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Pelfgrum’s Journal

 

8th Short Day of Kvist

 

I left the fairies with a new sense of purpose, and with hope that I could atone for my deeds. Perhaps this journal can set a record of my turn towards the light. I left by foot headed southward, and I knew before long I would reach the edge of the deep forest. 

 

My progress in the late morning was slowed by a cluster of giant goats, huddling in the cold upmountain wind. I pulled my cloak up to my collar against the chill, while attempting to look unthreatening, and prayed to the Sunlord that there wouldn’t be younglings. The largest one approached me with unexpected vigor, and lunged for the rations in my pocket, half a fish from the lake to the east and a handful of Tuifgo nuts. I tried to move aside but it was too fast, and ate them all with a long gray tongue. I sighed. I would look again for food that night.

 

I traveled down the slopes throughout the day, and turned east to the edge of the lake, the last feature I knew this far south of Snefgurk. I was dismayed to find broken rocks of a violent attitude, and I cut my hands and my thigh once when a stone rocked under my foot and I slipped into another protrusion.

 

At last I was at the bottom of the hill, and I glanced with some wist at the balmy grove at the lake’s eastern side, which two weeks before I had shared with Herkant and the other Sunclerics. I turned back, and forged further south. I felt that I could not afford the detour. I walked across the dry grass plain away from the lake for several turns, but in the end I still found the thick forest earlier than I expected, before all the light had faded.

 

I made camp at the prairie’s edge and pulled together my remaining resolve for the day to look for ration before sleep. Again, I was overly pleased to have trained in hunting as a youth in Parathoun, rather than sailclothing or coinweighing or some other skill with an inedible conclusion. Under a telltale crest of sod I found three unwatched Dremhi eggs, enough for one night’s meal. I ate them with stonesalt and went quickly to pull my bedroll over my head. I did not dream and I was undisturbed. It is hard for roaming monsters and other shadows in the darkness to find one small person in this vast wilderness of rubble and dust.

 

8th Long Day of Kvist

 

When I awoke the sky was clear and the sun shone bright on the ice crusting the dry grass. The faerie had said to me that I could find allies to the south, they said it would not be far, and I have been told that fairies cannot lie. I glanced around my immediate camp for food and found none. It would be fasting on the road like they did when people believed in the Way.

 

I ducked into the shadow of the forest. I believe I walked the direction I meant to, but it was hard to tell with the sun hidden behind the thick canopy and most of the trees looking the same. I traveled over root-carved valleys and trunk hills of an increasingly chaotic variety, but I encountered nothing with the spirit needed to confront those men I feared in dark armor. I walked quickly and went faster due to the insistent decline sloping down away from the safety of the hills. I was reluctant to lose elevation without knowing my destination, and became anxious that I would lose the Way oncemore. 

 

Before dark I had to stop for need of rations, but once again my luck was with me and no sooner had I stopped but I found a grove of Scurwood trees along the side of a large pond, and I was able to collect enough sweet amber sap to feed four if you had something to put it on. But then when I walked around in the muck of the pond I found no fish or edible weed and I had to settle for paste of Beock cut from the root and boiled over the fire.

 

When I lay down for the night, I realized how deep I had gone into this unknown woods. I heard the howl of a wolf, and it sounded to be not far away, and had such a menacing and sinister tone that I had to ask myself if I was not imagining things and more frightened than I realized. I squinted into the spaces between the trees and saw a pair of wideset yellow eyes looking blankly at me. I did not move and the eyes stared at me for some time. My heart beat in my ears but I did not call upon the Way and after quite a bit of time the eyes swung laboriously away and disappeared. I tried to return to sleep but I could not and lay awake through the night listening to hoots and snarls and the next day felt much worse than I had hoped.

 

8th Small Day of Kvist

 

I cannot tell how the winter weather fairs upon hills outside of this forest, but under the trees the air is still and cold. I ate the rest of the Beock root and kept my Scurwood honey in a bladder-lined sack, still three fourths of what I had collected. I walked south, and down, always down it seemed, and though sometimes I saw hollows in the trees high above, I could not reach them to see if they held more eggs. 

 

At midday my luck hit again and I crossed paths with a masked treeskunk and was able to snare it so quickly that it never had time to coat me with its cheekspray. I was able to cut enough meat for three days and was able to harvest and store both poison sacs intact, and in my mind I imagined contrived scenes of smug assuredness with old friends back in Parathoun. I ate roasted treeskunk with Scurwood honey and dozed.

