Eleventh Entry

“—So I scaled the tower in spectacular fashion! Quiet as a grung, swift as a grung, strong as a grung—because, y’know, I’m the grung. I’m Super.” He paused to take a bite of a pickle. How he manages to always have one at hand, I couldn’t say. “The big lizard burped on all of us and everyone ran off, but not me, ‘cause poison skin. Honestly, if I weren’t already so amazing and cool, his breath probably would’ve made me even stronger. But, you know—max level.”

Brick by brick, I hoisted myself up the ruined tower wall. The stone was cold and brittle, crumbling slightly with every shift of weight. Super had already bounded past me like a cheerful little gecko, and now sat casually at the roof’s edge, legs swinging, snacking, retelling the battle as only he could: loudly, absurdly, and with liberal revision.

“And then I jumped into the lizard’s mouth, right? And before it could bite me, I did this super-sweet backflip and landed right on its snout—bam bam bam!—punched it like a hundred times in exactly six seconds.”

“Why exactly six seconds?”

“Dunno. It just feels narratively correct.” Another crunch of pickle. “Then the dragon cried, and he was like ‘waah, Super, you’re so scary,’ and I said, ‘Yeah. I know,’ and then he flew away. Everyone was cheering and Jack started shooting the sky like it owed him money. Oh hey—you’re here!”

I hadn’t realized I’d reached the top until he extended a hand toward me. I took it, letting him pull me up the final stretch. I murmured a quiet thanks, caught my breath, and let my gaze slip downward through the open remains of the tower. From this perch, the devastation left by Venomfang’s residency was obvious. Twisting vines clung to the stone like veins, descending into what remained of the upper chamber. Bones littered the perimeter—wild animals mostly, though one shape looked vaguely humanoid. The air reeked of old rot and moss. But what drew my eye was the glint.

There, starting from the center and across the room like starburst, a scattering of shimmer. Gold.

I took a breath and reminded myself not to get too excited. Venomfang was still young, after all. He hadn’t had the time or power to amass a proper trove. But this… it could be a good start. Enough to breathe easier. And maybe vanish sooner than I originally intended.

Super hopped down fearlessly. I slid from the roof and onto the stairwell, my gloved hand brushing the wall for balance as I descended into the wreckage of the tower. The stone was cold. Familiar. My heart beat fast—not nerves, but purpose. Super was already grabbing handfuls of coin, then bounding up to toss them over the wall. A solid strategy he was able to repeat twice before I made it to the lower level.

“You good down there?” he called from the roof’s edge. His tone was light, as always, but I recognized the way he lingered. “The others might need me. Y’know… to find the druid. They always need me.”

My pulse spiked for second. Alone in the heart of the dragon’s lair? A dragon that could circle back at any moment?

Breathe. Just breathe.

“Go on ahead,” I said after my hesitant pause. If I want to be on my own again, truly on my own, I had to be ready for this. For tension. For danger. For deciding when it’s time to stay and when it’s time to run.

He saluted dramatically, then vanished into the horizon with that same impossible ease he always seemed to carry, like gravity never had a proper hold on him.

My eyes fell on the shattered chest at the center of the room. It had been forced open with no care for preservation, its lid reduced to splinters by the young dragon and its contents scattered as if swirled in delight by a large claw. Gold and silver spilled across the cracked stone floor in a chaotic cascade. The glint was almost too beautiful.

I crouched beside it, drawn in despite myself. A pair of silver goblets caught my eye first—filigreed, rimmed with pale moonstones. I pulled off my gloves to trace a fingertip along the inlaid gems. No hum of magic. Just artistry. Beauty. Worth. I could pack twenty-five gold pieces into each goblet, maybe more if I didn’t mind the clinking. It was far more than I could carry loose. I set to work with practiced hands.

Then—the wind picked up outside. My breath caught.

Just the wind, I would later realize. But in the moment, my spine went rigid. Every shift of air felt like a wingbeat. Every creak could’ve been talons scraping stone. There wasn’t time to be delicate. I crammed the two full goblets into my bag, followed by several greedy handfuls of silver and copper. No counting now. That could come later. If I stayed any longer, I risked my life for a few extra coins. That would be stupid.

Then, a voice—sharp and unmistakably familiar—rang from the far side of the sealed door.

“Fanesca! Are you in there?!”

Jack.

I darted to the door. “I’m alright, I’m here,” I called out, louder than I meant to. My voice cracked.

There was a pause. Then his voice returned, calmer now. “Super showed up without you. Just making sure everything’s fine.”

