A Page From Aedon's Journal

[Aedon Durreah]

The past few weeks have been busy ones for me. With the Knights Rest now in the hands of Deckard, I turned my thoughts and energies to the warehouse in Magincia. The building has been completed, the offices within slowly filling up.

At the docks in Skara, the ships devoted to the company have been fitted out properly. Munitions and other needs stowed safely in the holds of the various crafts. Each captain is tested, and trained in the art of sailing. The months ahead will show if they are ready and able to meet what may come at them on the seas.

A good few weeks, I have been well pleased with the progress. The shadows which too often have clouded my thoughts had dissipated leaving in its wake a clarity I have not known for some years.

Then there was what I came across the other night...

I had left the warehouse in Magincia, making my way through the town to the gate and on to Yew. My thoughts were filled with numbers, meeting dates, and the anticipation of a really good cup of tea. As I started up the steps of my house, I noticed a few pages of paper half way up, secured to the stairs by a dagger which pierced the pages, holding them fast to the wood beneath.

I carefully pulled the blade out, and picket up the pages-reading what was written. It was dated some 12 odd years ago, and appeared to be part of someones journal. The writing was eloquent and precise, the words telling a partial tale of a person's life.

(Below is a copy of the Journal pages)
June 15th, 368

It is an odd sensation to walk these streets once more. I recall keenly their every turn and twist, yet it seems that there are new surprises around the corners. Enis' tavern has closed and is now the town bakery. An old member of the guard has become the stablemaster, having lost an arm in conflict. We had a nice, long talk, he and I, and I would be half-tempted to say that he may have recognized me. Before today, that might have alarmed me; as it is, I'm no longer sure I'd mind.

The old man is gone. Dead, it seems. Not of anything truly noble, either. An old warhorse ought to die in one of two ways: on the sword of the foe or peacefully to the infirmity of years. Instead, his heart left him. No surprise there. I can scarcely remember a moment when he was not the very model of tension and contempt. It happened at supper, they say. Over a bowl of stew.

That's well, though. I've no doubt he's barking orders at the army of his Guardian in the afterlife.

It does bother me, though. It took a great effort of will to bring myself back to this town, purely out of fear that he and I might cross paths again. I suppose there's no cause to hide myself from one whose eyes cannot see.

Still, it's probably best that I continue to play dumb. Years have past. I cannot awaken his ghost, and there's no cause to awaken my own. So, I shall continue to be this person I have made for myself; my old name may go to his grave.

It IS good to be home, whatever home it may be to me now. The cobbled sandstone of Trinsic is far more easy on the eyes than the harsh greys of Britain at any rate.



The writing had an odd effect on me.

Picking up the dagger that had been used to secure the pages, I looked it over. At first glance it was little more then a knife. The common sort that one might use to gut a beast, or whittle a piece of wood. But there was something about it that caught my eye.

A simple steel blade, with a carved rowan handle. But on closer inspection I was amazed at the workmanship put into such a simple blade. Holding it to the light, I turned it over, admiring the artisans work. As the light fell upon it, I could see-up where the blade met the handle a small mark etched into the blade. I have found myself sketching this mark over and over. There is something oddly familiar and troubling about it.




I get the odd feeling I ave seen this mark before. And I find I am a bit nervous trying to figure out why the pages and this blade were left on the steps of my home. The only thing that seems to stand out are the word Guardian, and Trinsic. And the small makers mark may hold the key to the entire issue. Or perhaps, the knife itself is just a knife.

[Aedon Durreah]

It has happened again.

Last eve I found more pages from the same journal at my house. In fact, this time they were within the building, held fast to my desk top by another dagger. I am beginning to recognize things within the writing, and most seem to point my attention towards the Trinsic area.

The writer refers to joining and working with those he calls legionnaires. He is receiving training in combat from a man he called Senator Prometheus, and made references to a leader he simply called Emperor.

The training seemed to involve the use of blade spirits, which once cast by a mage, the fighter must either take down, or fight till he himself falls. After being patched up, the cadet was once again set to the same task. A barbaric training program to say the least, and one that seems to place more importance on the method then the man.

