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The first portion of my pilgrimage is complete: I have arrived in Ephia's Well.

The trip from Baz'eel cost me nearly all of my wealth. I arrived with an empty purse and equipment ruined by the abuse of terrible ash storms. I was able to quickly replace what I needed, however, due to the generosity of Merchant Zizzo. It was only afterwards that I realized I should not accept loans from individuals I have only just met and barely had the chance to scrutinize.

Merchant Zizzo carries herself as a fine and faithful individual but what I have learned of the League of Gold does not press upon me a good impression. Additionally, there are many rumours that paint her as an opportunist and schemer.

The Merciful Mother would have me treat new acquaintances with respect and dignity. Therefore, I shall not hold Merchant Zizzo's league affiliation against her. Yet. Wealth, after all, is a soil where corruption can easily take root. I shall be like the gardener of Kula: watching the garden grow, blade in hand should there be a need for pruning.

This Well is my garden. I shall watch them all. Such is all I can do for now. Waterbearer Dina, Mother bless her soul, said my true purpose would reveal itself here in Ephia's Well. It has yet to reveal itself in any comprehensible way. So I watch.

My true purpose here in the Well still eludes me but there are many opportunities still to carry out the generalized duties of my oath. The Well's remoteness from Baz'eel leaves it susceptible. The surrounding desert is pockmarked with oasis and ruins. Places which the enemy--the criminal; the monster; the heretic--can gather and scheme. Neither my hammer nor my shield is at rest for long periods of time here.

And even when I am not scouring the desert of evils, there are the worms in the gutters to harvest. Not unlike Baz'eel, this place is awash in the meek; the poor; and the weak. They are scared and hungry and even the smallest act of charity sustains them. Unfortunately, I have quickly come to encounter that the downtrodden are are but pawns. Regardless of League colours, everyone speak over one another as if they know how to rightfully treat the refugees. Their arguments are circular and entangling. It is frustrating to listen to them as they intertwine virtues with policy with procedure and process. And frustrating even more to be incapable of hearing the truth behind their words.

Waterbearer Dina never encouraged me to study the art of oration, debate, and politics. My talents that lay elsewhere are worth emphasizing but it seems properly perceiving political machinations must be something I leave to my betters.

The truth is known to me, however, and my conviction is steadfast. Every refugee--every man, woman, and child--is called to serve the Merciful Mother and her blessed Sultan. They may be meek and weak now, but given the proper example, they may be inspired to fulfill their service.

I cannot describe the sensation that overcame me. I stood within the Krak, Miss DuPree having just arrived to speak to me. Then: panic? Inspiration? Some brief, minor madness? I felt the urge to flee--no, run. At first, my feet stumbled, then they quickened.

Seconds passed. Perhaps minutes. I do not know the path I took but I found myself within the deep Well. Upon my knees I bowed before the statue of the Pilgrim. In supplication, I drank of her cool waters. Slowly the strange and queer sensation I could not identify faded. Relief. I drank. My left hand a cup bringing her gift to my lips.

Then I saw the glimmer of a light within the waters. I reached down, my arm phasing into the water past its surface, reaching into depths unknown. My fingers wrapped themselves around a haft. I pulled a heavy weight from the water but gravity did not contest me.

The water was not the only gift from the Merciful Mother in that fountain. Within that holy place, I was bestowed a holy artifact. A hammer that glints like light glints off a pool of water.

I still do not know my purpose in the Well. But it is here. My purpose is here. The Merciful Mother tells me this. The reason why I have been guided to this sacred place will be known. And I will fulfill it.

The crusade against the enemies of B'aara continues. An ever present strife. Each day is the same for each day is one where I serve. Yet each day is different as each day is a new one in which I can better myself.

He called me faithless. Cort was wrong--of course. But I heard truth in his voice. The truth of his anger. I grew quieter when we continued on our quest. I needed to concentrate, I needed to focus. I would be indefatigable. I would prove him wrong. I would show Cort that with faith and piety, I could hold up the very world.

I had failed Cort in his eyes but I would redeem myself in the end. Upon arriving home, we had a conversation without the weight of impending death on our shoulders. I apologized. As did he, in his own way, explaining what drove him to his passionate moment of mindlessness. We are both better people for having toiled not just against an undead scourge, but the inner demons that would darken our minds and hearts.

The entire ordeal was a good reminder that faith is not enough. That steadfast vigilance is also needed. Consistency. Every moment of weakness, real or perceived, is a crack which corruption could slip in. Whether it be a fall to heresy and apostasy or a route in morale that results in broken ranks; weakness begets weakness begets failure.

And so I better myself. Ever always.


Given my recent arrival, I expected more people to be skeptical of me. Yet I am well received regardless. What a bold woman I must be, to make a claim for Champion for the city I have known for less than a month. What audacity.

Yet great and renown figures reacted approvingly when I spoke before the War Council. Others seem sure the Warmaster will select me for the role even if extenuating factors--such as political neutrality--would be key in the decision. I know I am worthy of the responsibility but convincing others of the same is a different matter.

Regardless, selected or not, I will serve. Every day is an opportunity to do my duty.


The Cinquefoil Rose.

Before my arrival in the Well, I steeled myself to be wary of their influence for much is said of them in Baz'eel: the ruthlessness and power hungry mercenaries that is the Banda Rossa; the subtle and mysterious cult that is the Sisterhood of the Sibylline Vine; the Balladeers.

Who are they really? What are their true intentions? Would-be rebellious insurrectionists? Dissidents biding their time? A secret sect of heretics?

I was suspicious of them not only because of their antagonistic relationship with the Sultanate and those bestowed with authority by Sultan Osman IV but because the Sisters' pseudo-state of being persona non grata within Baz'eel cannot be without good reason.

I had planned on keeping a distance but yet it seems I have garnered their attention in a number of ways. Before I knew it, they had become good acquaintances, reliable comrade-in-arms, faithful fellows of the Mother and Wheel.

The Grandmaster's recent announcement proclaiming and confirming that the Rose is subordinate to the Well was good to hear. But the strange method of governance of the Well does not necessarily equate to loyalty to the Sultanate.

Vigilance, as always, is warranted. Perhaps becoming closer to them is an opportunity to be exploited, to watch and scrutinize them more carefully.

