Recovered Entires from the Journal of Regenis le Gronx
Met a couple tonight , Maribelle and Tosk. Shared a bottle, shared a fire. Somewhere between laughing about a broken cart axle and fixing it with twine and spite, we started talking about why everything’s broken.
They’re angry. The real kind. Not loud, not bitter — just steady. Like they’ve been angry longer than I’ve been alive.
I showed them Overlooked but Not Underfoot. Tosk read the title out loud and just nodded like he already knew what it meant. Maribelle said she’d never seen it written out so plainly, so clearly. This wonderous world wasn’t just made for the tallfolk.
They said maybe it's time to stop surviving and start organizing. I didn't laugh. They’re good people. I think we will travel together for a while. See what mischief we can get in to…
Took three tendays, maybe more. Long nights. Quiet talks. Days spent hauling sacks and memorizing shift rotations. We slipped into the workforce easy — five new faces, and the humans didn’t notice a thing. Just another set of backs to break. Tosk worked the gears. Maribelle handled the ovens. Caelo and Bantrin moved through the crowd whispering. We didn’t call it infiltration. We called it helping. The strike didn’t start with a speech. Just a silence. Belts stopped. Stones stopped. No one moved. First five minutes, the managers laughed. By the end of the hour, they were pale, sweating, promising whatever they thought would end it. That’s when I met Drix. Young kobold, half a horn, sharp eyes. He came up to me after it was done — after the vote, after the papers were signed. Said he wanted to come with us. I told him we weren’t going somewhere better. He said, “No, but you go.” So we waited while he packed a satchel full of broken tools and dreams. Then we moved on. It’s small. One building, a handful of families. But today, that flour tastes like a godsdamn miracle.
We’re ten now. That’s the number that fits. Tight enough to move quiet, big enough to matter. Faces come and go. Some quit. Some die. Stupidity, bad luck, wrong place. We don’t talk about it much. Berdusk is a Harper town. They saw us coming a mile away. Had eyes on our camp before we even lit the second fire. We expected a confrontation. Got a conversation instead. Careful, quiet. They didn’t trust us, but they didn’t stop us either. When we uncovered the slavers in the tannery district, they were already halfway there. We just gave them the last piece. Worked together, for a moment. Cleaned the place out. We stayed a few weeks after. Tosk and Caelo picked up some tricks. Elaris showed me how to pass messages without ink. Said not everything worth saying needs to leave a mark. We chose a name. Tosk’s idea. The Zelvokar. Ancient gnomish for “The Overlooked.” Suits us. I was on a rooftop tonight, watching the smoke drift from the east ward chimneys. Realized I’m closer to the Anauroch than to Undercliff. Didn’t think the dream would last this long. Still not sure it will. But it's got a name now. That has to count for something.
Teamed up with a deep gnome outfit calling themselves the Ironhand Clan. Smart fighters. Hard lives. Their leader, Wulbren, says the weapons coming out of the factory here are meant for conscription raids near Elturel. Forced labor, mostly deep gnomes. He’s got fire. The kind that eats too hot and too fast. I believe the problem. I don’t know if I believe him. We’ve seen worse places than this factory. But I’ve never seen one so proud of what it builds. Walls thick as bunkers, symbols etched into every surface. Not clan symbols either, but house crests, noble marks, names no one down here should be carrying. Wulbren wants to burn it. Wants to make a point. Bantrin agrees. So does Drix, I think, though he hasn’t said it. Tosk and I walked the perimeter last night, didn’t speak much. When we got back to camp, he just said, “There are lines.” We’ll vote tomorrow. I’m not sure which way it’ll go. Maybe I’m not sure which way I will go.
We’ve been in Elturel longer than I ever thought we would. The Ironhands came with us after the factory, and the fight felt clear again. Slavers in the sewers. Shakedown crews in the refugee wards. The kind of rot that hides behind oaths and uniforms. We cracked it open. Some of ours have settled. Taken work. Put down roots. Caelo teaches letters at the east ward shelter. A few locals have joined the cause. Not all of them gnomes. Not all of them small. Wulbren still worries me. He becomes more fanatical the longer I listen to him. And yet the lines between us start to blur. Ironhand and Zelvokar. Not just that. Some of ours want the road. Others see something worth holding here. So we split. Not in anger. Just need. One group stays. The other moves west. Drix is staying. He didn’t say much, but I can see it in the way he moves. Slower than he used to. Still sharp. Still steady. Just done running. Tosk hugged him for the first time I’ve ever seen. Bantrin gave him a carved pipe with a broken stem. Said it was time he learned to sit still. We leave at dawn. It’s quieter than I thought it would be. But the work doesn’t stop just because we miss each other. It's a painful parting, but one of brotherhood, not bitterness.
