Oro'thion

(Written in Sylvan, the handwriting beautiful, strong and elegant, on a beautiful sheet of paper)     I slept wonderfully—dreamlessly soft, rested, strong, and free of all pain. I believe Alizée is not yet awake, so I have a little time to write these lines. We have sealed Dibarra once more… Sadly, I had to send two of the shadow children onward. I did not feel their souls had truly passed beyond, nor that they remained behind—I think I was simply too weak to pierce the Veil. Yet more importantly, I can remember the Dhakira now, and my invitation… that mystical moment with—perhaps one of the Seven Weavers of Twilight? “She who brings to this house the words that have traveled far.” The veiled lady in shades of obsidian and violet dusk. I should speak with the others—the “Named and Nameless,” my friends—and ask what they make of it. But back to yesterday, and Dibarra: Once he was sealed and the children and their parents freed from their chains, my senses sharpened beyond anything I had ever experienced. Undead, fiends, celestials—I could feel their presence, and objects tainted by unholy echoes. Almost all of us bore a faint aura of undeath; I blame the shadows for this. It could not be Aura’s doing, even though she is clearly undead—she truly does not act against my Lady’s design. That realization comforts me greatly. And then there is Yuri… What am I to make of him? How should I deal with such a being? He is no mortal man—a blend of fiend and celestial. Which way will the current pull him? As a child of Ravenia—gods, I had hoped never to hear that name again. It is hardly a common one…—devils—and Balthasar, the risen fallen one, the silver coin tossed into the air falling forever… I was too weary last night to confront him. But that time will come. His trident, too, is truly unhallowed. But I digress—I’ve no idea how long Alizée will sleep, and I don’t wish to keep her waiting in her own home.— We found magical things: a Water-Fur, a blue heart, an emerald mirror, a crystal brooch, a warm triangular pouch, and a lovely little flask. I took the heart and the Water-Fur—they felt… peculiar. We agreed to meet again at the Silver Calling and slowly remembered our way back to the waking world. I found myself once more in Alizée’s shop. Her friend and assistant, Dilya, was terrified—understandably so, given my appearance after last night. Anyone would be startled to see me thus… though striking me with a towel felt somewhat inhospitable, especially considering my half-dead condition. Thankfully, Alizée came to my rescue, calming her and explaining the situation. I apologized several times, but Dilya seemed far too shaken to remember even the simplest manners—a pity. I had imagined such refinement was common here. Something has been left outside my room…?   Written by Oro'thion   if found return to Ta'alag  

  (Written in Sylvan, the handwriting beautiful but faint and trembling, on a beautiful sheet of paper.)   Ahrg, again… We opened the great door to Dibarra. Children—chained to him through memory and suffering… We freed them from their torment; some were sent home, others—I hope—moved on. It is her design… what I do is right. We brought light into the battle; the shadows were their parents… Dibarra tears families apart, he has no shame in doing so… It was a hard fight. Everyone is wounded, each in different ways. Yuri seems… different—distant, hollow, much like Steam. Alizée and I are weak and spent. But Dibarra is once more sealed within his prison—an hourglass with his tower inside.   I am going to bed now.  

(Written in Sylvan, the handwriting beautiful but even more faint, on a beautiful sheet of paper.)   I fell asleep — I can hardly believe it — asleep while writing. Arrrgh… this chair is evidently not fit for sleeping. Argh, sleep is terrible…   But onward. We were not done. We fought and fired our way through that palace — traps, guardians, basilisks — nothing proved a great obstacle. At the basilisk, Frederick became our salvation; he dealt with that monstrous thing alone so that we might finish it together. Old forgotten tactics were called upon to master the worst moments — Yuri’s throwing caltrops move among them. Thus we pushed through the floor. We took a brief rest, and Yuri identified the things we found. I now bear the weapon of that watch-captain. At first I thought it would not suit me: it strikes not only the flesh but the soul. Yet after some reflection I decided it its me and my task all the more for that. Dibarra must be punished. The children must be brought home… — (a long, trailing, slipped line)  

    (Written in Sylvan, the handwriting beautiful but faint, on a beautiful sheet of paper.) It is late, and I have no strength left to write with my left hand—or in the script of the Shal’Azurans. Everything feels exhausting. Only Alizée’s hospitality keeps me together tonight. The guestroom is refined, as expected—very comfortable—and I am curious about this “bed” and the sleeping thing it is meant for… But first, a few lines about what has passed:   Hadibi led us through the city, all the way to the border of Dibarra’s Tower. There we walked a narrow, emotional path through the garden toward its door—a balance between awe and dread. We tried many things, until Aura offered her hair ribbon as a sacrifice, and it opened the way for us. Inside, we learned of a tale—the Seven Weavers of Twilight. Aura operated the lift and carried us straight to Dibarra’s floor, where we were greeted by wooden and stone guardians.   The battle was fierce, but nothing that could bring one of us down. Alizée, in her youthful boldness, leapt straight into the center, surrounding herself with traps and foes alike. Her entrance was nothing short of spectacular—two of the guardians went flying across the chamber. We came to her aid, and after a brief struggle, the fight was done… and, naturally, came the looting.        