A quiet breath escaped me, unbidden. I smiled—bittersweet and brief. It’s hard, in moments like these, not to feel the weight of them. The quiet checks. The concern. The way they look for me. And it makes it harder to imagine walking away.

But I can’t forget what this is.

It’s a job, Fanesca. That’s all. It’s work.

And having to fret over a mess like me is only slowing them down.

———

When I finally climbed down from the tower with my sack, the others had already gathered below, their attention fixed on the pile of treasure Super had cheerfully hurled over the ruined wall. Coins gleamed, even in the cloudy sunlight, scattered like spilled offerings. Ragar was already knee-deep in the heap, muttering to herself with uncharacteristic glee as she pulled her own coin purse from her belt. Jack stood over the riches, arms folded, looking entirely too smug. “Man, Venomfang is gonna be pissed about this,” he said, though the proud glint in his eye said he was savoring every coin we’d taken.

I added to the pile quietly—the two goblets, stuffed with gold… and from the deeper recesses of my bag, a few more offerings they hadn’t yet seen. Near the bottom of Venomfang’s cache, beneath a bed of copper, I’d found a dwarven axe of intricate make—runes still faintly etched into its blade—and a scroll sealed in waterproof casing. Misty Step. As if fate had left me a quiet escape.

But Raph’æl’s focus had not shifted with ours. He stood just beyond the others, still scanning the tree line with a brow knotted in thought. “We’ve searched every trace of the town,” he murmured. “But there’s still no sign of Reidoth.”

I hesitated. Then stepped closer. I may have been planning to step away soon, but I wasn’t full uncaring to their plight. Especially after all the times Raph’æl sacrificed his safety for mine. “When I reached the roof… I saw something. Southwest, past the groves. There’s a building hidden in brush. The rooftop barely peeks through from here.” I searched his face for recognition. “We might’ve missed that one. Back when the Twig Blights drove us off.”

His eyes lit with sudden understanding, gaze snapping to the tree-covered slope just beyond us. “There,” he said, already starting to move. “I see it now.”

“Wait—Raph’æl!”

I didn’t speak up fast enough. He broke into a run, and in his urgency, failed to see the sudden drop in the earth just beyond the edge. A cry cracked the air as he vanished from view.

We bolted after him.

By the time we reached the base of the incline, we found him crumpled but breathing at the foot of the very building we’d missed earlier today. Mud streaked his armor. A stick protruded from his hair. He looked less like a cleric of Ilmater and more like a misplaced festival drunk.

As Jack and Ragar moved ahead to pry open the wooden doors, Super and I knelt beside him. I reached out instinctively, checking his eyes, his breath. His lips moved with no sound, then stilled.

“He’s okay?” Super asked, blinking.

“Yes. He’s trancing,” I whispered, brushing back a leaf that had adhered to his brow. “He’ll come to.”

It couldn’t have been more than a minute before his lashes fluttered and breath caught again. Raph’æl blinked up at us, dazed and disoriented.

“Welcome back, chief,” Super said flatly, like he was greeting someone who’d just overslept instead of fallen down a hill.

Raph’æl didn’t reply at first. He sat up slowly, as if surfacing from something deeper than unconsciousness. His gaze flicked around, trying to place himself, but there was a delay—like the world wasn’t quite catching up to him. He finally exhaled a single, resigned “…oh.”

He tried to hide it—he always does—but his eyes never lie.

There was something haunted in them. The silence between his breaths. The stiffness of his limbs. The slight, constant tremble I could feel when I looped an arm under his to help him up. Whatever he’d seen behind his eyes… it hadn’t let go yet.

Super took his other side. “Suppose if anyone’s gonna get banged up, it might as well be the one who can patch it up. Efficiency,” he said with a snicker, trying to keep things light.

We lifted him to his feet. He wasn’t heavy. High elves are a willowy bunch. With my head just passing the bottom of his shoulder blades and Super half a foot shorter than I, the three of us must’ve looked like more than a bit absurd. But no one laughed. Ragar and Jack were too preoccupied—the former fiddling with the door’s lock, the latter watching her with the intensity of someone expecting a trap—and secretly hoping it might go off.

Click.

“It’s open,” Ragar said.

“Great!” Jack replied—and then, with characteristic restraint, kicked the door clean off its hinges.

But I barely registered the crash. I kept one eye on Raph’æl, still watching the horizon through some inner storm. I was worried. Deeply. But I didn’t feel like I was the right person to reach him. Whatever visions had him shaken… maybe it was something Jack or Finnegan would better understand.