Secomber should be simple. We’ve done this dance before. A town under pressure, held down by people who once stood beside them. When the hobgoblin raids were at their worst, a group of Human fighters drove them off. Then they declared themselves Lords. Not elected, not invited. Just stronger than everyone else, and still armed. We’ve narrowed our focus. A dozen of us now. My cell runs tight. Experienced. Disciplined. Everyone knows the plan before it’s spoken. Maribelle sees angles I miss. Tosk moves like he’s three steps ahead of the present. Caelo handles the fronts like he’s playing chess against ghosts. Sometimes I think I’m holding them back. The Zelvokar have splintered twice since Elturel. I hear from the other cells less and less. Some still use the name. Some don’t. Doesn’t matter. The work goes on. I’ve been thinking about Undercliff. About Melvin. He’d be grown by now. I wonder if he ever got my letter. I wonder if he still talks to birds. I haven’t been this close to home in gods know how long. Perhaps once Secomber’s done, I’ll go back. Just to see it. Just to remember why we fight at all. Maybe give the young, here, the chance to show an old revolutionary a thing or two…
Took three tendays, maybe more. Long nights. Quiet talks. Days spent hauling sacks and memorizing shift rotations. We slipped into the workforce easy — five new faces, and the humans didn’t notice a thing. Just another set of backs to break. Tosk worked the gears. Maribelle handled the ovens. Caelo and Bantrin moved through the crowd whispering. We didn’t call it infiltration. We called it helping. The strike didn’t start with a speech. Just a silence. Belts stopped. Stones stopped. No one moved. First five minutes, the managers laughed. By the end of the hour, they were pale, sweating, promising whatever they thought would end it. That’s when I met Drix. Young kobold, half a horn, sharp eyes. He came up to me after it was done — after the vote, after the papers were signed. Said he wanted to come with us. I told him we weren’t going somewhere better. He said, “No, but you go.” So we waited while he packed a satchel full of broken tools and dreams. Then we moved on. It’s small. One building, a handful of families. But today, that flour tastes like a godsdamn miracle.
We’re ten now. That’s the number that fits. Tight enough to move quiet, big enough to matter. Faces come and go. Some quit. Some die. Stupidity, bad luck, wrong place. We don’t talk about it much. Berdusk is a Harper town. They saw us coming a mile away. Had eyes on our camp before we even lit the second fire. We expected a confrontation. Got a conversation instead. Careful, quiet. They didn’t trust us, but they didn’t stop us either. When we uncovered the slavers in the tannery district, they were already halfway there. We just gave them the last piece. Worked together, for a moment. Cleaned the place out. We stayed a few weeks after. Tosk and Caelo picked up some tricks. Elaris showed me how to pass messages without ink. Said not everything worth saying needs to leave a mark. We chose a name. Tosk’s idea. The Zelvokar. Ancient gnomish for “The Overlooked.” Suits us. I was on a rooftop tonight, watching the smoke drift from the east ward chimneys. Realized I’m closer to the Anauroch than to Undercliff. Didn’t think the dream would last this long. Still not sure it will. But it's got a name now. That has to count for something.
Teamed up with a deep gnome outfit calling themselves the Ironhand Clan. Smart fighters. Hard lives. Their leader, Wulbren, says the weapons coming out of the factory here are meant for conscription raids near Elturel. Forced labor, mostly deep gnomes. He’s got fire. The kind that eats too hot and too fast. I believe the problem. I don’t know if I believe him. We’ve seen worse places than this factory. But I’ve never seen one so proud of what it builds. Walls thick as bunkers, symbols etched into every surface. Not clan symbols either, but house crests, noble marks, names no one down here should be carrying. Wulbren wants to burn it. Wants to make a point. Bantrin agrees. So does Drix, I think, though he hasn’t said it. Tosk and I walked the perimeter last night, didn’t speak much. When we got back to camp, he just said, “There are lines.” We’ll vote tomorrow. I’m not sure which way it’ll go. Maybe I’m not sure which way I will go.
We’ve been in Elturel longer than I ever thought we would. The Ironhands came with us after the factory, and the fight felt clear again. Slavers in the sewers. Shakedown crews in the refugee wards. The kind of rot that hides behind oaths and uniforms. We cracked it open. Some of ours have settled. Taken work. Put down roots. Caelo teaches letters at the east ward shelter. A few locals have joined the cause. Not all of them gnomes. Not all of them small. Wulbren still worries me. He becomes more fanatical the longer I listen to him. And yet the lines between us start to blur. Ironhand and Zelvokar. Not just that. Some of ours want the road. Others see something worth holding here. So we split. Not in anger. Just need. One group stays. The other moves west. Drix is staying. He didn’t say much, but I can see it in the way he moves. Slower than he used to. Still sharp. Still steady. Just done running. Tosk hugged him for the first time I’ve ever seen. Bantrin gave him a carved pipe with a broken stem. Said it was time he learned to sit still. We leave at dawn. It’s quieter than I thought it would be. But the work doesn’t stop just because we miss each other. It's a painful parting, but one of brotherhood, not bitterness.
Secomber should be simple. We’ve done this dance before. A town under pressure, held down by people who once stood beside them. When the hobgoblin raids were at their worst, a group of Human fighters drove them off. Then they declared themselves Lords. Not elected, not invited. Just stronger than everyone else, and still armed. We’ve narrowed our focus. A dozen of us now. My cell runs tight. Experienced. Disciplined. Everyone knows the plan before it’s spoken. Maribelle sees angles I miss. Tosk moves like he’s three steps ahead of the present. Caelo handles the fronts like he’s playing chess against ghosts. Sometimes I think I’m holding them back. The Zelvokar have splintered twice since Elturel. I hear from the other cells less and less. Some still use the name. Some don’t. Doesn’t matter. The work goes on. I’ve been thinking about Undercliff. About Melvin. He’d be grown by now. I wonder if he ever got my letter. I wonder if he still talks to birds. I haven’t been this close to home in gods know how long. Perhaps once Secomber’s done, I’ll go back. Just to see it. Just to remember why we fight at all. Maybe give the young, here, the chance to show an old revolutionary a thing or two…
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