A Strange Courtyard, and Deeper Within Dibarra’s Realm   The courtyard was swept clean by no living hand, only by the tireless brush of a broom that would not cease its work. Scattered about it were coins, trinkets, scraps of cloth, and other small things easily lost. I could not help but wonder—were these copper coins symbols of forgotten memory? A copper for your thoughts… Yuri at first considered pocketing a few, but thought better of it—a wise choice, I believe. Frederick eyed the ceaseless broom, perhaps even thought to take it, but found that it would not still itself even in his hands. Always sweeping, always bound. Around us lingered the shapes of creatures with mouths sewn shut and eyes crossed over, locked forever in the last task they had done before memory itself abandoned them.   Later we came upon a lonely square where a brass brazier burned low, and beside it waited a fennec, forgotten and forlorn. A familiar, I realized, trapped in a grief too heavy, waiting endlessly for the call of a master who would never return. It was a pitiful sight—horrid even—and I pray such a fate is not shared by all companions who outlive their bond. My Lady teaches that death should be release, not this—this cruel halting of transition. Something here has meddled, defying Her will. Yuri, ever the rescuer, gathered the fennec into his care despite my counsel. I do not think my words would have swayed him; his spirit is too tightly bound to his role. I transcribed the symbols of the bracer onto a parchment. Maybe i can help him from the real material world.   Deeper still, within the palace, we met an old man reaching ever for something—his Tasmia, perhaps—but his arms found only empty air. Was he forgotten by the world, or had he forgotten himself? Everywhere here, the line between those two truths seemed lost. We found also a music box, its tiny ballerina forever dancing to a single tune. Frederick, with his skill, coaxed the melody forward, and with Alizée’s keen ear they unraveled a fragment of the First Song of the Founding. Shal’Azura’s past whispered from the gears and notes. Aura’s curious clock-hand, housed within her strange gauntlet, then drew us further, pointing to the way. To follow it we had to leap from a high window into the depths of this impossible city. For me, such a descent was easy—my Lady has always guided my steps through shadow—but the others required Yuri’s rope. I advised him to use his pact weapon as anchor, and he did so wisely. Five-head, as the young might say. The city was vast, haunted, and terrible. At one point we came upon a great tree, and beneath it a child swung upon a creaking chainen rope. Unlike the other shades of this place, this one was cruel in its presence—unnerving, suffocating in its malice. We withdrew without great harm, though Yuri’s stride was less steady after. Here my hope faltered. I longed for a brief rest, a moment to gather myself. But my companiens denied my request, this realm offers no rest; to linger here is to risk being consumed by it, to lose oneself piece by piece. Rage welled within me at first, but in time I knew it true: this is not a place where one may waste even a heartbeat.   Then came the true height of the day we reached the square where Ibn-al-Hadibi awaited. The Forgotten Founder. He was bound in a song, mourning for his beloved Salome. Chained in a memory of a song of her, Alizée, with my aid, found the name to complete his melody, And then Steam, of all of us, rose to the moment. He performed the hero’s deed of the day—he gave Ibn-al-Hadibi back his memory. Is he restored now? No longer Forgotten? And so we stood before not a broken phantom, but a Djinn—no less than Ibn-Ice-Hadibi, one of the Elemental Court of Ice. Ice, my Lady’s veil… was it chance that led me here? . I cannot help but wonder who else belongs to that Court. His command of the elements was awe itself, and it stirred something deep within me. I gave him my name and swore to him to hold these tenets close:   Beget creation with destruction. Lead with splendor and grace. Respect the elements, and fear their wrath.   It is astonishing how seamlessly my Lady and the elements entwine—death, destruction, transition, creation.   Is he now my master? How strange—the tales always tell it reversed: mortals command djinn, not serve them. Yet I do not serve him, nor bend my will. It is the elements themselves I honor, in their purity. Ice is clarity, cold and truth; from destruction rises creation, and through transition, new life. My Lady’s touch is no enemy to this truth—rather, they entwine. hihihi—so he is now my master? A Djinn as master… in all the stories it is always the other way around! XD   But no, I see the elements as the purest truth. Ice-clear. The cold in which I first awoke has always been pure, and all things are born from the elements.     (Side note: Runak Hellmark—one of the Founders, perhaps?—may not have been entirely wrong with his “aluhut theories,” hihihi…) Only the carp… what is, or was, with the carp?

