Tiaumil's Field Notes for Jergal

Well, here I am, once more in the Shadowfell.  Not a place I had ever wished to see again, and yet my returning serves only to remind me exactly why I made my bargain with you in the first place.  I do loathe it, and we have not even made our way to the outskirts of Merdelainian lands yet.

We very swiftly found what remained of the paladin the group were after.  I was uncertain as to whether to include him in the notation of the dead I agreed to undertake, but did so anyway.  A woman from the House of Caldrithen, named Qoledra, stripped Idris of Ebondeath's soul before having her people dispatch Idris Doryu.  I am left to wonder if this action; the acquisition of such a powerful soul by the House of slavemakers, is a part of the problem you would have me look into.  If it was the power in such a soul that Ularan himself was hoping to utilise, what that House would be able to accomplish when they have already managed to craft a way to collar, control, and make physical, the Sorrowsworn, it is daunting. 

Outside of that, we found a well of ancient power, as you know.  I have decided that I shall attempt to gain answers from it on its nature.  It occurred to me that it, and the ruinstone, are of a similar nature, and as that is part of the task you set me, it makes sense to know and understand more about it.  Your advice was that it was dangerous to me, but that knowledge could be gained.  I know that you would understand the nature of the well, but I doubt I could shoulder another task from you currently, as the one I am currently undertaking is difficult at best, logistically, so another risk would need to be taken instead.

I will admit that the scale of your task may be more onerous than originally considered.  The Shadowfell is a war-torn land, and I have already gathered several pieces of the dead in order to derive their details from my grimoire, but it will take time for I can only do that once per day, and only then if I have not had to use it for some other purpose.  Carrying these small parts of the dead with me for it will swiftly become troublesome to tell them apart in such number.  Truly, I do not know what shall be done if we come across a battlefield.  How am I to catalogue such a large scale of dead, especially if there is an active battle going on? Not only that, but you are the God of the End of All Things, and so I am left to wonder about those creatures who were not of a humanoid variety.  You have always been fair in your dealings, but the practicalities of this task are somewhat daunting and unwieldy when faced with the Shadowfell, rather than my life in Candlekeep.  Some guidance on what you expect, or how better to manage it, would be helpful.

Assuming I remain in control of my faculties after the well, of course.  But what is life without a little risk?  I will attempt to gain Arya's benevolence in the morning, for her aid would minimise that risk.  I don't plan to enter the Halls of your Domain just yet, after all.

[Mentioned in session, no actual letter written, just Tiaumil updating Jergal on all he'd learned.]

The writing on the book is not in Tiaumil's beautiful and well-crafted handwriting, and yet still done by his own hand; pain producing ink from a pen they had not thought to take from him.  It seemed foolish to leave a slave with a sharp object, and one that was magical, and so he had to believe that its nature had been hidden and perceptions subverted by the one who crafted it.  Bloody and pained from the most recent beating, mostly starved and exhausted, Tiaumil's writing in the dark of his tiny chamber was not at its best.

We were captured on the boat to Merdelain.  Qoledre of the Sarina house.  Too powerful for us after fighting a sickened aboleth she controlled.  She cast some manner of greater restoration, and then Time Stop.  Collared us all.  Split us up.  I only managed to regain your book now from a crafted scroll. 

Much as he had done before, he would update on anything he had noted that might be of use to Jergal, as he had done before on the boat just prior to their capture.  Anything he had seen, heard, or noted about what had been going on, anything of use, he tried to write it, though for each word written the pain searing up his arm only grew in strength, sapping him in trade for a pen to work without ink.  Finally though, he had noted all he could.

Just then, he did not have the strength to write more, even if he'd had more to write, and so instead, he pressed a bloody thumb under the words, barely able to see in the almost complete darkness of the room, but seeing just enough to note the words fading, as they always did, from the pages of the book.  Months, it had been, and there was little to report that he had not done prior to capture.  But at least now he could try and recuperate at least a little.  With his book in his possession he had a far greater pool of spells by which to craft a scroll… if he could find the energy.  Not that day though.  Today all he had left in him was the wish for sleep before he was once more called to start yet another day of mind-numbing tediousness.  It was certainly a far cry from his life back in Candlekeep.