This is the character journal of my character Aeona Tycheweaver, an Oracle who exists at a fraying of the fabric of space-time.
Before and after the Christmas break our intrepid heroes were investigating a haunted house. Because of the break, I’ve not been writing Aeona journals. We are now Level 6. Aeona is comfortable in her combat role of chaos-bringer and general helpful gal. Occasionally she can bring the noise… sometimes not.
(Click here to read the rest of this entry)
This is the character journal of my character Aeona Tycheweaver, an Oracle who exists at a fraying of the fabric of space-time.
We’ve finished Burnt Offerings and begun The Skinsaw Murders. We’ve levelled up 5, and I’m starting to come into my element. That element is chaos, and is glorious. We’re past the point of being able to rejig our characters, which is okay. I wish I had gone solely for DEX rather than STR and DEX, and spent a feat getting Weapon Finesse (hands) so my melee touch attacks would be effective and I wouldn’t have spread myself so thin on attributes. No matter. Aeona’s a tough customer – kinda of a Suicide Girl with a hidden boxing hobby.
This post combines two sessions, as I’m trying to explore Aeona and time rather than be slavishly recounting our adventures in detail.
(Click here to read the rest of this entry)
This is the character journal of my character Aeona Tycheweaver, an Oracle who exists at a fraying of the fabric of space-time.
Last time we had travelled straight as an arrow towards the boss villainness and killed her (or more aptly, let death fall upon her). We felt bad that so much loot, I mean, plot had been left behind in our wake, so we returned to Thistletop to get answers and gear. Surprisingly, we levelled up again. Aeona at level 4 has a bunch of tricks up her sleeve and an Ozymandias complex.
Aeona-of-the-future, stop me if you’ve heard this one before…
This story is about a fort, a door, two sisters, a gypsy, and dwarves losing the rust from their beards. We had crossed a rickety bridge from a fort made of brambles over to a ramshackle castle. We found a curiously captured horse. We kicked in doors until we came upon the tragically decorated evil lair. Skull torches, hands in jars on overstuffed shelves, the works. Oh and don’t forget the literal blood bath in the middle of the room. We beat up some bad guys and shades pursued us, sucking the very life force out of us. The biggest, baddest evil in the room eyed the door, but some quick thinking on my behalf kept her at bay while Vik’s dogs tore her to pieces. Murder is fine if you don’t enjoy…
No. Wait. That was last week’s journal. I’m confused. My sister Viktoryah keeps bugging me about putting dates and times on my journal. Seriously. Me, sitting at a tangle of space-time and reality. What in any of the gods’ names would a date mean to me? What exactly is “last week”? Can you point it out to me? No, I need to CIAN-NAR, draw the thread. These journals will be more mnemonics for my particular take on the world. I’m a unique snowflake, caught on the breeze.
Gimme a second.
Okay, so this story is about a fort, a door, two sisters, a gypsy and dwarves losing the rust from their beards. We were going to cross this rickety bridge from a fort made of brambles over to a ramshackle castle when we came across an arrow-studded burlyman. A mercenary. A betrayed mercenary. We healed him up whilst gently interrogating him. I flashed my
chest dammit Vik stop messing with my journal ARGH sisters are the worst pearly whites and tried to convince him to tell us his story. But I know men who fight for money can lie as easily as I can see tomorrow’s weather, so I grilled him. Nope, no lies. Just avarice. Actually I was glad of that – men tend to maintain only one, maybe two greeds. His was violence and coin. If he took a fancy to Sis or myself, I’m not sure we’d have an easy time throwing him from the bridge. Well… Sis might. She’s got issues.
The mercenary’s deal was that he’d run in with Nualia’s crowd. He hadn’t heard our raid last week, but knew that Nualia had gone off with the faeries. Well, demons. He’d figured that crazypants coins weren’t as good as being-alive-elsewhere coins, and tried to escape. A bugbear ranger that has been in cahoots with the goblins shot him in the back as he crossed the bridge back.
“Do you like justice?” I asked him. We offered him some cash and the ability to return the arrows in his back into the face of the bugbear, if only he’d accompany us into the castle dungeon and give us (literal) insider knowledge. Justice wasn’t working. My winning smile wasn’t working. The glint of gold was.
He had little idea about the horse, but we threw it some food with the intention of bringing it with us on the way out. Assuming we made it out.
