Dear journal,

Long have I considered you a friend. Back home, I would write in your pages each and every evening, telling you about my day. The ups, the downs, and the middles. It was calming. I felt heard. I felt understood, even if you aren't truly a living thing. Perhaps that is for the best. Living things have so much to say. So very much to say. But you don't judge, for your ear is forever open and your lips forever sealed. Thank you. Though I suppose you aren't the same journal I had in those days. That book is long gone, along with the rest of my homeland. Even so, I still want to treat you as its continuation, as much as I can. Though your binding is different and your pages blank, I still feel the same sense of safety and understanding emanating from your being. You are the same, even if you can't remember. I want to remind you, if you'd allow me.

It has been a few months since I arrived. At first, I wasn't sure how. All I could recall were faint sensations. Screams, some my own. The weight of a sword in my hand, the warm bronze against my skin. Flashes of pain, a pervading sense of wrongness as everything went silent...

They say lost. In a way, they aren't wrong. Loss has become a part of me, whether I like it or not. I feel like my home is lost to me, with its ashes having settled two decades in the passed. Two decades that I wasn't here for. The disconnect is palpable. I am a living relic of my culture, a culture that most Altherians have not even heard of and will never get to know. I'm not entirely sure how to feel about that. You've lost something as well, haven't you journal? All those memories we made together. We'll get through this together, old friend. We always have.

Forever yours,

Daiyu

I found this crumpled piece of paper in the inn... I can't remember exactly where now... and a broken quill among some rubble when I was exploring the city. Things have been... so odd. But later on in a good way. I stumbled into this strange and wondrous place a few days ago. I don't remember how I even got here. I know it sounds confusing. That's because it is. The last piece of awareness I remember is looking around and finding myself in the tavern. Before that... I know nothing. I remember nothing. Everything in my head is like... well, picture roiling fog or smoke. You can't see anything but indistinct gray around you. When you do get glimpses through it, they are tiny points of colorless light, or they are a scattered blur of shapes. You can't get a good look at them, then they are lost again. A word. A voice far in the distance that you strain to listen to. The glimmer of a feeling or a thought, but you don't know if it's a memory... or simply your own imagination toying with you. Anything, any dreams, thoughts, or what might be memories, I have before that first day at the inn are just that. tiny points. Glimmers. crumbled leaves breaking apart as they are tossed about by wind. They mock me and delight in my tortured confusion. My friends, the ones I've met and made here, perhaps think I'm somewhat strange when I stare into a dancing fire or gaze at the rippling water in the beautiful fountain in the city square, sometimes even when it gets chilly. I don't know who I was before, so now I'm just trying... trying to build who I am, or I suppose, who I will end up being, now. I... well, I've just been reaching for things that call to me. Things that I seem to like and am drawn to. I just hope I won't have to flee this life, either. That is one sense of vague remembrance I have. Fleeing, or trying to flee from something. I know now that it's called the blight. But not much beyond that I can say. I have strong emotions sometimes, including a potent, almost cloying fear. From what I don't know. My friends have become a blessing to me. I don't want to forget them, too.

Dear Journal.

