Reylendor

Reylendor Aspenmorrow

Relatives	Adyra Aspenmorrow (mother), Ilican Aspenmorrow (father)
Languages	Abyssal, Common, Deep Speech, Druidic, Elvish, Primordial, Sylvan
Affiliations	Servants of Att-Annalo (former), Protectors of the People (current)
Aliases	Vessel of the Shadow-Stalker
Marital Status	No Spouse/Partner
Place of Birth	▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇
Species	Wood Elf
Gender	Male
Height	5’9 ft
Weight	120 lbs
Eye Color	One Dark Green, One Dark Purple

Grave Domain Cleric. Druid. Pronouns: He/Him.

Physical Appearance

Reylendor has tan skin, dark brown hair that’s quite disheveled, and had emerald eyes with bags beneath them. He appears quite thin, even by elven standards, and had a frail stature. Reylendor wears green, cloth robes held together by brown leather straps: they appear average in quality. He carries a buckler shield in one hand and an amulet in the other. There’s also a spell scroll fastened to his right side.

Currently, Reylendor has darker eyes than he did before, with one being purple rather than green. His hair is now closer to black than brown. He has also grown taller, standing at 5’9. Though he is still thin, he doesn’t appear as frail as he did before. Instead of a metallic buckler shield, he carries one made of stone. His holy symbol, an amulet, has taken on a dark violet hue.

Personality

Reylendor is agreeable in conversation and will work towards the general good of any party he ends up in. He has a tendency to get lost in anxiety-riddled thoughts, leading to the occasional bout of spaciness. At times, he lapses into paranoia and closes himself off or breaks away to think. Despite everything he’s experienced, he still loves learning and is ever curious about strange arcana and alchemy.

History

▇▇▇▇▇▇, with its abundance of mixing races and cultures, was probably a great place to live for those who weren’t relegated to the slums. Reylendor wasn’t so lucky; when he was born his parents were in the depths of poverty, and another mouth to feed didn’t make life any easier. His mother and father worked any jobs they could get their hands to provide for him. When he was too young to work he begged, and he took to work as soon as he was able. Reylendor did everything from cleaning stables to sweeping chimneys to holding signs for street-side magic acts, but he didn’t see actual magic until he was 60.

After Reylendor’s sixtieth birthday, a religious group called the Servants of Att-Annalo took root in ▇▇▇▇▇▇’s slums: they healed the injured for free and pooled their funds to open a soup kitchen for the hungry. Obviously, the city’s poor quickly became big fans of them. Five years after establishing themselves, the Servants offered to take in children to train in the ways of their God, Att-Annalo. Many families jumped at the opportunity and Reylendor’s parents were no exception: they wanted him to have a chance to make something of himself. And so, he spent the next several decades training.

Reylendor originally thought the Servants were clerics, but learning they were warlocks who used healing staves made little difference to him. Despite many others who began training after him being allowed to make pacts with Att-Annalo within 5-10 years, the Servants kept Reylendor in his role as an apprentice and scribe; he didn’t mind much since he enjoyed the work. During this time, Reylendor learned Deep Speech and Abyssal as they were the primary languages the Servants used to communicate. Eventually, at age 115, he was deemed ready to become a true warlock and make his pact.

During the Pact Ceremony, the unthinkable was revealed: Att-Annalo was no God, but a Far Ream dwelling Great Old One looking to create an avatar and manifest on the mortal plane. Unfortunately for him, Reylendor was deemed an ideal host. The Great One managed to latch onto a portion of Reylendor’s soul, but he was able to break away before it could fully corrupt him. Reylendor ran from ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ as fast as he was able, not allowing himself to think of what might become of his family/friends in his absence.

While running from the Servants and just barely surviving on the road, Reylendor bumped into a roaming group of clerics. Feeling sympathy for his apparent plight, they took him in. Fascinated by authentic healing magic, he was quick to cast aside his warlock lessons and take to the studies of a healer. However, his experience with Att-Annalo rendered him thoroughly unable to trust any entity claiming divinity, and Reylendor shocked the clerics by learning their skills while remaining a staunch atheist. Sensing that they were put off by him, he left the group in search of a way to rid his soul of Att-Annalo’s influence.

Currently, he’s 121.

On the Servants of Att-Annalo

“The Far Realm is filled with forces utterly incomprehensible to those not born into it. Some of the entities dwelling within it might be older than time itself. Those who seek to meddle in the affairs of that realm are either naive—desperately searching for purpose since they’ve found none within the Material—or arrogant: fools who would claim understanding where there can be none. I was once both. I write this so, should something unseemly become of me, others will know of the danger in pursuit.

