The Unnamed Saga
Tin's Travel up the Sword Coast with a Halfling Caravan
After a harrowing chopping frenzy through hordes of thought-eaters in Kalavako’s Dungeon, the party finally managed to catch a blissful night’s rest (or simply the quiet peace of several hours in a Prison of Ages Forgotten). Tin set up a few simple watchful measures he picked up along the way from his journeys through the wild Neverwinter forests and his nights in the backstabbing alleyways of Luskan. He took out a small soft leatherbound notebook from the library and unlike the other tomes that seemed to have regained some ink on their pages, knowledge returning from the ether, this little moleskinned book remained blank.
With a few bizarre twists of his Hedge Wizard Gloves, he plucked a feather from an imaginary ostrich and milked an imaginary Ink-Cow and lo and behold, a simple quill and inkpot appeared ready before his eyes. He glanced at everyone else dozing off before he began to privately write in this quiet time. His manner was surprisingly thoughtful and wistful for what was normally just a bloodthirsty compact mass of ankle-chopping fury.
8th of Tarsakh, 1545 DR, Year of the Undying March
By Yondalla’s Blessing, I pray my old letters have seen you well. I have no doubt that it will take more than time and a few words between old friends to mend the hurt I certainly left behind in my … survivor’s nature… call it cowardice if you must. My missives by animal messenger as well as the Veil Beyond seem to have fallen on deaf ears but I still must persist.
I write not to remind you of things past, but to tell you of how I have set myself on a path to make things right. My journey has taken me back up the road well-traveled by us not so long ago; the Road to Neverwinter and Luskan. Thanks to the work of my new Waterdhavian Travails and company, a small band of bandits were wiped from the Sword Coast, never to attack another group of travelers again. Perhaps it was karma since such a group had killed my minstrel parents and set me upon this path not so long ago.
Thornweld: a new Everlong Friend and fellow Shirefolk. He’s a carnival-trained gifted axe-thrower… and surely has no better place than the lead performer of Brightfield’s Caravan. He shares my love of woodland blade, the free clean air and the thrill of the hunt, but he was no hatchet-man, mind you. He’s all smiles and laughter, as quick to jibe as he is to prank. In better times, I may have been like him and you may have been like Brightfield — the pragmatic but charismatic businessman, but alas for our past days of woe. It was a bittersweet two weeks getting to know the carnies like a family only to depart alongside Tall Ones with Big Stories.
I now travel alongside a crippled cleric of Pelor, a grumpy elemental archer, a rabid but gentle lycanthrope and a curt professional dark elf of many talents. The mission is a grave and deadly one; a series of impossible tasks I dare not scrawl even here. Indeed, I felt bad withholding even the hint of such thrill and adventure from Thornweld, but I knew full well that the best way to spread secrets and turn them into Legend would be to spill the beans to a traveling carny.
Weeks ago, Thornweld said something that haunts me still. He told me that in order to be forgiven for what I did to you, I must first forgive myself… may the day come when we both can do such a thing.
By the Dice of Tymora,
— Tin, Your Everlong Friend
An angry twist of Tin’s quill shattered the fragile magic of the prestigitation, dissipating the quill back into the Nevernever. A pained look distorted his normally jolly face and his knuckles turned stark white as his fists clenched, shaking in silent despair. He fluffed up the pine-scented pillow of his Restful Bedroll and sleep quickly overtook him. A dark, but blissless sleep.