Session Recording
Journal Entry
Day ??? - Somewhere in the steeps below Kleesaddle
Three weeks tracking this burnout across terrain that makes the Wastes look hospitable. Trees everywhere. Still unsettling.
Found more than I bargained for today.
Was crouched behind a boulder, watching shadow-wolves tear apart an infected deer, when voices started appearing in my head. Took me a second to realize it wasn't the kind of madness you get from too much time alone in hostile territory. Someone was actually speaking into my thoughts.
What the fuck are you doing?
Direct. I liked that.
Turned out to be a group of four - well, five if you count the elf's familiar. Mixed bunch: a Shadowkin warlock who sees in shadows like I do, a human paladin built like a fortress wall, a ranger with scars that tell stories, and an artificer who immediately wanted to disassemble my Fang to figure out how it works.
The elf calls herself Zarael. Dark elf, though she's not advertising it. Shadows cling to her the way they do to me, but there's something wrong about the energy. Familiar, but twisted. Like hearing Kael's teachings spoken with a burnout's voice. She felt it too when those wolves used their tendrils - made her want to vomit, she said. Good instincts.
The paladin, Roth, has this "amusing" habit of poking people to make sure they're real. Apparently they've had issues with illusions. Or maybe he just falls out of too many trees - managed to nearly break his neck three times trying to follow our conversation from the canopy. But there's light radiating from him that's not entirely Primus's doing. Something older. Something that makes a dead tribal shaman call him the returned sun god.
Yes. Dead tribal shaman. They travel with one of those too.
Flynt, the ranger, showed me his flaming scimitar. Celtadon, he called it. Belonged to someone named Faustus before him. Another tiefling, apparently. We all look alike to some people. The blade burns with real fire, not the cold flames the burnouts love. When he asked if I knew Faustus, I couldn't place the name. The Wastes are large, but not that large. Either Faustus was before my time, or he never made it home from wherever Flynt found that sword.
The gnome, Aluni, has that particular brand of curiosity that gets artificers killed. Wanted to know how ki works. Demonstrated on a tree - split it clean down the middle with an empowered strike. She immediately started poking my arm, looking for hidden mechanisms. Refreshing, in a way. Been too long since I met someone who looks at the world like it's a puzzle to solve instead of a threat to survive. Anyway, it's kinda nice to meet someone friendly. Someone who's not wary or outright afraid of me.
They're heading to Kleesaddle. Same direction I need to go. They also hate Firestormers, which simplifies things.
Heard their story on the way up. Heroes, apparently. The kind that save towns and get uncomfortable when people call them heroes. Well, except for Aluni. They've got an egg they rescued from some dwarves - probably the same bastards who slaughtered that avian tribe I found burned and stacked like cordwood. The kind of work I'm used to cleaning up, but they got there first.
Orloff - the dead shaman they conjured from some kind of glowy magic orb - knew Cinderhold. Said he went to the elders for aid two hundred years ago, got turned away. Probably saved the village, he admitted. Smart. The people who helped him ended up getting personally visited by Gladius. Nothing left but ash and bad memories.
But here's what's interesting: they're working for someone called the Exalted Jet. Primus's people. And they don't like it. There's tension there - doing necessary work for people they don't trust. I understand that position. Sometimes the right thing requires dealing with the wrong people.
They know about Marcus being dead. Recent news, apparently. Strange timing for a burnout to cross the Spine. Makes me wonder if my Firestormer is running from something in Gladius's ranks, or running toward something here. Both possibilities are concerning.
When I showed them the Umbral Fang, they all tensed. Bad history with magical daggers, apparently. Whatever. Zarael asked if it drank blood. Specific question. Whatever they dealt with before left scars.
"They burn out. We endure." Kael's words, but watching this group, I think they understand the principle even if they've never heard it. They've survived things that should have broken them. The paladin literally died and came back. The warlock carries shadows that could consume her but chooses control. The ranger has those thousand-yard stares you only get from seeing too much and keeping going anyway.
They're not Shadow Line, but they're not burnouts either. Something... in between. Something both Shadow and Light. Interesting.
We avoided the wolves. Good tactical thinking. No need to fight when you can slip past. Though Roth's attempts at tree-to-tree travel nearly gave us away three times. Note: paladins are not natural climbers.
Nine hours of hiking to reach Kleesaddle. My burnout could be there. Could be past there by now. But these people are heading into the same kind of trouble I am, and they know how to handle themselves. The practical choice is obvious.
Besides, if they really are heroes, they might appreciate learning there are others who've been doing this work quietly for generations. Building what the burnouts would burn. Protecting the vulnerable. Working in shadow.
The chain continues. Maybe it continues through more than just the direct line from master to student. Maybe it continues through anyone willing to stand against the fire and endure.
We'll see what Kleesaddle brings.