In 735 PR, halfling Mel Netheroe went to a bard’s college to study the lore of the world. He grew uninterested in his studies and dropped out three years later, turning his attention to a local order of wizard scribes; Mel studied under them for six years, but eventually turned weary again and left. I am uncertain of the exact details since Father Netheroe Mel keeps much close to his chest, but I do know that he garnered a few followers in 745. They fancied themselves true scholars—people who refused to sink a lifetime into a single study and wanted to see ‘the truth which connects it all’ or some other nonsense.

At some point in their scholarly meandering, they turned to looking at the stars. It was then that Mel heard The Calling: strange whispers that spoke to him not as voices, but “sight beyond sight”. He started hallucinating having visions about the true nature of the world. He told his closest companions and eventually they started having these visions too. I am uncertain how they procured the funds to build an observatory, but they did. They locked themselves away and, perhaps ironically, dedicated themselves entirely to learning of the Far Realm.

It was then that Att-Annalo finally spoke to Mel. He described it as the height of fulfillment: a culmination of all the philosophy, lore, and science he had ever learned. I think he was likely absorbed by the power it’s pact bestowed him with. Whatever the case, in 764 the newly named Servants of Att-Annalo descended on the slums of ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ City like an asymptomatic swarm.

Despite their strange garb and preachings, they healed our sick and tended to our weary. That was enough for us. I’ll never begrudge my parents for sending me to become their scribe. I spent decades transcribing Att-Annalo’s nonsensical murmurings to its favored servants and stupidly hoping to one day be blessed enough to receive it’s words. Really, I can’t believe I ever thought the abomination was a god.

I remember precious little of the night that was supposed to be my initiation

just writing it unsettles me and there’s a pounding in my head every time I so much as look upon that damnable scroll.” —An excerpt from the journal of one Reylendor Aspenmorrow

~Scroll of Communion with the Great Old One~

Words are scrawled on top of each other. Some are so dark that they bleed through the page. Other words fade in and out of sight depending on the lighting. The language appears to be a distinctive dialect of Deep Speech. One phrase is constantly repeated in the margins between sentences: “speak… life… vessel”.

On the Olympia Magisteria On Why I Continue to Inflict Myself With Such Headaches (8/6/22)

“As it would turn out, it is in fact not a good idea to participate in unnecessary, exceedingly strenuous events when harboring a fraction of an eldritch abomination in one’s soul. It is perhaps even less of a good idea to do so when one has recently experienced stress onset by the knowledge that the cult associated with the Far Realm that they’re hiding from has taken residence in a tower connected to said realm. All of this is, of course, compounded by the fact that the day’s events were broadcast to countless individuals throughout the land. Truly, the level of foolishness I have displayed is astounding.

I, for some unearthly reason, attended the Olympia Magisteria games. I was given a VIP ticket—likely for helping Seglock during the Goblin/Tiamat crisis—and decided that I had nothing better to do than prevent an incoming nervous breakdown by drowning myself in a crowd of fans. Unfortunately, members from both teams went missing, and VIPs were called to fill the missing spots. Despite showing a hint of intellect when I was apprehensive about participating, I lost all shred of caution and agreed to fill in anyway.

I was on a team with Cecil, a rather eccentric gnome, and a dragonborn fellow named Volrac. The latter was one of two among us who looked like they belonged in a sporting event: the other was a tiefling called Igniticus—I thought he was rather full of himself at first, but from what I saw of his performance, his arrogance may have been justified. During introductions, I’m afraid I nearly blinded the cameraman with an Eldritch Blast. It’s disquieting to know the spell still comes so naturally to me after all this time.

The goal of every game was to steal a shrunken version of the opposing team’s mascot and bring it from their side of the field to ours.

First, the field we played on took the appearance of an alchemist’s set. There were so many different formulas being diluted and diffused onto the ground around us. I even saw acid that had been thinned enough to retain an irritating, sticky quality without causing any actual damage. I wish I had taken samples. I was so occupied by the equipment that I hardly noticed the game playing out around me. By the time I took stock of what was happening we were already losing rather badly. Cecil ran into a wall. I probably should have healed him when all was said and done. The poor man looked concussed.

I believe we may have fared better in the second match. The field turned to layers of dirt filled with ant mounds and tunnels. There were even massive ants for us to ride on. Once again, I found myself distracted, though I was hardly the only one. Wren, an elven druid on the opposing team, also began the game by doting on her ant. We chatted for quite a while. Honestly, talking with her has made me seriously consider taking up druidcraft. Eventually, we both went on to assist our respective teams.

