Greetings men, women, in-between, Celestials, Infernals, terrifying beasts of shadow and the divine heroes who vanquish them. In the nascence of this text my moniker finds itself to be Vakad-Va Mathrenenkhahd Mokiv Skyglade III, Though those close to me simply refer to me as my more familial refference , Kad. My reasoning for the birth of this text is threefold. The first being a documentation of a personal nature, so that I might reflect on my travels from a point of perspicacity and precision, the second being so that when I might achieve my prominent prestige this chronicle of my ascent will be one to draw the envy and ire of the wealthy and well-to-do. The third and absolutely most salient reason is so that I might document this beautiful world of Arcadia and when the time is right, spread this beauty to those without the means or desire to find it. To those people, human, elf or halfling I could care less as to your origins, I hope this finds you well. But as to those with such indolence and indifference, perhaps this may change your dull perspectives. And though I know not what my future holds, I eagerly await what this adventure may bring, and thus, I begin.
7th Day of Isilda
Day 1 The humble beginnings of my Journeys throughout Arcadia finds me first performing at a rather meagre taphouse so that I might find lodging for the evening. The paltry sum of gold I had prepared for myself was swiftly lost as a boisterous band of brigands halted me on the trail and relieved me of the coin weighing down my purse. Though I put up a valiant defence the dastardly pock-ridden fiends bested me, leaving me in a rather sticky position. The inn-keeper, an apron-clad austere Dwarf was indeed reluctant at first but as the dulcet tones of my lute graced his ears, he allowed me lodging for the night should I perform for his patrons. Though the bed modest and the meals bland, my temper remains sanguine, as the paths lead me north towards the great capital of Usinia, Brinstadt.
8th Day of Isilda
Day 2 Through the proficiency of my awe-inspiring elocution, and the kindness of a half-bred elf. I was able to obtain transportation on the carriage of a group of sellsword adventurers. Though in transit the colossal half-orc broke my toe as she was nor partial to the rendition of “Balenheins Ballad” that I had been rehearsing, fortunately as she stomped it did allow me to reach the note that I had been struggling with at the ending crescendo. A feat that sent her comrades into riotous laughter, yet when the half-elf wiped the tears from her eyes she revealed herself to be in the service of the Platinum Dragon. She found it in her heart to channel his divine power through me healing my affliction instantly. Much to the chagrin of their Dragon-kin leader. We have made camp for the evening and shall continue to the waypoint town of Kelfort, where I must find alternate transport. Obby, the halfling cut-throat informs me that their services have been summoned for the eradication of a troll that had made its home, not a day’s walk from the town. My goals incline me to ask if I may follow and observe their great exploits but my fears, as usual, hold me hostage.
9th Day of Isilda
Day 3 After spending the evening at the local inn (the quality seems to increase as we move closer to the capital), within the deepest recesses of my being I found the courage and in some sense audacity to offer my services to the group. The Orc-ling jumped on the opportunity with incredible zeal, citing my use as a meat shield should the Dragonborn’s skills fail them. The Cleric of Bahamut, while reluctant at first, accepted my offer at the behest of their commander, who gladly welcomed me following my promise to spread their exploits across the land. The trek towards the troll’s domicile,while not fraught with danger, was by no means pleasant or congenial. The mire taken, sullied any and all garments I had donned, leaving me miserable; the only thing keeping my spirits up was the idea of catching glimpse of something truly unique, though I didn’t know that what was once seen could not be undone. Upon arriving at what these intrepid heroes understood to be the dwelling of their quarry, moods shifted from somewhat complacent to a cutting severity, the mercenaries keenly surveying for any hazard that might place me or any others in peril. As these errants scanned the field , I took respite resting against a large boulder to begin pondering on the prose that would be composed of these paragons of peace.