I know it's silly to address a piece of paper as a person, but you, my tattered old book, have been my only friend for a while, although that is changing now. I never thought I'd be here... never thought I'd survive. Not that I had much for the blight to take from me. Don't get me wrong, I loved my family dearly. However, they felt ashamed of their misfit blood. They cast me out first. In Kin Home, we, of course, lived in a tight group. For me, it was my parents, my brother, an Aunt and uncle with their two sons, and myself. There were a few families that we lived near who were considered close as family. And while everyone has their own individuality, I was different. I loved nature and still do, that wasn't the issue, and I like the look of jewelry, which also isn't a big issue for a lot of Thrae, since some adorn their antlers. But I have always wanted to learn to fight. To train my strength, to be able to use a weapon with swiftness and grace. To hold up a shield and protect others. Especially those who can't protect themselves. I have been in that rank. Ridiculed, made fun of, bullied and judged at every turn. I wasn't physically abused, aside from being tripped now and then or getting pelted by thrown items. The older members just gave me looks rife with disappointment and embarrassment. I'll spare you the rest of the details. Needless to say, I was cast aside. I set off, resting in different areas for short times, seeing if, perhaps, I'd find a new home. Somewhere I belonged. This went on a while, until I found Shimmerhaven. I liked it there. I was more welcomed, though the Thrae I came into contact with there thought it strange that I refused to saw off my antlers. But I love the way they look and wanted to keep them. So, in their eyes, I was hopelessly old-fashioned and out of touch. So while I could devour the pages of books to my heart's content, grow and tend trees and plants, and train if I desired, I still got strange looks and raised eyebrows from a good many people. I'm just as comfortable in a city environment as I would be sleeping outdoors. I also enjoy fashion, though I don't like particularly loud and eye-popping colors. I don't like clashing, though I love colors, and wish I could wear more. But having that very different taste was yet another point against me, though nobody ever actually said anything about it, at least not to my face. Shortly after I settled in Shimmerhaven, the blight came. I ran. Somehow, some way, I escaped. But the echoes of weeping and screams of panic will follow me always. As I mentioned, things are starting to change. Somehow, I have found a city. Most likely the only city that's left, though I can't possibly know that for certain. I'm still half afraid that the blight will find a way in here as well. I can't... think of that. I have to keep faith that it won't. I've made some friends here, though I'm still afraid to truly open up to them. They seem so... kind and open. So, so welcoming, and no doubt everyone here has been through something or other. How could they not? It's not that I think they would shun me, it's just that those reactions are mostly all I've ever known. Maybe it's hard for most people to simply cast all their fear aside. But I have to now. I have to try, anyway. I've settled here and even joined the vanguard. It's hard work, but not work I dislike. And the practicing feels good. I don't know if I'll ever be able to realize more of my desires, but for now, I'm just thankful to have found this place and these folks, thankful for our shelter and relative safety, for their are creatures sneaking around the city, but that's what we are here for. To help protect. I hope... I want... to open up more. To be accepted for who I am. And I will try. I will train and practice. I will fight. I will do my best to stand at the ready and defend.