Pum, the opposing bard, took on the appearance of an enlarged Cecil for much of the match. Unfortunately, when trying to grab our mascot, she knocked the man right out of his polymorph. I’m no expert, but that probably should have counted as some sort of foul. Despite that, I may have gone a bit far by projecting an image of her violently kicking a ram to the crowd. She forgave me for it, so I suppose there was no harm done. That Igniticus was constantly flying around with what I believe was a modified version of the spell Hellish Rebuke. Rather impressive.

While laying explosive glyphs for the other team to stumble into I spotted Cecil crawling around, his mount nowhere in sight. I have no idea what he was doing. I set him up with my mount and he charged into the fray. He has spirit, I’ll give him that much. Despite our efforts, we lost the second game as well.

I thought that would be the end of it, but an old gnome lady ran out with five veteran players and challenged the six VIP players to one last, winner takes all match.

Whoever was in charge of the field must have been privy to my nightmares. I can think of no reason for why an eldritch, tentacle-marred landscape spread out before us. I would have collapsed into a heap of not for the others doing their best to keep me grounded. Wren turned into a dire wolf for me to ride on. If the world survives whatever the cult has planned, I hope we become good friends.

I remember Igniticus telling me he killed his demons and that I could do the same to mine. The rest of the final game is spotty at best. I was in the air at some point and… the tentacles were flailing? Something must have happened, because I received quite a few strange looks after we won. I worry about what this memory loss might indicate. I worry more about my actions having been broadcast.

When I see Ensign again, it may be best to fully disclose my circumstances. If I were a religious man, I’d pray for all of us.”

On an Unnerving Dream (8/30/22)

“Elves are not supposed to need sleep. For some Fey related reason, we usually go into trances instead. What I know of the logistics is rather fascinating, but it’s hardly relevant. The fact is that I’ve never slept in the traditional sense. I’ve never had the time to. That is to say, I slept last night, and it unsettles me deeply. I was assisting with medical needs in Seglock—as I have since I arrived—and at some point I nodded off. Thankfully, I wasn’t assisting anyone when it happened. I’m particularly put off by the dream I had.

It began with me wandering through the woods, which I’ve been increasingly inclined to do as of late. The scenery was familiar, but it was really too familiar. The trees and flowers were blurring by, which tipped me off that I was running. I saw people up ahead and finally realized that I was reliving my encounter with Tordek, Violet, Varryn, Boros, and Siohbhin. Despite that realization, the people I saw didn’t have faces. In fact, when I asked for their help, they didn’t respond at all. An Eldritch Blast hit me, just as it had back then, and everything went black.

When I awoke, though I was still within my dream, I was struck by the strangest sensation. I was awake and I could see everything around me, but my body seemed to be moving on its own. I went about my typical routine: checking in with the hospital efforts in Seglock and assisting sick and weary refugees. Despite my commitment to being a cleric, I could tell that the day’s efforts were exhausting me. No, rather, it was more that they were boring me. I was upsettingly dismissive of an old woman who’d had her legs cut off and I outright ignored a man complaining of a terrible stomachache. Though I now know it was entirely my imagination, it was horrific to see myself act so callously.

Then, the world around me ceased to be, and I saw strange glimpses of stardust scattered on the wind. The stardust swirled and exploded, creating little gleams of light that resembled constellations. It should have been beautiful, but I was struck with a sense of horrible vertigo. When I looked down, I was falling. I fell for ages without actually moving and all the while the constellations shifted and changed: they seemed less and less like stars and more like writhing black masses trying to break free from the light. Eventually, I could make out images. I think I saw Father Netheroe Mel in one of them. He was holding a scroll, and though I couldn’t make out what it said, it felt like it was a story of some sort: the tale of a young being raising themselves within a confusing world. I can’t remember ever reading a story like that.

I hit the ground but felt no pain. My body was still no longer my own. I wandered through a field, observing the tall grass and roaming animals. By the time I left that field, they had all died. I was heading toward some towering building that looked to be facing the sun. The building was melting: I could see bits of walls and windows splattering against the ground.

After this, I finally awoke, but I couldn’t shake the scent of smoldering rubble. I am not entirely certain of my purpose in writing this down. Perhaps this is my attempt to make sense of my dream as I have been too tired and occupied to give interpretation an honest try. I feel strangely compelled to see if the scroll I claimed from the Servants can provide answers, but I dare not come into communion with… that thing. If I have a shred of luck, and I sincerely doubt that I do, maybe these words will always be nothing more than the ponderings of a restless mind. If only my Fey ancestors would lend me some of their fortune for the future.”

On the Future (8/31/22)

"Recent events have made it evident that I have been far too lax. I fear my incessant trembling shall render my penmanship shaky at best. My situation is far worse than I previously thought. Not only has Attianlo Att-Annalo latched onto my soul, but it has also apprently apparently grown strong enough to possess me. I know not what I did to encourage this surge in strength. Perhaps it has to do the machinations of the Servants. I can only be thankful that nothing horrific has happened as of yet.

