Gallant Blackguard
Effusive, eccentric, self-proclaimed scholar seeking to assist his people and be regarded as a hero
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Entry: After Return
I am now Gallant Blackguard. Carrying the name feels as incredible as I expected it to. Perhaps moreso. I have been rewelcomed, and absolved of my crime, and have brought with me objects of worth for Bakwa.
I did not quite receive the amount of adulation that I had expected, but somehow I do not mind. They are not as receptive to my tome as I had expected them to be, but somehow I do not mind. If I were a man of ego, I would mark these factors as tenements marking a built maturity, but I lack the time for that. There are more urgent matters at hand.
Namely, a matter of dry fields, and of vicinity to wendols. My journey proved fruitful with knowledge that an entire encampment of them lies less than half a week from our home.
With the ground growing bare, a neighboring settlement disappearing, and the knowledge of enemies more nearby than expected, I suspect my own duty is yet to be done.
No, that feels less than succinct to say. To call it my duty is to act as if I bear obligation. Wanting the safety of Bakwa is no obligation - I do not feel it as a weight borne upon my ankles.
A chosen responsibility is perhaps more adequate a descriptor. If I truly fancy myself worthy of the name I've taken, it only naturally follows that I carry on, and enhance, the Blackguard legacy.
It is not enough that I have returned with boons for our people. It would not be enough to confer with a council and decide the fate of Bakwa.
I have power. I have experience. I have information. And I refuse to do nothing with those.
I am conferring now, with a man who fancies himself to be... what was the word he chose. "Archaeologist"? A man who studies the archaic. Quite a descriptor to choose. I have heard mutterings from a few folk about his interest being without meaning, but I find his conference of immense use.
I think he found conference with me of use, too. An interesting distraction from dread. His own son is yet to return, and I am certain occupying his time with these matters helps to take his mind away from worry.
We're working to find the location of a place of use. Another tower, it seems. Given the nature of the one our people have found already, this one is likely to deliver similar bounty. Information. Possible objects of use. And perhaps a vantage point to find a new location to move to.
Lio and I will
Right. I've forgotten to write about Lio.
I found the fellow on my return trip to Bakwa. He's foolish. Perhaps moreso than Gut was. But I could not leave the man alone in a dangerous place, so he traveled by my side back here.
I know I've called him foolish, but I would by no means call him a fool. He has fast reflexes, a sturdy will, and some capacity for magic. Some amount of fondness for him has grown on me despite his dull wit, and so I find myself sponsoring his presence here in Bakwa.
People do not trust him yet. And he exhibits a tendency to speak out of turn, as if he never considers any time inappropriate for levity.
But, once he and I have been of service to Bakwa, I am certain fondness for him will grow on their hearts as well.
He and I will, once recovered from our experiences, head toward this tower, find out what we can, and return, to help Bakwa further. He seems to have had more difficulty with our trip than I, and suffers from some mild stomach pain. Oh well. Surely some rest will help him. And then, we will see what lies to be found.
Well, either that or we'll find ourselves concerned with a scouting trip to that abandoned settlement. My preference lies with the former.
There is more to be done for Bakwa, and I choose to do it.
Entries: The Journey's Sixth Day
[Scrawled wildly]
He wouldn’t run, he didn’t listen to me. Why wouldn’t he listen to me?
It happened all at once. He barely had time to cry out.
Those terrible things. Insects, bigger than they should be. They tore into him.
They ate him alive. And I didn’t act. I couldn’t act. I got myself to safety.
I am safe. I am safe. I am safe.
If I write that to myself enough, I’ll believe it. Maybe.
I need to sleep. I need to not be awake.
Journey’s Sixth Day, Evening
[Written neatly and evenly.]
Gut has perished. There is no point in calling him Frostbreath now. That will never be his name. “Frostbreath Whiteguard” is now an impossible eventuality. That name fell when Gut fell.
I do not know who to blame. Myself for absconding so immediately, or him for refusing to do so at all.
There is no purpose in blame. No purpose in pondering.
