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Purposefully situated between Valindra and Solera, I have a few peaceful moments to contemplate recent days and those ahead. We have accomplished much, but there is yet more to do, and we are so few. Sitting here in the hall, so warm in both temperature and spirit, it is easy to be lulled into forgetting the horrors that await us underground beyond the trolls’ lair.

Just yesterday, those wretched beasts were our biggest worry. Now, it seems almost childish to fear those giant, stupid lumps, when we know we have stumbled upon the Drow. All I can think of is Valindra’s deadly accuracy with her bow, and Solera’s powerful magic. Their tracking abilities and razor-sharp intellect. Now, we will be on the receiving end of those lethal skills, and from those with evil intent. Who knows how many are down there? How can we possibly hope to measure against them?

I try to focus on Siobhan’s important story about the orbs, but I really just wish it were Blair’s turn. I sneak my hand a tiny bit closer to Solera to try to discover if she feels cold, as she looks she might, but I don’t really feel any cold coming from her. I do feel warmth seeping from Valindra, and I can feel myself grow drowsy. As Siobhan spins on about the lost Orbs, and I begin to drift off, I remember snatches of instructions from my deity, BaervanWildwanderer : Wander the great woodlands in search of excitement and sylvan sites of incredible beauty. Defend and protect the creatures of the forest and the woodlands in which they reside. Be ever curious, and follow life wherever it may lead.

We learned, through multiple channels, that strangers had taken up position by the lake. Clad in white, with symbols of a golden sun, they were there to deal with the demonic threat. Again, we found that an action (which we took with the best of intentions) had come back to haunt us.

We agreed that seeing as they were fighting the demons plaguing the area, we should approach them to see if they would work with us. At least on the surface we had a common goal and a common enemy.

Still, there was no sense in throwing our lot in with them before we learned more about them. We prepared for the cold, snowy trek and headed north.

Sadly, the nightmares followed me through our camps in the snow. Demonic laughter echoed around me and a bitter cold settled in my bones as I slept, slowing my steps even further. I worried over discovery, worried that Cabhan would soon know it was worse than I had admitted to him, worried that I might strike out at a solid friend while trying to defend myself in my dreams.

Two utterly exhausting days brought us within striking distance of their camp, and Yvor and I advanced forward to spy on their activities. It mostly seemed like a normal, if well-fortified compound, with a few exceptions. The thick palisade was constantly patrolled, with none of the lapses in attention that one might usually expect. Routes were carefully planned to eliminate gaps, and there was no point where any guard was not in sight of another for more than a few moments.

There were wagons of supplies (which we would later learn had been teleported into the camp from their backup force on the northern shore of the isle), and a scattering of chickens and working beasts. The roofs were slate to guard against fire, and the front of the palisade glistened with ice to prevent a climb (I wagered I could still make it, but it would take skill, and you'd be a clear target to anyone above. I certainly wouldn't have liked to try it.)

The side facing the lake had sturdy stakes driven into the bank, points threatening any approaching craft, apart from a small break where a dock might be placed out. They had planned carefully for any attacker, and they seemed to have a force more than capable of dealing with any mundane (and probably most supernatural) threat.

Damn.

Worse still, and what hastened my steps back to the others, we witnessed one of the guards sprout a pair of feathery white wings and simply fly from the top of the palisade. Half-Celestials, then, or something just as powerful.

Damn.

Whether we liked it or not, we needed to approach them openly, try to convince them to work with us. Or at least to convince them not to hunt us as well.

And so, with a few touches to make us seem a bit grander, we walked up to the enemy camp, in broad daylight, hoping the Fraser name would allow us to be heard out. Fortunately it worked, and they did not look too closely at Jokulla and Yvor. Bogen, First Son, was the name of their leader, and he welcomed us inside.

I'm sure both parties would be offended to be compared, but as he spoke he reminded me more and more of my parents. All three share an arrogance, a certainty of Rightness which they wear about their shoulders. A callousness, I might call it, for anyone unfortunate enough to be caught between the hunter and his prey, the merchant and his gold. A broad disregard for the efforts of any who have not had the good fortune to succeed as well as they had.

As Bogen described their plan, to destroy the Evil within the lake by burning it out with raw divine power, a wave of nausea rolled over me. It would work, probably, from their perspective. But with such senseless waste. The Mother would be forever scarred, and every innocent, the benign tainted, all would be gone in an instant.

And I remembered too well Taeyna's telling of the wild times, before the Arch. When such power was used freely, when things were created and destroyed on a whim. To see anything like it on the Isles... unthinkable. Wrong.

I didn't trust my tongue in conversation with him, except for the briefest and blandest of comments, even though of course everything seemed perfectly polite.

No one knows better than me the poison which can hide behind a polite word.

“…crazy in bed,” Dill snarked. The others laughed and Ainorei added that she hadn’t heard that one before. Peering over the rim after many cups of ale, across the great fire pit in the main hall of Caer Gwynned, a standout in the crowd had caught Dill’s eye. While everyone else wore heavy fur garments to stay back the cold, this one was barefoot in a simple chemise revealing her bare legs. “Any port in a storm,” he muttered, as he sidled over. He furtively mentioned how he too was barefoot and told her how he admired her sinewy feet. It was working. Disheveled blonde hair framed her heart shaped face, sweeping down in wild curls, below her shoulders, almost meeting at her narrow chin. She appeared to be glaring wide eyed, but Dill would bet anything they always looked like that. It reminded him of another unkind quip, “Steer clear, of the lady with the crazy eyes.”

He could see the fretful faces of the older couple standing beside her as he continued his small talk. Later that evening he would learn that they in fact had taken her in like kindly foster parents.

Anwin was her name. “Mad” Anwin was what they all called her behind her back. She unravels a tale about once having a child, a son, possibly a prince that was replaced by a changeling. Dill had a hard time following along and couldn’t tell what was the truth or not. But, by the way she stroked his face and pulled her to her ample bosom, he wasn’t complaining. And he kind of liked her take charge attitude when she took him by the hand and led him to her bed.

It was the middle of the night when the alarm sounded. The creature was back, scaling the fortress wall. Dill was kind of relieved that they didn’t have to go hunt it down in the miserable snow. He grabbed his gladius and made haste for the roundhouse door. The elderly couple was up, one lighting a candle.

Dill’s face suddenly went hot with shame as he recollected through the drunken haze the sheer amount of noise their fervorous lovemaking had made. The guttural grunts, gasps and panting, followed by Anwin’s raucous shrieks of “yes, my little prince, yes!” Still grinding against her Dill had shouted “oh mommy,” over and over again, overcome with lust and lost to the fact that this may or may not be some sort of role play.

He dodged through the door into the ice cold night air, as he rounded their dwelling, he could see the hulking terror, backlit from the moonlight, on a rooftop. He could not discern its face, but Dill laid his eyes on the outline of one its foul hands, ending in savage daggerlike claws. He quickly calculated that just its fiendish hand was bigger than him. As Dill exhaled, his swirling vapor carried with it, almost a whisper, “Oh mommy.”

I KNOW... the show MUST go on. But seriously... nobles and patrons turning into rats and sharktopi. Sob would have had a blast with the situation but by the time he was able to arrive, of course Lysa had perform again. I need to do a better job of keeping them in separate places. I also need to talk to the players guild about working conditions.