Ephia's Well should be ruled by decree and dictate. By a governor appointed by the Sultan. But such is not the case. In his wisdom, Sultan Osman VI has put into place the Asterabadi experiment. Wisdom I am too ignorant to comprehend but shall respect and defer to regardless.

I care little for participating in the political process of the Well but Serene al-Leyla has convinced me that to ignore it is folly. That the process is an opportunity to act and carry out the Mother's will. My strengths lie upon the battlefield but even actions of low effort and significance can contribute to something greater. As much as I loathe at having to sully myself at the prospects of becoming embroiled in petty politics, al-Leyla's rational arguments are marked with the Mother's wisdom and it is only right to heed them.

Her words and advice, however, juxtapose discordantly with the actions of the new White League legate. The Serene exhorted her loyalty to the Sultan yet the new Legate seems to revel in anarchy and chaos. Not even a day and I wonder if this Sayburgh's true character is that of a seditionist.

I pray the holy Serene can impart her wisdom upon this Legate. And I pray that the Serene is not disappointed.

Joy. Oh joy.

Joyous is it to face the enemies of B'aara and her blessed Sultanate. And in the war against the Thousand Clans, I am presented an ever flowing fount of happiness of which I may drink deeply. Duty is something that I shall never lack. Purpose something I shall forever have in abundance.

Every strike of my hammer. Every smash with my shield. To commit righteous violence upon the orc brings me such indescribable elation. Whenever I inflict torn flesh or shattered born upon the greenskin filth, I know that I purge a speck of sin from the world. Every single death of an orc is one step closer to paradise where the children of B'aara may live in everlasting peace.

And in my work, I stand invincible against defeat. Shield and hammer parry aside the blows of brutish sword and axe. My donned armour endures their strikes, empowered by conviction. They may mob me, seek to tear me down. But even should I fall I will rise again, digging myself out from beneath their corpses to seek vengeance for the pain and suffering they cause.

Joy. Oh joy. A joyous life I live.

A page of paper of some sort of written draft is slipped between the pages of the journal.

Hide

Hark!

You read the words of Faith Kruehtzer, Layhammer of the Merciful Mother.

One step forward. One step back. Thus I am disappointed.

Now that the dust has started to settle, that is my assessment of the Well's governance. The new laws on blasphemy and apostasy further ensures that the Wheel turns Above All as it righteously should. That us faithful may better resist and be free of corruption and heresy born of foreign sources.

But so, too, do these new laws forget that the Mother-blessed Sultanate is the Wheel manifest. That the Sultanate, lead by the holy line of Maribid, wields its authority by divine right.

That the Well has willingly surrendered a portion of its sovereignty is an abhorrent aberration of good governance, an abdication of the tradition of wise and careful administration carried out by the line of Maribid.

Even one of the Banda's Capitanas has spoken out against this, though from a legalistic and logistical perspective, stating that the Rose's property rights in the Krak were adequate for their purposes.

Not too long ago, Grandmaster d'Auvergne clearly stated for all that the Cinquefoil Rose is subordinate to the Well. If she knew of the coming of these these new laws, then these laws have made her words weasley and duplicitous. If she did not, then the laws have merely made her words meaningless.

What I am most disappointed in, however, is the League of Purple. Legate Komemnos has sat upon his seat for how long now? Yet, in the span of a few weeks, the laws of this city were burned down and radically rewritten not just once, but twice.

If he was willing to allow the new Legate to upend the law, why did he bother acquiescing to Moretti's redrafting the law mere day before the election? Legate Komemnos has allowed all of this chaos and disorder to happen without imposing any semblance of a moderating influence.

The Well would do well to inherit the wise jurisprudence of the Sultanate: the law should be held near-sacrosanct, it should not be torched and rewritten every few weeks, as if the pyramid is a large seat which one warlord after another shove each other off of to impose their daily changing whims.

Legate Komemnos, your spoken praise of the Mother and the Wheel are welcome, but actions of conviction should follow less spoken praise become nothing more than lip service. The influence of foreign heretics may be diminished along with the League of Gold--

But do not forget to look to the League of White who would, in their desire and lust for revolution, overthrow a tradition of hundreds of years of divine governance. Do not forget that like corruption and heresy, revolt and revolution, too, may begin with small seeds.

[close]

A simple bellow. A short speech. Spurred on by Serene al-Leyla's encouragement to be more involved, I spoke my thoughts openly. And now I find myself suddenly far more greatly involved in a short amount of time than I anticipated.

Legate Komemnos is quick to thrust responsibility and trust upon me. I asked why and he answered that his position and responsibilities force him to make gambles often. He is right: I am not a terrible person to make a bet on. I am consistent. My opinions I have exhorted openly and the words that convey them are not corrupted by duplicity. If I speak, I speak because it is the truth and you need to be informed of it.

In our short discussions, he frequently referred back to how important decisions of governance often occurs away from the eyes of the public masses. Though it may be something I shall not personally partake of, either out of distaste or incapability, I recognize it is done. And why some must resort to it. I know where my strengths lie and in what role they would be best put to use. And I know where I have little to contribute. I am wise enough to leave the politicking to the politicians.

Member of the League of Purple. Voiced Citizen. Lictor. A number of changes made in a matter of hours. The first two I have been considering for some time.

The League of Purple, and its close ties to the Sultanate, is the closest thing to proper good governance that the Well requires. The mechanism of governance may prevent such from coming to fruition in a meaningful manner, but wearing a badge of allegiance is of no loss to me. It is just another case of the truth being stated.

Becoming a voiced citizen was simply a matter of time. Of accruing the dinari when it is not used to supply my eternal crusade. Time saved is time used wisely.

Legate Komemnos suggested a number of people I ought familiarize myself with. Some I already know. Others I must acquaint myself with. And an even smaller few I will need to watch very carefully.

Death.

How it reaped.

Death. Death. Death.

The sands tainted with green flesh and red blood. Dozens. Hundreds. Thousands. Like roaches succumbed to poison, they piled upon the sands in great number. Mounds of the orcan corpses becoming mountains. Monuments to our work. A feast given to the vultures and vermin that survive the desert sands by consuming what they can where they can.

Insatiable, death took not just the orcs.

Death touched many of the Well. Both well known and otherwise. They are mourned. Deeply and widely. The tears are endless. As are the soft words.