But it is not the methods used that stirs something within me, and points my horse and attentions towards that area. It is the titles and names. Put together with the pages I found before, I am forced to believe that in some way, for whatever reason, the Purple Guardians are behind all this.

I have known in the past that the serpents tongue of a woman has been known to whisper in the ear of one man, setting his thoughts and intentions against another. But owing to the date of this journal, I cannot believe that events of the recent past have much to do with this.

Still, it is well within the capabilities of those of Olympus to have ready access to those who served there in the past. And if this is not a direct attack on me, then why were these pages left at my residence?

There is much to discover here. And the intent of the sender, the end they are hoping to achieve, weigh heavily on my thoughts.

It is time to seek out help.


(Below are the pages left on Aedon's desk the second night)

((the preceding pages are missing))

clear that the Paladins have lost their way.

The situation is little better among the men I have joined. They are a heavily-regemented band, which is not unfamiliar to me in the slightest, but their methods verge upon the Draconian.

This afternoon, I was called to a training session with my fellow Legionnaires. The lesson was to be in defense. I was called first to the fore to demonstrate the way training would procede. On the ground before me lay a random assortment of weaponry, and a large heater shield was placed on my arm. All the Decurion said to me was: "Defend yourself." From what, I did not know.

Senator Prometheus, a pompous and arrogant man if any I have met, stepped out of the stronghold and grinned. At first, I thought my bout would be with him. I would be proven wrong, as he raised a hand and spoke words unfamiliar to me. The air before me crackled and the weapons strewn about the grass began to shudder, then lift into the air and swirl into a blurred typhoon of blades. 

The possessed blades sped toward me, striking from every possible angle. It was all I could do to shield my vitals. I took many a blow and suffered a great many deep wounds. Every time I would fall, they would patch me up, put the shield back on my arm, and say: "Again."

This went on for hours.

I do not know what kind of man this Emperor may be, nor by whose authority he claims the title, but I do know this: I cannot long last in his coterie. I am no man's swine, nor entertaining fool.

I shall take this event up with the Senator tonight. It may be that I will get the duel I expected.

[Aedon Durreah]

I have received a third set of pages today. These appear different from the first, the script being less formal and elegant. I am not sure if they were left here by the same person, or if perhaps more then one person is involved in leaving them.

I will admit to a growing disease within me. My sleep last night was fitful and disturbed as visions taunted my dreams, and prevented my getting a full nights rest.

My thoughts on this matter continue to be drawn towards the Guardians and Trinsic. But there is something odd in this last set of pages. The mention of the use of black-rock in the forging of a weapon conjours up odd emotions and dread.

I must find out who is leaving these writings at my home, and to what end If as I fear it is simply the machinations of one hell bent on causing upheaval in my in my life, then I wonder why, and what will it serve anyone to keep me so on edge and watchful.


(Below is a copy of the pages left at Aedon's house)

((The handwriting on these pages differs from the previous, the ink more recent))

I haven't slept these past few nights. Always on my mind is it, this commission. I am obsessed. I have drawn countless designs. They are beautiful, all of them.

I've no idea why I feel so driven toward this one creation. It has been years since I last picked up a maul, yet my arm itches for the feel of pounding hot metal. When I close my eyes, I see either the burning of the forge or the shape of the sword itself. I cannot get away from it.

The material is unfamiliar to me, yet I know it to be necessary. Word from the Regent to the Throne is that this stone is dangerous... causes explosions... disrupts magics...

If it's so dangerous, then why would anyone entrust such a weighty amount to an out-of-practice smith?

When my hand cramps from my sketchings, I spend my sleepless nights trying to figure it out. It is truely beautiful... a perfect, hollow black... blacker even than the night sky over the desert.

Sometimes, I could swear it's looking back.

It wants to be made.

Who am I to say no?

((The next few pages depict various designs for a sword. In the bottom-right corner of each sketch is the same design as the maker's mark on the dagger from the first journal pages.))

[Aedon Durreah]

This is getting to be rather frustrating. I took a short trip to the Abbey for some wine, and when I returned, something had been dropped within my house again.