Power demands responsibility, responsibility demands sacrifice.
He died, and I lived because of it. He made his choice, whether it had been his intention or not, and I will honor his sacrifice. I will make it back to Bakwa. I will honor his sacrifice. His death will mean something.
It has to mean something..
When he fell, all of the scrap we’d collected from that ruined settlement fell with him. Fortunately I’ve found more items of interest to return to Bakwa with.
I am secured high in a tower we’d found and had decided to explore. Shortly into exploring it, though, we were set upon by terrible creatures. Like insects, but far too enormous.
They set upon us, and now Gut is dead, and I live. Secure high up in this place. For now.
My head is still racing. I find it difficult to think.
I’ve found things of interest to return with. I’ll return with them. On my own.
Somehow.
Entries: The Journey's Fifth Day
Morning, Journey’s Fifth Day
I’ve been granted an interesting glimpse into another man’s life. The author of the tome? I am unsure. But their words hold meaning to me. They settle into my heart itself, sinking to the bottom. Not quite like bile stirring in one's guts, but like bitter medicine settling into a stomach.
Power demands responsibility. Responsibility demands sacrifice.
There were rather macabre implications in that text. Blood running black. Patchwork flesh. A fervor to live on.
If they sacrificed what I think they did, the enormity of that sacrifice is eye-opening. Believing in something enough to give up that much, even in a desperate fervor and with an ostensibly selfish aim is admirable. Commendable.
I am growing to understand that if I am to return, and become the hero I fancy myself becoming, I will have to make sacrifices of my own. Not theirs, those have already been made, but ones of my own.
What can I give to become what Bakwa needs? What do I have?
The sun rises, and yet I am not exhausted. Reading the tome has invigorated me. When I glimpse about, I can almost feel myself guided, layered with a feeling akin to the tome’s aching hunger.
Curious.
Night, Journey’s Fifth Day
[Scrawled briefly.]
Wendols are awful. They surrounded and assailed us while we traveled through and picked over an old, ruined settlement. What on earth sort of beast-men are they even meant to be? Their bones, their furs, perplex me at a glimpse.
Frostbreath and I were almost buried alive. Again due to his habitual foolishness. And mine own in following his ideas.
At least we got something out of it. Below-ground structure plans, some scrap metal.
I am. Tired. But Frostbreath is tired further. As relieving as sleep would be, I will hold watch, tonight.
Ţ̷̈́̀Ō̸͔̩Ḿ̵̟̕E̶̝̠͍̝̎̕ ̷̜́̈͑͠É̷̟̞̹̝̥̈́͂͝X̷̰̲͌C̶̥̈́̌́̈͝E̸̩̱̳͖̅͂R̴̠͒͛͒͘͜͝P̸̠̳͎̃̄̽̄͝T̷̛͈͐̀̚
[the page is spattered with dark, ruddish ink blots. The handwriting is dissimilar from the rest you've read.]
I have been given a solution. One I aim to pursue.
My companions claim I am losing myself. They are irrational, they cannot see what I see.
I have lost no pages, no paragraphs, no words. I am more full than I have ever been- in looking into the margins, my own margins have filled up with scrawlings, with notes, with understanding. Ink has spilled and spattered across my pages, blurring words, blurring paragraphs, but the words are still there, beneath the ink.
I have lost nothing. I am more complete than ever, pages packed with more understanding than theirs will ever hold.
Oleander, the fool that he is, implies with his barbed “concerns” that I of all people am losing myself. Him, of all my companions, dares to make that accusation? Ludicrous. I’ve seen his pages. Sparse, artsy poetry that abuses the span of each page, leaving imbecilic amounts of negative space to pacing out what it does say. If anything, Oleander is the least complete of us. He should be the one being accused of being lesser. Of losing things.
The impermanence of my body plagues my every waking thought. What I’ve seen when I’ve looked into the margins has made me realize not only how infinitesimally small I am, but how fragile and quick to rot my flesh and bone are.
