A Kelemvorite's Journal

[Vaelek]

"This will be my first entry in this journal, if it can be called such."
Mathell paused, running a hand across his bearded chin.
He raised the quill briefly, prodding his lower-lip with the piece.

"I have recently arrived in the city Sundren, a welcome respite of civilization from my long trek through the north."
A second pause took place, the somber-eyed young man recalling recent events.
"In my short time here, I have come to witness a great deal.
In the surrounding lands, the locals suffer from what appears as countless evils.
Banditry in form of goblins, gnolls and ogres are only the first of which I have encountered myself."
Mathell grimaced, unsavory memories of the several battles he had seen himself - and others through, returning to him.

"When I left the City of Skilled Hands, so long ago now, I did so in faith of finding a region more devoid of my lord's hands;
here I have done so."
The quill scratched messily across parchment, the Kelemvorite's otherwise steady hand wavering as idle memories crossed him.
"In a land so plagued by hardship and strife, I am utterly shocked at the lack of my brothers' and sisters' presence.
The people here find their strengths in the worthy servants of Tyr, Torm and Illmater.
A grouping dubbed "The Triumvirate".
In addition to this trio, I have found the followers of the Vigilant One to be in great number and strength within the city walls."

Mathell glanced upwards, his idle green eyes scanning the ceiling of the inn.
"It is strange to me, how I have found the populace to think and operate.
They place such emphasis, I have seen, on remaining strong and upright.
They raise themselves through the thicket of concern and doubt.
Yet in the midst of this, I am grossly saddened and bewildered still at how the dead are left as an afterthought."
His eyes strayed from his writing to the ceiling yet again, down to a intricate symbol of his deity, Kelemvor, Lord of the Dead.

"I must reconsider the words I have written, now, as my mind winds back to the battles I have fought here.
The Ilmatari I have encountered have been a great aid in my travels throughout the region,
they being, as I have seen, those most reverent and caring for the fallen."

Mathell reviewed what he had written quickly, sighing all the while.
"Yet still, as this is a private recalling of my time here, I will be honest.
If ever I had come across a land in need of Kelemvor's hand, this would be it.
The populace are wary of my faith, I have found, from the briefest of discourses.
In a land where battle seems a constant and premature death among the ordinary,
I can only assume a cleric of the great Judge frightens them further."

Blinking wearily at the parchment, the young cleric scribbled a largely illegible ending to his first entry,
seeming ill at ease with his own thoughts.

"I will venture beyond the city walls again, on the morrow.
While I am seemingly alone in this place, it is my duty to make Kelemvor's voice heard, and how often have I heard;
"Let no human in all Faerûn die a natural death without one of Kelemvor’s clerics at her side".
I fear death will come again in the wilderness, as it has so oft now.
I only hope I am able to be there, to guide, heal or avenge."

[Vaelek]

The present entry begins steadily enough, a somewhat dull if not eventful recounting
of the Priests' local journeys through the Viridale forest.

The larger part of the next several pages hold brief and often grisly descriptions to bodies found across his travels.
Most hold a minor footnote stating the unfortunate corpses' origins and what funeral rites were taken into account,
as according to the cultural origins of the individual character.

Some pages later, an actual entry reforms itself, spanning multiple pages with cross-outs and heavily blotted paragraphs.

"Today, I have been introduced to a site the locals refer to as the Necropolis."
The next several most immediate lines are thickly crossed out, the young Cleric seemingly indecisive on his recounting of the place.

"..Rastellia and two others guided me to the first ruined structure.
Apparently the site was once a temple of my faith, risen to the Lord of the Dead, Kelemvor.."
As following previous example, several more lines have been made illegible, the phrase
"Myrkulites-" returning with enough regularity to be made out over the erasure.
A page later, a readable script comes into view.

"..The rumored denizens aside, the most immediate Undead I encountered were far more potent than any other I have come across, for their kind. I can only imagine that either a incredibly powerful necromancer has taken residence, or a full coven of practitioners lay somewhere within.."
The writing gradually steadies itself, the journal's excitable author calming himself through the course of his next words.
"This an excellent chance to prove myself, not only to the people of Sundren, but also to my own.
I have written a letter to the nearest temple of Kelemvor I am aware of, informing their members of the situation..
And asking for potential aid, in whatever form such may be spared."

A full half a page is skipped at this point, the writer's pace an idle and lazy one now, the text flowing into untidy scribbles.
"..I am sure the church will be able to offer some assistance, if only the letter reaches them.
When and what, is of course, some concern..
But in the meantime, I will attempt to assemble an adventuring band to weed out the most immediate threats.
With luck, we may be able to strike enough a blow to operations there, that by the time assistance comes,
the temple can be retaken in full.."

The entry ends with a hasty quoting of his letter to the temple, signed Mathell, Cleric and servant of Kelemvor.