I’ve discovered my journal again, only because of the exhaustive search through my luggage now that I am out of wine. We really should bring porters when we leave the horses.
I sit on the rubble of this forsaken keep watching over my followers. I fear my destiny is no longer as clear as flame and as fate has turned against me, their souls are now in danger. Innocents, potential citizens of my new realm, lay slaughtered around us, and my friends squabble over baubles.
The secrets of my ancestors I have pried from the fires are now turning against me and deliver nothing but failure. All but the simplest flames themselves.
I instilled Goat Face Killa with a humorous bit of my soul and sent him to bang the last pot and pan in my mess kit from a half click out, but now I see him in the moat much closer to the keep. Why didn’t he follow the instructions? Why didn’t he move through the moat like the undead we have faced?
I use the eyes of my forefathers to spy out the keep, a new and powerful magic, but the band’s champions all remained hidden from my site.
I lead my followers against the keep, willing the stones themselves to part and let us through, but I am abandoned by all but faithful Symon. Only the spark of soul I hide in Symon met with any real purchase in this conflict, allowing him to sacrifice his own to smite Oppacca. No bane and no magics I possess had any real effect on the outcome. Why? Rather than defending their leader, the band slaughtered their captives without any parlay. Why? What did they fear from their survival? What secrets did they keep?
My companions won the day with powerful illusions, transforming into beasts, infesting the keep with spiders, pulling down the very towers on the enemy, while our warriors waded through the foe. Yet, here they are rifling through the gear of the orcen dead.
We need every tool at our disposal to re-forge the realm of my ancestors, but true magic comes from the soul. These objects that freeze dead magics within them seem a perversion to the true, magical living fire.
As I sober up, I notice that my followers are covered with these foul trinkets, while I have none. It must be that they lack my righteous instincts. I must meditate upon this before the sacred flame when we return to the Roost. I won’t forge my dominion by endangering their souls.