I have brought this concern to the attention of the most empathetic and understanding of us, and she claims I have only lived half of my life span and that I should not worry. She fails to comprehend how brutally short that half I have left is. It’s the blink of an eye, in the grand scheme of things. It’s impermanent. And if I am impermanent, my knowledge is impermanent. My power is impermanent! No efforts I make to pass it on to a pupil will be worth anything at all - their body would rot too, much as mine does!
My fragile body itself perhaps understands this fact. My blood has begun to run black, but I still feel the agony of bleeding. Patches of my flesh grow suitable for removal, but no less arduous to tear from my body.. This is the solution.
Power demands responsibility, and responsibility demands sacrifice.
The Journey's Fourth Day
Our friend Fassamus has delivered unto us that promised boon! A finely crafted whip, menacing with spikes from that terrible beast we slayed together. Frostbreath wields it rather well, cutting the figure of a hero wielding an eponymous weapon.
Additionally Fassamus delivered unto us their waste. Whether that was a declaration of dissatisfaction with us being inaccessible as we were, or merely a matter of leaving droppings wherever they might fall is anyone’s guess.
Our journey today paled in comparison to how it began. Things of small note here and there. An unusual landslide, Frostbreath triumphing over a plant which intended to make him its prey despite his injury. So on, and so forth.
Now, what is truly of interest to me, perhaps even moreso than Frostbreath’s weapon, is my slowly growing understanding of my tome.
More of the words are beginning to make sense. Before, when I would gaze upon them, nothing tracked. On occasion it would feel as if the words themselves wanted to baffle me, or as if it were choosing to allow me to understand certain parts. But now,
Now, it is like hearing a whisper through my eyes. Hearing a voice from outside of a building. Hearing the soft, conspiratorial muttering of a friend.
I begin to distantly understand more and more, as if it answers me. I feel the tome’s hunger again, but now it feels as if it is beginning to become my hunger.
Before, it felt as if I were doing business with it, as I’ve said before - a deal, an exchange where we come out on top. But now, it feels as if I am clasping hands with it. Perhaps I’ve fundamentally misunderstood the nature of our deals.
Winning, losing, coming out on top. Thinking in terms of exchange. No, I am beginning to suspect this more than that. A cooperation. Shared goals, shared appetites. Knowing more of what the tome has to offer slowly becomes less like an interrogation and seems to almost approach conversation.
Or perhaps I am delusional, losing my senses in the excitement of growing to understand more.
I suspect I will find myself sleepless, tonight. I have a lot to read.
The Journey's Third Day
My worries from before are a touch absolved. As I found myself once again wasting away and near demise- perhaps as an aftereffect of being assailed the night before, Frostbreath healed me.
What an interesting feeling it was, coursing through me. Magical, surely, but completely foreign to the kind that courses through me. Where my own reaches out and grasps, and twists, His is like the embrace of an old friend.A woolen blanket drawn over you on a cold night. The warmth of a hot drink in a winter gathering.
Regardless, it kept me from my demise, and I find myself thankful. When we return to Bakwa, victorious, I will have to ask him to administer it to me again, in a state where I can pay closer attention to it.
We’ve taken a full day today to rest and regather resources. Hunting alongside Frostbreath, briefly, has made me realize that he is, perhaps, not the most perceptive fellow (not that I, myself, can boast in that regard.), which explains how I found myself assailed the other night. It is less so that he lacks care for me, and more that he, perhaps, does not have the most keen eyes. I will find some way to compensate for this deficit, and we will triumph together.
The Journey's Second Day
My companion, Frostbreath, seems to harbor an… unfortunate habitual foolishess. Acting before thinking, without measure.
Today, he stabbed into a piece of fungus and angered a colony of curious little creatures that may otherwise have been friendly. Or at the very least not hostile. Running like that from them - it truly tires one out… I’ll have to find some better way to run, in the future. Surely the power afforded to me by my tome might be of use for that.
After running, I was able to temper the situation through reaching into the minds of the creatures and assuring them of our intention. Though it seemed only to make them want us out of their territory moreso than make them amicable. But that’s better than nothing.
