Chaldfont
First Post
Jounal Entry
My first term at Morgrave ended one week ago and I find myself in the town of Argev looking for work. As my army pension barely covers room and board, it is up to me to cover tuition and supplies—a considerable expense! I just received notice that I have been accepted into the School of Artificer Arts. My initial joy soon turned to anxiety, though, when I read the requirements. I transcribe them here in case I lose the letter:
100 gp tuition!
A glyphbook
An artificer potion kit
Ten pounds of bronzewood
One pound of targath
One small Khyber shard
One Irian crystal
I am to meet Head Master Warner at the beginning of the term. That means I have just under three months to obtain these items and the necessary funds. My father is no help. He finally received funding for an expedition to Xen’drik—his life’s dream. It has been his absolute obsession since Mother was killed. And the House? Cannith turned my request for scholarship down. My joining the army violated some neutrality rule and now I am being punished. So I am desperate for funds. Which brings me to Ardev.
Even after two years of peace, Breland suffers from the Last War. Ardev has naught but menial jobs. I can’t make it on a silver a day—I’ll need more lucrative work. The patrons of the local alehouse are no help, so I set my tricorne on the street and tell a few tales of my exploits in the war. I surprise even myself at the results, though unfortunately, no one is looking to hire a tale spinner.
I do, however, receive a copy of the Chronicle as a tip. There I read that a caravan for Droaam requires guards. Risky work, but at least I’m qualified. I join the caravan and manage to haggle my wages to a respectable 38 pieces of gold. I also read of mining activities outside of New Cyre. I mention it here so as not to forget. Perhaps I can find a Khyber crystal there.
Amazingly, the brutes of Droaam leave the caravan alone. I do have a bit of excitement one evening. Walking the lines, I heard the sound of wood on metal back in the forest. After alerting my fellow guards, I sneak off into the woods, putting my old army skills to use. My foe turns out to be merely a beaver busily damming a swampy creek. But what was the metal? I endeavor to find out.
It turns out to be a damaged warforged of unknown ensign. I have never seen it’s like before. Its primitive construction hearkens back to the early days of their manufacture. The war machine is stuck under a log and is half-buried in the mire. It’s been here for some time.
Despite growing up in House Cannith, I am unskilled in construct repair. Another thing my father neglected to show me whilst traversing Korvaire seeking antiquities. But I manage to get it in working order nevertheless. I am cautious as it shows signs of awareness, I’ve seen with my own eyes the inhuman cruelty of the machines of death. There’s no place for these units in time of peace—they are constructed only to slay. They are without the compassion or free thought required of civilized life.
But I am desperate. Perhaps I can get some kind of salvage reward for the thing, for it looks like it belongs in a Cannith museum of ancient designs. At minimum, I can sell it for parts. As it activates, I construct a plausible prevarication that is sure to baffle it’s weak will.
After some discourse I learn the thing’s designation: Ten-66. From what I can learn from its faulty memory, it was rendered inert during a battle some thirty years ago. It must be one of the first warforged ever constructed! Surely someone will pay for such a find! I tell it that I am a Cannith salvager, sent to reactivate fallen warforged and return them to Sharn for repair and reassignment. The thing buys this lie for now.
I return to the caravan with my new find in tow. Unfortunately, I am unable to renegotiate higher terms now that I have an extra guard. The master even attempts to claim salvage rights to the unit, but I am persuasive in my arguments.
When the caravan reaches its destination within Droaam, a town named Porlin, I find someone to repair Ten-66. It is costly, but I tell the unit that it will earn back every silver, plus interest. I also buy it a scythe to keep it quiet. It lost a war-scythe in the battle and has not stopped complaining about it. I need to arm the thing, for I have plans of starting a caravan security company to raise tuition money.
To this end, I engage an unemployed drifter in conversation. He turns out to be an interesting one—a shifter named Doran Pigsticker, a name well-earned appropriating livestock as a living. He carries the largest axe I have ever laid eyes to and it looks well-used. We two begin the timeless ritual of friendship-building through drinking.
My dreams of Jones & Co. Security were disrupted this evening however, when the inn we were staying in collapsed into a massive sink hole! The entire ground floor was crushed and we were lucky to survive. I don’t know if this is a natural event or the result of some strange excavations, but we are doing our best to escape. We collected several survivors and are following a natural cave system. All those years following my father into ruins and caverns seeking lost artifacts were not wasted, it seems. At one point we were surprised by a great transparent gellid mass, oozing towards us. The mass filled the cavern and Ten-66 and Doran were forced to chop it to pieces with their massive weapons. The thing was some kind of animal, I think, because it tried to engulf Doran at one point. He narrowly escaped being caught up in the thing. I did what I could with my sling, but I’m not sure I helped much. The other survivors fled. We’ve just now caught up with them.
I want to write one more thing before I put down my quill: Doran is dangerous. Shifters are generally thought to be brutish and dull, but the few I’ve known were good comrades. I see no inherent flaw in their racial character, indeed, they are survivors and very loyal. But this Doran has embraced his animalistic heritage. When that gel-creature managed to burn him with acid, his reaction was terrifying. It was much more than just the typical transformation of which shifters are capable. No. This was feral. It was as though Doran threw off the shackles of intellect and morality to become a monstrous killer.
Still, in the throes of this madness, he made quick work of that ooze. I just don’t want to be near him if that happens again.