2nd of Hakim, 242 AC — Duaday   I ended my trance today with an unnatural weakness. If I recall correctly, it has lingered ever since that Echo struck me at Makan Alrrara (the plaza in Karam). The others seem unharmed—were they never touched? Or is it only I who reacts so strangely to its mark? Yuri left Tesarim with the Austerlitz, like a bouquet of white lilies. Was it intentional? A quiet gift after remembering Katalina, perhaps leaving them an animal companion for comfort is a lovely gesture? Whatever the reason, it was sweet. I feel for Frederick, who cannot remain with his family under the weight of this accusation of murder… he deserved that time with them. By Balthaday at the latest, I hope we all regain space for our private matters. Lalique surely misses me already.   We met Alizée before the Court. At the open hall of the Xundeva Chen Court, we were greeted by a cold dwarf who seemed to share a past with her. He led us to Hadiyah Flamescale, a brass dragonborn who took up our defense. His bearing left no doubt of a military past—shoulders square, chest firm, posture sharpened by years of discipline. I cannot help but wonder: will my own body language ever feel loose again? Hadiyah explained the customs of the court. Across the grounds lay a binding of Truth. Our judge was Zsetszathuss al-Ssahn, a yuan-ti pureblood, graceful in both presence and movement. Our accuser, Yasmin djinnborn with hair like a crown of ice, stood in the chamber as well. There were also folk of Karam, those we had helped, and even the Sixfold Shadows. Strangely, even that vain, well-dressed half-elf spoke on our behalf. Our innocence was proven. Huzzah!   Our next step was to seek Helios. The way was not easy—only through Alizée’s name and reputation were we shown the path through a labyrinth of bridges to his tower. Once there, we shared tales and symbols. One story, of a carp, consumed much of our time. Yet when we finally revealed the arabesque knot to him, Helios told us where the next assassination would occur. Time slipped from us. Yuri still went to his stonemason’s course, and so we arrived too late to save the families of Karam. The Separ Talsam and the Order of the Vigilant Eye were already there, but even they had come too late. Aura and I managed to keep Lady Malechin alive for only a breath longer. Her last wish was for her children’s safety. If only we had been faster… I could have stopped it. These souls deserved a rightful transition. Dibarra must answer for his crimes! At the arabesque knot under window of the Malechin familie, we found the passage into Dibarra’s realm.