But pride should also swell. They died well. They died serving. Performing their duty to their ends. The Mother is ever proud of her children, ever welcoming of those who work towards the rejuvenation of Bel-Ishun. Especially when it is their own blood they use to water the ground.

I pray for a death like theirs. One where I serve till the very end.


At first, I thought my new position as Lictor would be a simple matter. But it has opened more doors than I would ever wish to step through. Into gardens. Into the halls of governance. Into private corners of the War Council. Into conversations no commoner would be able to eavesdrop upon.

Some of what I have heard disgusts me. The brazen begging for and exchanging of favours. Whispered insults towards those beyond eartshot. The grand strategists, governors, and decision makers acting like children.

Which is why I am thankful I am merely responsible for their safety and security. Should I be forced to participate in these conversations, every other word out of my mouth would be a scolding for their infantile behaviours.

My strength. My role. My use. Politicking to the politicians.

Slithering serpents. Venomous vipers. Reeking rats. Meek mice.

Every time I step into the Pyramid--metaphorically and literally--I catch glimpses of them in the corner of my eye. I look left. I look right. Everywhere I look, I see hints of corruption. Shadows cast not by furniture, fixture, and walls, but people sneaking about to do their insidious work.

But what can I do? Politicking to the politicians. I am no statesman. I am no inquisitor. I have not the mind to uncover the truth nor the voice to command others to do their rightful duty. I have been keeping notes and my own mind reels as I try to comprehend the puzzle of tangled written words I have cobbled together.

When I encourage virtue in others, it is because I have slammed my hammer into the face of evil. I cannot strike at intangible mysteries. I cannot bludgeon what I cannot comprehend into shape.

I understand now. I believe. At least some of it.

The secrecy. The collusion. All the happenings that occur away from peoples eyes and ears. The decisions made when the vast number of people are drowned in ignorance.

What I have seen and heard and learned is enough to drive some people mad. Enraged at the compromises forced. Confounded by the many variables that could be muddied by too many hands reaching into the cupboard. The decisions placed onto the leaders of the Well chosen by fickleness could shatter the disc if poor choices are made.

I have seen the box knocked over and the contents spilled upon the floor. None of it can go back in. I cannot undo the spill and return to ignorance. Knowledge weighs heavy upon mind and shoulder.

I do not envy those who lead and make these decisions. Though were I in their place, I would make the right decisions, the multitude of unintended consequences would be excruciating to bear responsibility for.

A coincidental series of events that unfortunately happened in reverse order. Squire Dandrik spoke with me (unfortunate casual conversation aside) about wanting to further promote the faith. Outreach and exemplification. The work of a cleric is not my forte but then I realized that does not mean opportunities should not be taken when they present themselves.

Hours earlier a Wyrmist heretic stood trial. I would not hesitate to fulfill my duty should an executioner be needed. But Magistrate Sobhy had in mind a less severe sentence. Just as I realized how I could properly display the Mother's mercy, a proper Waterbearer from the Temple arrived. So I stood aside and allowed her to do her duty. Had I been hesitant a minute less, a second less, I could have ushered forth a scene glorious to slack jaws and awe minds.

Instead the Hall of Jurisprudence filled with muted murmurings and whispers of disappointment. I wonder if Soldier Ristar could read my mind when I stared at him from across the hall, considering the conversation he was privy to between myself and Sergeant Nor.

The trial. The accused. Magistrate Sobhy's verdict. The guidance he received. Did Ristar consider the same coincidences that I did? I should ask him, perhaps, and speak plainly as best as possible even if they will not or cannot do the same with me at times.

It is ironic. My earliest days within the Well saw me proud to look upon the Sultan's Legion and suspicious of the Rose. Yet it seems their affections towards me are reversed. I can feel my respect for individual members of the Rose growing day-by-day (granted, some more than others) while I wonder just how pitifully the the Legion has been hobbled from fulfilling their duty.

How vividly reputation colours a first impression. Not even a first impression. An impression of a person before a glancing conversation is had with them. An impression before genuine, intimate conversation is had with them.

I have taken the words of a flawed person and I have allowed them to prejudice another. My carelessness may have costed me an opportunity but this strange conversation was an opportunity to begin with: to seek out the truth.

What is the true test of character I hope to evaluate? How shall I judge a person whom is an enigma to me through little fault of their own but mostly due to poor coincidence and circumstance?

I may have conveyed it poorly, but I think I did ask the question that cuts to the heart of the matter: would you care to suffer my scrutiny?

I have settled, I think, on how I can survive with my mind intact when becoming involved in the quagmire that is politics is unavoidable. Pretend an orc stands before me; strike it with my hammer. In such case, the hammer is the truth, my thoughts and opinions blunt and with just barely enough sugar coating to at least imply I care not to mindlessly insult whom I speak to.

Do I disadvantage myself by doing this? Am I open to exploitation? Open to being deceived? Yes, when I act honest and true, I may be taken advantaged of, but let them. I can only decide for myself if I wish to be deceitful, dishonourable, and conniving. And I choose not to. I cannot stop others from doing so, but I can choose for myself not to bend and compromise as they have.

I shall speak the truth. I shall disarm them with directness. I shall bewilder with openness. Should others connive upon me for doing so, I at least act as an example for what it means to be honest. And those who seek such character, those who seek the honest and true will know it is within me.


Legate Faith Kruehtzer.

Perish the thought.

Though I recognize Balladeer's d'Lyon's respect for and measure of me. I could barely keep my thoughts straight in that meeting. As I eventually said after I recovered from my bewilderment, if being a brave leader upon the field is enough to make one Legate, Marcellus would reign eternal.

The skills needed to manage insipid tongues and numbers needing calculations and spinning schemes is one I lack. I do not fear failure, but I can recognize when making way for better skilled individuals is the right course of action.

True faithfuls of B'aara can achieve much upon the Legate seats. But winning a seat in the first place is a gauntlet my sensibilities would not carry me through.


It has been a long time since anyone questioned and inquired of my past. I am happy to be ignorant of it. Such means I can focus upon the present and work towards the future. I thought I was clear when I said I do not lament the disconnect from the years I lived before, but for some reason Raventhia thinks there must be a deep meaning to my character hidden in the past.

How disappointed will Raventhia be when she pries open my armour and sees the same face she has already looked upon?

How many have seen Balladeer Aurelio d'Lyon as he revealed himself to me? A man tired. A man lonely. A man weighed down by the loss and death of peers and students alike.

