Oberon’s Journal Entry 3

Third Day of Vroden 67252

Faylith and I went down to the Tavern early to eat. The Innkeeper waved us over to our customary table and I see someone familiar seated at the bar. My memories may be faulty, but I could never forget her, Emeria, my baby sister. Before I can wave her over, Faylith goes over and gives her a hug. A flood of images wash over me. I steady myself against the table as Emeria walks over. I see the concerned look on her face as she whispers to Faylith. The pair return to the table as I explain that the unexpected sight of my sister has unlocked a rash of disjointed memories that I will have to sort through.

As we catch up more another familiar face enters the tavern, Eliezer, our friend the Halfling Rogue. He explains that his wife was unable to come along as he shows a letter inviting him here on this date. Curiouser and curiouser.

As we finish lunch, Simmons enters the Tavern with another dwarf following close behind him immediately behind the dwarves is a Human Paladin, his armor gleams in even the dim light of the Tavern. I recognize his Holy Symbol of two interlocking triangles as a Human symbol of Ja’wea, the One Above All (by what name do the humans know Him, Jay Hova? Barook Hashem? I’ve never met a Paladin before let alone who serves the same God that I do). Simmons and his dwarf friend pull another table close to ours and waves at two more humans on the far side of the Tavern. As they approach I see the male is another Ranger but I cannot tell his discipline in the dim light of the Tavern. The female is obviously a cleric, but I get a sense of higher purpose emanating from her. And I don’t think she’s human… her aura feels cleaner somehow.

Simmons introduces this ensemble to his cousin, Francer Axebreaker. Francer is a Pyromancer and has a job for us. Clan Axebreaker has an agent? being held in Revel’s End. Prisoner 13 had stolen the fortune of Clan Axebreaker and the clan needs something from her. We are to be paid with a portion of the treasure if we’re interested. Francer gives us the details and tells us all to meet back here in 2 hours if we agree to the job and we’ll meet our patron.

Emeria is all for an Adventure. Faylith is unsure, I can tell she’d rather head back to the security of the Druid enclave. She’s also worried that Ender has been sighted in the region of Toril and we might chance upon him. I point out that if we do run across Ender, we’re safe in a large group than if we encountered him on our own on the way back to the Enclave. The three of us decide to take the job.

Everyone has returned to the Tavern. We’ve all decided to to accept Varrin’s job offer. Tomorrow we gear up and head out.

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Sixth day of Vroden 67252

The road into the high woods was mercifully dull. For three days we rode beneath open sky, the horses settling into an easy rhythm that required little urging. Camps were made early, watches passed without incident, and even the wildlife seemed content to keep its distance. The land grew greener with each mile, the air cooler and thick with pine and loam. I marked the trees as we traveled—old growth, unscarred, their roots deep and undisturbed. It was clear we were nearing a place that did not welcome haste.

At the forest’s edge we were met by centaurs, a small herd standing across the path as naturally as fallen logs or standing stones. They did not threaten us, but neither did they move aside. Their leader spoke plainly: the forest beyond was not ours to take for granted. The path we sought was known to them, and its use was permitted only to those who understood its cost.

We answered without reaching for weapons. Faylith spoke of balance and passage, of travelers who leave no scars behind them. I added what knowledge I had of the woods—what trees should never be cut, which streams must not be fouled, and which clearings were best left empty. We listened more than we spoke. In time, the centaur leader nodded, and the herd parted just enough to reveal the road beyond. We were granted passage under simple terms: stay to the path, disturb nothing, and be gone before the third dusk.

Before we were allowed to pass, the centaur leader spoke of why the forest no longer welcomed strangers. Something old had begun to stir beneath the roots and stones. Creatures had been seen where none should dwell—beasts twisted in form and hunger, moving without fear of fire or steel. The weather itself had grown willful: sudden mists that smothered sound, winds that howled through clear skies, and rains that fell warm and red with rot. Worst of all were the dead. Graves once undisturbed had been found open, the soil pushed aside from below, and shapes now wandered the forest at dusk that did not breathe. The centaurs no longer patrolled deep paths after nightfall, and even they, born of the wild, avoided certain glades entirely. Whatever was waking in the forest was not content to remain buried—and it was growing bolder by the day.

The forest accepted us quietly. Hooves softened on moss, leaves closed behind us, and the centaurs faded back into the trees as though they had never been there at all. It was not victory, but understanding—and I find that sits better in my memory than any triumph earned by force.

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