The previous sections chronicle Saeuz's journey from Luskan, through Mirabar, Longsaddle, Triboar, and Conyberry. The entries below mark his arrival in Phandalin.

(page 119)

Evening of (Date) - Phandalin, The Wheatscale Inn

Travel from Conyberry was mostly uneventful. Deep ruts, oxen dung, choking dust, and a steady stream of merchants, refugees, performers, and mercenaries—the standard fixtures of a well-traveled road.

XX Before I forget, I am grateful to Bibbley.  His tutelage and generosity will not be forgotten. During this trip I have thought a lot about Bibbley and I must clear the mental clutter that surrounds Bibbley and Bregan D'aerthe. 

While resting alongside the Triboar Trail I was met by Daran Edermath — a retired member of the Order of the Gauntlet and current orchardist — from Phandalin. I believe him to be of elf and human ancestry. Daran believed me to be a necromancer who had been in Phandalin a few days prior. I did not correct him immediately — there was more to learn from his assumption than from him knowing the truth. The presence of a necromancer was enough to call Daran back to arms, to forgo his retirement, and drive him to patrol the roads around Phandalin.

XX Research Order of the Gauntlet

Taking Daran's advice, I continued to Phandalin taking up lodging at the Wheatscale Inn.

The Wheatscale Inn, typical meeting establishment for visitors and local townsfolk. 

Today's contacts: 

• Tola Wheatscale is the proprietor of the Wheatscale Inn. Dragonborn - Intelligent
  I believe I heard mention that she has a husband, the cook - Toble?
• Tysur, archer, and possibly a ranger.  He possesses a distinctly blue hue to his skin, making me wonder if he is a Genasi, a Moon Elf, or perhaps a Tiefling with abyssal ancestry. I’m not sure. It's only interesting to me because of my own blue hued skin.  No interaction with him.  He was accompanied by a young woman of Dragonborn ancestry-I believe her name to be Sauvn.
• Dorian Brightclaw, gourd farmer, his current crop is pumpkins. An Owlin of handsome, dense plumage. He seems to be highly educated and cultured. He allowed me to review several of his tomes.  I was particularly interested in Elminster's Folio — a most excellent manuscript.  I was tempted to lift it from him; however, Dorian resembles Bubo too much so I could not.  He has a preposterous view of magic.  In my evening prayers, I will ask Mystra and Kuliak to shed light on his incoherent understanding of magic.
• The pair at the bar — a dwarf standing nearly five feet, remarkable for his kind, and a seven foot tall orc.  Between them they took up the kind of space that back home would have commanded instant respect — tallest to shortest, strongest to weakest, my people's arithmetic. I have done the math my whole life. I never once came out ahead.
• The Northern Moon Forge is run by an interesting duo. Krivkov Nordsteel, an average human, and Alois Lunaire,  an average tiefling. 

XX If given the opportunity I should press Dorian on his views of magic. I mustn't forget  — “even a worm will turn” or “be too clever by half”. However, Dorian seems to be extremely intelligent — perhaps I shall ask him for an appropriate aphorism regarding his own condition.  For myself and my own struggles, “the fox condemns the trap, not himself!”

My blessed Harkon approaches, his rhythmic, tectonic hum calls to me, I must go.  

In the morning I will meet with a few of today’s contacts to set off on an adventure.

(Page 120)

Evening of (Date)  - Phandalin, Wilds of Umbrage Hill, Windmill 

With a heavy dose of resignation, I have tethered my fate to a band of mercenaries. Our mandate is simple enough: retrieve an alchemist and druid named Kharis Fenneiros and escort them back to Phandalin. The town apparently holds this Fenneiros in high regard for their healing arts and supposed moral rectitude—though I shall reserve my own judgment on the latter. 

To say our party is mismatched would be a generous understatement. I feel entirely displaced here, aching for the quiet companionship of minds turned toward the weave of magic. It is no haughty sense of superiority that isolates me, though the pursuit of the arcane certainly breeds such traits in lesser minds. No, it is merely a desperate desire to sever ties with the life I have known. The weight of martial weapons and the grim physics of blood-letting are etched into my memory—I need no more reminders of them. I seek a deeper, subtler truth now. 

The group consists of persons met in The Wheatscale Inn two nights prior: Tysur, Dorian, and an orc, Gug; a dwarf, Thorin; and a dragonborn, Sauvn.

