My name is Katrillin, many times descendant of Matterjak the Accomplished and daughter of Kitterwen, Chief Historian of Ignilly University . I've been criticized for the informal style of my treatises by many learned sages, not to mention those who disagree with my involvement with the Redeemer Company. To such naysayers, I would like to begin with a quotation from my famous ancestor. "Knowledge knows neither form nor limitation. Its discovery, documentation and communication are all that truly matters."
In the tradition of my family, I have taken up the life of an explorer. Although I am barely twenty-three winters old, I have visited Larocia, Cladash and New Illanthia to the east, great Markadon to the north and even the depths of the Ek'ahlis jungle in the west. We Redeemers have made it our duty to liberate lost antiquities and see that they make it back into the proper hands. Rewards aren't an issue for us, although our clients often insist on donating to the guild coffers, which is usually enough to cover our operating expenses and supply the occasional stipend to guild members at large. All we really want to do is uncover some of the mysteries of the past and preserve them for future generations.
As you might expect, a treasure-hunter's life is filled with adventure. My father taught me many things which I'm sure have saved my life on more than one occasion. Never has my training been so severely tested as the time I led an expedition north to find the fabled resting place of the cyclops chieftain Torasenn, who led the western front of a war against the Remorean Horde during the Age of Portent.
Torasenn has always been of particular interest to me, as she has been attributed as one of the first cyclops warrior-historians. Her records were mainly in the form of powerful battle anthems that she would sing on the way into combat, but, in searching for her tomb, I hoped to find some form of written account of her experiences.
Our journey began in the North Larocian town of Garrelad . I'd been taking in some of the smaller Red Order theatrical performances while waiting for my crew to arrive and assemble. I always like to reach our meeting places a few days early so I can observe the local culture before setting out. My pathfinder, Riddlethwik, was the first to arrive, despite the fact that he had traveled by the direct overland route from Headwater instead of using the roads like everyone else. His theory is that if everyone uses roads, no new paths will ever be found. Next came my supply carriers, Emfellen and Etneffel, the twins whom I personally think have more dwarf blood in them than gnome, judging by their stout frames. And, of course, I cannot forget Tinnalkith, my sister-in-arms and the most talented field cartographer I have ever known.
Once everyone had arrived, the five of us set out north, past the town of Wintereach and into Markadon. My father had warned me well in advance of the frigid temperatures of the cyclops homeland, but no mere words could prepare me for the numbing, icy winds that cut through our parkas like fine elvan blades. Bundled up in layers of furs and mounted together on a pair of tundra driss, we followed rumors that led us to Mount Audge . This mountain is a strange place. The combination of high winds and moisture from the sea air builds up a great deal of ice and snow over the entire peak. The result is that you never really know where the ice stops and the mountain begins.
According to some recurring tales, Torasenn had made camp around the base of the mountain and staged military strikes against a large remorean nest that had been built inside. Our information was weak, but lore hunting often depends less on hard information than it does on pure gut instinct and I was sure I could feel a lead in the area. While I knew that she was reputed to have died elsewhere, I hoped to find some clue that would direct me toward her final resting place. We reached the mountain just after dark, when the winds had begun to pick up.
Unfortunately, a hoard of yeti had taken refuge on the lee side of the mountain and didn't much approve of our arrival. The furry, smelly beasts dropped down from an overhanging ledge and crippled Tinnalkith's mount. My hands trembling from the cold, I drew my daggers and charged to her aid while the twins followed close behind me with mace and spear at the ready. It took some fancy footwork to keep those brutes from squashing Tinnalkith, but I managed to get her out of the way and even scored a few well-aimed strikes on the yeti in the process.
Yeti
Emfellen and Etneffel teamed up against one of the creatures while I danced around another, picking and choosing my strikes and trying to wear it down. Once Tinnalkith rolled to a safe distance, she drew her bow and fired at will. The problem with yeti is that, once they get going, they don't really feel pain. So even if it's losing a fight, more than likely it will fight to the finish. Five gnomes, weighted down by supplies and heavy clothing, were hard-pressed to stand against half a dozen enraged yetis. But, I haven't traveled for half my life without learning a few tricks to get out of tight situations.
Barely avoiding a massive paw swipe aimed at my head, I dove under Tinnalkith's bow fire and went straight for Riddlethwik. I knew he'd studied some sorcery at the magic academy before joining the Redeemer Company and hoped he hadn't forgotten it all. I quickly wrapped my parka around the end of his walking staff and held it up in the air with both hands. Riddlethwik understood my plan almost instantly. Our parkas had been made with a layer of oilskin to repel moisture, something that could be very flammable under the right circumstances. A simple fire spell on his part turned my parka into a flaming brand which I waved vigorously at the attacking yetis.
Having never seen fire before, the creatures were stunned and frightened and immediately backed off. The situation was tense. They could have gone either way, slinking off in fear, or pummeling us to death in outrage. I saw that Etneffel had taken a hit across the shoulder and his brother's face was bruised and knew we couldn't afford to take the chance that the yeti might overcome their fear. I charged in with a yell, waving and jabbing with my flaming staff while Tinnalkith fired more arrows into their midst. At that point, all it took was a sly grin and a small, conjured fork of lightning from Riddlethwik and the creatures ran for the hills. Not the most dignified victory, I'm sure, but we got the job done and that is what counts. |
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We dressed our wounds, all thankfully pretty minor, and gathered up our supplies, including a new, un-oiled but serviceable parka for me from the fallen driss. The creature was sorely wounded and had to be put down. I couldn't watch as Etneffel did the deed. I don't have a problem killing a beast when it's bent on killing me, but I could never stomach harming a tame animal. Once that distasteful business was dealt with, we loaded everything on the remaining driss and led the animal on a tether, searching around until we found a decent cave to provide shelter for the night. When we packed ourselves into that narrow cave, we made a point to stay as close to the mouth as possible in case an impromptu avalanche decided to seal us in.
