An excerpt from the journal of Soizic d'Karak, a Questing Knight-
Ah, how much like a homecoming does it feel, to have my pen scratch once more across your pages dear diary! Much has passed since last I wrote, though most in the manner of tumbling foam beneath a bridge: in the end, I remain much where I was at the beginning, through events scramble and shout and demand attention be paid to them.
I write, as has become my habit, from the ramparts of Und-Uzgar, which has become something of a home to me as I spend my days in the valley of Death Pass, the de facto warden of this road. Its fame in stories, as I have had time now and inclination to learn more of this strange history I find myself a part of, is built on the romance of far-distant lands and the horrible toll of bodies that must be paid along the way. For many, most of I am to be honest, the name "death pass" alone is enough to conjure the edge of the world, as far from Bretonnia as Ulithan or Cathy itself. I laugh now to read these- as eagerly and uncritically as I had consumed stories of journeys and adventures before, my months of experience have awakened in me a profound realization: the world is very, very large. Now when adventurers hired on as caravan guards begin boasting in our (Our! How boastful it feels to claim ownership, pay no mind that of all the Undumgi I am the first the new caravan masters meet with a scrap of authority) taverns, I must break the news to then that they have traveled only the first third of their journey, and the safest third at that. Better me though, than Francesco, for after an encounter with him and his stories who would wish to proceed?
Our tavens... The mind lingers on such things. Not even three months have passed since we scattered heroes and vagabonds passed through the crucible and took up our pikes, and little of that have I seen from the inside of Karag Nar, but upon each return a little more warmth and color and comfort has been found to decorate it. My memories remain clearest of the Karag as it was in the wake of our victory- the lower chokepoints thick with corpses and discarded weapons, the empty echoing hallways, and that endless stair running with blood like a thousand waterfalls. Such was not a place not fit for human homes, and I did almost pity the dwarves who I'd imagined would move in.
Now, I have a comfortable small suite to myself, and though my camp-roll still dwells on bare stone floor when I return to it, my heart grows fond of what might be made of it and a thrill of pride still thrums every time I see my name scrawled in charcoal on the door. Perhaps it is not such a breach in spirit, should a questing knight find a worthy cause at the far ends of their journey, to desire a bed of their own 'tween wearying marches.
And our taverns! Three, at last count, none so high or far from the main stair that any would have difficulty making their way to them. (Though I've noted the laughter of Undumgi asked for directions- 'orrud dok', clouded eye or cloudy-eyes, seems to be the nicest of the terms for those who fail to discern their path in the tunnels.) High ceilings, long benches, and oh diary, the dwarves have carried through on their threats to 'break out the good stuff' now that war is content to loom rather than press. So far there is little rowdiness, though many a time have I dragged out on marches the heaviest of the indulgers from the night before, discipline imposed by grinding headaches under merciless mountain sun...
I will confess, of the three, The Wizard's Horse is by far my favorite. Not just for the cleverness of the sign- a mane and tail tacked on a solid black board- but for the foresight of the keeper, who had kept a crate of Bretonnian wine in his cart through all the campaign and the celebrations thereafter, only to reveal it the day he set out his shingle to cause difference be spoken of between his establishment and those who moved earlier. Though dwarf ale is carving a place in my heart (ever will I tie the taste to the night after the battle of Karag Nar) I remain patriot enough to prefer the subtle notes and delightful hue kept true by the fruits of the vine.
And this does my spirit split between wild hope and murky despair- what sort of a knight must I be, that when my thoughts turn to home I think of the comfort of my rooms under the mountain, and ale in rough taverns, and the safety found past the east gate where I deliver travelers? Not often lately have come thoughts of rushing rivers and hoofbeats, or proud lances held through triumphant parade... Perhaps it is only now, as I take up a task which would be beyond me if only I knew of any better suited, that I must confront the bitterest truth of home: my country has most likely already forgotten me. My family has only a tomb and a brother lost to me from the touch of magic, my uncle who knighted me in his place dead some years now. My brother knights were happy enough to cast me out, and I shudder at the thought that my name should ever cross their lips again- I can smell the bile-stain on the words even half a world away. What, then, would I return to? Only the Lady and her Grail yet have claim on me, for her favor has been bright upon me for all to see.
I struggle here, dear diary, for here is where what I want and what I have been taught to want first showed the daylight between them, and now I cannot stop the whole from falling to pieces. And so I lead patrols, and supervise the repair of darken'd tunnels newly to use, and greet the caravans that make their way to us from the West as knight-captain of the Undumgi that they may feel secure in our facade of confidence and organization.
But hark! A messenger comes to pull me from you, my dear diary, bearing word from the scouts of a caravan to the east! I must apologize for filling your pages with inconsequential rambling then leaving afore issues of import might be addressed, but duty demands I make haste to make known the sanctuary of the Karak.
News from the distant east, dear diary, when I write again. Wish me luck!
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