I have not updated this journal for many days. I’ve told myself that I’ve been too occupied, which is certainly true enough. There is also the fact that there is only this single leaf remaining in this book, given to me by my mother. I’ve waited, I suppose, to reach some point of finality. Some conclusion to the swirl of events that I could record here to give the use of this last page its due.
There is no conclusion that looms, no grand finale. I have spent the past week involved primarily in bloodshed and darkness. I am assigned to the Darkmoor Morwynne Brigade, which at this point controls the High Way from its connection to the Port Road southwards to the bend where it fords that unnamed tributary of the Elran to the north, before it runs west into the Twisty Wood. The Virelle Brigade is responsible for the area west of us and the Moat House Legion, as they call themselves, patrols the Port Road and the area neighboring the fens. No force loyal to the Grey House controls the great heartland of Darkmoor, and only the forces of the Cult travel south of Anthracite. We have a strong force at the cathedral I am told, but only sufficient to protect our people, if even that.
These glasseyes come in ravening swarms, indifferent to death. They are entirely undisciplined, but the Cult’s other forces, largely fey beasts of the wood in this region are nearly as well-controlled as we try to be. Our force is small, relative to the foe, and I weep for every man and woman who has fallen. I fear that my tears run dry when I consider those who I have seen slain on the side of those who oppose us. One day, once all of this is settled, should I live to see the sun rise on a peaceful Darkmoor once again, I may find it in my heart to grieve for those who have fallen prey to the Cult’s lies and promises. For they who have turned their back on their own conscience out of some sense of aggrieved misfortune and in a desperate attempt to return to a past where “they” had a higher station and nobler status — a day that never existed. One day I hope to make space in my heart for them. That lies beyond my abilities as I stare out this evening on a field of impromptu gravesites marked only with simple stakes.
The route to the South is entirely cut off. And, according to the Sorcerer, somewhere beyond this iron wall of orcs and the roaming unliving lies the Temple to which the Cultists seek access. Our Circle has gone its separate ways; Aldmaar organizes the Peoples of the Wood and serves as the Druid’s envoy to our force. Lady Sparrowhawk leads a small, mobile force that carries out the most dangerous of excursions into Cult-held territory, scouting and attacking supply lines and hunting down the Cult’s messenger squads. The Chief Investigator, I am told, has joined Lord Grey in exile in Eregore, in Gwinned, supposedly.
And what of the Sorcerer? I last saw him on the evening that we went our separate ways, upon learning of the attempted assassination of Lord Grey by, San Nicholas help me, Barnabus Rey. I asked him, as I surrendered my Aldermane to Aldmaar, likely for the last time, what he intended. “Will you travel to this Temple? Will you attempt to stop this Targeta?”
He looked at me, his angular head appearing more inhuman than ever. His expression changed, almost comically. As if this was an idea that had never occurred to him. “You ask the best questions, follower of San Nicholas.” And he said nothing further.
I will get what rest I may. And I hope, in the days to come, to find a new journal so that I may continue to compile my thoughts. It is a meaningless and minuscule’ exercise, I know. But it is the only way I can find peace, even for a handful of moments.
I close this journal here, exhausted, damp, cold but clinging to a flicker of hope.