He shows me great respect in making an offer of tutelage and squirehood. Some of it may have been diminished by me declining, but I know he has enough respect to at least make the offer to begin with.

Most especially, though, I am thankful for his warning. Imposters can take on the faces of not just mere men. And Aurelio gave me good warning to remember this.

Hide

5. Brooking:
A person found guilty of entering a pact with Djinn, Aberrations, Shades, Devils, or Demons has committed the crime of Brooking.

Capital Offense.

6. Illegal Worship:
A person found worshipping the cult of the Wyrm or spreading the faith of the Wyrm has committed Illegal Worship.

Capital offense.

7. Desecration:
A person found guilty of attempting to dishonor, defile, or animate the dead has committed Desecration.

Minor: Tampering with agave or retrieving things from it.
Serious: Destroying a grave or committing otherwise irreparable damage.
Capital: Animating the dead.

10. Sacrilege:
A person found guilty of knowingly and willfully attacking, damaging, or desecrating shrines or temples, pertaining to the Gods of the Wheel, with the exception of the Wyrm, and with the intention of causing such damage or desecration, has committed Sacrilege.

Capital.

11. Blasphemy:
A person who has been found guilty of blasphemy has spoken the names of the Gods of the Wheel in a manner without decorum, or has defiled the commons with the promotion of false deities beyond the Wheel.

Minor: Using the names of the Spokes as epithets, or speaking them without purpose of filial piety.
Serious: Advocating or preaching the doctrine o false Gods, foreign philosophies, or heretical interpretations of the Wheel in public property and forums.

14. Apostasy:
A person found found guilty of apostasy is to have been a follower of the Wheel who has opted to turn away from the goodness of the Gods of their own conscious volition; or to be a person whose material promotion and ceremonies of foreign faiths have been found responsible for corrupting pious adherents from the proper course of worship.

Serious: Renouncing one's faith in the Mother, the Wheel, and the entirety of its domain under the Spokes.

Capital: Encouraging or facilitating impiety in others by way of compulsion, deceit, or ceremony towards the domain of foreign anti-theistic philosophy, false Gods, or atheistic beliefs.

[close]

I have seen how it should be. Wise people sitting in contemplation. Discussing policy, the state of the Well, and how it should be. The wise recognize the wise. Respecting one another, speaking in turn, giving space for one another.

A shame that it shall not last. The Asterabadi Experiment gives; the Asterabadi Experiment takes. These wise minds shall be corrupted. The need to appeal to the masses shall overcome them. More and more compromise will be made to kowtow to one and another and another.


To crusade is to purge the heretic, slay the monster, punish the criminal. The orc is monstrous. Deserving no mercy; deserving only wrath. To crusade is to fight without doubt, without hesitation. And this I did. My hammer never hesitated before striking into the orc. My cries joyous in the face of their barbarism and their death rattles.

But when the last orc fell. When there were no more to slay. Nothing to contend against us. The greatest weapon we have ever wielded was turned upon a tree. Something old, ancient. Existing with a history my mind could not comprehend and my thoughts could not understand.

When all the orcs lay dead around me, I could do nothing but look at our prize and ask: why? What was that tree? What purpose did its destruction serve? What is the horror we have wrought with our own two hands?

I am not a woman of doubts but when I have no foe to focus my wrath upon, it seems my mind becomes empty and dark, filling with whatever tips over the lip of the jar.

Baltra was a sturdy rock that served as a foundation. On our quiet ashsail trip back to the Well, she could sense my mind was not at ease. A gentle prod from her and I voiced my confusion and my concerns. She had no answers but she asked questions.

Questions that I could answer. I may not know the mysteries of the tree. But I know the orc: barbaric, savage, murderous killers, crafting flesh like foul djinn, animating the dead as vile necromancers. I may not comprehend the grand scheme of things but I know the details of why and how when it comes to the orc I meet on the battlefield.

Defeat is not something I am familiar with. I have tasted it bitterness more than once but, thankfully, instances of it recoiling my tongue have been few and far between.

The second raid past the walls of Abulmahhu was not a disaster. It was not a collapse. It was a slow loss of momentum. It was a boulder having fallen down a mountain side come to a stand still as it rolled upon flat terrain for as long as its weight would allow it.

But even in loss does opportunity take the chance to flourish. We had, after all, killed hundreds of orcs. Thousands. And among their corpses, as I marched back towards the war camp, a glint caught my eye. A light pure and revealing.

Atop a high dune was piled an even higher mound of orcan corpses. I made my way up and kicked aside a corpse, watching it roll like a masterless puppet down the dune. Looking to where the corpse had been, I saw a shield atypical from the ones usually used by the orcs.

It was not wooden or stone. It was not angular with sharp corners or vicious spikes. It was not stained with blood and viscera.

It was silver. Mirror-like. Embossed with the most beautiful filigree of water droplets clinging to vines.

I could not resist picking it up. Such a sight amongst a land marred by carnage. I wondered if I had found another sacred relic. The answer to my question revealed itself when I touched my hammer to the shield. The same glint I had seen earlier suddenly engulfed my hammer, glowing with a divine fervour.

We shall return to Abulmahhu soon. The Mother bids me return. The Wheel demands our shortcomings overcome. The taste of defeat shall be washed away with something sweeter.


I am ever thankful that Miss al-Farisyya has taken on the mantle of leading the League of Purple. Her skills and talents overshadows my shortcomings. A mind for tackling the nuances birthed from the Experiment.

A parent should never indulge the short-sighted ridiculousness of children yet that is what the Experiment forces. As righteous as my impatience would be, al-Farisyya is more results oriented and is determined to achieve the right ones.

She will know when to use the carrot. She will know when to use the stick. Were it all up to me, every disorderly child would have sore bottoms and hungry, dinnerless nights.


The plots are exhausting. The schemes exasperating. It is a duty for me to attend meetings with the people involved in governance when asked but rarely does witnessing such lead to more than me cursing the Experiment for what it imposes upon all of us.

Thankfully Ulfgrim and Cort were present so we could hold our own whispered discussion upon matters important: the war; the upcoming raid upon Abulmahhu. There is nothing quite like planning and discussing logistics to help one measure progress.

Victory in Abulmahhu.

