Welcome to The Chosen's journals. Each character is invited to keep a journal and write down the thoughts of their characters as they wander through Nyternia. In addition, the DM has a journal which highlights each session. The players are:

Blink - monk Errol - bard
Kestrel - fighter Malif - wizard
Vaugner - rogue Vernon - cleric/sorcerer

Choose a journal:   Select a session:

Malif's Journal, session #18
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We have prevailed, and we've suffered defeat. What does this tell me? Little, unfortunately. We have shown that with luck and careful application of the Art, we can best our peers in a contest of bows, and yet we have little talent when it comes to balance, at least as a group. Well, I shall be sure to kill the next beast I fight from a distance and not from the top of a rolling log.

Not knowing the strength of our competitors, I have no gauge of how we are doing in this Tournament of Ashanto. The outcome will be as it will be. In the meantime, I try my best to ingratiate myself with the Fabricari representatives, and I scour the city for signs of Drow-contact or even evidence of expertise with a crossbow. But to no avail. I am torn between wanting to see more of Trovantain and returning to the south to find a guildhouse proper. I must present myself before I need more training, and yet I see little reason to tarry in Cressa. We can scarcely breathe in that country without the Belar appearing and telling us to hurry here or fetch there. We are mere lapdogs, I'm afraid.

I have had a dream which I must give thought. In the dream, I saw the guildhouse that I have been pondering in my mind. It had become a center for trade in every type of magical item and a true source of power for the Fabricari. In the dream, a rival in a passing merchant's caravan eyed the guildhouse door with disdain while elsewhere in the town square a miscreant, a thief to be sure, observed the caravan master, who suspected nothing. All this I saw as I walked toward the square. The thief approached me as I entered the square, and with barely a word, he pressed a note into my hand while I pressed a gold coin into his. Two things struck me: the note had the name of the rival's caravan, the name of the Master, and the location where they were to set camp. Enough information to cause considerable mischief, I thought. In the dream, I smiled just so, and the thief did as well. He glanced down at his hand, and there I saw the gold coin I gave him glint in the sunlight: a perfect disk of gold, the Fabricari's crossed Wand and Hammer on its face, the marks of legality upon it, as though from a Lord. Auspicious? I should say so, if dreams be true!