The Book of Darvin Dundragon

A very nice journal. Fine leather binding, gold filigree inlay, high grade paper. Inside it is covered in all matter of stains and a child-like scrawl of common travels across each page. An entry titled: Trolls

Killed some trolls. Fire works gud. Met a sucky-bus.

Found note. Took it to da leader of da pinkskins. Maze make deal. We kill trolls. We get inn. Stupid pinkskins. Dat be great place to start hiring for da Boss.

Scaly drunk helping us. Gud fighter. He should work for da Boss.

Killed moar trolls in da woods. Dey troll woods.

shhhhhhck shhhhhhck Xirvand was sharpening his daggers again. He was methodical and slow about it and had been doing so for sometime now. shhhhhhck shhhhhhck Xirvand couldn't remember why he was sitting on the window ledge. He had a pleasant view of the street from three stories up. He didn't seem to notice. shhhhhhck shhhhhhck All that mattered were his weapons. They were real. They were right. shhhhhhck shhhhhhck Xirvand was ready to use them if given a chance.

shhhhhhck shhhhhhck shhhhhhck...

A silly looking man, Darvin by name, unexpectedly popped from thin-air just above the pavement.

"Good Golly Miss Molly, it's good to be back... if not exactly home," Darvin said to the empty street as he looked about the strange looking buildings. "Hmmm, wonder how long everyone else is going to be. I have this nagging feeling that there's something I need to talk with someone about." He face took on a thoughtful visage, "Maybe it has something to do with why I'm suddenly talking to myself." He shrugged and held up his index finger- Fist things First!

It wasn't difficult to find useful trees in the City anymore. All it took was a little walking on Darvin's part. This he never minded, even with a chill in the air. Within a few hours he had formed a makeshift camp and fire pit in a park where a good number of ash grew. There he sat and slowly carved at a seven foot length of ash even as the world became dark around him. Bright flames reflected off his sunglasses as he calmly worked and thought. Darvin thought about many things that night, but the only one idea is worth mentioning here. He found it so important that he told the fire and the ash and the stars and the emerging companion:

"I should write this down."

And I did.

I found a dictionary that holds a queer accuracy to the dialect of infernal that I know. Nothing of Devils or the Nine Hells is mentioned and the language is called "Black Speech" (which is still very appropriate). It is perhaps simply a coincidence. This place sure seems full of them.

Here it is for those who are curious. I was going to write one myself, but that's a moot point now.

That art I was using for myself was getting annoying. So now I'm using Mat's until I can get some better pictures.

Speaking of which, I need to find a capable artist, or perhaps someone who can make one of those instant, real-life drawings I keep seeing around here.

The Old Bastard had been walking down from the mountains now for almost a decade. There was much speculation among the common folk as to where he came from, his real name, how many homes he had robbed. All the usual gossip that is found when people know next to nothing about a man. Even if the did know the truth, half of them wouldn't believe it and the other half wouldn't care. It didn't matter what he had been, he was the Old Bastard now and thats all that really matters.

He definitely wasn't ancient, but he was past his time. The O.B. (as some fancied calling him) still had a full head of long hair that ran free about his shoulders but it was white as a new snowfall. His ice blue eyes looked out from deep sockets and prominent crows feet. Back in his time, the O.B. looked to have been a strong fellow, a real thug, but the years had taken away much of his bulk. Now he was always seen limping or leaning heavily on his beloved ironwood staff. It was a beautiful piece that was almost seven feet long with a flattened, blade shaped end. Travelers who had seen this staff said it reminded them of the pole arms used by guardsmen of the large cities.

Mysterious pasts and strange walking sticks aside, the O.B. was nearly always welcome in town. He was grouchy, irritable, and secretive, but he always paid. He paid very well. Every other week he'd come down from what hermit-hole he had for himself in the mountains to buy a few small things and have a drink or two (or ten) at the tavern. Not a lot of people liked him, but it's easy to win anyone over when your purse is always bulging with gems and precious metals (More fuel for the O.B.'s mysterious past).

Lach Swiftflight had already heard this same story five times already. It wasn't getting him anywhere. He wanted to meet the Old Bastard. His companion, Jonas, was absolutely enthralled by everyone they had met in this rundown community. Lach had already tried to pry his friend from the townsfolk, but Jonas insisted on talking to as many people as had tongues to wag. Considering his ashy complexion, charcoal eyes, and dirty blond hair, it wasn't a surprising that people found him unsettling. Jonas had had to be taught what not to say to completely scare people. This was one of those times he wished Jonas hadn't taken so well to charming speech.

