The Wagon Guard

To the woman who raised me,

Thank you for teaching me how to speak, understand, write, and read. For that, my dashing good looks, the homecooked meals (which will be sorely missed), and too many other things to list, I will be forever grateful.

So grateful, in fact, that I have succumb to your beggings and decisively put my quill to the parchment. I hope when you come to read my words they do not bore you to the tears I fear they will.

P.S. The Wagon Guard is not the name I would have given my journal, nor what I would have embroidered upon the front for everyone else to see. Thank you.

Et-Day, 7th Day of the Month of Truth, Historical Year 3:914, 244 PS

Stronghold Hills, Strongwall, Outer City, Home

Dusk

Six days.

One week.

A single week to stand tall, swing my sword, and show my worth.

Okay, putting it like that makes it sound way too grand. It's really not that hard or that important of a job. All I will be doing is guarding wagons traveling from here in Strongwall to the town of Splitsway. I'll then join different wagons and guard them to a (hopefully) safe return.

Three days there, three days back. Should be simple.

What may be a harder task is that I have promised the woman currently looking over my shoulder that I will attempt to write in this book at least once per day. I doubt that will be the case, but for now, at least, I will try.

I don't know what she expects me to write, however. It's not like much of note will happen on this journey of six days.

Var-Day, 8th Day of the Month of Truth, Historical Year 3:914, 244 PS

Stronghold Hills, Pitside, Longdrop Inn

Late-afternoon

My first day on the road is over. Once we left Strongwall the journey was as simple and uneventful as promised. But the morning? Let me start from the start.

At the first light of dawn I was awoken by the gift of a hearty, near-overbearing breakfast, painstakingly prepared by the woman who raised me. As we ate, we sat and talked with hand-speak; we've become quite skilled over the years at talking with our hands full.

The rest of the morning was a whirlwind of goodbyes, congratulations, and good-natured ribbings from friends, my mother, and too many other people to name. It was nice to see them all, but before I knew it, the morning blur had brought me to the stables where us 'wagon-goers' were to meet. There were more than I was expecting and, unfortunately for me, the rabble I brought behind me helped to make quite the entrance.

What followed was what felt like an eternity of embarrassment, an eternity I would rather not relive more than I must. Just know that some of the crew knew hand-speak and a certain someone's fussing earned me the loveable nickname "Mama's Boy".

Thankfully, the 'entertainment' was broken up with our employer's arrival: a portly man of dark hair and sideburns on a face you'd find it hard to imagine a smile. His presence and sharp tap of his cane brought quiet, dispersing the non-wagoners as swiftly as they crowded.

The man, unamused and unfazed, watching us with unveiled scrutiny, introduced himself as Westroth. He outlined the job and stressed its importance and simplicity, making it clear exactly what was expected of those he hires.

And then, as quick as he arrived, he turned from the stables and left.

Studying the gathered group, only four of us appeared to not be a part of Westroth's usual employ: myself, two others I assumed to be hired guard as well, and a strange, elven-looking man. The three stood near the largest of our four wagons. I decided to go and introduce myself while Westroth's trusted guards finished their final checks.

As I made my way, the elven man saw my approach and stepped to meet me, hand extended in a layman's greeting. He introduced himself as Tedt'hath. He spoke well and told me, among other things, that the head wagon and horses we'd be taking were his, hired by Westroth. As he spoke I found that even despite joining the others in promoting my new nickname, I liked him instantly.

After checking our gear and allowing Tedt'hath's horses to get used to us, we left Strongwall. On the road I was finally able to introduce myself to the other hired guards, Harbry and Sastra.

Harbry is like me: young, tall, and athletic, but he has the long, honey-brown hair and striking blue eyes that make any with vision swoon. He's from Lower Haith on the other side of the Stronghold Hills, his last job bringing him to Strongwall. I hope these next six days find us talking often.

Sastra, on the other hand, is old. Okay, not fair. She's in her fourth, maybe fifth decade with the scars and wrinkles to prove it. She's got that old strength, like iron, and she's clearly a much more experienced guard. She doesn't speak much outside of giving orders, but I hope to learn from her.

And before I knew it, we had arrived in Pitside, a town named for the very deep, very wide pit it resides nearby. On coming into the village and learning about its name, I thought I would have more to write about it. But no. There's a pit.

That's it.

And that's it for my writing today. I'll sit in the inn until someone tells me it's my turn to guard something.

I'm finding myself glad I decided to keep this journal for you, mother. If nothing else the writing will help me pass the long days ahead.

Skel-Day, 9th Day of the Month of Truth, 3:914, 244 PS

Stronghold Hills, Oakenedge, Stables Rooftop

Sunset

Day two has remained as calm as the first. There was little more to do other than ride, keep watch, and think. But I don't say this as a bad thing. The sights offered to me on this day have been nothing short of awestriking.

