Riloth the 19th the 23rd

Dear Spellbook,

I did some thinking this morning – as I did my early rounds – and came up with a plan I thought would work. I know I said that about my last two plans, but this one was better.

Potions, kobold kidneys, bee venom, bread, and cheese in my satchel, I set off on Ian. I was not in the mood to shop around this morning for lunch. I was hungry for victory, not dirty hair moss. At the campsite, I ate my kidneys with my lunch and applied the venom using some sticks topped with little balls of cotton Levar provided when I asked for an applicator for the venom. He warned me not to stick them too far into my ear, lest I damage them permanently. The man is very resourceful, but never volunteers anything until asked. Though, once you ask him a question though he'll talk your ear off until you know everything he knows on the subject.

Setting off into the woods – this time without a swollen, itchy finger – I made it to the base of the tower undetected. Before attracting the harpy's attention, I laid the knight’s sword on the ground and then made a loud "Oomph" sound as if I had fallen. At the noise, she poked her face over curiously. As soon as she leaped from the top of the tower to bank around to her landing, I cast Gale down upon her as powerfully as I could manage. Unprepared for the sudden—and drastic—shift in air currents, she plummeted to the ground like a rock. Landing hard, she died on impact.

The ease in which that worked would have made me laugh if the past two todays hadn't been so traumatic. The trick was remembering my original use for Gale, back when I first named it Updraft. I had so rarely used it for that original purpose, I had forgotten a major component of the spell's casting. Gale only covers a small area, roughly an eight-foot cube where the wind is most intense. When cast on a person who is falling, the intense pocket of upward wind follows the target of the spell as they fall. When casting it on thugs in alleys or besotted love-sick slaves with a wall blocking their path, the pocket of wind never moved because the targets had nowhere to go. Once I remembered this, I suspected it would work on a target that was rapidly descending instead of slowly floating down. Maybe I should have tested this on a bird before risking my life on it, but that would have been cruel.

Taking my time, I picked up the sword, stepped over the flattened remains of the harpy, and made my way over to the rubble that had once been a gate. Poking my head around the edge of the wall I saw the ogre standing over the dead bodies of the knight and Gerald.

Let's not focus on my plan’s shortcomings, but on the new discoveries we are making. It seems the book’s speculation was correct. The harpy’s spell is broken immediately upon its death.

The ogre was just standing there, looking at the tower where the harpy had, until a few minutes ago, made her nest. Taking advantage of its inattention I took aim and—pushing myself as I drew on the Font of Fire—summoned the largest Firebolt I had ever cast, draining over half my remaining Will. The ball of fire that erupted from my palm was almost two feet wide. It erupted from my hand and sailed towards the ogre, hitting it square in the chest. The ogre collapsed backward from the explosion, which I assume was quite loud, but was silent to my itchy throbbing ears. I ran towards the downed ogre—severely burned from the waist up—and hacked at its exposed neck with the knight’s sword. After a few swings, I was confident it would not be getting back up.

I really need to learn to use a sword or at least start carrying one around. I’ve been a fool not to up until this point. I would have been able to slay the harpy the today before if I had one scabbarded at my side.

Looking around, the grounds of the courtyard were sparse; free of anything you’d expect in a fortress aside from debris. Plants were growing from every crack in the stone bricks. In the center of the clearing was a small building with a disproportionately large gate set in it that took up the whole wall. Each tower had a door at its base, but the doors were smaller than expected, being built by and for dwarves. I explored each of the towers, finding nothing of note. The harpy’s nest was... disgusting. They may once have been beautiful

Stop showing me doodles. Beautiful.

They may have once been beautiful creatures of song and myth, but now they are just monsters, somewhere between beast and man. Closer to a pigeon than a man if the bathroom situation in her nest was any indication.

The large gate in the central building was of typical dwarven design. It had two doors, each five feet wide and eight tall. Simple and effective, but masterfully wrought. No frills, just pure function, but that has an aesthetic all its own. It was made of stone and had a simple pair of pull bars, which looked far too small for a door of its mass. The pull bars were some silvery metal, somehow still free of rust after all these years—if a little dulled by the elements. The stone of the gate was nearly seamless with the wall around it. If not for the bars, I may have never noticed the gate at all.

There was a message inscribed on the door at the level of my belly button. Dwarf eye level. The inscription read "Enter all who are welcome. Beware all who are not."