To feel such pride swell within me was a new experience. Barring very minor issues (Reginald is bold, perhaps too much so), my team did incredibly well. We arrived at the final wall before the Tree at the same time as the team lead by Aurelio. Had this been a light-hearted race, I would be demanding the judges to scrutinize the results closely to determine who truly arrived first.

It is a shame we lost Horton in the chaos of the final melee. War and death takes from all sides. I can only hope that Horton was satisfied with his death. It was a glorious one in my own eyes: luring a score of orcs on his war pig steed into the epicentre of where the artillery landed, upturning stone and sand.

The sweetness of the victory was fleeting, however, for coming back to the Well was also a return of weight upon shoulder and mind. Besides the orc, there was a great plentitude of trouble and tragedies:

A meeting in an office which would prove deadly portentous.

Vizier Inanna Elissere's murder fresh in memory.

The attempted apprehension of Rowan--whom I thought brother. My eye has been lax in scrutiny. Even if I can only do so much and knowing Rowan's true nature would have been beyond me, I must remember that trust should be built over a great amount of time. For it can crumble in a second.

Visions of a waking nightmare offered to me by the cult of the Sibylline Vine.

Whispered words of Luther's trial and Lhyrian's brash action and judgement in the Hall of Jurisprudence.

Words exchanged with Cort. What a dramatic relationship he and I have. From our precarious beginnings to words now shared in quiet confidence. I would trust that man with my life. I would trust him with the security of the Well. Should the come--and I wonder if it will be soon--that he just fulfill the duties and responsibilities of his position, I believe he would make a competent Legate. But, so too, have I seen and heard and witnessed things that make me wary of him. How cruel is this game we are all forced to play. That even should I trust a good man with my life, I still cannot stop myself from scrutinizing him. Always must I be a hair's breadth away from complete and total trust.

It is arduous work already to wage a war. Life in the Well is a weight many times over.


The Crucible awaits. I have the entrance to it once before and I knew it a key objective that must be taken away from the orcs. Then I saw it a second time, via a work of magical scrying I could not comprehend yet still understood, and I knew it a horrific dream, the tormenting nightmare of a dreaming victim which must be awoken.

Komemnos said to me long ago that the orcs were like us in a way. They, too, sought to water Bel-Ishun, to return the ash desert into a vibrant and verdant land as it once was. The Trees further this thought: pockets of life within Abulmahhu, small parcels of land lush and wondrous. But the roots travel down and deep into places which belies the orc's would-be virtuous goals.

Within a ruin deep in the sands, a ruin of an age long past, do the orc work pain and torment into fleshcraft so horrific that even djinn would be envious of. From fire and cruel alchemy they create creatures that know only pain. They create a mimicry of life that is a mockery of true-life that is virtuous and perfect.

We mortals are all imperfect. We mortal men and orc. We can only dream to be as virtuous as the Spokes. But we are flesh and blood. We are base instincts and free will. Hypocrisy makes victims of us all. Including the orcs. Especially the orcs.

And I am thankful for it means I need not feel guilty for seeking their eradication.


The Sisters and Acolytes of the Sibylline Vine, despite having a reputation for being a secretive sect, have taken a liking to me that would make me uncomfortable were I less familiar with their individual members.

I did not know what they intended for me to witness but I kept my eyes and ears open regardless. And what they did show me I had no reason to believe. But when our consciousness was transported into that place--the Crucible, I knew I was witnessing the truth. I looked, heard, smelled, felt things which I had felt some time ago. Though more curtains were pulled back, I looked upon what I had seen before.

I had already seen the precursing hints. I had seen the entrance to the Crucible, I had seen the monsters birthed from the imprisoned thing within. And what I saw within the scryed vision was more of the same.

I have no choice but to recognize the truth revealed to me. I have no choice but to recognize the Sibylline Vine capable of things great, respectable, and powerful. I can only hope they put their capabilities to Good, that they ever act with the Wheel Above All in mind.

Even should they be shunned from Baz'eel, it seems the Sibylline Vine has a place in the cog that is this disc. They have a destiny. I hazard to dare that it is one I ought witness.

He sounded like me.

Stubborn. Full of confidence. Righteous.

The thought struck me mid-conversation and that was when I knew our meeting was fruitless. I would get no answers. He would give none satisfying. We would part further afar than we began.

He is insistent. He shall continue to call me SIster. But he is no Brother of mine. Should we ever meet again, he shall not have the protection of my promise for words alone.

The next time we meet, he shall be treated as the heretic and murderer he is.


Miss Greta Maddern has been avenged. A vengeance weeks in the making but now finalized and achieved.

Gudari Ariixaka Astakhov, too, avenged. Though the hour between her death and us exacting our vengeance was short, seeing the orc smith responsible for her death struck down was deeply satisfying.

I do not know what exactly it was we freed but I am confident the right thing was done. Thankfully, no last resorts needed to be implemented. What remains to be seen is if anyone else will seek to imprison the creature yet again. If anyone else will look upon the creature and see an opportunity to do wrong.

Finally. Release. A weight off my shoulders.

The secret beginnings I have witnessed months ago has come into the open and if need be I can speak my mind on them.

But the release was fleeting. The weight quickly replaced.

When people spoke of the war against the orc as something near its end, how they were near defeat, and how the Well was so close to knowing peace, I bit my tongue. Witnessing what I have, I knew these people spoke in ignorance. Hopeful, but still ignorant. I knew those hoping for an end to war with the end of the orc would be demoralized at the thought of war with Kha'esh.

And demoralized they have become. Eager words about life after the orc has been replaced with bemoaning lamentations of the Well's relationship with Kha'esh. The peace they desperately grasped for has been pulled further away. More battles will need to be fought. More lives will be lost.

The disappointment is palpable. It lingers in the air like the stench of rotting corpses. People grimace and retreat in revulsion at the truth that lays before them. And yet they do not even realize what truth lies still buried beneath the dead.

The heretical whom contest the Wheel are many. The enemies of the Sultanate are spread throughout the desert.

Komemnos was a strange, brash, foolish man. But I am thankful to him for preparing me for reality on this disc.

The orc will not be our last foe. Kha'esh will not be our final enemy.

The crusade continues. The crusade never ends.

Betrayal.

The first word to come to mind. He did not say a word or express a thought to indicate that was what he fell victim to. After our last meeting, surely he must have known this would happen. I made myself clear: he was no brother of mine.

