Huddled behind this rock, out in the damned wastes again, how could I possibly hope to recount all that has happened in the weeks gone by? I will put it simply: there was much forced labor at the foot of Kalak’s ziggurat, Kalak the now deceased sorcerer-king who held dominion over Tyr for countless ages.
I saw him fall to the gladiator’s spear from the arena floor, saw the spectral image of the Dragon rise in agony from the peak of the ziggurat, saw the golden, sorcerous tendrils snake out in some vain attempt to draw the very life out of Tyr’s populace and prolong his time on this earth.
New King Tithian, High Templar, organizer of the rebellion, freed those of us labeled “slave”, thanked those of us with a hand, though largely by chance, in the sorcerer-king’s downfall. Now Tyr is wrapped in turmoil as the nobles seal themselves away in their estates, as the once-powerful templars are hunted in the markets, as those of us without home wait listlessly for contact from old allies.
[ A sizeable chunk of text has been smeared and scratched out. ]
To pass the time, we’ve found ourselves hired on by House Wavir to track down and recover a lost caravan of some import. Along the way we encountered a rather strange one, changed by the rays of the sun, prone to conjurations primal in nature. Quite strange to behold, but quite useful, even if the man controlling them doesn’t appear to be wholly present. Then again, who am I to speak that wracks men’s minds with terrible visions and summons shadow from the earth?
It is the first day of our journey, and we’ve just put down some roving band of silt runners who sought to delay our advance. What their connection to the caravan is remains unseen. Perhaps it was simple chance. After a brief moment’s rest, which I’ve used to put these thoughts down, we must press on. The tracks of the caravan are still clear in the sand, so I have hope we will be upon it soon.
Vrenham of Lorent Midday on the 49th day of the Ascending Sun, 184th King’s Age