Journal of Teral Deborn #001 - Introduction
The man opened his eyes, his head groggy. He lay on shrub grass, near a small body of water. Palm trees rose beside him, but the warm wind gave truth to the desert landscape in all directions. To the north, a shadow on the horizon. To the south, a huge sandstorm in the distance. East and west the desert continued.
Teral.. Teral Deborn. Yes, that was his name, he remembered it now. Something about a tower, and an old man, and a portal... what was it? And his middle name! He had remembered it. He remembered remembering it... but not the name itself. Damn it! It was important somehow. Standing up slowly, he took stock of himself and his possessions. His brown leathers, those had been with him for as long as he remembered. A somewhat stale odor reminded him he was overdue for cleaning both himself and his clothing.
The sword at his side... this was unfamiliar. In a simple leather belt and scabbard, it was lightweight and yet felt at home in his hand. He swung it around a bit. It made a slight humming sound when he swung it fast. On the blade was script he did not recognize. Yet another question in need of an eventual answer. Sheathing the blade, he took out the dagger also on his belt from its small sheath. Sharp, but ordinary. Looked like it would throw well. He proved this shortly after by flinging it into a nearby palm tree trunk. Well, apparently he could throw a dagger passing well. Not bad.
What else? In his pocket, a small pouch with three gold pieces and two silver. Not much money. Also a scrap of parchment, upon which was written:
See Moneychanger, Do Not Spend
What the hell was that about? Looking at the coins carefully, each was imprinted with a twelve point star and a script that he could not read for shit. "Dammit!" he said. Why did there have to be so many questions, so few answers?! Where was he? Putting the money away, he patted down his pockets and found no other possessions except a small opalescent sphere. Shrugging, he put it back in his pocket. It was then that his eyes alighted upon the leather-bound journal by where he was laying.
"Yes, my journal," he said, softly, picking it up. This he remembered. He did not remember writing most of it, but it was always with him. He carried neither ink nor quill, but somehow he had entered in entry after entry. Sometimes the journal would open, sometimes it would not. With no latch nor lock, sometimes it remained sealed. The cover and back were unadorned leather, and on the cover there was etched a rune, a stylized M with a five pointed star above the dip and three dots in a tilted triangle formation just to the right of the letter. That was it, and he had no idea what it meant.
"I can't stay here forever," Teral muttered, but decided to bathe and wash his leathers before continuing on towards the shadow on the northern horizon. There was no way he was going south into that sandstorm, and east and west looked like a death trap. Better then unknown than certain doom, that was one of his (admittedly many, and subject to change) mottos. After drinking, bathing, and washing his clothes and underthings, he rested upon the grass. It was then that the journal opened. It had not opened in so very long...
My name is Teral Deborn. This is my journal. The past fades from my mind quickly, its echoes slipping with each second. I have lived long, and made many mistakes. I feel regret seeping from me, and this is the silver lining of my condition. I have done something. Something... I do not remember. Please understand that I write this, knowing it will be read, by me, but that I will not remember writing it.
I meant to record how this was done, but that is gone now too. I am standing on a marble platform, in the ruins of a great hall, above a majestic waterfall. To my right is the body of a golden dragon, dead. Not long dead, however. How did this dragon die? Who could slay it? Was I involved? I do not know. There is a dark storm in the southern sky, it comes on quickly. Dread fills my soul at it's approach. What evil powers this storm?
I have no answers, only questions. Who am I? When I set quill to paper I knew who I was, and meant to record it, but it is gone, washed away by this fog that swiftly fills my mind. Upon the stairs leading to this marble platform are a good many men and elves, all dead. Their throats are slit. Blood is everywhere. None is on me. None, I am clean. How then did I get here? How did I avoid their fate? A book is on the platform. A magic tome. I think it may be mine. Am I a sorcerer? A wizard? I shall not touch it.
The storm is coming. My name is Teral Deborn. Your name is Teral Deborn.
