Berrian Gilgeryn

Background
The firbolg are a secluded folk. Carrying packs of earth upon their back, seeding the land with fertility and protecting it against those that would upset the natural order. Above all, the Tribe of the Heavens draws inspiration from the stars to maintain the earth. They believe their marshy home to be where the sea meets the sky; a nexus allowing the dirt and creatures upon it to know what they truly are: stardust.

Firbolg who have seen a thousand moons are given their own hectare of land to tend and protect, but Berrian Gilgeryn was not ready. Unfocused and inexperienced in the druidic arts, his family sent him on an errand of solitude to commune with the sky above. As he sought the heavens he did find the earth below, but not in the way his elders expected.

Muromac, a hinterlands outpost, full of the varied and unusual sort that can weather such wilds, steadily captured the firbolg’s attention, and a deep seated appreciation of the simple pleasures of food and drink took hold. Roasted pork, warm potatoes, and hearty beers infused with the wild hops gathered in the nearby wood. It was this backwoods brewing that introduced Berrian to the town of Land’s End in pursuit of grain to malt. His large stature and natural affinity for handling the work horses made for regular travel to trade ore, sulfur, and a flotilla of ash for the port town’s quality wheat.

​Of course, being so isolated exposed the camp to all manner of dangers. In exchange for their domestic comforts, Berrian found himself fighting alongside the outlanders, fending off beasts and raiders alike. One morning on patrol tending to the humul vines, he came upon gored earth and splintered trees near the camp’s logging operation. Deep gashes about the width of an arm with clear intent to destroy. *BRRRRAAANNG* *BRRRRAAANNG* ''Two toll of the bell. A beast.''

What he saw on returning was stunning; a giant boar, larger than any he’d seen rummaging for truffles in the brush these many decades, ransacking hut after hall after rack. The creature was unresponsive to any words, only halting its rampage momentarily as Berrian touched its mind. What started as an attempt to sooth quickly turned to frenzied pursuit. ''A deep torrent of rage. So ancient, so tempestuous. Something’s not right.''

This new attention did give him the opportunity to draw the beast away from the outpost. Only vaguely aware of the motionless bodies strewn about as he breached the treeline, a sudden pain square between the shoulders knocked him prone. It’s faster than expected… All he can hear is huffing and snorting, view filled with bristling fur, nothing but an overwhelming musk bearing down. With an ear splitting squeal the great boar reared up, ready to drive its tusks into his chest, when three heavy thuds punctuate the cacophony. It staggers to one side, just missing the firbolg’s arm, three heavy spears protruding from its side and rump. Shuffling to ready itself for another attack, Berrian seizes the small window to mutter a word of thanks and supplication to Astraios.

To his surprise, a faint blue glow flows from his fingers into the engraved patterns of his staff, Elendion. ...shillelagh... A second squeal breaks the still, and with both hands he drives the staff into the head of the beast, ghostly blue flame jetting into its pale green eye. As it connects the impact reverberates up his arm throughout his body, and blackish-red ooze erupts from the eye socket, engulfing the arm still grasping the staff. The giant boar careens several yards, too far for the force; he had only meant to knock the creature out.

On closer inspection, the boar’s skull had caved in. Now prone, panting, the great beast struggled for its final breaths. The spearmen jog up with the local cleric in tow. Observing the boar, he infers it to be a forest spirit gone mad.

In attempt to ease its passing the cleric prayed: "“Oh nameless god of rage and hate, I bow before you. Pass on in peace and bear us no hatred.”" The porcine demon lord responded: "'Disgusting little creatures. Soon, all of you will feel my hate, and suffer as I have suffered!'"and rapidly decomposed into the earth leaving only a pile of bones and the putrid stink of death.

Darkness overtook the firbolg, only to awake several days later under the care of the strange cleric. Curious of the cleric’s power and with little to do till his strength returned, he learned all he could of the man’s healing arts. As most in the backwater outpost, the man’s background remained a mystery, but Berrian gave thanks to the holy man's god (Nessus was it?) all the same, and his wounds heal.

All but the blackish ichor. The affected arm cleaned and apparently functional has been stained a deep twilight blue. While the outpost has made strides, it is clear it will be a long road to recovery. The cleric agrees that it may be a sign, something more lasting left by the forest spirit in its final words.

Potentially at enmity with the land he was assigned to protect, Berrian agreed to leave the camp. Land’s End is the only other place he has known beyond his tribe, and the flow of grain had long since stopped. Maybe he can find a place there restoring what halted the trade; perhaps recommit and find Hiatea in their renown fields of gold; maybe find a way to correct the evil growing within and corrupting their land... or at least find a good meal and a firm drink.