Giacomo Jones d’Cannith
My first term at Morgrave ended one week ago and I find myself in the town of Argev looking for work. As my army pension barely covers room and board, it is up to me to cover tuition and supplies—a considerable expense! I just received notice that I have been accepted into the School of Artificer Arts. My initial joy soon turned to anxiety, though, when I read the requirements. I transcribe them here in case I lose the letter:
100 gp tuition!
A glyphbook
An artificer potion kit
Ten pounds of bronzewood
One pound of targath
One small Khyber shard
One Irian crystal
I am to meet Head Master Warner at the beginning of the term. That means I have just under three months to obtain these items and the necessary funds. My father is no help. He finally received funding for an expedition to Xen’drik—his life’s dream. It has been his absolute obsession since Mother was killed. And the House? Cannith turned my request for scholarship down. My joining the army violated some neutrality rule and now I am being punished. So I am desperate for funds. Which brings me to Ardev.
Even after two years of peace, Breland suffers from the Last War. Ardev has naught but menial jobs. I can’t make it on a silver a day—I’ll need more lucrative work. The patrons of the local alehouse are no help, so I set my tricorne on the street and tell a few tales of my exploits in the war. I surprise even myself at the results, though unfortunately, no one is looking to hire a tale spinner.
I do, however, receive a copy of the Chronicle as a tip. There I read that a caravan for Droaam requires guards. Risky work, but at least I’m qualified. I join the caravan and manage to haggle my wages to a respectable 38 pieces of gold. I also read of mining activities outside of New Cyre. I mention it here so as not to forget. Perhaps I can find a Khyber crystal there.
Amazingly, the brutes of Droaam leave the caravan alone. I do have a bit of excitement one evening. Walking the lines, I heard the sound of wood on metal back in the forest. After alerting my fellow guards, I sneak off into the woods, putting my old army skills to use. My foe turns out to be merely a beaver busily damming a swampy creek. But what was the metal? I endeavor to find out.
It turns out to be a damaged warforged of unknown ensign. I have never seen it’s like before. Its primitive construction hearkens back to the early days of their manufacture. The war machine is stuck under a log and is half-buried in the mire. It’s been here for some time.
Despite growing up in House Cannith, I am unskilled in construct repair. Another thing my father neglected to show me whilst traversing Korvaire seeking antiquities. But I manage to get it in working order nevertheless. I am cautious as it shows signs of awareness, I’ve seen with my own eyes the inhuman cruelty of the machines of death. There’s no place for these units in time of peace—they are constructed only to slay. They are without the compassion or free thought required of civilized life.
But I am desperate. Perhaps I can get some kind of salvage reward for the thing, for it looks like it belongs in a Cannith museum of ancient designs. At minimum, I can sell it for parts. As it activates, I construct a plausible prevarication that is sure to baffle it’s weak will.
After some discourse I learn the thing’s designation: Ten-66. From what I can learn from its faulty memory, it was rendered inert during a battle some thirty years ago. It must be one of the first warforged ever constructed! Surely someone will pay for such a find! I tell it that I am a Cannith salvager, sent to reactivate fallen warforged and return them to Sharn for repair and reassignment. The thing buys this lie for now.
I return to the caravan with my new find in tow. Unfortunately, I am unable to renegotiate higher terms now that I have an extra guard. The master even attempts to claim salvage rights to the unit, but I am persuasive in my arguments.
When the caravan reaches its destination within Droaam, a town named Porlin, I find someone to repair Ten-66. It is costly, but I tell the unit that it will earn back every silver, plus interest. I also buy it a scythe to keep it quiet. It lost a war-scythe in the battle and has not stopped complaining about it. I need to arm the thing, for I have plans of starting a caravan security company to raise tuition money.
To this end, I engage an unemployed drifter in conversation. He turns out to be an interesting one—a shifter named Doran Pigsticker, a name well-earned appropriating livestock as a living. He carries the largest axe I have ever laid eyes to and it looks well-used. We two begin the timeless ritual of friendship-building through drinking.
My dreams of Jones & Co. Security were disrupted this evening however, when the inn we were staying in collapsed into a massive sink hole! The entire ground floor was crushed and we were lucky to survive. I don’t know if this is a natural event or the result of some strange excavations, but we are doing our best to escape. We collected several survivors and are following a natural cave system. All those years following my father into ruins and caverns seeking lost artifacts were not wasted, it seems. At one point we were surprised by a great transparent gellid mass, oozing towards us. The mass filled the cavern and Ten-66 and Doran were forced to chop it to pieces with their massive weapons. The thing was some kind of animal, I think, because it tried to engulf Doran at one point. He narrowly escaped being caught up in the thing. I did what I could with my sling, but I’m not sure I helped much. The other survivors fled. We’ve just now caught up with them.
I want to write one more thing before I put down my quill: Doran is dangerous. Shifters are generally thought to be brutish and dull, but the few I’ve known were good comrades. I see no inherent flaw in their racial character, indeed, they are survivors and very loyal. But this Doran has embraced his animalistic heritage. When that gel-creature managed to burn him with acid, his reaction was terrifying. It was much more than just the typical transformation of which shifters are capable. No. This was feral. It was as though Doran threw off the shackles of intellect and morality to become a monstrous killer.
Still, in the throes of this madness, he made quick work of that ooze. I just don’t want to be near him if that happens again.
Giacomo Jones d’Cannith
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