Though as I rested my weary self on this rock I drew the looks of the group, at first ire but then a great deal of horror, their eyes widened in unison as they pointed their weaponry in my direction. Not understanding their sudden change in demeanour, I swiftly turned my head only to notice the object of their aggression. What was once thought to be a simple boulder slowly unfurled its body sending sludge and ichor sliding off of its enormous physique, and what a physique it was! A body somehow gaunt but still large in the gut. Tan green skin pulled tight revealing jagged spinal columns jutting out at strange angles. Unnaturally extending arms revealing enormous claws on the hands that it trailed behind its body. Naught but a loin cloth fashioned from skin keeping some semblance of modesty. Its mess of rotted teeth within its black lips complementing the sickening yellow eyes. Only covered with muddy, black and matted hair dangling off of its scalp, all this complemented with grotesque cream pustules dotting its skin, some oozing a revolting secretion. I believe it is safe to say that I was rather frightened. The monstrosity let out a primal bellow sending me to find refuge behind the party that had already begun its assault. To say their abilities were impressive would be an understatement of my own achievement. The half-orc let out a scream to match and took point, drawing the aggression of the troll allowing the others to take a position. Their actions were that of a well-crafted cart, each fulfilling their role. The red-scaled Dragonborn took his position next to his comrade, dividing the attention of the troll, giving them opportunities to strike when there was less focus on them. The follower of the platinum dragon channelled his divinity to grant boons upon the fighters while mending any wounds they may have sustained.
To my confusion, Obby was nowhere to be seen and as the battle continued, signs of wear began to develop on both sides. The aggression of the berserker has steadily decreased and the troll was beginning to compensate for the Dragonborn’s complex swordplay. The battle had begun to show signs of its natural end, though the winner was uncertain. And then, without warning, the halfling burst out of the shadows making two simultaneous slices across the troll’s throat. The Dragon-kin, almost as if waiting for this sign, drew a heavy breath and opened his maw releasing a torrent of blazing flames, climbing their way up the body of the horror sending into fits of pained screaming. Eventually, the flames ceased , revealing the blackened char of what could once be recognised as a troll. One might expect a riotous cheer from the winning team, roars of achievement, shaking their weaponry to the sky, proving that they had bested their mark. However, in the course of the battle the injuries the fighters had sustained began to take their toll. The Dragonborn crumpled to his knees in great efforts to regain his breath as the Half-elf expediently and with great care, channelled her divinity through her comrades, causing their wounds to seal and their psyche to harden. Obby proceeded to liberate the carcass of its head and place it in a sack, making futile attempts to dust off the char of their leader’s immolating outburst. The journey back was filled with an agreement of mutual quietude. Our place of rest soon came into sight and as we entered wordlessly, the entirety of our group trudged to our lodgings and lay in rest.
10th Day of Isilda
I roused from my well-deserved rest to find my former travel companions now absent, having collected their coin and set off in search of their next mark. No matter, Onwards to Brinstadt! Lute in hand I began to compose a song for the trolls-slayers, afterall, a promise once made must be kept. To begin came the overall tone and thematic value of which I had not yet decided. The dirt roads from Kellfort to Brinstadt would wind, the occasional traveller would be moving in the opposite direction, offering no more than a passing nod, an acknowledgement of presence. The duration of the path travelled remained both torturously uneventful and entirely unproductive! A minstrel of any sort requires inspiration, and though the events of the day prior still lay vivid within my mind, the words and notes that dance upon the mists of exquisite creativity seemed to keep themselves from me. And so I put down my lute. If I was but a common harper of uninspired love ballads and children’s nursery rhymes! Perseverance is the very essence of art! Yes there are those born with great talent, but talent is nugatory and impotent when faced with one’s true burning will and passion. If no other wisdom is divined from within the confines of these pages, let it be known that art of any kind is the product of focus and sheer determination. With that said‌ I held my lute tight in my hands and returned my mind to the construction of rhapsodising the martial talents of the mercenaries who now moved to their next mark, their next kill, their next village saved, pauper or king, devil or angel, onwards they march!