Goblins in the Forest
What a beautiful day! Land’s End is buzzing with an energy she has not felt in decades, and the winds outside go to suite. So many new faces make the droll of the recent days sequestered to the shadowy parts of a run down inn much more bearable. A few of the smallest ones itching for adventure decide to strike out. Talking with the inn’s proprietor and resident folksman, our bellies guide us on to Orland and his post about goblins in the nearby woods. There’s some thought that their unsavory presence has lead to this unfortunate dearth of drink beyond brackish water and weak tea.

I've received a few new nicknames of "Big Fella" and "Big Guy". Somewhat unimaginative but appropriate enough given our many span height difference. After a few hours march out of the town into the searing wood, my companions seem weighed down by the delightful deluge and decide to make camp. Though it’s hard to tell one from the other, the loudest of the little ones decides to take the first watch. No surprise when we are awoken by his bellowing after what feels like mere moments resting on the grass. He’s hailing a group of halflings on the road! My understanding was we camped off the road to avoid such direct contact but no matter, it's the little one’s head. No not halflings, but dwarves dressed as such. How our watch noticed in the sheets of rain and dark, I don’t know but unmistakable now. Smells more of rock that earth, feet more road worn that plow worn. Our watch has told them the direction of town, Land’s End. Awfully generous, but I do hope to see it in one piece when we return. Hard to enjoy a nice bowl of gruel from a ransacked inn…

The rest of the night seems to go fine, only punctuated by the faint impression of horse hooves. It is a highway after all. The weather has cleared, but our path pretty quickly ended. It was also oddly silent, not a forest animal to be seen to check for intelligence on the area. That did make the metal spikes in the trees stand out, however, which the scamper-claw little one used to scout out our direction to the tower we sought.

Direction assured we made our way toward the tower only to be interrupted by a corpse bound to a tree. A little jarring to be sure, but on close inspection I can tell this unfortunate man has left this plane for many days. Curious, one of my companions mentions a body last night; seems like that would have been important information but no matter. Before another thought can be spared, the bellowing pint runs up and just snatches the corpse’s (of course empty) coin purse. I fail to suppress a laugh, just that wiggly little mass of limbs dangling, too much! Ever the level head, Orland moves to cut him down and I lower him by his head as best I can, hardly worse for wear. My goodberries make for a simple salve, and fortunately we’ll not need to feed another of their mouths for the day.

The bell in the trap ought to have alerted suspicion for the tower stood in the middle of a clearing not 100 paces from the tree, but shockingly all quiet. The guard at the top seemed almost bored at his post, though with a great perspective on the whole glade. Perhaps the large rock could provide some cover? As has been clear with the bellowing pint, action before thought, but he shows his salt! The bellowing belly-sliding stone strider crosses the distance and unleashes a blinding volley at the watchman, knocking him out entirely undetected. I shall have to study him to better understand our serpentine brothers at a later date. Since I’ve already made myself invisible, I cross to the only perceivable entrance to the tower and come upon an empty hallway with faint voices deep within. A goblin chieftain approaches to the south, fishing pole and spoils jovially in hand. The group quickly rejoins in the hallway and ambush the hapless goblin leader, hopefully infusing some much needed excitement in their apparently droll assignment. Fut Fut has much valuable information about their numbers and composition even with his limited counting abilities. He also seemed amenable to softening the defense, but our band decides for a more… direct approach. With a promise of cooperation with the orc masters routed, our captee is bound and knocked out once more.

It is all I can do to keep up in the combat that ensues. Blazing magics and flying daggers betray the danger not reflected in my companions' stature. Twice were we nearly knocked out, and twice did a desperate strike from my staff seal an orc’s fate, despite Belly-slider Finrell's... best attempts at intimidation with the head of a dead orc. Spent and laden with the contents of a jolly chest of goods, we find Fut Fut cut free and nowhere to be seen among the goblin bodies deftly swept from the upper floor by our gusty gnome. I do feel a pang of regret at not better handling myself, either in keeping my friends on their feet nor in managing to better secure the goblin leader. I’ll have to work harder to do my part, but I feel the goblin will still have some part to play, for good or for ill.

The elevator to the basement has been drawn down, and our group is struck with a surprisingly sudden pang of empathy for our town’s lost scouts. This confuses me in our worn state, but despite my suggestions that we sabotage the lift and return better prepared, our group elects to proceed into the depths, fully aware that the bare minimum we expect to find is a fearsome basilisk guarding its hoard of treasure… The glowey one guides our way, a necessary risk in the pitch black cellar, yet still none less shocking when we happen across the sleeping great serpent. We manage to double back without waking the beast, but that does not prepare us for what lies ahead. Some twenty goblins, armed and ready to fight for their lives, all fixed on our ragged team. We were not prepared. I cannot sustain this, my companions will fall, and I will have failed again to protect those in my trust.