Previously I had snipped Nualia from time to trap her in a room with shades and dogs, thus murdering her. Tangential murder, at best. Anyway we needed to get back into her tragic evil den to figure out what she was up to and take some souvenirs. The shades were still there, but we were ready this time. Durak, our dwarf paladin, had his new stone armour and oil of bless weapon. Seriously, Durak is just the connective tissue in between his armour now. If he dies, we’ll only find out when he doesn’t ask for an ale at the tavern. The gypsy Zoran had blessed his weapon too, but had eschewed the whole heavy armour thing to cover himself with hidden weapons. He’s very flashy about all his weapons. If he falls over and stabs himself in the leg with a hidden dagger, I’m laughing at him before I heal him.
We kicked in the door, stepped over the corpse of Nualia and proceeded to stab the heck out of the shades. How that works, I don’t know. I’m a space/time kinda gal. The Shadow Realm is freaky. Our only casualty was Durak’s strength – the buggers had sucked the rust from his beard. Somehow he could still shuffle about in his stone armour. Dwarves, eh?
We’d claimed enough of Nualia’s gear and incriminating notes to make today’s venture quite rewarding, but in a trick of time, the others had convinced me it was a good idea to stomp through the rest of the dungeon. Not too bad when we found a secret door honouring Lamashtu. Still pretty good when we found a freaky conjoined skeleton and some surgeon’s tools. Oh and a weird gizmo with a seven-pointed star on it. A Runelord’s mark, if I remember/see correctly.
Not good at all with the door. That damn door. Aeona of the past, hear your time-sister well: the Seven-pointed star is bad juju. I swear I had checked for magic on this door with the seven-pointed star on it, but apparently I remembered wrong. But lo and behold, the door had no handle, but our gizmo fit a shallow perfectly.
Don’t open doors that have no handles. They don’t have handles for a reason! I know you can read this, past-Aeona. I also know that I saw this warning and ignored it, but you need to do as we say, not as we do. Um…
So anyway, let’s just say that we walked into a room with a barghest. It had eyed the door for escape, but instead clawed us all almost to death. I kept the dwarves alive for Sis to summon wave after wave of dutiful dogs, one of them finding the barghest’s jugular and chewing.
Murder is fine if you come across a barghest arcane-locked into a room for several millennia and it sees its best chance for freedom is eating your valuable dwarves. Trust me, I didn’t enjoy that fight one bit. Letting Nualia fall on her own sword (in a manner of speaking) was fine, if horrific. This was just horrific. No humour at all.
We’re currently taking a breather before we embark on our next joke. Sis and I are no adventurers. But here we are. It’s a joke whose punchline hasn’t come yet.
Speaking of jokes… Hey, Aeona-of-the-future, stop me if you’ve heard this one before. This story is about a fort, a door, two sisters, a gypsy, and dwarves losing the rust from their beards…
 Zoran is now a Swashbuckler, given Paizo has released the beta Advanced Classes Guide.
Our games have been sporadic recently with people away for various reasons. Last time we battled our way through the front of a fort made of brambles and almost were eviscerated by a cougar. While maybe half a day of adventuring in-game, this episode was split over a month of gaming and non-gaming. We also levelled up halfway, so I’m beginning to get powerful.
To be totally honest, I figured this journal would help me “draw the line” and figure out a consistent account of my life since that flirting gaze from Nethys, God of everything that matters. It hasn’t helped. My previous entry finished with some finality but that wasn’t the case at all. And really, I didn’t write that in the middle of our raid, so when did it happen? It’s my handwriting, so Nethys knows what’s going on. (Hmm, maybe I should ask him. (Although remember, Aeona, what happened last time you saw him (Gawd))) So I’m not entirely sure if this is my journal from another timeline. Or if I’m another Aeona from another timeline. Same excellent handwriting though, so at least there’s that.
Okay, enough about penmanship. Goblins! After murdering the goblin druid with the tricksy cougar, we murdered all their rabid dogs. We didn’t get to burn the brambles fort to the ground (yet). It might have made quicker our crossing of the bridge from the fort to the island! The castle on the island was really just ramshackles. Like it had been outsourced to bored teens. Or, I guess as was the case, goblins. Again, we weren’t allowed to just burn that to the ground, so we did the “honorable” thing and waltzed through murdering everyone.
Had I mentioned Nethys had taught me a nice sleight-of-hand with time? So it’s always hard to remember if this was the first tower we cleared out or the second, but we pounced on two of the little goblin buggers playing cards. They decided they wanted to skewer poor ol’ Zoran. In a beautiful flick of my hand, I linked that moment to every previous moment that green goblin had betrayed grey goblin, including five minutes ago when he cheated grey out a bet. While a gypsy man in your tower focusses your mind, a primal reminder of betrayal does wonders to focus your rage. Grey shook with rage and shivved green with all his might. The goblin blood on his hands and a general confusion over what had happened brought both goblins’ weapons back to us. At least now one had a punctured kidney.