Is it even safe for me to continue my work in Seglock? I shudder to think of what could happen where that being to take control while I was tending to someone. What about the research university? If it were to acquire the knowledge on display there, the results could prove disastrous. How much of my conscious mind has the abomination already probed? Can it see what I write at this very moment in time?

I do not know what will become of me. More than that, I worry about what will become of others, especially those who know more than they should. That fellow I met with, Boris Boros, tried to talk to the damned thing when it took over. Thannkfulll Thankfully, he said it was uninterested in him, but that supposed disinterest could have just as easily been disdain. If it decides to pursue him, there is nothing I will be able to do.

I must leave. I shall inform Ensign of my departure and hope that they find another cleric to take my place. It will be a terrible risk to travel alone in the wilderness, but I see no other oppti option. If that thing were to hurt someone using me as its avatar, I would never forgive myself.

Perhaps I should fully explain my situation to Nsiddn Ensign or another advebturr adventurer I am familiar with. There are many men, women, and people far wiser than I; I could gain insight into how to cleanse myself of this corruption. Then again, I may very well risk alerting the Servants. They appear unconcerned with me at the moment, but that could easily change. I should be remiss to burden others, anyway.

Was it posssess possession that overtook me during the Olympium Olympia Magisteria? It must have been. My memory after we entered that eldritch abyss is spotty because it wasn’t me who was there in the end. The danger I put all those watching in…

Maybe the scroll holds answers. I hate to think it may be so, but the scroll of communion is the only way I can think of to understand this thing’s aims. After departing Settlock Seglock, I will endeavor to decipher it."

To Whom It May Concern,

I, Reylendor Aspenmorrow, will be leaving Seglock for the foreseeable future. I apologize to those who depended on my clerical abilities for the lack of notice, but I assure you all that my decision is for the best. I do not know when, nor if, I will return, but if I do I will go out of my way to repay the immense hospitality I was given.

Until we meet again.

-The letter appears hastily scrawled and the ink bleeds through most of the page.

Communion (9/20/22)

~Scroll of Communion with the Great Old One~

The words squirm when looked at, as though they might wriggle off the page. Glancing at the parchment, one might feel their eyes glaze over and a headache tap at their forehead. Whether fluent in Deep Speech or not, certain phrases evoke a sense of wrongness.

Reylendor clutches the scroll between trembling fingers. He’s far from Muso—far from anyone who could suffer the consequences of this going horribly wrong. He chases off any wildlife that comes sniffing in his direction. Animals run off when he shouts for them to get back, but they always seem to loop back around before leaving for good.

“What do you want?”

He wakes before an answer finds him. Reylendor wakes on a threadbare bedroll in the center of decrepit wood. The walls around him creak so much it’s a wonder that a gust hasn’t blown them over. Outside the room, something falls over and Reylendor jumps, reaching for his amulet. Then he remembers the glyphs upon glyphs circling the cottage and calms himself: any non-animal would have stepped into quite the nasty surprise. He lets himself wonder if it’s the same rabbit that from the past few days.

Stepping into the living room confirms his suspicions. A familiar, brown and white form hops from a leg-less tabletop to a dusty wooden bench. It stares at Reylendor for a few moments, then thumps. He huffs a laugh, walks to the little kitchen, and cuts the leafy top off a leftover carrot. The rabbit happily munches on its morning snack while Reylendor makes himself eat the orange half of the carrot.

He tells himself it’s been a good few days since he left Muso. There haven’t been any blackouts and his world stays green instead of fading to inky purple. He hasn’t heard any voices… Reylendor fights the urge to spit up his meager breakfast. Thinking about what happened won’t help him. The only things he needs to think about are out in the forest, waiting for their daily care.

Reylendor tugs on a pair of old gardener’s gloves, pulls his satchel over his shoulder, and shuts the wobbly wooden door behind him. Before stepping any further, he deactivates the glyphs of warding he placed the prior night. If someone breaks in, they won’t find much worth taking. He might have worried about someone seeing the ramblings in his journal, but that fear had burned in the same flames as the notebook yesterday. Now was not the time to leave traces behind.

The rabbit’s shape appears in the opaque, cobwebbed window by the door. Reylendor thinks they look like a little guardian. Maybe he should give them a name.

The path he treads differs every day. It would be confusing if the woods didn’t feel like an old friend. He’s learned to remember little things, like a flower blooming around a bent root and a tree hole that’s spiked around the edges—he sees a squirrel scurry into it with stuffed cheeks.