The page ended there, and Teral could not turn to the next one. The journal shut. Getting dressed and standing to his feet, he faced the dunes ahead, and the shadow in the distance. "I will find answers," he said, and somehow, this time he believed it...
Teral.. Teral Deborn. Yes, that was his name, he remembered it now. Something about a tower, and an old man, and a portal... what was it? And his middle name! He had remembered it. He remembered remembering it... but not the name itself. Damn it! It was important somehow. Standing up slowly, he took stock of himself and his possessions. His brown leathers, those had been with him for as long as he remembered. A somewhat stale odor reminded him he was overdue for cleaning both himself and his clothing.
The sword at his side... this was unfamiliar. In a simple leather belt and scabbard, it was lightweight and yet felt at home in his hand. He swung it around a bit. It made a slight humming sound when he swung it fast. On the blade was script he did not recognize. Yet another question in need of an eventual answer. Sheathing the blade, he took out the dagger also on his belt from its small sheath. Sharp, but ordinary. Looked like it would throw well. He proved this shortly after by flinging it into a nearby palm tree trunk. Well, apparently he could throw a dagger passing well. Not bad.
What else? In his pocket, a small pouch with three gold pieces and two silver. Not much money. Also a scrap of parchment, upon which was written:
See Moneychanger, Do Not Spend
What the hell was that about? Looking at the coins carefully, each was imprinted with a twelve point star and a script that he could not read for shit. "Dammit!" he said. Why did there have to be so many questions, so few answers?! Where was he? Putting the money away, he patted down his pockets and found no other possessions except a small opalescent sphere. Shrugging, he put it back in his pocket. It was then that his eyes alighted upon the leather-bound journal by where he was laying.
"Yes, my journal," he said, softly, picking it up. This he remembered. He did not remember writing most of it, but it was always with him. He carried neither ink nor quill, but somehow he had entered in entry after entry. Sometimes the journal would open, sometimes it would not. With no latch nor lock, sometimes it remained sealed. The cover and back were unadorned leather, and on the cover there was etched a rune, a stylized M with a five pointed star above the dip and three dots in a tilted triangle formation just to the right of the letter. That was it, and he had no idea what it meant.
"I can't stay here forever," Teral muttered, but decided to bathe and wash his leathers before continuing on towards the shadow on the northern horizon. There was no way he was going south into that sandstorm, and east and west looked like a death trap. Better then unknown than certain doom, that was one of his (admittedly many, and subject to change) mottos. After drinking, bathing, and washing his clothes and underthings, he rested upon the grass. It was then that the journal opened. It had not opened in so very long...
My name is Teral Deborn. This is my journal. The past fades from my mind quickly, its echoes slipping with each second. I have lived long, and made many mistakes. I feel regret seeping from me, and this is the silver lining of my condition. I have done something. Something... I do not remember. Please understand that I write this, knowing it will be read, by me, but that I will not remember writing it.
I meant to record how this was done, but that is gone now too. I am standing on a marble platform, in the ruins of a great hall, above a majestic waterfall. To my right is the body of a golden dragon, dead. Not long dead, however. How did this dragon die? Who could slay it? Was I involved? I do not know. There is a dark storm in the southern sky, it comes on quickly. Dread fills my soul at it's approach. What evil powers this storm?
I have no answers, only questions. Who am I? When I set quill to paper I knew who I was, and meant to record it, but it is gone, washed away by this fog that swiftly fills my mind. Upon the stairs leading to this marble platform are a good many men and elves, all dead. Their throats are slit. Blood is everywhere. None is on me. None, I am clean. How then did I get here? How did I avoid their fate? A book is on the platform. A magic tome. I think it may be mine. Am I a sorcerer? A wizard? I shall not touch it.
The storm is coming. My name is Teral Deborn. Your name is Teral Deborn.
The page ended there, and Teral could not turn to the next one. The journal shut. Getting dressed and standing to his feet, he faced the dunes ahead, and the shadow in the distance. "I will find answers," he said, and somehow, this time he believed it...