This time though, it was not pages from a journal, but a single iron ingot. There was nothing at first glance wholly remarkable about the item. It was smelted and formed iron, the sort a common smith might use. For a time I simply assumed that Liam had been working on something, and had carelessly left the ingot sitting on my table.

I picked up the thing and carefully weighed it in my hand. It seemed of normal weight for an item of its material. Taking it with me, I went to the hearth and poured myself a cup of tea. As I leaned in towards the fire, I noticed the flame reflected within the ingot. And within it, I saw a reflection of myself engaged in my current action.

This was an off thing to me. I know many artisans are able to smelt and refine an ingot making a superior product. But this was almost mirror like. Calling Liam inside, I showed the item to him, and told him to look at it closely. He stare at the thing for some time and saw nothing.

It occurred to me that perhaps the shadows within my house were too deep, so I told him to stand near the fireplace and look again.

He too saw the flame of the hearth reflected in the iron, but he did not see himself. And this is what concerns me deeply. What Liam saw in the flame was not his reflection, but me. And as he looked within, he could see whatever I was doing at the time, and in any room I moved to within my house.

What is this thing, and to what end was it made and left for me to find? How many of these things may be out there/ Am I the only one being watched through the flames, or is this but a sample of the power the one leaving these items may wield?

I cannot fathom the meaning behind these items left over the past week. They point me in many directions and in no direction at all. From Trinsic, to Olympus, and back once more to Aegis, what may tie these items and areas together may need to be figured out by those of more insight then I have.

But I do know one thing for sure, I am being watched.


Below is a description of the ingot left in Aedon's house

(A Curious Ingot)

This ingot seems to be quite ordinary. But when it reflects flame, one can see within it Aedon, precisely where he is, and what he is doing at the moment.

[Aedon Durreah]

I had Sage over the other night and showed her the journal pages and the ingot left at my home. Like me, she was a bit concerned and seemed to agree that for whatever purpose, I am being watched. She asked to take the items with her to see if she might be able to scry some information which might prove useful

I have spent the last couple of nights moving around, never sleeping in the same location twice. I am hopeful that soon this will all be a memory. And I pray that no one is harmed while we search for who is behind this all, and what their true intentions might be.

[Aedon Durreah]

There were llamas everywhere!

Big ones, small ones, fat ones, thin ones. I can swear one tried to bite me as I walked past it. It was a most peculiar sight to say the least.

I must say I was stunned at what met my sight as I walked around the corner of the Knights Rest. What in the world were all those llamas doing on that plot of land, and what could have drawn them there? I thought perhaps they had come to munch happily on the newly planted flowers and shrubs, but not a flower was damaged, not a leaf bitten.

They all just stood there as if waiting for something. I tried several times, unsuccessfully, to shoo them off into the woods, but they just kept looking at me, making chewing motions.

It was so very odd to watch them all standing there, chewing in unison as though each of them were saying the same thing, or singing the same song.

As I made my way through the pack, I noticed that, on the middle of the bridge, a rather ancient llama stood calmly watching as I approached. I walked up and stood on the bridge directly in front of him. Unlike the other llamas, he did not seem to have much to say. But his eyes were ever on me, watching as though awaiting some event to start.

This one wore a bridle, and had a saddle bag thrown across him. I reached out and took hold of the bridle and tried to pull him off the bridge. It was my assumption that he was the llama king, and that if I could coax him into the woods, the rest would follow.

He did not budge.

It was as though I was trying to pull a house. The blasted things seemed to lock his legs, and look in my eyes obstinately. I could swear I saw intelligence in those eyes, a purpose kept him locked firmly to the bridge, and even odder, the noise from all the other llamas suddenly ceased.

As I turned to look at the herd I noticed that all their eyes were now fixed on me. Their mouths frozen mid chew as they waited for me to make my next move,

If I tugged at the llama more, would the rest of them suddenly charge in my direction? I had no desire to be found trampled to death on this plot of land, with llama prints up and down my back. And so, I slowly eased my grip on the bridle and stood back looking the ancient beast over.

The pack.

Why did only this animal have a pack on its back?

Moving cautiously to the side of the llama, I reached up towards the saddlebag. The beast did not move, but looked towards me almost smirking. Reaching inside, I puled out a piece of paper, and let the bag flap closed again.