Green tried to escape down the ladder and warn his friends. He hadn’t counted on Durak the Slow but
Crazy Courageous leaping from a set of stairs on top of him. I rested in a pause in time to enjoy that moment. When I came to we were jumping on goblin beds, battering their skulls in with morningstars. Oh no, don’t burn down the fort, just smoosh them in their beds. We’re the best at heroism.
Then it got weird.
Look, sometimes time ebbs for me like waves on a beach, overlapping, churning, receding. Here’s what I remember next and how I remember it:
- The goblin lord screaming to attack and leaping from his throne onto a huge gecko.
- The goblin lord inviting me into the middle of the room to discuss politics, for I was the fairest. It was fine that I left the beefy guys behind.
- Bahlek burying a handaxe into the guts of a goblin ninja.
- Goblin ninjas coming from the darkness. Although this memory is bleeding into another thread… Hmmm…
- Watching the pulse of my heart through the spurt of blood from my wrists.
- A goblin bard desperately singing before having his song cut short by Durak’s warhammer.
- Aeona of the Future shaking her head at me, beckoning me aside, bringing serenity and healing. My vision of time clarifying into…
- Surrounding the goblin lord. Despite having his jugular opened by a deft swipe by the gypsy, he wanted to fight on.
- We danced around him, dodging blows, waiting for him to drain out.
- I got a bent crown!
I distinctly remember trying my second trick (see later) on the goblin lord’s gecko, but there was some tangle in the threads. I have no idea how I survived that fight, but I did. Our trusty wand of cure light did wonders for my headache. And dying-ness, I suppose. Dying is such a complicated affair – I’m not sure I can be bothered with that yet.
I know what next happens because I’m looking at the result right now. We found a small child’s weight in coinage and magical gear. The gear was rather practical, but rather not practical enough for me. I’ve gotten some tips from Alternate Aeona #736 on crafting something a bit more useful. I’ll try my hand this week while Durak gets some colour back in his beard. Or why the draining of colour? Well!
I heard some whispers from an Alternate Sis (I don’t know which one, they aren’t as friendly as mine, and significantly more emotional). She suggested we hole up in the towers and recover before pressing on. This whole joke had a punchline about a girl and a demon, but we weren’t ready for that yet. Did I mention the horse we saw from above? In a cupboard, apropos of nothing, next to a pack of hungry dogs, surrounded by goblins who couldn’t ride it, across the rickety rope bridge, across the brambles fort that we humans had to duck through and miles from town? Yeah, that goddamn tricksy horse. Vik reckons it wasn’t a dream, but I reckon it was. No-one would be that weird to have a horse there.
By the way, the previous journal wasn’t written then. I’m sure of it. Such a mystery!
In the morning we stomped back downstairs and found plans to the goblin raids on Sandpoint. Dastardly! I told Zoran that I had seen those plans before, maybe in a dream. Then I told him my eyes were up here. No time (ha) to argue, we barged into the next room and found a not-nice-looking woman there. Zoran circled around to knife her. I tried another new trick of mine (no not that one). This one requires me opening up the Realm of Thoughts and slicing through the latest thread of consciousness for this woman. Not her CIAN-NAR, no I’m not that powerful. Yet. Basically, force a memory lapse. She forgot about ol Zoran until he shanked her. As I was closing the portal to the Realm of Thoughts I could see her adrenaline jack up and she turned invisible and ran.
We gave hot pursuit, with Zoran the hottest. (No Sis, I don’t think he’s attractive, pay attention!) Somehow this cleric had taken non-literal flight down a secret corridor and into a temple. Zoran tried to follow and avoided a trap by the longest of his goatee hairs. An elaborate trap, to be honest: portcullises, sweeping blades and a pit drop. Lucky for Zoran, though! (I tell him that, but across the nearby threads, all Zorans made it. It’s a local invariant to the universe. Well, this universe)
No time to waste, we pursued invisi-chick through a door she conveniently left open. She and her bestie were holed up in a tragically decorated evil lair. Skull torches, hands in jars on overstuffed shelves, the works. Oh and don’t forget the literal blood bath in the middle of the room.
This was make-or-break time-and-space, so I gave the evil chicks a demonstration of my expertise. Invisi-chick got a reminder of all the betrayal her friend had dumped upon her (including some elaborate argument about the pony we had found in my dreams). I gave Boss chick a preview of her death. Oh that one was brutal. And very familiar in a jamais-vu way. The boys and Vik’s champion (if fiendish) dogs laid into the both of them, while I kept spooking boss chick away from escaping out the only door to the place.