Maybe it’s because wood elf has wood in the name but finding his footing in the forest comes as easily as walking; well, so long as he isn’t running around in an absolute frenzy. Reylendor pats his cloak down, ensuring it hasn’t caught on anything, and turns the corner into a grove. Nestled between two interwoven oak trees is a patch of oleander that he’s been nursing for at least a week.

On the opposite end of the forest, behind a bunch of moss-ridden logs lurks purple nightshade.

Daffodils sprout near his cabin.

Angel’s trumpets announce themselves in front of a weeping willow.

Reylendor doesn’t think any of this is some sort of divine sign. He knows there’s only one person who has any hope of bisecting the eldritch shard clinging to his soul, but he plans to get to him soon enough. He doesn’t deny that his plans are at least somewhat self-centered, even if he hopes they keep others in poverty from putting their faith in a man like Mel: in a man like the Baron or hundreds of nobles bleeding the people under their care dry.

He’s never been entirely averse to killing. Reylendor chose the path of a healer to pay genuine kindness he’d experienced forward. Sometimes, kindness can only be born out of blood. Reylendor is grateful his mother taught him how to make tea out of anything.

Tending to all the different plants doesn’t take long. The rabbit is still there when he returns, and the name Watcher comes to mind. Watcher hops down from their window perch when Reylendor opens the door and sits at his feet. Gloves long since removed, he reaches down to pet the rabbit’s head. Watcher nuzzles his hand and bounds onto the sofa, settling in for what looks like a nap.

Reylendor sighs and heads back to the room that’s quickly become his. Something he misses about Seglock is all the noise. There was so much to be done and seemingly little time to do it. His time was occupied by patients, not errant thoughts.

Surrounded by woodland quiet as he is, the attack at Muso steadily creeps back into his head. He had wandered aimlessly for days when Oxan spotted him. Then Flame reared his terrible head and, perhaps foolishly, Reylendor abandoned every apprehension to make a break for the town about to face fire and death. He hardly offered any help: the only spell he managed to cast against the dragon missed. It was Ona, not him, who held a crumbling tavern together and convinced civilians to flee for their lives. At the very least, Reylendor had healed the injured when everything was said and done. That, if nothing else, is something he’s always capable of.

Reylendor shudders when he remembers blacking out. He had almost grown accustomed to it by then, but it had never been forced onto him. Yet, Silent had merely said the word and his body was ripped away from him, thrust into the hands of that thing bubbling beneath the surface.

If Silent had the power to set Att-Annalo loose… the threat of ensuring that Flame lived through the battle was venomous. He accepted their terms not for himself, but for the townspeople who were having their homes razed right in front of them.

Still, it was inarguably, absolutely, sheer idiocy. One would think a former scribe should possess more sense than what he constantly put on display. Silent’s voice hasn’t come to him since he signed the contract, but Reylendor has no doubt that they’ll be back.

He has flashes of what the being within him did as it took control. When Reylendor closes his eyes and stretches a hand toward its presence, he can see Flame, the mayor of Muso, and a contract with Deep Speech scrawled on it: it reads… The letters shift in his mind, but he can make out the way Mel always spelled Att-Annalo.

Reylendor laughs. He doesn’t particularly trust this fragment of memory. Att-Annalo is unknowable, but the idea of it binding itself to a God of Death is too hilarious to be true. Though, perhaps it was. Perhaps they would both spend their lives as Silent’s tools.

“What are you thinking about?”

Upon opening his eyes, Reylendor is greeted by the sight of Watcher, well, watching him from the doorway. He blinks and looks around. Then he looks inward for the voice, worrying that yet another entity has taken root in his head.

“Hello? I’m down here.” He looks down. Watcher tilts their head and thumps in what must be frustration. “I’ve been trying to talk to you for ages now!”

It should be shocking how easy it is to accept that he’s simply gone insane. He supposed it’s comforting, in a strange way, to know that this voice is merely one of his own creation. Watcher thumps again.

“You know, most druids don’t take this long to catch on.”

He stares at the rabbit and frowns. “I’m a cleric.” Reylendor knows there’s little point in conversing with a hallucination, but it’s not as though he has any sanity left to lose.

“Are you sure about that?” Watcher asks. “The only ones who ever find this place are druids.”

Offhandedly, Reylendor tries to Detect Magic: to see if there’s a chance that this is, in fact, actually happening. He can see a steady, passive aura of verdant green flowing from him and wrapping around Watcher. Reylendor stumbles back. “I- I’m not-,” he trips over his bedroll and collides with the back wall. Thankfully, though there’s strained creaking from the impact, the cottage doesn’t completely collapse around him.

Watcher hops over to him and sighs. “Do you get it now?”