I'm writing sat atop the stable's roof. From here I can see the Northern Sea on the horizon, the setting sun sending warm light glittering across the far away water's surface. The canopies spreading from the northern shore follow up the high cliffs to surround this little village of Oakenedge. From this vista, I feel as if I can see a glimpse of what inspires the bards.

I have felt this inspiration few times before.

I felt it occasionally when locking eyes with the fellow men and women I trained sword and shield with. There was something magical in the camaraderie of those moments. All of us with sweat on our brows, pain in our limbs, and the ring of metal, thud of wood, and shout of our instructors echoing in our ears.

Then there were the times before that when I worked as a servant. While mother worked in the high halls of Strongwall, her recommendation had me working as servant for the Strong Guard, then as servant for a Surk of the Strong Guard, Surk Poliff Fharguard.

But it was not these people I was servant for who showed me that glimpse of inspiration. It was the people who would come to watch them train. The myriad of emotions in the crowd's eyes as these men and women, crafted by countless days like these, honed their bodies into things both deadly and stalwart.

All martial practice in the Stronghold Hills is a public event, but the look in the eye of the people who would watch our training was never the same as what I saw in the eyes of those Strong Guard crowds.

However, the first time I was struck with the want to describe the indescribable was when I was but a little one. I had snuck from our home to climb the cliffs that the Outer City backs on to.

That day I climbed for what may have been minutes but felt like hours. I climbed without a goal other than to keep climbing. The din of the regular day gave way to the uncommon sounds of nature, only fuelling my want to climb. I swear I scraped every piece of my exposed skin on that quest to reach the top.

When I did finally crest the cliffs, I collapsed exhausted amid trees, surrounded by sounds all too foreign and ethereal to understand. I lay there until leaves started to bury me and the cold began to bite. When at last I stood, the scene that greeted me all but took the legs out from under me.

I will not spoil the view with a futile attempt to capture it with words, but know that it was this moment, this view, this uncapturable vista that inspired me and my desire to travel the land in whatever way I could.

As simple as this job is, I am happy to be living what was once such a far away dream.

I can hear the others calling for "Mama's Boy" so I guess I must put away the quill. I wish I had the time to write more; of Harbry, Tedt'hath, the others, and of our travel today, but the sun's light has almost faded, and we wouldn't want this journey to end with a fall from the roof.

The plan is to head out early morning and I would like a good night of rest. I am excited to see and write of what this Splitsway is like.

Hwen-Day, 10th Day, Month of Truth

Between Pitside and Oakenedge, Roadside Camp

Night

We've camped on the side of the road, halfway back to Pitside.

Today... there are no words. My hands remain sticky no matter how many times I wash them. They shake no matter how I try to calm them. The quill won't stay on the page. I cannot write of what happened. Not tonight.

Maybe not ever.

Right now I need rest. No, I need distraction. I need drink. The others pour for the fallen more than they pour into their cups. I think I will join them.

I've prayed to Jhesem for the campfire to stay warm for us. I'll pray to Rhigaviir for my dreams to stay silent.

I hope they both listen.

Kvin-Day, 11th, Truth

Pitside, Village Outskirts

Morning

A night's rest and a morning's travel away from the horrors of yesterday have done little to dull the fear they induced.

I was thankful to hear that we would be avoiding returning to Oakenedge. One of Westroth's men sent word, the messenger returning this morning. He informed us we're to take the north-eastern cliff paths, pass through Fharpost, and ride along the Top Road to Splitsway. We should arrive by Et-Day at the latest.

I don't know what this delay means for my return. I don't much care. The campfire did remain warm, but my dreams were not silent. I feel haunted, distant. A few have asked how I am in hand-speak. I pretended not to see.

I want to run, but I won't.

I want this job done.

Kvin-Day, 11th

Road to Fharpost, The Pit

Midday

We've stopped near the pit that gives Pitside its name on our way to the north-eastern cliffs. As Tedt'hath and the others prepared the wagons for the descent, I walked up the rise to the pit in an attempt to clear my head.

Standing on that edge I had a view of the Dwarven Lands of Hrutsonn, the mountains of the Spine of Ahnkarth, and even the smoke that plumes from the Desolated Expanse. But instead of to the vista, my eyes were drawn down.

The depth pulled my focus, begging me to look.

I peered deeper.

I shuffled closer.

The call of oblivion grew louder, and I think, in that moment, I wanted to see the bottom.

Thankfully, a call from the wagons stole me away. I raced down the rise, my head muddier than it was before.

