The Braided One, as I will ever after think of her thanks to that dearest of ones, does make my heart sing. To see her twice in as many days was a blessing – and as she quite rightly pointed out when she saw my company, I was blessed indeed. Even as that flash of light winked them away from me and I felt the pang I always feel, I was filled with a delicious feeling of joy at having seen them at all and was suddenly overcome with a desire to spin and dance and laugh – and I believe I may have done all three to my embarrassment. They were pleased with my training record. That filled me with pride, though I was not boasting, and when they told me they were impressed with my progress I thought I would surely burst from the wonderful feeling. I feel so inspired. I feel alive in a way I have not done in many months. Alive at seeing them, hearing them, and alive too at the thought I am spurring myself on to the trainer that I might help them attain their goal – help them bring their oath to fruition. For surely a stronger cleric can seek a way to destroy the Dark One sooner than one who is weak. By the gods I will do it. They do not stand alone.

Fancy waking in the inn! The inn of all places! In the warm, at a table, food and drink available should I have wanted it – but more, with a smile and an inner glow and that fleeting place that I write of so often between waking and sleeping that brings to me that dearest of faces and voices, that soft smile resting on the lips of that precious mouth. For a moment I thought he was still there in my sleep confusion, but it was Jaltz after all and I then remembered that they had left to go to rest. I had chided them to do so. It was an easy meeting full of glances and gentle teasing and sly smiles and even wry smiles. At least I know they have rested. That they have rested, taken nourishment and though I should have needed no such reassurance, were pleased to see me, I believe, and have forgotten me not. Do they carry that poor, dried rose I wonder? They looked strong and ready for anything. I had almost forgotten the thrill of seeing them stride from a room. I blush as I watch, I want to bury my head in my arms to hide my feelings. But why should I? I spent many marcs reading back over my journal – to that place seven years ago when I decided, some time after I had entered the lands, to note things down. Back then I believe it was just because my memory was so poor I knew I would forget names, faces, places, events. Then it turned into a comforter of sorts when unspeakable things that I wished to hide needed to be said. Now it is a record. What will become of it when I am dead and gone I wonder? Will it be destroyed in some accident or mischief? Will it lie undisturbed in dusty sleep? Will it end up being packed away somewhere in the guild hall to be rediscovered many seasons after I have gone? Probably any of these is the likely event. But perhaps records such as mine, journals such as many more worthy than I keep and have kept for far longer, will become, after indeterminable time, the rare glimpses into the history of the land. Perhaps something that has happened here and now will not show its true significance until after this age is ended. Will our journals become the Tomes that Purazon spends so long in pouring over at Strifegorge in the hope of finding answers to the future’s problems? I can only hope the answer is no, for that would mean that nothing changes and the Dark Lord’s threat as great as ever it was, but I believe the answer might be yes. Perhaps I should pay more attention to what I write in these pages.

I have woken from a long dream it seems. The weight in my legs and my body fades away from me. My bones once more feel as though they can bear my weight. My armour feels as though it should be against my robes and my skin. I hear sounds, see sights, smell the air about me. I find my feet wandering paths they have long since forgotten; yet they do so before I have quite made up my mind I meant to do it. The gods must be guiding me. I have tested myself. I have gone to the Dark Places and I have come back to the light without difficulty (although my sleep has been troubled). I hold the gods and godesses in my soul, I hold the vision of the dearest and brightest soul I know in my heart. Dear Sorynn - what a joy to see her - may her words be true. I fight hard and long. I feel my limbs grow lithe and supple once more. The old moves come back to my arms and the blade moves swift in my hand. I feel uncomfortable around people. Not so bad though - many have forgotten me or never knew me. As like so many before - out of sight, out of memory. I must stop this. The more I write here, the more I dwell on thoughts that might distract me. I will go back to the fight. Now. Quickly.

Careless! Careless! Careless! To allow a horror in Old Dundee to catch me! I have been idle too long....