Invisi-chick hadn’t died yet when two shadows had risen from the blood bath. When she did, another rose with her. It was horrifying. Shadows warp and corrupt all the threads near them, on most planes. Poor ol’ Durak was on his last little legs and shuffled for the door. I gave him the sanctuary of zen calm to help him on his quest out the door as he grumbled about the room being airtight or something. Boss chick had heard this and had steeled herself against my trick of prescience. I could see in her eyes both determination and a sinking, familiar fear.
Everyone was out of the room except the shadows, boss chiquita and I. They had intended to close the door to block the shadows. Boss chick intended to be on the other side of the door too. I saw it on the tapestry. I saw what I had to do to complete the weave.
I strode up behind her with my bent crown. Vik’s dogs were trying to nip her heels and keep her away from our side of the door. I shouted “I am Ozymandias, king of kings! Look upon my works, ye mighty boss chick, and despair!” That got her attention so I booped her on the nose; actually grabbing a thread from the tapestry and yanking her entire patch out for a moment.
From her perspective I shouted like a crazy lady, booped her on the nose, then time skipped, the door was shut tight, her escape gone and the shadows advancing on her as dogs tore at her legs. I was still giggling at my trick until her screams. Then I stopped. Half-demonic boss chick might have tried to corrupt us with evil darkness and kill us with magic missiles, but her screams and scrabbling at the door was too much.
I had at one second been king of kings, and the next, after a time skip, been two trunkless legs of stone.
We had come to stop her evil plans to become a vessel for some demon, but we had planned something more honorable. Like caving in her skull. I have to admit, my trick was fun. Might have to think about the morality about that some time.
Or not. That works too. And if you’ve seen the landscape of time like me, there’s worse to come. Skinsaw, for example.
After an encounter with a rabid, evil dog that I’m too embarrassed of my dwarven friends to recount, we zipped back home. The shadows are stuck in the room of evilness, as with a bunch of useful weapons and clues, so we’ll have to research how to best deal with them.
Durak is recovering from his near-death. Zoran is romancing the town. Bahlek is restringing his bow and sis is sneaking scraps to other-planar dogs. Meanwhile, today my hair is purple and I’m making clocks…
Some awesome moments for Aeona last session after a long time being a snarky healbot. If I can pull off my spells or special abilities, they can really shape combat. We’re all trying to settle into our characters. Zoran and I are probably the most comfortable. Vik is yet to pull out her trump card (for awesome role-playing reasons). The paladin is settling on a useful code of ethics to avoid the usual issue of paladins being kill-joys when they aren’t killing things. Bahlek’s player has been away and is new to Pathfinder and not being a DM, so he’ll need some more time. Archer rangers are awesome, so he’ll come into his own soon.
The fights are really, really tough and we’re getting through barely. Hopefully the loot (and further loot) from this adventure can let us gear up a little.
Okay, I’ve resigned myself to an insane, busy month. I’m doing Movember as well as attempting NaNoWriMo, while my parents visit and all sorts of other things go on. Oh and as well as my other projects. I might end up a wreck, but I’ll be a productive wreck. (Click here to read the rest of this entry)
We’re all at level two and still settling into our characters. The plot is moving quickly though, so no time to rest! Aeona didn’t get anything special at level two except for more hit points. Currently her three tricks are: Cause Fear (interpreted as showing them their future death), Sanctuary (interpreted as being in an out-of-time Zen calm) and Cure Light (rewinding time on wounds). We got a wand to help my healing duties. It’s a godsend.
Just a short entry this time. Whatever short means. Maybe a long time. Space-time and I are still on shaky terms. Some points you’re on top of the haystack. Some points you’re face-first, kicking your legs in the air.
In terms of being the Sandpoint heroes, our group has sprawled out on the haystack – not entirely comfortable with it, but it’s better than nothing. Durak Stoneson, the beardy paladin, has adopted the leader role. Typical church fetish for hierarchy. Bahlek has, is and will be a bit antsy ever since his trip underneath the glassworks. A dwarf scared of the dark and dirty? Riotous!
Zoran’s a slippery customer. He’s quietened down on “sheathing his sword” amongst the lady townsfolk – more plunging the knife into goblin raiders’ backs. I swear it wasn’t the time-fray but he slipped from in front of my eyes at the barn. No wait, Aeona. Cian-nar Linear line lineation. Tell it right.