Before all of that, he and I stumbled across the remains of a building, and I found a rather curious wand of sorts that can create tracks of colored light in the air. It proved somewhat useful already during our escape, as a distraction of sorts that seemed to wow the little fellows, which perhaps aided me in convincing them to let us escape.
We’re now bunkered down in a sort of improvised structure of sorts, a hut to rest in. A growing paranoia sinks into my bowels, though, as I lay down to rest and allow Frostbreath to watch over me. I’ve begun to fear that he does not legitimately value my life. After being assailed the night before, I’ve found myself uncertain. I could feel the life leaving my body before that damnable oaf even began to realize I was being preyed upon.
Does he still consider me a criminal, after I’ve shown myself to be as capable and helpful as I have been? He speaks to me amicably, but his occasional firmness appears to betray not quite distrust, but a lack of any care at all.
If only I could rest without sleeping, without closing my eyes…
But for now, I am forced to place trust in him. A habitual foolishness is contagious, I suppose.
Entries: The Journey's First Day
[Written evenly and neatly.]
Mid-Day. Journey's First Day.
The funeral is complete, and Aloysseus Blackgaurd has died.
While that sounds rather macabre, I like to try and see this as an opportunity. I can return from this perilous quest, and be reborn. And when I am, I can be more straightforward about the nature of my tome, its appetite, and its potential. Lying and obfuscating out of fear is what's ejected me, after all. They wouldn't accept the truth if I told it to them; cloying half-whispers, tantalizing sparse truths, tucked between pages, neatly printed in margins, the exchange of these powers for whetting the apetite for knowledge that the tome holds... It would terrify them, now.
But if I return, victorious, they will be more receptive. The nature of my Tome to them will be recieved not as a devilish deal, but instead as what it is - an exchange weighed heavily in our own favor. The houses I've built for them would not quite be enough to make them understand, but the things I'll bring back for them certainly will.
I'm accompanied by a rather sturdy fellow. That town guardsman, Gut. He's not one of many words, but I trust in his abilities, and am certain he can fill the stopgaps in my own. He eyes me with suspicion and a small degree of hostility. Suitably so, considering he was the witness to my tome's appetite, though he considers having seen it akin to a delusion. I wonder if I'll be able to one day tell him the truths of the matter.
[Written a bit more expediently, excitedly]
Night. Journey's First Day.
We've only been journeying a single day, and have already proven ourselves heroes.
While on our way, we came across a fascinating creature - a panther with a sweet, cloying song - up in a tree, being accosted by some terrible scorpion creatures. We, of course, rushed to its aid, and despite a blinding blur of conflict, managed to assist it in not only defeating those dreadful stinging beasts, but also a truly terrible massive one.
After fighting side by side with this panther, we found it quickly became capable of speaking our language, and it introduced itself as Fassammas. Fantastic. Incredible. A rate of lingual adaptation like that, I can't help but admire. Understanding others in such a way would be a spectacular capability to have. Especially if it meant being able to read more of the tome.
Fassammas has chosen to grant us a boon for our assistance, and Gut has stepped forward, interested in a powerful whip. Spectacular. I imagine such a thing would be fantastic to bring back to our people alongside whatever else of importance we might find - a weapon wielded by a hero and progenitor of a new family in Bakwa.
Before the events with the panther, Gut and I had a delightful conversation about what sort of names we might adopt when we return. I, myself, fancy the thought of adopting the name "Gallant Blackguard", akin to my own ancestor who started the family which I belong to. I was named after his prior name, after all. How fitting it would be, to undergo my own metamorphosis of self, akin to his.
Gut showed interest in my using the name "Frostbreath" whenever I mention him in my journals. I suppose I can respect that, especially now that I've given it context. I can't help but excitedly ponder if that's the first name he'd take as well, when we return...
For now, we've taken shelter in a tiny little cove I've constructed beneath a stone. Frostbreath's taking the first watch of the night, and I'm certain I can trust my life in his hands.
[Scrawled.]
Mid-Night. First Day
I may have been wrong.
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