V'Orlan Family/V'Orlan Estate/Library/Rogos' Journal

Entry 1

I fought in my first tourney today! Itorunt hosted a grand event, there were thirty competitors in total, and what ferocious fights there were. I was lucky enough to get in early and set up spaces for my fellow Perdanians. I won my first bout in the melee, by luck I suspect, as my opponent a Knight from Eponllyn was more akin to a terrible beast than a man, but I struck a lucky blow to his knee which lost him the bout, but then was absolutely demolished by the fair Duke Fontaine in the second round. Not too bad though, considering the things I have heard of him and his adventures on those northron seas.

I ended up competing again against that Eponllynian knight in the joust, and he unseated me in the first blow, and as disappointed as I was with it all I am quite glad my horse suffered no injuries, as some of the other knights in the tourney faced with their mounts.

Sleeping in my own bed again, or at least in my manor, will bring no end of satisfaction to me after so many long days of travel.

Entry 2

My first encounter with the supernatural beyond the undead occurred today. As my forces married up with Earl Joreb, a slavering werewolf charged our camp, driven to an insane bloodlust by something beyond our understanding. The archers cut it down in a hail of arrows. I inspected the corpse of the creature before it was incinerated and it looked as if nothing could come back from such grevious wounds, but I have heard the stories as every young Perdanese, that burning is one of the few ways to see the true end of a werewolf.

Entry 3

War has broken out once more. I know not what to write as I sit here. It has been four days since the North attacked, and we have scurried across the countryside trying to catch the forces of Caligus off guard, or intercept their movements, and I fear that in almost every engagement I have been a part of, it has been met with little success. Messengers bring me scrolls touting victories won by our larger hosts, but until yesterday I had only had the displeasure of fighting the undead that happen to rise in the aftermath of such conflicts.

At present, my camp feels like a snowy grave. Two small fires are all I have burning for my company, which now numbers only twenty two, all of whom injured and are being tended to by our over-worked healers, Dorius and Eloret. Eight of our number perished, or were taken prisoner by our honourless enemy, a fate I would not wish on any of kind-hearted Perdanese bretheren, and one that I find myself dwelling on.

We reached Wikenmaus ahead of the main body, Imperatrix Alyssa and I found our companies pulling away from the rest of the army along with Lady Isana's archers and thusly we forged ahead as the vanguard, a storm at our backs. I considered this a good omen, as our approach was masked by darkness and thunder, but it seems that the opposite would be true. We were in Caligusite territory for not but a few hours before we encountered an enemy host, apparently led by a Ser Hector, who appeared to outnumber us significantly. Numbers were not my concern though, as I know any Perdanese soldier is worth three Caligusites. I did dismay at the effective loss of our archers, the wind being too heavy for accurate shots, and with the appear of a second body, I began to have my doubts, but we were committed at this point, and I would not shy from danger with the Imperatrix at our backs.

And with a single cry, the battle began. Our archers were deployed at the front, and after their initial dismal volley, I directed my men forward through the ranks of Lady Isana's archers to meet the coming force. When we cleared our friendly lines, we saw their cavalry. Quickly ordering my men two deep into a shield wall, we braced for the charge as Imperatrix Alyssa bolstered our flanks. Some of our men scored good hits, felling some horses, and even striking down their riders, but the weight of the charge injured almost every single soldier, myself included, catching a lance blow to the chest, which broke thankfully, and likely cracked or bruised a rib or two. I was forced to rally who I could and withdraw, none of my troops could fight effectively, save Captain Meinolf who aided the injured during the retreat.

Now, I sit in the dying light of a campfire, praying to the divine that I can withdraw what men I still have from this tomorrow. My scouts are observing the enemy camp and helping the healers where they can.

Entry 4

Nine men were in fair enough condition to fight today, thanks to the tireless attentions of Dorius and Eloret, though a sound flogging of the Caligusites was stolen from us, as an undead host had began to animate on the battlefield, and all were honourbound to fight against it. Many of the northern nobles had left their forces to fight without them, an act of cowardice and dishonor which exemplifies why we must stand and fight against them. Our orders are now to withdraw to Meuse to the north. My scouts say the enemy are there, some moving to Bursa, others to Scio, and almost 250 remaining in Meuse. I hope strongly that we smash the Caligusite forces that are foolish enough to remain in our path.

Entry 5

Sirion forces have swept through Bescanon and occupied Meuse, making a battle exceedingly unwise. We are forced to hide like rats before a fat cat. If only they would swallow us to choke on our bones. Basden passed away on the road, his blood stained our retreat from Winkamus. Myself and four others ventured forth with his body into enemy territory to Tordal, to bury him at the Sanctus Acies temple nearby. Brive is supposed to be clear, but I expected to fight the Caligusites here too, so who truly knows.

Entry 6

I write now from the safety of the capital. My men were caught by Sironian forces and cut down by Eponllyn arrows. I have sent out Meinolf to find those of the Griffons who remain in Perdan City. My arms and armor are being repaired by the Conclave of Smiths that operate in Perdan's Marketplace, and I have procured a new stallion.