12th Day of Isilda
The road to Brinstadt drew ever nearer and as I crested the one insurmountable seeming hill, the shining jewel of Usinia finally came into view. Heavy stone walls stood, surrounding the boundaries of the city. Guards gazing upon the expansive landscape, men faithfully committed to the protection of their home, swords at their hips and valour in their hearts. The large gate that marked the entrance into the capital was scarcely void of movement as the flow of travellers and merchants made for frequent foot traffic. From upon the hill, the various larger standing landmarks were explicitly visible. The shining marble pillars and gold coilings of The Library of Ioun, the largest repository of tomes and knowledge to those who seek to peruse and immerse themselves within its wisdom. Known by all to be fiercely guarded by both, the forces of the crown and those blessed by Ioun’s empyrean omnicognitience. The magnificent grandeur of the royal palace, now housing Sovereign Tierus Kritora III the kind-hearted. Or at least this is how he is known by his subjects. A man known to be an altruist with a perpetual ear turned to his people, but a terrifying force of blade and bow against those who may threaten his charge. The palace itself, an edifice looming over the dense sprawl of homes, shops, taverns and halls like a giant, gently surveying its land with the kind eyes of a grandfather finding joy in the prosperity of his kin. The gentle, yet mighty force found in the presence of the royal palace was matched only by the three enormous spires being held by the wind far above the upper most point of the city. These resistances floated in tandem, seeming brittle enough to be knocked astray by the touch of a feather but strong enough to endure the ages of the world. Solitary in their watch yet seeming to be unparalleled in their erudition. These three
pillars were known as the Arcane Spires, a place of learning, spawning each new generation of wizard. Funded in turn by nations around the world, in the hopes that a spellcaster of any vocation may be born from within their walls, and their skills honed by the ancient sages and wise-man from days long past who wander its halls. Yet these paragons of stature and renown are a place of far too much exaltation for a humble bard such as myself, and I would be all too quickly removed from such establishments before I would be able to breathe their air. As such, I soon reached the walls of the capital, only to notice that they stood mightier and stronger than I was able to first observe, then entered Brinstadt proper. Never had I seen such variety and diversity in the manner of men, women and in between than in the first step I took into its cobbled streets. Life before the birth of this journal lent itself to only facilitating contact with family and servants. And any fraternisation beyond this, while not explicitly forbidden was difficult, the manor sat far from the closest pocket of civilisation with the majority of the population taken up with their livelihood, leaving little time for mingling with others. But now I walk the same roads as Elf, Orc, Halfling, Dwarve, Dragonborn, Tortle and Tiefling, a peripatetic minstrel with eyes for the path ahead and a heart of explorative elation. Spell-slinging neophytes stood at corners, weaving extravagant illusions, drawing crowds to make coin. Peddlars, tinkers and vendors called into the crowds from their legion of carts dictating the dense market-place. Selling wares varying from a strange curved fruit cultivated in the west to what were advertised as basilisk eggs, but upon closer inspection were seen to be dyed chicken eggs. Colourful flags wave and bunting hangs across the streets.
Not a single street, road, boulevard, thoroughfare, walkway, pathway or alleyway was exempt from the chattering masses. Horses hooves clapped against the stone and birds fluttered about. The occasional performing trio would come in and out of ear, spaced just far enough so as to not merge each other’s jaunty and upbeat tunes, magnificent string and wind instruments, some the likes of which I had never laid eyes on before. To my eye, some seemed strange over-designed contraptions, yet their sound seemed to warrant their presence. But of course the fast drumbeat lead these musicians in their lilting zeal. I took a deep breath, absorbing the beauty of the lively bustle continuing around me as my nose caught a rather enticing aroma. Tucked away among the many winding streets of Brinstadt sits a superficially simple establishment, but once entered, displays an atmosphere unlike any other. Sconces of purple, pink and blue faerie fire dance gently across the walls, the main light from the roaring hearthfire placed not in its fireplace, but suspended in the air among the high ceilings. Right by the second floor, it crackled as people leant over the beams, clapping their hands at the lively performance executed by a trio of halflings and a lone satyr, swaying, roaring out the vocals upon a table being cheered on by the tavern’s patron. Howls of joy and sporadic cheer broke out randomly as those with flagon in hand toasted to the performance, scores of ale splashing to the floor in their vigour. As the spectacle came to a close, the performers hopped from the table and gathered their earnings in the form of copper and silver coins tossed to them throughout the songs. The satyr who seemingly headed the band bore the furred legs and cloven hooves of the fae inclined. Though young, his horns showed signs of wear, a metal gusset attached to his left horn, ostensibly hiding damage. As the performance ended, he received hordes of praise from the audience as innumerous casks of some kind of drink were placed in front
