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, September 28, 2005

53: Lost in the ash

The Redoran council may not be ready to name a Hortator, but they must be getting close. The blight, the ash storms, the Sixth House cult, the ominous threat of Dagoth Ur; all are taking their toll, and our territory is the most exposed. It won't be long before they see that there is no choice. I just need to make sure that when the choice is made it is me that they choose.

This morning made me think that I have made a good start. Neminda sent for me before I finished breakfast. The scarlet clad council pages are going to wear a track from Skar to the guild hall.

"Are you available, or do your guild duties prevent you leaving?" she asked as soon as I walked into her office.

"I can balance my guild duties, they will not interfere with the house."

"Relax Arvil Bren. I am a Redguard, and a Redoran. I understand duty. I would not expect you to neglect your guild. It would be appreciated though, if you have time. Dalobar is important. We need him found."

"Found? Where is he? Who is he?"

"He is a trader. One of very few left who transport goods through the ashlands. Without him I doubt that the outpost at Maar Gan can be supplied sufficiently to support the crusaders and mercenaries who keep it from being overrun."

"What happened to him?"

"He was trying to beat the ash storm into Maar Gan. The silt strider came in from there late last night. They say he never arrived."

So here I am at Aldur's Tradehouse in Maar Gan, too drunk to think. I should know better than to spend too long in a common room with warriors...many of them Orcs. It was nice to be remembered from my last stay here, but really I might have been better off forgotten I think.

The boots of speed made the long trail shorter, but searching for signs of the lost trader more than made it up. The search, unfortunately, was pointless. Any sign there might have been was buried under inches of gritty ash. The encouraging thought that came to me was that a trader and a string of pack guar would leave remains of some kind if they were dead, so I assume they are alive, somewhere.

I got to Maar Gan exhausted and covered with grime. I fit in well enough with the crowd here. Most customers sported thick coatings of gore, from slain blighted monsters and from their own wounds. They underwent a slow transformation as the evening progressed. One by one the weary warriors took their turns for hot baths and the ministrations of Sharn gra-Muzgob, taking her turn as the healer. Miles Gloriosus and the rest insisted on buying me drink after drink in appreciation of the support from the guild.

I was happy to see the Orc from Balmora. I might avail myself of her services in the morning myself. I expect I'll be too hung over to make the early start that I plan to make otherwise. Somewhere in the fog of sujamma I managed to hear a rumor that Dalobar might have been seen near a tomb right before the storm hit. He might have taken shelter there.


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