Just as I begin to make peace with my place in the stars, I notice something. These are not fighting age goblins… these are women… and children… sickly at that. We may have a chance. Then my heart leaps when I see that the only able bodied among them is none other than our befeathered friend Fut Fut! Without hesitating I withdraw my last goodberry and roll it to the frantic leader.

As calmly and forcefully as I can: “We do not need to come to violence. Your people are weary and mine have routed the orcs. Do not make a mistake we’d both regret.”

He replies looking directly in my eyes: “When my bonds were broken by the returning orc, he spat on me and threw me down the elevator to die. And yet you have come down and tell me they are no more and offer us goodwill? My gratitude for my people knows no ends. We are in your debt.”

With a slight bow, he lowers his weapon and the remaining goblins follow suite. Fut Fut agrees to depart the area and leaves me with a red feather from his headdress as a memento of our bond. It is nice to the touch and thrums slightly, whether as a result of some imbued magical properties or from the creatures plumage from which it was raided I do not know. It writes well and the ink seems to take to paper even better. I’ll likely continue to use it for these journals.

I wonder how Fut Fut and his tribe are doing. I imagine we’ll see them again. The conflict with these orcs is not over. Their machinations seemed broader than this tower and farmland raids. I wonder who were the dwarves they mentioned being done with. Were they related to the dwarves Bellowing Belly-sliding Stone Strider saw in his watch? I’ll need to ask Fut Fut when we talk again. For now I’ll find a good fire to cook up this nice fish. Goblin caught or no, it should make a fine supper.

Chamber of the Dread Titan

 * Inspected local "pleasure den" at the advice of the logging band.
 * Came upon some guild companions doing the same.
 * The girl they were looking for not among those available, with the madam in her office past the VIP room and over a subterranean river.
 * Fin interrogates one (a halfing). He promises to keep her safe (he doesn't)
 * Baltoris attempts to console another (a young human). He promises to save her (he doesn't).
 * Berrian inspects a third dead girl (can't recall the race, but clearly dead for weeks of a bloody discharge) and attempts to convince the guard to allow him to remove the body to cleanse and dispose of it in the river. The guard is clueless.
 * Fin blasts the jailkeeper with a itching spell, Berrian convinces he caught the girl's consumption, and he runs out screaming.
 * Baltoris inquires of a fourth girl (a young elf) who indicates a hidden button for the VIP room. He promises to save her (also doesn't happen).
 * Fin puts a group of cultists to sleep and group blasts them while down, stealing their ill-fitting robes.
 * Find a sleeping cultist in the VIP room. Talk our way past; Fin blasts him anyway.
 * The madam's office reeks of magic.
 * Find her with the Omelia doing some ritual. Unfazed by rain on head apparently. Blasts us with fire, killing the halfling slave who was still nearby for some reason.
 * Fin barely manages to put her to sleep as Berrian skids from his boar charge.
 * Group pummels her as she sleeps, blood seeping into the rug.
 * Group loots a chest, gathers Omellia, and the blood opens a hell portal in the carpet.
 * Quakes threaten to bring down the cave, the group makes it out, the remaining girls still locked in their cells.
 * Berrian is shaken...

The Battle of Land's End (the 1st)
A night in the healing waters and restored to some semblance of strength, Berrian returns to town by way of the battlefield. The grass where he fell, shriveled and tawny, withers in the bright sunlight. Strange, he does not recall fire there, but it was a confusing fight. He encourages new growth in the blighted circle and makes his way over to the singed fields, now damp with the morning dew and with his previous night's work.

Was it the right to follow Speech-master Maestro Essart to the front lines? His command of the storm inspiring, the chaotic souls laid to rest a pleasant balm, but so many spears and swords, the deep darkness of that final fell blow. No; too exposed. Better use of thorn, moon, and vine in the battle to come. I should discuss with Speech-master, especially how we can better use our goblin vassal.

Incidentally, it appears FutFut was unsuccessful in infiltrating the orcish offensive. Perhaps I don't understand our correspondence or give him too much credit, but there was no evidence of his tribe either diluting the enemy's ranks nor applying any hit and run pressure on a different front. Stranger still the feathers of GOORR's troop to look so similar, yet so much more refined than those of FutFut's tribe. I would have displayed my own but for FutFut's uneasy status as deserter. It may well have been disastrous should these be a different party and he in poor standing. Can FutFut tell more of these troops? Hopefully something more than the simple warning, but then I could not even make use of that in time.

I am no creature of war, these nuances escape me, including the sacrifice of Vitriol-sack Captialist. I'll need to rely more heavily on my companions for these things, and keep my hands on the simple work they know best.