Entry 7

It has been many days now since my last entry in this journal. My scribe has kept it for me, but I have been remiss in placing entries, and so much has happened... we fought in Eldoret and smashed the Northern forces, I have been made Vice Marshal of the Perdanese Golden Lions. I fought in the tourney dedicated to the late King Niall of Perleone, who was apparently a fickle ally of Perdan and few truly mourn his passing. I knew little of the man. Currently we march to Partora in an effort to aid our Vix Tiramoran cousins. Many of the Opal Griffons have returned to our banner, and we now fight again as a full company of Lions.

Entry 8

As Vice Marshal I am second in command of the Golden Lions, which has been a great responsibility that thankfully has not been totally unfamiliar. I did serve in this effective role during my time as a Lieutenant in the Griffons, but this is very different in terms of scale. Moving an entire army over vast swathes of distance has provided its own difficulties but they have not been insurmountable to my great relief. At present, I am leading a small detachment of nobles in the continuing policing and pacification of Dimwood and Beziers. So far it has been relatively quiet, but that could easily change. Dimwood still rumbles with discontent, but with luck it will remain merely that. I should entreat an adventurer to find our more...

Entry 9

I write in a new century. 1020. It has been a time of joy, chaos, loss, and victory. I sit in the fortifications of Bescanon, my wounds being tended to by my healers while the Opal Griffons lay dead on the battlefield. We struck the walls twice, repulsed the Northern hordes allied with undead. A hundred cavalry slaughtered my troop, shields braced and formation unyielding, I myself took a lance to the chest and lay wounded, ribs and skull cracked, but their sacrifice is not in vain, for our archers still man the walls, the smallfolk are swinging to our cause as we remind them of their ancient heritage.

Entry 10

Once more have the Northern barbarians worked their way down to our lands. Their own corpses, raised to fight against them as if through sheer spite of their old masters. The wounds caused by the undead horde in Nascot were not serious, but they were enough to give the enemy pause. The chaos of war prevented us from making a stand where we were needed, instead splintering between Bescanon and Brive for a bloody fight. Many were wounded, but with fatalities it was surprisingly gentle. Only half of these fledgelings lost their lives or ran, the other twenty something copped their wounds like true men.

We smashed Shadowdale stragglers who remained to fight the rearguard of the Northern assault on Partora, caught more in Meuse and Mulhouse, though few victories of note. They leave with little plunder that we have not struck from them in men and materiel. This pointless bloodshed is almost infuriating. I wish only to drink mead and run rampant through the towns and hills of my estate without concern for the beating of savage drums.

I count twenty good men amongst these fledgelings, who have survived three battles, and are of fair character. I have hope for the remaining fifty, but I am not so eager as to be a fool and violate our sacred traditions. Two more battles, and they shall receive their stripes.

Entry 11

Another long pause between entries. Nascot is safe, though Shadowdale and the North marched to assail Vix Tiramora in Ar Mosul. I have met with a merchant from the Golden City, who seems to be both cunning and charming. With the Grand Gala coming up, I think I will offer him an invitation.

Entry 12

Hah. More than two decades since I wrote in this. In truth I had forgotten it when I left for Westria, and never had fetched for it in my short time in the City of Lions. My research is all tucked away, guarded behind doors and wards, so perhaps I should make notes here, for whomever may stumble across this diary. My name is Rogos V'Orlan. I am a knight of Perdan, though the title means little to me now. I reminisce about when glory and honour were all that pushed my heart to pump. These past entries remind me as much as they might inform you, dear reader. Now I bear a blade for my country once more, dragged from my work by duty to my countrymen, if not to the strictures of power that bind my name to the concept of nobles in our society. The Opal Griffons have been diligent in my absence, keeping their and my coffers supplied. We now march towards Bescanon once again, and I cannot say in words how much the concept of revisiting that land as the attackers muddles my soul with fear and disgust. I have looked into things deeper than most in this world, and I know why I felt the way I did, and feel the way I do. I know now, why it was better for my men to have died on that field, than for they to have lived with the impacts of such carnage.

There remained only a handful of us on that bloody field when the dawn began to break, awaiting with doubt and trepidation throughout the night as to our fates. Myself, His Highness Prince Nemean, Duke Smiddich Fontaine. We waited, hours in fields and rivers of stinking copper grume. Something coalesced, and collapsed, or was slain, in the same evening. Creatures of darkness stir in this world, this is common and well known in circles of power and influence, though the commonfolk are only rarely exposed themselves as individuals. A pit of malevolent energy was fostered on the fields of Bescanon that day, and be it through the alignment of the spheres, or the foul will of a necromancer or the presence of an undead champion, that energy infected us. I have chased down the fates of most of the survivors of the battle. Murdered. Suicided. Bound to an asylum, slain in accidents or simply gone missing. Even nobility have fallen prey to its effects. I know I have. I know that should my research be made public, I would be branded a lunatic and cast into an oubliete for putting ink to paper to document my research.

I know not why I live. I do not know why I have not suffered the same terminal fates as all the others who were exposed that night. I do not know if it is will, or fate, or destiny that I survive. Perhaps I too will suffer the same fate some day, and that by some mystery, or by the merit of the mysteries I have explored, fate has seen it fit to prolong my life in spite of its circumstances.