Assuming it was a riddle, I sat there pondering that for some time. There were very few dwarven texts I'd had the opportunity to read during my previous life of study, but I recalled them well enough to know this was not an allusion to any of them.

After twenty minutes of contemplation, with ideas ranging from speaking aloud the traditional Torcish phrase for "Thank you" to trying to walk through the door as if it was not there, I decided to first try opening it.

I grabbed the comically undersized handle and pulled. The door shifted at my touch but immediately stopped after only a fraction of an inch.

Running through my ideas back to back none seemed to be the key. I tried saying "Thank you," "I am welcome," and asking for permission to enter in a dozen different fashions. Attempting to walk through the door didn't work either. Eventually, I resorted to looking for a hidden lock mechanism and it was then that I discovered the “secret’.

The door, so precisely cut and hung on its hinges, sat but a mere fraction of an inch above the stones of the courtyard. A courtyard that decades of plant growth had warped. The door was getting stuck on the now uneven ground. It took some work with the now gore-covered sword, but I was eventually able to clear the path of the door enough to allow me to squeeze in.

I still don't know what the key was to enter. Maybe it was no longer locked, or maybe I guessed correctly. The precision of the door leads me to believe it would not have budged that fraction of an inch if I had not been welcome on my first attempt.

Through the door, the room was pitch black. Beyond the door was a brief landing, and stairs leading into the depth. I cast Light, and my hand shone, illuminating the space. Runes covered the wall in a pattern that seemed familiar to me. I recognized the symbol for the Font of Light amongst the runes from my mother's teachings; this one much more detailed and expertly cut into the stone than her crude sketches. It seemed to have been some sort of ward of illumination.

Not counting at the time, I can now recall there were exactly two hundred steps down, each step an awkward four-inch drop that must have been ideal for a dwarf, but not for me. My light revealed that the stairs behind the left door were not stairs at all but a ramp. This ramp was also covered in runes, but none of these looked familiar.

The stairs ended with a long tunnel, the same width of the stairs which in turn matched the width of the gate exactly. The tunnel ended about one hundred feet in, and itself was lined with more of the plain precisely cut stone doors; these sized for individuals and not gates.

I spent some time exploring the military outpost—that's what it appeared to be after a quick look around. It had a barracks with fifty beds, each cut into the stone wall, with blankets and bedding which had surprisingly not rotted away. The beds were all still neatly made. This place must have been abandoned in a hurry despite the made beds. The center of the barracks was filled with tables, which themselves were covered with meals long decayed to unidentifiable grime. Other tables had games of chance laid out on them as if their players had thrown down their hands and left mid-game—the pot still laid out in the center. Each bed had a small chest at its base. I did not try to unlock them and rummage through the belongings of long-dead dwarves.

Next to the barracks lay an armory, with racks upon racks of armor, weapons, and other assorted gear for war. All sized for dwarves. Many of the racks were empty, but the room held far more equipment than could be used by the fifty men the barracks could bunk. The equipment was covered in a heavy layer of dust, like everything else in this place, but there was not a speck of rust to be seen. To my untrained eye, each piece looked very plain, in the dwarven style, but even I could tell that each one was a masterwork by surface standards,

It is rumored that the dwarves have developed the means to keep steel from rusting without the aid of magic. I had not believed it, but not only could they do it, they must have been producing it in enormous quantities as far back as this fortress was lost to time. How old was this place? Why would they keep this from the surface? They would make a fortune if they sold it to us.

The next rooms were across the entry hall. The first one I entered, across from the barracks and nearest to the stairs must have been some sort of recreation dining combination room. It was filled with long stone tables and at the end sat some upholstered couches that looked very uncomfortable. The dwarves and all their craftsmanship could not match the comfort of a halfling-designed couch it seemed. Honestly, it didn’t even feel like they tried.

Laying on one of the couches was a book whose title was obscured beyond recognition. I cast Knit on it, but the spell is only good for repairing simple damage to materials. Restoring faded ink or inscriptions in leatherwork is far beyond its capabilities. I flipped through it for anything of note. There were a few sections of interest about the creation of the gods and Kaltis. I'd read the elven account of the world's creation in my studies, but I'd never come across the dwarves’. No one has, no human at least. I suspect, if I try, I can transcribe and translate it into your pages using your enhanced memory after having read them. When I have the time I will try, if it works like my other recollections I will only have one chance to relive it and I don’t want to be interrupted

The next room was a wonder. I assume it was a kitchen from the pots, pans, and other cooking paraphernalia but if those were gone I’d have never guessed. The walls were lined with cupboards and counters covered with strange devices. One-pot topped counter was crisscrossed with a lattice of metal grates and had pipes running below them. Another appeared to be an oven from the baking pans inside it—this one also had pipes inside of it. In both devices, I could not see anywhere that wood, or even charcoal, could be placed to operate them. The pipes must provide heat somehow, but I did not see any runes on them.