On our way toward Makan Alrrara, a place within Karam, we paused for a simple meal. Steam and Aura were introduced to the red bananas – a creation of the Taqadum School of Technomancy. A clear tourist’s mistake… Aura bore the heat surprisingly well, unlike my own first encounter. Steam’s reaction, however, carried me back in time. I wonder, did my face also flush indigo then? Sadly, I was alone in those days. Yuri, of course, seemed unaffected – unusual indeed. I can only hope his high resilience and constitution were not born of pain or suffering. It was a pleasant hour spent in the company of my new companions. Alizée once again excused herself for family matters – she carries a calmness I cannot quite grasp, even though tomorrow at midday we must prove our innocence. Still, the meal was good, the company better. And at last, after much gentle prodding, Yuri revealed something of his past. He once lived in a palace, surrounded by servants and family. His father will have no contact with him – a sorrowful truth. Yet who am I to judge the cruelties of fathers? He also told us of a childhood treehouse among vineyards. I, too, once had such a place in my “younger years.” Ah, memories – the good and the bitter alike. The matter of slavery arose, and I found myself explaining the bond I share with my “Mother.” I had not realized how difficult such a thing might be to understand. Still, I believe I made it clear to them. Steam, too, seems to bear a great destiny, though he does his utmost to step aside from it. Yet even the one kissed by fire will one day see that fate is carved plainly before him. Farid, the owner of the house, aided us further. He gave us the name of the place – Makan Alrrara – and of the family: Al-Nasr.   By the early evening we arrived at Makan Alrrara with the glorious Dragonfly. We found the house of the Al-Nasr family, and before its window, a knot. Yuri began a ritual in a tongue I had not heard in a very long time – so long that I cannot even recall its name. I was about to begin sketching his ritual when a sudden cry escaped from Aura. In her investigations, she had awakened an Echo of the Living. I fired upon the echo of the long-dead man; Yuri hurled his spear and leapt through the window with the grace of a lion. Aura struck the echo with her lightning, but soon more appeared. These poor echoes must be laid to rest – their souls stripped of fate must be given another chance to transcend. To the north, at another house, another knot awakened before a window. I called into the home, ran forward, and made ready to strike down any undead that rose. Ten feet away lay only a focus. Then it appeared: old, wrinkled, carrying the stench of decay like a mummy. The creator of these echoes was here. I fired – and it babbled something incomprehensible. A tattoo lit upon its skin, and another echo emerged. I steeled myself against the Good, the Bad, and the Ugly. But Dibarra seemed to be none of these. Aura came first to my side, then Yuri. Aura’s stone hand reached out for Dibarra as the fight spilled into the street. With his soulknife, Dibarra paralyzed me – the cut was not of flesh but of essence itself. An echo struck me as well, sapping my strength. Dibarra fled through another knot-portal before we could finish him. In that fight, I called upon the gift of my Mother and revealed my face of the Shadowfell. I stepped to the last echo and struck it down with Valgar’s Blade.   A foreign voice slipped from my mouth – to be used like a tool, a shudder runs through me still. It was the tale of Dibarra: … -Dibarra was the Sixth Prince- -wandered the mirrored corridors of the palace- -obsessively hoarding anything on the slight chance that this forgotten person- -Dibarra recognized him first- -curse was not content to be merely broken; it recoiled- -could not bear the thought that one day, even his beloved Su’Alhazi would fail to recall him- -a tale of a demigod- -Thus began his transformation- -He experimented on himself, grafting these tokens- -very soul of a person, compressing it into a tattooed sigil upon his own flesh- -hundreds of mothers vanished- -loss begat longing, longing begat memory, memory fortified Dibarra’s existence- -only one spared from Dibarra’s predation was Su’Alhazi- -memory faded into oblivion-   All these feelings washed over me as I listened to my own mouth speak. And within them – a purpose. Dibarra must be brought to account. To torment souls, to steal memories… such crimes cannot go unanswered. I will go after him, we will find him. This story is greater than our own lives. Alone I cannot do it; I must persuade them to stand with me. Tomorrow, after the trial. For this is not only about the children. It is about this entire city, its culture, its script, its very history. It's against everything the Matron of Raven stands for. On our way to Frederick’s parents, we passed the shrine of the Duskmaven. A silent prayer to my Lady, and an unspoken oath. – The sense of something done well. His father, Fritz, and of course his mother Ann – both are welcome in the Ta’Alaq anytime. I am most curious to see the shoes his father will craft for me. Thirty gold as a down payment – quite a sum for today, but I cannot shake the feeling that gold will soon be the least of our worries. Yuri seemed unsettled by my showing the face of the Shadowfell. I know it looks dreadful, but it seemed to trouble him more that I carry two faces. What did he mean, that my “true face” is hidden, that this is only a mask? Both of them are my true faces. We spoke of the empty room – the missing memories of grandparents. I have noticed it often: these absences haunt the city. Dibarra, Jansaa Dunya, Su’Alhazi, Dhakira, Tasmia, the Matron of Ravens… memories tie them all together somehow. But how? And why? At least Frederick remembered his sister, Katalina – his whole family, even the paper itself. They shared a beautiful family moment.   Afterward, we all went to our night’s rest.   by Oro'thion