Reylendor nods ever so slowly. One million thoughts, all entirely his own, flood his brain all at once. How does one become a druid without realizing it? Is it really a skillset you can acquire simply by submerging yourself in the woods? If he could speak with animals now, what other abilities could he tap into? Was this why it had been so easy for him to start cultivating all those plants?

“Anyway,” Watcher interrupts, “there’s something one of the others left behind. I tried to tell you before, but I don’t think you could hear me.”

“The others?” Reylendor shakes his head to clear it. Obviously, he’s not the first person to stumble into this place.

“I think it was the woman who was here before you. She was a gnome. Spent a lot of time thinking, like you do.” Watcher rubbed their face, looking much more like an average rabbit in the process. “She left her ring behind. It’s somewhere in the kitchen.”

“Okay.” He never would have guessed that he would spend his free time truly talking to a bunny. Reylendor had adopted the habit of speaking to animals but conversing with them was another thing entirely. “Thank you for telling me.”

“Thank you for feeding me.”

Ah, he thought, an exchange.

Searching the kitchen provides a good enough reason to get around to dusting. Reylendor plucks out some of the particularly thick cobwebs and uses a rag to wipe off countertops. Watcher follows him around. They don’t say anything else, but they still make for pleasant company.

Eventually, he finds a wooden ring tucked into the back corner of a cabinet. It has etchings, but they’re worn with age and Reylendor can’t quite tell what they are. He detects very faint traces of magic from it, but nothing strong enough to have a palpable effect. Reylendor secures the ring in his satchel. In the future, he may have the means to restore it.

That’s if he isn’t executed for the crimes he intends to commit.

On the Results of My Time with the Protectors of the People (12/2/22)

I have decided to start writing again. I do this not out of some desperate hope that someone will pick up where I’ve left off, but simply because I enjoy writing. And no one, not Mel Netheroe or Att-Annalo itself, will take away the things which I enjoy. In this entry, I will document the events that have occurred among the Protectors of the People since I joined their ranks and ruminate on… recent internal developments.

When I joined the Protectors, I did it solely for access to resources that would help me kill a certain person. Now, I regard them as family. It’s funny how much has changed in just a few months.

Things went awry almost immediately when I was named a council member. From there, I joined forces with Hugo Clarion, Claw of the People, on a not-so-successful mission. We attempted to coerce other adventurers into divulging the locations of dragon eggs when, in all honesty, we should have talked to them without the implicit interrogation of Zone of Truth. Neither of us was the most charismatic in that endeavor.

At some point, I decided the mantle of grave cleric suited me more than life cleric. My driving goal after the encounter with Flame had been to bring about one man’s death after all.

At some point, other adventurers went to Relith Tower and the whole structure had come crumbling down. Perhaps if I had been proactive rather than insisting on hiding away from my past, I would have been among those who drove the Servants from their acquired base. Instead, it was all I could do to hound those involved for details. There, I discovered a prayer to Att-Annalo and even now I can’t help laughing at the pretentiousness of it all; they truly believed they were bound to achieve some sort of enlightenment by worshiping something they barely comprehended. I know more about Att-Annalo now than Mel Netheroe ever will, and I am damn certain it can offer no one “enlightenment”.

Then came the deaths of council members Markoth and Asger, the Hoard and Scales of the People respectively. However, I doubt that they’re truly dead. If they were, the Sending spell wouldn’t have been able to reach them. When my business with the Servants is finally laid to rest, I’ll return to trying to locate them. Perhaps, by then, Silent will have more knowledge about where their souls are.

When Drang, the Heart of the People, returned from the battle that killed Markoth and Asger, Feyjin, the Mouth, was quick to deduce that he was suffering from severe illness. We performed a risky surgery to remove the bad tissue that was infecting him, and though Drang lived it wasn’t without remnants of the corruption infecting him. The corruption whispered to us—much like Att-Annalo sometimes whispered to me—and showed us images of what I now know really was Drang’s past. At the time, I was too focused on the surgery to put stock in the words of yet another mysterious, dark force. But this corruption was right. Drang slaughtered many in his time.I have since reconciled the dissonance between Drang’s past and his present because, in some respects, I am now like Drang: bearing the burden of souls taken. Drang survived the surgery. The Bugbear is hearty despite his real age.

Too soon afterward, the Claws of the People rebelled. Again, I was missing from the action when I was needed, too preoccupied with a cabin in the woods to attend to my duties as a council member. Of course, it is likely a good thing I was in the woods that day. Or maybe thanks should go to Feyjin for calling me back to base when she did. Had I not left in such a frantic hurry, it’s possible that Watcher wouldn’t have come with me. On my way back, however, a member of the Claw—acting under Hugo’s command—used a prayer recovered from Relith Tower to attempt to summon Att-Annalo. I resisted at the time and kept control over my body, but my trust in Hugo was severed.