This is part two! Stick with me, for this get's wild! Date: Gods-knows-what, thanks to the grog. This takes place later on on the same day. When I woke, my mates were at it again in the square—sparring as though the night before hadn’t seen half our party nearly die. I joined them briefly, then wandered into the tavern where the Thrae vanguard, Phethjeld, was enjoying some peace with his drink. The man’s a tough nut if there ever was one. This reminded me of two days ago… long story short, I’m no Bard, but I somehow convinced myself to try playing alongside Raelyn and Almiri on their instruments. Look, I was stupidly plammered, alright? Don’t blame me entirely. In my grog-fueled wisdom, I picked up a lump of mushy rotting something-or-other (not sure what it was, but gods did it stink). Tried playing it like an instrument. Safe to say it was not well-received, and the patrons shouted me into submission. Fortunately, Almiri, sweet Aelandri that she is, took pity and gave me a Blue Chitin Tambourine. Lovely thing—a weird, buggy instrument from some shrine of Aeton. Gods know what creature it came from, but it made nice music! I noticed it seemed to wiggle several times while I was holding it though. And here’s the kicker: I lost it. Yup. When I woke up two days later, that lovely tambourine was nowhere to be found. Someone had told me about the events of the night before, so I thought, maybe the strange thing might be in the community box, so off I went hunting for it again. Aye, there’s somethin’ strange about that tambourine. It wiggles, vibrates, and hums with some odd supernatural energy. All the searching I could do. Hell, I even checked that mysterious left pocket that box randomly grew. Still, I couldn't find it! Phethjeld must have sensed something was off because, mid-chat, he sat bolt upright like he’d seen a ghost. Turns out, there was an intruder in the city. Someone, or something, was climbing the rock walls around Altheria, and all of us were put on high alert. Now, I may drink like a giant (which I am), but when danger calls, I always answer. I told Phethjeld he’d come to the right Eldeguy. I had this sneaking suspicion—the tambourine is involved in something far greater than me. The hunt led us Along Cyrcline Street where—surprise, surprise—we found the King of all Grex blobs: The Maximus Grex himself. This monstrosity was ripe for a fight. The crew was all there: Leya, Shahn, Lysandra, and me, of course, alongside Phethjeld, our radiant vanguard. We went at it with Nightblade style, primal energy, divine smiting, and good ol' rage. We killed it! But no tambourine! And wouldn’t you know it, the cursed thing reformed into another Maximus Grex. Twice we put it down, and twice it rose. After all the commotion, we found runes inside the pocket of the community box—runes that hadn’t been there before. But, lo and behold, Lysandra found the tambourine! I swear by Aelandra herself, I’d searched that box for hours before! But there it was, safe and sound. Phethjeld brought over a historian named Roots, who figured out the mystical nature of the instrument—a powerful thing, perhaps too powerful to be left rattling around in a city pocket. By now, I’d grown attached to the plucky little tambourine, but the smarter heads in the room thought we ought to lock it away forever or return it to Aeton. I hugged it one last time and played a song Raelyn wrote called “Raise a Glass and Sing.” By the gods, it loved it! The tambourine wiggled and vibrated lively to the beat (even if we played it horribly). Poor thing seemed to have a soul of its own, didn’t want to be forgotten. I realized then that it wasn’t mine to keep. But before we gave it away to some dusty vault, Shahn said something that made a lot of sense—maybe, the tambourine wanted to be played. Being locked away might upset it—and history has shown us how well that turns out. So, I proposed something clever. We’d leave it where any soul could play it, but after the song was over, they’d return it to the community box until the next musical wanderer came along. Everyone loved the idea! So that’s where the tambourine stays. Maybe it’ll find new musicians, new hands, new songs. As for me? I celebrated by getting happily drunk with my friends and passing out in a familiar haze of grog and laughter. All in all, a great day! Grog, fights, magical tambourines, and saving Altheria from yet another menace. Life’s good here, despite all the Blight and darkness beyond the walls. We’ve got plenty of mysteries left to solve—so long as we’ve got grog and friends to see us through. Ever your loyal, groggy writer, Malthius, Slayer of Grex and Seeker of Tambourines