He was useful to have around at times, Lach admitted to himself. Jonas might not be physically intimidating, but he had disturbed quite a few would be muggers into simply choosing a different mark. Next to him, Lach looked downright boring. Shit brown eyes. Shit brown hair in bowl cut. Just under Jonas' hight (which was a little under average, Lach thought). This was perfectly fine for a man who doesn't want to be noticed. Lach was a thief of an almost compulsive nature (he always swore he could stop if he wanted to), a fact that Jonas tried to ignore.

"Jonas, let's go look for this guy," pleaded Lach after the farmer had finally finished, "You heard the country bumpkins. He was here yesterday. He won't be back for a while. We're not learning anything." The young man tried to steer the other towards the mountains.

Jonas' had his nose down in his notebook, his favorite pen moving rapidly across the page, but still he kept walking for the building with a faded painting of a fearsome two legged lizard. The Thunderscale Tavern, Lach knew, where Jonas wold spend the rest of the afternoon taking in all the useless bullshit from drunks. "I am piecing together a history for this man," Jonas replied.

"History? Nobody knows anything! That last guy swears this guy is a lost King! Royalty? Ha!" Lach resolved not to give up this day.

If his partner's impatiance was getting to Jonas, he didn't show it. "There are always kernels of truth buried deep. All we have to do is dig them up." He finished with his notes and carefully stowed both bookand pen in his ratty duster's inside pocket. "No, I do not believe this man is any forgotten political figure. None of the histories I have read would point to such a conclusion." Jonas stopped and turned to Lach, who looked like had resorted to keeping the both of them away from the tavern through pure willpower. "One woman we- I spoke with claims he knows the martial fighting taught in the Far South. Does that not point to the man we are looking for?"

"She said he was a ninja," Lach scoffed, "I don't even think she knows what a ninja is. Let's just talk to the man himself. You could get all the info you want right from the source. Without all this mucking about." Lach knew perfectly well that Jonas simply wanted more ideas for his novels. It was written all over his friend's face. Now was the time to play his trump card. "Jonas, our lazy wanderlust didn't bring us all the way out here. We have a purpose, a mission, a quest."

The sigh was all Lach needed to know he had won. "You owe me." Jonas looked down the dusty track that left the town along the river, following it up into the foothills. "Are we coming back here?"

Lach frowned and considered the question. "The future is hazy. Try again later."

Jonas nodded as if expecting this answer and held out his arm to the north east, "Shall we?"

"I do believe we shall, my good friend." Lach almost skipped on their way out of the town who's name he hadn't cared to learn.

My "Johari Window". Feel free to make me look like an idiot. I'm sure it doesn't really mean anything.

Oh yes. I'm back. Sort of. And I'm not a ninja. They wouldn't let me join.

I don't think Darvin or myself has found anything obviously written in Faerun in quite some time.

( The beginning of a journal... )

Good day with you, my name is Idexi. Qi'Matrim is driven out by Wraith. I wanted to help. He said to me that I could not. I am not sure when he is back. My Common is not very good and Qi'Matrim wants that I work with him. I will employ this for the practice until he turns over. I come from the Tik'katit Marshes and I am student strange things of hunting. I wanted to thus see more of the world Qi'Matrim shows it to me. Thank you for listening. I am sorry for weak English.

Greetings and salutations! This is Mat, Darvin's cousin. I'll be filling in while he's off *sigh* becoming a ninja.

I've got so much stuff to show you guys. I hope you'll enjoy each and every story!

I recently returned from the swamps of Tik'katit, where I spent several months learning the legends of the native pygmies. What a charming people they are. I



Sorry about that, I thought I heard something. As I was saying, the Tik'katit pygmies have a rich oral tradition and I couldn't pass up the chance to put it down in ink. I am particularly fond of their creation myth. I revolves around the idea that the world was created by a



What was that? The shadows are moving. OH SHI

I decided I want to become a ninja. I'm going to head to the East where I hear there's some good ninja schools (And if I was mistaken about that, I'll try the West). I'd write about it, but the professor ninjas probably want to keep their butt-kicking techniques secret.

