All praises be sung to Providence, and to Their Servant, St. Gryllid of the Cross and Song! As the world was made by Their will, let Their foes be unmade and sent screaming down to the Pit among their false gods! May they climb the Winding Stair back to redemption, and be reborn in a more righteous form! Praise the Uncreated Godhead, for They have brought Victory to Their humble servant!
I’ve lost a halberd that split dozens of necks and speared scores of guts. Swallowed up, it was, by a wyrm of such prodigious size that it could’ve held a church’s steeple in its jaws like a dog holds a beef bone. You would think I’d feel more hurt at the loss of the thing, but it is only a weapon. If I were the type to have affection for his instrument of death, I’d be more like Martin.
Our mage corralled the beast and drove it towards the foe, but at a terrible price. I fear I was imprudent in questioning him. I owe him an apology for grabbing him by the collar and shaking him. But he does not understand what forces he is toying with! Whatever black demon he struck a bargain with for that boon… He thinks he knows the answers, that the solutions lie in tomes of arcane theory and in lessons on technique, and that I am ignorant of such things. He cannot know how deeply wrong he is. I have seen things, at Procknaw Gap, in the Fens… Providence help him. If he is not beyond help.
Severus Kin’urn lead us truly to our destination, deep within the caves we had already begun to explore. We climbed and squirmed through rock tunnels more fitting for halflings than for men, but found at last our quarry. A black-painted goblin carving runes of hate and evil into some poor woman’s flesh, as a gruesome chieftain looked on in splendor. Martin would have preferred more finesse, but sometimes Righteousness must take precedence over tactical prudence. I roared the challenge in Orc-Tongue, and charged.
The great beast and I traded blows, blood for blood and spark for spark, until his great black cleaver shuddered to a stop on my helm. Providence protects her own, and with a single cut I left the thing’s entrails soaking ichor into the cave floor. Justice, black and hot.
It was at this point, I fear, that the troll began to get loose.
It had been chained to the wall for Providence knows what purpose, but it had begun to shake the ground and thrash away at its bonds after we arrived on the scene. I managed to pin open one of its arms (read; get hopelessly entangled in the dragging chains) while Martin delivered the killing blow. Not without cost; the creature almost killed Coleman, and we were almost done in anyway by a skulking assassin goblin in the shadows.
For now, though, the fracas has subsided, the orcs lie piled in a heap against the wall, and the Fort is safe for the moment from this particular threat. Thanks be to the Divine Providence for their aid in this quest, and for their mercy in letting us all return alive.
I shattered the foul altar on which the orcs were performing their blasphemies, and found a small icon of the Swordmaiden of Gix. What she was doing here, I cannot say, but it’s always nice to see a friendly face.
The spear I took from the dead orc captain in the woods is of excellent craftsmanship. I’m not usually one to admire weapons, but it’s perfectly weighted and sharp as the dickens. Not orc made. Not Ordean, either. A small mystery.