Vik and I are really in charge, but in a rear-guard kind of way. I’ve figured out that sis hasn’t been bringing in our family dog from the past or an alternate past like a normal person, nor even the future, but actually bringing in platonic ideals of dogs from… elsewhere. I find that really weird, but she disagrees. They’ve saved our skins a few times. Which reminds me, none of the townsfolk past or present know anything about my “SKINSAW” visions. Or are brave enough to admit it. We push ever forwards in time.
In any case, we “are” the Sandpoint heroes and are playing along. No-one but me has seen where we’re going with that in the future, but it might be disruptive to say. The visions are a funny product of the past and future, and present. Not really a thread but a yarn ball unravelling as it rolls along. It’s meant to unroll but doesn’t make sense to be unrolled now. In other news, I’ve decided that past tense confuses less people even though it’s actually wrong. I seem to get more of my meal orders, so that’s something.
Shalelu, the local
rascal ranger is out of town “investigating the goblin hordes”. Shady if you ask me. Especially when we were called out to help a farm besieged by the little buggers while she was conveniently away. My celestial inner monologue says “ET NAT XEA LIAIL AEXTANTE” which I explained to sis as “threaded destiny” (which she understood) although it’s a little less gravity and a little more gravitas, (which she did not). Anyway, our thread lead us to this farm a few miles out of town.
I remember cresting the hill and everything happening everywhere at once. In attempted linear note form: a giant gecko fleeing; a barn burning; three-armed goblin champion Koruvus crushed by Durak; sling stones hanging in the air; Zoran slipping from my gaze around the farmhouse; the gurgle of a goblin kidney twisted on a knife; me kicking down the farmhouse door; an engulfed Durak being extinguished by the ancient seas; dogs left, right, forward, backwards; goblins stabbing a lady to make her squeal like a pig; me showing a gecko its eventual painful death to a boar; rescuing a lady; Bahlek tripped by a whip; Zoran tying the horses up.
Koruvus was the champion of the Seven Teeth goblins, if Shalelu can be remembered or trusted. But he was rocking with goblins from the Thistletop menagerie. This doesn’t smell right, and not just because of the dead goblins.
We rescued the woman and brought her back to town, after some unfortunate verbal mis-steps by Zoran (“Woman, I’m sorry your son is no longer with us… he’s collecting firewood and will meet with you shortly!”… And he ribs me about my time troubles) Durak had insisted that we meet the goblins on their turf, presumably to murder them all. I don’t mind, I’m very well aware that we all become dust eventually. Durak’s direction I think comes from his church. Word of God, he says. Housewife’s whispers of God, says I. If he saw what I’ve seen, it’d blow his beard clean off. And sis and I are the “weak ones”…
Following this foolishness (yet, ET NAT XEA LIAIL AEXTANTE again) we crossed the Turandarok River in search of the Thistletop goblins. Of course the buggers had turned a bramble patch on the edge of a cliff into a warren. And of course we tore open their front door to go get them (well, Durak tried carving through what was essentially their side wall, but that was just amusing).
And of course, all hell broke loose while us normal people (sis, I and I guess Zoran) were caught stooped under the low roof. The dwarf duo had no such encumbrances. The whole place itched. And then stung when a hell-emigrated cougar popped up to murder us all. Murder begets murder, I guess. But I’m not keen on goblins and I am keen on me. And the others. The druid commanding this angry bag of claws and teeth was a nasty piece of work as well – throwing fire and wielding a flaming sword… Maybe tonight I’ll travel with my mind to when the world burns and see if I can draw back a trick like that.
When we had put that darn cougar down and knocked the druid off his feet, good ol’ Durak offered him surrender instead of the party-recommended knife in the face. Somehow ol’ muscles forgot him and Zoran dripping half their organs out while I kept them alive long enough to cop more flaming swords to the gut. Anyway, Durak protected the little bastard as he unexpectedly shimmied into the bramble wall and away from justice. No worry, I’ve seen where that thread goes. (Spoilers: A druid with a cracked face)
We didn’t exactly bring justice to these goblins. Nor peace. A little bit of murder, but they almost repaid that straight away. I tell you what – if we hadn’t sprung for that yew twig of healing, Durak and Zoran might have ended up a cougar’s dinner. I’m tempted to burn the entire bramble castle to the ground, but I guess Durak’s boss so we have to play nice.
We are the Sandpoint heroes after all. And we don’t burn a place to the ground for a little while yet.
Out-of-game: Holy shit that cougar was rough. Passed all its saves and could kill our toughest in a few rounds. Plus the druid was about as good! I’m really struggling with almost everything passing their saves and having a total of two spells up my sleeve (plus Cure Minor). Cause Fear is a little better than I initially thought, which helps. Next level I get a bunch more abilities, so I shouldn’t complain.
