This is the autobiographical journal of Arvil Bren, a somewhat reluctant hero who has been placed on an unknown quest by powers that he barely knows exist. Follow his journey as it is updated daily, Monday through Friday, and enjoy! These are the most recent entries in Arvil Bren's third journal; Politics of the Redoran. His first journal can be found in its entirety here. His second journal, Trail of the Archmage can be found here.

Wednesday, March 09, 2005

Day Sixty-eight: The dreamer prophet

Tonight I sleep in my own bed in Pelagiad, satisfied with having brought a murderer to justice and so laden by the reward that I had to use my recall spell to get out of the Chief of the Watch's office.

I spent most of my day wandering the sewers of the foreign quarter. The city has a seemingly endless supply of rats, and they provided constant opportunity to practice my marksmanship. While not as comfortable as my spear, the bow is becoming a very effective weapon for me. Which benefited me well in the early afternoon, when a fleeting glimpse of my quarry began the dance of death.

As the woman came into view around a far away corner I saw the netch leather armor. Her immediate dive back around the corner confirmed that she was likely to be guilty of something. I charged down the sewer tunnel, slowing warily as I neared the branching where she had disappeared. When I peered around the corner she was nowhere to be seen. I could hear her though; the sound of boots on stone echoed in the darkness. I pursued.

It did not take long for me to realize that she was not trying to get away. In the twisting, turning passages every corner called for caution. I had started out the hunter, but become the prey. Her footfalls would lead me the direction she wanted me to go, but then fall silent, leaving me to slide with my back to a wall peering into darkened passages. The pursuit wore on, with neither of us getting the opportunity we sought. Then opportunity struck, and so did my dangerous foe. From the darkness a slender dark skinned arm lashed out, the chitin dagger biting into my shoulder.

It was a minor wound, easily recovered from, or ignored, but a terrible weariness immediately sapped my strength away. My eyelids began to droop. I knew if they shut it would be on the last view I would ever see. I lurched towards the flowing canal and activated my levitation boots. I could hear the woman cursing me, as if from a great distance. "Dream the dreams of Dagoth Ur outlander. Sleep the sleep from which there is no waking." As I floated out over the canal I fumbled for the flask of restorative potion on my belt.

An enchanted item will focus magica for as long as the soul of the item can endure. That's the benefit of enchanted items, the user is free to concentrate on other things, or in this case not to concentrate at all. Apparently I fell asleep suspended by my boots above the fetid muck of the canal. When the spell was exhausted I fell into the mire, the stench and chill briefly rousing me from my stupor. Fortunately, the restorative potion was clutched in my fist. I gulped it desperately, gagging on the foulness of the canal water that unavoidably mixed in.

As the restorative surged through my veins I again activated my boots, rising from the muck like an ascending spirit of vengeance. The woman fled as I alit on the far side of the canal with bow in hand. The enchanted arrows I drew from my quiver strike as lightning, and the first took her low in the ribs and swept her forward off her feet. I gave her no chance to rise. Three more strikes and the dreamer prophet of Dagoth Ur lay still on the grimy bank of the sewer.

I took her dagger, which was quite obviously the murder weapon, and considered my options. My clothes, inside my armor, reeked of the sewer, as did my hair. To walk the halls of the canton in this condition would draw attention of the most unwelcome sort. The sewer, on the other hand, could threaten no further indignity. I followed the canal downstream to the passageways end, cast a water breathing spell and dove in, emerging into the bay through a deep grate. With my water breathing spells and my heavy steel armor I walked the bottom of the bay all the way to the temple canton. I emerged, wet but clean, by casting my water walking spell and stepping onto the gondolier dock.

I arrived at Elam Andas's office still damp and bedraggled, but was admitted immediately when I presented the chitin dagger and said "this is the weapon that killed your fellows, and the outlanders. I'm sure the commander would want to hear my report."

He did. He handled the dagger carefully, assessing its enchantments. "You are lucky to be alive, Arvil Bren; lucky, skilled, and determined. The city of Vivec owes you a debt of gratitude. For my part I will provide a more tangible reward." He offered me some choices. I chose the armor of one of the fallen Ordinators. The intricately crafted Indoril armor now graces my collection on the hallway floor. I don't know why I chose it from the rewards offered, since I cannot wear it for fear of being mistaken for an Ordinator, but there may come a time when such a mistake would be desirable, and it is exceptional armor. Ahnassi is impressed.


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