I said nothing. Like usual. But I’ll search for someone better for him.

There’s always someone out there who can say it better than me.

I was jolted back to reality by accusatory shouts of some sort. A burst of motion came from within the newly opened building, some small woodland creature shifting and lengthening, twisting grotesquely until it resolved into the form of a woman. Not a threat. Just startled. And from the look in her eyes, furious.

“Out!” she shouted, grabbing for a staff nearby and barring us from entering. “Get out of here! What are you doing?!”

“We’re here for you,” Jack said, far too direct for comfort.

Her grip tightened.

“He means,” Ragar cut in sternly, side-eyeing Jack, “that we came to check on you. You’ve been gone some time.”

She blinked, clearly bewildered. “Gone? I’ve been exactly where I meant to be.”

At last, a name surfaced in the middle of the storm: Reidoth. We had found her. Or perhaps crashed into her life like a band of drunken owlbears. Either way, even when showing her the missing person’s poster that brought us here (merely rolling her eyes at it, clear history at play), she wasn’t letting us past the threshold—until someone mentioned Venomfang.

The news of the dragon’s retreat gave her pause. That we had spellcasters among us sealed it.

Before I could object, Jack gave me a shove forward, and I stumbled across the threshold like a summoned offering. “She’s one,” he said with a shrug.

Reidoth didn’t waste time. “Good. I need a corpse burned.”

The request was abrupt. No context. No preamble. I didn’t even have the breath to question it before she turned and gestured toward a bloodstained table across the room.

My limbs locked. The body was barely intact, dissected and warped—but its features… the ridged skull, the strange proportions… they mirrored the bodies we found in that cellar. Those goblins. Or maybe things that used to be goblins.

Whatever Reidoth was doing here, whatever she was studying, I didn’t want to know. But I shared her impulse to destroy it.

“I… I need a spark,” I murmured, furiously trying to hide the tremor in my voice. “I can control flame, not conjure it.”

“Gotcha,” Jack said with his usual ease, producing a tinderbox from his pack. A practiced flick, and the spark danced to life. I caught it with a wordless motion—drew it into the stone of my holstered wand, shaped it, and cast it toward the corpse.

The fire took to the body with a hungry crackle—until it didn’t.

It sputtered, then popped. The flames twisted into unnatural colors: first violet, then a sickly, bile-colored green. Each burst struck something deep in me—like a wire being plucked behind my eyes. My ears rang. My vision stung. My thoughts staggered as if trying to walk against a storm. The ache behind my temples turned into knives, burying themselves deeper with every unnatural flicker of flame.

Then it screamed.

Not aloud, but within. The goblin’s carcass convulsed on the table, its long-dead eyes flashing green as the psychic shriek tore through all of us like jagged glass. I dropped to my knees, clutching my head, the scream clawing through my mind like it was trying to rip something out. Or in.

And then—lightness.

Strong, weirdly elastic hands yanked me backward. Super. I was vaguely aware of the others tumbling out too, just ahead of a slammed door. Super didn’t wait. He grabbed the broken thing Jack had kicked down, slammed it back against the frame, and stepped back.

“If it burns,” he hissed through clenched teeth, “let it burn alone.”

I was still on the ground. Everything inside me buzzed and throbbed. The world felt sideways. And then—I felt it. Warmth trickling down my jaw. I reached up instinctively and my fingers came away red.

Blood.

A low, ugly noise escaped my throat. I hadn’t even realized I’d been screaming—but I must have, and hard. My face was alight with a pulsing sting I knew too well. The scars… the ones I’ve kept sealed with years of careful silence and magic—they’d split open again.

I turned away from the others immediately. No one could see this.

I dipped into the arcane well, the one I’ve learned to draw from when the need is dire but the moment won’t let me fall apart. No words. No gestures. Just breathe and focus. A subtly cast Cure Wounds. Enough to stop the bleeding. Not enough to erase the hurt. That would have to wait. Tonight, when everyone else is asleep.

———

The day had finally stilled. I recall my hands still trembling, even in the safety of the building.

Reidoth welcomed us in—reluctantly, but with less suspicion once we proved we weren’t there to rob or kill her. She explained the Twig Blights were not natural to this ghost town, not entirely. Their aggression was amplified by Venomfang’s presence in the area, like some noxious pheromone he left behind. Even with him driven off, there were still creatures in the brush warped by his influence. Her invitation into her temporary shelter came with the promise of answers. Later. For now, safety.