After a truly restful meditation upon the sandstone flowerpot of Lavivun – Steam’s relatives’ home – Aura watched me with almost childlike curiosity. At first, she lingered at the edge, observing in silence, but then drifted into her own kind of “meditation,” sinking deep into her thoughts. She, too, seems to have much to process from this day. I myself had much to weigh and arrange in my mind that night. The Ice-Poem, and so much more, stirred the very fabric of fate within me – ours as a group, the children’s, the parents’. Even the Epyraday deserves to begin with a breakfast. And so it did – excellent, in fact. I even took a handful of dates for the road. Over our meal, we planned our day. For my part, I sought my companions’ counsel regarding the Ice-Poem: Markings on the ice read in script of wind-blown snow. Your skin like lilac, mine like teal. One paints the beginning of a certain end. The other, the end of a sure beginning. Sadly, our little hive-mind could make little of it. It seems a riddle meant for the road ahead, one that will only unfold with the right choices. I aided Yuri in donning his armor, and once more asked about his bond to these soul-weapons, and about his origins. His Smoldering Armor is a puzzle to me. Does it serve some greater purpose? It masks his scent – or am I only imagining it? I lent Steam a gold coin so that he might fetch Alizée’s snowflake-drake. Strangely, this act of generosity seemed to pass by her without a word. Money, kindness – they seem to mean little to her, or perhaps the reasons lie elsewhere. On our way to the Bahara Library, we came across Neriah Brielle and Cravine at the shores of Lake Haiyeti. Cravine is most delightful – open, kind, and exceedingly loud for the morning. She shared with me a so-called “Yell-Pepper,” some sort of superfood, and was generous enough to gift me one. They spoke of the murders in Karam and assured us we had no part in them. Still, it feels strange to be the prey, not the hunter. I must sharpen my perception. Two more parents slain, their two children taken. Five children, six dead… I expect to find this knot of sorrow again before long. Neriah Brielle and Cravine decided to accompany us to the Bahara Library. The Bahara Library itself is vast, overwhelming, and its greeting peculiar: “Know you the words that have traveled far?” So we were received. I echoed the phrase back, as greeting in return. They seemed… disappointed. Alizée and Frederick are known here – no surprise with Alizée – and thanks to them, I finally set foot inside this monument of knowledge. Our weapons we left behind. - to leave B. Bessi[i/] unsettled me deeply. Our stay bore fruit, sudden and rich as a tree struck by lightning in winter. In a travel journal of Abraj A’Malounaton lay a bookmark. Upon the page: The Fairy Tale of the Forgotten Prince, at the place of the Weeping Oracle. Again the story calls to us. We also found a map of the Ad’har Oasis, time of the First Song of the Founding. Yuri bore the burden of distracting the self-absorbed Neriah Brielle – while Cravine eventually drifted to sleep. Steam also asked after reports of his homeland – I must remember to question him further on this. Aura never ceases to amaze. She claimed to know The Tale of the Forgotten Prince by heart. I believe her. Kaleb Al’Arshif – an expert on cursed things – led Alizée, Aura and myself into Mal’q’s section, devoted to Abraj A’Malounaton. There we uncovered a “Tulip dye’s” ledger, and shattered tiles. Seven expeditions, perhaps? With twenty or more souls, lost to both memory and paper, who once studied the pillars of Abraj A’Malounaton. Forgetting is a great theme in this city… Something steals memories. Could this be why my Lady sent me here? Have I been given another task? To save souls and guard memories? Alizée, meanwhile, led us into her family’s archive, to search for traces of her grandparents. Strangely, she leafed through her family book far too quickly to read – its pages seemed partly blank. Neither she, nor the librarian, could recall her grandfather. Curious. Has my Lady hidden these memories as well? At last, leaving the Library, we parted ways with Neriah Brielle and Cravine. It feels good to have my belongings back… ah, B. Bessi… Now – onward to Karam!

At dawn we were greeted by two Noonblessed. Aside from them, the Ta’Alaq remained empty. The Majilisun had died, and the city was deep in mourning. Maria Goldenlight Turinya explained our situation to us: the murder of two families, the disappearance of their children. We were given three days to prove our innocence. We went to Alizée’s shop—she needed her armor. The "Feylight Haven" is truly a lavish shop. Three beautiful spiders work for her—each magical in their own unique way. —I really need to question Alizée about them— She also has some stunning fabrics; with those, I could definitely have something elegant designed for myself. Something airy and loose-fitting—something that highlights my movements rather than restricting them like my armor does. Yuri, Steam, (and myself) behaved like the biggest children—using her mattresses as trampolines. —We didn’t even take off our shoes— It felt good to leave the seriousness of life behind for just a moment. Alizée returned shortly afterward and completely chewed out the two of them. Steam dragged me into it—that little traitor. Still, today Alizée was far more approachable than she was yesterday, even though she had just trimmed us down to size.   At the crime scene, we were “greeted” by the guards. The guards were truly useless—anyone could just walk up to the crime scene and alter or tamper with it. There we found, the six individuals we had left to their fate at the Market of Melodies. They now sought to prove our guilt. What we discovered, in brief: The men had been robbed of their strength—their bodies wasted with sudden weakness. The women had been robbed of their very souls. - At last, my choices have led me to the right point. An arabesque knot—a gateway for the undead, something is missing, magic is needed. Old sand…   I am certain that my Lady sent me here for this very reason—to save these souls and punish their murderers. No soul must be denied the Transition. Yuri knows a great deal about this type of weapon—Soul-Knife-like. He denied ever wielding such things, but his connection to them deeply unsettles me. I do not want to stand against him... but if fate demands it of me, then so be it. —The word of my Lady is absolute— The arabesque knot we found appears to be some kind of portal—one that can interact more intensely with the undead. Whether it’s a portal or a summoning circle, I cannot say. I’ve never seen anything like it before. Aurélie was brave enough to place her trust in me. —And yet I couldn’t keep my promise to her— She disappeared alone, even though I swore I wouldn’t let that happen. It was only for a few seconds… —I must keep my next promise— She spoke of a voice—at first just sounds, some kind of language. I repeated the sounds she heard, and slowly, it began to make some kind of sense. ("Come, my children... let us build a new kingdom"—or something like that.)   We went on to Steam’s uncle Tholim Coppermantel and aunt Zahara Jal'Zuun, for his uncle was said to know much about sand. At first I thought little of it, but it turned out to be, in the words of the honorable Ealam Alnizam, “a perfect plan.” While Alizée went to see her family, Steam and I went swimming, searching to see what remained of the Market of Melodies. Nothing. We ate and stayed the night there. All of us gathered again, and at last we could speak in peace. Something important had happened with Alizée—I know that look: secrets. Later, I shared a quiet moment with the undead one—she is so peculiar—Aurelie. (I am allowed to call her Aura.) Aura told me of some of her inventions after I asked about my musket (if she had seen such a thing). Truly delightful little trinkets. In the end she hardly wished to stop speaking, and of course I listened carefully as I prepared my place for meditation. Aura was the first to help me there—offering a flower that did not quite belong, but on her second try she gave me a small, delicate bloom that fit perfectly. A very kind undead indeed.   My hand aches from writing. Will it ever become easier with the left?   -Oro'thion

