The Price of Rashness

The Pitt continues to be a theater of the absurd. We have a new companion, a man named Zoot who was—quite literally spit out of the Dispensary’s portal like an unwanted coin. He is a strange, melodic soul, but in the heat of the pit, his music hummed with a power I didn’t expect. I had to be convinced to step into the fighting ring, but the “test” offered by the gnome Tuvog was too informative to pass up.

Tuvog’s clockwork armadillos were triumphs of engineering, but failures of tactical imagination. He relied entirely on his own voice to command them. In Agahven, we were taught that the most dangerous weapon on a battlefield isn’t the sword, but the command that directs it. By weaving a minor illusion to mimic Tuvog’s voice, I introduced a second “commander” into the machines’ ears. They were paralyzed by the contradiction.

In the Freeblades there was a common saying amongst the sergeants that I didn’t often hear in the officer class: “The loudest drum directs the march.” It doesn’t matter how thick the armor is if the brain inside it can’t tell the difference between its master and a well-placed echo.

Tuvog looked as though he’d swallowed a lemon, but a lesson bought is better than one ignored. Lyd, ever the optimist, even managed to haggle for one of the constructs as a mount. I hope the creature is more loyal than its predecessors.

The mood shifted when Cassie returned. The sight of her—aged fifty years in an instant, a vibrant woman turned into a trembling crone—was a cold splash of reality. She and Merric had pursued a red crystal, much like the one I still carry. Merric is dead, lost to crocodiles in a fit of rashness. I found the man’s mercenary streak distasteful, but a waste of life is still a waste. I cannot help but wonder if his spellbook remains in that cave; such knowledge shouldn’t be left to rot.

We used our last bezoars to restore Cassie. It was a steep price, but I would not see a companion left in such a state. However, the news of this “holy cave” and the wiry man in robes is deeply disturbing. The parallels to Seelia’s shrine are too precise to be a coincidence. This “Lord of Filth” is spreading his influence through these shards, and the shard I carry has already begun to whisper in my dreams.

Whitefeather recoiled when I showed it to her. She wants it destroyed with holy water. Lyd thinks we can manufacture some if we find enough silver powder—a logistical hurdle I intend to solve before this crystal’s influence grows any stronger.

Tomorrow, we head to the Sunfly Tribe’s cave. I have no intention of stepping into a corridor that harvests my years. If one path shatters the mind and the other steals time, there must be a third option—or at least a way to insulate the psyche. I will spend tonight reviewing my notes on mental warding. I’ve seen enough cowardice for one lifetime; I won’t lose my mind to a jagged rock in a hole.