She helped us reorient—mentally and otherwise. The Scroll of Misty Step I found, she revealed, held another parchment within it: a hidden document containing secrets of Wave Echo Cave.

That name changed everything.

Ragar froze, then casually declared she had a map to the place. A map. To Wave Echo Cave. The room stopped. Jack’s face turned sharp and dark in an instant. It turns out Ragar lifted the map from King Grol’s castle—around the same time she had found the false Finnegan.

Finnegan.

His name soured all revelation. Ragar asked after him. No one had seen him. Raph’æl said nothing, but he didn’t need to. His face gave it all away—hollow-eyed concern in a mask of stillness. I watched him try to stay composed and felt my own chest tighten. The way he looked… gods. If Finnegan doesn’t return soon, I don’t know if I’ll have the will to run. I might stay. Just until we know. Just to keep us steady.

There was a point in which Reidoth turned to me. She asked if I knew anything of Wave Echo Cave—said that deep gnomes have been known to work its forges. Everyone looked at me. Everyone. My stomach dropped. Should I lie? That was my immediate thought. But I couldn’t, I didn’t. I said I didn’t know. Which is true. I don’t know anything of that place. The only deep gnomes I ever knew were those chanting lunatics who dragged me through flame and ash and named it salvation. No smiths. No forges. No family. I couldn’t say that aloud. Not with them watching.

We’re staying the night here. No watch needed. It’s been so long since I’ve slept indoors without the press of danger waiting just beyond the firelight. I’d almost forgotten the feeling of lowering my guard without the certainty that it would get me killed.

I saw Jack speaking with Raph’æl across the room. Their conversation looked hushed, private. But the tension seemed gentler. Like they were trying. I felt something settle in me at the sight. Maybe… maybe this group really can keep going. Even if I’m not here.

I was so tired I collapsed into the bedding without a second thought. I forgot to tend to the scars. The ones I healed just enough to stop the bleeding. I’ll regret that in the morning.

But at that moment, I was just grateful to be alive. To be inside. To have silence.

Even if I didn’t know where I belonged in it.

———

It’s strange, the way memory adapts once the ink dries for the last time. I used to take field notes with clinical precision—my own little bestiary of the world. Detached. Dissected. A catalogue of sensations: the taste of iron in the air, the crunch of leaves beneath boots, the stench of rotting timbers. All of it recorded like I was observing life through glass.

That’s what survival looked like back then. Observation without connection. Notes without feeling.

But lately… the memories linger even without the ink. And they’ve changed shape. The smell of pine now clings like perfume. The sound of my allies’ laughter over whatever ludicrousness we stumble upon won’t leave my ears. Even the silence of early morning has weight. These things used to be footnotes. Now they feel like gold—glimmering, irreplaceable.

Decades spent in that dungeon taught me monotony. The same stone walls. The same flat, vacant eyes. The same stale bread and tar-brewed tea. Misery doesn’t rot—it petrifies. Until it becomes all you know.

But that life is behind me. I carved out a place here, above the surface. And I will fight like hell to keep it. Even when my heart aches. Even when I want to vanish. I will never regret seizing freedom.

These were the last true field notes I ever wrote before I stopped chronicling facts and started creating meaning:

Field Notes: Party Roster & Observations

(Compiled in the event I vanish, die, or must sever ties. Let them know I saw them—truly saw them.)

Jack (Syldithas)

Fighter. Mystery weapon enthusiast. Secret Keeper. Jack is chaos restrained just tightly enough to pass for confidence. I suspect it’s more brittle than it looks. I could be wrong. It feels as if he masks sincerity with arrogance, emotion with wit, and doubt with explosive bolts of pepper.

He despises lies—except when he’s the one telling them. Jack wants control, wants truth, and resents when he’s denied either. Ragar’s secrets wound him. I don’t think it’s about the loot. It’s about being left in the dark. Again.

Despite all that… he cares. He watched over Raph’æl when I couldn’t. He followed that dragon into a suicide fight because we were in danger. He wants to do right, even when it hurts him.

I don’t think he’d ever say it out loud, but he’s trying to be a hero.

(Note: If I vanish, my first letter should go to him. He’ll need something to mock. It’ll keep him grounded.)

⸻

Ragar

Rogue. Survivor. Her silence is often louder than her voice, and she wears it like armor. The kind of person who makes you forget how dangerous she is—until she’s already drawn.

She’s kept so much to herself. It broke something that could have been worthwhile between all. I don’t think she does it out of malice, but she doesn’t trust us either. It cuts.