of him, a wide smile and glint in his eyes used to swiftly and with great charisma charge through the legions of praise. The animated crowd in time settled back to their tables, taking a break in their revelry. Leaving space for me now to investigate the aforementioned scent, a scent that now drew me close to the bar attended by a heavy-set Goliath woman. With little conversation and a quick exchange of gold, she provided me with a meal and lodgings for my time in the capital. I had yet to take a sip of my ale, when I was welcomed to the establishment by a rather well muscled half-orc stumbling into me, sending my tankard spiraling freely. Justifiably disgruntled, I felt it was my place to turn and give the bumbling buffoon a lesson on proper etiquette, but our brawl was charismatically diffused through the intervention of the Satyr now utilizing his charm to placate both sides. Not soon after, this silver-tongued artisan introduced himself as simply Jaq. Though I felt initially hesitant, our conversation over time soon flowed like a gentle stream. Our discussions lasted in length, with topics ranging from esoteric pieces of symphonica, to the competing theologies and predetermined classifications for disparate deific pantheons. The free-flowing liquor and vibrant atmosphere doing nothing to halt its progression, and as the night developed, we soon found each other fast friends performing for the tavern’s patrons and steadily becoming more inebriated. Jaq was not at all guarded about his past exploits and proclaimed them bravely to whoever might lend an ear. He had only recently traversed to the Prime material plane, escaping the Feywild through a poorly done ritual performed by a coven of witches, reaching the land of fairy rather than The Nine Hells. This occurring not two years heretofore, since this, as Jaq calls it “Jailbreak� he has made it a point to spread revelry and hedonism across the lands of Arcadia and beyond, though until now he had only made through half of Usinia.
Our rowdiness got us into the beginning of numerous potential tavern brawls, but through Jaq’s and my talents, we narrowly avoided all but one, sending The Otter’s Nap into a bout of incensed physical combat, Jaq and I of course providing a suitable backing number to match. Initially I thought the Goliath attending the bar to be rather unassuming and mild mannered, but once she slammed the third chair over a patron I learned differently. Though the commotion wound down in time, I feel that this night was rather fitting for my first of many in the capital, and this newly formed bond will persist into the unknown.
21st Day of Relkum Today marks my third day traversing the frozen wastes of Eldenheim, after leaving the heat and omnipresent clang of steel against steel that is the capital Redhammer, I have been resisting against the bracing cold by a thread. A less than trustworthy acquaintance has told tale of one of the roving Goliath tribes that populate Eldenheim being willing to briefly house outsiders, should they bare no ill or malicious aforethought in their dealings. I believe the Giant I learned for my duration in the capital should be sufficient to communicate for my purposes. Though I did stock a Comprehend Language scroll just in case. No outsider has recorded nor ever been told the myths and tales passed down by the Tribes. Goliaths willing to mingle with the other societies often lack the history and knowledge having been brought up outside of the culture. My research shows that Giant lacks any written form, and the legends believed by the Tribes are communicated through oral tradition. The growing military might of Iradil leaves me concerned. Though they have announced no formal war or mal-intent towards any nation, their current behaviour is reminiscent of the War of Four Bloods that occured not two centuries ago. Should they wish to invade the north and attack the Goliath tribes, there is a very plausible possibility that these stories will be lost forever through the possibility of a generational gap. I feel I have an obligation as a storyteller to ensure this does not happen, though I have no power to stop war should it occur. I must at the very least ensure that the myths, songs and culture are not forgotten. This of course is entirely dependent on whether they are willing to teach me their stories and not use me as Basilisk bait. Should my acquaintances’ information be accurate, I am sure this will be a fruitful endeavour.