True to my promise to myself and my letter to the guild, I ventured out and went to pay my respects to Her Majesty’s throne only to find revolting creatures flying about there with stings that could surely knock an adventurer to the floor leaving them paralysed to be feasted upon unless the gods are merciful! So angry was I that I stung back and I do not think they were expecting it. Having cleared one I was relieved to make my way to the throne room itself and fine it left clear. I was disrespectful enough to go out onto the balcony and look over the lake, fearful that those waters might have proved a draw for the disgusting insects, but all was well. I bowed, said a prayer and then decided to walk the King’s garden – I know it is her garden, but somehow it will always be His – and take a breath before travelling out. To find one there too was awful, but a red mist I do not recognize came over me and in absolute fury I flung myself at it and threw it back to its maker. Have I been gone so long that strange creatures walk and fly about the land? Is there some terrible news that I have not yet come across to explain their presence? I sent a desperate message to the guild and by return, brother Isoyami mused that they may have appeared from a crack near Shamson’s now sadly bedraggled home. Now my heart really was racing – a breach in such a place! My blood roared in my veins as I raced down the Royal Road. What could He want there! What could this be! I knew it could not, surely, be any good news. Yet the Holy Order had already been torn from there; havoc wreaked! What more could this place suffer? I feared for Shamson’s safety and was so relieved to see that dear healer in one piece I paused and almost laughed. Then I saw it – the crack in the wall leading to I could not see where. There was a presence about it…. It drew me towards it. This was something I had not felt since my last long ventures into the Dark Land. Sure enough, my old curiosity came out and I found myself squeezing through and was instantly thrown back by an overpowering, sickly smell as though flowers from a thousand bondings had been piled up and left to decay. Destruction everywhere of a place I did not know, yet familiar too. I crept forward and was soon set upon by more of the creatures I had seen in the palace grounds and garden. No surprise they wished to take up residence here. The scent, or perhaps odor would be a better word, was sick and cloying and to smell it seemed like a drug. Heady, I half closed my eyes and fell into a twilight, dreamy state wondering what could have caused such sad decay and disrepair. The further I went, the more familiar things seemed and soon I felt the blood drain from me and a cold fear took me over. These were roads I have walked countless times towards the places dearest to me. Yes! Here the healer…yet no one was there – how could they be amidst such chaos. The nearer I approached what I knew could not be, surely could not be, and yet feared to my core was, the end of the Royal Road the more I felt my legs shaking. The Palace….. surely not….. my home! Oh gods….. I had to see whether there was a portent for my home, my guild…. But no. The courtyard, but all ways from it, except to return, where barred. Then what of the Palace? What of that? Eyes wide and terrified I strode with as much purpose as my legs could give me only to be confronted by a truly terrible sight. I cannot describe it, not even here in the safety of my Lord’s life monument, for to do so is to recall those terrible creatures to my mind’s eye. The semblance to ones we know well who do such duty by the Queen and by us, and yet such horror. I had the chance, may the Dark Lord be cursed, to see it fully before it ripped me asunder and sent me back to the light. What do these things mean? If only I could know, or see enough to make sense of it. At present, with tales of terrors pouring from the old obelisk, and brethren I know to be strong feeling weak, although they are not weak, and still the shadow of glimmering shoes and keys and coins and healers and hearts running around my head, it can only mean one thing: that I will fight and fight hard. I have left that dearest of ones alone in the lands, or so it seems to me, to shoulder all burdens, undertake all work. Well, I am back; strong in their words and their love. Though parted by duty and darkness, battle and care, we are always together in mind and in heart. I will carry them with me when I go into battle. I will hear that deep, rich voice and see those eyes looking into mine to steel my nerve. Beware Dark Lord Balthazar, I am coming and unlike You, I do not stand alone. Having hordes about You is not the same as having them with you, Dark One, and those who really care do have unity and will try all avenues to defeat You!

Words are powerful. I have often heard it. The one who sired me used them to the full and drew his power from the effect they had on others. Harsh words, such as those I heard before I left my homeland, and indeed when I returned to it (except from Hannah), can cut like the sharpest of daggers and leave our emotions torn and tattered like spilt blood on the floors of our hearts. But the greatest words of all, surely, come unexpected after a long silence, like rains washing away the dust of our lives, or waters quenching a desert’s thirst. I have read and re-read the words so often already that I have committed them almost to memory. For that dearest of ones to have committed word to paper at a time when all their energies are spent on such great and important matters is marvelous to me. It makes me realize how selfish my time has been. While I fritter away marcs and days, even weeks and months, in a quiet melancholy of longing, they spend their time struggling with ancient texts and words looking for clues, any clue, as to how the Dark One will be conquered and brought down. They are right – it will take more than mortal blades and brave hearts, however true they may be to their cause, despite His mortal roots. And though I could tell from these precious few penned words I have added to his burden with my need for them, still the last few words will stay with me, waken me, keep me strong. I carry the same as they have named in their letter, and as they tell me they do, it will be for the timeless ages to come.