[The Philosopher]

The skilled, strong penmanship of a disciplined hand follows, in the pages of a journal bound in brown leather.

22nd of Flamerule, 1359 DR

Things have taken a turn for the worse. My journey has lead me to a place I had hoped never to come to, for more reasons than I dare mention. The risk that I die is now too great for me to ignore.

Why I write this journal, I do not know. I do not know if this would ever reach the hands of anyone that mattered, whether friends made here, lovers met in my past or family far at home. Regardless, I write this now, a window of insight into myself, as I search for the vagrant memories of my recent and distant past. May it provide you, reader, whoever you might be, whatever insights will be of use. It is not wise to put one's thoughts to paper so thoroughly in Thay, but I am willing to take that risk if my experiences serve some good in my demise.

I start this, then, with the penning of that which is my name. I was born Dumah, son of Count Olivier Lodhrain de Rembroge, eldest of three and heir to the county aforementioned. It would be so, at least, if I had been born of Count Olivier's wife. To this day, I know not who it was that brought me into this world, a truth my father has ever denied me. As sweet and caring as Lady Rose was to me, it is a truth I wish I knew. Her kindness in the face of my father's constant disapproval and abuse never pushed aside the fact that I was a bastard, in a land torn by civil war.

I have left Tethyr three years ago, now, as of the date of this penning. I have journeyed far and wide across Faerûn's heartland, a youth of seventeen trying to find his way in a dark and unpredictable world. I did not do so in the kindest circumstance. For a long time I traveled lost, not knowing where I was going or what. I knew only the basic education I had been given and the years of training under a proper master-at-arms in service to my family. I drank and whored my money away when I did not find a woman willing enough to my advances. It is probably one of my closest regrets. I must have fathered a bastard, or more, who will have to grow without a father. Another failing, among the many I must labour upon.

I have spent years in mercenary outfits, selling my sword, my back's worth of strength and my brain's worth of wit from Tethyr to Luruar, Chessenta and Thesk and all the lands in between, and always, something chases me, gnawing at the edges of my perception. I wandered aimlessly, in spirit and body; why, then, have I always wandered with that permanent sense of dejá vú, which no one I have ever met could explain? Its specter has always hounded me, showing me sights I have never seen, roads I have never treaded, which my heart of hearts knows to have once seen. I cannot explain it; a sense of foreboding that has always hung upon me like Myrkul's cloak, with rarely a step following in which I do not raise my head to look, knowing but not knowing, aware of something I could not even begin to name. It only grew strongest when I met Aria, in that road inn on my way from Thesk. It felt that she was important, somehow, the most important finding I had made in my short life.

Typical, then, that the closest I have ever come to an answer, the slavers attacked. We were separated, a phantom pain following it as inexplicable as the specter. A Red Wizard's intervention forced me into Thay, free under specific conditions, with only some clothes and some coin to keep me. She was not with me, and whatever my ambivalence towards her absence, it is good that she was not caught. Answers to my life's enigma should not cost anyone's freedom. I would remain ignorant my whole life.

I am told, tonight, that leaving (escaping?) Thay will be close to impossible. Words uttered with a sense of resignation and laissez-faire. I am left aghast, looking upon the horizon to the south of this behemoth of a city, the Alamber Sea calling out yet at the same time barring exit. After hearing what I have heard tonight, who would blame me? Thay is a land of nightmare, where factions vie for power and thrash all notions of peace and sustainability, running any chance for a unified and galvanized population to the ground. To work here is an exercise in survival and a struggle to stay true to myself.

Not too different from Tethyr in that regard. The Red Wizards and the other political forces seem no different than the dukes and the counts and the sheriffs, slobbering for a chance at attaining favour from one another while sharpening their daggers and milking serpent fangs for venom to slip into their food. The lack of loyalty in this cut-throat land is appalling. It should not surprise me - Bane was strong here, and tyrants never command the loyalty of their people.

I have been here for a few days, now, and what my eyes take note of is a land without direction, without hope, despair and misery running rampant. Perhaps fate was not so capricious after all, for leading me here? Perhaps this is where I was meant to be? Perhaps this is where the specter of fate has guided me all these years? It certainly feels that way - walking the city of Bezantur feels like searching the ashes for a portrait that is never going to be seen again. The stones remember me, though I do not remember them.

No matter. A house is built from the ground, and a soul is no different. I have wandered for a long time, searching for answers. Let them remain hidden; my lover sleeps in her bed, sated and happy, and I must meditate upon my successes and my failings. Thay has tested me. I must know if I did well. I must pray for guidance.

Every failure reflects on He, and every success adds to His luster.

[The Philosopher]

19th of Eleint, 1359

Nora's gone missing, and all my attempts at finding her have been useless. I strongly suspect she has been found out and eliminated by the Red Wizards. It was a risk we both knew we'd carry going onward, but it is no softening of the blow.

She was a sweet girl, and a better lover than I could have hoped for. Caring. Supportive. Beautiful, in a shy, demure sort of way. And kind, even though she often tried not to show it out of fear, a warm soul that should never have been taken to Thay. I tried to love her as best I could, even though, moving toward the end, our feelings for one another became skewed, unmatching. She began to want more than I could give her, but I know she meant well. I was her first man - over-eagerness in this was nothing to judge.

I took the week to mourn her. Found a temple of Torm, but it feels like a hollow victory in the wake of this.

Mystra hold her in Her embrace.

[The Philosopher]

1rst of Hammer, 1359

There are times I wonder on what side I am on.

Not out of lack of loyalty. I serve You, holy Torm, as best I can. I try my best to stay true to Your teachings. But how can any man stay wise in the wake of so much treachery, so much wickedness, a vileness even the dead rebuke?

I try to tell myself every day. I am not Tyr, even-handed, wise and just in His judgement. I hold none of His divine mandate. I am only to be a beacon of chivalry, to represent Torm's ideals, to strive for them every day, every moment. To act upon them decisively, and always with an eye turned inward.

But I can't ignore it. I can't, and yet, what can I do about it, beyond dying a pointless death?

I was the host of Tyraturos' Feast of the Moon. Well attended by the citizenry, and many of the adventuring community. Tribunes of great repute, vaunted Apprentices, influential Legionnaires.

Olga.

It was a jarring time, though. There before me was the truth of Thay revealed, all its rotting core brought out to procession, and the shining gems that still struggled to stay the course. Stirring remembrances of the dead. Loathsome disrespect of them. Foulest sacrilege.

I wanted to defend Jay from that miserable assault. I wanted to shield him with my body and keep that absolute madness from taking place. Yet before I could even move forward to do anything, the deed was done. Lieutenant Elira murdered him, in front of everyone, for a miserably small slight. Staining the Feast of the Moon with blood.

I respected her. Held her as a promising woman. Harbouring evil in her heart, yet with something in there worth saving. A promise of redemption, if she tried.

Maera tells me there is something there still, yet my faith in it flags. Cold murder. Cold, laughing murder. She revels in that darkness, and I had to take in the breath and let it go. Some can't be saved from their damnation. Not if they don't want to be.

But in the end, I was tested. The darkness that consumed Thazar Keep beckoned for release, and those adventurers that were still at the festivities strived at the call of the dead. More than an achievement of great worth, it was a personal one. I struggled. I stood my ground against shadow and demon. I was tempted.

And I won.

Priest-Inquisitor Velarian has heard the tale, and given me at last my cloak. I am now Warden of the Hand.

Would that my joy wasn't clouded by this worry.