had fought for three seasons together and we made quite a team. I assumed Loogan found some interesting “scenic” route on their way here. Drogo has much more patience with the little halfling than I can spare and I’m pretty tolerant. Drogo's bow rested on his back next to his finely crafted quiver and arrows. He looked much taller, but no skinnier, than normal as he stood next to Loogan. Loogan's green eyes lit up as he entered the room. He put out his hand and beckoned one of the barmaids. His calloused hands were the mark of a monk. The two of them made there way to the table in their own time.
     After a few rounds of drinks and much discussion, we decided to venture forth to Gauntlgrym where the duergar currently reside and there are many in need of our aid. This is a particularly personal mission for me because I grew up in Gauntlgrym. Although, I don’t know the blood of my kin, I feel that it is home. It's where the Church of Pelor took me in as a young orphan. I’d like to help rebuild the city and churches, making it a place where young dwarves can once again age in prosperity and peace.
     It's been nearly a hundred and seventy years since the Spellplague, yet evil forces continue to conspire in the dark places of the world. A magical disaster that's what the Spellplague was. It all started when the goddess of magic, Mystra, was assissinated by the gods Cyric and Shar. No bards tale was necessary, everyone knew of what had happened for the world had changed. For the ten years that followed, magic was unreliable. Sometimes, it had the opposite effect, unintended effects or affected undesired targets. Many magic users would be immolated in blue flames. Often, killed by the fire. In many cases, magic outright failed. Fizzled, if I may say. Some magic items lost their power. Although, others endured. It was a chaotic time for those who relied on the crafting of spells. Political upheaval increased since many Royals and Nobles relied so heavily on War Wizards to keep their men in line and as time passed, more and more wizards fell to the whims of the Spellplague.
     Fortunately, Neverwinter has slowly been restored to much of its former glory. It was the first time that we all worked together - humans, dwarves, and elves. We all managed to put aside our differences to rebuild the city, but now...Now, it is time to continue and reclaim our heritage.
     A loud clanking brought me back to reality. Elsa, the barmaid, was cleaning up the dirty mugs and glasses from the tables. Realizing we should be on our way, we went outside to check on our mule and other goods that old Master Sampson helped us purchase the previous night. A toothless fellow came around the corner looking for the knight, Sir Thoran. My only assumption is that Sir Thoran has something to do with this fellow being toothless. As the others scampered off, I watched as Lament took his time to make a bargain with the toothless one. Lament is quite the bluffer. I fear the demon’s corruption is much further than suspected. Once the tiefling finished his business with the toothless chap, he seemed genuinely concerned about me. It was reassuring. Toothless did not seem to notice me at all. I do believe Pelor is watching over us. Although I think that I could have easily coaxed the toothless one to let go of the argument, whatever it was, I was glad I got to see the darker side of Lament and the cowardliness of the others. Knowing your army’s weaknesses is always beneficial.
     As we began our journey, we realized we didn't have a map to Gauntlgrym. Drogo, an expert when it came to the surrounding woodlands, would only be able to get us so far. Very few knew where the entrance of the grand city was. Long ago, the entrance to Gauntlgrym was a site to behold. It's large bridge and stone archway expressed the strength and pristine character of the people who lived within its walls. Now, the grand entrance is destroyed and one only hears of it's dingy, dismal appearance in passing story, for no one has been there in quite some time. When the duergar overran the lands, they destroyed all the luminosity the city once proudly displayed.
     Lament approached a fellow on the street who he thought would know where we could find a good cartographer. I felt a bit uneasy about the man and I did not catch his name, but I wanted to trust Lament. The fellow lead us to a shady shop in the Begger's District owned by a Master Ilbrecht. Master Ilbrecht seems like a good guy who is stuck in a rutty situation. I wonder what story he has woven. Ilbrecht had no map of use, but he had a journal that he was much too eager to rid of.
     The journal is written in dwarven. I picked up the book to read a few passages to see if it'd be a useful purchase. The beginning of the journal is written from a lively character, but as it goes on, he seems disturbed. As I hold the journal, I begin to see a vision. I fore-see Lament reading something in a language I do not understand. As we reach the entrance of Guantlgrym, fire erupts from the sky and I hear shrieking and sounds that are of no good origin. The vision ends. It worries me. I must stop this from happening. Lament is intent on buying the book and I fear that he will purchase it, so I eagerly buy it and asked for no one’s help. In fact, I demand that I pay for it solely even though the others offer what little gold they have. I can go a day without ale, but I would feel much guilt if anything were to happen to any of these fine fellows, especially if I can prevent it.
     We continue on our way, using the journal’s guidance and Drogo's expertise to aid us. During the journey, we get to a point where I'm uncertain what is written. Lament offers to read it. Regretfully, I allow Lament to read one word, “Alispeth.” This word makes me weary. I fear that it has summoned something, something dangerous. I swear I saw it in the sky; evil lurks.
We take camp here in the woods tonight. During our rest, I begin a ritual to erase their memory of the terrible name that I shall never speak nor write of again. Our elfin comrade, Drogo, finds webbed footprints. We know not of where they come from. The party seems worried; I am not. I have faith in our abilities.


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