To my surprise, the old llama walked calmly off the bridge and off the plot, followed dutifully by his llama subjects. I watched as they walked into the woods, and vanished into the thickets at the edge of the Glade. Turning my attention to the paper I had withdrawn from the pack, I read what was written upon it.

Who can say where wisdom lies;
Or in the mind, or in the eyes?
Who the beast or Shepherd call
When all are one and one is all?
Whose the eyes which ever see
That which was yet not what be?
Who the fool and who the wise?
Whose the tongue which prophesies?
Days are dark and growing dim.
Who'll remain to sing the hymn?

Another message perhaps. How could it be anything else, and what do llamas have to do with me or Aegis?

One thing is clear to me now though; what I once thought to be a veiled threat now seems more an urgent plea. But with little understanding of the message, and no knowledge of the sender, how can I ever be of help?

[Sage Aurora]

Sage looked about the room she used as a sanctuary within Grey Manor; the stained glass still frosted from winds off the mountain, even in May, the fragrant flowers tended with gentle care and selected to mix a fragrance of Lily and Freesia. The ash wood statue of Gaia that served as a focus. This was the place where Sage could quiet her mind and focus her thoughts to see beyond her physical sight. As Sage knelt before the porcelain bowl of clear mountain water, she added just three drops of oil and watched it splay over the surface of the water creating a sheen of opalescent colour. The Ghille Dhu took a soft breath, trilling lightly as she exhaled then let her hands fall gently to her sides as she stared into the reflective surface of her scrying bowl.

It had been a day since Aedon had called her to tea, in his quiet new home South of the Northern Kraggs of Malas. Sage could tell his mind was weighed down with concerns; she sat silently sipping her tea and listening as he unburdened himself. Sage knew from experience that Aedon's heart held more emotion than most men, and that he felt more deeply than any man should. The man of Connemara was often ruled by feelings that ran the gamut from one extreme to another. It didn't surprise Sage how often trouble visited Aedon Durreah, his destiny seemed tied to the well-being of so many others, not just his own.

A new trouble seemed to have found Aedon; someone had a story to tell and had chosen Aedon to tell it. Sage had drawn the emblem on the hilt of the dagger into her notes to show to Xander and perhaps find who it belonged to, she read the pages repeatedly looking for clues but couldn't find anything that stood out to her. All that remained was the ingot; it was unremarkable in most ways other than its reflection of Aedon in the flames within. Sage held it and focused on her scrying bowl hoping to see who had forged it, or placed it in Aedon's home.

Sage trilled softly allowing her glamour to fuel her sight as she focused on the reflective surface in front of her. In a flash the silence of her sanctuary was replaced by many voices all speaking at once. Sage couldn't understand what they were saying; she was hearing bits and pieces of so many voices she couldn't pull any one of them from the cacophony. Before her eyes Sage saw faces, the faces that belonged to the voices, each flashing before her just long enough to register but never long enough to recognize anyone... anyone but Aedon Durreah. The effect was overwhelming, the sound of Sage's heart beating started pounding in her ears her vision began to blur and then all went dark.

Sage couldn't tell if it was minutes or hours but out of the darkness she seemed to float upwards towards a light, slowly the sound of purring filled her ears and she could feel a cold wet nose nudging her face, and the bristles of a cats tongue licking her cheek. After a few moments recognition settled in and Sage knew it was Myosotis her Tressym familiar rousing her from unconsciousness. Sage sat up slowly, still dizzy her head pounded at the temples. Myo stood in her lap still nuzzling Sage beneath her chin.

"I guess there's more to that ingot than we suspected," Sage told Myo softly.

After a few moments Sage gathered the ingot and wrapped it back up, putting it in the satchel she'd received it in from Aedon. She then emptied the scrying bowl into the potted plants in the sanctuary and snuffing the candles she left the room locking the door behind her. Myo meowed loudly as they descended the stairs and Sage explained to her familiar that she wouldn't keep the ingot or other items in the manor, that they would be returned to Aedon, along with explanation of what Sage had seen and heard.

This was a perplexing development... one Sage knew she couldn't solve alone.