In my place, while I ran back to base, Quill did his best to help sort out the magical nature of the issue afflicting Hugo. Apparently, he performed a “soul dissection” that let Feyjin enter Hugo’s “soulscape” and learn of what was causing him to lash out. I’m still not completely sure of what happened that day, but Hugo intended to die, and he did. When Feyjin revivified him, he was reborn as a Hugo who lacked the old one’s memories. That didn’t stop me from yelling at him when I finally returned. It’s only because of Watcher’s and Feyjin’s words that I calmed myself enough to walk away. I do not regret my anger. It was well-earned. Hugo sees no problem with acting on theories, but theories that have yet to be proven are just that. He risked the lives of others to “take me off the board because I was an unknown”. I’ve forgiven him now, but I hope this new version of him doesn’t retread old mistakes. Funnily, I say this knowing that he’s already done as much.

After the old Hugo’s death, Feyjin searched his room and found contingency plans to eliminate any member of the Protectors of the People along with other secret information. Most pertinently, he had several papers about Att-Annalo and its Servants. When I looked at those papers, I blacked out, and it took over. It was then that Feyjin learned that our pasts were more intricately linked that we had first surmised. It shook both of us, but we devised a plan.

Both the Servants of Att-Annalo and the Shepherds of the Lost developed a specific ritual for silencing internal thoughts. It was meant to be used for periods of intense meditation, to help facilitate communion with Att-Annalo or the Great Shepherd. With some tweaking, we devised that we could use it to silence Att-Annalo’s voice inside my head. This would give us a week to develop further plans without it being able to watch over us from within me. The most well-laid plans never pan out, do they?

When the ritual occurred three days later, all our planning crashed and burned.

I remember being shunted to the back of my own mind when the process began. It was excruciating to have my control ripped away like that. I thought my skull would explode from the sudden pressure. Though I stood inside a magical circle meant to prevent escape, but Att-Annalo’s presence was far more overwhelming than we had accounted for. The Members of the Mouth casting the spell soon fainted from exhaustion.

Hugo donned his mask again—the same one he refused to part with when he orchestrated his own death. It made him speak with the same burning assurance of the Hugo before him. He spoke of everything burning in the end and it dawns on me that I truly have to confront him about this at some point. Those were Flame’s words before they were Hugo’s and I need to know what inspired him to take them on. He threatened to destroy Att-Annalo’s vessel, me, with Falgrim’s Fire, but it was nonplussed. Just like Hugo, it has its own contingencies for what will happen should I meet my demise. Well, I should say it had its contingencies. Hugo eventually exhausted himself and left the completion of the ritual to Feyjin.

It made me don the visage of her late brother, one of the many who was sacrificed to it. I haven’t the faintest idea how she mustered the will to stay standing after seeing something so abhorrent, but she did. In the face of her iron resolve, Watcher acted, and revealed himself as far more than just a smart rabbit: he spoke a Sylvan incantation and used some version of Nathair’s Mischief to let Feyjin charm Att-Annalo. It was unbelievable when it happened, but it did. The charm gave me enough strength to push my way out of the prison of my own mind and force Att-Annalo to remain in control long enough for Feyjin to finish the ritual. She must have poured every last drop of magic she had into that spell, because the end result was me as I am now.

I may never be able to fully comprehend it, but Att-Annalo’s essence has stopped pushing against mine. I no longer feel a tug on my soul. My vision doesn’t cloud with visions of eldritch horrors stalking every shadow. We’ve joined, in a way that is greater than the way we were bonded before. I don’t fear being overtaken by its will because its will is mine. I believe this was only possible because it was a piece of Att-Annalo, rather than the entire grotesque thing, that latched onto me that fateful day. As Watcher would put it, a heart in pieces is no match for the strength of resolve.

Speaking of Watcher, I now know what he is. He’s only told me the short version of the story, but I’ll inquire after everything in short order. Apparently, an archfey who was partial to druidcraft liked him enough to bestow him with some of her power. This turned him from a regular rabbit into a fey spirit of sorts. He fancies himself a guardian spirit who watches over the druids who make their way to the cabin where that archfey once dwelled; as for where the archfey is now, Watcher has no clue. Apparently, she left without warning and hasn’t been back since.I’m not certain, but I wonder if the old ring I found was actually a trinket of hers rather than the gnome who lived in the cabin before me. I should press Watcher for details next time I ask about his past. I feel as though he’s hiding something.

