Kaladin Battlehammer

What a long day this has been. The summer solstice celebrations in Neverwinter have shown me both the joy and darkness that can exist within a single day and evening. I write this by candlelight in the Hearth & Hall, my hands still trembling slightly - not from the dwarven ale, though there was plenty of that, but from what I witnessed in that underground pit.   We began this investigation to protect Freya and the Independent Smiths, and by Gorm's hammer, we've uncovered more corruption and darkness than I ever imagined. Finding Durgrim Black under mind control magic was disturbing enough, but to see a fellow dwarf - one who should know the honor of the forge - reduced to a puppet of whatever dark force calls itself "The Eye"... it chills my very soul.   Before the chaos of the day truly began, I was blessed with an unexpected reunion. My nephew Thorin arrived from Mithral Hall, bearing news that both warmed and humbled my heart. He has become a follower of Gorm - the Sentinel has called him to serve as my acolyte! To see another of the Battlehammer line embrace the sacred duty of protection fills me with such pride.   But the true wonder was the gift he carried - the Sacred Font of Mithral Hall, sent by my father. When I first laid eyes upon it, I could feel the weight of generations of faith, the accumulated prayers and devotions of countless dwarven clerics who had served before me. This was not merely a ceremonial vessel, but a tangible connection to the sacred traditions of my people and my calling.   That my father would entrust such a precious relic to my care here in Neverwinter speaks volumes. Perhaps he finally understands that my path, though it has led me far from the familiar halls of home, is no less worthy than those who remained. The font carries with it the blessing of ancestors, the strength of Mithral Hall itself, and a reminder that even here among humans and elves, I serve not just Gorm, but the enduring legacy of my people.   The relay race was a welcome respite from the darkness. I managed to hold my own at the temple station, though I'll admit my knowledge of the eleven gods could use some work. Still, creating holy water under pressure reminded me why Gorm chose me for this path. The crowd's energy was infectious and seeing Valtair the Wise become "the Wet Elf" brought genuine laughter to what had been a grim day.   But then came the pit fight.   I've seen battle before. I've faced drow and goblins, defended the innocent, and sent evil creatures to their deserved ends. But this... this was different. When John Summers led us to that underground arena, I knew we were entering a place where mercy was a luxury we might not be able to afford.   Standing in that ring as "Dwarven Thunder" alongside Fordare, facing Storm and Thunder - known murderers both - I felt the weight of justice on my shoulders. These weren't misguided souls who might be redeemed. These were killers who had taken innocent lives. When Thunder's axe sang through the air, when Storm's divine aura oppressed the light, I knew we were fighting not just for the prize money, but for the safety of every good person in Neverwinter.   And yet... watching Fordare in that moment, seeing the pure fury and violence she unleashed - it shook me. I've fought beside her many times, seen her protective rage when innocents are threatened. But when she beheaded Thunder and then drove The Mountain's Whisper through Storm even after she yielded... for the first time since we've traveled together, I felt a flicker of fear. Not of her, exactly, but of what she might become if that darkness ever fully takes hold.   Storm had yielded. In any honorable combat, that should have meant her life was spared. But Fordare... she showed no mercy, no restraint. The crowd roared their approval, but I heard something else in that roar - bloodlust, the same darkness that creates places like that pit in the first place.   I know why she did it. Storm and Thunder were murderers and letting them live might have meant more innocent deaths. In her mind, she was protecting future victims. But the ease with which she took those lives, the satisfaction I glimpsed in her eyes... it troubles me deeply.   Gorm teaches us that protection sometimes requires violence, that the strong must stand against evil to shield the weak. But he also teaches us temperance, honor, and the sanctity of surrender. Tonight, I wonder if I failed in my duty not just as a cleric, but as a friend. Should I have stayed her hand when Storm yielded? Should I have found words to reach the part of her that remembers mercy?   The gold we won will help John's family, will pay our debts to Big Boss, and will fund our continued work protecting the innocent. But at what cost to our souls? At what cost to hers?   I find myself questioning whether the path of the righteous warrior is as clear as I once believed. Tonight, we were heroes to the crowd, victors in a contest that will let us help a family in need. But we were also executioners, and I'm not sure the distinction matters as much as I once thought.   