 

My self-fulfilling daydreams turned to thoughts of Herkant, and his dreamform didn’t listen with the same enthusiasm as my old friends and I felt other memories festering at the back of my mind. I pictured the goblin wizard’s sly smile and the look in his eye when I showed him the way into the city from the bushland to the northeast. I fell asleep to visions of the suntoken I had forged, and nothing disrupted my sloth.

 

I woke up feeling dazed but my conviction drove me to rise and resume trudging forward. Somewhere I argued to myself, I would find some scrap of cloth or waylaid arrow that might point me in the direction of the benevolent bandit community that would help me throw off a minor invasion and right my wrongs. Each time I said my plan to myself, it sounded worse than the time before. I wanted to curse the fairies for their deceit, but superstition held back my words. I made camp and ate well of treeskunk, but felt little contentment, for another day had passed and no closer did I seem to be along my Way.

 

8th Big Day of Kvist

 

Today a fine snow fell through the canopy. I was surprised any flakes can find their way through. I suppose the sunlight trickles through the leaves the same way. At daybreak I meditated and made my body moves as one with Lord Buespar. I do not need to follow the path, I am the path, and the Way moves through me. I ate honeyed meat and turned to the northeast. My spirits were much improved and I did not lose my way. I walked up and down hillsides, avoiding the spines of thickly growing desert pine, and at one point passed a strange looking mushroom with a chocolate cap and sickly yellow spots with a wide berth.

 

Throughout that whole day I walked with purpose and then found what I was looking for. I crested one hill to look across the valley to the top of the next, upon which sat a ruined fort of crumbling dryrock. I moved with excitement down the loose sandy hillside and went far too far up the opposite slope before I realized that the keepers of this kind of outpost may not ask questions before moving to repel strange invaders such as myself. In the shadow of the ruin I hid and felt the cool shaded sand against my cheek. I completed the last 200 feet of the climb with considerably more patience, but it did not matter, for when I peered through the empty stone window frame on the ground floor, I saw that the fort was unoccupied, and deathly still. 

 

I climbed through the window frame, and landed as lightly as I could in the dust on the other side. The hillkeep’s only complete room was dark and cramped. The second room was only most of a room, with the opposite wall collapsed into an eroding pile, and the corners filled with drafted snow, for it was open to the cold wind. I turned back to the first room. In the fading light I could see ashes in multiple corners, and bits of scrap leather and twine. I inspected a torn rag on the ground and was encouraged when a mouse darted away. The mouse had not yet cleared the rag of crumbs, so the place was not completely abandoned. I was confident that one of the bandits would pass through before too long, and they would take me along my path.

 

I turned back and saw above the doorframe a traveler’s symbol scrawled in coal chalk. At first it looked like a covered longship, the kind where the oars stick out of hull windows and all move in unison in powerful sweeps. But the more that I looked at it over the coming days, the more that I thought it made it look like some horrible monster with a shell of iron and countless legs writhing in the firelight.

 

Oshem Grey

 

From her vantage point on the roof of the south-western tower of Siggur’s Roost, Oshem the lookout could see it all. It was comforting to to peer over each tower and embattlement, all of the yard inside, and forest without, and know that nothing could look at her from above save for a couple of spruce beagles. With her keen eyes, Oshem could see the two men fighting in the mud down below, saw the flashes of anger on the faces of those circled around the combatants. Satel stood on the recently erected wooden dias at the back of the yard, looking even more grim than usual. Oshem wondered if the captain was feeling a twinge of regret.

 

Doipe and the thin-faced stranger had their hands on each other's necks, and then Doipe yanked the stranger down by the latter's peculiar scarf. The crowd gave a cheer of approval and the watchers on lower battlements craned forward in anticipation. Oshem was the only one to see the shadow creeping on the forest floor outside, and only then barely saw it out of the corner of her eye. She felt her head swing away from the struggle and the saw flash the color of clay soil. Oshem threw her sight the way Bravora had taught her, over-opening her eyes and ears, and calming her breathing. Her pulse slowed and her vision sharpened many times over, and then she saw the corner of a cloak, and a dun hood that was small like her own.

 

The figure was hard to track on the dappled forest floor. It made no noise discernible to Oshem above the hoots and jeers rising up from inside the yard, but it was definitely moving towards the keep. Twenty yards from the wall, the shadow paused. Then the hood turned towards the tower, and Oshem was met piercing blue eyes and a ruddy face. Oshem was pleased to be caught in this position and flashed a smile before catching herself, but the shadow had already turned back and was gliding towards the keep again, and then was out of sight.