Honestly, it’s hard to believe that I’m still alive. When I first ran from the Servants, I thought they would hunt me down in a matter of days. Things are far from over, but I don’t fear them anymore. On the contrary, I’m almost excited by the notion of seeing Mel again. I’ll slaughter them when they inevitably threaten the family I’ve found, but before that, I want the man I called Father Netheroe to have the intimate encounter with Att-Annalo he has so fervently been chasing. It’s unfortunate for him that it won’t end the way he wants.

On Trances & Dreams (12/4/22)  

I no longer need to sleep. Considering my former horror at having the rest for a full eight hours, this should be cause for celebration. However, my trances are still unfamiliar to me. I no longer see eldritch landscapes or view myself performing acts of callousness. Now, I see myself in that same wooden cabin I visit so frequently. The difference is that I’m not an elf when I’m there during my trances. Instead, I’m a cat. I know that druids are able to wildshape into animals, but that’s an ability I have yet to master. Frankly, I’m uncertain how I’m supposed to obtain it. The only thing I can think to do is spend more time around animals. I suppose I could ask another druid, but I’m rather occupied with cult research at the moment. I tried asking Watcher, but he told me I’d be best off learning on my own: according to him, it comes differently to every druid.

Come to think of it, I still don’t know how I became a druid to begin with. I was considering pursuing it, but I hadn’t actually gotten around to it when I wandered into that cabin and met Watcher.

Back to the matter at hand, as a cat, I wander through the cabin as though searching for something. Eventually, I find the old wooden ring that Watcher told me to take. I always snap out of my trance before I can do anything with it, but not before I sense some form of energy emanating from the ring. The magic pulsing from it is enchanting yet somehow sinister. Though I say that, and it is hard to spell out, the energy isn’t bad. At least, I don’t feel that it is because it isn’t directed at me.

I think I need to do something with that ring, though I can’t imagine what. When I asked Watcher about it, he was cryptic to say the least. He called it a trinket, but a trinket worthy of being such—what that means, I haven’t the faintest clue.

Lately, when I speak to Watcher, I get the idea that we’ve met before. As in, long before I ever set foot in the cabin where I found him. It makes no sense and certainly isn’t possible, but the idea remains no matter how I try to loose it from my head. Surely, he would have said something if we knew each other. What reason could he have to treat me as a stranger?

I’m going to study that ring and see if I can make out any of the etchings. They’ve grown faint with age, but some study may reveal what manner of magic they could relate to. I’ll have to make this secondary to researching the Shepherds of the Lost, but I should still have time to make some progress this month.

I hope that identifying the markings will give me the means to properly restore the ring, but I may be better off trying to restore it before anything else. Quill has a talent for all things arcana, so I’ll enlist his aid. With the two of us working together, we should be able to make some headway.

I’ve noticed some… interesting changes in my appearance since the soul ritual. For one thing, I’m around four inches taller; I certainly can’t remember ever wishing for another growth spurt. My hair is much darker than it was before. The color of my eyes has also been altered: both of them are darker, but my left eye is now purple rather than green. I can’t say I dislike these differences. It’s more accurate to say that I feel nothing towards them at all. It is almost as though I’ve always looked this way.

Languages

He picked up Common and Elvish from his parents and uses them most. He tries to avoid speaking Abyssal or Deep Speech without reason, since they’re a reminder of his time with the Servants but will occasionally slip and mutter under his breath in one or the other, usually when stressed or paranoid. As of recently, Reylendor can understand and speak Druidic.

Powers and Abilities

Reylendor is both a regular and unorthodox cleric. He has no trouble harnessing radiant energy to either heal his allies or attack his foes, but he’s also an atheist. He believes the gods exist but refuses to worship any of them; there’s no explanation for where his powers come from, other than the possibility that he’s siphoning them from the piece of Att-Annalo intertwined with his soul. He would rather not acknowledge that possibility. As a grave cleric, he is particularly adept at bringing people back from the brink of death or guiding them into an early grave if he so chooses. As someone who studied arcana for years under the tutelage of the servants, he also has a great deal of knowledge about magical effects and rituals. Since starting his career as an adventurer, Reylendor has been particularly fond of the wilderness. This fondness eventually led him to become a druid, heightening his connection with nature and animals.

Attacks and Weapons 

Despite having a mace, Reylendor never uses it: he was never particularly strong and being exposed to a cult ritual certainly didn’t help his physicality. Reylendor also still has access to some warlock spells: he learned Eldritch Blast, Minor Illusion, and Comprehend Languages during his time as an initiate. He’s willing to use Minor Illusion to cause distractions and Comprehend Languages to aid communication or text deciphering, but he’s sworn off ever using Eldritch Blast again. To him, it’s far too directly connected to Att-Annalo’s power.

He also has a spell scroll detailing a ritual to achieve communication with Att-Annalo (he acquired it during his time as a scribe).