To bellow my name for all to hear. It would be foolish of him to think no one else would follow in my step. That no one else might put together the pieces of his simple and basic puzzle.

But it matters not, I suppose, considering what it was that he wanted from me. Whether it be truth or lies which passed from his lips. He knew I would grant him the death he sought.

I was troubled and conflicted at the time, but now I am filled with resolve. The right thing was done. A murderer shall prey upon people no longer.

What troubles me now, however, was how lifeless he had become even before he was sent into the hands of the Wheel. His fervor was gone. He spoke with the voice of a man tired, his spirit broken because of how he had been hounded like a dog for days.

We were mirror images of each other. Similar but not. Two figures of fervent worship. He called me paragon. I called him villain. I pray I succumb neither to the corruption that took him nor the loss of zeal that came for him after.


Give the Faithful to the Hammer. Give the Faithful to the Hammer. Give the Faithful to the Hammer.
Give the Faithful to the Hammer. Give the Faithful to the Hammer. Give the Faithful to the Hammer.
Give the Faithful to the Hammer. Give the Faithful to the Hammer. Give the Faithful to the Hammer.

A strange enigma surrounded by mystery. Ever since Komemnos' strange introduction and explanation of him, I have been reticent to know him on his own terms. I have been kept wary by the warning words of so many.

In truth, I cannot tell if my reticence is a carefully managed thing or the result of me being paralyzed by the uncertainty, the vast array of options possible to be known and otherwise, or fear itself.

I have known of him for so long now, practically my entire time here in the Well, yet I feel I still know so little. I have done a great deal to learn as much as I can. I have spoken and questioned so many. Except for the man himself.

My work has stalled. The work of others, of greater mental acuity than myself, also stalled. I ask myself now if my options have dwindled. If the only and best thing left to me is to walk into the maw of darkness with torch held high and see what dwells within.

I cannot remember them all. The three days within Bet Nappahi felt like an eternity. The hours swirl together and the faces of the dead pulled into the whirlpool. Dragged into long lines spinning into circles.

Nela I remember. I was not present for her death but I witnessed the return of her corpse. I remember, more clearly, Garen's grief-filled cries as he slumped to his knees, over Nela's twisted and corrupted remains. Her death served as a warning, a blaring sound that caused us all to fear and be wary of the jungle.

Nadiri Serian. Legate Sayburgh. Crumpling into the grass. Their hearts still before their bodies struck the ground. I warned them. Others warned them. Antidote. Purge the poison immediately. They did not. I can only assume they were too distracted by the chaos all around us to act swiftly enough.

The day dragged into night dragged into day. I heard the names of many others lost to jungle, orc, and worse. There were so many names. Narwen. Ulfgrim. Ekret. There were more. Many more. I cannot remember them all. And of course the faces and names of people I have not personally met are but vague whispers upon the wind.

Ristar, the quiet workhorse of the Janissaries. That axe-wielding Sergeant who cussed most profanely-yet-affectionally. Katya. I merely heard word of their deaths. Unable to witness their passing into the embrace of the Wheel with my own eyes.

And the third day? The final day? Ilphudel that strange and magically talented elf. The Commodore Harlan whom I glanced upon with guilt-ridden eyes as I was forced to retreat five steps. Selwyn and Cort, they were embraced by the Wheel in the same set of arms. Lieutenant Colmes, tortured by pages and thorns no longer. Tharrik, who's broken body I carried and handed over to a weeping Korin.

How many more? Whom have I forgotten? Whom do I not even realize is not with us anymore?

And how many more names must be remembered? How many more, in the future near and far, will we need to mourn? Will mine be among them? The war against the orcs was but a prelude. A forward. The Wheel shall cry out to us yet again. It shall cry long and loud. It shall demand duty and faith.

Silent and weeping as it may be now, it shall, once again, cry out for war.

The day after returning from Bet Nappahi was an unusual day for me. One of complete and utter rest. Sleep. Ablution. Meals with an extra dash of luxury--a double serving of pork falafel. Prayers in the temple emphasizing my thanks for the greater goodness brought into the world these last few days.

Despite all of this I could not stop the thoughts. The circling ruminations.

I found myself thinking of Lieutenant Rennik Colmes. In death does he find relief? In life, we shared some words--few. And always on important matters of gravitas. Rowan. Ekret. Sayburgh. I expected my trust in him would need to be held deeper and deeper within his hands, either because we would need each others' help or because our duties might be similar enough that we would need to share the same footpath.

Now he needs not worry about uncovering the mysteries and plots and schemes. Now others amongst the Legion must take up the mantle and responsibilities.

The mysteries surrounding Sayburgh and Ekret may never be fully revealed because of their deaths in Bet Nappahi. Is this fate good enough? Is this justice? Are their deaths proper for the crimes we suspected them of? Were our suspicions even close?

I begin to think I understand what frustrations archaeologists experience, when they dig up hints and pieces of old history while being unable to put together the complete picture.

Put the faithful to the hammer.

Welcome home.

Where has the axe gone?

What is it about me that makes people think I would desire to be Legate? I suppose, in a way, I would desire to lead the Well. Especially with the looming threat over the horizon. But the process of becoming Legate, the politics, the compromises that must be made?

Seeing how the position affects Legate Lhyrian has me convinced becoming Legate would ruin me. But being Legate? The Well needs leadership with an eye for preparation. With the end of the war and peace on peoples' minds, they forget that the new district to be built is as useful for providing solid walls as it does providing shelter.

The scattered orcs have allowed new refugees to flock to the Well. We should be welcoming and expecting in equal measure. Every new arrival is not merely a mouth to feed and a head to shelter, but a pair of hands that can be put to use. Whether they pick up tools or weapons, duty has a purpose for everyone.

The foes of the Sultanate will not sit idle for much longer. We must not forget that. We must not ignore it because of how desperately we desire peace because of how long peace has been denied us.

I mused about the strange conundrum--so many speaking to me of politics--to Garen and his thoughts gave me pause. I have status, my voice carries weight, I may even be famous. But is my reputation enough of a cheque to cash with any significance?

Garen's answer surprised me but the more I think on it the more I think he is right. People come up to me now, new arrivals, and start conversation with me at a disadvantage. People know my name far before I know theirs. In the past few days, more than once have I been introduced to others by proxy.