I’ve begun sowing the seeds for me wearing a clockwork golem like armour in half a dozen levels’ time. By then, I’ll be a glorious combination of Tony Stark and Elizabeth from Bioshock Infinite. And I’ll be basically the sum of their sexiness But for now it’s heal, heal, heal, cause fear, heal.
Interestingly our DM has added some weird effect to my character to reflect her confusion with space-time. It seems like DM fiat but occasionally I have to roll a concentration check after my spell is cast, and if I fail, some random time-based effect takes hold. So far it’s been:
- My spell going off 1d4 rounds later.
- My spell going off, but another random spell is quickened and cast on the nearest person. (Which turned out to be Sanctuary for my friend and Cause Fear on a goblin first time this has happened)
This is cool, but I’m struggling at low-level to do anything but heal-bot. Plus I can’t speak in combat. Oh well, that’s Aeona for you. I also change my hair colour randomly every day, which amuses the group.
Our third week had less of a breakneck pace, but still exciting. Everyone almost died! But we levelled up!
This morning I saw the most wondrous thing. We have been gifted boarding and meals in The Rusty Dragon Inn. As I sat this morning a puddle of wine trembled on the floor. Its snaking tendrils of liquid retracted, unstaining the floor. As it pulled together, it gathered together cartwheeling shards of glass, mending and gluing together. The world sparkled in this collecting chaos of wine and glass, sucking into a crescendo of gurgling and shattering, becoming one. A pure glass goblet of wine, arcing slowly up towards the lip of the table. It teetered on the edge, as if it hadn’t quite made it, but staggered forward with a celebratory ding! and nestled against the bracer of our dwarf paladin friend.
Let me explain.
A traced thread of time terminates a few weeks ago. It’s where I ended and I began. Where I saw It. Whistling your fingers along this thread – travel, my sister Viktoriya, blood-playful goblins, skeletons, officials, boar, shattered lighthouses, a gypsy man and a Dwarven ranger. Zoran and Bahlek, respectively. Several distant threads converging at Sandpoint. I had lost where my thread of visions had gone – a trick of intercolliding strings at a broken perspective.
Young men of the town would sit with my sister and I, expecting a night of debauchery, and not expecting my exegesis on fractured time. My sister had wryly noticed that we had gone from “those two freak girls” to “The Heroes of Sandpoint”. I was not aware that self-preservation and self-interest was heroic. Well, I did stop that hay barn succumbing to goblin fires by connecting it to its ancient submerged past, but everyone would do that if given the chance.
Our local man, Zoran Teskarova the gypsy, has been counted amongst our heroic troupe. To which he responded by sleeping with the daughter of a local councilman. Two black eyes, a night in jail and a sheep bailout from us sisters, and he re-evaluated his situation. He complained of the violence. He complained of being a “nobody in Sandpoint before, and now I’m a hero!” He can’t see it but I can. He’s been a part of Sandpoint longer than he knows.
The ranger Bahlek follows us around. Sister doesn’t know about a dwarven ranger. “You can’t range under the mountains.” Indeed, I see murky somethings on his soul, but it isn’t the darkness of mines. Or maybe it is. I’m no good at reading these things yet.
A dwarven paladin named Durak Stoneson has joined us, originally to break up a fight between a daughter and her father, but now for “what is right”, concerning the goblins. I can see something between the two dwarves, like a crack in stone under tension. Durak seems more earthy than Bahlek, but sis says that is a terrible joke.
Sister is a curio too. With my condition, I have trouble with the has, has not, will, will not. And all the parallel aextantuus. She seems… darker, now. Not in actions. Like someone who can’t step out of a shadow. She is the sister she always was to me, but different. Always that step away, regardless of how close. I catch her whispering to herself at night. Oh, and she conjures dogs out of thin air. I don’t recall us ever owning a dog, loyal as these ones are.
And little ol’ ribbons, me. If I concentrate and listen, the townsfolk say I’m of two minds. Schizophrenic. The children see me as hope. The men see me as a young woman to be bedded. I’m not two minds. I’m not young. I’m every mind. I’m an old woman. I’m a babe in the womb. I’m the soil into which Nethys the Omniscient One digs his roots. I am mountains ground to sand. Smiles turned to skeletons. I am fireswept plains and drowned cliffs. I Am Time.
But I’m not insane. I am not.
