The Journal of Silver String

This is a handout I wrote for the players of my Dungeons & Dragons campaign. It is a historical account of a paladin from an age long past, who became a folk hero celebrated in songs.

A truly ancient leather-bound book. It is large but not remarkably thick. The pages are rough and have somewhat stiffened with age. Much of the ink has faded and whole sections are missing, but a surprising amount remains legible. It appears the title was once embroidered on the cover, but the thread has all been lost and it can only be read by the impression of where it used to be.

Foreword

Dearly beloved is our daughter. Deeply brave, is she. Strong of arm. Swift of foot. Sharp of mind. Warm of heart. A perfect child and a blessing upon this evil world.

We bid her farewell years ago, never daring to believe that she would come back. But always, we hoped. We wished her great fortune and wept for her. Many moons we cried, but we moved on, as she wanted for us. We had to. All the while we trusted her for her decision. She is never wrong. Wise and moral is our girl.

She left with a man. A wonderful man. Gone for an age yet finally she wrote home. She said she would soon return, but that she would do so alone. With her letter, she enclosed a book. A journal detailing her travels with her man, until their journey came to its end. She told us the journal was worth more than her life and so sent it ahead of her. She promised she would follow soon after.

We pray she has simply gotten lost.

No book could be worth more than our daughter, but it is clear that these words mean a great deal to her. We will share them with the world, spread them to every corner of Erabel that will listen to them. Perhaps one day she will hear them again. Perhaps they will be a beacon to bring her home.

To you, reader, we offer you stories of the steel warrior of the goddess. The tales of Berenolt Vo Khost, as scribed by his squire.

Our hearts ache. Silver String, come home.

Day 9

It has been less than a tenday and already I owe Berenolt my life and so much more. I knew I was right about him. A valiant warrior. Unparalleled. But I am ahead of myself.

East we venture. Neither he nor I had yet beheld the Great Steps of Eovaste and we wished to gaze upon their majesty. This we did, and words cannot do them justice. I could almost imagine His mighty form descending to our realm, step by gargantuan step. Perhaps we got too close, because while we did behold giants that day, none of them were He.

We saw them coming, of course, and Berenolt made ready. I wished to stand ground with him but he saw my inexperience for what it was. He told me to hide. I did my best, but when the thundering footfalls came, it was all I could do to not be crushed. I struggle to envisage a more humiliating end than that.

Berenolt was amazing. Two of the three foes fell to his strikes, blazing the gold of his goddess and so deft I could not see the motion of his blade. But screaming and staggering, it was too late for me. The final beast snatched me like an ale from a bar and ran. I could not see where.

The monster put me through torment and delighted in my pain. I believe it was revenge for the deaths of the others, such as it could not inflict on Berenolt himself. I had entirely forgotten time when he arrived and slew my captor. Several days and nights, I had guessed, though I had slept for none of them. Berenolt told me one day and a half.

We are back on the road. I aspire to Berenolt’s strength, but already I fear I may never attain it. He would never be incapacitated with such ease. I do not know how he does it.

Day 11

I confided in Berenolt last night. I told him the world is too much for me after all. I have heard all the tales of the dangers we face by venturing beyond our havens and I thought myself better than them. I have been proven wrong quite conclusively. I should be dead already, squashed or tortured to oblivion. Berenolt shared his words with me.

Everyone has their limits, he said to me. Greatness is achieved in spite of them. But to defy our limits we must first understand them. We are small and the beasts we shall face will be far bigger. If we cannot be stronger than them, we must be wiser. Hypocrisy, I thought. He is stronger than them. I watched as he proved it. Can I not achieve that too? Can no other attain his strength? Preposterous were his words.

Yet I am still here.

Here where I curse myself, and he sits and smiles with that damned flute at his lips. Just as his words annoy me, so too do they ring true. They merit further thought. What soul-searching I might do that would help me stand against the terrors of Erabel, I cannot fathom. But I hope to find answers before we are set upon again. I cannot count on good fortune for ever.

Day 54

My notes from past tendays are muddled and confused. They deserve summation now that the tension and emotion has eased some.

When we found the town they call Gildencort, we were hopeful. It is rare to see a settlement so great and thriving. Though it did not take long to learn their secret. A dragon, white as a babe's first fangs, had laid claim to Gildencort and its people. It protected them from neighbouring threats, but the dragon took a tithe of the strong and young as payment.

Berenolt took little convincing to act. He said we would observe one of these tithes and track the dragon's return to its lair. He did not wish to fight it here and risk it visiting its vengeance on the town. It was the first time I saw weakness in Berenolt, as when the beast landed, he neglected his plan and leapt into battle.

The dragon could have beaten him, I think. He disagrees, but he didn't see what I saw. A ferocity like no other creature he has faced. I did what I could by guiding a crumbling tower to collapse on the monster. Its head struck the ground and Berenolt took a swing. I can still hear the sound of his blade on its neck.

Against all reason, the dragon survived. It beat its wings and fled, leaving its prizes behind. Victory, perhaps, though it pains me when I think of those frozen by its furious breath. Gildencort was not grateful for our intervention and we were forced to flee. We had planned to take our leave in any case. The dragon still lived and would soon return. Berenolt resolved to silence it while it was still wounded.

Thus began the longest and most treacherous cut of our venture, as we had followed its flight with the precision of an eagle. The ego of this great beast, it seemed, felt it was worthy of nowhere less than the peak of the tallest mountain in the range. We had no choice.

Nothing could have prepared me for this journey. Mountains, we had faced before. This was wholly different. The cold stiffened my body and dulled my wits. Berenolt suffered too, but where my determination faltered, his would not waver. There was nothing more important than killing the dragon.