One item in the room did have runes. In the back of the kitchen was another stone door, but instead of being plain, this door was covered in runes. Runes, it seems, are the closest to artistic flourishes the dwarves will add to their works. Opening the door revealed a large pantry lined with shelves. Had I opened this door a few hundred years ago, I would have vomited once more in the reset, but luckily for me, the food that was once stored here was now unidentifiable black grime. The runes on the door lined the walls, floor, and ceiling of this room as well. I don’t know their exact function, but I can guess their purpose. The room must have been used to preserve food, but wards cannot last forever powered on stored Will.

I wonder, did these runes chill the room, or possibly preserve the food through some other more clever means. The application of the runes is ingenious in itself, so I would not be surprised if their function was some further wonder.

The kitchen also had an entire wall dedicated to kegs of ale, spirits, and wine. Little is known about dwarven culture, but what is known is their love of strong drink. The rare spirit of theirs that makes it to the surface sells for a fortune, but I doubt it's ever drunk. I dared not risk opening those. I know some spirits get better with age, but there can be too much of a good thing.

The last room in the outpost was a bath laundry combination. The room had a large open pool four feet deep and tubs and drying racks around the walls. Cut into the walls were small little cubbies that must have been latrines as well. I hoped for the late occupants of this fort that those holes led very deep underground. The water was long gone, but pipes were still there along the wall that could be used to fill the pool and tubs. There were no runes there aside from the illumination ones that were present throughout the complex. Thinking of it now, those runes are strange. I strongly suspect they emit light, but along each wall are also mounted oil lamps. These lamps themselves were a marvel, like all the dwarven devices, for they had no oil pot below them, only another pipe like in the kitchen.

After exploring the entire complex I returned to the dining room with the couches. They were... not comfortable. Even accounting for their age and the fact they were designed for occupants half my height, they were like bricks made from fabric. Laying on the “couch”, I read through the nameless book while waiting for the reset, and trying to forget about the hunger that was starting to set in. After finishing the book I started this entry.

I had only packed lunch. Maybe subconsciously I hadn’t believed I’d succeed.

-Goodnight 23-

Reports appear

I poked my head outside. The reset should be coming soon. I decided to resume my survey. If I tried again tomorrow, I could probably save Gerald, but to what purpose? To spend a day escorting him back to town, only to wake up knowing he is still trapped? My actions today resulted in his death, and at first, I was horrified, but by the end of the day I hardly thought about it. Would I be so callous outside of these resets? I hope not.

Update

Leads:

Giant north of the town Outlaws out in forest ruins. Investigate runes Giant goat Dwarven caravan Harpy Ruins

Assets

Julian - Refugee Monitors game floor Literate Twiggy and Company- Bully kids Monitor market Semiliterate Rail - Urchin girl Counts people entering the Parlor Illiterate Hard worker Gill - Urchin boy Counts people entering the Dragon’s Den Sam - Refugee Counts people entering the command tent Simon - Concierge Traitor Brings coffee

Resources

Library Lavar the Alchemist Dwarven Armory

It's unlikely I will need to outfit a small army of dwarves, but it’s important to keep an accurate accounting of one’s assets.

To Do:

Find a way out of these resets Find others aware of the resets Find a way to wake up early Cure this hangover Learn the capabilities of this book Learn the language of the spellforms Learn how to read spellforms Learn spellform writing Find Liall Sleeping Owlbear Inn Find a sword trainer

These last few todays made it very clear I need to learn to use a weapon. Lightning Bolt is very good for taking enemies down for a moment, but without my friends to capitalize on it, I am forced to exert even more Will to finish off my enemies. I could learn the bow, but I already have a solid ranged arsenal, and it would not work well with my newfound uses for Gust. I need to do my survey first though, I can find an instructor later. If I get into any trouble for now I will run. I promise. No more sticking my nose into any more holes.