 

Inside the yard, hard-headed Doipe had seized the upperhand, and was now sitting on the stranger’s chest and beating him into the mud. The brigands gave cries of approval and some of Doipe more loyal followers shouted grisly recommendations. Doipe landed blow after blow and gave a great bellow of fury and aplomb which tapered off into a strange sort of keening wail, and then Doipe flopped over onto his side in the mud and did not move, and Oshem could see that he was dead. The stranger was still lying in the mud, shaking arm outstretched. Blood dripped from down his wrist to disappear into the fabric of his black tunic. A dagger was held aloft in his hand. Where he got it, Oshem was not sure.

 

For a moment, the yard was stunned into silence. Then the stranger lept up from the mud, clearly not interesting in hearing what new punishment they had earned. He tried to dash from the circle before the brigands could come to their senses, but they was already closing its ranks, and he was shoved back and forth across the shrinking ring. Then Oshem watched as shady Thate slid up behind the stranger and whispered something in his ear. Thate flicked his knife into the stranger's back, and he shuddered and fell into the mud several feet from Doipe

 

“You let him have it”, croaked Thate, spinning to point an accusatory finger at Satel, who had still not moved.

 

Satel spoke guardedly, “Doipe requested a fight to the death. A hanging may have been wiser, or a ransom-holding”.

 

“You wanted him to get stabbed! You didn’t check him close. You know what Doipe’s been saying”

 

“Oh? What's he been saying.”

 

The yard stood still and the brigands looked at each other's blades. Oshem prickled, for Thate was cruel and she did not like his tone when he called her halfling. For a moment Thate looked defiant, but then he capitulated, snorted and said, “Well how about this. Fuck the Roost. Fuck you.”

 

He turned towards the circle. “C’mon then you lot”, he said and then started walking towards the open gates. ‘You lot’ apparently meant the two or three shouting loudest for Doipe, and Oshem was not particularly sad to see any of them go, for small Stog would give away your secrets if propositioned, and Gasett played strange games with the rafter-mice. Thate stomped to the opening and then looked down and to the right, and said gruffly, “Hello little sneak. You want to join a bandit company? We've just formed”. Oshem realized that he was talking to the small hooded figure, who blended into the mottle of the stone wal. The creature only came up to around Thate’s middle. Oshem did not hear if the creature replied, but it must have, for Thate spat and growled, “Suit yourself. Stay with Satel and die”, and strode with his lackeys out of the doorway and into the forest.

 

Oshem stared at the figure, afraid to blink and miss something. “Who might you be?”, called Satel with a leaderly tone. The figure stepped into the yard. Oshem could see that it was a gnome, like Oshem’s father was, and feminine like herself. The gnome’s cloak was a mess of pockets and she wore a strap from shoulder to waist with many pouches where different flowers and herbs were visible.

 

In a voice that was half the squeak of a mouse and half the grinding of mountain granite, the gnome replied, “I am not from here, and I have come seeking another. That is all.”

 

Satel expression twitched, “As you can see, there is danger in these woods. You must tell us your business, and be clear, or leave.”

 

“Very well. I have come seeking a man named Pelfgrum,” the gnome said, “Do you know him? In return, I may have information that could help you."

 

Satel sighed, “There is no one here of that name. If you wish to be of service, I’d ask you to join me in the north tower. The rest of you, start digging a grave.”

 

Pelfgrum

 

9th Small Day of Kvist

 

Norbwa says she prefers not to solve problems with violence, but she doesn’t seem like one to let her preferences get in the way. My guide-mentor back in Octavia used to say that when one is correctly following the Way, fortune and misfortune will turn over and slide top of one another until one appears as the other. In those times, one is supposed to use Buespari teachings to know thyself and to find the hidden doorway, but I’ve never been very good at applying teachings. So, I’m not sure whether to be frightened or comforted by the Norbwa’s vicious looking blade in the well-oiled sheath. It seems like she knows how to use it, though I hope she doesn’t have the need.

    All of Good Day passed under heavy winter clouds, and I did not see another living thing save for the bickering swifts nesting on the ledges under the eroding foundation of the hillfort. I tried not to think about the dryrock liberating itself from the foundation and plunging with jubilation down into the canyons on either side of the ridge. I bound my wounds and ate honeyed meat, leaving two days of rations remaining. When the setting sun appeared briefly in the gap between the mountains and the cloudline, I performed the Sundance, and was blessed to feel its warmth move through me. I fell asleep to the whistling of the wind and dreamed of a strange alpine lake made of animal milk, filled with wild yaks and cats that reminded me of the ones that would prowl the docks in Parathoun.