I am for hire, apparently. As is the rest of Sandpoint’s heroic band. A woman had complained of their husband being bitten and child missing, no wait, other way around. A goblin had hid in her closet, rounded up by the family dog. The child complained of monsters in the closet, and was bitten for their trouble. The husband had tried to kill it but died trying. He was beyond my help. Tough little bastard he was. Well, not tough enough for an axe in the face. Death is a weird thing. A thread cut short, but so intertwined with others that it cannot dangle.
Having sorted this errand out we were talked at by the local council and their trusted ranger, Shalelu. Goblins of all sorts have taken up residence around Sandpoint, warring and cooperating and sneaking and plotting. As if it wasn’t patently obvious if you stare at the fabric. But, I forget that most people can’t, so humility, Aeona. Kindness.
I see things differently, I know this. It’s tough. Everyone sees a looking glass. I see a hall of them. I have empathy, I do. I spoke up when the father, Lonjiku, of our innkeeper, Amiko, scolded her and beat her around. I encouraged our motley band to find her when she went missing near the glassworks. When we found her murderous brother Tsuto commanding a gang of goblins, I ran into the fray. Our dwarf paladin would have died if it wasn’t for me time-stitching his blood back in. I kept people alive, including my dear sister. I am in under my head at the calmest of times, so yelling celestial at new friends as arrows pierce my chest is a new level of difficulty entirely.
We found Amiko and a hidden crypt of sorts below the glassworks. He father had been killed by the goblins (molten glass poured on the man of all things! A vicious end for a vicious man) We explored the hidden catacombs. A blur of violence and creeping through darkened tunnels. A mischievous quaasit sending us to sleep as dogs tore each other apart and the paladin pummeled gaunt figures of tendons and hate born from demon blood. Horrifying experimental zombies.
The Sandpoint Few began as wanderers. Scattered broken pieces. We were drawn into the wine festival, the goblin raid, the glassworks, the crypt… Broken pieces of glass cartwheeling, merging as one in a cacophony of violence. We are now as one. Arcing towards some higher destiny (my prophecy?) We were close to losing our grips on our lives, but now we are settled, solid.
We are the Sandpoint heroes and we’ve got a lot of work to do.
This is the character journal of my character Aeona Tycheweaver.
We’ve just begun the campaign. There was a little bit of time sorting out characters, starting money, initial story and what rules are available.
Master alchemist Vick  now of the Mwangi Expanse once said of potions:
The secret to the science of metamagical thixatropic elixirs – potion-brewing for the trite – is choice. Start with the purest of waters, bring in a few measured, well-known reagents, a dash of your standard bases, a few scratches of impurity for things to bond around… and then a healthy dose of entropy with a good shake or application of fire.
Yesterday Last month Tomorrow Before when Mother and Father met their undoing, I experienced an amazing sense of blindness and seeing all at once. It was beautiful – all the planes, everywhere at once, and forever, in a stopped instant. It was  something pure. Over “time” I’ve adopted it. Brought it in. Controlled it. To an extent. With just my will I have placed my hand over a gushing stab wound, and linked it elsewhere. Another time, another universe. The blood flows back up, flesh sews together. It’s taxing but I’m becoming addicted to this purity loaned by It.
Following – is that the right word? – the images of my previous journal, I left home. Or what remained of it. As my sister Viktoriya spins it, I had found her near the family castle, and told her we had to travel for reasons I couldn’t explain. That’s a lie. She’s actually my half-sister. I think. Father’s family tree had some peculiar growths on it, and there was a time before Mother that he didn’t speak of. Yet we are kindred. I’m pretty sure I’m the bigger sister, but Vik will never clarify that for me. Nevertheless she is a Tycheweaver, touched by magic. Although hers seems to be with dirty hands. I should have asked about that. Maybe I have.
At some point we existed in Sandpoint at a ceremony for the temple that had burnt down 3 years before that. We had nothing to do with the temple’s conflagration. I think. I was (still am!) trying to draw the thread from my vision to this place. Butchered souls. I mean, they were celebrating, drinking deep. And then the goblins came.
Dirty, impure little imps. Slicing dogs and biting hands. Burning houses for nothing. My pulse shot up. Time slipped around me like eddies and I got confused. It was like a dream where I was speaking clear common. I said: “Qua aeste falanir mie hoilan” but the townsfolk regarded me as insane. Sister Vik helped, though. Little sister protecting big sister (note to self: she’s the big sister, right?) though unlike most, she used a cestus. I defended against a goblin by reaching behind his timeline and showing his demise – an ironic twist as the blood drained from his face as a cunning gypsy man drained it from his kidneys. The goblin did not appreciate the irony.
