Flamerule 26, 1371 DR.
We have arrived in the Severed Hand, the ruined elven fortress Xan spoke of. Those in Kuldahar are dead, or fled for Easthaven. We repelled the assault, but we could not repel their fear. With Arundel's death, panic set in. The Orogs were not sent by the demoness Yxunomei, but by another. If they belong to her 'old friend', then Kresselack spoke true. Unless there is another faction out there, we have rid ourselves of one foe only to leave another free to act.
I should have stayed my hand and tortured the knowledge from Yxunomei's lying tongue. If she did not send the Frost Giants that ambushed us, who did? Who launched the attack on Kuldahar? Who is responsible for Arundel's murder? Who commands the orcs that ambushed us after we broke free from the avalanche?
I could turn and march towards East Haven, or set out for Targos. I could find a ship and lead my pack to Luskan, Neverwinter, and then south to Baldur's Gate. But there is a debt to settle. First Hrothgar, now Arundel. I am tired of assassins chasing me. This will end. I will make it end.
We are in a tomb. Even Alora's cheeriness has faded. The tower is bleak, a shadow on the snows. The dead have risen, and we find ourselves once again in the midst of war. The guardians of this place, the slain, rise up to halt the invaders – and us. Raised by the blackest of arts, the shades of goblins and orcs battle endlessly with the defenders. This place is cursed beyond any I've yet seen. Were a necromancer to cast his spells, it would be a simple matter of seeking out the source of his evil and razing it, but this is… worse.
It is a place of woe, where the dead set traps for the living. We are ambushed at every stair, set upon 'round every corner. The elves barely recognise their own, and Xan's misery and despair grows. Alora cannot cheer him, nor Imoen jolly him. Jaheira is as silent as the slain, and I have never seen Khalid so grim. Even Minsc has fallen quiet. Branwen's war cries echo hollowly. I have no words for any of them.
I am less wolf than man, but there is something deeper, something within tugging at me, calling at me. Each time we enter battle, I lose part of myself. Small, but growing. I do not remember our skirmishes; the red haze descends. We roam as wolf-men, stalking through the shattered corridors and shredding any who stand in our way. We take wounds, many wounds; I have been cut, sliced, pierced, and bludgeoned. Even torn muscle binds itself. With each blow I take, my hide grows stronger; my pelt is no longer pierced so easily. I shake off strikes that would have left me stunned. Those I do take knits faster than before. Minsc and Branwen are the same, even Khalid. All of my pack are stronger. Even little Alora. Delainy is disturbed by how easily we kill, but she too crushes the skulls of the fleshless.
I run faster, leap further, and land from distances I once thought would kill me. We climb walls, crawl over ceilings, and drop down on our prey. Darkness is no barrier. Doors cannot stop us. We have smashed our way through.
For all that, we are missing something, something inside. The banter we shared, the quips, are gone. We have lost something of ourselves. Whether it is the journey, or this place, I do not know. What we have seen… I could not protect them from. My pack feels it, knows it. Even Garrick has stopped strumming, his song silent. Will we ever laugh again?