Have I been subconsciously aware of this? I noticed I have stopped introducing myself in bellows. After Bet Nappahi, I thought it was because I have grown to better appreciate brevity. But is it because I need less of an introduction?

How quickly corruption tries to take hold. How often corruption tries to take advantage.

The Legate spoke plain and offered me a favour for the help I have been administering in her issue of personal-state security. I declined her as I often do when offered such: I merely do my duty. But she insisted. Even should I not take her up on the favour now, she shall remember that she offered me such.

Seconds after she departed, inklings began to seep into my mind. What could I use that favour for? Something to help Miss al-Farisyya? Something to help me a few months from now? Like water trickling between cracks in stone and rock, the possibilities dripped slowly into formation. The favour could be leveraged into a position of status. It could manifest as pressure to lean upon policy or legislation. A trial could be manipulated.

Once I realized what thoughts had infiltrated, I closed my mind shut. Forcing all thoughts out of my mind, I envisioned only a pool of water. Still and silent save for a trickle slowly dripping in drop by drop.

I must be as still as a pool on a windless day. For sweet is the taste of ambition and alluring is the touch of temptation.

I had a conversation with Miss al-Farisyya that I have been ruminating on for some time. She asked if I was happy, if the fulfillment of duty was enough for me. My answer was a straight forward yes but I find myself wondering why she sought to know that in the first place.

It is only logical my mind considered--though I dare not presume too much and voice--if she asked such because once she became Legate she would need to see certain government and political positions filled. My thoughts about such--politics---has grown conflicted and muddied. It all seems like complicated and irritating busy work but I have seen enough to know that positions of leadership hold power when responsibly--or even just sensibly--wielded.

When I heard that Garen had become a Magistrate, I was taken by surprise. He is such a humble man and I had not an inkling that he desired such responsibility. Perhaps the responsibility was thrust upon him? But even then, I trust he will fulfill the role dutifully and with excellence. Garen never struck me as an ambitious man but he embodies the sort of quiet competence that keeps a caravan operating smoothly.

Ambition is like pride. It can easily poison the mind and blind one to their true purpose and station. But in this world, even the Spokes of the Wheel delegate. The Spokes appoint their Speakers. The Mother appoints Her Sultan. The Sultan appoints his governors. The Sultan, in a roundabout way, appoints the governors of Ephia's Well.

Duty is not just something fulfilled. It is also something handed down from those above you.

Is stating that one is capable of and eager to fulfill more responsibility an irreversible step of arrogance?

Eliminated in the first bracket. I must admit I felt my pride stung. I thought myself capable of reaching the semi-finals. Perhaps even facing the Champion herself. I thought I had a chance to win the title from her.

How wrong I was.

Sergeant Hanson has always been a formidable warrior but I underestimated him because every time I have seen him fight it was at his side and not in opposition. There was no shame in being defeated by Hanson and he showed me grace and admiration in his victory, yet I am disappointed. And the others who proceeded to the second bracket and beyond? Their tactics and supplies were clearly superior to my own.

What hubris I have been carrying. I realize now that ever since Asherias was proclaimed Champion by the Warmaster, there was a faint presence of envy in my mind. The speech I made in the war council was an unabashed display of ego. I should be thankful I needed not back up my words with action.

When Garen to me worried about my decision to partake in the subsequent battle against the challengers, I told him that to face the challenge was to seek to better myself. Yes, it was glory seeking. But to be glorious is to recognize and be proud of one's achievements.

I did not tell him, however, of my ulterior motive for re-entering the arena. Disappointment. Shame. I felt a pull to prove myself. Not necessarily for the audience but for myself. I was not satisfied with my early elimination. I needed something to salvage my tattered dignity.

I nearly lost even that.

The barbarian berserker, were he not mad with pride even greater than mine, would have easily killed me. Every time he pulled back and danced circles around me, every time he decided to mock me instead of continuing to swing his bardiche, he allowed me to recover from my weakness and from that which I lacked.

Though I had won in the end. It was not the victory I sought. I won through patience and endurance. Through desperation and fortuitous panic. I won by appearing a lame and wounded deer such that the wolf hunting me threw all caution to the wind.

I won because I did not make the same mistakes as I did in the fight in which I was eliminated. I won because I released myself from my own expectations of myself.

How long will this lesson and wisdom remain with me? What will it lead me to do?

What has hesitancy cost me? What opportunity has passed me by because of it? Or is my pride bruised yet again for imagining something that has not been brought to fruition?

I am no mind reader. No fortune teller. No seer of the future. No soothsayer of what could have been.

But I am hounded by the thought that a chance to be assigned greater duties is lost because I refused to be ambitious enough to acknowledge that there is a willing desire to do more within me.

Two Leagues of Purple meetings.

The first filled me with an anxiety that simmered throughout the day. I felt my face wince every time someone suggested I may be a good candidate for the next election. I last wrote how I wanted to do more but becoming Legate was far to great a leap far too soon.

Perhaps Apothar Nur is right. That the best Legates are those who do not wish to become such. Those driven by duty alone bereft of ambition. If through some twisted series of events saw me sitting in one of those seats? Yes, I would serve. It is the process of achieving that seat which gives me hesitation.

Legate al-Farisyya mentioned an opportunity may present itself soon and I was far more interested in that which I knew next to nothing about then the prospects of being Legate. I pray details of this are revealed to me soon. Perhaps if I held a responsibility of respect and substance, supported by the Pyramid and the people, others will stop imagining me in a Legate's seat.

The second meeting revealed Garen's consideration to run at the League of Purple's candidate. I am unsure if anyone else noticed but I let out a quiet sigh of relief. Or was it a breath of surprise?

Much as I was surprised to hear of Garen's being elevated to the position of Magistrate, the thought of him being Legate caught me by surprise. But, again, it is not something I would object to. The quiet competence that serves well a Magistrate also serves well a Legate.

His name being bandied around also means less attention upon me. More time for me to work quietly. To focus on where my skills shine. To prepare and look forward to the next crusade.

To see the Sultan with my own eyes. Such an honour and gift I never expected I would be able to experience in the entirety of my life. To hear him speak. To be present for his grand declaration. To imagine his great vision in my mind. A paradise awaits us all, we just need to find the White Spear, the tip of which shall lead us into such a holy future.