When time unbecame quicksilver, we had rescued some young noble from a pack of goblins. I remember in disjointed order: puncturing a skull with my sling; a dwarf ranger stepping backwards, catching arrows in his shortbow and stowing them away; the gypsy man advancing; drenching a house on fire. Catalytic indeed.
Amidst all the violence and celebrations and skeletons and hunting boar with nobles, I’m positive that we have settled in Sandpoint. I need some time to recalibrate myself. Settle. Precipitate maybe.
Nevertheless, it appears as though we have a fine potion on our hands…
1. No relation.
2. The proper word I think is Aextant in It’s tongue. Atemporal tense.
3. Sister says it is Nethys, God of Magic, The Omniscient One. But my name’s Aeona.
4. I did write about the skeletons didn’t I? And uninjuring the poor dwarf ranger? And finding the robe in the tomb?
5. Surely I wrote about the sly noble attempting to cavort with us sisters over a boar-hunt. Why can’t I find that parchment anywhere?
This is the character journal of my character Aeona Tycheweaver. I’m attempting to maintain a journal of play for our games in Rise of the Runelords. We haven’t started yet, so this is backstory.
It’s funny I find myself here at a loose end and a new beginning. A dead end and new life. It’s been… let’s say “some time” since Mother and Father took their entropic turn. It seems like it was yesterday, although these days that’s more literal than most people give it. It also feels like next moon, ancient history or down the road.
I’m not making much sense. I need to make sense. Cian-nar, as it is said in It’s celestial tongue – draw a line through. If not for anyone else, but myself, Aeona.
Mother and Father will be great explorers of the mystic arts. They will push the frontiers beyond the simplistic realms of enchantments, conjurations, abjurations… Threnodic, theurgic, and thanoptic metamagics will be mere subequations in their experiments. They will share pride and eagerness – a form of romance most will not experience. They will attempt to capture the mind of a God like a spiderweb in a branch and pull the pull it apart. They will do this in their own home – where else? – and they will do this when their daughter is rebellious and curious and – as will be characteristic – in the wrong place and time. They will be undone (redone? unredone?) as their daughter sees… well…
But that’s history. I think. I am trying to get that thread amongst so many threads. From the god-witnessing to… travel? No, the vision. No, some travel, then the vision, then more travel. Then a lot of violence, but I don’t think that’s actually happened yet.
Okay the travel. It’s hard to keep track how long I’ve been travelling. I should keep a journal. With the house in ruins and myself… a-frayed in time… I went walking. There was nothing to be done about Mother and Father. It was done, is doing, will always be done. Too many nosy, noisy, second-rate, confusing mages for me to get any goddamn peace of mind, so I walked. I’m not very good at it. I am very good at being persuasive. Not like that. You just show them the best timeline for their thread and they stop trying to rob you. Or if they have worse ideas, you show them the worst. One broken-toothed scoundrel ran all the way off a cliff once instead of harassing me. I’m wary that these might not be common options for people to use in everyday life – not everyone has god-shrapnel in their existence – so I’ve tried to learn how to defend myself the old fashioned way with big sticks and daggers. As if my existence wasn’t damn weird enough.
Again, where on the thread this happens I don’t know, but big sister V has been an enormous help. We’re sisters in freakdom. Bubbles in fate stuck together. Me with my space-time thing. Her with her family curse. I guess we both have a family curse. Hers ancient, mine instantaneous. We collided a few weeks back – again, I don’t know where or when or why or if really – but have had each other’s backs. Hers is particularly monstrous at times, but you forgive a little sister for that. Big sister, I mean.
I am planning to tell her about the vision. Or have I already? This brain messes with my fray. Er, fray, brain. The vision. Focus. Draw the line. As I started to collect clarity after Mother and Father’s undoing, I saw a thread I did not recognize. Kinda my thread, but not. Wrapped loosely around it like a braid undone. Or about to be done.
Don’t ask me later what the order was, but it was like:
- A shadow
- A sign called Sandpoint
- A dwarf smiting a giant
- A burning house, maybe a temple. Ugly people.
- Little sister V, no wait, big sister. Which was she and I?
- An arrow whistling through the air and diving into a goblin’s chest
- A grotesquerie whispering the word “SKINSAW”
Also don’t ask what it means. I don’t know yet. But I will. Or have. I have images of talking to myself, face to face. Like a memory but not. And she hums in that angelic tone that I speak but don’t understand.
It’s all rather confusing. I think the best thing for me to do is go travelling. Perhaps write a notebook. Or a journal! El ae cian-nar! I mean, that’d draw the line. Keep me straight. Straight on the path to Sandpoint and to some answers.