Tomorrow we must face whatever consequences come from tonight's choices.   I pray to Gorm for guidance, for wisdom to know when mercy serves the greater good and when it enables greater evil. I pray for Fordare's soul, that the darkness I saw tonight doesn't consume the protector I know her to be. And I pray for my own strength, that I might find the courage to speak truth to a friend when the path grows unclear.   The Sacred Font ceremony afterwards was a blessing I desperately needed. Feeling Gorm's presence, seeing the scabbard emerge from the blessed waters, hearing His voice, clear as mountain thunder, commanding me to give it to Fordare... perhaps this is His answer. Perhaps He sees something in her that I'm too clouded by today's events to recognize. The way her sword seemed to sing when she accepted the scabbard, the completeness that settled over her - maybe this is Gorm's way of saying she is exactly where she needs to be, darkness and all.   Still, I will watch. I will pray. And I will be ready to guide her back to the light if that darkness ever threatens to overwhelm the protector within her.   May The Sentinel's perpetual vigilance prepare us all for the trails ahead.   In faith and vigilance,   Kaladin Battlehammer Cleric of Gorm Gulthyn Member of F.B.N.   ---   Post-script: Josette's Barbarian Courage Mead proved most effective during the day's trials. Must remember to stock up before our next adventure. Also, note to self: avoid all future contests involving water. Dwarfs may not swim, but we certainly can row when properly motivated.

By Gorm's beard, what a night this has been. The summer solstice should have been a time of celebration and joy in the Enclave, but instead it became a night of blood and fear that I fear will haunt my dreams for many nights to come.   I had put aside my usual patrol duties for once, something I rarely do, to join in the festivities at the Hearth & Hall. The common room was alive with laughter and song, Nora was pouring drinks with her usual good cheer, and even Freya had set aside her worries to celebrate with our people. For a brief moment, all seemed right in our little corner of Neverwinter.   Then those damned rats burst through the doors like demons from the Nine Hells.   My heart nearly stopped when I saw that bandit's blade aimed at Freya. My sister - wounded, bleeding, targeted by assassins in our own sanctuary. The rage that filled me was unlike anything I've felt since taking my vows to Gorm. I should have been there sooner, should have been watching, should have been protecting her as I've always sworn to do.   Thank the gods for our new companions. Fordare's fury with that greatsword was a sight to behold - she carved through a bandit like he was made of parchment. Jilliean's magic turned one of them to ice before he could draw another breath. Josette's arrows found their marks true, and Valtair... well, that warlock certainly knows how to make an impression, leaping onto Nora's bar like some tavern brawler and unleashing eldritch fire.   But it was too close. Far too close. That poisoned dagger nearly found its mark, and the purple gem in its hilt... Jilliean says it's magical. This wasn't some random attack by desperate thieves. Someone wanted my sister dead, and they sent the Rats Thieves Guild to do their dirty work.   The Rats hired killers from the Docks. Someone paid good coin to have Freya murdered in front of her own people. The thought makes my blood boil even now as I write these words.   Freya mentioned threats against unguilded smiths. I should have pressed her for details months ago, should have insisted she tell me everything. Instead, I let her pride, and my own duties keep me at arm's length from her troubles. What kind of brother am I? What kind of protector?   I followed her back to Heroes & Hammers after she left with that bottle of mead. She was shaken, more than I've seen her since we were children and the older boys would tease her about her hammer work. It took some convincing, but she's agreed to meet me at Legends & Lattes in the morning. We'll talk properly then, without the weight of blood and broken glass between us.   Gorm grant me wisdom in the morning. My sister is in danger, and I fear this attack was only the beginning. These new companions seem capable, more than capable, but I cannot rely on strangers to protect my family, no matter how skilled they prove in battle.   Tomorrow, we learn more. Tomorrow, we plan. Tonight, I pray to Gorm for strength and guidance, and I oil my warhammer.   The summer solstice was meant to be a celebration of light conquering darkness. Instead, it has shown me just how much darkness threatens those I hold dear.   May The Sentinel, forever keep watch over Freya and may he guide me in the trials ahead.   In faith and vigilance,   Kaladin Battlehammer Cleric of Gorm Gulthyn