Entry One: The Rival Party, New Toys, and Mindflayers

I have decided to begin documenting my encounters in the city of Qatif, if only to remind myself of the past when it seems distant. Ironic, considering of how much I remember things that never happened to me...

We met with the rival party today to seek aid in the upcoming battle with the mindflayers. Apparently we broke part of the pact with the knight by entering the human district and she demanded reprimand in the form of items, but who is she to implement these rules when the lives of the innocent are at stake? My items are not only literal extensions of my being, but of my soul (that is, assuming I have one). Each one was handcrafted by me using the strange energies that flow like miniscule streams through the underlying crevices and cracks that permeate the cosmos, binding each one with not only magic old and wild, but a grain of my own essence. Not exactly an easy thing to do, even for me, a being that wouldn't exist without such methods, so how dare she? How dare she ask for something so personal, something so quintessential to my life, both in meaning and method? Her followers stood by idly, obedient, silent. What  does she have on her followers that make them submissive to her every whim? Some are men I know... Caelash, the "bolt guy" as we have fondly named him, was a new addition to her group. He fought along side us against Elian and every bolt found its mark, yet here he is now, standing behind this sapphire behemoth. Martheril confuses me even more, for I've heard tale of him saving the party from doom before and seeing him I can tell he is a man of great virtue and goodness, yet somehow he is attached to the knight to the point of being inseparable. I can't even begin to comprehend her motives. Too large a step is the one I would have to take to perceive the entirety of her "big picture", her grand scheme for this realm... I will admit that she redeemed herself slightly when she revealed that the sacrifice was only a test to see if we were willing and reimbursed us with more powerful items than those we possessed, but her dancing around the truth of her motives rusts my gears and grinds my pivots to the point of malfunction. "Give it time", I tell myself. All truths shall be seen in the light of the Flame.

In light of the recent events, the knight has brought me a small joy... Okay, so it's a joy that has me gushing like the maw of a gibbering mouther, but the Flame forbid that azure rust hag ever finding out. The weapons, the armor... so exquisite! In my short time (well, relative to other inorganic life. I'm not sure how old I am, but markings I've found on my parts suggest at least 3000 years old... it's hard to wrap my head around that, considering if I didn't know better I'd say I was only 20) I've only seen items like these in the hands of the most courageous, or most demented, warriors. I received hide armor that stores the essence of of a comrade's skill, allowing one to use the comrade's attack in combat. The intricacies of its design are elegant, yet hearty and practical, a degree of care and skill that I hope to one day match. The Boltshard handbow fits snugly into the spot that Shock Stinger once resided. It's drawstring is taut for sure, but holding the weapon in my hand betrays it's true nature to me as if I were reading a book. It holds a strength greater than one would perceive, but I know the innate energies that flow through it, and by extension, through me. Upon testing it, I've found that every bolt that passes over the threshold of its bow now turns into a piercing crystalline shard of a brilliant, softly pulsating violet. During, considering the name of our advertising party... All of the weapons drew my eye (err...well, viewing port I suppose. I don't have eyeballs to speak of) but the most intriguing item was that of Whelm, a warhammer of great power with a rather useful and inversely problematic property. A weapon of old, Whelm forms an empathetic bond with its wielder and suggests is will to its owner, which yields great power and under other circumstances would be most useful, but it all surrounds one pivotal factor: Daas. The hammer must be sated by the blood of trolls, giants and, of course, goblins. Based on tales I've heard of the weapon, there's a good chance that it may try to hunt Daas, regardless of if Grummush wishes him I'll or not, but let it be known: I've grown quite fond of this odd little creature (despite the occasional transference of bodily harm during combat), and I have no qualms with removing the spirit bound to the weapon if it should come to such circumstances, benefits of the weapon be damned!

After our time with the rival party we managed to find repose after a long day to catch our breath... at least, the organics did. I don't exactly partake in aerobic processes, so oxygen intake isn't a priority for me, nor is food consumption or sleep, for that matter. It occurs to me that I've never actually dreamed before... I wonder if anyone shares this problem, if it is a problem at all? Oh well, can't pine over something lost that you never had in the first place, but I digress. Grummush sleeps like a log filled with various beetles and other irritants, so it surprised me when the tiefling barely stirred or made any indication of being disturbed. Maybe he's used to it by now. I know I'm certainly not... Volke is a different case all together. He and I refreshed our reserves before the rival party arrived because we are similar in that we don't require the same amount of rest that other being do, though our methods of rest are wildly different. I merely remain inactive for four hours, keeping civil over the group. He sits in his corner in an unwavering trance, his eyes flicking back and forth behind their dark covers, his muscles slightly twitching every so often. I can gleam some of what's occurring in his racing thoughts, as he will quietly murmur broken phrases and slivers of words in an almost indicernable whisper. I've been able to catch the words "kill"and "mindflayer", but the rest is a mystery to me. I could ask him one day, but so far he has given plenty of indication that he is not one to share his thoughts unless absolutely necessary...Grummush was still sleeping, Whelm still tightly clutched in his hand (and if I didn't know any better, I could have sworn that the hammer was snoring just a bit more quietly than Grummush) when Volke broke from his trance, which is usually signaled by a slow and long breath from him, as if he were unloading and compressing his prior thoughts for his next excursion into the unwaking. Azh'riaan was just starting to come to, as I noticed a single bloodshot eye quiver open and look to me with a certain irritable indifference at the realization that a new day was beginning. What happened next was a whirlwind of action and movement that seems almost unreal and to my perceptions barely happened. We started off towards the human district, where Volke and Orrin tried to convince citizens to vacate, with mixed success. I remember dodging arrow fire and scrambling for cover, but it's mostly just a blur. My perceptions started to come into focus when we left for the dwarven district to seek their aid. Instead of being met with a crowd like the other district, we were approached by a handful of nobles. I'm not sure what he said to them, but Volke managed to pause the dwarves to help us against the mindflayers. I brought attention to the scar on my face (which I have still neglected to wild back together) and how it was caused by the mindflayers, and to my amusement one of them wanted a closer examination. Organics always become skittish when I display my innate talent for detaching my limbs, and this situation was no different. I haven't played a good prank in a while, so it was rather refreshing to laugh again when the internet dropped my disembodied head... I regret to say, though, that things have returned to their original sober state as we hear up for war with the Ilithid. May the Flame protect us.