This day felt special from the very beginning. During my morning meditation, I already sensed that a decision awaited me. It was Ta’Alaq at sunrise, during Yuri’s shift. I admired the rising sun for the twenty-third time—something that will never grow old for me. My time in the Shadowfell had drained me of so much warmth and color, but here, with each sunrise, I feel as though I reclaim a piece of it—joy and vibrance returning to me in small but precious measure. I offered Yuri my help, yet he was content on his own, so I wandered into the city. As usual, I made my rounds through the streets until I met my calligraphy teacher, Sonnet Grich, for our weekly lesson. When the hour was done, I felt a quiet pull leading me toward the Dhakira—to the Sea of Memories. It is a place of tranquil beauty, its waters mirroring a perfect night sky, untouched by the hour of the day. Today it felt truly unique—charged with a sense of connection, as though every step of my journey had brought me here. I held a Tasmia in my hand, Lemenet's Tasmia The stone was cold and silent, yet a sudden draft teased the line of my jaw, bringing with it a pang of childish nostalgia—of a time when I had still held similar dreams of hope and familiarity and belonging. yet my thoughts dwelled on duty, on vows, on something missing in the weave of memory.   And there it was—this vellum card in my grasp, carrying with it an invitation: To You, the Named and the Nameless: The Blind Storyteller bids you join him at the Market of Melodies, Last Bell.   I went at once to the Ta’Alaq to gather my belongings. Only Lordi was there, of course—who else? Yuri was never at home at that hour. In my haste, I even forgot to tell Lordi that I had given the ladies of the house leave for the day. (I truly do wonder why he never steps beyond the Ta’Alaq’s walls.) And so I set out for the Market of Melodies. Upon reaching Makira, I was met by a familiar sight—Yuri. He, too, had been invited. We exchanged the usual small talk and wondered about the next hour. Even now, I have not managed to find the right way to reach him. There are too many secrets he carries, too many things he refuses to speak of. It makes him difficult to truly know. Still… perhaps, in time. On the passage across to the Market, a man introduced himself through rhythm before he did with words—playing a lively beat upon a drum. His name was Frederick Austerlitz. For a brief moment, his music allowed us to dance away the weight of life’s seriousness. When we arrived at the Market, we were thirteen in number—a truly magical count. Among us stood Diamante, Frederick Austerlitz—the human drummer, Yuri—also human, Aurelie Mor’ta—undead, perhaps, Steam—the genasi, Alizée—genasi as well?—and myself. Facing us, as if by design, were six others: an ogress with a drow at her side, a half-elf with Cravin the halfling, a water genasi, and a goblin clad head to toe in full plate. We were all beckoned into a tent that had appeared as if from nowhere. Within, seated before us, was the Blind Storyteller—an echo out of desert legend. He spoke to us of The Forgotten Prince. I knew fragments of this tale already, though from the prince’s own perspective—it had once been one of Sonnet’s transcription lessons for me. But the telling ended abruptly. Mistress Diamante, declaring the Storyteller a traitor, laid her hand upon him. At her touch, he shattered into ice. And then the world itself seemed to turn against us—the chill, the elements, all lashing out with malice. We fled northward by boat, forced to let the other six choose their own path, those who were not bound to us by fate’s weaving. At last, back within the Ta’Alaq, we found rest. For Steam, it seemed like fate that we should meet—or so it appears. He is the born tea-brewer. I must still see to it that he signs the contract and begins his place within the Ta’Alaq. In the short night we had, we grew to know each other a little better.   Notes to self: Aurelie Mor’ta… she is remarkable. Undeath clings to her, yet it feels as though it is her destiny—this state of being. What happened four years ago, on the day of her death? What plans do the gods have for her, and the Matron of Ravens? I have, in any case, offered her my room. Should Snoodle not devour her, she surely walks a powerful path, a fate bound tightly to her. Tamasha Alizée Aella Zephyr—she does her house every honor. Her nobility shows in her bearing, in her face, in her deeds. She reminded me, briefly, of times long past. She has, without a doubt, a gift for ice-creatures—by morning, one had already appeared at her side. Siham Jal’Zuun or Steam… it seems he has not seen much of the world, yet he was born into the right circles. Yuri—at last Yuri revealed something of himself: this panda-thief and lion-slayer… (I cannot help but laugh). And Frederick Austerlitz—he seems to be a known artist, a dancer from Karam. He remained truly reserved, yet in such an open manner that one hardly noticed he revealed nothing of himself. Is it caution? Should I be more cautious as well? Or is it mistrust?   I tidied everything and prepared the Ta’Alaq for the morning when I noticed strange frozen markings as I was putting away a teacup. Perhaps my new companions can help me understand them.   —Oro’thion