So next time you see me, you- uh, won't. Bye!

-DD

I knew I'd seen that name before!

( Elizabeth Kane )

Ah, well shoot. Uh yeah. I seem to have forgotten what was going on just now.

...

I can always tell you guys the one about the time the Vampire Strahd turned a couple of poor adventurers into vampires.

Or I could just point out the dashing portrait of myself. My real self. A lot of you seem to be confused as to my gender... I can't imagine how. I'm very manly. Though honestly the guy that did the portrait is known for making men very burly. He has issues. I don't even think he makes elves slim.

Upon the high seas a storm is brewing. It is a powerful storm. One that threatens to sweep across the Inner Sea to consume all of Faerun. At the heart of it all is the city of Freeport. The pirate port turned trade city sits in turmoil as Milton Drac, the Sea Lord of the port dies. With no heirs to Drac, the local government sits at a near standstill. Enter a select few, heroes if you will, who are the only ones able to stop the storm.

The first of these is a young half-orc named Daelric Morieth who currently resides in Westgate. A sailor by trade, he has recently caught the attention of Leek Sandbar. Under the employ for the Halfling Benevolent Association of Freeport, Leek has been told to find a captain for the Association's new ship, the Defiant. The offer Daelric is givin is a good one. He gets ownership of the Defiant and free use of it as he wills for only 5,000 gold. In return, he ows the HBA the other half of the ship's coast, but can do jobs for the HBA to lower or eliminate it whatsoever. Daelric accepts and is given his first task. He is to retrieve a package and deliver it to Flinn, the head of the HBA, in Freeport. After a few days, a crew is put together and Daelric sails out of Westgate with his first ship.

Not alone in wanting to leave Westgate, the human Anton Ramondo is also upon the ship. A man of particular heritage, Anton has recently gotten on the wrong side of several prominent figures in Westgate and is looking to leave in a hurry. After a brief talk with the captain of the Defiant and a demonstration of his superb sight, Anton joins the crew.

Halfway around the Sea of Fallen Stars a halfling has a most profound religious experience. During her stay in Scardale, Raelin Wrathbringer is visited by an avatar of Arvoreen, the Wary Sword. Raelin is charged with the task of seeking out a way to the dreaded isle of Yarashad, for that is the only way the Storm can be averted. An immensely devout cleric, Raelin immediately sets out on the next boat to Freeport.

Cassidy O'Shannahan is no stranger to the darker side of sea life. The daughter of the Sembian mercantiles can often found be on ships in and around Freeport plying her trade; piracy. The human falls into trouble one night when she catches the eye of one Shantar Froese. After Cassidy turns Shantar down, he desides to take matters ito his own hands. In a dark alley, Shantar and his lackys abduct Cassidy and chain her up in his safehold. It is only a matter of time before the vile elf has enough time to force himself upon the poor human girl.

The Defiant sails to Urmlaspyr where they obtain the package for Flinn with minimal trouble and soon are on their way to the Pirate Isles and the city of Freeport. Raelin's ship is not far behind them. In a basement, O'Shanahan tries desperately to escape. Thus our story begins...

A few years ago I ran into the most particular old sailor at an inn in Ravens Bluff. I think the inn was called the Foul Sprite (though I can't for the life of me think how it got that name) and I seem to remember them serving a wonderful stew. It had large chunks of both beef and chicken, along with potatoes, corn, peas, and several things I didn't recognize.

But I digress.

The man told me of an old pirate haven in the Sea of Fallen Stars, now a legitimate city by the name of Freeport. Along with this was the story of a band of adventurers who not only saved the port, but very likely all of Faerun as well. Over the course of several nights, the old man recounted a tale that I am quite surprised hasn't made it's way into bardic song yet. Since then I've heard many differing accounts of the tale, but the one I am penning down here is the original and most entertaining.

So here it is, as near as I can remember to what the old sea dog told me.

(The following is written on a loose sheet of paper with torn edges, as if it were ripped from a seperate tome)

Black Sails Over Freeport

Being the True and Tragical Account
Of the Lost Historie of the City of Adventure;
How Freeport Became the Plaything of the Gods,
Waged Bloody War Against the Full-Fathom Five,
And Lives Ignorant of Its Current Peril
Under the Spreading Shadow
of the Fearsome Yarash.