Six-Day, 12th

Fharpost, Way to The Top Road

Dawn

When we arrived in Fharpost the sun was already set. We secured the wagons, stabled the horses, and found somewhere to rest.

It was only at the stable I noticed that Harbry lost his horse. A strong thing. He named it Neith. I think he's been riding in the back of one of the wagons.

We've shared glances since Oakenedge, but neither of us have spoken. And Sastra has only spoken to give us orders.

Today we will ride as hard as the wagons and horses will allow. Tedt'hath believes we'll make it to Splitsway just before midnight if all goes well.

But I doubt it will.

12th or 13th

Splitsway, An Inn

Midnight

My doubt, it seems, was unfounded.

We arrived in Splitsway an hour before the moon peaked, unscathed and uninterrupted. Tedt'hath and the rest of Westroth's crew took the wagons where they needed to go. The rest of us guards were dismissed, and I took that opportunity to find an inn, get a room, and collapse.

As I sit by candlelight, my eyes drooping, I find myself wishing I could write poetic about the journey like back in Oakenedge.

I can't.

The words won't stream from me. Inspiration gone. Eyes strug-

Et-Day, 13th, Month of Truth

Splitsway,

Late

I woke with ink over my hands, the sun setting out my shutters, and banging at my door.

Tedt'hath had come to see me. He told me that while the rest of the wagons would be returning to Strongwall, he's been tasked with taking supplies to Bount, a farming village that shares a border with the Vahnmoor Tradelands.

And he asked me if I would like to join him.

The question... it unleashed everything I had been pushing down. I exploded at him. I turned every bit of fear, every worry I was holding onto into anger, and I threw it.

I screamed and cried and all the while he just stood there. He waited until my yells turned quiet and in the silence he told me that he was once a solider too, that his mind had been where mine was. He asked me if I wanted to return home in the state I'm in, everything raw. He asked if I wanted my mother to see me like this.

That stopped me.

I didn't know what to say.

We stared until the last of the sun's light died away.

In the end, Tedt'hath told me when & where to meet the wagon if I wished to join him. And if I didn't, I should find a way to understand what happened before it consumes me as it almost did him.

Var-Day, 14th, Truth

The Hanging Pass, Halfway

Late Evening

The Hanging Pass is a dreadful place.

From the giant cliffs that flank it, criminals the powerful want an example made of are hung. They swing from above on vines that creep down into this pass. Rumour says if you stand still for too long the vacant vines will start to crawl toward you.

So, naturally, we've set up camp in the middle of it.

Yes, in the end I decided to join Tedt'hath. When I arrived at the wagon I was happy to see both Harbry and Sastra. I offered them both nods, introduced myself to the newcomers, and before I knew it we were off.

And now we're here.

I don't know why I decided to come. To think on Tedt'hath's words? As a distraction? I don't know.

What I do know is my light is dying, and I don't want to sit still any longer.

Skel-Day, 15th, Month of Truth

Hal-Velkyin, Farmstead

Afternoon

I won't write much today.

We left The Hanging Pass with no one attacked by creeping vines and have now just arrived on the outskirts of Hal-Velkyin. We'll leave early to make Bount before midday.

Now, however, I am going to find Tedt'hath, Harbry, and Sastra. My hand still won't let the quill put what happened at Oakenedge on the parchment, but I hope talking to them will help at least start to heal my mind.

Hwen-Day, 16th Day of the Month of Truth, Historical Year 3:914, 244 PS

Border of the Stronghold Hills and Vahnmoor Tradelands, Bount

Sunset

I wish I could have written earlier; today's events are a blur.

We woke to the sight of smoke and dust pluming from the southern horizon, the direction of Vahnmoor.

Tedt'hath told us to ride ahead and ride hard.

We did.

Next thing I remember, we arrived in Bount to find farmers building a defence, those unable fleeing the way we came.

Before we could ask any questions, they were answered.

Pouring from the hills, a black army of rot and decay. The fallen, now risen. Undead.

The defence was overwhelmed. Our horses bucked us and bolted.

Us guards fought and survived longer than I expected.

But like in Oakenedge, there was no winning. And this time, there was no retreat.

A claw dug into my side, ripping through, the force bringing me to my knees. Before I could react, I was knocked onto my back by the continuing fray, my wounds leaking into the mud. As I grasped at life, a wayward boot drove into the side of my head, knocking me from the world.

I awoke hours later.

Nothing gradual, just a sudden pull.

I tried to remember what happened, and found today a fractured blur within my head, the days before blank. Gone.

I hunted for this journal and found it in the mud. This book has become my memory, though my name has been lost to a wayward smear.

The others have risen too and are shambling away, but I feel no need to follow. I am undead but I have my own mind.

What do I do now?