Morning light spills through the stained glass again—amber and lilac this time, softer than yesterday. The Ta’alaq is still asleep when I rise, but I like it that way. The silence before guests arrive feels like a kind of sacred hush, a space where I can breathe before the day begins.   Shared a pot of stormroot tea with a trader from the northern passes—kind eyes, too much loss behind them. She told me of a cursed Pillar no one speaks aloud anymore. I listened, as I always do, hoping for a thread, a symbol, something to stir the Raven Queen’s silence. Nothing. Still—   Sonnet was unforgiving today. He says my ascenders are crooked, and my flourishes have “the elegance of a limping beetle.” I didn’t argue. My wrist aches from holding the feather too tightly, and my left hand still forgets it’s supposed to lead. But something about "The Forgotten Prince" lingers. There’s sorrow between the lines. I think that’s the point.   No sign of a soulcatcher. No scent, no omen, not even a whisper in the temple. The Queen sends no dream, no vision—but I know this city holds something. Shal'Azura feels like a waiting place. Even the wind tastes patient.   I walked Dhakira - the Sea of Memories again—quiet as ever. The stones there don’t speak, but the air does. It shifts when I pass through, like something unseen is watching me back.   Trained with the blade this morning. My parries are faster now. I still prefer the Musket, but steel has its own voice, and I’m learning to speak it. Haiyeti was clear today. I floated on my back and let the sun paint lines across the water. For a moment, I could almost forget the cold and how heavy my Queen’s silence feels.   Dusk guests filled the Ta’alaq. A bard played something half-remembered from Shal’Azura, and it drew tears from a jewel merchant’s son. I poured tea, smiled, listened. That's my job. And when the candles burned low, I returned to my room, opened "The Forgotten Prince", and copied the next two pages in the Azuran script.   My wrist hurts again. But the letters looked less like failure tonight.   —Oro’thion

I never thought I’d spend New Year’s Eve playing cards and walk away owning a teahouse. It started simple — low stakes, lazy talk, and Wann Sun, the old turtlekin, puffing on his shisha like the night was already his. Then he sat down — Yuri, a stranger with eyes like loaded dice and a smile that dared fate to play along. We played like we’d never met, but when the final hand came, we moved as one. Two „full houses“ against Wann Sun’s supposed „straight flush „— pure miracle. I’ve never seen someone lose so slowly. We stepped into the new year with the deed, the name, and a pot of Wann Sun’s last, best tea.  