A mere day into our trek, we located Fenneiros. She had taken refuge in her windmill, effectively besieged by a manticore. The beast was a grotesque thing—a nightmare of a humanoid face stitched onto a muscled, leonine torso, flanked by vast leathery wings and tipped with that infamous, needle-spiked tail. Yet, for all its physical terror, its tactics lacked any semblance of intellect; it was practically tricked into its own slaughter.

Interestingly, the creature managed to strike absolute terror into our massive orc companion, Gug, freezing him entirely. Seeing this, Tysur managed to lure the beast directly into the orc's devastating reach, allowing Gug to snap out of his panic and end its life with brutal finality. 

Afterward, Tysur and I examined the carcass and noted signs of severe malnutrition. A subsequent discussion with Fenneiros confirmed our hypothesis: this was no random attack. The manticore had likely been driven from its traditional hunting grounds by a far more dangerous apex predator—or a pack of them.  Tysur was able to extract hide and meat from the carcass.

Fenneiros was not inclined to return to Phandalin. However, she asked that we investigate a Gnomish village or what I’m calling an underground damp labyrinth of death.

XX Discuss with Dorian the creation of a cloak from the beast’s hide, a Skin of the Manticore cloak which with magical enchantments can aid the wearer.  I remember reading this within the libraries of the Host Tower of the Arcane, see my journal entries from my time in the Host Tower for information.

(page 121)

The encampment is called Gnomengarde which is located several hours from Phandalin. I've made a secret mark on my map of its exact location.  I purposely will omit information on the Gnomengarde for if I am slain or if my journal were to be lost to me,  I do not wish to provide enemies with important information concerning its defenses or its daily goings-on.  This suits me because musty, smelly gnome holes are nasty, dirty, wet holes, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare and sandy hole.  And once Gug is done with them there is nothing in it to sit down on or food to eat.

Our destination, Gnomengarde, had fallen prey to a mimic that had been actively hunting the local gnomes—a simple enough deduction once the facts of its behavior were laid before us. We dispatched the foul aberration without much trouble. It had disguised itself as a tome, but upon its demise, it reverted to its true form: a massive, amorphous form of rough, speckled-gray flesh coated in a noxious, sticky adhesive.

Two notable gnomes, High Tinkerer Clippen and Yibbeth, rewarded our efforts with Clockwork Amulets. Sidestepping our reasoning for not using magic, I must concede that our martial coordination in battle is surprisingly functional.

XX I shall have to investigate this amulet further; its precise construction warrants inspection.

After passing along Fenneiros's information to the gnomes, they agreed to send an emissary to her in the coming days, and we took our leave.

We returned to the windmill the following day and relayed our findings to Fenneiros. She received the news well enough, yet her subsequent behavior was deeply puzzling and frustrating. She flatly refused our escort back to Phandalin, promising instead to depart on her own in the morning. Her demeanor was distinctly evasive—fidgety, tense, and unable to meet our gaze. Left with no choice, we departed the windmill, but we have established a hidden vantage point nearby to keep the area under close surveillance.

As we sit here in the silvery moonlight, I wonder about a great many things…  

Again I am surrounded by violence, beings desiring to steal my life.  

Again I find myself contemplating leaving.  Running from this place, these people.  

Again I am unsure of the direction I should take. 

Yet, I have an orc just a stone’s throw away from me.

An orc — wild, raw, unbound. A warrior forged from the mountains, or so the songs go. Even for an orc, a worthy foe, they would sing blessings over him. For me, there were only curses. I know this: my clan would welcome him with open arms over me.  Preferring him over me simply because he is strong, simply because he can smash things.  Preferring him because they are a people for whom size is theology. This orc has discovered that same religion, embracing it with a fresh convert's zeal, preferring an existence of destruction over understanding.  I remember the day Chieftain Orrath awarded the Mantle of the Peak to Drevak. I stood at the back of the crowd — where the small ones stand — and watched. I had just returned from three days alone in the Spine of the World, mapping a safer route that would have saved lives come the next migration. Drevak had thrown a boulder, simply thrown a boulder the furthest. The clan did not ask what I had found. They never did. A goliath who cannot move stone is not a goliath worth hearing. The orc and I stand eye to eye and are of similar age.  Are we twins from the same womb? Did Abeir-Toril bestow brawn and mind between us with no regard to an even distribution? 

And there’s the drawing. I gave Gug a parchment and he drew upon it.