Date: Gods-knows-what, thanks to the grog. This takes place roughly a day after Roots's journal entry. Around the first of mid-Autumn. This is part one of my journal, appairently, according to the scribes, "A page can only contain so much words". Dear Journal, Today has been a wild one, even for me—Malthius, Mercenary Extraordinaire (currently also known as the Grog-Champion, until further notice)! It all kicked off this morning in the town square with a solid bit of sparring. And, I’ll tell you, I was royally plammered. Top-shelf grog was flowing through my veins like a blessed river from the highlands. My good friends were there: Tamiran, Shahn, Lysandra, Sin, and, of course, my tiny pal Leya. Did I say "tiny"? Sorry, I meant, "differently large"! I hope your happy Leya. While they took turns sparring, I discovered something incredible—laying slap-bang in the fountain whilst completely sodden with grog might be the best feeling in the known world. Refreshing as hellfire denied an ember. You should try it one day. Later on, I stumbled into a backroom of a bar I never knew existed. Turns out, some patrons didn’t appreciate my buddy Raelyn’s bardic practice sessions, so they shoved both Raelyn and his piano into the back like discarded spoons. The nerve! What did they expect, silence? Were they allergic to joy? Well, it didn’t take long before I found some real fun—an Urden named Trognar. We drank ourselves into oblivion with the cheapest, strongest grog money could buy, and folks, let me tell ya, a friendship forged in grog is unbreakable. After a few mugs of questionable decision-making, Sin (the ever-serious, sword-swinging warrior) asked us if we fancied a tussle with some Knarloothie nasties. Y'know, those rodents that seem to have a personal vendetta against every set of ankles in existence. Two Eldekai and an Urden, half-cut on grog and bravado, venturing under the inn, swords swinging—not the brightest idea, I’ll admit, but I didn’t get into this trade by making wise choices. Things started well until Troggy, with his Urden ability to see in pitch darkness, got ahead of himself—charging a Grex before we could bark at him to hold up. The lad came back, all battered and bleeding, but we had bigger fish to fry: a big, ugly Knarloothie with a face that belonged nowhere but deep underground. Now, remember, Trognar and I were properly grogged up, so instead of focusing on the fight, we decided it was the perfect time to engage in some off-key singing and poke a bit of fun at Sin. You should’ve seen her face—if looks could kill, she'd have chopped our manhoods clean off. She even said as much! Troggy didn’t care one wit, the man's immune to threats when grog’s involved. Well, that kicked off the fun proper. After pushing Sin’s patience ’til it snapped, she charged at me like a raging Loxodon bull. I held my own, until I saw the pure, unholy rage dancing in her eyes—that’s when things started to wobble. Troggy, the madman, got involved, swinging his warhammer and turning the whole scrap into a brawl. For a minute, it was a free-for-all! We raged and raged, fists, steel, and fury flying about. But then, boom. Sin was down. Dead. Yup. Dead. Except, for reasons beyond my grog-addled brain’s comprehension, Sin didn’t stay dead. After a while, she just... resurrected herself or something! I still don’t know how to explain it. Might have been pure stubbornness, but once she was up on her feet again, her attitude towards us seemed to lighten a bit, like that little episode might’ve knocked some sense into all of us. Or maybe we just got lucky that she didn’t hold a posthumous grudge. After that, we all agreed: more grog. Trognar and I had a drinking contest I promptly lost (I think?), and I passed out in Lyra's tavern. Typical day in Malthius-land. End of part 1.

Dear Journal, What a wild and tumultuous adventure this day at the Spiresong Inn, where we enjoyed our time until a string of mysterious events lead to a major adventure! A grex had apparently stowed away in some scrap would that Lyra used to make the community donation bin. One had migrated without notice into the piano and drew attention therein, where it was detected and confronted much to the surprise of myself and Kylveris! Once dispatched and we returned to the main room and another presence was stirring within. Given the limited information at hand, it was reasonable to conclude and correctly so, that the invisible presence in this crate was grex as well, gone undetected still. And right we were. The group of present people worked to shove the crate quickly down a set of stairs, despite the grex's best efforts to resist. Once downstairs, and away from the main room of the inn, we discovered the grex and some blue, chitinous tambourine. By this point and on, I would like to credit the efforts and work of Almiri, Lysandra, Shahn, Valeska, and Daiyu and any others who I apologize if I've missed, have managed to dispatch that threat as well, when a roar was heard much deeper down. A passage discovered lead deeper yet, and we sped to ready ourselves to this threat, arming and returning to pursue a greater effort. We witnessed a grex further, fighting a rubblebug and upon joining the fight to dispatch the rubblebug, the grex later behaved in a wounded way, to gain our pity and played us so finely that it drew close to Kylveris and consumed him, quickly fleeing the scene. Our brave party gave chase and ran first into an apparent dead end, where a tiled wall lead us to discover a hidden passage, this put us directly in the path of an atheraphid's path, a deadly battle, We recovered and bolstered our strength and pressed onward still, coming to the final group of grex who held our ally, Kylveris. We saved Kylveris, and even a few songs were made during this great adventure. Keep Hope, Continue to learn and grow our knowledge and abilities. I look forward to singing and telling the stories of you heroes.

Dear Journal,

I commit my thoughts to you again this day, that in this post blight world we will and must get to the answers of our natural world. How much we've forgotten is a sin we can only begin to atone for. There are many mysteries which lay before us, and threats that are endless. I hope we may answer these together, and any who wish to investigate the Last Bastion and it's history more deeply, I bid those who would to seek me out. Let the knowledge be recorded and dreams fulfilled as the great beacon of hope shields us.