29th Day of Relkum While the sun stood at its peak, and my legs were barely able to drag me across the ground, I collapsed in exhaustion onto the once novel pillow of snow, now a reminder of my isolation. I neared the location said to be the current home of the tribe, but the exhaustion now stood as an impassable barrier to my continuation. My hope had gradually begun to run dry and frustration began to pile. Yet, as if an act of providence, a scout from the now nearby tribe found me and through their magnanimity opted to carry me back to their residence. Having been starved of food and heat for almost four days, one of the tribe’s elders, a cleric called Starfinder Munakulan nursed me back to health. This clan, identified as the Bronze Paw Tribe, had found refuge in a cave, making it livable with a plethora of furs and structures. Though the tribe was willing to nurse me back to health, I still felt a certain amount of hidden animosity from certain members of the group. I was initially curious as to why they even allowed me in such a place at all as an outsider, and through my broken Giant and Starfinder’s fledgling understanding of common, I was able to piece together that some kind of beast had been harassing the scouts for a good while. They lacked the warriors to fight it at the time, as it had followed a harsh winter. And just as the tribe was about to pick up and leave, some adventurers came willing to assist them in the subjugation of the creature, endearing outsiders to the chieftain to a certain extent. However others within, were still understandably hesitant to accept them within their domain. After some time, I successfully communicated my intent to Starfinder, though she felt it was not her decision to make, sharing the stories of their tribe was indeed a challenging thing to do to an outsider they had only just met; as such she petitioned the chieftain to acquire his opinion on the matter. The chieftain, like many goliaths, was a large man, black tattoos marking his ashen skin and bald head. Though unlike the others, the man had grown a rather thick and impressive beard, having him stand out among the others. One might attribute this to age over the others, though my understanding of Goliath physiology is lacking. The chieftain bore the name of Dawncarver Kalukigone, his appearance though initially intimidating, was revealed to be still very intimidating after time.
He too was understandably hesitant, an outsider arriving randomly to your home and demanding for your culture’s stories could be interpreted as rather suspicious. I felt that my reasoning was not being communicated properly through my admittedly inadequate understanding of Giant, therefore, after some rummaging and the utilisation of a Comprehend Language and Tongues Scroll, I was able to convey my concerns to them and display a bit more eloquently my friendly intentions. The chieftain chose ultimately to confer with his elders and put it to a vote amongst the tribe in which the majority vote would rule. He felt this necessary, as the result of my request would impact the entirety of the culture. It was at this point I felt some concern, the stories of each tribe would likely differ greatly, with some similarities but perhaps entirely different. With a process such as this being put to a vote, in even a tribe endeared to outsiders, I felt this may be next to impossible. However, this opportunity came as a point of rarity and complete coincidence. It would seem my greed is getting the better of me. The results of the vote were rather surprisingly in my favour. Those in favour were seemingly warriors of sorts and those visibly younger. If I were to hazard a guess, I would say that these soldiers were those assisted by the adventurers and were thus further endeared. The vote had ended at around half to half, the vital vote being provided by the scout who had initially found me. As he raised his hand, I felt my heart warm, the chieftain nodded and declared that he would be now imparting knowledge to the outsider. There were some belligerents, but most were quieted when they received stares from the elders at revolting against the chieftains decree. I do not intend to record the entirety of what I have been so graciously taught in the past few days within this journal, I will however, share one story that I am particularly fond of, the Goliath creation myth. Their interpretation of Arcadia’s birth is seen through their belief in three primal constellations, a sort of celestial iteration of primordial titans. The two constellations, Vendra and Ankesis, supposedly kin, existed before all else. They were said to share the sky with Ozeria. Together the three grew close, spending their time creating stars beyond themselves. Vendra and Ozeria soon grew close beyond simple endearment. Vendra gifted Ozeria the sky and the sea, and in return Ozeria gifted the sun and snow. But they felt a need for something more, for progeny, for a union. Ankesis
offered his assistance in wedding the two lovers, and through this union, they produced Knowledge, Bravery and Fate. As the lovers looked upon their children, they did their best to guide, but were left weak. The lovers flew up high in the sky so that they might watch upon the creations of their children and pass restfully in the sky. Ankesis in grief, though understanding the lovers bliss in resignation, felt utterly alone. And such in a fit of misery created War, Trickery and Death. Ankesis wished for these children to be of noble heart and mind, but as they were born of a single creator, there was not time to guide the children, leaving them alone to learn of themselves. Ankesis took a place amongst Ozeria and Vendra in which they welcomed Ankesis lovingly to look upon the world they had breathed into life. The Goliath people have had scarce interactions with those beyond their own land, and thus lack the creation of other races beyond their own within the mythology. As to the accuracy of the creation myths, it very well may be accurate. Still to this day, though the presence and power of the gods is ubiquitously known, the gods are often enigmatic of their own origins, leaving it a topic of much theological debate. I do not intend to unravel the archaic mysteries of the birth of the universe, but simply record the stories and songs of those thought to have such answers. It has taken me three days to codify the goliath mythos and memorise the songs, I must now make my return to Redhammer in order to continue my travels. I do hope one of the scouts may be willing to lend me a Frost Elk, though I am unsure of my chances.