Still, she’s dependable when it counts. Always the first to enter the fray, always watching, always calculating. If she stays, the others will survive. If she leaves… we may not.

She cares for Smeak. She asked where Finnegan was. That matters more than she lets on.

(Note: I wish I knew how to earn her trust. I suspect she respects strength more than honesty.)

⸻

Super

Monk. Lethal. Unreadable. He narrates his victories like a child telling bedtime stories, but I’ve seen what he’s capable of. He could kill a dragon solo and ask if it counted as cardio.

And yet… he’s pulled me away from danger. Helped others without hesitation. Watched the room and us with a wary kindness I don’t think he knows how to express properly.

There’s more to him. There’s always been more. I used to laugh at his antics to hide my confusion. Now I listen. He sees more than he lets on. He just hides behind his own absurdity.

(Note: If I leave, I hope he doesn’t go off alone. He’d never admit it, but I think he needs people.)

⸻

Raph’æl

Cleric of Ilmater. Dabbler of trickery. A lovely fool. Once a man of the cloth, now a man in exile. Haunted—worse, hunted—by the memory of a girl named Amelia, whose fate he may have sealed to save his own life. It tore everything from him: his church, his title, his brother, his peace.

And yet he’s still here. Healing, shielding, praying. Not for redemption, I think—but because he can’t not help. He tries to carry everyone’s pain, even if it kills him.

I’ve seen the moments his composure shatters. He doesn’t let us see it often, but it’s always there. Trembling under the surface.

I want to tell him he doesn’t have to carry everything. I want to tell him I care. But I won’t. He deserves clarity, and I am a storm.

(Note: I’ve never connected so much with someone, yet still desired to know them more.)

⸻

Finnegan (Missing)

Wizard. Historian. Genuine.

I don’t know where he is. Neither does anyone else. That absence has carved a hollow space in the group. Especially in Raph’æl.

Finnegan has always been better with words than the rest of us—more compassionate, more clever, more aware. He doesn’t fight with fire or steel. He fights by stitching people back together from the inside.

If he’s gone for good, something vital will die in us.

If he returns, he’ll be the one to mend us again.

(Note: He needs to know how much he matters. Maybe I’ll write him a separate letter, just in case.)

⸻

Me

Fanesca. Divine Soul Sorcerer. Ex-messiah. Masked coward.

I keep trying to pretend I belong here, but I don’t. Not really. I fight when forced. I run when I can. My magic is wild, gifted not by gods but by pain.

Still… I haven’t left. Even now, with enough coin to disappear, I hesitate. Maybe I care more than I’m ready to admit. Maybe they matter too much. Maybe that’s why I need to leave.

Or maybe I’m lying to myself again.

(Note: If I stay, I need to grow. If I leave, I need to make sure they’re safe first. Either way, stop waiting. Choose.)

They were final. A quiet goodbye. The closest thing to a will I could manage. At the time, I thought it was enough. I was ready to disappear. Ready to stop weighing the others down.

But fate—always fate—wasn’t finished with me.

I remember noting how that morning before Thundertree felt “deceptively ordinary.” I didn’t realize until later that it was the last ordinary morning of my life. Every sunrise after has carried a new heaviness. A new tenderness.

I woke after only four hours of sleep. A habit. I used to volunteer for third watch—writing, sketching, pretending I wasn’t afraid to close my eyes. But tonight was different. We were safe. Four walls. A roof. No need to guard anything.

And still, I couldn’t go back to sleep.

The pain had dulled, but I remembered the blood. The ruptured scars. I threw off my blanket and turned to the wall, fumbling quietly for a candle. A gentle spark, a whisper of flame, and I lit the stub with careful hands.

I removed my mask.

Its surface—unreal, impossibly smooth—became my mirror. Dried blood clung to the contours of my face and neck, tracing the places where old wounds had torn anew. I cleaned it silently with a small casting of Prestidigitation. Quick. Discreet. Efficient.

Then it was just me.

Me and the face I barely recognized. The long, pale lashes. Exhausted eyes. The runic scar carved from my forehead to the bridge of my nose—branding me like an object. I could never let the others see this. Not because they would judge me… but because it would brand them as well.

I set the mask down beside me and began to prepare. I would leave in the morning. Quietly. Cleanly. I counted coins by candlelight, double-checked the weight of my travel sack. No room for hesitation. No room for sentiment.

Then—

“Fanesca?”

His voice. Quiet. Uneasy.

Raph’æl.