    Today I awoke to a light drizzle, though it is the last week of the year and usually cold and dry in these hills. Enough rain had fallen to form small streams, carved in the sand at the canyon bottoms of either side of the ridge. I ventured down the side opposite to that which I had arrived to gather water and look for additional sustenance. I didn’t find any, and the hillside was muddy and treacherous. When I was halfway up the ridge, I heard a loud thump-thump echoing off the hills, and I cowered between a couple of sparse trees. The swifts were terribly silent, but I waited and saw nothing in the valley below and the sound eventually dissipated. 

I summited the ridge and went to circle the fort, giving me a view of my original canyon. When I had last looked, the sand at the bottom was cut by a snaking creek of clear water. Now, the creek ran still, but it ran straight and direct, because it was pooled at the bottom of a large tread of a strange pattern. The track was straight and smooth, except for two large divots in the sand. From the vantage of the ridge, I could see that the divots repeated in a pattern, as if some large floating child had dragged a stick behind them, and every so often, poked the toe of their shoe down into the dirt over the path, twice.

I collected small branches from a dead tree clinging to the rock some distance from the fort. I brought an armload to the window, shivering, and dumped it inside. I did not check to see if anything new had taken residence in the alcove, but it was thankfully still unoccupied. I built a small fire and waited for the hours to pass, trying to recollect any bit of lore on giants that flew. I went out and gazed at the track again. It had already started melting in the soft, shifting mud. I thought about a huge mammal with round hooves that leapt sideways dozens of feet at a time, but the thought caused me to sweat and I pushed it out of my mind.

I fell asleep by the fire and dreamed again, this time of the goblin-wizard, walking with me through the snowy hills, like we had on the 6th Long Day of Kvist. This time, I was the follower, and Reemig the leader, and he was the one showing me the hidden tunnel into the rock, instead of the other way round. I asked him where the tunnel would lead, and he said it would take me to the cold stillness beyond the beginning of time, where I would become an eternal statue and move no more. I tried to run from the mouth of the tunnel but the sand went soft under my feet and I began sliding backwards, until I woke up with my heart pounding, and saw that someone had entered through the window while I slept.

The brigand sat cross-legged in the corner opposite from mine. She was imposing, with thick leather armor, and her short, dirty hair was mostly covered by a helmet to which someone had affixed what appeared to be a set of young pyonky-dul antlers. I had had many empty hours to consider the ideal words to appeal to my eventual guide, but in this compromising position I could think of nothing to say other than, “Hello, my name is Pelfgrum the Acolyte.”

 

    She replied gruffly, “Hello, Pelfgrum, this your home now?”

 

    “No”, I spoke quickly, “I’m traveling on my Way, I’m seeking the Gammlers of Broken Hill. I will trade tidings.”

 

She offered what was either a laugh or a cough. The woman seemed an easy fit for the solitude of the hills. “You’ve got gnome’s luck, it’s not far. I’ll take you there.”

 

    “I must warn you I have little by way of payment,” I lied.

 

    “Don’t matter. I’m headed that way anyway. Safer to travel in two,” she said with finality.

 

    It was settled, then. When one is following the Way things needn’t be hard. Sometimes they can be easy. Though Norbwa the Brigand answered each one of my questions with frustratingly few words, causing me to ask more questions than I would have liked, I was eventually able to glean that she was one of the Gammlers herself. She was nearing the end of a multi-day scouting excursion, which was apparently something their leader Satel was requiring on a routine basis. I excavated this information one and two words at a time, so that our conversation proceeded as something similar to the following.

 

    “And so why are you out in the hills for multiple days?”
 

    “Scouting”

 

    “Yes, and what is the purpose of this scouting?”

 

    “Satel’s orders”

 

    “Satel has you scouting the hills?”

 

    “Yuh-huh.”

 

    “All the time?”

 

    “Yessir”

 

    “Um, what for?”

 

    “Dunno”

 

I gave up without much resistance, and we ate dinner in silence sitting in our chosen corners. The fading light mingled with flickers of twin campfires, and I saw the drawing above the door frame writhe and twist. I pointed and asked Norbwa, “Is that a sign of the Gammlers?”

 

    “It is now”

 

    “It was here before?

 

    “Yessir”

 

    “Who drew it here in the first place?”

 

    “Dunno”

 

I shivered as the fires kindled down. I chanced one more attempt, “What does the symbol mean, to the Gammlers? To Satel?”

 

“Satel says it is many of us working together as one. Gets us where we're going. Satel’s good like that.”

 

I looked again at the drawing, and sought to perceive the flickering as the sacred motion of Buespar. At first there was nothing, but when I continued to stare, the lights shone and the motion of the fire and ash was passed unto me, and I knew with certainty that for three days forward my flesh could not be burned nor melted by flame, a gift from the One Who Moves In All. 

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To be continued..