Of Truescales and Tainted Springs

The “Wood Sower” is dead, though its shadow lingers. We returned to the Pitt with the carcass in tow, only to be met with the roar of a blood-sport crowd. A minotaur was dismantling three ratkin with nothing but brute force and horns. It was a stark reminder of the world I now inhabit: one where strength is the only currency that never devalues.

I spent a few coins on a round of drinks for two local practitioners—Thoradin, a cleric of the Dawnlord, and a halfling wizard named Merric. A small investment in goodwill, though my mother would have called it “buying the room.”

While Lex’xi and Lyd ate, I took a seat near Hestannia, a minotaur tattooist. She was dismissive, claiming I “smelled like a spellcaster” , a comment I found more observant than insulting, though her tone lacked the grace of the Golden Bay courts. I did not press her; instead, I spoke of Lex’xi’s prowess in the field. It is a tactic my father used often: praise the blade to soften the shield. It worked; she raised her cup to Lex’xi. Respect is a common tongue, even if spoken through grunts.

The kobolds’ camp provided the most intriguing discovery of the day: Rilla. They call her a “Truescale” or “Swolbold.” I have studied draconic lineages in my youth, but seeing a kobold of such immense physical presence was fascinating. I found myself questioning Zeks on their physiology—whether their increased mass correlates with the development of breath weapons. It seems the gift of the dragon’s breath is a matter of blood, not just scale and muscle.

My alchemical training proved its worth tonight. Working alongside Zeks, we processed the sower’s seeds into a restorative paste. Seeing the bark recede from Lyd’s skin was a relief that far outweighed the 50 gold Mug handed us. I feel a measure of the guilt from the forest lifting, though Rilla will require a longer course of treatment.

Before turning in, I sought the source of the stream’s corruption. The water flows from a defunct temple to Seelia, an ancient water goddess. Such a source should be incorruptible. I spoke with Thoradin, the Dawnlord’s servant; he possesses a gravity that Merric and Cassie lack.

When I proposed a quest to purify the waters, he agreed without hesitation. The others, however, “had other things to do.” It is the mercenary’s curse: no coin, no cause. I cannot blame them, yet I find myself disappointed. I can’t imagine why I ever hoped the world wasn’t so. Youthful optimism, or naivety. Still, of those I surround myself with, they seem not so driven by greed. Maybe not a hope of making the world a better place, but they fight not for hard coin or the promise of riches. Maybe a more noble cause isn’t needed—just not a base drive.

This morning, Lyd returned to us with a small, floating stone, looking quite pleased with himself. He claims it is an “Ioun Stone of Absorption” won from a magical portal. The others seem convinced the little fellow has been swindled, and while I have my doubts about the Bugbear’s “Dispensary,” I said nothing. In my experience, belief in one’s own luck is often as effective as the luck itself.