I walked through Dhakira today. The fog sat low between the marble spires—cool against the skin, like breath from a sleeping beast. The graveyard is unlike any I’ve known: no rows of carved stone with names. Just the endless surface of the Sea of Memories underneath the surface Tasmia's, the namestones of departed Shal'Azuran, memories ripple across the surface if you walk slowly enough, they say memories linger here. I wasn’t looking for anything. I thought I just needed silence. Here in Dhakira,—halfway through the west path— I remembered of Whitestone again and his voice came to me. Not as a whisper, not as a ghost. Just—there. John. His laugh, short and stupid. That grin when we sparred with wooden blades in the Whitestone barracks. How he used to call me “Shadowguy” even after I told him not to. His daughter’s drawings—one of me with giant wings and a tea cup—. She’d handed it to me and said, "You look like a bird in this but you’re nice."I hadn’t thought of that drawing in months. Another memory, I saw John bleeding in the snow, and me—too late to stop it, just in time to carry his body. I told his wife I’d watch over them. Sadly i have lost all contact to them after my Lady sent me here. I stood there in the graveyard with a hand on my chest, breath caught in my throat like I’d swallowed the whole damn past. The sea at my feet stayed still. No reflection, no face. Just absence. The Matron of Ravens doesn’t give comfort. That was never the promise. Only clarity. And sometimes clarity is a wound. He’s gone. But I remember. I will remember. Later that day i came back with a small "Tasmia" with John Does name etched in. I etched it in myselfe it looks horrible but honest —like our friendship was— His "Tasmia" I put in the Sea of Memories, thought about John and walked away like it was farewell.   —Oro’thion—

Today 19.8.241AC, I met someone who can teach me this script. Sonnet Grich’ will instruct me and teach me this art. I take great pleasure in elegantly connecting these flowing letters. It is extremely challenging and difficult to link all the words together—against native habits—in a way that keeps them readable and understandable. My goal with this? I don’t want to interrupt the thread of a thought or statement. To me, it is like fate: continuous and unbroken. This script truly deserves to be written from beginning to end without interruption.

Today, I finally decided to register with Alyaesub. I didn’t work so hard for nothing—at last, I’ve earned myself a bit of fun. I really hope I’ll enjoy it. Watching the Dragonflies from the ground certainly looks amusing. —I do miss flying— Zygop, a human and Master of the Kushak, gladly took my gold. The facilities on the shore of Lake Haiyeti are large, orderly, and befitting the city. I was given a riding outfit (in case I fall—it’s meant to feather the fall). Yara, an elf—refined and pragmatic—gave me my first flying lesson and introduced me to everything involving the Dragonflies. Lalique is the name of “my” Giant Dragonfly. I’m allowed to ride her and, afterward, I must care for her—feed her, groom her. She feels strangely familiar to me—a very spirited creature. The animals are treated well and have plenty of time outside, which greatly reassured me. These beautiful beings aren’t kept locked away — they’re free to roam. —a cold shiver ran down my spine— I saw 16 “nests” for the Dragonflies, though I’ve no idea how many there truly are. I should ask at some point. The first flying lesson was bumpy, but the feeling of the wind in my hair—freedom— It’ll take time until I get the hang of riding, but I’ll manage. I’m already quite proud that I didn’t need to test out the fall-protection gear. The view of the city from above was breathtaking. It truly resembles the blossom of a rose. Great minds have built something remarkable here. And once again, I had forgotten… this city flies.   — Oro’thion

(Ioun auge symbol) First Sentences in the Script.   (right hand, good) The Script is beautiful i have to learn it… Hard… With the left it could be easier… i can see the letters now (left hand, bad) "These are my first attempts at writing with my left hand in the script of Shal’Azura. It’s harder than I thought."

It is "Three Apples Day" and scorching—the desert heat is immense. Even here in the city, it feels as if the heat is pressing the very buildings into the sky. Why did my Lady send me here? I had grown so accustomed to the cold of Latherna.To my fortune, this city has a lake—Haiyeti. It is cold, impossibly cold, in the midst of this desert. I wonder where its waters originate... Ah, I digress.Swimming in the lake—today was my first time. It is cold, truly cold. Yet it refreshed me in more ways than I thought possible. It sharpened my senses, the ones the heat tries to steal. This cold is unlike Latherna’s cold. It feels... primal, deeply elemental, yet invigorating amidst the sands. Here, cold carries life and beauty, so different from the cold I once knew. — Oro’thion   Each swim brings me back—clears my mind. My search here will be a long one, and this is the balance I need. I swim alone. Sometimes people watch me with puzzled looks, whispering among themselves. I think I may be the only one who dares enter this lake. There is another lake—warmer, they say—but I’ve been advised not to swim there. The Isle of the Founders lies in its waters. To avoid complications, I will keep my distance—for now. — Oro’thion

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