Driss
I, as usual, couldn't stand being still for very long and ended up wandering toward the back of the cave for a little exploration after a few hours. The ice tunnel was smooth and slanted, no doubt collapsing slowly at a glacier's pace, but at the very back, I came up against a face of bare rock. There were markings on that rock, lines and symbols scratched by an untrained hand. I wished then that I'd paid better attention when my father had tried to teach me to read Old Cyclopes, but I had enough of an understanding to figure out what I was looking at. Not surprisingly, they were battle plans. It looked to me to show a small force retreating from the northern slope of the mountain and following the shoreline, while a second army circled around from the south and cut them off southeast of a desolate peninsula. Somehow, I knew these markings had been made by Chieftain Torasenn herself.
Invigorated by the discovery, we continued north on foot in the morning, skirting the village of Hrutok and staying just close enough to keep an eye on the shoreline. The maps we had bought became less reliable as they got away from well-traveled territory, especially in the unforgiving tundra of Markadon, and wind, snow and fog gradually cut our visibility down to half. Now that we could no longer follow the coast, Riddlethwik stopped more and more often to get his bearings and Tinnalkith struggled to chart out our course as we made our way in search of the site of Torasenn's final resting place.
The air felt crisp and dry, so cold the snow was creaking under our boots. A storm was brewing not far off shore, lethally dangerous in these lands, but I felt so close to a discovery that I didn't want to turn back. The others all agreed with me and we pressed on, tired and chilled to the bone. The constant winds turned into a howling blizzard and it became nearly impossible to see. I started to wonder if maybe Torasenn hadn't fallen fighting the remoreans at all, but perhaps just wandered blindly to her death in the snowy wastes. I also wondered if five intrepid gnome treasure-hunters and one unfortunate, overburdened driss might end up joining her.
As the weather grew worse, we stopped searching for the tomb altogether and instead sought any place where we could find shelter. The relentless gale whipped tiny grains of ice across our faces, blinding us in a world of featureless white. We were forced to knot a rope around each other just to stay together. Riddlethwik wouldn't tell me, but I knew we'd been wandering lost for hours.
The cold began to leech into our bones and our fingers and toes had gone numb. If we didn't find shelter soon, we knew we'd all make shallow, snowy graves in the Markadon landscape. Purely by chance, Riddlethwik found a trail in the snow, the tracks of some recent animal. It could have been a Tarasque for all we knew, but anything was better than freezing to death. It took less than a league for blowing snow to obliterate the trail, but we'd followed it far enough to sight a corner of land, speckled with ancient, frozen military structures, which jutted out into the seething ocean.
Some of the structures had sunken into the ice and we found a hollow underneath one of the better-preserved buildings. Acting mostly on instinct at this point, we piled in and huddled together, pulling in the driss last to trap heat inside and block the opening. Every moment stretched out to an hour as we sat in the dark, listening to the endless scream of the wind and hoping desperately to survive the night. All I really wanted was to see and speak to my father one more time.
An immeasurable stretch of time later, the shriek of the wind slowly died off and the snow stopped piling against the opening to our makeshift shelter. We emerged from the hollow, squinting into bright sunlight reflecting off the snow and beaming down from the clear, blue sky. There wasn't even a whisper of wind or a single flake of snow. I had never even imagined such serene conditions this far north of Markadon's southern border. Sadly, the remaining driss has succumbed to the extreme weather during the night, but its bulk had blocked most of the snow out of our shelter and probably saved us all. Grateful just to be alive, we packed up as much gear as we could carry, loading most of it on the more-than-willing twins, and set out southward along the shoreline until we reached the safety of Hrutok.
I went back to the old battle site a few more times over the next two years, but, after word of the discovery had spread and people poured in from all over the land to see it, there wasn't much of historical value left to be found. My companions and I had little to complain about, though. We'd risked our lives and nearly lost them, but we'd gained the satisfaction of knowing the Markadonians had regained a small piece of their history. Little did we know at the time, the hollow where we'd taken refuge had actually been the bare remains of an ancient grave. During the long, frightening night while we waited out the storm, wondering if we would survive to see the morning, I had discovered the rusted, metal haft of a finely-made flail amongst the debris.
Once we all felt strong enough to make the journey, Riddlethwik, Emfellen, Etneffel, Tinnalkith and I returned the remnants of the weapon to Kaordos, chieftain of Hrutok.
Crude runes ran up and down its length and the old chieftain's shaman translated them from archaic cyclops for us. They were a personal account of the weapon-wielder's experiences, detailing a prolonged and successful campaign against an army of half-humanoid, insectoid creatures. The shaman's great, gray eye lit up in awe and his chieftain immediately thanked us graciously, declaring that a grand feast would be held in honor of the entire Redeemer Company. It was only then that we realized. On that night, more than a month previous, shuddering with cold and at the limit of our collective endurance, we had found Tora-Kur, the legendary site of Torasenn's last stand against the Remorean Horde.
- Katrillin, Master Redeemer
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