2nd Day of Adviq Had it not been for the loss of my focus in my kinship with one particular adventuring party, I never would have made it onto the docks of the Floating Archipelago. Ever since my years of youth, the concept of the Archipelago had been a far off conceptual nightmare that I was convinced was an act of fiction perpetuated by my nanny. A roaming city of magic, bursting to the brim with culture, felt like the set up to an allegorical fable about indulgence. It wasn’t until the gargantuan rock, spotted with wood and held up by a magic crystal the size of a leviathan, actually came into view that its existence solidified in my mind. The group of seven (though they called themselves nine) that I had been travelling with, insisted I join them on their glorified delivery expedition to the nobility of Rvind, the city situated on the very edge of the Archipelago. The Archipelago is as the name suggests, a span of islands suspended in the sky, and though the smaller islands are populous, it is the primary city of Rvind that marks the quintessential atmosphere of magical artifice that permeates the grounds of the sky. Where an archetypal city may have built houses and dirt roads, Rvind consists of a loose connection of Mage and Wizard towers with cobbled roads forming a wide winding road to the Aurum palace. The permanent population of Rvind contains close to ninety percent spellcasters, with the last ten percent being so filthy rich that the excess of wealth they maintain, allows them to maintain living arrangements in such a truly breathtaking city. Never have I seen such a density of ensorceled goods and items simply strewn about. The streets were immaculate, and as the sun receded, the enchanted gothic lamps lining the streets shone with an otherworldly glow. As often as you would see a tourist travel the extended grids of Rvind, you would see a wizard’s familiar running some miscellaneous errand or transporting a message from mage to mage. Every now and then, an explosion or flame from a miscalculated experiment would erupt from one of the towers, only to be placated by the legion of enchantments inscribed onto the city streets. Upon our arrival, the adventuring party I had accompanied, separated to complete their given task. That of course being hand delivering some incomprehensible arcane object that is for whatever reason incapable of being teleported to the nobility of Rvind.
The nobility of course residing in the Aurum palace. Intriguingly, as opposed to ruling through divine mandate or military dominance, the ruling class of Rvind is comprised of a council holding those of supreme magical prowess and occult acuity. Every three years, a test is undergone involving each applicant portraying their talents and subsequently allowing those in power to dictate the next generation of council members. Upon completing their task, the adventurers met with me in one of the local watering holes and introduced me to the local delicacy of fairy gin, an incredibly intoxicating beverage with a taste so divine it almost warrants the exorbitant purchasing prices. At the very least such prices should help decrease the constancy of drunkards wandering the streets.
3rd Day of Adviq It would seem that after a misadventure with one of the council members following the imbibement of two much fairy gin, that I must flee the city with haste to avoid my hexing at the hands of said council member. The party is helping to hide me and assist in my escape but I fear dark retribution may fall upon me.
12th Day of Rainte My dear friend Jaq has received an invitation to perform before the elites of Usinia within the Royal Palace of Brinstadt. As Sovereign Tierus Kritora III sees his 65th winter, he is marking the event with a celebration amongst the elites and a festival for his subjects following. I owe infinite thanks to Jaq as he has persuaded the king’s right hand to extend this invitation to myself as well, an invitation that I have no intention of passing by. As of now, I sit within a carriage bound for the capital in anticipatory rehearsal of my performance for the nobility. Though I fear my travelling companions have grown weary of the 13th recital and must now play through my repertoire to satisfy the deal struck with the coachman.
To be continued in the next iteration of my tale