It took many days. When we finally reached the dizzying height, air thinner than an insect’s wing, we prepared in silence, then charged into the lair. White on white, the beast eluded us for a time. But Berenolt was ready when it appeared. He kept its attention as I moved into a position of my own, and with a hook and a length of rope wrapped around ice and rock, I was able to force its head down. There, Berenolt exploited the wound he had struck before and the dragon was ended.

As I write, we are almost at the foot of the mountain. I wonder what will become of that dragon. Few will be so foolhardy as to make that climb, especially without the great pull we felt. The dragon’s corpse may lay undisturbed for ever. Or perhaps another dragon will move in and make the place its home. I hope not for a very long time.

Day 113

I once believed the south continent would be safer. That perhaps if the world were warmer the monsters would be lesser, or fighting them would be easier. While I can say it is certainly different here, safer is not the word. Upon our arrival in this place, we met the Astrania, a guild of some renown in this land. There was a man there. An elf, Istaviil Cresenzong. Apparently he knew of Berenolt by name and wished for him to join their ranks. He talked of some imminent threat and needed his strength.

Berenolt prefers not to work with guilds. He says they would hold him back. I wonder if this will keep him from being the legend he deserves to be, but he also says that he does not chase glory. I can’t help imagining what if he did. Regardless, he refused their offer, proclaiming that a guild of their size should have no trouble handling such problems without him. We marched on.

Seeking a haven from the deadly wilds, we witnessed a village drown beneath a wave of reanimated animal cadavres. Cattle, elk, cats, lizards; swollen, rotten, stinking. I prepared my charge for battle and he plunged in, resplendent, holy light streaming from him like ribbons. Yet for all the foes he had laid low, Berenolt was forced to turn tail. We fled to find sanctuary elsewhere. I have never seen him so shaken.

We found Istaviil again and this time Berenolt offered his service willingly. Istaviil shared all the Astrania knew of this threat. They called it Eniltacot, the fallen angel. An enemy of the Gods of the Domain of Civilisation, she leveraged the natural order to cleanse the world of our kind. She began far south and had been spreading northward. Berenolt worked with the Astrania to stage a confrontation. Fighting the putrid beasts would mean nothing if Eniltacot remained.

When the day of the battle came and I helped Berenolt into his armour, he implored me not to fight. There was fear in his eyes, contagious fear, and I think it was more for me than for himself. He did not wish to return from combat without me. I agreed, to his face. Then as the soldiers made for the front line, I snuck in with them. To sit in safety and wait through agonising hours, unknowing if he would return safely, was unthinkable. And while I am no holy knight, neither am I a mere civilian. Maybe I could save a life.

It was not difficult to spot him on the field. Bright flashes of gold that pierced through the masses of decayed flesh and bone, carving a path to Eniltacot. I could see when he reached her that he was not alone. Istaviil fought at his side, his sword slicing one way, his hair flowing the other. They matched each other’s motions with precision and grace that looked like they had been fighting as one for decades. When they cut the dark angel from the sky, a cheer ripped from my chest and scattered my tears to the wind.

He scolded me when he came back, but his relief curtailed his anger. We lingered for a time to be certain that the threat had ended, and we saw no remnants of her influence. Still the Astrania warned that an angel’s death may not be so final. They begged Berenolt to remain with them. He refused, but Istaviil surprised us, choosing to leave the guild and venture with us, an arrangement Berenolt is far happier with. I too will be glad of his company.

Day 345

Istaviil broke away from us for a time. This is not unusual - on occasion we divide as different matters require our attention. But always we meet again and usually in triumph. We cover more ground this way, which is essential to us on this new continent.

This time he did not return. We searched feverishly and Berenolt was ever so reluctant to admit defeat. But eventually we had to move on. I have never known him to be in such a terrible state. He treats eating and sleeping as optional things. The swings of his sword lack courage. His golden light dims. His music falls flat.

I hope we find Istaviil soon. For the sakes of all.

Day 379

Committing recent events to paper seems an impossible task, but it is one I must perform.

Berenolt and I came to a village held hostage. An apparition - an evil spirit - claimed their lives were forfeit. It killed the people there, one by one, in heartwrenching fashion, for what purpose we never learned.

Berenolt did as he does and took to the spirit with blade in hand. His heart has not been in it of late. He screamed and sobbed as he attacked to no avail. His blade landed on the road with a clatter and the spirit mocked him as I helped him to his feet. I reminded him of a lesson he once taught me: if he cannot be stronger than his enemy, he must be wiser.

He stood with renewed energy, leaving the sword where it lay. He spoke to the spirit, bargained with it, offered whatever he had in exchange for the lives of all in the village. I begged him be careful but he continued. They spoke with words so fast, it was like swordplay. The spirit jabbed and Berenolt swung back. I could scarcely keep up. My eyes were on my knight, who conceded ground almost imperceptibly. I wonder if even he realised how far he slipped, for soon he offered himself. Everything he is and was.

Before I could intervene, he was gone. The spirit stole him away and vanished with a sinister smile.

I have remained in the village since, hoping that Berenolt will find a way home. The spirit is gone from here, of that I am sure. But of my paladin, there is no sign.

I will stay a while longer. There is still hope. Even if Berenolt never finds his way back, perhaps Istaviil might.

Day 442

I have lingered too long. I have wept for my friends and mourned them both. It is time for me to move on.

This tale is over now. Its record is vital and it must survive against all. I will relinquish this book and send it back to my family by sky, where it will be fastest and safest. I will follow by sea. Travelling alone is fraught with peril but I am a competent fighter now. I have to believe I can make it back. When I do, I will pen a final word. A salute and a farewell to this chapter of my life, and to the greatest man I have ever known.