The days since have had an odd sense of idleness. Everything seemed small in comparison to what occurred at the Kardesler. I filled the days with boardwork: I hunted slaving pirates; I slew gremlin brookers and djinn. I met new people recently arrived to the Well. I held long and quiet discussions of varying topics with people of importance for one reason or another.

All of it felt like waiting. As if I was filling in the days in anticipation of greater things.

Then: a reminder that greater things must be reached for. A long discussion was held with Legate al-Farisyya in her office. It was a discussion I was looking forward to with anticipation. It proved to be her reinforcing the same lesson I have slowly been learning on my own. A lesson about ambition; hesitancy--what it puts at risk; being mindful of when to wait and when not to.

And, perhaps, to emphasize--or practice--the point: she offered me the position of Magistrate. I said yes. Instantly. No hesitation this time. Or if there was, it was near imperceptible. Hesitation was an obstacle and a setback before, it would not be so again a second time.

Skillfully and tactfully, al-Farisyya accelerated my education. Every great thing that can be brought into fruition can be furthered along by every hand willing to carry the weight. There are times when waiting is necessary. I must not mistake the times when such is not the case.

After words were shared with Garen, I am still filled with anxiety. But an anxiety of a different kind. Before I was worried whether or not to act. Now I dread I shall not succeed.

Temptation. It is everywhere yet so subtle I imagine most times it goes unseen and unacknowledged.

I have had some discussions now and yet every time I depart them I never have the sense to determine whether they are a success or failure. My mind simply has not the capacity to determine such.

Yet, what bogs my mind are flashes of thoughts. Little what-ifs. What if I use a certain word? What if I say something vague instead of specific? What if I say nothing at all, feigning thoughtlessness?

One after another, little question after little question. Towards a larger, greater result.

Will that convince them to support me? Will that trick them into thinking I agree with them?

I think back to the favour Legate Lhyrian says she owes me and I find this is similar to that. A small decision, a small indiscretion, and perhaps the result I desire becomes that much more plausible. Though it is through means duplicitous and deceptive.

What is the cost? What damage could the little omissions and the little white lies inflict?

The answer to that question is something I can refer back to Legate Lhyrian, too. Reputation. Slow to build; quick to tear down.

And there, too, is the advice of Legate al-Farisyya: beliefs and values. Whether one is trustworthy is contingent just as much on the beliefs and values one exemplifies.

It can be difficult to keep track of the discussions at times. But there is one thing I recall saying very clearly, for there were no truer words:

I have not come to beg nor bargain.

I do not notice them instantly but I do eventually.

The changes. In myself. In how I view people. In my relation to them. I do not like it--some of it, but I recognize that I am gaining in experience. Experience which may or may not serve in the future.

At the beginning, I did not know what to do. I received advice from Garen and Legate al-Farisyya but the most comfortable method I settled into has been simple: ask and then listen.

Patience is a virtue. Given enough time, I eventually hear something of use, I hear what I want to hear, I hear what others want to speak of, what is important to them.

But, too, have I learned that patience can be exploited. It is later on when speaking with those more contentious have I learned to simply say: enough of this, let us move on.

And so, too, is my patience more easily frayed. It was a mild thing as arguments go but I do not believe I have never had a more contentious argument with Legate Lhyrian. It was respectful. We were out in the open, before the Pyramid. We both maintained our composure and dignity.

But I felt an anger welling within me. Small bubbles as something simmered. And now, afterwards? After I had more time to think? More drinks of cunning, more quaffs of wisdom. I think and I think and I think about what was discussed--the quarry, transparency, negotiations, cooperation--and the fire beneath the pot ignites even further.

For the sake of my relationship with Legate Lhyrian, I do not want the pot to spill over. But I cannot deny that, as I look upon the actions before me, the pot is poisoned. Whether she realizes it or not, she has been stirring spoiled meat into the stew. The pot needs to be upended. And emptied.

Purged.

I do not like the changes but some of them reflect my greater understanding of others. I do not like the changes but some of them are necessary. Shall prove necessary.

"I hate what this election is doing to Legate Lhyrian and I."

A blurted, desperate whisper. They felt like words that would not be answered even in as place as sacred as the font of the Mother's water. It was a plea. Me begging for guidance. Sense. Comfort.

Waterbearer Evarielle tried her best but her words felt hollow. No. Not hollow, but powerless. Whatever hope I received from her words were obliterated by the Assembly.

I whispered those words out of guilt. For what I had grown to feel and think as I experienced. I can do nothing now. The disgust I feel has been cemented and engrained by her words and actions. I have now idea how it is possible for this to be undone.

"I hope to learn that, indeed, the personal effects of all this does not linger."

Words to an Apothar. A stranger of which the only interaction I had with was a contentious argument.

I do not even know why I responded to her. Perhaps I am just that desperate for someone to tell me my new view of things are wrong, will unravel, and be replaced with what I used to remember to be true.

The voting period began. I made one final speech. The rest would be shorter things. Much shorter. I am not sure if this is me giving up, realizing that I have done as much as I could, or accepting that a person is not always in complete control of their fate.

Garen spoke comforting words. He is right. I have done and accomplished much. I have worked hard and made great effort. Even if I do not win in the end, I have done admiral work and people like him will recognize that.

Still. I am a nervous wreck. My throat feels unnaturally parched. There is a hollow sensation in my chest. As I told Sister Selsi, this entire ordeal has been one stretch of anticipation. She shared words of sympathy which helped in the moment. She also did not put much effort in keeping the exit poll forms hidden. As soon as I realized what they were, I looked away. I dare not let incomplete numbers give me false hope.

But, still, despite the storm my mind is trapped in my spirit is buoyed. If I lose this election, I know it would not be with a terribly embarrassingly small amount of votes. But every time someone said they voted for me--directly or subtly, I feel my heart swell for a moment.

The quiet whispers of confidence to me. The words spoken over the bellows, extolling my name. It is nothing like I have ever experienced before. On the field, in a battle--there is always the underlying understanding that the rank place their faith in their commander with the hope that they come out alive and breathing.

But this? Where the consequences may be long lasting, slow to appear, and may stretch on far into the future for generations to come to contend with? There is no immediate fear of death or loss or destruction. There is merely the weight of future decisions to come, placed atop one another, compounding.

I have yet to learn if I have earned these people's trust and confidence. But they have already given such to me.